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picturesque and impressive. The sun brimming the building with an atmosphere of gold, the silver columns of the fountains raining into their tazzas with an unceasing musical cadence, the brilliant hues of the summer dresses of the ladies, the hum of conversation, the tread of a thousand feet, the solemn strains of Handel and Mozart magnificently thundered forth from Bevington's superb organ,
" While fifty voices in one strand did twist Their vari.coloured tones, and left no want
To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music-cloud ;"
and at intervals the exhilarating symphonies of an efficient orchestra, materially enhanced the aspect of a scene of surpassing animation and splendour, and affected one with a pleasure altogether independent of the imposing vision around them.
So far we believe this exhibition has commanded a financial success adequate to its noble aim, and to the enthusiasm and patriotism of its projectors. Certainly the denizens of the metropolis and its environs have not been tardy in availing themselves of its advantages, and when the facilities of access are greater as regards cheap railway and steam-boat excursions, the influx of visitors from the provinces, the sister kingdoms, and the Continent, will, doubtless, be found commensurate with its attractions and deserts.
talent, he refers with as much truth as discrimination to the force and vigour with which the Rev. Mr. Potter has seized upon the vast debateable ground which lies open to the writer of Catholic fiction, between the sensual and the ethical. As an ordinary rule, religious novels are about the most stupid things under the sun, and there are very few of us wbo are gifted with perseverance enough to wade our weary „way through them. On the other hand, we certainly tremble to place most of the current literature of the day in the hands of our children, beginning and ending, as it does, with the mere animal passions; having the excitement of these passions for its one sole scope. Between these two extremes lies open a broad path to the Catholic fictionist. It is one upon which comparatively few venture ; but when one who is duly qualified to do so, does make the venture and comes out of it successfully, we rejoice, not only for the success of the enterprising author, but for the boon which has been conferred
upon our body. The work before us is pre-eminently of this character. Recognizing God and His connection with the events of every-day life, and speaking of His action upon the lives of men as an ordinary thing, there is, nevertheless, in “ The Rector's Daughter” no parade of religion, no forcing of moral sentiments and devout sayings down our throats, like a pill, a gilded pill, perhaps, but still a pill. Founded upon fact, blent with only so much of fiction as was necessary to form, polish, and give enchantment to the links of the narrative, we are certain that few of our readers who have once taken it up, will be able to lay down this charmiog volume until they have reached the end. The narrative is wonderfully true and vigorous in its delineation of character ; and describes with terrible accuracy the remorse spring. ing from a conscience wounded with the worst of all evils—the abandonment of faith. When we say that it is a model of easy, graceful, and classical composition, we are saying no more than was to be expected, holding, as its author does, the chair of literature in our great Missionary College of All Hallows. We have seen an exception taken to one part of the work, where the author interrupts his story in some degree, and introduces an imaginary critic. This may be a matter of taste, but, at all events, our author follows the example of no less an authority in the matter than Thackeray, whose writings are full of episodes of the same kind.
“The Rector's Daughter" is brought out in Mr. Duffy's best style, and forms a valuable and elegant addition to every Catholic family circle, or library. We trust that its success will be such as to compel its author soon to issue a second edition of his work, and encourage him to continue his labours in the cause of Catholic literature, where we shall be delighted to meet him again, if circumstances allow him to persevere in the path on which he has entered.
66 TIE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER.” If the large amount of unlimited praise which may happen to be bestowed upon a work is to be taken as a fair criterion of its success, we think that the author of “ The Rector's Daughter” has every reason to be satisfied with the success of his new work. It has, in fact, received so much praise from the press, and that under every point of view—its style, plot, language, and delineation of character—that little more is left to us than to endorse the favourable sentiments of our contemporaries, and cordially recommend the book before us to
the notice of such of our readers as may not yet have · seen it. We can confidently say of it that it is a book
which they may safely put into the hands of their children, tor, coming as it does from the pen of a clergyman, as might be expected, it does not contain a word or sentiment which can offend the most fastidious mind. At the same time we can say for it (and this is than we can affirm of all books that may be pronounced merely safe), that it will interest and amuse, and, more than all, edify. In a review of the work before us from the pen of a contemporary of established ability and
+ " The Rector's Daughter," a Tale ; by Rev. THOMAS POTTER, Author of “The Two Victories,” etc. James Dully, Dublin and London. 1861.
TRIALS OF THE HEART.
TIE MINISTER PLEADS FOR HIMSELF_MAPIA WEIGHED IN THE
BAL INCE, AND NOT FOUND WANTING-THE PROJECT ACCOX.
resolved to advance. On getting within a few perches THE DOUBLE PROPHECY;
of the house, however, he paused again, and would probably have returned, were it not that Mrs. Brindsley happened to come out for the purpose of driving away some young calves, that had come in among the floweis which she cultivated in the front garden. Having seen him standing as it were irresolute, she spoke to him,
and with much kindness asked bim would he not come CHAPTER XII.
in and rest himself ? This encouraged him, and on approaching her she shook hands with him, and brought him into the the house. It would seem as if prepara
tion had been made for this visit. The work women The next day the minister dressed himself with more were not within, and Mrs. Brindsley herself, as she told than usual care. Ou surveying his face in the glass, he him, was going into the town to make some purchases. ould not avoid remarking that his features, as well as “Maria, however,” said she, “is at home, and will ... 13 whole person, had become gradually more attenuated, entertain you, Mr. Wallace.” notwithstanding the extreme care which he had taken, es- Now all this corroborated what his father had intipecially at the request of his family, of his declining mated, and we need not say that whilst it gave him health. The deep lustre of his eyes was startling, but courage, it also agitated his heart with still greater tenon this occasion he attributed it to the hopeful and con- derness for the object of his melancholy passion. After solatory intelligence which his father had brought him the having introduced him and Maria to each other for alday before. His temperament, at once timid and en- though near neighbours, they had never yet spokenthusiastic, was not such as qualified him to wrestle suc- Mrs. Brindsley put on her shawl and bonnet, and left cessfully with the cares and disappointments of life. them together. Many a description has been given of His organization was too refined and delicate for that. such situations, and of the mutual embarrassment under As it was, it would be difficult to see a more striking or which the lovers Jaboar for want of knowing what to interesting figure than his; the predominant expression say, or how to break the ice of ceremony on such trying of his features was that of benignity and thought, sad- occasions. As it was, Wallace became the hue of <lened a good deal into a character of care that some- death, and Maria, from pure compassion, commenced times seemed mournful. Indeed, we might almost say the conversation. that cver since his rejection by Maria, his manner, ap. “ Mr. Wallace,” said she, “ I hope you have not been pearance, and whole figure, bad become the ideal of unwell since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, now deep and profound sorrow.
a good many months ago. I think you look somewhat Another point for observation in connexion with him, paler and thinner than you did then.” was the extreme whiteness and delicacy of his hands. Wallace's voice betrayed his emotion as he spoke They had, indeed, been always beatiful, but of late “ Yes,” he replied, “ I have not been well; that is, I they became more soft,-far whiter than usual, and of can complain of nothing in the shape of sickness or of a burning heat, and sometimes his pale complexion be- any positive complaint, but I have not been happy; I came so flushed, that he appeared the very picture of have had much care pressing upon me-here” he health.
added, placing his white but sickly-looking hand upon On approaching Mrs. Brindsley's Cottage, he felt his his heart. “I have contracted a great disrelish for somoral strength gradually abandoning him ; his heart ciety; I take a melancholy pleasure in leading a lonely palpitated with excitement, and his very limbs grew life; perhaps it is wrong, but it is not without its pleafeeble under him. He paused several times, and was sure, although that pleasure is indeed a mournful one.” about to return home and ask his father or brother to Maria perfectly well understood him, but she felt accompany him, at least to the house. He would have that the shadow of the unfortunate young man's melangiven any thing for some adventitions assistance. But choly was, in spite of her, falling upon her spirit. although bis resolution was weak, bis-reason was strong, “But you have your sacred profession and its duties, and on reverting to the confidence in his success express- Mr. Wallace; ought they not to cheer you, and to ened by his father, he felt ashamed of his timidity, and gage you in such a way, as to occupy your mind, and
prevent it from dwelling upon anything that might cause you pain ?”
“Do not allu le to that, Miss Brindsley," he replied, ooh, do not. There is when as a minister of God I feel how unworthy I have become of the office.”
“You !" she replied, “why, sir, I cannot plead ignorance of your well-known character, nor of the hidden benevolence and charity for which your name is proverbial. You may consider it hidden, but I assure you it is not. If you have any private care, surely it cannot be such, I should hope, as to affect your happi
You who make so miny others happy, ought certainly to be happy yourself.”
" It might be so, Miss B.indsley, if my heart were in my office, but indeed, I can scarcely speak upon this subject; I am like a house divided against itself. I often thiuk I have never been designed for the minis. try, and that I have, without due consideration of my own disposition and character, only intruded myself into it. If I had known as much of my own heart at an earlier period as I do now, I don't thiok I would ever have undertaken duties which at present I feel myself incapable of performing with an undivided spirit."
Maria could not help admiring the strange candour with which he exaggeratel the morbid and ideal shortcomings of his public duty-shortcomings which she kuew existed only in his own distempered imagination. ller interest and her sympathy with the unfortunate gentleman increased every moment, especially when she saw the timidity with which he avoided as long, it would secm, as he could, the very object of his visit there.
“ But could you not seek spiritual support from some of your brother clergymen by consulting with them as to the care that oppresses you, or rather could you not seek support from the Author of all comfort ? It must be a serious thing that so deeply oppresses your spirit.”
“ It is a serious thing, Miss Brindsley, because the happiness of my whole life is involved in it. I know not what I would say, nor how to say it. I am inexperienced in the proper manner of approaching a subject on which I feel depends either my life or death, Miss Brindsley-Miss Brindsley, have compassion on me ! Do you not understand me?"
This sudden appeal to her compassion, uttered ia such a voice of profound sorrow and wretchedness, completely overcame her. His earnest enthusiasm, joined to a spirit of such touching and melancholy pathos, moistened her eyes in spite of every effort to the contrary ; she could not speak.
“Alas, do you not understand me? Do you not know-can you not guess, tbat the secret source of all my sorrow-of all my care—of all my despair-is my love for you? You know not how I have struggled with it ever since you left me hopeless. You know not what the silent agony of the heart is when wasting away under the influecce of a despairing passiou—a passion which even despair itself cannot anni
hilate. You owe me some reparation, for you have, I fear, although unconsciously, withdrawn me from God. I caunot banish you either from my heart or imagination. You possess a double hold upon me; yet what efforts have I not made to forget you. This is not a subject for reason, because it is a subject of the heart, which never reasous. If I have erred in loving you, oh forgive and pardon me, for you see by those tears wbat I have been made to suffer, what I am suffering for it; say you will only forgive me, for, I think, of all men, I am the most unhappy.”
Maria could not hear this agony of ber unfortunate ljver without emotion; her tears flowed copiously, but she knew not, in fact, how to reply to him.
“I know not what to say," she returned ; “it is a dreadful task to me to deprive you of hope, or to weigh such a gentle and affectionate heart as yours down with sorrow; but alas, Mr. Wallace, I can give you no consolation.”
"Oh, do not say so!" he replied, deeply agitated; “consider that the happiness, perhaps here and hereafter, of a fellow-creature, depends upon your word. Look at my wasting figure, and you may easily conjecture what I bave suffered. Despair will kill me-kill me slowly, and so much the worse. Iudeed, it is not so much for your love I plead as for my life, for I feel that the one is bound up with the other. Oh, could you but only love me !"
“My dear friend,” she replied—“for I will call you 80mlet me assure you that you have my respect, my esteem, my affection as a sister ; but, alas, I cannot give you my love, although, as you see, I can give you my tears and my sympathy for this unhappy attachment, by which I feel so much honoured. Now, hear me, and collect yourself ; where is your fortitude ?"
Alas, I feel that I have none; under the influence of this passion I am like a reed shaken by the wind."
Well, even so, but you must endeavour to regaia some moral strength.”
“ How can I do so if you refuse me your love? Think of what I have lost by it, and of the desolatijn of heart which will shatter and prostrate me if you withhuld it. I am pleading for the welfare of my soul now as well as for my life and happiness. Think I say of what I have lost by it; my spirit has been withdrawn from the sacred mission which I entered into with perfect sincerity ; my heart, as a minister of God, has been alienated from the fold that has been entrusted to me; it is elsewhere--it is with you. I am, as it were, an apostate from the faith, for your sake, and in what a dark position is this for a man who has undertaken the discharge of such high and holy duties to stand. Reflect, then, that this dreadful struggle is wasting my life, sapping the very powers of my existence, and all because my unhappy heart is fixod upon you. But oh! only give me your love, and I will return to the fold which I am neglecting, to those duties in which my spirit is not; yes, I will return to them with an ardour w bich will compensate for all I have omitted. Restore me to my mission, restore me to my health, pour tho
light of gladness upon my heart; I beg, I entreat you, have compassion upon me and save me!”
“ I bave-I have compassion upon you," she replied, seizing both his hands, “but my compassion is all I can bestow. Now, hear me," she continued; "you imagine that your unhappiness is great, perhaps mine is
You know not what I may even now suffer on my own account, neither can I disclose it to you, although if I did, it would reflect no dishonour on myself. I am not only unhappy, but wretched. My love I cannot give you, because it has been bestowed upon another, who would return it a thousandfold, if I accepted his. This, from the best motives, I have refused to do, and by this sacrifice to a sense of what is right, I have sealed my own misery for life. You, my dear friend, have not, then, all the sorrow to yourself.”
The poor young mau placed his hands upon his temples. “I care not,” said he, “ I have not heard you, I have not understood you, but I feel that I am desolate. Ichabod, the glory of my mission and of my life is departed, and my place shall soon know me no more.”
He rose to depart, and as he was about to go, she seized his hand and said: “ Farewell, my dear friend, farewell-you may yet be happy; as for me I never can.
He shook his head mournfully, and repeated the words, “ Ichabod, the glory of my mission and of my life has departed; I am desolate ;” but he added, look. ing upon her with such a look of sorrow as smote her again to the heart; “Might I ask, before I leave you, one last favour?"
" What is it, Mr. Wallace ? if I can with propriety comply with it, most assuredly I will."
“It is not for the sake of inemory,” he added; “ you are there for ever, but some slight token that I might look upon as coming from you. You gave me your tears this day—I will often give you mine. You would not refuse me what I ask ?”
In an instant she started up, and getting a pair of scissors which lay on a little side-table, she went to a looking-glass, and dishevelling her luxuriant head of hair, she cut off a tress, and tying it into a knot, said : “Keep this for my sake, Mr. Wallace, and remember me as one who respects, esteems, and admires you, and who would love you if she could, and who now says, that you are worthy of a better love than hers.”
He took her hand whilst his tears fell fast,—and he looked upon her. Might I kiss your hand ?" said he.
“ Here is my cheek,” she replied, “for the first and the last time;" and he kissed her not without tears, with a delicacy which showed that he understood the chaste and compassionate spirit in which the favour was offered.
After he had gone Maria sat down and wept, but her tears were not all for him.
When poor Wallace returned home, his face had the shadow of death on it. His father and brother approached to hear the result of his visit ; but be waved them away with his hand, and sitting down, placed the other over his eyes, exclaiming as before,
“ Ichabod, the glory of my mission and my life has departed; I am desolate !"
His father and brother felt that it was no time to disturb or intrude on Lim. They consequently retired to another room, where his affectionate brother said to the old man," Father, my brother's heart is broken; I read it in his face," and he burst into tears.
This episode of sorrow we may as well close here. He never recovered the shock of his disappointment. Decline, which was hereditary in the family, had been secretly at work before the occurrence of this melancholy interview. He wasted away, week by week, gradually and slowly, until, at the expiration of about seven months afterwards, this melancholy young man, so full of promise, so accomplished, so learned, and so eloquent, laid his head down in the bloom of youth, but in a spirit of calmness and resignation, and was freed from those cares and sorrows of heart which laid hiin low. The tress he had received from Maria was, at his own request, placed upon his heart, where he had always worn it, and buried with hiin.
Some weeks had now elapsed, and Maria's damask cheek began to exhibit evidences that the “worin” was
feeding on it. True it is that the fair but sorrowful girl "pined in thought," but with her usual firmness aud energy, she devoted herself with assiduity to the labour of life allotted to her, and by this means—the best-known preservative against care-she grappled with the deep anguish which was consuming her. One day she was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Clinton, who called, as she said, to have some private conversation with her. This iutimation made the colour to come and go on her cheek, and her heart to palpitate so violently, that she thought her powers of respiration were about to be suspeuded. Mrs. Clinton at once observed her confusion, and said:
" Don't be alarmed Maria ; I am about to speak to you as a friend.”
6. You have always been so to me, madam,” replied Maria,
“ Well then,” proceeded that lady, “I am about to ask you some questions, which I trust you will answer me candidly and fully."
“I shall certainly do so, madam," replied Maria, "if the questions regard only myself,"
“ You became acquainted with my son in A-h ?"
6 It ue to myself to say, that I did out become willingly acquainted with him ; I did everything that the circumstances under which I was placed enabled me, to decline any acquaintance with him. forced upou me altogether against my will; and it was to avoid the acquaintance you allude to that I am here to-day."
“My son offered you marriage ?"
“ This I think strange," observed Mrs. Clinton ; upon what principle did you reject a proposal which most young persons in your condition of life would have seized on with eagerness ?”
“Simply, madam, because I was in that conditiou
of life, and that I knew my acceptance of such an offer, although it might elevate me, must degrade him. I felt that I was not a fit companion for him; that he could neither introduce me to his family and connexions, nor to the world at large, because I was not qualified to move as his wife ought to move in that station of life to which he would raise me.”
“Had you any other motives ?”
“I felt, madam, that it would have been making an ungrateful return to you who proved yourself my friend and protectrese."
“ Then you have, upon the grounds you mention, finally and irrevocably declined to marry my son ?”
“. It is perfectly true, madam," returned Maria ; "and what is more, I have not the slightest intention of changing my purpose, a fact of which your son is finally aware; for I mentioned it to him as my last unalterable resolution.”
Strange girl !” exclaimed Mrs. Clinton; "why would you thus throw away fortune ?"
“Because, madam, I am not qualified to accept it, nor willing to do so, when the penalty your son must pay, would be his own shame and degradation. Indeed I don't think that either of us could be long happy; he might soon become tired of the taunts and insults offered to both of us, and as a natural consequence, he would find his low-born wife nothing but a drag and an incumbrance upon him. We should have the whole world against us, especially that part of it in which we should live. Your son, it is true, offered to retire from the world on my account; but do you think, madam, that I could suffer him to bury his brilliant talents in obscurity, or to withdraw on my account from the fame and distinction which may be before him ? Sooner than he should sacrifice himself for me I would sacrifice my -.” She paused, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Speak on, Maria," said Mrs. Clinton; "what would
“I woulu, madam—the same objections which I have urged already. I am not qualified to discharge the high duties of his wife, nor to mingle in polished society, and sustain both my own character there, and his, as his wife ought to do."
“ That will do, Maria-pardon me a moment. There is a gentleman-an old friend of yours—waiting without in the carriage, who is anxious to see you; and what is more,” she added, " he has à proposal to make to you."
Mrs. Clinton went to the cottage door, and holding up her hand, beckoned to some one who was evidently awaiting the signal within. The servant immediately let down the steps, and our old acquaintance, the historian, came out and approached the cottage. Mrs. Clinton, who had gone out as far as the garden-gate to meet him, said :
“She is wonderful, doctor; it is almost incredible, and I could not have believed it, had I not heard it from her own lips. The wealth of Europe is beneath her value; come in now and mention our project; her mother is out with her workwomen in the back garden, where they retired, until Maria and I should have finished our conversation, but we must call her in."
We need not dwell at any length upon the project for her education, because the reader is already acquainted with it, but we may simply say, that sanctioned as it was by Mrs. Clinton herself, and the eminent divine and historian, both Maria and her mother at length consented, and every arrangement was made.
“ Now Maria,” said Mrs. Clinton, “you say you are lowly born, and in one sense so you are, but on the other hand you are not of a lowly family. The good doctor here, who is not only a great historian, but consequently a deep genealogist, tells me that your family were once both wealthy and respectable, and that of one thing you may feel proud—I mean next to the possession of your own exalted character and virtues--that Brindsley Sheridan, the emiŋent statesman, orator, and dramatist, derived a portion of his blood from your family. He: was an Irishman; and what Irishman or Irishwoman either lives with a love of freedom in their hearts, who has not a right to feel proud of him? The light of such a name is enough to throw back lustre upon the obscurity of the humblest family for generations.'
“ I would sacrifice the happiness of my life for him," she added, still weeping, for the poor girl was fairly
MARIA AT SCHOOL HER FAITHFULNESS TO CLINTOX
STRANGE DISCOVERY-JOY AND SORROW.
“Maria,” said Mrs. Clinton, “ yon love my son ?” Maria was silent, but her tears still flowed.
“Maria, the truth !-conceal nothing from me--I expect the truth, and nothing else from you."
“ But I do not wish to incur your anger, madam.”.
“ You have not incurred my anger so far ;-but as I said- and if you be the girl I believe you to be- you will conceal nothing from me.”
“ Then, madam,” replied the high-minded girl," it is because of my love for him that I act as I do. I forget myself, and can only think of him, and what he can and will be by forgetting me. I trust madam you will not be angry with me for this confession. I am lowly born, and not qualified by education and the accomplishments which
every well-bred girl possesses to pass through the world as his wife."
But, Maria, listen! If I should give my consent to your marriage with him, would you urge any further objection?”
The reader sees, that however slowly the fate of our heroine is progressing, yet what ibat fate is to be, we cannot in justice to ourselves attempt in this state of the narrative to disclose. This would be raising the curtain too soon, so that the gentle reader, if he or she feel impatience, as we hope they do, mnst check that impatience until the proper dénouement or dénouements -for there are two of them-shall be arrived at in due
We said at the close of the last chapter, that the are