CHAPTER V. brought her valuable remarks to a conclusion, rose to go, bearing with her the 'olive' branches, though the name is only used as being a customary term, and not because the Miss Simpsons dwelt under its shadow. Indeed, we question much whether the cultivation of abstruse learning is one calculated to draw out home affections. An over-educated woman is as bad as an under-educated one, as may be partially exemplified in the cases of Miss Jones and the late visiters. COMING EVENTS,' OR AN EVENING PARTY FORESHADOWED. 'Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman.'-SHAKSPERE. The world is the book of women; whatever knowledge they possess is more commonly acquired by observation than by reading.'-ROUSSEAU. 'MY DEAR MRS SELWYN,-Mamma has invited Dr Wyndham and his family to spend Thursday evening with us, and they have promised to come. Now, though we all know your retired habits, we cannot but hope that, on an occasion like the present, you might be induced to break through your rule, and give us the pleasure of your company; and since little Nannie is so far convalescent that you could leave her for a few hours without anxiety, there would be nothing to detain you at home. Like a good creature, pray stretch a point for once to oblige my mother, and yours most affectionately, MATILDA JONES.' 'Yours most affectionately, Matilda Jones,' repeated the widow, mechanically, and she pondered a moment as she read to the end of the note. She was not thinking should she go or not; the contingency had not crossed her mind; she was merely considering should she write a note, or call and explain her intentions to the kind old lady, who had more than once stood her friend in trifles. She decided at length on answering the note in a polite manner, and then paying her devoirs to Mrs Jones, at the hour she knew her daughters generally selected as their walking one. So she wrote an apology, and despatched the little maid with it, while she still sat musing before the desk. It was not that she wished to go to the party; not that; but she had a great desire to see these Wyndhams. Confined to the house by her little girl's illness, she had never met with them anywhere; and being rather a shy little woman in her manners, she did not like to call before they knew something of her, in order that she might not feel obliged to throw in little hints as to who she was, &c., which the poor innocent body fancied would be quite necessary; and yet she wanted to know them. It was not to her as to many people a mere matter of gossip, seeing and knowing the Wyndhams. There was a tie linking her to them that no others had-memory; memory of the happiest period of her life-childhood spent within the walls they now called theirs. Were she to live a hundred years, she could never fail to turn with interest to the old home. Even occupied by strangers, it was dear to her; every tree, every flower, seemed to have sprung up with her own growth, so interwoven were they with the past, with every glad and happy thought she had ever had; and always with the mention of the Wyndhams' names came a sort of longing to know if they were such as she could look at with pleasure, enjoying all the dear old haunts-if they would prize them as she had done. As she sat before the desk, she thought of its last occupants, how she had hoped for some of the sympathy her own experience of the sacred calling led her to expect when they came, and how bitterly she had been disappointed in them. That dry, stern, unbending Mr Cooper, and his still drier, more unbending sister, who never in all her life had ever taken any plea in palliation of an offence from any poor err ing mortal, as if any one is so set beyond sin in this world as to be entitled to hurl the first stone. Mrs Selwyn had a most unconquerable dread of both brother and sister; the latter, because her rule through life always was, 'to speak the truth at all times,' which, though a good theory, requires judiciousness in reducing to practice, for who knows if their truth, as they are pleased to call it, is the same truth held by others, and that in fancied zeal for the truth you do not in reality become impertinent? Mrs Selwyn's dislike extended also to this lady's brother, though he had paid to her the highest compliment a man can pay a woman. Something in his manner of proffering it utterly completed her sentiments of repugnance, and from that time it had been her quiet study to avoid meeting them as much as possible. He had come to Landeris fresh from the classics of a many-yeared cloister life; the formality of a college tutor still imbued every thought and word of his present life. True, in his own stiff, cold way, he loved her, but not she him; and is not that a true woman's argument? To her even his sermons wanted the glad, joyous tidings that her father's ever seemed to bring; the change might be in herself, but still she did not like the Coopers; and very glad she was when Mr Cooper's exchange was made, and a course of events arose which ended in Dr Wyndham being settled in Landeris Rectory. From gloomy views of the old home in these people's time, her mind travelled still farther back, to the bygone days of her own childhood, when every Saturday, through the long summer days, she hushed her doll to sleep under the shade of the weeping-willows, watching her father pacing up and down the terraces, book in hand, gathering inspiration from the allmarvellous works of God. Or she saw him through the open window of the same study (how well she knew that room) reading or writing; the long stream of sunlight lighting on his silvery hair, and the tame sparrows hopping to the window for the crumbs the little girl had been taught to gather each morning for them from the breakfast-table. While the bees hummed as they flew from flower to flower in the gay flower-knots, the light breeze passing them by carried the murmur of one to break the silence in the room, and the perfume of the flowers to refresh the student within, and finally passing out again, would ་ Tarn over the leaves of the hymn-book And all had passed away; and other 1 An hour or two after the despatch of the note, she was sitting with Mrs Jones, good-humouredly sympathising with the old lady's hopes and fears respecting her coming festivity, which was quite an event in the quiet old soul's existence. Mrs Selwyn received her friend's thanks for an obliging offer to contribute a loan of any requisite article, should the Jones' resources fall short. Suddenly the vi siter's eye caught the figures of 'the girls,' as the mother usually denominated them, crossing the street towards their own house, in company with Miss Wyndham and one of her young sisters; and it was evident that a smart summer shower just falling was the cause of all the young ladies seeking the house. 'Dear me, Miss Wyndham, and little Miss Rose, actually coming in, and I had just taken off my clean cap; the girls will be so angry with me.' Would you,' said Mrs Selwyn'would you, Mrs Jones, be so good as to introduce me to Miss Wyndham?' 'Oh yes, my dear, certainly;' and the ladies entered. The introduction was soon over, and they had taken seats to watch the progress of the rain. A great many people who are physiognomists by nature, can discern in a very short space of time the characters of those they meet; people who have never had access to a volume of Lavater, or given any study to Combe or Spurzheim. There is a something, not just definable by rules or orders, a something that shows an affinity or the contrary between individuals. Mrs Selwyn, though not overburdened with clever penetration, or having the slightest particle of feminine diplomacy, had still a fund of good sense, and what is a very desirable accompaniment, good feeling, which stood her in good stead of many more brilliant qualities. She had seen very little of the world; her experiences of character were drawn chiefly from the narrow circle of the Landeris inhabitants, her ideas of perfection were drawn on a similar scale, and it cannot be much wondered at if she felt a little distrust of her own judgment, when she found any of her ideals in danger of being dethroned, as in the present case, when she felt quite ashamed of the Jones' trio, who had joined their forces for the purpose of eliciting as much information as possible from Miss Wyndham during her visit, by a series of well-directed questions, such as, Were you at the Great Exhibition? Were you living near London then?' 'Where were you living at the time of the last French Revolution?' 'Were you ever on the Continent?' To which, and all similar ones, Margaret returned polite but evasive an swers. She had no idea of having things wrung from her in that way, though it was only that morning she had chatted over all manner of past scenes in her own and her family's life with the gentle Mrs Holmdon and her niece Annette. But her proud spirit rose at the present attack, and she determined not to submit tamely to such social Thuggism. Mrs Selwyn sat watching her attentively, her amusement increasing each moment, as some homethrust was ingeniously parried by Miss Wyndham, whose colour rose with her indignation; the widow's eyes sparkled with satisfaction at seeing the assailants almost baffled by the well-directed defence. Each moment, too, Mrs Selwyn's sympathy increased for the young lady, and her respect for her hostesses gradually declined. I wonder,' thought she, as she still watched Margaret's face, how Matilda can call that face decidedly plain." It certainly is not perfect in form, according to classic rules. Some parts are, like my own, a little out of proportion; but I like it much-so much variety in the changing expression, and eyes that one can look a long way through. They do not sparkle as Matilda's do, it is true; but what a pleasant repose there is in them. Perhaps those are what one hears talked of as "spirituelle." They remind one of what Mr Collingwood said of Kate Howard's eyes in 'Dollars and Cents,' when he compared them to the channels of the Bermuda Islands. What a pleasing voice, too, she has. I do not feel the least afraid of her, and I will speak boldly, while I have such a good opportunity.' 'Miss Wyndham, would you be so good as to present my apologies to Mrs Wyndham for having been so tardy to call upon her? It must seem very unfriendly, coming from one who is herself the daughter of one of Dr Wyndham's predecessors, to think that she should be the last to welcome her into a new parish; but I assure you the omission was quite involuntary on my part, and was caused by the severe illness of my little girl, which for a long time has kept me a close prisoner to the house. Even yet I cannot leave her but for a short time, while she takes a sleep.' 'We were sorry to hear from Miss Jones, Mrs Selwyn, how much anxiety you had suffered about her. Without personally knowing you, we sympathised most heartily with you; principally, I think, because my little sister-she who is sitting there was just recovering from an illness very similar before we removed here. You know the old truism about "fellowfeeling." Do you find your little daughter gaining strength?" of the progress and symptoms in little Nannie's case, prompted equally by the kind eyes and gentle, feeling answers of her listener. 'The girls,' as their mamma always said, were uncommonly annoyed at this monopoly of their visiter, and, in their pity for themselves losing such a golden opportunity for pushing their acquaintance, fancied they were pitying Miss Wyndham, in not believing any one could be interested in what they called the widow's twaddle.' They felt inexpressibly relieved when the striking of a timepiece reminded the widow' she should be at home; and the shower being over, she set out. (To be Continued.) Very slowly. I am often almost inclined to despair. Nothing seems to do her good. I try to think of the Great Physician; but even with that I often despond.' And, poor little soul, she plunged immediately into a particular detail FRENCH ROMANCE: NOTES ON THE PRESENT REACTION IN FRANCE AGAINST THE UNHEALTHY ROMANCE LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. THERE have been four distinct periods of French literature, each characterised by its own subjects, its own specialty of form, and by circumstances worthy of note in the lives and position of the individuals forming those remarkable schools of letters. First of all, the old literature that is to say, the prose writers who preceded the age of Louis XIV., and the poets who preceded Malherbe. This period is full of the most charming narrations. Need we mention Froissart, Phillippe, Du Comines, and their successor and rival in reputation, Mezeray. Quaint candour, directness and simplicity of intention, is the great characteristic of this literature, notwithstanding a certain slowness and circumlocutionary expression. Montaigne also belongs to this school, although not a narrator; and if we were asked what English writers reminded us most of the simplicity of thought, but prosy plenitude of form, of the early French narrators, it would be such men as Clarendon and Defoe, as contrasted with the wits of Queen Ann, and the rhetoricians of the age of George III. In poetry, Ronsard, Marot, and others, distinguish themselves by that fresh observation of nature, and that dreamy lyrism, of which no traces are to be found in the Boileaus and Voltaires. But in France, as with us, people have now gone back with delight to those older writers, whom the self-styled classics denominated barbarians, and looked upon as dead: the nineteenth century has, indeed, been the resurrection of the sixteenth. It cannot be said that the literature of the age of Louis XIV., the second of the periods we allude to, has gone down, for its excellence is too incontestable. Boileau has sunk a peg or two; but such acuteness of thought, such consummate mechanism of versification, and, above all, such concision, such absence of all loose and flabby writing, cause his works to be still read with great satisfaction. Racine, an immortal poet, with whose works every living scholar is acquainted, has not only lost his hold on the popular mind, except by the mere prestige of his name, but even amongst the most fastidious classical scholars efforts have been made, with great success, to show the historical inaccuracy of his pictures of Greek manners. The woman of the tragedies of Racine is the woman of Christendom, chivalry, and love; whereas the woman of the real Greeks was that household commodity, that automaton of domestic convenience, such as the woman of the Levant now is; who never ate with strangers, or, if she did so, fell into the class of the courtesan. It was not the Greece of Sophocles and Euripides that Racine gave us, but a Greece accommodated to the court of Louis XIV. We mention these erudite cavils, to show how the French now criticise the quondam gods of their idolatry. What an amount, then, of incontestable beauty of thought and language stands good against the aqua-fortis of this scepticism of the romantic school. As for Molière, rare and incomparable genius, he is claimed by both. His supreme excellence as a wit, humorist, and moralist, are as undisputed as the light of the sun or the saltness of the sea. The romantic blast has blown over his head without turning a hair. In fact, painting with fidelity the society of that period, none of the objections urged by the romanticists against the classicists apply to him; let us also add, that the more masculine power of Corneille, who cared less for the chiselling of verses than for the robust outlines of the stronger passions, has lost little of its reputation. Corneille's form is no longer imitated, but the substance is of such strength as to cause the form to be overlooked. The third great period of French literature is that of the Encyclopædists. Voltaire continued the adiniration of Racine, not only by his brilliant critical writings, but by his own tragedies, which now experience a fate merited by the imitation of an imitator. Racine's tragedies are still read by persons of taste; Voltaire's are not even perused at all. In spite of many clever verses, the most brilliant and pernicious journalist that ever lived was no poet, still less a dramatist. The perspicuous familiarity of his historical writings are still the delight of the public, and his style in general, from its total freedom from that bombast and amplification which infected the revolutionary literature, is classical in the best sense of the word. The age, in fact, was not one of poetry, but of microscopic analysis and scientific development. The low materialism of that age has since been replaced by a higher and sounder philosophy; but the zeal of scientific investigation, which marked that period, must always be regarded as a marvellous explosion of human intelligence, although we think with Pascal and Vauvenargues, that the greatest thoughts come from the heart by the deductive alchemy of our nobler reason. We find combined in Buffon the naturalist and the prose poet. Diderot, however dreary his theology, was the true founder of the modern school of the criticism of literature and high art, and D'Alembert's general introduction to the sciences, at the beginning of the Encyclopædia, brought forth the bon mot, that Perrault's colonnade of the Louvre, and Dellombert's introduction, were the two best façades produced by French genius. This The philosophic revolt was followed by the political revolution, which was followed in its turn by the fourth period of French literature;- the romantic reaction begun by Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael, under the influence of the Schlegels. romantic revolt lay in the nature of things. The Corneilles and Racines lived, moved, and had their being, in the element of classical literature. Corneille read Sophocles for his amusement, in the original, just as we have Dickens, Thackeray, Bulwer, and Macaulay for our daily literary fare. Charming as La Bruyere is, it is quite clear that the classics defrayed the expenditure of the raw material of thought, and no inconsiderable amount even of the form. In short, the classic period was somewhat of a brilliant trading on borrowed capital. It was the tremendous convulsion of the revolution that shattered the whole edifice of classical imitation. What were all the adventures related by Plutarch, compared to those of the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century? The first volumes of Lamartine consigned the whole of the classical poets of the empire to oblivion. Romanticism was, in fact, simply the cessation of borrowing from two defunct nations, whose religion and manners differed radically from our own. derick the Great had scarcely written the last of his French verses in his usual woful orthography, when the production of Götz von Berlichingen made all Germany ask, what occasion there was to continue Pan and Apollo in the niches of the German Walhalla, or worship the genii of Paris and Versailles, when those of old Teutonia were buried under the mould of cen Fre |