24 JULY 1847, Page 18

GISELLA.

Tau authoress of Gisella belongs, in artist phrase, to the school of the oommon romance-writers ; bat the country whence she has drawn her materials imparts a good deal of novelty and interest to her book, in spite of a hacknied mode of treatment and a rather literal minuteness of descrip- tion. A villain may essentially be very much of the Minerva Press or stage altarpiece villain—with lofty stature, black hair and eyes, a conscience that troubles but never stops him, and a style of speech approaching King Cambysea vein ; yet when called Athanasius, made a priest of the Greek Church, and the head of a monastery in Hungary, with all Hungarian accessories surrounding him, he looks fresher than the everlasting Italian, Spanish, or English monk. With the scene laid in modern times, (1831,) and Athanasius engaged as a tool of Russia to foment disturbances in Hungary, there is a change in the objects and motives of the villain. Athanasius, too, has got his hands full in private ; for he married a Hun- garian peasant-noble, whom he deserted, and has a concubine in the mo- nastery disguised as a boy; and each lady is a cause of difficulties.

The same novelty of scene with an actual knowledge of Hungary and the Hungarians, gives to the characters and incidents greater freshness, perhaps enforces it. The story appears to be real to some extent; and as the heroine acts and suffers to release her husband from a state prison, the writer is shut out from the common love- tale. This, with the neces- sity of depicting Hungarian life and character as she really saw it, com- pels a remove from the usual material of British novels, although the writer does contrive to present them in somewhat of a British fashion.

The interest turns upon Hungarian patriotism, Russian intrigue, and Austrian tyranny, though in the precise case before us it would seem to be Hungarian wildness and Austrian rule. Gisella the heroine and her husband are Hungarian patriots, anxious for the independence of their country. At the persuasion of Athanasius, they enter into a plot of the priest's invention ; his purpose being to raise a revolt among the Hun- garians of the Greek Church for seeming religious objects, and of the patriots for Hungarian independence, in order to allow Russia to take advantage of the confusion. Finding detection probable, the priest, to di- vert attention from his own schemes, secretly denounces Gisella's bus- baud; who is imprisoned as a necessary consequence. To effect his escape is a main object of the heroine ; as its prevention is that of Athanasius, at first by warning the authorities of the plan, and when Gisella resolves to go to Vienna and see the Em- peror, by intercepting her in any way. These efforts form the ac- tioa and interest of the novel ; the treachery of Athanasius being de- tected or his purposes crossed, by Petike, a travelling tinker, and Aladar, a peasant-noble, both of whom have injuries of their own to revenge upon the priest. Petike, though Hungarian in character, is, so far as conduct is in question, derived from the gipsies and similar machinery of Scott- Aladar is a more original person, both in himself and his position. With the simplicity of a peasant, or English franklin, he has the feelings of the noble. Unacquainted with Gisella's marriage, (for she herself is under ban,) he loves her ardently and he would say hopelessly, though at bottom not altogether devoid, of hope. He saves her in a storm on the Danube, rescues her from a burning house, and accompanies her in the disguise of a driver on her perilous journey to Vienna. His discovery of her real condition, in presence of the Emperor, does not shake his devotion' and and his knowledge of the plots of Athanasius turns the scale in favour of pardon. Nor at the close is there anything forced or unnatural. Aladar's disappointment and sadness are great ; but they induce no wildness of conduct, or feeling of unjust rage.

Gisella, as a novel, is not equal to the materials the writer possesses ; partly from faults of judgment, which might be remedied, partly from &deeper defect. The writer's mind is not devoid of invention or of dra- matic power - but it is prosaic. She can plan a story, she can contrive a situation, ;he can conceive a character, and sustain in it dialogue with consistency; but she wants vivacity. Rigidly analyzed, the effect is pro- duced by formal means ; rather by that power which a story always pos- sesses, than by any spirit inherent in itself: A want of rapidity—an elaborate slowness—also contributes to mar the effect; "there is no end of it," Athanasius is killed by means of the cholera mania, when the population of Eastern Europe thought the priests had poisoned the wells; but, the scene is extended to flatness by speeches and interruptions : the authoress spins out, instead of suspends. The interview with the !ate Emperor Francis in the gardens at Schcenbrunn, though interesting, and remarkable for the nice appretiation of the Imperial character, lags ; and the effect of many other scenes is impaired by want of compression. The novel generally has the fault which Scott managed to conceal by his animated and picturesque style ; landscapes, customs, and costumes, keep the narrative waiting. There are various characters and episodical incidents besides those we have mentioned, but pretty closely connected with the main story. The following is one of these; when Petike, the wandering tinker and smug- gler, meets Irene. He has seen the seeming boy in the company of Athanasius, and wishes to " pump " him. The rest of the scene explains itself.

Good day, young he said, as he overtook the retreating form upon a small green space or opening in the outer rampart; immediately before a moat- bridge which communicated with the gate of the fortress, leading to the road in the direction of the mountains. Winch route do you take? What hinders our making our way together in good fellowship? One hand washes the other, as the Illyrian says; but both wash the face. Two in a boat row further than one—eh, Paprika ? ' The boy stared at this address, with a greater appearance of emotion than might have been expected, glancedfrom under his broad brim at the Pot-binder, pulled his hat more low upon his brow, and endeavoured to harry forward over the bridge. '" Not so over-hasty, my shy youngster !' said Petike, striding by his side: an ugly vizard covers not always an ugly heart. I am a better fellow than I look, perhaps, as you will find; and I want no more of you than a little pleasant chat, to brighten life's path and our own, as we walk on together. Nay, nay, my young fellow ' he added, as the youth, without replying, hastened his steps almost to a ran upon nearing the gateway, 'you must not escape me thus. You thought yourself off—did you? but no man should cry hop until his spring is made, as the Wallachian has it ! '—and he caught the boy somewhat roughly by the arm, close by the gate. "The hat of the youth fell from his head, as he was thus jerked backward: he uttered a scream, and clasped his hands before his face.

"But the Pot-binder had already caught sight of the youth's features. "Irene! 'he exclaimed, starting back in his turn with surprise. " 'Irene!' he said again, in low and bitter tone. Bat I might have surmised it, had I not been a fool—had I but thought on thee at the moment, Irene, as God knows I have scarcely ever, even in the most harassing moments of my weary life, ceased to think of thee!'

"' Irene,' he repeated once more, in a sorrowful voice, as the seeming bey turned away his head, 'my doubts, my fears, my suspicions, then, were true— true, alas ! and Heaven confound them that they should prove true! Thou art the light o' love of that villain monk. It was he who stole thee from thy village, from thy poor mother's side—thy poor mother, who died of grief and sorrow when thou fledst from her. Ay hang thy head and clench thy hands: it best becomes thee to be thus. It was he, then, who stole thee from thy affianced lover; who, poor, humble, and perhaps ill-favoured as he be, had a faithful and an honest heart to love thee, Irene, and had made thee a stoat and a good husband. But I will not speak to thee of my own wrongs. I will not think of my own self: I have sworn to thy dying mother, girl, to seek thee and reclaim thee; and I have never, amidst peril and pain and poverty's suffering, forgotten that oath. It has been but lately, as half broken-hearted, after long and vain inquiries upon my many wanderings, I returned to our native village—where I too have now no more a home—that I learnt from the fieering and jeering of my former gossips, who scouted at thy shame—at thy shame, Irene 1—dost thou not feel it? Ay thou feelest it,' he continued, as Irene for a moment raised her head with an air of haughty sulkiness, but then let it fall again. 'But I—I, at least—thy poor de- spised lover, felt thy shame with still bitterer heart-pangs, when I found that the sneering women fixed the guilt of thy seduction upon that monk of infamy, who alone of any strangers had been known to haunt our village, with his gift and promises, and talks of union among all those of our religion in whatever land they be dispersed: pious words, honied promises, alluring gifts I—but treachery, the blackest treachery in all ! I too have had dealings with that man; and Heaven punish me, that, to save myself from the fortress' bolts and wards, I ever should have listened to him. I too have learnt to know the blackness of his heart; and, since those doubts and suspicions have been thrust into my mind, to sicken it fibs poison, I have watched him—I have sought to find thee, but in vain. That dress —shame again to thy sex Irene 1—prevented the discovery,. perhaps. But the only hope of my life has been to snatch thee from his impious hands-‘-if so it should prove that thou wert his—and save thee from further shame. Now I can doubt no longer—I have seen thee with him—I have followed thee—I have fistmd thee, Irene! Thou wouldst be my first and last thought, had I not even sworn to thy poor sainted mother, as I havesworn. Irene ! for thee I will desert even those who have stood my friends in need, and been the saviours of my life, and whom I now in turn could save, perhaps, from peril. Irene ! come, take my arm—give vent to the tears that heave thybosom—come with me to the only home that! pos- leas, and which the kindliness of others has offered me for a time. Come and let me be a brother to the poor deluded being who might once have been my happy wife.' Petike's good heart had roused him into an outburst of feeling which found words in a rough language, and was not without its homely eloquence. His sews of proverbs, his little dog, all his habitual self was forgotten at this sudden meeting with the unhappy woman he had once loved, and sworn still to protect. The tears. sprang into his dark grey eyes, which gleamed from his swarthy face with a look' of sorrow, tenderness, and enthusiasm combined. But be had been mistaken in the feelings of Irene. If her bosom heaved, it was not with swelling tears. For, as he paused with a broken sob, she raised her heath her face was flushed with. various emotions; but that of anger seemed predominant. " Leave me man!' she exclaimed, tearing away the arm that he had again grasped most tenderly. 'Who art thou? I know thee not—leave met' "