for its full disclosure arrives, is only rivalled by the completeness with which that disclosure lights up every feature of the long mystery that has preceded. It has however one great fault that must be obvious to the most careless reader. To secure the general effect of the whole, when viewed, so to speak, as a picture embodying some single sentiment, the author has almost entirely sacrificed the interest of one of its parts. Passing over the first ten chapters, which serve as a general introduction, we are presented with two distinct novels-the only link between them being in the person of the heroine herself. The first, extending to Jane's flight from the house of Rochester, is life-like, natural, exciting. It portrays dark and strong emotions, but they are such as rise in every human breast. The other is tame, unnatural, and uninteresting: the feeelings it depicts are scarcely known to one among a million, and at the same time so directly opposed to those before excited in us, that they rather revolt than attract us. We can indeed see the design of the author in the plan he has adopted; and we cannot but acknowledge when we have closed the book and can take in the whole at once, that by this marked contrast he has rendered the whole a more effective picture: but as a tale its unity and symmetry is destroyed. Even the beauty of the contrast is weakened by its arrangement, so that we have almost the effect of anti-climax. The quiet scenes of the second part appear dull after their more stirring predecessors, and were it not for their effect as a foil for these, would become absolutely tiresome. It is worthy of remark how completely this difference pervades the chapters. While all bear the marks of equal labor, the minutest details of one part are spirited and often picturesque: while in the other they are almost uniformly strained and languid.

The greatest charm of Jane Eyre, however, lies not so much in the interest of the plot as in its masterly delineation of character. For vividness and variety the personages are unsurpassed in English fiction: they show a power of entering the heart and appreciating its deepest emotions which very few possess, and still fewer can embody in language. They are remarkable too for the unity of their development. Not only are the main features preserved, but all the more delicate shades that we rarely see on paper. Scarcely a sentence could be taken from any conversation in the book that would not by its form and spirit alone indicate the speaker.

It would be a pleasant task, did not our limits forbid, to attempt an analysis of the various characters. The heroine herself is as well worthy of study as many creations of Shakspeare even. She is a

She has not one unfemi

true woman, and yet one of a high order. nine trait about her, and yet we see a strength of purpose, and a degree of available practicalness that rarely falls to the lot of the "weaker sex," combined with that ready tact and quick observation which they claim as their especial distinction. The most strongly marked feature in her character is one for which our language has no fitting term. Not self esteem, for use has made that a term of reproach-nor individuality, for that is too vague-nor egotism for that is too limited. It is more like self reliance than any thing else, yet even that does not fully express it-a sort of self-concentration-a disposition to find sources of enjoyment only within one's own heartto cherish one's own peculiarities, and look within one's self rather than to the world without for motives and rules of action. This is not, as some may think, an unlovely trait: would there were even more of it actually existing in this age of universal philanthropy, and Societies for minding every body's business but their own. In Jane Eyre it triumphs over all other passions-love, pleasure, ambition, all. We can see how it was fostered within her from her very infaney, and grew to be her guiding principle. Through her cheerless childhood-amid the privations of Lowood or the gay noblesse in the saloons of Thornfield-the plighted bride of Rochester, or the devoted assistant of St. John Rivers,-we have ever before us "a quiet little figure, sitting by herself."

In Rochester and St John Rivers we have a most perfect contrast. In the former the author's power is displayed to the best advantage. Rochester is not a saint: neither is he one of those seductive villains whose chief charm lies in their wickedness. He is a man: and rarely has civilized man with all his powers and passions been so faithfully depicted. The author has dared to present us his hero's faults without gloss. Novel writers usually shrink from this, lest it diminish our love for their favorites: he has shown that we need perfection to excite our sympathies no more on the page of fiction than we do in real life. Many have cried out against the moral influence of such a portrait: but whoever can trace the workings of that deep manly heart, as it gradually becomes subdued and purified, and feel himself more injured than improved by the study, must have a fount of corruption in his own heart deeper than even Rochester's. Such a one should beware how he study history: he will find few of its great or good men pure enough for his taste. St. John Rivers strikes us less favorably. In seeking an effective foil for his hero, the author has presented us with a personage at once unnatural and

void of interest. With his spiritless stoicism and fanatical pride we have no sympathy: and it is only when we fear and almost hate him for his influence over Jane, that we cease to be utterly indifferent to his existence. This lack of interest, as we have already remarked, pervades the whole second part St. John's sisters are by far the most poorly drawn personages in the book: more like the milk and water creations of the Laura Matilda school than any others in Jane Eyre very unexceptionable, and very lovely, and very flat.

Miss Ingram is a perfect type of her class: indeed all the characters who compose her set, play their parts to perfection. But we must not delay longer on these subordinate characters.

The tone of the work is decidedly original, and calculated to please only a few but those few will be such as have learned from bitter experience to judge soberly and impartially of the world about them. There is very little romance about it, and no flattery for human nature. Tender minded young ladies will tell you they dote upon it"but then the author does scandalize the world so!" Perfectionists will find but little comfort from the writer of Jane Eyre. He has shown mankind as they really are: in total depravity at least the book is orthodox. There is little wit in it: but it abounds with something of a far higher order,—a rich fund of deep satirical humor. It is one high merit of the work in our eyes, that humbug of every kind, however consecrated by age or fashion, finds no mercy in its pages. The Rev. Mr. Brocklehurst with his canting hypocrisy, and the fashionable follies of Rochester's guests come alike under an unspared lash.

We should be glad, if space were allowed us, to illustrate these hasty remarks, and enrich our own pages with extracts from the work itself. There are many scenes which for graphic delineation we deem unsurpassed by the most renowned novelists of the day. But the work is already so universally known that there are but very few, we think, to whom the passages we would quote are not already familiar. It will be enough to name the economy of Lowood-the first interview with Rochester-his declaration of love— the night-scene with the maniac, and again her hideous revelationthe belledom of Miss Ingram-and best of all, one of unequalled pathos, the death of Helen Burns. If there be a scene of more touching beauty in English fiction, we are ignorant of it. Unmanly as some may think it, we are proud to confess how the tears came into our eyes when we read it,

Who wrote Jane Eyre? Its authorship has been for a time as

great a question as that of the New Timon or the Vestiges of Creation. We doubt not it will soon cease to be a secret; but on one assertion we are willing to risk our critical reputation-and that is, that no woman wrote it. This was our decided conviction at the first perusal, and a somewhat careful study of the work has strengthened it. No woman in all the annals of feminine celebrity ever wrote such a style, terse yet eloquent, and filled with energy bordering sometimes almost on rudeness: no woman ever conceived such masculine characters as those portrayed here and to use a test which, trifling as it seems, has weighed not a little with us, no woman ever made such blunders in discussing millinery, and the various articles of femenine apparel! For the truth of this last eriticism we appeal to all our fair readers.

We feel that in

Once more we turn from the book with regret. this brief sketch we have done our subject little justice; but if any are led by it to spend, like us, a dull vacation day over the book itself, we know they will forget the rudeness of the guide-board in the pleasantness of the path.

TWILIGHT RECOLLECTIONS.

When the weary day declines,

When the red sun faintly shines,

When the shadow of the tree
Stretches lengthened o'er the lea,
And the eddies in the brook
Sadden in each shadowy nook,
And the weak stars faint and pale
Dimly pierce their azure veil,
Then with spirits sad and low,

Like the starlight's trembling glow,
Like the brooklet in the meadow,

Whispering 'neath the deep'ning shadow,
Like the skyward pointing tree,
So my tho'ts steal back to thee,
While Hope's sunlight slowly fading,
All my soul with grief pervading,
Throws the shadow of Life's tree,
(Ever farther creeping, creeping,
Till upon thy grave 'tis sleeping.)
Ever farther unto Thee.

EDITORS' TABLE.

"Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter."-Solomon.

"Here be we, five moral God-fearing citizens, set up to make sport for the mob." Massinger.

"H-e-i-g-h-o."-EDs. Ind.

READER, what is your conception of an Editor's table? We wonder whether you have ever formed such daring conjectures as we were wont to do, touching the meaning of that mysterious phrase. In our younger days we halted between two different exegeses-literal and metaphorical. The first existed to us in the shape of a large pine frame, such as we once saw in a daring intrusion upon the sanctum of our friend who does the Intelligencer. Gaunt it was, and paintless, but plentifully bedaubed with printer's ink: drawers and pigeon holes innumerable garnished it round about, and on it lay in hopeless confusion the papers of the day—add thereto a small inkstand and a large pair of scissors, and you have it complete. Our other interpretation was more to our own taste. Instead of taking those ambiguous words literally, it rather presented them to us as the phenomenal eidolon of an abstract and transcendental conception-the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace—in short as a pleasant fiction, typifying only certain final pages in smaller type, where the poor wretch who had been strutting in full dress through essays, disquisitions and sonnets interminable might don his easiest wrapper-sink leisurely into his biggest editorial chair-and indulge himself in a cosy and confidential chat, not having the fear of Kame and Whately before his eyes. Such at least shall ours be.

We had prepared a small sample of our powers to grace our first number: but the printer and his devil are inexorable-we are crowded out. We regret this exceedingly, for we would fain have "scraped acquaintance" a little more closely with our readers before again venturing into their presence. This first number has been prepared amid many delays and disappointments incident to the commencement of such an undertaking by hands so inexperienced as ours. These we trust will not again occur. To those who have already favored us with contributions we return hearty thanks for their assistance: and we would remind both them and others that upon these we mainly rely to fulfil the design of the work. But this has been more appropriately said in another place.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

QX Phi, and "The Warning" will appear in our next.

66

'Cycloid" has gone down the curve of swiftest descent.

"Lines to my table" are under ours.

"Carril" is requested to allow the late "venerable Adams" to requiescat in pace.

*, T. T., and the Wanderer, are respectfully declined.