son, that Mrs. Gaskell first thought of writing; and " "Mary Barton was the solace of a mother's sorrow. It always seemed to me that her face bore the impress of suffering; that her smile, sweet as it was, was sad also; that death, according to the saying of a French writer, had passed by her, and touched her in passing. Throughout her works there breathed something of the same gentle sadness. Her view of life was a cheerful one enough. One of the chief charms of her writings is the enjoyment she shows throughout in all the pleasures of home and family; but still, in all her works, there is a certain subdued weariness, as though this world would be a very dreary one if we were not all to rest ere long. on the success of the work there came trouble also. "Mary Barton " gave natural, perhaps not unreasonable, offence to the mill-owners and cotton lords, who formed the leaders of the society in which her position caused Mrs. Gaskell to live; and she was of too sensitive a nature not to feel censure deeply. In truth, if I were advis ing an incipient authoress, and if I did not know that my advice was absolutely certain not to be taken, I should tell any lady who thought of writing novels, that she had far better not do so, for her own happiness' sake. I have known now a great number of authoresses, but I never yet have known one who could bear hostile criticism or ill-natured comment with equanimity. Somehow or I take it that the fact of her literary other, the intense personality if I may life having begun so late explains, to a use the word-of female nature causes wogreat extent, both her strength and her men to identify their private with their litweakness as a novelist. There is no sign erary reputation to an extent unintelligiof haste and immaturity about any of her ble to men. To this general rule Mrs. Gasnovels. Her style was never slovenly; her kell was, I imagine, no exception; and the word-painting was perfect of its kind; and censure which, justly or unjustly, was beher characters had none of the exaggera- stowed upon her "Life of Charlotte Brontè," tion so universal almost amidst women wri- gave her for a time a distaste for writters. Everybody who ever read "Cran- ing. Of all her works, this, viewed as ford," knows the inhabitants of that little a literary production, is, to my mind, the sleepy town as well as if he had been in the ablest. As a biography, it is almost unhabit of paying visits there for years. We equalled. "Currer Bell" may or may not are on speaking terms with all the personages have been all that her biographer fancied : of "Wives and Daughters; " we can see the but, as long as her books are read, she will Gibsons, and Hamleys, and Brownings, as survive in the memory of men as Mrs. Gaswell as if we had called upon them yester- kell painted her- not as she seemed to day. But, somehow, we never get further those who knew her less intimately and than an intimate acquaintance; we never perhaps less well. The very success of quite learn to know them as we know the" Mary Barton" told for a time almost Père Goriot, or Colonel Newcombe, or Jane Eyre, or Adam Bede. I doubt if any man, no matter what his genius, could rise to the highest rank of painters, if he never handled a brush till he had reached middle age; and in the same way an authoress, the passion time of whose life had gone by before she began to write fiction, must always lack something of that dear-bought experience which, for good or evil, is to be acquired only in the spring-tide of our existence. against its authoress. At the period of its appearance public interest in the factory subject was very strong; and the novel had a remarkable hold upon the popular mind, quite apart from its literary ability. Of all Mrs. Gaskell's books, it was, I believe, the most largely sold, and the one which has commanded the most permanent circulation. And, as a necessary result of this incidental popularity, the ensuing novels of the authoress were comparatively unsucSeldom has any author obtained celebri- cessful. Passion, as I have said, lay out of ty so rapidly as Mrs. Gaskell. Like Byron, her domain; and both "Ruth" and "Sylshe might almost say that she awoke one via's Lovers" rested on a delineation of morning and found herself famous. Of all passions with which the writer was either recent literary successes, "Mary Barton," unable, or, as I rather believe, unwilling to with the exception perhaps of Jane Eyre," grapple firmly. The literature of passion was the most signal. During the period that can only be treated worthily by persons its authorship remained a secret, there were who, whether for good or bad, are indifferfew people, even amongst her own friends ent to the thought how their work may and neighbours, who suspected the quiet be judged by the standard rules of the solady, whose home lay in Manchester, of hav-ciety in which they move; and this was not ing written a book of which the world was the case with one of the most sensitive and talking. With the celebrity that ensued delicate-minded women who ever wrote in 25 than In a fantastic German story, there is a strange fancy, which has often recalled itself to me. It was suggested that, whenever a novelist or dramatist died, the personages, whom by his fictive art he had called into being, met him on the threshold of the unseen world to greet him, as their creator, and to thank or curse him for his share in the fact of their existence. If this dreamfancy had in it aught of truth, I can picture to myself no tribe of author-created visitants with whom I would sooner find myself surrounded on awaking beyond the grave the cohort of those who might claim the author of "Mary Barton" as their spiritual parent. Becky Sharpe, or Valerie, or Jane Eyre, or Maggie Tulliver, or Lady Audley, or Consuelo, would seem too like weird ghosts from the nightmare-laden world I had left behind me for ever. Ruth, gentlest and purest of Magdalenes who have repented almost before they had sinned, and Philip, "tender and true," and Lady Ludlow, and Miss Matty, and Cynthia Kirkpatrick, would have so little of fault to answer for, that the burden of having called them forth to sin and suffer would weigh but lightly on my conscience as their responsible creator. But England. "North and South," and "Cran-, any novel in numbers, must die before the ford," perfect as they were as specimens of word "finis" is written at the close. And, home portraiture, had not somehow that when a writer dies, leaving his tale half sustained interest that is necessary to con- written, those who followed its fortunes eastitute an eminently successful novel. Then, gerly feel as if something of their own had too, during the period which followed the died with the writer's death. appearance of " Mary Barton," we have had a remarkable succession of distinguished female writers. Currer Bell, George Eliot, Miss Yonge, Miss Braddon, and the authoress of" George Geith," all came, one after the other, before the public, after Mrs. Gaskell had made her mark. To institute any comparison between the various merits of these different candidates for public favour is a task for which I have neither the space nor the inclination. I only allude to them in order to point out how it was that for a time Mrs. Gaskell's reputation suffered, as it were, a partial eclipse. It was not that the public thought less of her, but that they thought more of others; and in literature, as on the stage, there is scarcely room for more than one prima donna assoluta. But her latest work won back for her more, I think, than any of its recent predecessors, the affections of a fickle public. "Wives and Daughters," introduced to the world with no flourish of trumpets, and with little preliminary puffing, appeared in a magazine without the writer's name, and without as far as I know - any trouble being taken to let the fact of its authorship become generally known. Yet it acquired almost at once a singular popularity. Whether the novel which, dying, she left half published—exists in manuscript, I, not being in the secret, cannot tell. From some internal indications, and from my own experience of authors, I should fancy it did not. If So, there are thousands of readers of every age, who will feel it a personal disappointment that they are never to know whether Molly Gibson married Roger Hamley, or how poor Cynthia worked out her fate at last. Such a disappointment is surely one of the highest testimonies to a writer's genius. I heard, not long ago, of an old lady, whose life had not been a very happy one, and who was content enough to die when the time appointed came, In her last illness, when her strength was failing, though her mind remained clear and vigorous, she took much delight in reading a serial story then appearing in print. I think it was Mr. Collins's "No Name." Speaking one day, to the friend who told me the anecdote, of her passing life, she said, simply, "I am afraid, after all, I shall die without ever knowing what becomes of Magdalen Vanstone." It is an odd thing, surely, to think how many readers, who begin to read To say this is no small praise. It is not a slight matter that an author can look back at the last glimpse of life, and feel that he has left behind him no written word which can make those who read it otherwise than better; and this acknowledgment is justly due to Mrs. Gaskell. Other novelists have written books as clever, and many have written books as innocent; but there are few, indeed, who have written works which grown-up men read with delight, and children might read without injury. It is impossible to determine now the exact positon which Mrs. Gaskell will hold ultimately amongst English writers of our day. It will be a high one, if not amongst the highest. Miss Austen's popularity has survived that of many writers of her time, whose merits were perhaps greater in themselves. So, if I had to say which of those novels we talk most of now will be read when we all are dead and buried, I should give the preference "North and to "Cranford" and South," above novels which I deem to excel These pleasant them in innate power. homeland stories-these vivid delineations of the lives of common men and common wo THE FORDS OF JORDAN. men, will survive, as long as people care to know what our England was at the days in which our lot is thrown. Within the last few years we have lost greater English writers than Mrs. Gaskell; we have greater still left; but we have none so purely and altogether English in the worthiest sense of that noble word. D. THE FORDS OF JORDAN, 1859. 'Tis scarce a hundred steps and one Across this ridge of frost and fire, Before the Eastward view be won. Stray on, and dally with desire, Then lift eyes, and behold. Hewn out without hands, they rise; Glows, with very brightness dim. When he knew his march was stayed. Seeing, not seen, he passed away; The Dead Sea salt, in crystal hoar, With bitterness and not with time. Two hours of thirst, before we reach Yon jungle dense, and scanty sward; For many a league the only breach Where Jordan's cliffs allow a ford." Lo, spurs of Sheffield, do our will, And, little Syrian barbs, be gay; All morn we spared you on the hill, Now, o'er the level waste away, With your light stag-like bound. So cross the plain, nor slacken speed, And brush through Sodom-bush and reed, And tearing thorn, and tamarisk harsh, Wild growth of desert and of marsh, Cumbering the holy ground. Reach Jordan's beetling bank, and mark The winding trench deep-cloven and dark; The narrow belt of living green; The secret stream that writhes between ; Could we know the arrowy stream, Racing downwards evermore; But strip, and try your might with him : The likeness of the Grave. Also his waters wash us free R. ST. J. T. . CHAPTER LV. AN ABSENT LOVER RETURNS. AND now it was late June; and to Molly's and her father's extreme urgency in pushing, and Mr. and Mrs Kirkpatrick's affectionate persistency in pulling, Cynthia had yielded, and had gone back to finish her interrupted visit in London, but not before the bruit of her previous sudden return to nurse Molly had told strongly in her favour in the fluctuating opinion of the little town. Her affair with Mr. Preston was thrust into the shade; while every one was speaking of her warm heart. Under the gleam of Molly's recovery everything assumed a rosy hue, as indeed became the time when actual roses were fully in bloom. One morning Mrs. Gibson brought Molly a great basket of flowers, that had been sent from the Hall. Molly still breakfasted in bed, but had just come down, and was now well enough to arrange the flowers for the drawing-room, and as she did so with these blossoms, she made some comments on each. "Ah! these white pinks! They were Mrs. Hamley's favourite flower; and so like her! This little bit of sweetbriar, it quite scents the room. It has pricked my fingers, but never mind. Oh, mamma, look at this rose! I forget its name, but it is very rare, and grows up in the sheltered corner of the wall, near the mulberry-tree. Roger bought the tree for his mother with his own money when he was quite a boy: he showed it me, and made me notice it." "I daresay it was Roger who got it now. You heard papa say he had seen him yesterday." "No! Roger! Roger come home!" said Molly, turning first red, then very white. "Yes. Oh, I remember you had gone to bed before papa came in, and he was called off early to tiresome Mrs. Beale. Yes, Roger turned up at the Hall the day before yesterday." But Molly leaned back against her chair, too faint to do more at the flowers for some time. She had been startled by the suddenness of the news. "Roger come home!" It happened that Mr. Gibson was unusually busy on this particular day, and he did not return until late in the afternoon. But Molly kept her place in the drawingroom all the time, not even going to take her customary siesta, so anxious was she to hear everything about Roger's return, which as yet appeared to her almost incredible. But it was quite natural in reality; the long monotony of her illness had made her lose all count of time. When Roger left England, his idea was to coast round Africa on the eastern side until he reached the Cape; and thence to make what further journey or voyage might seem to him best in pursuit of his scientific objects. To Cape Town all his letters had been addressed of late; and there, two months before, he had received the intelligence of Osborne's death, as well as Cynthia's hasty letter of relinquishment. He did not consider that he was doing wrong in returning to England immediately, and reporting himself to the gentleman who had sent him out, with a full explanation of the circumstances relating to Osborne's private marriage and sudden death. He offered, and they accepted his offer, to go out again for any time that they might think equivalent to the five months he was yet engaged to them for. They were most of them gentlemen of property, and saw the full importance of proving the marriage of an eldest son, and installing his child as the natural heir to a long-descended estate. This much information, but in a more condensed form, Mr. Gibson gave to Molly, in a very few minutes. She sat upon her sofa, looking very pretty with the flush on her cheeks, and the brightness in her eyes. "Well!" said she when her father stopped speaking. "Well! what?" asked he, playfully. "Oh! why, such a number of things. I've been waiting all day to ask you all about everything. How is he looking?" "If a young man of twenty-four ever does take to growing taller, I should say that he was taller. As it is, I suppose it is only that he looks broader, stronger - more muscular." "Oh! is he changed?" asked Molly, a little disturbed by this account. "No, not changed; and yet not the same. He is as brown as a berry for one thing; caught a little of the negro tinge, and a beard as fine and sweeping as my bay-mare's tail." "A beard! But go on, papa. Does he talk as he used to do? I should know his voice amongst ten thousand.” "I did not catch any Hottentot twang, if that's what you mean. Nor did he say, Cæsar and Pompey berry much alike, 'specially Pompey," which is the only specimen of negro language I can remember just at this moment." "And which I never could see the wit of," said Mrs. Gibson, who had come into the room after the conversation had begun and did not understand what it was aiming at. | are evidently good friends; and she loses Molly fidgeted; she wanted to go on with her strange startled look when she speaks her questions and keep her father to definite to him. I suspect she has been quite aware and matter-of-fact answers, and she knew that when his wife chimed into a conversation, Mr. Gibson was very apt to find out that he must go about some necessary piece of business. "Tell me, how are they all getting on together?" It was an inquiry which she did not make in general before Mrs. Gibson, for Molly and her father had tacitly agreed to keep silence on what they knew or had observed, respecting the three who formed the present family at the Hall. 66 Oh!" said Mr. Gibson, "Roger is evidently putting everything to rights in his firm, quiet way." "Things to rights. Why, what's wrong?" asked Mrs. Gibson quickly. "The squire and the French daughter-in-law don't get on well together, I suppose? I am always so glad Cynthia acted with the promptitude she did; it would have been very awkward for her to have been mixed up with all these complications. Poor Roger! to find himself supplanted by a child when he comes home!" "You were not in the room, my dear, when I was telling Molly of the reasons for Roger's return; it was to put his brother's child at once into his rightful and legal place. So now, when he finds the work partly done to his hands, he is happy and gratified in proportion." 66 of the squire's wish that she should return to France; and has been hard put to it to decide whether to leave her child or not. The idea that she would have to make some such decision came upon her when she was completely shattered by grief and illness, and she has not had any one to consult as to her duty until Roger came, upon whom she has evidently firm reliance. He told me something of this himself." "You seem to have had quite a long conversation with him, papa!" "Yes. I was going to see old Abraham, when the squire called to me over the hedge, as I was jogging along. He told me the news; and there was no resisting his invitation to come back and lunch with them. Besides, one gets a great deal of meaning out of Roger's words; it did not take so very long a time to hear this much." "I should think he would come and call upon us soon," said Mrs. Gibson to Molly; "and then we shall see how much we can manage to hear." "Do you think he will, papa?" said Molly, more doubtfully. She remembered the last time he was in that very room, and the hopes with which he left it; and she fancied that she could see traces of this thought in her father's countenance at his wife's speech. "I cannot tell, my dear. Until he is quite convinced of Cynthia's intentions, it cannot be very pleasant for him to come on mere visits of ceremony to the house in which he has known her; but he is one who will always do what he thinks right, whether "Then he is not much affected by Cynthia's breaking off her engagement?" (Mrs. Gibson could afford to call it an "engagement" now.) I never did give him credit for very deep feelings." "On the contrary, he feels it very acute-pleasant or not." ly. He and I had a long talk about it, yesterday." Both Molly and Mrs. Gibson would have liked to have heard something more about this conversation; but Mr. Gibson did not choose to go on with the subject. The only point which he disclosed was that Roger had insisted on his right to have a personal interview with Cynthia'; and, on hearing that she was in London at present, had deferred any further explanation or expostulation by letter, preferring to await her re Mrs. Gibson could hardly wait till her husband had finished his sentence before she testified against a part of it. "Convinced of Cynthia's intentions! I should think she had made them pretty clear! What more does the man want?" "He is not as yet convinced that the letter was not written in a fit of temporary feeling. I have told him that this was true; although I did not feel it my place to explain to him the causes of that feeling. He believes that he can induce her to resume the former footing. I do not; and I have told him so; but of course he needs the full conviction that she 'alone can give him." "Poor Cynthia! My poor child!" said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively. "What she has exposed herself to by letting herself be over-persuaded by that man!" Mr. Gibson's eyes flashed fire. But he |