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Dr^TKTi   yrr  K.MSaaows 


THE 


DRAWING-ROOM    ALBUM, 


AND 


^ampanion  for  ttt  3$ottl)foir) 


AN     ELEGANT    LITERARY    MISCELLANY, 


ILLUBTR4TEI>   WITH    BEAUTIFUL    ENGRAVINGS   ON    8TEBU 


"  Bttdi  and  flowers  begin  the  year, 
"  Song  and  tale  bring  up  the  the  rear." 


LONDON: 

.PUBLISHED    BY    THOMAS    HOLMES, 

Ch'eat  Book  EstablisJiment, 
76,    ST.    PAUL'S   CHUECH-YAED. 


W.    '     Slaiw,    frinler.    I,    Ivy    iAlit     PaternosU-r   lUvs 


ftO 


HER    ROYAIi    HIGHNESS, 


THE 


^ttttit^^  at  W^mt, 


AH    A    FEkVENT    HOMAGE    TO    HER    MANY    PUBLIC    AND    PRIVATE    VIRTUES, 


THE 


"DRAWING-ROOM     ALBU  M." 


IS    MOST    RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED, 


BY    THE    PUBLISHER. 


012 


PREFACE. 


The  "Drawing  Room  Album,"  has  hitherto  held  so  prominent  a  place  in  the  estimation  of 
all  the  lovers  of  elegant  Literature,  that  it  is  hardly  thought  necessary  to  offer  any  remarks  by 
way  of  preface,  except  most  gratefully  to  thank  its  numerous  patrons  for  the  favourable  recep- 
tion it  has  always  met  with ;  and  to  observe,  that  in  order  to  reap  the  benefit  of  such 
continued  favor,  the  present  Volume  has  been  produced  with  no  ordinary  care  and  attention  : 
to  use  its  own  words — 

"  Much  money  has  been  freely  spent, 
"  In  giving  me  accomplishment ; 
"  In  short  no  effort  has  been  wanting 
"  To  make  me  perfectly  enchanting." 

The  class  of  books  called  "  Annuals,"  unfortunately  have  been  thought  to  have  ref  -  ce  and 
possess  interest  only  at  the  moment, — ^but  there  is  no  description  of  works  of  light  reading  so 
really  well  worthy  of  being  perused  and  examined,  at  all  times,  as  the  majority  of  them  are ; 

"  Ay,  a  bit  bookie  o'  ane's  ain  writin',  a  poem  perhaps,  or  a  garland  o'  ballants  and  sangs,  with 
twa  three  lovin*  verses  on  the  fly  leaf,  by  way  o'  inscription."— Bcrns. 

The  Illustrations  are  all  of  a  superior  class,  and  it  is  hoped  that  no  one  of  its  contemporaries 
has,  upon  the  whole,  a  greater  claim  upon  public  favor. 

It  should  be  observed,  that  the  work  is  also  printed  on  a  smaller  size, — the  prose  part  being 
published  separately,  and  called  "  The  Magnet ;"  while  the  poetry  assumes  a  small  neat  form 
for  the  pocket,  or  reticule. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Adieu 1 

The  Last  Letter " 

Good  Nature 2 

Approach  of  Night    " 

Close  of  a  Good  Life   3 

Pleasures  of  the  Country " 

The  Lute 4 

The  Discovery ^  " 

Chatsworth    5 

Time " 

Alfred  " 

The  Festival  of  Flowers 6 

Authorship   <• 

The  False  Accusation    7 

Goodwood      9 

Style  of  Living  in  Sweden   10 

Pope  iu  his  Romantic  Retreat " 

Home , .  " 

A  Summer  Vision    11 

Time «• 

The  Lake  of  Como 12 

A  Tale  of  Real  Life 13 

The  Jew's  Love  of  Jerusalem   10 

Devotees  and  the  Relics  20 

Mountain  Mary    " 

Marriage  .... «« 

A  Reverie  of  Arcadia 21 

Locks  of  Hair •« 

Descriptions  of  Morning  22 

Ode  written  in  Winter " 

Character  of  a  Young  Lady    " 

Wolsey '8  Advice   23 


Pa-e 

Duelling   i3 

Sympathy    " 

Music " 

Song  in  Cymbaline " 

Irwan's  Vale , " 

The  Happy  Peasant    , '24 

Shepherd's  Song    " 

Innocence 25 

Psalm  CXLVJ II    •' 

Dieppe 26 

Croma " 

Drunkenness 27 

To  a  Picture  of  tiveuing,  near  the  Bavarian  Alps  ...  28 

Go,  dig  ye  a  Tomb  ! " 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 29 

To  Susannah " 

Inscription  for  a  Bath " 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant " 

The  Castle  of  Chillon    30 

Fortitude 32 

Sorrow " 

Forgiveness '* 

Memento  Mori    " 

Virginia 33 

Solitude  *' 

The  Battle  Field    «' 

Sentiment 31 

Minds , " 

An  Elegy 35 

Sceptics    , ♦• 

Bishop's  Auckland  Palace 36 

Imaginary  Address  of  Napoleon " 


Page. 

The  »^y press   •  •  •  ^" 

All  Evening's  Amusement    • ■^' 

Singular  Instance  of  Second  Sight   

Resignation ^" 

Festivities  of  Christmas  in  Sweden     40 

Wolf  Shooting 41 

A  Woman  attacked  by  Wolves " 

Sabbath  Bells 42 

Our  Joys    " 

Hospital  Scene  in  Potugal    " 

Tde  Interview 44 

Content   

The  Shadow    

The  Rainbow 

The  Thunder  Storm 45 

The  White  Elephant  of  Burmah    " 

The  Crusade 48 

Friendship " 

The  Mariner's  Dream 47 

Love  me,  Love  my  Dog " 

Chocorua'8  Curse    48 

The  Mar(£uisa  and  her  Dog 50 

To  Mrs.  HemaDs   *' 

The  Splendid  Annual    51 

The  Young  Bride's  Farewell    55 

A  Lover's  Hour    " 

Stirling  Castle    56 

The  Poppy " 

Maxims   " 

Fotheringay b7 

Unrenewed  Years    " 

Wearie'sWell    58 

The  Sculptor  Lorta *♦ 

Matin  Song " 

The  Persian  Lovers 59 

Rural  Picture   * *♦ 

Song " 

The  Tide  at  Midnight   " 


Page. 

Medicine 59 

A  Lament  for  the  Days  of  Chivalry 60 

Over  the  Sea ■ 

The  Minstrel's  Fame " 

ASongofDelos    61 

The  Biscayen  to  his  Mistress    " 

Elegy 62 

The  Bride  of  Death   " 

Windsor  Castle   63 

Song   64 

American  Taste    " 

The  Morgue 65 

Stanzas  for  Music    66 

TheSlaveShip   67 

Charles  Cameron   68 

The  Slanderer    6tf 

Pleasure    " 

The  Market  Boat   70 

A  Mother's  Lament  over  the  Grave  of  a  Beloved  Son  '* 

The  Infant  Bacchus 7i 

Stanzas    72 

The  Auld  Man   " 

Miss  Croker   73 

The  Farmer,  the  Spaniel,  and  the  Cat " 

A  Tale  of  the  Spanish  Wars 74 

Mary 78 

The  Young  Mother    " 

Arundel  Castle 79 

On  Taste    " 

Song  ot  Hesperus  to  Cynthia " 

Song  of  the  Greeks SO 

Stanzas  written  on  the  Sea  Shore    " 

Rosaline 81 

WhereisHe?   " 

Abbotsford sa 

Song 87 

The  Massacre  of  Glencoe    " 

The  Tooth  Drawer  88 


Jjra-wn.  br  i.E   ChsG. 


En^mvA  ty  ChsL*.  Head) 


%'mm   AID H JEW- 


THE  ADIEU. 


The  jwses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 

Though  nurtur'd  'mid  weeds  dropping  pestilent  dew, 

Till  Time  crops  the  leaves,  with  unmerciful  knife, 
Or  prunes  them  for  ever,  in  love's  last  adieu ! 

In  vain,  with  endearments,  we  soothe  the  sad  heart 

In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true ; 
The  chance  of  an  hour,  may  command  us  to  part 

Or  death  disunite  us,  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Still,   Hope,   breathing  peace,   through  the  grief-swollen 
breast. 

Will  whisper,  our  "  meeting  we  may  yet  renew;" 
With  this  dream  of  deceit,  half  our  sorrow's  represt, 

Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu! 

Oh,  mark  you  yon  pair,  in  the  sunshine  of  youth, 

Love  twin'd  round  their  childhood  his  flow'rs  as  they 
grew; 

They  flourish  awhile,  in  the  season  of  truth. 
Till  chill'd  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

Sweet  lady  !  why  thus  doth  a  tear  steal  its  way, 
Down  a  cheek,  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  hue  ! 

Yet,  why  do  I  ask  ?  to  distraction  a  prey, 
Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Oh  '  who  is  yon  Misanthrope,  shunning  mankind  ? 

From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew : 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind, 

The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu  I 

Now  hate  rules  a  heart,  which,  in  love's  easy  chains. 
Once  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments  knew  ; 

Despair  now  enflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins, 
He  ponders  in  frenzy,  on  love's  last  adieu ! 

Hovp  he  envies  the  wretch,  with  a  soul  wrapt  in  steel. 
His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few ; 

Who  laughs  at  the  pang,  that  he  never  can  feel. 
And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast, 
No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue : 

He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast, 
The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu ! 

In  this  life  of  probation,  for  rapture  divine, 
Astrea  declares  that  some  penance  is  due  : 

From  him,  who  has  worshipp'd  at  love's  gentle  shrine. 
The  atonement  is  ample,  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 


Who  kneels  to  the  God,  on  his  altar  of  light. 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew. 

His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight, 
His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 


THE  LAST  LETTER. 


BT  CM&RLES    SWAIN. 


They  tell  me,  I  am  greatly  changed, 

From  that  which  I  have  been ; 
So  changed,  it  would  have  passed  belief. 

Had  they  not  known — not  seen : 
They  tell  me  my  once  graceful  form 

Is  waning — pale  and  thin — 
Alas !  these  blighted  locks  scarce  speak, 

The  deeper  blight  within  !^ 

They  tell  me  in  one  little  month, 

I  seem  to  have  lived  years  ; 
My  ringlets  have  the  shade  of  age, 

My  eyes  are  worn  with  tears  ; 
They  say  the  beauteous  cheek  you  praised. 

Now  wears  a  deadly  hue ; 
And,  oh,   I  feel  within  my  breast. 

My  heart  is  dying  too ! 

I  do  not  wish  to  send  one  pang 

Of  sadness  to  thy  soul ; 
But  there  are  feelings— deep  and  strong— 

We  may  not  quite  control ; 
I  do  not — do  I  love  reproach  ? 

0  !  if — forgive — forgive ; 

'Tis  woe  to  think  of  thee — and  die  ! 
'Tis  worse  than  woe — to  live! 

My  sleep  is  wild  and  dark  to  me. 

My  dreams  are  of  the  dead ; 
1  wake— and  bless  the  light  of  day, 

Though  day  brings  its  own  dread : 
The  visions  and  the  tongues  of  home, 

Haunt  all  my  steps  with  pain; 
'Till  fire  is  in  my  aching  sight— 

And  madness  in  my  brain  ! 

This  may  not — will  not — long  endure ; 

1  know  death's  hour  is  nigh. 
And,  oh !  'tis  all  on  earth  I  ask, 

To  see  thee — ere  I  die  ! — 
Is  it  too  much  for  all  my  tears, 

For  all  my  anguish  past. 
To  grant  me  this — my  parting  prayer— 

My  last — my  very  last ! 


I_. 


G  0  O  D-N  A  T  U  R  E. 

Br    MISS    H.    MORE. 

O  !  gentlest  blessing  man  can  find! 
Sweet  soother  of  the  ruffled  mind! 
As  the  soft  powers  of  oil  assuage 
Of  ocean's  waves  the  furious  rage,— 
Lull  to  repose  the  boiling  tide, 
Whose  billows,  charmed  to  rest,  subside ; 
Smooth  the  vexed  bosom  of  the  deep, 
Till  every  trembling  motion  sleep, — 
Thy  soft  enchantments  thus  control 
The  tumult  of  the  troubled  soul ! 
By  labour  worn,  by  care  oppressed, 
On  thee  the  weary  mind  shall  rest; 
From  business  and  distraction  free, 
Delighted,  shall  return  to  thee  ; 
To  thee  the  aching  heart  shall  cling. 
And  find  the  peace  it  does  not  bring. 

Ye  candidates  for  earth's  best  prize. 
Domestic  life's  sweet  charities ! 
Oh  !  if  your  erring  eye  once  strays 
From  smooth  good-nature's  level  ways ; 
If  e'er,  in  evil  hour  betrayed. 
You  choose  some  vain  fantastic  maid,— 
On  such  for  bliss  if  you  depend, 
Without  the  means  you  seek  the  end ; 
A  pyramid  you  strive  to  place. 
The  point  inverted  for  the  base; 
You  hope,  in  spite  of  reason's  laws, 
A  consequence  without  a  cause. 
And  you,  bright  nymphs,  who  bless  our  eyes, 
With  all  that  skill,  that  taste  supplies. 
Learn,  that  accomplishments,  at  best, 
Serve  but  for  garnish  in  life's  feast- 
Yet  still,  with  these,  the  polished  wife 
Should  deck  the  feast  of  human  life  : 
Wit  a  poor  standing  dish  would  prove. 
Though  'tis  an  excellent  remove; 
Howe'er  your  transient  guest  may  praise 
Your  gay  parade  on  gala-days. 
Yet  know,  your  husband  still  would  wish — 
Good-nature  for  his  standing  dish. 

Still  in  life's  calendar  you  presume 

Eternal  holidays  will  come; 

But  in  its  highest,  happiest  lot, 

O,  let  it  never  be  forgot, 

Life  is  not  an  Olympic  game, 

Where  sports  and  play  must  gain  the  fame; 

Each  month  is  not  the  month  of  May, 

Nor  is  each  day  a  holiday! — 

Though  Wit  may  gild  life's  atmosphere. 

When  all  is  lucid,  calm,  and  clear, 


In  bleak  affliction's  dreary  hour. 
The  brightest  flash  must  lose  its  power, 
While  Temper,  in  the  darkest  skies, 
A  kindly  light  and  warmth  supplies. 

Divine  Good-nature!  'tis  decreed 
The  happiest  still  thy  charm  should  need. 
Sweet  Architect !  raised  by  thy  hands 
Fair  Concord's  temple  firmly  stands. 
Though  sense,  though  prudence  rear  the  pile. 
Though  each  approving  virtue  smile, 
Some  sudden  gust  (not  rare  the  case) 
May  shake  the  building  to  its  base, 
Unless,  to  guard  against  surprise. 
On  thy  firm  arch  the  structure  rise. 


APPROACH  OF  NIGHT. 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up  :  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is ; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  string  of  coral  beads. 
See  !  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  under  ground; 
At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 
Damps  and  vapours  fly  apace. 
Hovering  o'er  the  gamesome  face 
Of  these  pastures ;  where  they  come. 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom : 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  loved  flock. 
And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without. 
Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout, 
From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day. 
Bear  a  lamb,  or  kid  away ; 
Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox, 
Break  upon  your  simple  flocks  : 
To  secure  yourselves  from  these. 
Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 
Let  one  eye  his  watches  keep. 
Whilst  the  other  eye  doth  sleep; 
So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 
And  for  ever  hold  the  love 
Of  our  great  God. — Sweetest  slumbers 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eye-lids !  so  farewell. 
Thus  I  end  my  evening's  knell. 


CLOSE  OF  A  GOOD  LIFE. 

BY    S.    ROGERS,    ESQ. 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope,  like  evening  stars,  attending  ; 
Sustained,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run. 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest. 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redressed. 
Those  by  the  world  shunned  ever  as  unblest, 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate. 
Come  and  stand  round — the  widow  with  her  child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not ;  but  he  sees. 
Sees  and  exults — were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not ;  but  he  hears. 
And  earth  recedes,  and  heaven  itself  appears ! 
'Tis  past!     That  hand  we  grasped,  alas,  in  vain  ! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again  ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there. 
Nothing  was  wanting,  and,  through  many  a  year, 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  which  we  heard  to  night ; 
His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows. 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  the  close ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then. 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men. 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  and  all  that  we  endure, 
He  slept  in  peace — say  rather,  soared  to  heaven. 
Upborne  from  earth  by  Him,  to  whom  't  is  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  eternity. 
When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallowed  night. 
Who  sate  and  watched  in  raiment  heavenly  bright; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy,  not  fear. 
Says,  pointing  upwards — That  he  is  not  here. 
That  he  is  risen  ! 


PLEASURES  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 

DRTDEN'S    VIRGIL. 

How  goodly  looks  Cytorus,  ever  green 
With  boxen  groves !     With  what  delight  are  seen 
Narycian  woods  of  pitch,  whose  gloomy  shade 
Seems  for  retreat  of  heavenly  Muses  made! 
But  much  more  pleasing  are  those  fields  to  see. 
That  need  not  ploughs,  nor  human  industry. 
E'en  cold  Caucasean  rocks  with  trees  are  spread, 
And  wear  green  forests  on  their  hilly  head. 


Though  bending  from  the  blast  of  eastern  storms, 

Though  shent  their  leaves,  and  shattered  are  their  arms. 

Yet  heaven  their  various  plants  for  use  designs — 

For  houses,  cedars — and  for  shipping,  pines — 

Cypress  provides,  for  spokes  and  wheels  of  wains. 

And  all  for  keels  of  ships,  that  scour  the  watery  plains. 

Willows  in  twigs  are  fruitful,  elms  in  leaves; 

The  war,  from  stubborn  myrtle,  shafts  receives — 

From  cornels,  javelins;  and  the  tougher  yew 

Receives  the  bending  figure  of  a  bow. 

Nor  box,  nor  limes,  without  their  use  are  made. 

Smooth-grained,  and  proper  for  the  turner's  trade; 

Which  curious  hands  may  carve,  and  steel  with  ease  invade. 

Light  alder  stems  the  Po's  impetuous  tide, 

And  bees  in  hollow  oaks  their  honey  hide. 

Now  balance  with  these  gifts,  the  funny  joys 

Of  wine,  attended  with  eternal  noise. 

Wine  urged  to  lawless  lust  the  Centaur's  train; 

Through  wine  they  quarrelled,  and  through  wine  were  biain. 

O,  happy! — if  he  knew  his  happy  state— 
The  swain,  who,  free  from  business  and  debate. 
Receives  his  easy  food  from  Nature's  hand. 
And  just  returns  of  cultivated  land  ! 
No  palace,  with  a  lofty  gate,  he  wants. 
To  admit  the  tides  of  early  visitants. 
With  eager  eyes,  devouring,  as  they  pass. 
The  breathing  figures  of  Corinthian  brass. 
No  statues  threaten,  from  high  pedestals; 
No  Persian  arras  hides  his  homely  walls 
With  antic  vests,  which,  through  their  shady  fold. 
Betrays  the  streaks  of  ill-dissembled  gold  : 
He  boasts  no  wool,  whose  native  white  is  dyed 
With  purple  poison  of  Assyrian  pride  : 
No  costly  drugs  of  Araby  defile 
With  foreign  scents  the  sweetness  of  his  oil ; 
But  easy  quiet,  a  secure  retreat, 
A  harmless  life  that  knows  not  how  to  cheat. 
With  home-bred  plenty,  the  rich  owner  bless ; 
And  rural  pleasures  crown  his  happiness. 
Unvexed  with  quarrels,  undisturbed  with  noise, 
The  Country  King  his  peaceful  realm  enjoys — 
Cool  grots,  and  living  lakes,  the  flowery  pride 
Of  meads,  and  streams  that  through  the  valley  glide, 
And  shady  groves  that  easy  sleep  invite. 
And,  after  toilsome  nights,  a  soft  repose  at  night. 
Wild  beasts  of  nature  in  his  woods  abound ; 
And  youth,  of  labour  patient,  plough  the  ground. 
Inured  to  hardship,  and  to  homely  fare. 
Nor  venerable  age  is  wanting  there. 
In  great  examples  to  the  youthful  train ; 
Nor  are  the  Gods  adored  with  rights  profane. 
From  hence  Astreea  took  her  flight,  and  here 
The  prints  of  her  departing  steps  appear. 


THE  LUTE! 


Music  and  Beauty!  Tell  me  not 

Some  witching  tale— some  wondrous  story  : 

And  lay  the  scenes  'neath  balmy  skies, 

With  dames  whose  dark  eyes  swim  in  glory: 

As  o'er  the  lute's  electric  wires 

Love's  hand  runs  hot  as  heaven's  own  fires. 


Music  and  Beauty  !  Sing  me  not 
A  song  far  sweeter  than  wild  honey, 
Or  praise  to  bards  or  power  to  kings, 
To  women  rule — to  miser's  money ; 
A  lyric  where  love  shakes  his  wings 
Dove-like,  along  the  lute's  soft  strings. 

Music  and  Beauty  !  to  all  climes 
How  dear.     From  frozen  Greenland  snowing. 
To  England's  happy  land:  from  France, 
Crushing  her  grapes,  to  India  glowing  : 
Twin-born  delights— they  cheer  us— charm  us. 
Spell  bind  us,  wile  us,  witch  us,  warm  us. 


For  of  all  countries  and  all  ranks. 

Music  and  Beauty  come.    Whoe'er 

Heard  of  a  land  which  lacked  them      Look 

To  that  deep  ravishment  of  ear, 

The  air  admiring  hangs  and  mute. 

O'er  one  glad  and  triumphant  lute. 


Thy  will  is  done.     Young  Beauty,  thou 

Hast  wrought  thy  spell,  thy  love  may  lay 

His  lute  aside — those  eyes  would  mar 

His  skill.     I  heard  a  poet  say 

That  Beauty,  meek-eyed,  sweet  and  silent, 

Charmed  minstrels  mute  and  awed  the  valiant 


This  is  the  triumph  of  thy  art, 

Proud  painter.     There  man's  might  lies  scattered 

At  beauty's  feet — he  can  but  gaze 

With  soul  and  senses  stunned  and  fettered, 

While  she— her  might  but  half  divining. 

Reigns  sure  as  any  monarch  reigning. 


THE    DISCOVERY. 

How  first  upon  the  blooming  earth. 
Her  yet  secure  and  stainless  dwelling, 
Pandora's  hand  gave  Evil  birth. 
Is  now  a  tale,  too  old  for  telling; 
And  how  each  daughter  of  her  race 
Pursues  the  bright  example  set  her, — 
Zealou.«  her  mother's  path  to  trace, 
And  fill  her  precepts  to  the  letter. 

At  chains  the  free-born  spirit  mocks, 
Light  beams  thro"  Winter's  scowl  severest: 
AndBramah!  even  thy  patent  locks 
Must  yield  before  a  female  querist. 
Seals — drawers — envelopes — they  who  most 
Their  trust  in  such  defences  centre. 
Reckon,  for  once,  without  their  host, 
If  wife,  or  friend,  or  sister  enter. 

And  Bards  may  fable  as  they  please. 
Of  eagles'  gaze,  and  looks  of  lynxes — 
But  what  to  ladies'  eyes  are  these  ? 
What,  to  their  wiles,  the  riddling  Sphynxes? 
This  two-fold  thirst  no  bosom  spares, 
(Name  one,  whose  acts  reufse  to  shew  it  ?) 
First — that  each  secret  may  be  theirs  : 
And,  next — that  all  the  world  may  know  iL 

Thus,  in  its  bitter  mood,  hath  sung 
That  Wit  whose  hate  all  worth  engages, 
And  Falsehood,  with  her  ready  tongue, 
Retailed  the  barren  jest  for  ages: 
But,  were  the  vain  assertion  sooth. 
So  rife  in  each  satiric  season. 
How  readily  the  voice  of  truth 
Might  give  at  once  excuse  and  reason. 

And  be  the  picture  Scandal  draws, 
With  amplified  proportions  granted; 
Alas!  how  deep  and  sterna  cause 
That  ever  needful  sense  hath  planted  : 
The  altered  look — the  studied  slight — 
The  promise,  scorned  as  soon  as  spoken- 
Love,  like  the  fleeting  mists  of  night — 
And  vows,  but  uttered  to  be  broken. 

And,  caution  !  oh,  how  many  a  heart 
A  victim  to  its  over  kindness  I 
(That  last  frail  shelter  thrown  apart,) 
Hath  mourned  Affection's  fearless  blindness. 
And  traced  its  fancied  joys  in  dust. 
Forsaken,  cheerless,  ill-requited — 
And  blamed,  too  late,  its  childish  trust, 
As  hope's  last  bud  fell  sere  and  blighted. 


.X'  lU  ii'i  u>  JS 


(^^A/^i  a^i.  fS^Uai 


"«»■ 


H' 


CHATSWORTH, 

THE    SEAT   OF    THE    DUKE   OF  DEVONSHIRE. 

Chatsworth  House  is  most  beautifully  situated,  stand- 
ing near  the  foot  of  a  steep  and  well-wooded  hill ;  beneath 
which,  at  a  short  distance,  flows  the  Derwent.  This  lovely 
river  runs  through  the  park  in  a  luxuriant  valley,  bound- 
ed by  the  Peak  Mountains.  At  the  summit,  and  on  the 
point  of  the  hill,  behind  the  hall,  stands  an  ancient  tower 
about  ninety  feet  in  height,  called  the  Hunting  Tower  ; 
from  the  top  of  which  it  was  formerly  usual  for  ladies  to 
behold  the  diversion  of  hunting.  Within  a  moat,  by  the 
river  side,  is  another  tower,  called  the  Bower  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots;  reported  to  have  been  her  favourite  resort 
during  her  stay  at  Chatsworth. 

Chatsworth  Hall  was  termed,  on  its  completion— and  is 
still  considered— the  first  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  Peak, 
thus  concisely  recorded  by  Hobbes,  the  celebrated  philo- 
sopher of  Malmsbury,  in  a  Latin  verse,  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing is  a  rude  translation  :— 

"  A  wondrous  house,  high  mountain,  horrid  pit, 
Two  fountains,  and  two  caves.  Peak  has  in  it." 

Dr.  Leigh,  in  his  Natural  History  of  Derbyshire,  thus 
describes  Chatsworth : — "  Chatsworth,  like  a  sun  in  the 
hazy  air,  gives  lustre  to  the  dusky  mountains  of  the  Peak, 
and  attracts  a  general  congress  to  be  spectators  of  its 
wonders.  The  passage  to  it  is  of  easy  ascent ;  the  gate 
adorned  with  several  trophies ;  the  hill  composes  a  stately 
square ;  from  which,  through  a  gallery  upon  stone  stairs, 
you  have  a  prospect  of  a  most  beautiful  Chapel  and 
Hall,  full  of  choice  and  curious  paintings ;  the  one  con- 
taining the  History  of  Caesar,  stabbed  in  the  Senate ;  and 
the  other,  a  lively  and  admirable  draught  of  the  Resur- 
rection ;  both  performed  by  Signor  Vario,  that  great 
master  of  the  art.  The  chambers  are  noble  and  great, 
most  richly  inlaid  with  the  choicest  woods,  and  compose  a 
very  stately  gallery ;  at  the  upper  end  of  which  is  the 
Duke's  closet,  finely  beautified  with  Indian  paint,  and 
the  various  figures  of  birds,  as  they  are  drawn  by  the 
native  Indians.  The  next  curiosity  is  the  gardens,  which 
are  very  delightful,  pleasant,  and  stately,  adorned  with 
exquisite  water-works ;  as,  first,  Neptune,  with  his  sea- 
nymphs,  who  seem  to  sport  themselves  in  the  waters  (let 
out  in  several  columns),  which  appear  to  fall  upon  the 
sea-weeds.  Second,  a  pond  where  sea-horses  continually 
rowl.  Third,  a  tree,  exactly  resembling  a  willow,  made 
of  copper,  of  which,  by  the  turning  of  a  cock,  every  leaf 
continually  distils  drops  of  water,  and  so  lively  represents 
a  shower  of  rain.  Fourth,  a  grove  of  cypress,  and  a 
cascade  ;  at  the  top  of  which  stand  two  sea- nymphs,  with 
each  ajar  under  her  arm,  from  whence  the  water  falling 


upon  the  cascade,  whilst  they  seem  to  squeeze  the  vessels, 
produces  a  loud  rumbling  noise,  like  the  Egyptian  or 
Indian  cataracts.  Fifth,  at  the  bottom  of  this  cascade  is 
another  pond,  in  which  is  an  artificial  rose ;  through 
which,  by  the  turning  of  a  cock,  the  water  ascends  and 
hangs  suspended  in  the  air  in  the  figure  of  that  flower. 
Sixth,  there  is  also  another  pond,  wherein  is  Mercury, 
pointing  to  the  Gods,  and  throwing  up  water.  Seventh, 
besides  these  things,  there  are  several  statues  of  Gladia- 
tors, with  the  muscles  of  the  body  very  lively  displayed 
in  their  dififerent  postures.  This  pile  is  not  completely 
finished,  though  the  late  Duke  of  Devonshire  was  con- 
tinually making  additions  to  it  for  twenty  years ;  but,  as 
'tis,  'tis  a  magnificent  structure,  and  suitable  to  so  great 
and  illustrious  a  family." 


SONNETS. 

BY    JOHN     ANSTER,    LL.  D 
I,.~TIMB. 

Seen  through  pure  crystal,  the  imprisoned  sand. 
Without  a  murmur,   counts  its  flowing  hour; — 
The  dial's  shifting  bar  of  shade ; — the  hand 
Of  the  hall-clock,  that,  with  a  life-like  power, 
Moves  undisturbed ; — the  equal  pulse  of  Time 
Throbs  on,  as  beats  man's  heart  in  happy  health. 
Not  noticed,  yet  how  sure  !  with  easy  stealth, 
Unwearied  in  its  ministry  sublime  :— 
And  there  are  those,   to  whom  the  matin  lark 
Proclaims  day's  duties,  or  the  cock,  whose  cheer 
Came  sad  to  panic-stricken  Simon's  ear, 
When  for  a  little  moment  Faith  was  dark : — 
Frail  heart ! — that  still  believed,  yet  shook  to  hear 
The  storm  of  Man's  vain  anger  round  his  bark! 

II— ALFRED. 

Alfred  ! — Oh  read  his  tale  by  Milton  told! — 
In  seasons    when  the  change  of  day  and  night 
Doth  in  our  heaven  ill  separate  the  light 
For  studious  men, — his  hands  in  prayer  did  fold, 
By  angels  seen, — and  coloured  tapers  bright 
Each  lone  hour's  watch  with  varying  hues  record, 
While  Europe's  fates,  in  ample  scroll  unrolled. 
Are  spread  before  the  mighty  island's  lord  ; 
And  then,  and  now  hath  Alfred  his  reward  ! 
Of  all  that  noble  life  no  hour  was  lost, — 
Thoughtful  in  act, — and  active  while  he  prayed. 
He  loved  the  land  for  which  his  vows  were  paid. 
Restored  to  peace  a  people  tempest-tossed, 
And  England  is  the  nation  he  hath  made ! 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  FLOWERS, 

The  Mass !  The  Mass !  that  name  brings  nigh 

Remembrances  of  Altars  high, 

Of  gorgeous  tombs,  and  paintings  rare; 

Of  Incense  stealing  thro'  the  air: 

Devoted  looks  from  all  around, 

And  bended  knees  that  meet  the  ground : 

Stained  windows,  with  their  magic  light, 

And  sacred  types  a  goodly  sight ; 

The  Virgin's  looks,  divine  and  mild, 

The  image  of  the  holy  child. 

The  pious  prayer  and  fervent  hymn, 

Confession  made  in  ascents  dim ; 

The  notes  of  that  sweet  angel  quire, 

And  tones  so  low  of  heavenly  lyre : 

The  pealing  strains  of  organ  loud. 

The  effect  on  that  devoted  crowd. 

The  Mass  it  is  kept  every  where. 
Catholic  France,  and  Britain  fair ; 
In  chapel  small, — in  saintly  Rome, 
And  in  Cathedrals  fretted  doom ; 
On  Candia's  Isle,  and  Spanish  land, 
Piccardy's  Glens, — and  Cyprus'  Strand; 
Whatever  road  the  travellers  pass,— 
The  people  celebrate  their  Mass. 

And  who  can  gaze  with  cold  surprise. 

On  those  young  forms  before  our  eyes. 

Each  beauteous  girl,  each  lovely  face. 

Each  humble  attitude  of  grace. 

With  banners  bless'd,  and  words  of  prayer. 

To  what  they  think  is  holy  there : 

Their  hearts  perchance  are  pure  and  free, 

Like  ripling  waves  on  summer  sea. 

And  mingled  awe  and  worship  meet 

In  pious  accents  soft  and  sweet. 


AUTHORSHIP. 

One  remembers  writing  his  first  Book  as  distinctly  as  he 
recollects  the  first  time  he  saw  the  ocean.  Like  the  un- 
quiet sea,  all  the  elements  of  our  nature  are  then  heav- 
ing and  tumultuous.  Restless,  insatiable  ambition,  is  on 
us  like  a  fiery  charm.  Every  thing  partakes  of  the  bright- 
ness and  boundlessness  of  our  own  hopes.  Nature  is 
encircled  with  a  perpetual  glory;  and  the  seasons,  as  they 
pass  on,  scatter  pearli  and  diamonds  for  our  abundant 
fancy.  It  then  seems  strange  how  mortals  can  avoid  being 
intellectually  great ;  for  irresistible  inspiration  appears  to 


stream  in  upon  the  human  mind,  like  the  light  and  heat  of 
the  sun.  Creation  is  an  open  volume  of  poetry  and  truth, 
and  it  seems  as  if  whoever  glanced  upon  it  must  read  what 
angels  have  written  there. 

We  then  feel  interested  in  all  the  world,  and  think  all 
the  world  must  feel  interested  in  us ;  yet  it  is  not  vanjty — 
it  is  simply  the  expansive  power  of  a  youthful  ambitious 
mind,  measuring  its  strength  by  its  hopes.  We  then  write 
because  we  cannot  help  it — the  mind  is  a  full  fountain  that 
will  overflow — and  if  the  waters  sparkle  as  they  fall,  it  is 
from  their  own  impetuous  abundance. 

Such  are  the  feelings  with  which  we  write  at  first. 
Afterward,  the  cares  of  the  world  press  heavily  on  the 
spirit.  The  smiles  of  the  public  no  longer  have  power  to 
kindle  us  into  enthusiastic  energy ;  and  its  frowns  fall  like 
a  shadow  on  the  rock.  We  learn  that  ambition  is  not 
always  power — that  the  eager  eye  may  be  fastened  on  the 
sun,  but  the  weary  wing  can  never  reach  it. 

The  gaol,  which  once  appeared  bright  in  the  distance, 
is  despised  because  another  still  brighter  lies  beyond  it — 
and  when  we  know  how  unsatisfactory  that  too  would  prove, 
if  gained,  how  can  it  be  pursued  with  eagerness? 

Whoever  seeks  for  fame  rolls  the  stone  of  Sisyphus. 
When  we  have  grown  old  at  the  task,  the  sight  of  young 
ambition  sometimes  makes  us  smile  in  sad  mockery  of  its 
hopes;  and  we  feel  that  imagination  has  no  bitterer  curse 
to  bestow  upon  an  enemy. 

But  thoughts  like  these  are  merely  the  occasional  strug- 
gles of  the  giant  beneath  the  mountain  he  cannot  heave 
from  him.  In  general,  the  love  of  quiet  rests  on  the  mind 
like  a  drowsy  spell ;  and  we  are  all  well  content  to  have  for 
our  epitaph  that  we  have  lived  and  have  died.  Alas,  that 
the  proud  and  weary  spirit  cannot  always  rest !  The  opal, 
pale,  and  cold,  and  cloudy,  as  it  seems,  has  a  spark  of  fire 
for  ever  imprisoned  in  its  bosom. 

The  last  book,  like  the  first,  may  indeed  be  written  be- 
cause we  cannot  help  it :  not  that  the  full  mind  overflows — 
but  the  printer's  boy  stands  at  our  elbow.  We  then  look 
to  booksellers'  accounts  for  inspiration,  hunt  for  pearls  be- 
cause we  have  promised  to  furuish  them,  an4  string  glass 
beads  because  they  will  sell  better  than  diamonds. 

Such  is  the  difference  between  the  first  and  last  of  all 
things  the  world  can  give  us.  We  start  fresh  and  vigorous, 
as  if  life  were  a  revelry — the  game  proves  to  be  a  battle, 
hardly  worth  the  winning — and  we  pause  midway  tired  and 
disheartened,  content  to  dream  ourselves  into  the  realities 
of  death. 

But  there  are  gifts,  over  which  the  world  has  no  power. 
Religious  hope,  and  deep  domestic  love,  can  meet  no  change, 
except  the  transfer  from  a  happy  earth  to  a  happier  heaven. 
The  heart — blessed  be  God*,  the  heart  never  grows  old. 


THE  FALSE  ACCUSATION. 

Silence !  forth  we  bring  them 

In  their  last  array  ! 
From  love  and  grief,  the  freed,  the  flown— 

May  for  the  bier — make  way  ! 

"  An  d  is  there  no  hope  ?  Is  death  so  very  near  ?"  anxiously 
enquired  the  unhappy  Emily,  as  she  stood  watching  the 
last  moments  of  a  youth  whom  I  was  attending  in  the  capa- 
city of  physician. 

"  Alas,  none !"  I  answered  !  and  at  that  moment  he 
expired. 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  embraced  the  senseless  form  of 
the  departed  Frederick,  articulated  a  few  unintelligible 
words,  and  fell  lifeless  in  my  arms.  Poor  Emily !  every  vir- 
tue, every  attribute  of  perfection  shone  in  her  now  heavenly 
countenance  !  I  could  have  for  ever  gazed  upon  her  angelic 
face,  animated  as  it  once  was  with  so  pure  a  spirit.  But 
other  duties  imperiously  demanded  my  attention ;  therefore 
gently  laying  her  upon  a  sofa,  I  quickly  summoned  the 
domestics  of  the  house,  that  the  last  sad  duties  might 
be  paid  this  ill-fated  pair. 

I  now  hastened  from  this  melancholy  scene,  filled  with 
adoration  at  the  wonderful  ways  of  Him,  who  had  thought 
fit,  by  a  multitude  of  bitter  sorrows,  to  prepare  these  two 
most  blameless  of  his  creature  for  the  glorious  society 
of  Himself.  In  a  few  days  I  was  invited  to  attend  the 
funeral ;  when,  in  one  grave,  were  the  remains  of  both 
deposited. 

Shortly  after  this  lamentable  event,  I  was  made  acquainted 
with  the  following  history. 

Frederick  and  Emily  were  cousins  of  the  same  age,  of 
dispositions  similar,  and  in  situation  in  life  nearly  alike. 
The  parents  of  both  resided  within  a  mile  of  each  other. 
Being  always  companions  and  playmates,  they  had  from 
the  first  dawn  of  their  infant  faculties  imbibed  a  mutual 
and  lasting  affection,  which  ripened  to  pure  and  ardent 
love. 

Frederick  BlanJford  was  the  son  of  respectable  parents. 
His  father  in  former  years  had  been  gamekeeper  to  Lord 
Baltimore,  but  had  retired  upon  a  small  property,  and  was 
now  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  farm,  of  which  Frederick  took 
the  sole  management.  He  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth 
year,  and  about  to  be  united  to  his  cousin  Emily,  when  he 
was  sent  by  his  father  for  a  gun  from  the  neighbouring 
town,  where  it  had  been  for  repairs.  Upon  his  return,  on  a 
fine  moonlight  night,  through  a  small  wood,  he  was  sudden- 
ly accosted  by  a  large  party  of  men  in  disguise :  in  an 
instant  he  was  surrounded;  but  turning  quickly  round, 
demanded  who  and  what  they  were  ?  He  got  no  answer,  but 
heard  one  of  the  party  say,  "  That's  Master  Frederick,  son 
of  old  Blandford,  the  game-keeper,  down  with  him,  my 
boys!  "    Being  young  and  extremely  active,  he  broke  from 


them,  and  set  off  at  full  speed  across  the  fields  to  reach  the 
open  road ;  but  finding  his  pursuers  close  at  his  heels,  he 
turned  and  fired  upon  them :  he  had  scarcely  discharged 
his  piece,  when  he  was  struck  on  the  centre  of  his  face  by 
a  stone  aimed  at  him  by  one  of  the  poachers,  which  brought 
him  senseless  to  the  ground.  The  villains  then  deprived 
him  of  his  gun,  and  took  him  off  with  them  on  horseback 
for  nearly  ten  miles,  until  they  arrived  at  a  small  farm-house 
belonging  to  an  old  man  named  Layton,  who  resided  there 
with  his  daughter.  When  'they  approached  Layton's,  the 
party  halted,  andtalked  together  for  some  time.  Frederick 
could  hear  but  little;  but  distinctly  heard  the  leader  of  the 
ruffians  say,  "Do  not  hurt  the  old  man:  though  if  you 
can't  get  the  girl  off  without,  then  you  must  not  spare  him, 
boys  !"  Six  of  the  men  immediately  broke  into  the  house, 
Frederick  by  this  time  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  enable 
him  to  stand,  although  with  difficulty,  aud  was  leaning 
against  a  wall,  his  face  still  streaming  with  blood,  when 
from  the  house  issued  two  villains  with  old  Layton's  daughter 
in  their  arms ;  and  hurried  her  on  a  pillion,  where  a  man  in 
disguise  was  already  sitting.  They  were  making  through 
the  yard,  when  the  old  man  came  out  exclaiming,  "  Take 
all  I  have,  you  villains,  but  leave  me  my  child !"  On  the 
instant  one  of  the  fellows  seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  held 
him  back  while  the  robber  of  his  child  gallopped  off.  The  old 
man  now  made  one  desperate  plunge,  and  with  a  pitchfork 
struck  the  villain  a  blow  that  laid  open  his  forehead.  A  shot  was 
now  fired  which  laid  the  old  man  stretched  upon  the  ground. 
While  this  scene  of  bloodshed  was  going  on,  poor  Frederick 
was  ready  to  faint,  and  heart-broken  that  he  could  not  render 
assistance.  Layton  was  conveyed  in-doors,  with  scarce  a 
hope  of  life  remaining.  One  of  the  labourers  saw  Frederick 
weak  and  bleeding,  leaning  against  the  wall.  To  seize  and 
secure  him  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  for  he  was  ready 
to  drop ;  his  gun  was  discovered  near  the  immediate  scene 
of  murder.  He  was  dragged  into  the  house,  where  the 
poor  old  man  lay  extended,  with  a  horrid  wound  in  his  neck, 
from  which  the  blood  was  copiously  flowing.  Frederick 
said  a  few  words,  with  a  view  of  explaining  how  he  became 
present  at  this  dreadful  scene,  when  the  dying  man 
opened  his  eyes,  and  fixing  them  upon  him  with  a 
horrid  glare,  exclaimed,  "That's  the  villain.  I  marked 
him!  Look  at  his  face!  My  blood  and  my  child's 
blood  be  upon  him  ?"  At  these  words  Frederick  Bland- 
ford  fainted  with  weakness  and  horror,  and  for  some 
time  remained  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  Upon  recovering 
his  senses,  he  saw  in  the  room  several  constables  and  a 
magistrate,  taking  down  the  dying  declaration  of  old 
Layton. 

The  unhappy  youth  was  now  pinioned,  and  conveyed  to 
jail  as  a  murderer.  It  was  not  until  the  following  day 
that  the  anxious  father  became  acquainted  with  the  fate  of 
his  unfortunate  son.  Upon  the  arrival  of  the  sad  intelligence, 
he  and  the  broken-hearted  Emily  immediately  set  off  to 


visit  him  in  prison.  The  swelling  of  his  face  completely 
blinded  him.  He  could  not  see  his  poor  father,  who  pressed 
him  to  his  afflicted  heart,  and  felt  the  scalding  tears  as  they 
fell  upon  his  cheek.  But  when  he  heard  the  faint  voice  of 
his  Emily  he  exclaimed,  "  Oh  father  I — my  Emily  I 
am  innocent  .'"  "I  hope  so,  Frederick,"  replied  the 
father.  "By  my  God,  I'll  swear  it !"  uttered  the  distracted 
girl,  throwing  herself  round  the  neck  of  her  unhappy  cousin. 
The  melancholy  answer  of  his  father  seemed  to  strike  deep 
into  the  soul  of  Frederick,  as  betraying  a  doubt;  •'  O  yes, 
my  father,  I  am  innocent!"  was  all  his  fevered  tongue 
could  utter;  when  his  parent  comforted  him  by  saying, 
"  I  believe  you,  my  son." 

In  a  few  days  it  was  reported  that  one  of  the  villains  had 
turned  king's  evidence :  this  was  true,  and  the  informer 
no  other  than  James  Rodder,  a  notorious  bad  character, 
and  a  bitter  enemy  to  old  Mr.  Blandford.  This  scoundrel 
had  some  time  before  been  obliged  to  fly  the  country,  for 
poaching  on  Lord  Baltimore's  estate.  Upon  his  examina- 
tion before  jthe  magistrate,  he  gave  a  similar  account  to 
that  of  old  Layton,  swearing  that  Frederick  alone  was 
the  man  who  fired  the  fatal  shot.  This  wretch  was  sent 
down  to  the  jail,  to  await  the  trial  at  the  ensuing  assizes. 

The  neighbours  of  the  two  families  of  Frederick  and 
Emily  deeply  sympathized  with  them  in  their  melancholy 
situation ;  for  no  one  who  ever  knew  the  former  entertained 
a  single  doubt  of  his  innocence. 

A  few  days  previous  to  the  trial  coming  ou,  he  was  per- 
mitted pens,  ink,  and  paper,  and  he  wrote  a  whole  account 
of  his  sad  case.  His  father  procured  the  aid  of  an  eminent 
council  from  London.  The  assizes  commenced,  and  the 
villain  Rodder  persisted  in  his  story,  adding  that  young 
Garrard,  from  the  neighbouring  county,  was  the  man  that 
ran  off  with  old  Layton's  daughter,  and  had  never  been 
heard  of  since.  The  evidence  of  this  wretch  prevailed  and 
weighed  against  poor  Frederick's  plain-told  tale.  The 
gun'acknowledged  to  be  his,  just  discharged,  was  found  on 
the  spot ;  the  shot  by  which  the  poor  man  met  his  death 
corresponded  with  those  remaining  in  Frederick's  belt. 
The  wound  inflicted  by  the  old  man  upon  the  face  of  the 
fellow  who  seized  him,  and  his  dying  declaration— all 
tended  to  fix  the  guilt  upon  young  Blandford.  The  ver- 
dict of  "  Guilty"  was  pronounced  amid  the  cries  and  shrieks 
of  his  VFretched  relatives.  Frederick  heard  it  unmoved, 
but  with  uplifted  eyes  he  seemed  to  look  to  his  merciful 
God  with  hope  and  confidence.  Immediately  after  his 
condemnation,  old  Mr.  Blandford  set  off  for  the  estate  of 
Lord  Baltimore,  earnestly  supplicating  his  Lordship  to  use 
all  his  interest  to  procure  a  respite  for  a  few  days,  but  to 
no  effect;  the  judge's  report  was  so  strong  against  the 
probability  of  the  young  man's  innocence,  that  this  favour 
was  denied. 

The  plain  statement  of  facts  which  Frederick  had  drawn 
up^the  excellent  character  be  had  always  maintained  for 


integrity — the  all-pathetic  appeal  of  poor  Emily — together 
with  the  knowledge  Lord  Baltimore  possessed  of  the  infa- 
mous mode  of  life  which  Rodder  had  long  pursued,  induced 
him  to  offer  one  hundred  guineas  reward  to  any  of  the  men 
concerned  in  the  murder  and  outrage  at  old  Layton's,  who 
would  come  forward  and  declare  the  whole  truth  !  Imme- 
diately this  proclamation  became  known  and  talked  of  in 
the  jail,  Jacob  Rodder  (who  was  allowed  the  run  of  the 
prison-yard)  was  detected  in  attempting  to  escape;  in 
consequence  of  which,  he  was  closely  confined  and 
watched.  Of  this  event  Frederick  instantly  informed  his 
father,  whose  suspicions  against  Rodder  became  much 
strengthened ;  he  communicated  this  fact  with  prompt 
dispatch  to  Lord  Baltimore,  and  a  respite  of  fourteen  days 
was  granted  to  the  condemned  youth. 

This  time  had  expired  save  but  one  day,  and  every 
preparation  made  for  the  final  scene  of  this  unhappy 
tragedy.  The  next  morning  Frederick  Blandford  was  to 
die  for  murder,  and  his  aged  and  afflicted  parents  lo  be 
deprived  of  an  industrious  and  affectionate  son.  To  depict 
the  heart-rending  anguish  of  his  cousin  Emily  is  impossible 
—■it  would  be  to  harrow  up  from  the  depths  of  misery  each 
particle  of  its  composition. 

On  the  eve  of  that  awful  day  Garrard  was  apprehended, 
who  confessed  before  Lord  Baltimore,  and  the  judges 
assembled,  the  whole  truth.  Rodder,  upon  hearing  of 
Garrard's  open  declaration,  was  taken  in  strong  fits,  which 
never  left  him  until  death  closed  his  miserable  eyes.  In 
his  frenzy  he  accused  himself  of  murder,  and  often  would 
ask  if  poor  innocent  Mr.  Blandford  had  yet  suffered. 
This  villain  expired  at  the  very  hour  that  was  to  have  been 
the  last  in  this  world  to  Frederick  Blandford. 

The  unhappy  but  innocent  youth  was  now  liberated  and 
conducted  back  by  his  fond  father  and  devoted  Emily  to 
his  once  happy  dwelling.  They  again  thought  of  seeing 
and  long  enjoying  days  of  peace ;  but,  alas  !  these  were 
gone  for  ever!  Without  any  visible  illness,  Frederick 
day  by  day  wasted ;  his  handsome  face  was  disfigured  for 
ever;  his  tall  and  manly  form  was  in  a  short  time  reduced  to 
a  mere  skeleton.  Emily  was  his  constant  attendant — but 
death,  alas  I  had  marked  him  for  his  own.  Not  one  unkind 
word  ever  passed  his  lips — not  one  complaint  against  his 
manifold  sufferings.  The  only  smile  that  played  upon  his 
lip  during  this  sad  and  heavy  time,  was  at  that  moment  in 
which  he  surrendered  up  his  spotless  soul  into  the  hands  of 
his  Creator.  The  rest  of  this  melancholy  drama  is  already 
told.     "  Peace  be  to  their  memory  !" 


DUMFRI  ESh  ire. 


■^j^z^?7pz^  t7y/i-  uh^^^^Tia/'  }::£4'^a^^/m^  ^  -^^  fu^d;^ . 


:& 


£nara,vc.d.  ^z/  A^ .  £t  J^etit . 


LocdoTL.Simpkm  feMarskaxL.  StatioTieTS  Co^irt    fe  T-MT.  Stevens  .10.  Derby"  Street,  K^XLgs  Cr 


GOODWOOD 

Is  situated  in  the  parishes  of  Boxgrove  and  West 
Hampnett,  in  the  county  of  Sussex.  The  front  of  the 
building  has  a  handsome  and  imposing  efifect,  having  a 
singular  outline,  tending  to  the  semi-octagonal,  or  oriel 
form,  and  a  centre  166  feet  long,  and  two  wings,  each  106 
feet,  forming  a  total  of  378  feet.  The  wings  recede  in  an 
angle  of  45  degrees,  and  at  all  the  corners  are  very  bold 
and  handsome  circular  towers,  which  have  the  cornice 
extended  round  them,  and  an  upper  story  with  parapet 
and  flat  domed  roof.  In  the  centre  is  a  light  and  very 
graceful  portico  and  loggia,  of  six  Doric  columns  below, 
and  six  Ionic  above,  with  good  entablatures  and  a 
surmounting  balustrade ;  the  wings  are  diiferently  orna- 
mented. The  apartments  are  both  numerous,  and  of  the 
most  magnificent  description.  The  Paintings  include 
specimens  of  some  of  the  best  masters;  and  in  the  New 
Biliard  Room  there  are  about  thirty,  the  principal  of  which 
is  the  celebrated  Darnley  Picture,  of  eminent  antiquarian 
and  historical  interest,  7  ft.  4  in.  by  4  ft.  6  in.,  inscribed 

"tRAGICA  ET  LAMENTABILIS  INTERNECIO  SERKNISSIMI 
HENBICI    SCOTORUM    REGIS." 

Two  corresponding  paintings  on  this  subject  were 
executed  by  the  same  artist  for  Matthew,  Earl  of  Lennox, 
the  Earl's  father.  One  passed,  by  marriage,  into  the 
Pomfret  family,  and,  having  been  presented  to  Caroline, 
Queen  of  George  II,  is  now  in  Kensington  Palace.  The 
other,  which  had  been  given  by  the  Earl  to  his  brother,  the 
Lord  of  Aubigny,  and,  on  the  extinction  of  the  ancient 
dukedom,  had  passed  with  that  castle  into  the  hands  of 
the  present  family,  was  brought  from  thence  by  the  third 
Duke  of  Richmond,  and  deposited  at  Goodwood. 

The  artist's  name  is  written  in  the  Kensington  picture 
alone ;  his  christian  name  is  Levinus,  but  the  other  has 
been  variously  read  Vogelariut  and  Venetianus. 

It  is  not  our  intention  at  the  present  time  to  enter 
into  that  minute,  historical,  and  descriptive  account  which 
this  painting  intrinsically  merits.  A  copious  and  very 
ingenious  MS.  account,  drawn  up  by  Vertue,  is  in  the 
library  at  Goodwood.  In  addition  to  the  principal  design, 
there  are  minor  accompaniments,  in  the  shape  of  medallions 
or  Relievi,  depicting  various  circumstances  of  the  tragical 
deed ;  and  in  one  part  of  the  painting  is  a  compartment,  23 
inches  by  17,  exhibiting  a  very  elaborate  and  faithful 
representation  of  the  battle  of  Carherry  Hill,  where  Mary 
separated  herself  from  Bothwell,  and  surrendered  to  the 
confederated  Lords. 

The  body  of  the  painting  represents  a  chapel,  the  tomb 
and  effigies,  with  all  the  religious  and  heraldic  accompani- 
ments of  the  time,  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  murdered 
Darnley,  before  which  are  kneeling  the  Earl  and  Countess 
of  Lennox,  the  young  king,  afterwards  James  I.,  and  his 


brother.  Various  Latin  inscriptions  are  inserted,  invoking 
Justice  and  Vengeance;  and  the  picture  itself  was  painted 
a  very  short  time  after  the  murder,  as  a  memorial  to  the 
youthful  prince,  and  an  incitement  to  retribution,  as  if  they 
had  said 

*'exoriare  aliquis,  nostris  ex  ossibus,  ultob!" 

The  effect,  though  interesting,  is  melancholy,  and  it  is 
obvious  that  it  was  executed  under  circumstances  of  recent 
passionate  grief.  Of  the  circumstances  of  the  original 
transaction,  it  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  speak,  and  it  is  a 
subject  on  which  we  should  feel  pain,  as  we  are  strongly 
inclined  to  compassionate  the  hapless  Mary,  the  character 
of  whose  husband,  Darnley,  is  here,  doubtless  with  a  par- 
donable parental  feeling,  egregiously  flattered.  We  fear, 
however,  she  was  not  innocently  ignorant  of  the  act  of 
Bothwell;  and  what  can  palliate  premeditated  murder, 
whether  by  treachery,  or  vested  under  the  name  of  a  duel  ? 
— bloodshed  will  have  its  vengeance,  and  the  earth  cannot 
hide  its  cry.  Still,  all  that  can  be  said  should  be  said  in 
behalf  of  this  most  unhappy  queen — ill-used  almost  from 
her  cradle  to  her  grave — early  thrown,  with  the  dangerous 
attractions  of  exquisite  beauty,  and  with  the  giddiness  and 
inexperience  of  a  child,  amidst  factions  of  savage  and 
ambitious  men,  without  a  guide  or  friend;  and  whose 
crimes,  if  they  were  so,  were  repaid  by  years  of  persecution 
and  bereavement,  and  closed,  by  an  unjust  death,  from  the 
cold  and  artful  hypocrisy  of  a  sister,  which  was  nobly 
endured,  and  her  chequered  career  terminated  with 
virtuous  and  Christian  hope.  She  has  sufi'ered  enough : — 
Requiescat  in  pace  ! 

Amongst  other  pictures  in  this  room  are  a  beautiful 
recumbent  Venus,  playing  with  a  squirrel,  7  feet  by  5  feet, 
an  undoubted  Titian;  Mary  de  Medici, widow  of  Henry  IV., 
and  mother  of  the  beautiful  but  wayward  queen  of  Charles  I. 
of  England,  a  fine  portrait;  full-length  portraits  of  George 
III.  and  his  queen,  by  Allan  Ramsey;  a  fine  head  of  Robert 
Bruce,  the  friend  of  Wallace  and  hero  of  Brannockburn  ; 
Madam  de  Montespan ;  several  other  fine  portraits, 
including  one  of  Lord  Anson,  whose  ship,  the  Centurion, 
forms  one  of  three  sea  pieces,  by  Allin  ;  some  fine  small 
paintings,  in  the  Flemish  style  ;  four  views  on  the  Rhine  ; 
"^oxUaHi  Sophonisb a  Anguisciola  ;  a  female  Italian  artist, 
one  of  two  which  this  young  lady  painted  herself,  and 
presented  to  Rubens  and  Vandyke,  3  feet  7  by  3  feet  6, 
playing  on  a  spinnet,  and  attended  by  her  nurse.  This  is, 
par  eminence,  the  loveliest  portrait  in  the  house ;  the 
beautiful  and  clear-coloured  face,  with  Madona  hair, 
relieved  by  a  close-fitting  dark  dress,  and  very  fine  chiaro 
scuro,  form  one  of  the  happiest  effects  that  can  easily  be 
witnessed. 


t 


STYLE    OF    LIVING    IN    SWEDEN. 

The  upper  classes  in  Sweden  are  very  hospitable,  and 
keep,  I  may  almost  say,  open  honses  all  the  year  round ;  for 
no  stranger  or  acquaintance,  even  if  unasked,  ever  knock 
at  their  doors  without  meeting  a  hearty  welcome.  As  their 
style  of  living,  however,  (I  here  more  particularly  speak  of 
the  country,  for  in  Stockholm  and  other  large  cities  it  may 
vary  a  little,)  is  very  different  from  ours     »     «     »     » 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  morning,  while  yet  in  bed,  coffee 
is  usually  served  up,  without  any  accompaniment  in  the 
shape  of  bread  and  butter.  At  nine  or  ten  comes  breakfast ; 
prior  to  this,  every  one  has  the  option  of  helping  himself  at 
a  side-table  to   a  glass  of  brandy  and  a  snack  of  something 

piguante a  provocative,  as  it  were  to  the  appetite. 

The  breakfast  itself  consists  of  a  variety  of  hot  dishes  and 
wine ;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  regular  dejeund  d  la  fourchette,  and 
is  as  substantial  a  meal  as  a  dinner. 

At  one  or  two,  the  usual  hour  in  Sweden,  the  dinner  itself 
is  announced,  and  this  is  preceded,  as  at  breakfast,  by 
another  dram,  in  which  custom  the  ladies  not  unfrequently  in- 
dulge themselves.  At  this,  as  at  all  other  meals,  the  several 
dishes,  after  being  first  carved,  are,  with  appropriate 
vegetables,  &c.  handed  round  by  one  at  a  time.  Should 
any  particular  dish,  however,  not  please  the  palate  of  a 
person,  he  must  wait  until  the  next  in  succession  makes  its 
appearance,  as  it  is  quite  contrary  to  etiquette  to  be  helped 
to  any  thing  else  that  may  happen  to  be  on  the  table.  If 
the  courses  be  numerous,  which  is  often  the  case,  and  the 
party  large,  this  meal  may  last  a  very  long  while.  Occa- 
sionally, there  is  a  good  deal  of  wine  drank  at  table,  but 
none  afterwards,  tor  the  gentlemen  retire  at  the  same  time 
with  the  ladies,  which  is  usually  within  a  very  short  'period 
of  the  termination  of  the  dinner.  Grace  is  always  said  both 
before  and  after  meals.  Coffee  is  now  served  up  in  the 
drawing-room,  after  which  the  gentlemen  retire  to  other 
apartments,  that  they  may  indulge  themselves  either  with  a 
nap  or  a  pipe,  or  probably  with  both  one  and  the  other. 
At  four  or  five  o'clock  sweetmeats,  fruits,  punch,  &c,  are 
handed  round;  and  at  six,  tea,  truly  denominated  tea-water, 
is  introduced. 

In  England,  where  we  usually  dine  at  a  late  hour,  we 
sometimes  take  a  slight  luncheon  about  the  middle  of  the 
day ;  but  the  Swedes,  from  breakfasting  at  nine  or  ten  o'clock, 
and  dining  at  one  or  two,  have  little  occasion  for  such 
refreshment ;  they  have  therefore  reversed  the  thing,  and 
instead  of  a  nooning,  they  not  unfrequently  indulge  them- 
selves, about  six  or  seven  o'clock,  with  what  they  call  an 
after-nooning.  This,  however,  usually  only  consists  of  a 
dram,  and  a  little  bread  and  butter,  &c. 

At  nine  or  ten  comes  supper,  preparatory  to  which  the 
usual  glass  of  brandy  is  not  forgotten  :  another  meal,  when 
the  table  again  groans  under  the  weight  of  hot  dishes,  and 
among  the  rest  of  other  good  things,  joints  of  meat.     This, 


like  the  dinner,  often  lasts  a  long  time;  when  it  is  finished, 
however,  bed-candles  are  forthcoming,  andevery  one  retires 
to  rest. 

The  Swedes  use  much  sugar  and  other  sweets  in  their 
cookery;  I  have  seen  a  turbot  served  up  with  sweet  sauce. 
They  frequently  mix  sugar  in  their  wine,  and  beer,  &c.  Of 
butter,  also  they  make  abundant  use ;  meat,  fish,  and 
vegetables,  may  often  be  seen  almost  floating  in  it. 


POPE  IN  HIS  ROMANTIC  RETREAT; 

HAYLEY    PARK,    WARWICKSHIRE. 

He  sate  in  his  own  loved  bowers, 
While  the  summer-moon's  soft  light 

Was  bathing  the  roses  and  jessamine  flowers. 
That  bloomed  through  the  noon  of  night! 

The  spirit  of  Nature  benignly  had  blest 

The  scene  and  the  season  with  beauty  and  rest. 

Before  him  a  bright  lake  lay, 

And  a  fruitful  valley  smiled ; 
And  beyond,  in  the  moonbeam's  glancing  ray, 

Were  the  polished  glaciers  piled; 
And  the  splendour  of  million  worlds  was  lent 
To  the  face  of  the  dark-blue  firmament. 

And  not  the  charm  alone 

Of  visible  Nature  was  there; 
For  the  mind's  high  triumphs  and  beauties  shone 

Even  more  divinely  fair  : 
After  years  of  labour,  the  patient  sage 
In  rapture  gazed  on  the  perfect  page- 
He  had  linked  his  humble  name 

With  that  of  the  mighty  dead ; 
And  already  he  felt  the  rich  wreath  of  Fame 

On  his  throbbing  temples  shed  ; 
The  splendid  circle  was  round  them  twined. 
And  he  reigned  a  king  in  the  realms  of  mind*. 


Home — There  is  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
story  of  Ishmael,  the  youth  who  was  sent  into  the  wilderness 
of  life  with  his  bow  and  his  arrow,  "his  hand  against  every 
man,  and  every  man's  hand  against  him."  Even  in  our 
crowded,  busy,  and  social  world,  on  how  many  is  this  doom 
pronounced  ?  What  love  makes  allowances  like  house- 
hold love  ?  God  forgive  those  who  turn  the  household  altar 
into  a  place  of  strife  ?  Domestic  dissension  is  the  sacri- 
lege of  the  heart. 


'Q 


A  SUMMER  VISION. 

Oft  in  the  days  of  bright  July, 

When  the  parched  earth  is  brown  and  dry, 

And  the  hot  noon-day's  sun  looks  down 

Upon  the  dusty,  barren  town, 

And  scorching  walls,  sun  smitten,  glare— 

And  stifling  is  the  breezeless  air, 

And,  through  the  day,  flows  all  around 

A  ceaseless  tide  of  wearying  sound. 

And  busy  crowds  with  restless  feet, 

Pass  up  and  down  the  burning  street, 

I  sit  in  some  still  room  apart, 

And  summer  visions  fill  my  heart 

Visions  of  beauty,  green  and  cool — 

The  water-lilly's  shadowy  pool; 

The  untrodden  wood's  sequestered  shrine 

Where  hides  the  lustrous  columbine, 

And  leaves  astir  for  ever  make, 

A  breezy  freshness  through  the  brake 

I  think  of  some  old  country-hall. 
With  carved  porch,  and  chimneys  tall. 
And  pleasant  windows  many  a  one. 
Set  deep  into  the  old,  gray  stone. 
Hid  among  trees  so  large  and  green 
'Tis  only  dimly  to  be  seen. 
I  think  of  its  dusk  garden-bowers. 
Its  little  plots  of  curious  flowers. 
Its  casements  wreathed  with  jessamin. 
Flung  wide  to  let  all  odours  in, 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  bird  and  bee, 
And  the  cool  fountain's  melody. 

I  think  of  the  mountains  still  and  gray. 
Stretching  in  summer  light  away. 
Where  the  blue,  cloudless  skies  repose 
Above  the  solitude  of  snows  ; 
Ofgleaning  lakes,  whose  waters  lie 
In  restless  beauty  sparklingly; 
Of  little  island-nooks  of  rest 
Where  the  grave  heron  makes  her  nest ; 
And  wild  cascades  with  hurrying  roar. 
Like  the  wild  tumult  of  Lodore— 
Lodore  ! — that  name  recalls  to  me 
Visions  of  stern  sublimity, 
And  pastoral  vales,  and  lonely  rills, 
And  shepherd  people  on  the  hills,— 
And  more — old  names  of  men  unknown 
Save  on  their  mouldering  church- yard  stone, 
Or  to  some  mountain-chronicler 
Who  talketh  of  the  days  that  were;— 
For,  in  gone  years,  they  of  my  race 
Had,  'mong  the  hills,  their  dwelling-place. 


In  an  old  mansion  that  doth  stand 
As  in  the  heart  of  fairy-land. 
Then  mountains,  lakes,  and  glorious  skies 
Lived  in  their  children's  memories. 
There  tended  they,  in  evening-hours. 
Their  garden's  antiquated  flowers. 
And,  on  the  Skiddaw  mountain  gray 
They  gambled  through  the  sunny  day,— 
Blest  summer  revellers  !  and  did  float 
On  Keswick  Lake  their  little  boat ! — 

Let  Mammon's  sons  with  vissage  lean, 
Restless  and  vigilant,  and  keen. 
Whose  thoughts  but  to  buy  and  sell, 
I  n  the  hot  oiling  city  dwell ; 
Give  me  to  walk  on  mountains  bare. 
Give  me  to  breathe  the  open  air, 
To  hear  the  village-children's  mirth. 
To  see  the  beauty  of  the  earth — 
In  wood  and  wild,  by  lake  and  sea 
To  dwell  with  foot  and  spirit  free  ! 


TIME, 


Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones. 

Who  flourished  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 

All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 

Exultation,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 

Sits  grim  Foryetfulness.     The  warrior's  arm 

Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame  ; 

Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 

Of  his  red  eye- ball.     Yesterday  his  name 

Was  mighty  on  the  earth — to-day,  'tis  what  ? 

The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years 

That  flash'd  unnotic'd. — 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt. 

Moves  on  our  being.     We  do  live  and  breathe. 

And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 

Where  are  concealed  the  days  which  have  elaps'd  ? 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past. 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimps'd  images. 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

The  good  man's  hope  is  laid,  far,  far  beyond 

The  sway  "of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 

Of  mortal  desolation.     He  beholds. 

Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 

Of  rampant  Ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 

Of  dark  Vicissitude. 

KIKKE    WHITE. 


11 


THE  LAKE  OF  COMO. 

The  Lake  of  Como,  the  Lacus  Larius  of  the  ancients,  is 
upwards  of  thirty  miles  long,  and  between  two  and  three 
miles  broad.  It  is  divided  into  two  branches,  one  of  which 
leads  directly  to  the  town  of  Como,  while  the  other,  called 
the  Lake  of  Lecco,  discharges  the  Adda,  and  communicates, 
by  means  of  that  river  and  its  canals,  with  Milan.  The 
borders  of  the  lake  are  lofty  hills,  covered  with  vines, 
cbesnut,  walnut,  and  almond  trees,  and  enlivened  with 
numerous  villages.  The  temperature  is  mild,  and  not  only 
the  inhabitants  of  Milan,  but  numerous  strangers,  amongst 
whom  are  many  English,  retreat  to  the  delightful  villas 
with  which  the  lake  is  surrounded.  Like  its  neighbour 
the  Benacus,  the  Lacus  Larius  is  subject  to  tempests, 
which  sometimes  render  its  navigation  dangerous. 

In  consequence  of  the  lake  being  fed  by  the  melting  of 
tfae  snow  on  the  neighbouring  mountains,  the  water  is 
higher  in  summer  than  in  winter. 

On  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake  is  situated  the  Pliniana, 
a  villa  belonging  to  a  Milanese  nobleman,  and  supposed  to 
be  the  site  of  one  of  Plinys  beautiful  residences  on  the 
borders  of  Lacus  Larius.  He  has  himself  described  the 
situation  of  two.  "  We  are  pretty  much  agreed,  likewise, 
I  find,  in  our  situations ;  and  as  ycur  buildings  are  carrying 
on  upon  the  sea  coast,  mine  are  rising  upon  the  site  of  the 
Larian  Lake.  I  have  several  villas  upon  the  borders  of 
this  lake,  but  there  are  two  particularly  in  which  1  take 
most  delight,  so  they  give  me  most  employment.  They 
are  both  situated  like  those  at  Baioe :  one  of  them  stands 
upon  a  rock,  and  has  a  prospect  of  the  lake,  the  other 
actually  touches  it.  The  first,  supported  as  it  were  by  the 
lofty  buskin,  I  call  my  tragic,  the  other  as  resting  upon  the 
humble  rock,  my  comic  villa.  They  have  each  their 
particular  beauties,  which  recommend  themselves  to  me  so 
much  the  more,  as  they  are  of  different  kinds.  The  former 
commands  a  wider  prospect  of  the  lake  :  the  latter  enjoys 
a  nearer  view  of  it.  This,  by  an  easy  bend,  embraces  a 
little  bay ;  the  promontory  upon  which  the  other  stands 
forms  two.  Here  you  have  a  straight  walk  extending  along 
the  banks  of  the  lake;  there  a  spacious  terrace  that  falls 
by  a  gentle  descent  towards  it.  The  former  does  not  feel 
the  force  of  the  waves  ;  the  latter  breaks  them  :  from  that 
you  see  the  fishing  vessels  below  :  from  this  you  may  fish 
for  yourself,  and  throw  your  line  from  your  chamber,  and 
almost  from  your  bed,  as  from  a  boat.  It  is  the  beauties, 
therefore,  these  agreeable  villas  possess  that  tempt  me  to 
add  to  them  those  which  are  wanting.'' 

The  resemblance  of  the  Pliniana  to  either  of  these 
descriptions  has  been  questioned  by  Mr.  Eustace.  Some 
writers  have  supposed  that  one  of  the  villas  which  Pliny 
possessed,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Como,  occupied  this 
site ;  but,  though  he  had  many  in  the  vicinity  of  the  lake, 
he  yet  describes  only  his  two  favourite  retreats,  and  the 


situation  of  the  Pliniana  corresponds  with  neither.  The 
one  was,  it  seems,  on  the  very  verge  of  the  lake,  almost 
rising  out  of  the  waters,  and  in  this  respect  it  resembled 
the  Pliniana. 

The  attachment  which  Pliny  felt  for  his  Larian  villas, 
and  the  longing  desire  which,  amidst  the  bustle  of  Rome, 
he  experienced  to  visit  those  delightful  retreats,  are 
beautifully  expressed  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Caninius, 
"  How  is  my  friend  employed  ?  Is  it  in  the  pleasures  of 
study  or  in  those  of  the  field  ?  Or  does  he  unite  both,  as 
he  well  may,  on  the  banks  of  our  favourite  Larius?  The 
fish  in  that  noble  lake  will  supply  you  with  sport  of  that 
kind,  as  the  surrounding  woods  will  afford  you  game :  while 
the  solemnity  of  that  sequestered  scene  will,  at  the  same 
time,  dispose  your  mind  to  contemplation. 

Whether  you  are  engaged  with  some  only,  or  with  each 
of  these  agreeable  amusements,  far  be  it  that  I  should  say 
I  envy  you,  but  I  must  confess  I  greatly  regret  that  I 
cannot  also  partake  of  them, — a  happiness  I  long  for  as 
earnestly  as  a  man  in  a  fever  for  drink  to  allay  his  thirst, 
or  for  baths  and  fountains  to  assuage  his  heat.  But  if  it  be 
not  given  to  me  to  see  a  conclusion  of  these  unpleasant 
occupations,  shall  I  never  at  least  break  loose  from  them  ? 
Never,  indeed,  I  much  fear ;  for  new  affairs  are  daily 
rising,  while  the  former  still  remain  unfinished  :  such  an 
endless  train  of  business  is  continually  pressing  upon  me 
and  rivetting  my  chains  still  faster." — In  a  small  court  at 
the  back  of  the  villa  Pliniana  rises  the  celebrated  ebbing 
and  flowing  spring,  which  has  been  described  by  both  the 
elder  and  younger  Pliny.  It  rises  from  the  rock  about 
twenty  feet  from  the  level  of  the  lake,  into  which,  after 
passing  through  the  under  story  of  the  villa,  it  pours  itself. 
The  following  description  of  it,  from  the  letters  of  the 
younger  Pliny,  is  inscribed  in  Latin  and  Italian  upon  the 
walls  of  the  villa:  "There  is  a  spring  which  rises  in  the 
neighbouring  mountain,  and,  running  among  the  rocks,  is 
received  into  a  little  banqueting  room,  from  whence,  after 
the  force  of  its  current  is  a  little  restrained,  it  falls  into  the 
Larian  luke. 

The  nature  of  this  spring  is  extremely  surprising :  it 
ebbs  and  flows  regularly  three  times  a  day.  The  increase 
and  decrease  are  plainly  visible,  and  very  amusing  to 
observe.  You  go  down  by  the  side  of  the  fountain,  and 
while  you  are  taking  a  repast,  and  drinking  its  water, 
which  is  extremely  cool,  you  see  it  gradually  rise  and  fall. 
If  you  place  a  ring  or  any  thing  else  at  the  bottom  when  it 
is  dry,  the  stream  reaches  it  by  degrees,  till  it  is  entirely 
covered,  and  then  gently  retires :  and  if  you  wait,  you  may 
see  it  thus  alternately  advance  and  recede  three  successive 
times.''  The  rising  and  falling  of  the  water  is  said  to  be 
affected  by  the  direction  and  force  of  the  wind,  and  at  the 
present  day  the  fountain  presents  the  same  phenomena 
described  by  Pliny. 


li 


A  TALE  FROM  REAL  LIFE. 

"  This  is  the  story  of  my  life — 
I've  felt  the  loss  of  child — of  wife — 
Of  friends — of  fortune — every  joy 
Which  God  can  give,  or  man  destroy." 

"  I  have  lifted  the  painted  veil  which  men  call  life." 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1820  I  returned  to  my  native 
laud,  after  a  sojourn  of  three  years  in  South  and  North 
America.  To  the  New  World  I  had  emigrated,  in  the 
joyful  hope  of  turning  the  scale  of  disappointment  and 
misfortune,  to  which,  for  the  seven  previous  years,  my 
destiny  had  wedded  me.  I  need  not  add  a  seven  years  of 
my  spring  of  life,  when  I  state,  that  on  my  regaining  the 
merry  shores  of  England,  I  had  not  completed  the  twenty- 
fifth  anniversary  of  my  birth.  Time,  we  are  told  by  all 
philosophers,  is  the  sole  medicine  for  grief — yet  there  are 
regrets  which  must  endure  while  we  exist. 

While  absent  from  the  land  of  my  birth— the  repository 
of  all  I  held  dear — the  home  of  my  aged  parents — my  friends 
in  woe  or  weal — my  numerous  sufferings  I  endured  with  pati- 
ence, buoyed  up  with  the  anticipation  that  my  anxious  thirst 
for  independence  might  yet  meet  success.  Time,  thought  I> 
will  bring  a  balm,  the  nectareous  draught  of  which  will 
enable  me  to  forget  past  sorrows,  and  bid  me  hail  with  glad' 
ness  a  visitation  of  happiness. 

At  such  a  distance  from  my  native  country — among  a 
people,  I  may  say,  by  instinct,  as  also  by  education,  hostile 
towards  the  English — it  will  be  believed,  after  suffering 
under  deceit  and  the  most  cruel  disappointments,  I  became 
doubtful  whether  fondly  to  link  my  affections  to  the  world — 
or  upon  the  grave.  The  loveliness  of  earth  saved  me  from 
despair,  and  the  known  mercy  of  Providence  inspired  me 
with  hope. 

While  thus  between  hope  and  fear,  I  received  a  letter 
from  my  father,  transmitting  me  the  means  of  returning 
home.  I  lost  no  time  in  my  equipment ;  and  when  again 
upon  the  dark  blue  sea,  and  a  favourable  wind  wafting  me  to 
my  native  isle,I  turned  from  all  past  recollections  with  eager- 
ness, to  drink  in  the  balmy  sweetness  the  future  prospects 
now  opened  to  my  view.  Nor  were  these  hopes  groundless. 
The  return,  the  reception,  were  alike — both  happy ;  my 
long  absent  friends  were  before  me  in  tears  and  smiles — 
thrilling  kisses  pressed  my  lips,  aad  the  arms  of  affection 
were  around  me.  Such  are  the  endearments  of  home,  that 
well  may  I  say- 
That  wheresoever  our  footsteps  roam, 
There  is  no  resting-place  like  home. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  I  visited  Hastings,  where 
I  had  not  been  many  days  before  I  met  a  lady,  a  long 
esteemed  friend  of  my  family,  and  one  intimately  acquainted 


with  me  from  my  youth.  With  the  same  kindly  feeling 
which  she  manifested  on  my  departure  to  seek  my  fortunes 
in  a  foreign  land,  did  she  now  greet  me  on  my  return  from 
my  unsuccessful  toils  ;  and  with  equal  warmth  did  this  good 
'ady  impress  upon  me  the  necessity  of  my  utmost  exertion  to 
obtain  for  myself  a  place  in  society,  by  independence, 
naming  to  me  the  wide  and  open  field — "marriage."  In  vain 
did  I  declare  my  never-to-be-altered  determination  of  singly 
bearing  my  misfortunes,  and  not  to  add  a  sharer  to  my  des- 
tinies, "  Could  I,"  1  would  often  say,  "  see  the  coast  of  suc- 
cess clearly  before  me,  willingly  would  I  make  a  wife  a  parti- 
cipator in  it;  but  the  future  with  me  is  too  gloomy — it 
forebodes  more  of  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  this  life,  than 
of  its  even  common  vicissitudes.  No,  no  !  my  dear  lady," 
oft  was  my  reply—"  it  cannot,  cannot  be  !"  But  too  soon, 
alass !  I  broke  my  resolution. 

By  this  lady  I  was  solicited  to  be  her  escort  to  the 
theatre,  to  which,  like  a  true  lady's  knight,  I  readily  ac- 
ceded. 

The  play  was  King  Lear,  and  well,  well,  shall  I  remem- 
ber it,  Kean  threw  all  his  energy  into  the  part,  and  that 
which  was  mere  representation  of  our  immortal  bard,  in  his 
hands  became  reality.  In  one  of  the  boxes  near  the  stage 
sat  a  most  beautiful  woman,  in  all  the  possession  of  bloom- 
ing youth.  Her  whole  attention  seemed  absorbed  in  the 
tragedy;  her  left  arm  rested  upon  the  box,  while  her  right 
hand  was  applying  her  handkerchief  to  the  drying  up  the 
tears  caused  by  the  pathetic  display  this  tragedy  pourtrays : 
so  agitated  seemed  her  young  heart,  that  it  appeared  to  me 
she  felt  every  word  of  the  drama  spoke  audibly,  some 
annunciation  which  she  could  not  interpret,  and  every 
burst  of  applause  seemed  to  disclose  a  sight  she  dare  aot 
look  upon  ! 

The  interest  I  took  in  this  young  creature  became 
manifest  to  the  scrutinizing  glance  of  my  more  aged  com- 
panion ;  she  taxed  me  with  it,  but  far  from  discouraged  my 
feelings,  which  I  found  growing  into  something  beyond 
curiosity. 

When  this  tragic  drama  had  concluded,  and  the  busy 
scene  of  some  ridiculous  farce  had  commenced,  I  succeed- 
ed in  meeting  the  eye  of  my  fair  incognita,  and  discovered 
from  her  ungloved  hand  that  she  was  unmarried.  No 
gentleman,  save  a  younger  brother,  was  of  her  party,  and 
therefore  my  persuasive  fancies  told  me  she  was  free. 
Animated  with  fresh  hope,  that  on  the  morrow  I  should  see 
her  in  the  promenades,  I,  with  my  lady  friend,  left  the 
theatre. 

On  the  following  morning  I  arose  early.  My  dreams 
and  every  waking  thought  had  been  fixed  upon  one  object. 
How  to  obtain  an  interview  I  knew  not ;  to  her  name  I 
was  a  stranger — her  family,  her  connexion,  were  alike 
foreign  to  me.  When  I  thought  of  her  beauty,  her  splen- 
did appearance,  my  aching  heart  sickened  in  despair.  I 
felt  a  terror  I  could  not  reveal  even  to  myself — ^my  pulse 


13 


beat  quickly.  That  I  was  interested  in  this  fair  unknown, 
I  felt  certain  ;  but  at  all  events,  thought  I,  I  must  leave 
off  sighing  and  thinking,  for  sure  enough  I  can  derive  no 
good  from  it ;  besides  it  is  meet  my  countenance  should 
assume  a  more  cheerful  expression,  if  I  wish  for  success  in 
my  now  conceived  plan  of  obtaining  not  only  a  knowledge 
of  my  incognita,  but  also  an  interview. 

After  partaking  of  breakfast,  and  completing  my  toilet — 
to  the  latter,  I  must  confess,  I  paid  more  than  ordinary 
attention— I  sallied  forth  into  the  public  walks  to  seek  the 
object  of  my  thoughts — but  to  no  purpose ;  and  again 
becoming  pensive,  I  turned  my  steps  towards  the  more 
retired  part  of  the  beach,  where  in  a  few  seconds  I  saw  her 
lovely  form  rising  from  a  bench.  I  followed  her,  and  upon 
my  coming  up  to  the  place  where  she  had  been  seated,  I 
discovered  she  had  left  her  parasol.  Eagerly  did  I  bare  it 
to  its  owner,  and,  on  its  presentation,  observed  the  good 
fortune  chance  had  thrown  in  my  way,  which,  together 
with  some  passing  compliment,  was  acknowledged  by  a 
smile  and  slight  inclination  of  the  head.  During  this 
momentary  interview  I  had  an  opportunity  of  viewing  her 
personal  appearance.  She  was  remarkably  handsome,  of 
tall  but  slender  stature,  to  which  her  finely  turned  figure 
was  in  strict  accordance.  There  was  intelligence  in  the 
piercing  glance  of  her  large  blue  eye,  and  a  smile  of 
mixed  gaiety  and  pensiveness  sat  upon  her  lip.  Her 
complexion  was  of  a  delicate  paleness,  without  any  other 
colour  save  that  which  is  diffused  upon  the  cheek  by  the 
influence  of  some  passing  emotion. 

From  this  hour  did  she  become  the  very  idol  of  my  soul 
— of  my  existence.  I  followed  her,  at  a  distance,  to  the 
library,  and  from  the  librarian  ascertained  my  fair  lady's 
name.  She  was  passing  the  season  at  Hastings  with  her 
family,  with  whom  afterwards  I  constantly  met  her  in  the 
public  walks.  I  now  felt  a  most  ardent  attachment,  and 
daily  frequented  each  place  of  resort,  for  the  purpose  of 
enhancing  my  own  gratification — my  whole  soul  I  had 
surrendered  to  her.  To  conceal  my  attachment  I  could 
not,  nay,  was  determined  would  not,  from  the  objeet  of  my 
adoration. 

In  the  ardour  of  my  feelings  I  was  incapable  of  admit- 
ting the  least  alloy  of  cold,  calculating  precaution,  but 
came  to  the  immediate  determination,  having  repeatedly 
attracted  her  attention,  of  writing  to  her,  soliciting  permis- 
sion to  address  her,  could  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  an 
introduction. 

Thus  hastily  did  I  despatch  the  first  messenger  of  love. 
Daily  after,  I  saw  her  in  company  with  her  mother ;  yet 
no  reply  came  to  my  note.  Again  I  wrote,  apologizing 
for  my  former  freedom  in  addressing  a  lady  to  whom  I  was 
unknown,  yet  urging  in  the  all  strong  language  which  love 
dictates,  for  the  honour  of  an  interview,  that  I  might  the 
more  fully  declare  my  sentiments    and  the  honourable 


integrity  of  my  proposals.  To  this  letter,  like  my  first,  I 
received  no  answer. 

I  now  wandered  out,  I  scarce  knew  whither,  until  I 
found  myself  pacing  the  very  street  wherein  resided  my 
enchantress.  I  saw  her  at  the  window  reading  my  letter, 
I  met  her  glance  ;  and  the  smile  of  recognition  it  contain- 
ed, told  me  all  my  fondest  hopes  would  be  realized :  I 
returned  this  salutation  with  respect,  but  evident  earnest- 
ness. In  an  instant  all  my  former  misfortunes  seemed 
trivial,  compared  with  the  coming  deluge  of  joy :  "  hap- 
piness,'' said  I,  "  is  again  restored  to  my  dwelling,  and 
fortune  is  yet  willing  to  mark  me  out  for  her  own." 

The  impatience  of  my  nature  would  not  let  me  rest — I 
counted  the  minutes,  the  hours,  as  though  the  time  would 
never  come  that  I  might  again  see  my  beloved.  After 
dinner  I  took  a  stroll  on  the  beach,  full  of  thought— one 
moment  looking  back  upon  the  tumultuous  life  I  had 
already  passed — then  to  dwell  upon  its  chances  for  the 
future.  Thus  fearfully  calculating  upon  probabilities,  I 
pensively  took  my  seat  upon  the  very  bench  I  had  first 
met  my  beautiful  enchantress,  whose  lovely  form  still 
wandered  on  my  mind.  In  a  few  seconds  my  own  sweet 
love  was  before  me,  and  alone.  Not  having  received  any 
reply  to  my  letters,  I  felt  great  timidity  in  approaching 
her,  and  before  I  could  bring  my  mind  to  act  upon  any 
fixed  plan — I  was  at  her  side,  offering  a  thousand  apologies 
for  my  freedom  in  writing  to  her. 

"  You  must  excuse,"  said  she,  "  my  answering  your 
letters,  yet  I  feel  highly  flattered  by  the  expressions  they 
contain,  and  I  must  confess  that  you  have  not  been  alto- 
gether unobserved  by  me." 

I  now  endeavoured  to  learn  from  her  the  names  of  some 
of  her  friends,  in  the  hope  of  finding  one  through  whom  I 
might  obtain  a  formal  introduction ;  but  neither  within  the 
sphere  of  her  or  my  connexion,  could  we  discover  any 
equally  known  to  us  both. 

It  became  now  no  difficult  task  to  perceive,  by  the  inter- 
chstage  of  conversation,  that  a  mutual  feeling  of  interest 
existed.  I  assured  her  of  the  hope  I  cherished,  at  a 
future  day,  of  being  admitted  by  her  friends  into  that 
earthly  paradise  her  society  alone  could  create.  She 
smiled,  and  by  the  expressiofl  of  her  large  blue  eye,  told 
me  such  a  hope  was  not  the  most  foreign  to  her  own  heart. 

Our  conversation  now  turned  upon  the  fineness  of  the 
evening,  and  I  observed,  "  In  spite  of  the  symptoms  of 
coming  desolation,  there  are  few  recreations  more  de- 
lightful than  a  walk  in  the  country  at  the  close  of  autumn, 
though  it  indeed  scarcely  presents  a  tithe  of  its  wonted 
beauty ;  and  yet,  with  all  the  appearance  of  external 
dreariness,  there  is  a  moral  beauty  in  the  scene." 

"You  are  happy  in  the  view  you  have  taken  of  this  sea- 
son of  the  year,"  observed  my  fair  companion;  "your 
idea    coincides    with    mine.     The  contrast    betwixt  the 


14 


youthful  freshness  of  spring,  and  the  matron  graces  of 
autumn,  to  some  minds  may  be  of  too  sombre  and  gloomy 
a  character ;  but  to  me  I  must  confess  the  waning  year  is 
rich  in  associations  that  are  not  the  less  agreeable  for  the 
tinge  of  melancholy  that  surrounds  them." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "  there  is  such  union  in  our  thoughts, 
that  I  trust  I  may  not  be  foiled  in  the  anticipation  of  often 
having  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you  upon  this  and 
other  subjects." 

"OyesI"  she  hastily  replied;  but  at  the  same  instant 
checking  herself,  observed,  "I  was  about  to  say  how  different 
is  the  situation  of  the  labourer  in  the  country  and  in  Lon- 
don— the  toil  of  both  may  be  hard,  but  the  many  long 
hours  an  artisan  must  pass  in  the  tainted  close  atmosphere 
of  a  crowded  city,  must  be  miserable,  compared  with  the 
countryman,  surrounded  by  every  thing  that  is  rural  and 
inviting — and  after  his  daily  toil  to  have  time  and  health 
to  trim  his  own  garden  and  superintend  the  cultivation  of 
his  small  property.     Well  might  Thomson  exclaim, 

•  Ye  generous  Britons,  venerate  the  plough.'  " 

"  And  well,"  replied  I,  "might  Pope  say, 

♦  Happy  the  man,  whose  highest  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air. 

In  his  own  ground: 
Whose  floclis  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread. 

Whose  herds  supply  him  with  attire. 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade. 

In  winter  fire.'  " 

We  had  now  approached  to  within  a  few  doors  of  my 
Ellen's  home;  when  receiving  from  her  a  pledge  of  meet- 
ing me  the  following  evening,  I  took  my  leave. 

I  now  returned  to  my  hotel,  and,  after  taking  some 
refreshment,  retired  to  rest. 

«  «  *  •  •  « 


-with 


My  fortune  and  my  seeming  destiny 

She  made  the  bond,  and  broke  it  not  with  me." 

The  following  and  every  succeeding  day  we  contrived  to 
meet:  our  intimacy  grew  quickly  into  mutual  love.  In 
one  of  our  walks,  after  I  had  made  known  to  my  Ellen  my 
situation  in  life,  she  informed  me,  with  true  delicacy  of 
feeling,  that  she  was  one  of  a  large  family,  and  though  her 
father  was  by  the  world  reputed  a  man  of  property,  yet 
she  felt  assured  her  portion  would  not  exceed  a  thousand 
pounds,  and  perhaps  not  that,  if  she  married  without  his 
consent.  I  entreated  her  to  let  me  see  her  father,  doubting 
not,  from  the  respectability  of  my  family,  though  myself 
without  fortune,  he  would  not  withhold  his  sanction,  when  he 
saw  how  mutual  was  the  affection  we  entertained  for  each 
other.  Her  argument,  founded  upon  prudence  and  a  latent 
fear  on  my  part  lest  my  family  should  object  to  our  union, 


induced  me  to  consent  for  the  present  to  conceal  our 
attachment,  and  even  knowledge  of  each  other. 

In  afew  weeks  my  beloved  Ellen  returned  to  town,  where 
again,  through  the  medium  of  her  servant,  we  had  daily 
opportunities  of  seeing  each  other,  and  which  lasted  uninter- 
ruptedly for  six  months. — At  the  expiration  of  this  period, 
being  slightly  indisposed,  she  was  ordered  change  of  air. 
Lodgings  were  taken  for  her  in  the  vicinity  of  London, 
where  she  remained  for  some  time,  accompanied  by  her 
younger  sister  and  her  maid.  Here  was  I  enabled 
constantly  to  be  in  the  society  of  my  devoted  love.  So 
ardent  and  so  sincere  became  our  attachment,  that  to 
prevent  the  possibility  of  being  parted  by  any  unlucky 
discovery,  I  proposed  a  secret  marriage." 

"When  we  love,*'  said  I,  "it  is  our  aim  and  conclusion 
to  make  the  object  a  part  of  ourselves  ;  therefore,  my  dear 
Ellen,  forgive  me  if  I  propose  our  immediate  marriage." 

Her  generous  and  devoted  heart  heard  my  proposal  with 
godlike  feeling.  "Yes,  Adolphus,"  she  replied,  "  I  do 
tenderly  worship  thee,  and  to  call  thee  by  the  endearing 
name  of  husband  will  be  the  bliss  of  paradise." 

From  my  Ellen's  being  under  age,  we  were  compelled  to 
be  married  by  bans — the  progress  of  publishing  which, 
having  expired,  I  pressed  to  my  bosom  one  of  God's  fairest 
works,  one  of  the  best  of  his  creatures,  as  my  lawful  wife. 
Just  as  we  were  entering  the  porch  of  Fulham  church,  to 
solemnize  that  grand  compact,  marriage,  my  Ellen  observed 
to  me,  with  an  expression  of  such  intense  feeling,  and  with 
a  look  that  seemed  to  read  my  most  inmost  thoughts — "  If, 
Adolphus,  I  should  ever  become  insane,  never  let  me  be 
placed  in  a  lunatic  asylum ;  but  you,  my  Adolphus,  will 
watch  over  me." 

"  By  my  God  I  swear  it !  and  never  will  I  forsake  thee, 
my  beloved  creature  !"  was  my  instant  reply  to  this  strange 
question. 

Having  now  become  possessed  of  each  other,  and  united 
by  a  love  no  human  being  could  dissever,  we  had  to  use 
our  utmost  caution  to  prevent  a  discovery,  until  I  was  in  a 
situation  to  take  my  wife  home.  Two  months  of  suspense 
had  scarcely  passed,  when  by  an  anonymous  letter  her 
father  was  made  acquainted  with  his  daughter's  marriage. 
Neither  of  our  families  had  the  slightest  knowledge  even  of 
our  acquaintance,  yet  by  both,  immediate  pardon  was 
granted.  The  small  fortune  I  now  received  enabled  me  to 
enter  as  a  junior  partner  in  a  mercantile  establishment. 

In  my  family,  my  Ellen  was  beloved — in  hers  I  was 
with  equal  sincerity  respected. 

It  would  be  monotonous  and  too  uninteresting  to  lead 
my  reader  through  the  scenes  of  domestic  happiness,  and 
uninterrupted  bliss,  that  attended  the  earlier  months  of 
our  union.  I  believe  the  following  lines,  had  they  been 
written  at  that  period,  would  often  have  been  repeated  by 
us  both : 


"Part  from  thee !  never— no,  my  pale,  sweet  flower. 
The  wealth  of  worlds  would  bribe  my  heart  in  vain. 
Though  'twere  to  give  thee  up  for  one  short  hour — " 

An  increase  of  happiness  was  now  about  to  be  rendered 
to  our  already  contended  home,  my  beloved  wife  was  in 
daily  expectation  of  becoming  a  mother ;  often  and  often 
did  we  picture  to  our  delighted  imaginations  the  future 
scenes  of  domestic  bliss. 

The  period  of  her  accouchement  arrived,  and  after  con- 
siderable danger  and  much  protracted  pain,  she  presented 
me  with  a  daughter.  As  soon  as  I  was  permitted  to  enter 
the  chamber  of  my  Ellen,  and  while  standing  eying  her  as 
she  caressed  her  infant,  she  thus  addressed  me :  "  Is  she 
not  worthy  all  my  fears  ?" — then  after  a  pause  added, 
"  With  this  sweet  child  at  my  side,  and  thee  as  its  father, 
may  we  not  defy  the  whole  world? — here  is  happiness, 
which,  with  God's  will,  must  render  us  blessed  for  ever!" 

On  visiting  the  bedside  of  the  young  mother  the  follow- 
ing morning,  "O  my  Adolphus,"  she  said,  "my  mind 
during  the  night  has  been  occupied  with  such  beautiful 
thoughts,  upon  the  double  situation  I  now  hold,  of  mother 
and  wife.— O  my  dear  husband,  it  is  a  dear  link  to  earth," 
she  exclaimed,  "  to  love  and  be  beloved ;  and  will  you  not 
sympathize  with  the  beating  bosom  and  anxious  heart  of  a 
fond  mother? — to  see  our  little  innocent  raise  its  rosy 
lips,  appealing  to  us  by  her  smiles,  as  perfectly  as  though 
its  tongue  were  fledged  with  words  !" 

"  O  yes !  yes,  my  beloved  wife,"  I  replied,  "  thy  husband, 
and  the  father  of  thy  child,  will  ever  sympathize  with  thee. 
— O  my  Ellen,  it  was  thy  dear  self  alone  that  inspired  my 
aflfections  !  Now  thou  hast  indeed  kindled  a  fresh  claim, 
even  were  it  wanting,  in  me. — Yes,  my  dear  wife,  I  will 
hold  thee  close  to  my  heart,  I  will  cling  to  you  in  our 
brighter  days,  and  watch  over  thee  with  increased  fond- 
ness in  our  declining  years.  In  health  I  will  be  the  par- 
ticipator of  thy  joys — in  sickness  I  will  press  thy  pale  lip 
to  mine ;  and  while  mine  arm  hath  strength,  I  will  hold 
thee  to  my  bosom,  and  repay  thee,  with  my  love,  all  I  owe 
thee." 

Finding  the  fatigue  of  conversation,  and  the  emotion 
caused  by  this  ebullition  of  her  feelings,  were  overpowering, 
I  begged  her  to  be  composed,  assuring  her  I  would  again 
see  her  on  my  return  from  the  city. 

"God  bless  you,"  was  her  reply.  "And  pray,  my 
husband,  to  God  to  bless  our  child,  with  a  heart  of  purity, 
of  holiness !" 


"  When  evening  comes,  the  glory  of  the  mom, 
The  infant  child's  a  clod  of  clay." 

On  my  return  from  the  city,  I  was  greatly  distressed  to 
learn  from  the  nurse,  that  the  mother  and  her  infant  were 


much  indisposed,  particularly  the  latter.  Previously  to 
the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  the  child  had  been  seized  with 
convulsions,  which  baffled  all  the  skill  of  medicine,  and  ere 
midnight  had  closed  the  passing  day,  our  little  infant,  our 
fondest  hope,  had  ceased  to  breathe.  Thus  in  one  short 
day  was  the  abode  of  the  fond  and  anxious  mother  and  her 
new  born  babe,  converted  into  the  chamber  of  death.  To 
describe  the  deep  anguish  of  the  recent  happy  parent  would 
be  more  than  the  hand  can  pen,  or  the  head  conceive. 
While  I  stood  weeping  at  the  bedside  of  my  distressed 
Ellen,  she  thus  addressed  me,  "  0  Adolphus,  my  dear  hus- 
band— they  would  not  let  our  child  live — do  you  remember 
only  yesterday  how  we  doted  upon  our  darling? — poor  little 
thing !  I  heard  it  cry. — O  my  dear  husband,  I  will  bear 
this  extremity  of  sorrow  for  thy  dear  sake,  if  it  surpasses 
not  the  strength  of  human  forbearance." 

I  felt  my  wife  now  loved  me  more  tenderly  than  ever. 
I  addressed  a  few  words  of  comfort  to  her,  and  in  some  de- 
gree the  voice  of  sorrow  was  hushed  in  her  heart. 

The  great  excitement  she  had  undergone,  by  this  time 
had  completely  exhausted  her,  and  she  sunk  into  a  quiet 
and  peaceful  repose.  During  her  sleep,  which  lasted  above 
an  hour,  I  was  left  to  my  all-absorbing  thoughts ;  though  1 
knew  my  wife  possessed  a  strong  mind,  yet  I  equally  well 
knew  the  instinctive  feeling  of  her  nature,  which,  together 
with  her  bodily  weakness,  I  much  feared  would  be  the 
prelude  to  a  severe  illness.  My  anticipations  became  too 
fully  verified — the  subsequent  two  years  and  more,  health 
was  a  stranger  to  our  once  happy  dwelling.  My  wife's 
continued  sufferings,  her  nervous  excitement,  and  constant 
depression  of  spirits,  rendered  her  an  alien  to  society. 
Medical  practitioners  became  now  the  constant  inmates  of 
our  house ;  and  though  much  she  wished  me  not  to  debar 
myself  of  recreative  pleasure,  yet  such  was  the  devotedness 
of  my  attachment  and  determination  to  be  to  her  in  sick- 
ness the  same  true  friend  /  had  been  to  her  in  health, 
rivetted  me  to  her  chamber.  Those  of  my  readers  who 
may  discover  i\i&  proi)rice  personee  in  this  tragedy  of  real 
life,  will  bear  me  out  in  the  extreme  sufferings  she  under- 
went, and  the  constant  and  unremitting  affection  I  ever 
entertained  for  this  devoted  partner  of  my  existence. 

After  her  partial  recovery  we  proceeded  to  France,  and 
at  our  return  met  the  congratulations  of  friends  upon  my 
Ellen's  comparative  restoration  to  health. 

From  this  period,  and  for  some  months  in  succession, 
we  had  little  need  of  the  doctors,  and  once  more  our  faded 
hopes  revived.  The  promise  of  another  offspring  was 
again  the  subject  of  our  conversation  and  the  object  of  our 
most  fervent  wishes. 

The  time  came,  and  after  forty-eight  hours  intense 
suffering  my  poor  wife  blessed  me  with  a  son — alas  J  for 
why  !  But  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  Providence  we  dare 
not  impugn!  The  morn  welcomed  in  the  birth  of  our 
second  child — ^for  the  evening's  twilight  to  waft  its  spirit  to 


16 


4 


B 


the  realms  above ; — thus  were  our  regenerated  hopes  alas ! 
blasted.  To  describe  the  misery  of  the  again  deserted 
chamber,  would  be  but  to  recapitulate  my  Ellen's  former 
sorrow,  to  depict  the  bitter  feelings  of  dispair — to  paint  in 
vivid  colours  a  heart  almost  instigated  to  madness,  and 
to  harrow  up  the  very  essence  of  misery.  Yet  in  all 
this  scene  of  domestic  affliction  a  tear  upon  my  cheek 
would  at  once  disarm  my  anxious  wife  of  all  her  grief. 

To  dispel  my  sorrow  now  became  her  principal  care. 
Often  in  my  solitary  hours  have  I  thought,  that  woman  was 
bom  to  grace  and  smooth  the  rugged  path  of  life !  To 
render  me  happy,  and  the  endeavour  to  bear  the  appearance 
of  it  herself,  was  her  sole  and  only  thought— the  advance- 
ment of  this  one  endearing  sentiment  was  the  prized  object 
of  her  existence,  and  its  successful  termination  would  have 
been  to  her  a  rich  reward.  My  afflicted  wife  became  less 
capable,  by  the  delicacy  of  her  frame,  from  following  even 
the  domestic  pursuits  of  her  house.  The  sorrow  she 
endured  few  scarcely  knew — for  often  when  welcoming  me 
with  smiles,  has  her  poor  heart  been  nigh  to  break. 


»       •       •       •       Happiness ! 

But  no  '.not  yet — 'twas  Heaven's  decree 

That  I  should  mt-et  more  misery — 

Hermit's  Stoet. 

» 

The  melancholy  events  mentioned  much  tended  to 
diminish  the  health  of  my  poor  wife,  it  had  already  made 
sad  inroads  upon  her  shattered  constitution.  Her  spirits 
became  so  dreadfully  depressed,  that  often  would  she  say 
to  me,  "O  my  dear  husband!  truly  hast  thou  performed 
thy  pledge,  made  at  the  altar  of  our  God.  Yet  soon  shall 
I  bid  thee  farewell,  to  join  our  children  in  heaven. 
To-morrow  we  meet  again,  and  another  to-morrow  will 
come  also — and  I  shall  be  no  more  seen." 

I  was  now  recommended  again  to  try  change  of  scene, 
but  neither  it,  nor  the  skilful  aid  of  our  medical  advisers, 
could  avert  the  melancholy  catastrophe.  Insanity,  that 
saddest  of  our  God's  visitations,  was  now  added  to  her 
already  bitter  cup  of  woe.  Her  blanched  cheek,  long  pale 
with  sickness — her  pensive  look — her  lip  which  still  fondly 
smiled — all  seemed  as  though  her  bewildered  mind  would 
say,  that  /  had  not  been  unkind,  but  that  'twas  unkindness 
had  robbed  her  of  her  mind's  peace. 

So  rapidly  increased  my  now  unfortunate  yet  ever 
beloved  wife's  disorder,  that  it  became  necessary  to  remove 
her  from  my  dwelling,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  self- 
destruction,  which  she  had  more  than  once  attempted,  and 
to  place  her  under  the  care  of  proper  attendants  ;  but  not 
in  a  receptacle  for  insane  persons.  No — her  request,  made 
on  our  wedding  day,  and  my  compliance,  I  had  not 
forgotten — every  comfort,  in  her  deplorable  situation,  was 
by  me  administered.     A  faithful  and  kind-hearted  house- 


keeper, with  two  female  attendants,  versed  in  the  mode  of 
treating  diseased  minds,  were  carefully  selected  by  me,  and 
placed  in  a  house  of  my  own,  under  the  sole  direction  of  a 
most  excellent  and  amiable  physiciEfn. 

Often  did  I  muse  to  my  now  lonely  self;  and  when  I 
reflected  on  the  night  I  first  saw  my  Ellen  in  tears,  at  the 
tragedy  of  King  Lear,  little  did  I  imagine  to  see  that 
dreadful  malady  raging  under  our  domestic  roof. 

Eight  mouths  passed,  and  no  abatement  took  place  in 
her  wretched  situation.  Yet  in  all  her  sorrows,  my  Ei.en 
did  not  forget  her  husband;  as  the  following  letter  will 
adduce.  She  was  not  permitted  to  write,  yet  she  contrived, 
in  secret,  to  pen  the  following  lines  : 

"  O  Adolphus !  your  wife's  miserable  end  will  ere  long 
take  place.  It  would  be  some  alleviation,  were  I  to  see 
you  again.  Whatever  they  may  say  of  you  in  the  world,  to 
me  my  wretched  self,  you  have  been  a  kind  and  indulgent 
husband;  you  have,  by  your  conduct  to  your  lost  wife, 
ruined  yourself.  May  the  prayers  of  the  righteous  ascend 
in  your  behalf.  When  I  told  you  I  had  no  power  in 
myself,  I  told  you  true ;  the  Almighty  dispossessed  me.  0 
Adolphus !  I  am  lost ;  worms  and  animals  are  to  visit  me 
this  night,  and  to  destroy  my  body,  ere  life  is  extinct, — 
Yet  my  dying  words  I  send  you — gratitude,  I  deeply  owe 
to  you.  O  how  I  have  loved  you  !  And  could  I  recall  the 
time  I  have  passed,  those  moments,  alone  with  you,  were 
happy.  Farewell — farewell!  Let  me  be  drowned — but 
they  come  to  bury  me  alive. 

"  Your  wretched  and  affectionate  wife, 

"  Ellkn." 

After  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  I  could  not  believe  my 
afflicted  wife  was  insane.  But  alas  the  symptoms  were  too 
evident;  for  the  next  day  she  would  not  see  me,  and  her 
violence  alarmed  her  attendants.  Over  twelve  months  did 
this  all-calamitous  scene  extend,  when  I  again  received  a 
letter  which  left  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  of  her  complete 
recovery.  Immediately  did  I  hasten  to  Dr,  P — ,  who 
instantly  proceeded  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  her  apparent 
sudden  recovery ;  by  him  I  forwarded  a  letter  of  rejoicing, 
stating  that  on  the  morrow  I  would  again  see  my  beloved 
Ellen. 

Upon  the  doctor's  return,  he  told  to  my  all  eager  and 
listening  ear,  that  my  fondest  hopes  were  realized ;  to 
verify  which,  he  handed  me  the  following  letter.  In  haste 
I  broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows : 


"  Thursday.  21st  July,  1830. 
'  Can  it  be  possible,  dearest  and  best  of  men,  that  you 


17 


will  again  see  your  poor  wife? — shall  she,  will  she,  be 
allowed  to  live  with  you  ?  0  Adolphus !  your  kind, 
affectionate  letter,  has  raised  my  heart  from  the  depth  of 
misery  to  the  realms  of  bliss.  May  the  blessed  hope,  so 
raised,  be  realized !  I  once,  dearest,  made  you  happy,  and 
I  feel  now  confident,  give  me  but  the  trial,  and  I  will  use 
my  every  effort  to  do  so  again.  •  * 

'•  0  bless  that  hand  which  dictated  your  letter  this  morn- 
ing !  The  world  will  be  now  to  us  as  nothing;  for  so  will 
I  act  to  you,  that  I  will  defy  the  world.  Your  picture  I 
never  will  part  with,  it  shall  be  my  companion  for  ever. 
In  all  the  misery  I  have  endured,  for  the  last  twelve 
months,  and  before,  your  image,  your  kindness,  has  never 
ceased  to  be  the  theme  of  my  conversation,  and  the  occu- 
pant of  my  thoughts,  even  amidst  ideas  the  most  horrid 
that  human  being  could  possess.  Come  to  me,  to  your  wife 
—and  O  let  me  see  you — 0  think  how  I  shall  feel  1  Come 
then,  my  dearest,  and  transplant  me  from  misery  to  bliss ! 
— Delay  not,  dearest,  best  of  men  I — Bless  you,  dear,  dear 
Adolphus,  and  thank  God  for  having  preserved  thy 

"Ellen." 


" Hope  revived, 

But  soon,  alas!  the  magic  spell  was  done." 

The  following  morning  I  once  more  beheld  and  received 
into  my  arms  my  beloved  wife.  The  scene  I  shall  never 
forget  But  0,  the  change  the  past  year  of  sorrow  had 
wrought  upon  the  person  and  countenance  of  my  poor 
Ellen !  how  truly  did  it  portray  the  intensity  of  misery  her 
mind  had  suffered  !  The  pensive  melancholy  of  her  eye 
soon  rekindled  into  the  brightness  of  joy,  when  I  convinced 
her  I  had  again  come  to  live  with  her.  Now  was  our 
paradise  regained,  and  all  recollections  of  the  past  vanish- 
ed like  snow  before  the  noonday  sun ; — the  past  seemed 
but  as  a  dream  told. 

Our  peace  of  mind,  our  future  prospects,  nay,  our  very 
hopes,  all  now  bore  the  semblance  of  a  continued  and 
uninterrupted  scene  of  joy.  Six  days  had  we  consumed  in 
the  most  endearing  and  domestic  bliss.  The  happiness 
which  shone  on  the  pure  complexion  of  my  Ellen,  evinced 
the  joy  of  her  heart ;  her  bright  eye  glittered  amid  her 
thick  ringlets,  till  every  curl  was  edged  with  gold. 

On  the  seventh  day  from  her  recovery,  at  the  earnest 
request  of  my  beloved  Ellen,  I  took  her  to  town.  We 
visited  the  various  exhibitions,  &c.,  and  a  happier  forenoon 
I  never  spent.  Shortly  after  our  return  home,  having 
finished  dinner,  my  love,  under  some  pretence,  left  the 
room;  and  scarcely  had  two  minutes  elapsed  ere  I  heard  a 
heavy  noise.  I  immediately  flew  to  the  chamber  of  my 
Ellen ;  and,  O  God !  what  was  my  horror  to  behold  the 
lifeless  body  of  my  beloved  wife  !     On  the  instant  arrival 


of  medical  aid,  the  melancholy  truth  of  her  having  taken 
poison  was  preceptible.  All  professional  skill  was  now 
useless  ;  the  vital  spark  had  fled,  and  her  pure  spirit  flown 
to  the  regions  of  our  blessed  Saviour.  I  stood  for  some 
time  motionless,  viewing  the  remains  of  that  beloved  being, 
whose  beauty  and  splendour  had  so  often  shed  a  lively 
brightness  in  society.  *'  0  God !"  exclaimed  I,  "  what  a 
contrast  she  now  is  to  the  lovely  being  thou  created  her!" 
Her  eye — that  eye  I  had  never  seen  equalled,  and  which 
so  intensely  remains  in  my  memory — was  now  closed  for 
ever,  to  re-wake  only  to  witness  the  pure,  solemn,  and 
beautiful  serenity  of  heaven ! 

O,  gentle  reader  !  on  this  scene  I  cannot,  dare  not  dwell. 
Her  life  ebbed  away  in  gentle  imperceptibleness,  and  my 
Ellen  ceased  to  suffer.  To  her  remains,  with  affection 
overwhelmed  with  suffering,  did  I  pay  the  last  sad  tribute 
of  faithful  attachment,  and  consigned  her  to  a  resting-place 
free  from  those  hopes  and  fears  which,  in  her  short  sojourn 
in  this  world,  rendered  her  so  truly  miserable.  Upon  the 
stone  that  marks  her  bed  of  rest,  are  these  words  written — 

Here  lies  a  hapless  one. 
That  lived— that  loved— w  dead . 
•  *  •  ♦  * 

I  now  became 

•• Like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  road, 

That  rends  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the  thorns. 
Seeking  a  way  and  straying  from  the  way  ; 
Not  knowing  how  to  find  the  open  air. 
But  toiling  desperately  to  find  it  out." 

Thus  far  did  misfortune  and  the  bitter  lot  of  life  follow 
me.  The  seven  years  previous  to  the  commencement  of 
this  narrative  could  equally  unfold  a  tale  abounding  with 
the  most  trying  vicissitudes.  But  of  all  my  sorrows,  this 
last  sad  stroke  was  the  downfall  of  my  hopes.  Now,  alas ! 
did  I  contemplate  alone  my  changed  condition: — 
bereft  of  child — of  wife — of  home  I 

By  this  time  it  had  become  necessary  to  acknowledge 
the  many  letters  of  condolence  I  had  received.  From  one 
only  shall  I  make  extract ;  it  was  from  the  father  of  my 
EUen. 

«<  Mrs. and  myself  most  sincerely  and  affectionately 

condole  with  you  on  this  most  sudden  and  melancholy 
event,  alike  distressing  to  us  as  yourself.  And  it  is  the  more 
so,  as  we  anticipated  from  late  accounts  the  termination  of 
that  delusion  with  which  it  had  pleased  Providence  to 
afflict  our  departed  relative.  To  the  will  of  the  Almighty 
it  is  our  duty  to  submit.  Be  assured,  my  dear  Sir,  ue  are 
both  sensible  of  the  kindness  which  you  have  ever  evinced 
to  our  departed  daughter,  such  as  will  remain  long,  long 
in  my  memory.  ♦•****Iam  well  aware  of  your 
irreparable  loss ;  time  alone,  and  the  reflection  of  having 


18 


done  your  duty  as  an  affectionate  husband,  will  be  your 
best  consolation." 

I  had  scarcely  had  time  to  collect  my  scattered  thoughts, 
and  look  into  my  financial  concerns,  ere  the  pressing 
demand  of  creditors  was  made  upon  me.  My  poor  Ellen's 
late  illness  had  cost  me  above  eleven  hundred  pounds. 
In  the  emergency  of  the  case,  and  with  the  view  of  obtaining 
time,  I  applied  to  my  father-in-law  for  temporary  assist- 
ance. I  obtained  it  not;  but,  in  reply  to  my  application, 
received  a  letter,  stating,  that  as  all  relationship  had  ceased 
between  us,  so  had  all  my  claim  upon  him.  Hurt  at  this 
cold,  calculating  caution  from  a  man  who  had  witnessed 
and  acknowledged  my  unerring  and  uniform  conduct  to  his 
afflicted  daughter,  my  heart  shuddered  at  the  unfeeling- 
ness  of  a  world  through  which  I  had  yet  many  years  to 
struggle.  Hope  thus  baffled  in  a  channel  where  I  had  a 
double  claim,  my  mind  became  distracted,  and  willingly 
would  I  have  closed  my  eyes  upon  the  ingratitude  of  the 
world,  to  have  re-opened  them  in  that  kingdom  where  my 
wife  now  reposed  in  peace. 

To  add  to  my  all-accumulated  catalogue  of  misery,  I  was 
summoned,  at  this  period,  to  attend  the  funeral  of  an 
endeared  and  fond  mother,  inflicting  another  pang  on  my 
almost  bankrupt  heart.  Thus  arrived  that  moment  of  my 
existence  when  I  could  have  exclaimed  with  our  Saviour, 
"  When  will  this  bitter  cup  pass  from  me  ?"  but  could 
scarcely,  from  frenzy,  add,  "  O  Lord,  thy  will,  not  mine,  be 
done."  Disconsolate  and  alsne — not  even  a  timid  hope  to 
nurse  in  silence — every  ray  of  future  happiness  now 
extinct — not  even  a  relict  of  my  former  days,  save  what  a 
memory  pregnant  with  misery  could  afford,  rendered  my 
anguish  too  oppressive.  The  unceasing  and  unrelenting 
demand  of  creditors  added  to  the  more  unfeeling  conduct 
of  those  whose  aid  ought  to  have  been  voluntary,  dispos- 
sessed me  of  nerve ;  I  became  enervated  and  neglectful  of 
business,  and  in  a  few  months,  from  severe  mercantile 
losses,  I  quitted  with  disgust  a  scene  fraught  with  hearts  of 
lifeless  mass,  that  flutter  and  float,  and  will  for  ever,  on 
the  sea  of  life.  Yet  in  my  solitude,  one  regret  will  be  ever 
extant  in  my  pensive  thoughts — the  sorrow  that  in  my  fall 
a  truly  valuable  and  venerated  father,  and  other  branches 
of  a  united  family,  have  been  too  deeply  sufferers.  But 
even  amid  sorrows  such  as  mine,  to  live  in  their  esteem  is 
yet  a  blessing  rendering  life  desirable. 

Such,  alas  !  has  been 

"  •       •       •       the  story  of  my  life — 
I've  felt  the  loss  of  child — of  wife — 
Of  friend— of  fortune— every  joy 
Which  God  can  give,  or  man  destroy." 

And  thus,  "  I  have  lifted  the  painted  veil  which  men 
call  life." 


THE  JEW'S  LOVE  OF  JERUSALEM. 

The  missionary  Wolff  met  at  Jerusalem  with  some 
aged  Jews,  who  came  from  Poland  to  die  there.  One  of 
them  said  to  him,  "  It  is  not  pleasant  now  to  live  in 
Palestine,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  die  in  this  land,  and  all  of 
us  here  have  come  to  die  in  the  land  of  Israel." 

Returning  from  a  stranger  land, 
We  come,  a  feeble,  aged  band, 
To  linger  out  life's  fading  hours, 
Beside  our  ruined  Salem's  towers  ; 
Where  once  exulting  myriads  trode 
To  throng  the  fame  of  Judah's  God, 
With  trembling  pace  her  exiles  creep. 
Lean  on  the  way-worn  staff,  and  weep. 

The  spicy  breath  of  Lebanon 
Our  welcome  sighs,  and  passes  on ; 
We  stand  on  Olivet's  ascent. 
Where  royal  David  weeping  went. 
Behold  yon  spot,  profaned  by  foes, 
'Twas  there  our  beauteous  Temple  rose; 
But  not  a  vestige,  not  a  stone. 
Tells  where  Jehovah's  dwelling  shone  ! 

Unmeet  it  were  for  us  to  dwell 

Where  Pagan  hymns  through  Zion  swell 

And  day  by  day,  with  callous  eye, 

Gaze  on  her  faded  majesty. 

And  view  the  gorgeous  mosque  arise, 

Where  blaz'd  her  holiest  sacrifice. 

Beneath  the  crescent's  impious  prid<> 

It  is  not  meet  that  we  abide. 

But,  oh !  how  pleasant  'tis  to  die 
Where  Israel's  ruin'd  glories  lie ! 
How  sweet  to  bid  her  children's  bones 
Blend  with  the  dust  of  Salem's  stones  ! 
Her's  is  the  mould  beneath  them  spread, 
And  her's  the  sod  above  their  head. 
E'en  the  cold  worm  with  slimy  coil. 
Is  welcome,  bred  in  Judah's  soil. 

Soon  shall  these  weary  frames  of  ours 
Dissolve  like  Salem's  crumbling  towers; 
Her  outcast  tribes  no  longer  come 
To  greet  her  as  their  hallowed  home; 
But  sadly  joy  to  lay  their  head 
Beneath  hor  foe's  insulting  tread ; 
To  fall  by  her  they  could  not  save  ; 
Their  glory  once,  and  now  their  grave ! 


-,. 


19 


DEVOTEES  AND  THE  RELICS. 

Put — ^but  oh !  despise  them  not, 

For  thine  is  a  resplendent  lot. 

Wealth,  ease,  and  freedom  hast  thou  known  ; 

'Mid  boundless  knowledge  hast  thou  grown : 

From  land  to  land  thy  feet  have  trod, 

To  mark  the  ways  of  man  and  God  : 

To  give  thy  spirit  scope  and  might ; 

To  find,  to  choose,  to  do  the  right. 

But  they — though  born  among  the  hills 

Where  Nature  speaks  and  Freedom  thrills. 

Yet  could  not  raise  their  heads  to  share 

The  awful  wisdom  hovering  there. 

Life's  pressing  cares,  life's  daily  need, 

The  Sire  of  all  to  them  decreed; 

And  priestly  arts,  traditions  old, 

Have  bound  their  spirits,  fold  on  fold. 

Oh  shame !  oh  pity  !  that  the  base, 

Heaven's  gladsome  light — heaven's  glorious  grace, 

With  felon  hands  should  dare  control. 

And  feed  upon  the  human  soul. 

These — these — the  evil  power  have  felt ; 

To  stocks  and  stones  have  trembling  knelt ; 

And  poured  the  spirit's  prayer  forlorn 

To  things  which  are  a  very  scorn. 

Weak  is  the  judgment — weak  and  wrong ; 

But  oh,  the  heart !  the  heart  is  strong  ; 

That — nature's  strong-hold — has  withstood 

All  creeds,  all  follies, — simply  good  : 

That,  on  the  forms  low  bending  there 

Has  stamped  devotion's  living  air. 

Their  faith  may  err  ;  yet  shall  its  wing 

To  heaven  their  trusting  spirits  bring. 

Like  their  own  mountains  wrapt  in  cloud. 

Their  nature,  dimmed  but  never  bowed. 

Shall  stand  in  patience  firm  as  they. 

Till  bursts  the  gloom~andall  is  day. 


MOUNTAIN  MARY. 

By  raven  rock  where  roars  the  stream, 

Meand'ring  down  yon  dingle, 
Where  from  the  chinks  of  Wallace*  cave 

The  oozing  droppers  tingle, — 
I  sat  and  woo'd  the  fairest  maid 

I  ever  call'd  my  deary  ; 
To  screen  the  blast,  the  sloe-shrub  shade 

Bloom'd  round  my  Mountain  Mary. 

A  sun-beam  glinted  down  the  glen. 
And  shew'd  the  furze  in  bio&som ; 


So  from  the  folds  of  Mary's  robe 

Glinted  her  lily  bosom. 
The  ev'ning  star,  at  setting  sun, 

Shone  o'er  the  heights  of  Breary  ; 
So  from  her  jetty  ringlets  shone 

The  eyes  of  Mountain  Mary. 

I've  seen  her,  down  yon  green  hill's  brow. 

At  dewy  eve  descending, 
The  milky  flocks  all  gazing  round — 

The  little  lambs  attending. 
Did  not  my  heart  with  rapture  swell? 

And  what  could  make  me  dreary  ? 
When,  'mid  the  brachens  in  the  vale, 

I  met  my  Mountain  Mary. 

Thrice  have  the  sun's  faint  beams  oblique 

Scarce  clear'd  the  southern  mountains,— 
Thrice  has  the  steely  breath  of  frost 

Enchain'd  the  bubbling  fountains; 
And  thrice  the  humble  blue- bell  bloom'd 

By  yonder  yew-copse  dreary, 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wastes  the  shroud 

Of  my  sweet  Mountain  Mary. 

How  brightly  shone  the  morning  beam ! 

No  eye  could  reckless  view  it! 
What  had  the  noontide  radiance  been. 

Had  the  dire  Fates  allow'd  it? 
Dark,  deep,  and  drear  the  tempest  blew — 

She  droop'd,  all  pale  and  weary; 
Now  lonely  I  the  dingle  view. 

Bereft  of  Mountain  Mary. 

Foud  memory  to  this  heart  is  dear — 

Fancy  the  past  beguiling; 
Fond  Memory  brings  my  Mary  near. 

And  fancy  shews  her  smiling. 
I  may  forget  dear  Friendship's  ties. 

Which  oft  have  made  me  cheery-- 
I  may  forget  all  other  loves, 

But  not  my  Mountain  Mary. 


Marriage. — Sir  Thomas  More  compares  a  man  going 
to  be  married  to  one  who  puts  his  hand  into  a  sack,  in  the 
hope  of  drawing  out  a  single  eel  from  among  a  hundred 
vipers.  "  It  is  a  hundred  to  one,"  adds  he,  "  but  he  will 
pick  out  a  viper."  Lord  Bacon  maintains  a  directly  con- 
trary opinion,  and  asserts,  "  that  in  this  marriage  sack,  the 
eels  would  be  in  the  ratio  of  a  hundred  to  one  of  the 
vipers."  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  eels  and  the  vipers  are 
mingled  in  nearly  an  equal  proportion,  and  all  we  have  to 
do,  is  to  make  the  best  choice  we  can. 


20 


Djrawn'bT  f'  T  ^^ 


U.  I.  iija 


/y 


^^yM^^yzyi/' .  ^&^^^'- 


A  REVERIE  OF  ARCADIA. 

And  where  they  happy,  who  of  old  did  dwell 

In  this  fair  world  of  changeless  flowers  and  skies  ? 

Whose  life  flowed  calmly  on  as  poets  tell: 
Did  no  immortal  hopes  or  yearnings  rise. 

On  their  strong  wings  to  bear  the  eternal  soul, 
Bid  her  these  listless  joys  of  earth  despise. 

And  spurn  the  narrow  world  that  would  her  flight  con- 
trol? 

They  knew  no  crimes;  they  had  no  mad  desires, 
No  burning  hopes,  to  wear  the  wasted  frame 

With  the  fierce  bickering  of  incessant  fires; 
One  day  rolled  on  in  peace — another  came 

As  glad,  as  bright,  as  holy  as  the  last; 

The  sons  in  quiet  lived,  as  lived  their  sires. 

And  sank  in  gentle  sleep,  when  their  long  life  was  past. 

Were  they  then  happy?     Did  no  stronger  mind 
Rise  in  its  daring,  high  beyond  the  rest, 

And  mourn  their  briefer  scope  to  earth  confined. 
Deeming  itself,  with  all  its  longings,  blest 

Far  more  than  they,  who  knew  no  wish  nor  pain. 
Nor  lifted  to  the  stars  their  eager  quest. 

Nor  ever  did  to  Heaven  of  worlds  unknown  complain? 

They  had  their  gods  and  temples ;— but  their  gifts 
Were  calmly  offered  up  with  grateful  hearts  : 

They  knew  not  that  full  prayer  the  soul  that  lifts 
Towards  the  Eternal,  when  from  earth  she  parts. 

Driven  from  all  mortal  trust,  and  crushed  with  woe. 
First  with  faint  flight — then  like  an  eagle,  starts 

Far  above  tears  and  guilt ! — that  rest  they  could  not 
know ! 

Their  Arcady  was  blooming  all  the  year, 

The  earth  poured  ever  forth  new  fruits  and  flowers  : 

Look  at  this  Eden  !     They  were  dwellers  here  ! 
Unworn  by  toil  they  lived  through  sunny  hours  : — 

Were  they  not  harppy  ?     Does  their  record  say. 

That  they  have  mourned  amid  these  laughing  bowers  ? 

Or  has  their  memory  faded  quite  away? 

Aye,  there  are  records— of  a  man  who  dared 

To  storm  high  Heaven,  and  pluck  down  living  fire  : 

Thus  was  the  boundless  might  of  mind  declared; 
Thus  did  the  god-like  to  brave  deeds  aspire  ! 

Erewhile  I  deemed  these  shepherds  less  than  men. 
Who  lived  in  sloth  without  one  bold  desire. 

But  here,  once  more,  1  know  our  daring  race  again. 


What,  though  swift  ruin  came  ?     Arcadian  bliss 
Was  man's  no  more — Arcadian  idleness  ! 

A  noble  spirit  rues  not  joys  like  this, 

But  through  life's  hottest  tumults  on  will  press. 

Happier,  in  all  his  fight  with  grief  and  crime, 
If  once  his  aid  a  sorrowing  soul  may  bless. 

Than  if  in  drowsy  ease  he  lived  through  countless  time! 

W.    B.    C. 


LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  AN  ALBUM  IN  WHICH  ARE  PLACED  THE  HAIR  OF 
RELATIVES. 

Bi/  George  Emerson, 

When  parents  fancy  they  can  trace. 

Much  beauty  in  their  infants'  face. 
What  gives  those  claims  increasing  grace? 

Young  Locks  of  Hair. 

When  ringlets  wildly  o'er  the  brow. 

Flaunt  to  the  winds — they  quickly  know. 
New  pleasures,  and  more  proudly  show 

The  Locks  of  Hair. 

With  rapture  they  are  quite  elate. 

But  if  Death  spoils  their  happy  state. 
What  yields  a  balm  to  soothe  their  fate  ? 

Sweet  Locks  of  Hair! 

The  lover's  language — often  vain— 
Is  urged,  in  many  a  fervent  strain, 
To  his  fair  maid,  that  he  may  gain 

A  Lock  of  Hair. 

When  friends  must  visit  distant  parts. 

They  interchange  to  ease  their  hearts. 
And  check  the  tear  that  often  starts. 

Their  Locks  of  Hail. 

Though  gone  the  Locks — the  tear  of  pearl 

Falls  o'er  the  aged  Lover's  curl. 
Or  when  friends  meet  they'll  all  unfurl 

Those  Locks  of  Hair. 

When  soul  from  body  takes  its  flight, 

What  gives  surviving  friends  delight. 
When  viewed  by  day,  express'd  by  night ! 

Their  Locks  of  Hair. 

Then  keep,  dear  girl,  those  relics  dear. 

When  we  are  gone  drop  the  fond  tear. 
And  think  our  guardian  spirits  near, 

Those  Locks  of  Hair. 


2' 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  MORNING. 

OLD    POETS. 

■Now  'gins  the  mora 
To  open  to  the  earth  heaven's  eastern  gates. 
Displaying  by  degrees  the  new-born  light ; — 
The  young  day's  sentinel,  the  morning  star. 
Now  drives  before  him  all  his  glittering  flock, 
And  bids  them  rest  within  the  fold  unseen ; 
Till  with  his  whistle  Hesperus  calls  them  forth. 
Now  Titan  up  and  ready,  calls  aloud, 
And  bids  the  rolling  hours  bestir  them  quick, 
And  harness  up  his  prancing,  foaming  steeds, 
To  hurry  out  the  sun's  bright  chariot : 
O,  now  I  hear  their  trampling  feet  approach ! 
Now,  now,  I  see  that  glorious  lamp  to  dart 
His  nearer  beams,  and  all  bepaint  with  gold 
The  over-peeping  tops  of  highest  hills. 

Hawkins. 
Aurora,  see,  puts  on  her  crimson  blush, 
And  with  resplendent  rays  gilds  o'er  the  top 
Of  yon  aspiring  hill !  the  pearly  dew 
Hangs  on  the  rosebud's  top;  and  knowing  it 
Must  be  anon  exhsd'd,  for  sorrow  shrinks 
Itself  into  a  tear.     The  early  lark, 
With  other  winged  choristers  of  the  morn 
Chanting  their  Jinthems  in  harmonious  airs. 

Lewis  Sharp. 
The  rosy-fingered  morn  did  there  disclose 

Her  beauty,  ruddy  as  a  blooming  bride  ; 
Gilding  the  marigold,  painting  the  rose  ; 

With  Indian  chrysolites  her  cheeks  were  dyed. 

Baron. 
Now  morn,  her  rosy  steps  i'  the  eastern  clime 
Advancing,  sowed  the  earth  with  orient  pearl. 

Milton. 
The  purple  morning  left  her  crimson  bed. 
And  donn'd  her  robes,  of  pure  vermilion  hue ; 
Her  amber  locks  she  crown'd  with  roses  red, 
In  Eden's  flowery  gardens  gather'd  new. 

*  •  •  •  « 

Fairfax. 


ODE  WRITTEN  IN  WINTER. 

While  in  the  sky  black  clouds  impend. 
And  fogs  arise,  and  rains  descend. 
And  one  brown  prospect  opens  round 
Of  leafless  trees  and  furrowed  ground ; 
Save  were  unmelted  spots  of  snow 
Upon  the  shaded  hill-side  show ; 
While  chill  winds  blow,  and  torrents  roll ; — 
The  scene  disgusts  the  sight,  depresses  all  the  soul. 


Yet  worse  what  polar  climates  share — 
Vasrc  regions,  dreary,  bleak,  and  bare ! — 
There,  on  an  icy  mountain's  height. 
Seen  only  by  the  moon's  pale  light, 
Stern  Winter  rears  his  giant  form, 
His  robe  a  mist,  his  voice  a  storm  : 
His  frown  the  shivering  nations  fly. 
And  hid  for  half  the  year  in  smoky  caverns  lie. 

Yet  there  the  lamp's  perpetual  blaze 
Can  pierce  the  gloom  with  cheering  rays ; 
Yet  there  the  heroic  tale  or  song 
Can  urge  the  lingering  hours  along  ; 
Yet  there  their  hands  with  timely  care 
The  kajak*  and  the  dart  prepare, 
On  summer  seas  to  work  their  way. 
And  wage  the  watery  war,  and  make  the  seals  their  prey. 

Too  delicate  !  reproach  no  more 
The  seasons  of  thy  native  shore- 
There  soon  shall  Spring  descend  the  sky, 
With  smiling  brow  and  placid  eye ; 
A  primrose   wreath  surrounds  her  hair, 
Her  green  robe  floats  upon  the  air; 
And,  scattered  from  her  liberal  hand. 
Fair  blossoms  deck  the  trees,  fair  flowers  adorn  the  land. 

SCOTT, 


CHARACTER  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

BT  sib  W.  DAVENANT. 

She  ne'er  saw  courts,  yet  courts  could  have  undone 

With  untaught  looks,  and  an  unpractis'd  heart ; 
Her  nets,  the  most  prepar'd  could  never  shun, 

For  nature  spread  them  in  the  scorn  of  art 
She  ni  ver  had  in  busy  cities  been ; 

Ne'er  warm'd  with  hopes,  nor  e'er  allay'dwith  fears; 
Not  seeing  punishment,  could  guess  no  sin ; 

And  sin  not  seeing,  ne'er  had  use  of  tears. 

Quintessence  of  English  Poetry. 

*  A  Greenland  fishing-boat 


., 


22 


FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 


wolsey's  advice. 


-Thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 


And  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  1  shall  be. 

And  sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 

Of  me  must  more  be  heard — say  I  taught  thee — 

Say  WoLSEY,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour, 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me  : 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  Ambition; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  Angels ;  how  can  man,  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't? 

Love  thyself  least :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee : 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty : — 

Still  in  thy  right-hand  carry  gentle  peace ; 

To  silence  envious  tongues,  "  Be  just  and  fear  not:" 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  Country's, 

Thy  God's,  and  Truth's:  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  0  Cromwell ! 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 

DUELLING. 

Your  words  have  took  such  pains,  as  if  they  laboured 

To  bring  manslaughter  into  form,  set  quarrelling 

Upon  the  head  of  valour ;  which  indeed 

Is  valour  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 

When  sects  and  factions  were  but  newly  born  : 

He's  truly  valiant,  that  can  wisely  suffer 

The  worst  that  man  can  breathe,  and  make  his  wrongs 

His  outsides ;  to  wear  them  like  his  raiment,  carelessly. 

And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart, 

To  bring  it  into  danger. 

If  wrongs  be  evils,  and  enforce  us  kill, 

What  folly  'tis  to  hazard  life  for  ill! 

♦  STMPATHT. 

Ariel. If  you  now  beheld   them,  your  aiffections 

Would  become  tender. 

Prospero.  Dost  thou  think  so,  Spirit? 

Ari Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pkos,  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions;  and  shall  not  myself. 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick. 
Yet  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part:  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.— 


MUSIC. 

That  strain  again ; — it  had  a  dying  fall ; 
— 0  !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  South, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving  odour ! — 

SONG   IN   CTUBBLINB. 

Hark  !  hark  1  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  Springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin:* 

My  lady  sweet  arise ! — 
Arise!         arise ! 

•  Is. 


IRWAN'S  VALE. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale. 
My  infant  years  where  fancy  led ; 

And  soothed  me  with  the  western  gale 
Her  wild  dreams  waving  rouud  my  head. 

While  the  blithe  blackbird  told  his  tale. 

— Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale ! 

The  primrose  on  the  valley's  side, 

The  green  thyme  on  the  mountain's  head. 

The  wanton  rose,  the  daisy  pied. 
The  wilding's  blossom  blushing  red  ; 

No  longer  I  their  sweets  inhale. 

— Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale  ! 

How  oft,  within  yon  vacant  shade. 
Has  evening  closed  my  careless  eye  I 

How  oft,  along  the  banks  I've  strayed. 
And  watched  the  wave  that  wandered  by ! 

Full  long  their  loss  shall  I  bewail. 

— Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale  ! 

Yet  still,  within  yon  vacant  grove, 
To  mark  the  close  of  parting  day  ; 

Along  yon  flowery  banks  to  rove , 

And  watch  the  wave  that  winds  away. 

Fair  fancy  sure  shall  never  fail; 

Though  far  from  these  and  Irwan's  vale' 


LANGHORNE. 


23 


THE  HAPPY  PEASANT 


The  peasant,  innocent  of  all  these  ills, 
With  crooked  ploughs  the  fertile  fallow  tills. 
And  the  round  year  with  daily  labour  fills ; 
From  hence  the  country  markets  are  supplied : 
Enough  remains  for  household  charge  beside, 
His  wife  and  tender  children  to  sustain. 
And  gratefully  to  feed  his  dumb  deserving  train. 
Nor  cease  his  labours,  till  the  yellow  field 
A  full  return  of  bearded  harvest  yield — 
A  crop  so  plenteous  as  the  land  to  load, 
O'ercome  the  crowded  barns,  and  lodge  on  ricks  abroad. 
Thus  ev'ry  several  season  is  employed. 
Some  spent  in  toil,  and  some  in  ease  enjoyed. 
The  yeaning  yews  prevent  the  springing  year : 
The  laded  boughs  their  fruits  in  autumn  bear : 
'Tis  then  the  vine  her  liquid  harvest  yields, 
Baked  in  the  sunshine  of  ascending  fields. 
The  winter  comes ;  and  then  the  falling  mast 
For  greedy  swine  provides  a  full  repast : 
Then  olives,  ground  in  mills,  their  fatness  boast. 
And  winter  fruits  are  mellowed  by  the  frost. 
His  cares  are  eased  with  intervals  of  bliss  ; 
His  little  children,  climbing  for  a  kiss. 
Welcome  their  father's  late  return  at  night; 
His  faithful  bed  is  crowned  with  chaste  delight. 
His  kine  with  swelling  udders  ready  stand. 
And,  lowing  for  the  pail,  invite  the  milker's  hand. 
His  wanton  kids,  with  budding  horns  prepared, 
Fight  harmless  battles  in  his  homely  yard : 
Himself  in  rustic  pomp,  on  Holy-days, 
To  rural  pow'rs  a  just  oblation  pays, 
And  on  the  Green  his  careless  limbs  displays. 
The  hearth  is  in  the  midst:  the  herdsmen,  round 
The  cheerful  fire,  provoke  his  health  in  goblets  crowned. 
He  calls  on  Bacchus,  and  propounds  the  prize: 
The  groom  his  fellow  groom  at  buts  defies, 
And  bends  his  bow,  and  levels  with  his  eyes. 
Or,  stript  for  wrestling,  smears  his  limbs  with  oil, 
And  watches,  with  a  trip  his  foe  to  foil. 
Such  was  the  life  the  frugal  Sabines  led : 
So  Remus  and  his  brother  god  were  bred. 
From  whom  the  austere  Etrurian  virtue  rose; 
And  this  rude  life  our  homely  fathers  chose. 
Old  Rome  from  such  a  race  derived  her  birth, 
(The  seat  of  empire,  and  the  conquered  earth) 
Which  now  on  sev'n  high  hills  triumphant  reigns. 
And  in  that  compass  all  the  world  contains; 
Ere  Saturn's  rebel  son  usurped  the  skies. 
When  beasts  were  only  slain  for  sacrifice. 
While  peaceful  Crete  enjoyed  her  ancient  lord. 
Ere  sounding  hammers  forged  th'  inhuman  sword. 


Ere  hollow  drums  were  beat,  before  the  breath 
Of  brazen  trumpets  rung  the  peal  of  death, 
The  good  old  god  his  hunger  did  assuage 
With  roots  and  herbs,  and  gave  the  golden  age. 

DRYDEN's    VIRGIL. 


SHEPHERD'S  SONG. 

BY  CHRISTOPHER    MARLOW. 
(1590). 

GoHE,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hiU  and  valley,  dale  and  field. 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield  ! 

There  will  vie  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flooJcs, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  poesies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle. 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we'll  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold; 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs  :— 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ' 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning: — 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  mv  love .' 


'  \«VI.,»\U.    AMY     HO!3SAHr     St    JANKi, 

l/3mdan,  ■puHlishKl  Aug*  1'.'1834  by  Simpkin  it  Marshall-  Stationers  Co-cxM  k.  J.WStcvcasJO.UerbirStroet  "Kmg"s  Cross. 


INNOCENCE. 

Still,  at  the  new-moon's  joyous  birth, 
Raise,  Phidyle,  thy  hands  from  earth; 
With  incense  and  with  spicy  showers 
Propitiate  the  Eternal  Powers  ! 

Then  constant  on  thy  bending  vine 
Clear  skies  and  fostering  suns  shall  shine ; 
Nor  tempest's  angry  scowl  descend, 
The  harvest's  joyous  hopes  to  rend ; 

No  mildew,  in  the  vernal  night. 
The  year's  young  promise  rudely  blight, 
And  Autumn's  noxious  clouds  in  vain 
Shall  hover  o'er  thy  fleecy  train. 

From  Algidus's  snowy  head, 
Or  Alba's  hilly  pastures,  led, 
Where  Pontiff's  altars  proudly  gleam. 
The  victim  pours  his  crimson  stream. 

Thee  no  rich  offering  befits. 
Since  Heaven  a  lowlier  pledge  permits 
On  guiltless  hands  the  blessing  lies 
More  than  the  costly  sacrifice  ! 

For  myrtle  wreaths,  and  rosemary. 
Thy  household  gods  will  smile  on  thee. 
Though  mortals  all  their  store  dispense, 
The  gift  best  loved  is  Inmocbmce. 


PSALM  CXLVIII. 

Alleluia  !  cheerly  sing 
Praises  to  the  Heavenly  King; 
To  the  God  supremely  great. 
Alleluia  in  the  height. 

Praise  him,  arch-angelic  band. 
Ye  that  in  his  presence  stand; 
Praise  him,  ye  that  watch  and  pray, 
Michael's  myriads  in  array. 

Praise  him.  Sun,  at  each  extreme. 
Orient  streak  and  western  beam; 
Moon  and  stars  of  mystic  dance. 
Silvering  in  the  blue  expanse. 

Praise  him,  O  ye  heights  that  soar. 
Heaven  and  heaven  for  evermore ; 


And  ye  streams  of  living  rill 
Higher  yet  and  purer  still. 

Let  them  praise  his  glorious  name, 
From  whose  fruitful  word  they  came  ; 
And  they  first  began  to  be 
As  he  gave  the  great  decree. 

Their  constituent  parts  he  founds 
For  duration  without  bounds ; 
And  their  covenant  has  sealed. 
Which  shall  never  be  repealed. 

Praise  the  Lord  on  earth's  domains  . 
Praise,  ye  mutes,  that  sea  contains; 
They  that  on  the  surface  leap, 
And  the  dragons  of  the  deep. 

Battering  hail,  and  fires  that  glow, 
Streaming  vapours,  plumy  snow ; 
Wind  and  storm,  his  wrath  incurred, 
Winged  and  pointed  at  his  word. 

Mountains  of  enormous  scale. 
Every  hill,  and  every  vale; 
Fruit  trees  of  a  thousand  dyes. 
Cedars  that  perfume  the  skies  1 

Beasts  that  haunt  the  woodland  maze, 
Nibbling  flocks  and  droves  that  gaze ; 
Reptiles  of  amphibious  breed. 
Feathered  millions  formed  for  speed. 

Kings,  with  Jesus  for  their  guide. 
Peopled  regions  far  and  wide ; 
Heroes  of  their  country's  cause, 
Princes,  judges  of  the  laws. 

Age  and  childhood,  youth  and  maid,' 
To  his  name  your  praise  be  paid ; 
For  his  Word  is  worth  alone 
Far  above  his  crown  and  throne. 

He  shall  dignify  the  crest 

Of  his  people,  raised  and  blest ; 

While  we  serve  with  praise  and  prayers. 

All  in  Christ  his  saints  and  heirs. 


23 


DIEPPE. 

The  dull,  flat  monotony  of  the  French  coast,  is  the  subject 
of  general  remark  on  the  approach  of  it  from  the  sea,  and  is 
strongly  contrasted  with  the  bold,  craggy,  and  precipitous 
aspect  of  that  of  England.  This  feature  applies  to  almost 
every  portion  of  the  opposite  continent ;  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  short  range  of  hilly  land  on  which  stands  its 
once-important  fortress,  Dieppe  partakes  of  the  general 
characteristic.  To  the  English  visitor,  however,  it  has  some 
claim  to  peculiar  interest. 

The  castle  is  finely  seated  on  the  crest  of  a  lofty  eminence, 
which  completely  commands  the  town,  and  forms  a  beauti- 
ful feature  in  the  local  scenery.  It  is  of  great  antiquity, 
and  was  a  post  of  no  inconsiderable  value  to  the  English 
during  their  possession  of  Normandy  ;  by  whom  in  a  great 
measure  it  was  rebuilt,  or,  at  least,  enlarged.  It  varies 
little  from  the  general  style  of  the  numerous  strong-holds 
which  a  few  centuries  ago,  studded  the  French  coast.  The 
castle  is  surrounded  by  a  high  rampart,  protected  at  the 
angles  by  circular  towers,  originally  introduced  into  the 
prevailing  military  architecture  by  the  Crusaders;  each 
tower  crowned  by  a  conical  roof  of  a  much  more  modern 
date.  It  is  only  by  personal  influence  with  the  authorities 
that  access  can  be  obtained  to  the  castle,  and  the  splendid 
view  from  it  will  well  reward  the  curiosity  of  the  visitor. 
The  marine  scenery  is  busy  and  beautiful;  and  that  towards 
the  land,  rich  and  varied,  spreading  over  a  vast  extent  of 
well-cultivated  country. 

The  enormous  crucifix  on  the  quay  is  the  first  object  which 
especially  attracts  notice,  on  approaching  Dieppe  from  the 
sea;  and  from  the  bustle  which  every  where  prevails,  the 
stran<^er  is  impressed  with  an  erroneous  idea  of  the  extraor- 
dinary commercial  activity  of  the  port.  In  truth,  it  is 
chiefly  indebted  for  its  prosperity  to  its  intercourse  with 
England;  although  its  merchants  may  claim  the  distinction 
of  having  first  imported  Elephants*  teeth  into  Europe,  from 
Africa,  about  1554,  The  town  has  all  the  external  appear- 
ances of  great  antiquity.  The  houses  are  chiefly  of  stone, 
with  high  slanting  roofs  and  over-hanging  narrow  and  filthy 
streets  ;  and  there  are  two  churches,  one  of  them  dedicated 
to  St.  Jacques,  finished,  but  in  very  bad  taste,  partly  in  the 
highly-enriched  Gothic  style  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  head  dress  of  the  female  inhabitants  of  Dieppe  is 
singularly  curious,  and  has  prevailed  uninfluenced  by 
fashionable  modifications,  from  a  very  early  period  :  it  con- 
sists of  a  pasteboard  frame,  about  half  a  yard  high,  the 
lower  part  covered  with  silk,  in  many  instances  edged  with 
gold  or  silver  lace ;  above  this  is  an  enormous  lappet  of 
muslin,  and  the  whole  presents  an  appearance  extremely 
picturesque.  The  neighbourhood  of  Dieppe  is  celebrated  in 
historical  recollections,  from  its  having  been  the  scene  of 
the  battle  in  which  Henry  IV.  defeated  the  duke  of  May  enne. 


CROMA,  (from  Ossian.) 

The  king  commands  my  fleet,  with  flowing  sail, 

Directs  its  course  to  lovely  Inisfail, 

And  safely  moors  in  Croma's  sounding  bay 

Where  Crothar,  Fingal's  friend,  maintains  his  sway. 

But  aged,  blind,  distressed,  sunk  in  woe, 

Attack'd  by  ruthless  Rothmar  as  a  foe  ; 

His  call  the  ready  aid  of  Fingal  draws, 

And  Ossian  lands  to  vindicate  his  cause 

With  these  glad  tidings  tuneful  bands  I  sent. 
With  Morven's  sons  to  Crothar's  halls  I  went; 
Amid  his  father's  arms  the  Chief  we  found. 
His  eyes  had  fail'd,  involv'd  in  night  profound ; 
Around  his  staff  his  hoary  locks  were  spread. 
And  on  his  bosom  lean'd  his  careful  head. 
How  soon  he  heard  our  forces  move  along, 
Of  other  times  he  humm'd  the  solemn  song, 
Rose  from  his  seat,  and  trembling  grasp'd  my  hand, 
And  welcomd  me  with  blessings  to  his  land, 

"  Ossian,"  he  said,  "  mine  arm  has  lost  its  force. 
My  feet  have  fail'd  in  the  rapid  course — 

0  could  I  wield  the  steel  of  beamy  light 

As  when  at  Strutha  Fingal  rul'd  the  fight,— 
Fingal  of  mortal  man  the  highest  name  ; 
But  Crothar  wanted  not  his  share  of  fame  ; — 
E'en  he  with  praise  bestow'd  the  bossy  shield. 
Which  Crothar  bore  as  lightning  through  the  field. 
There  hangs  the  trophy  which  I  proudly  bore, 
But  Crothar's  eyes  can  see  it  now  no  more  ; 
Strong  as  thy  father's  cau'st  thou  lift  the  steel, — 
Thy  brawny  arm  let  sightless  Crothar  feel," 

1  reach'd  to  him  mine  arm — quick  rose  his  sight — 
Fast  flow'd  the  tear  adown  from  either  eye  : 

"  Though  strong,  my  son — thy  father's  stronger  far, 
Excells  in  strength  the  strongest  sons  of  war; 
Now  let  the  feast  within  my  halls  be  spread. 
And  let  the  song  provoke  the  warlike  deed  : 
Great  is  the  man  who  deigns  our  feast  to  share, 
A  far  fam'd  Hero,  Croma's  son  is  here." 

The  feast  is  spread,  and  harps  of  sweetest  sound 
Strive  to  excite  the  joy  of  all  around  ; 
But  inward  grief  forbade  the  mirth  to  glow, 
And  bitter  drops  of  sorrow  darkly  flow ; 
Stopt  was  each  voice — the  mirthful  music  dies, 
And  Crothar's  bosom  heaves  with  piercing  sigh — 
But  not  a  tear  falls  from  his  sightless  eyes — 
His  tale  of  woe,  with  seeming  firmness  given, 
Was  like  the  moon-beam  on  the  cloud  of  Heaven. 

"  While  sorrow  dimly  dwells  on  every  face. 
Dark  is  our  feast  to  mighty  Fingal's  race. 
But  no  sad  darkness  dwells  in  Crothar's  breast — 
When  my  brave  friends  sat  smiling  round  my  feast. - 


26 


Within  my  hall  the  stranger  sung  with  joy, 
Dear  to  my  soul  when  bloom'd  my  lovely  boy  ; 
But,  like  the  meteor  of  the  gloomy  night. 
He  fell,  and  falling  left  no  gleam  of  light: 
He  boldly  dar'd  to  fight  a  father's  strife — 
He  bravely  died  to  save  a  father's  life. 

"  Rothmar  had  heard  the  chief  of  Fromla's  race. 
Mine  eyes  had  fail'd,  mine  arms  had  found  their  place  ; 
Against  my  age  arose  his  haughty  pride — 
He  fought,  he  conquered,  and  my  people  died  : 
I  seized  my  arms  with  heart  oppress'd  with  woe. 
But  what,  alas!  could  sightless  Crothar  do? 

0  for  the  days,  I  said,  when  strong  I  stood, 
Days  when  I  fought  and  won  in  fields  of  blood; 
When  lo !  my  son  returned  from  the  chase. 
Fair  Favergarmo,  last  of  all  my  race. 

As  yet  he  had  not  prov'd  the  spear  and  shield, 
For  youth  deny'd  to  reap  the  bloody  fieVd; 
But  from  his  eye-balls  dart  the  martial  fires, 
To  match  the  brave  bis  ardent  soul  aspires. 

At  my  unequal  steps  his  sigh  arose, 
As  his  warm  heart  with  filial  ardour  glows. 
"  Why,  0  my  father,  why  these  weighty  arms, 
Hast  thou  no  son  to  shield  thee  from  alarms  ; 
A  manly  strength  I  now  begin  to  know, 

1  swing  thy  sword,  and  I  have  bent  thy  bow; 
O  let  me  meet  fierce  Kothmar,  and  engage. 
With  Croma's  youth  the  utmost  of  his  rage  ; 
Why  should  my  father  such  a  suit  control, — 
0  grant  the  wishes  of  my  ardent  soul." 
Charm'd  with  my  darling  youth,  I  thus  begun; — 
And  thou  shalt  meet  him,  sightless  Crotha's  son; 
But  let  the  bravest  fight  beside  thine  arm. 

And  aid  thy  youth,  and  guard  thee  in  alarm. 
That  I  may  hail  the  tread  of  thy  return, 
And  be  not  left  a  childless  sire  to  mourn. 

He  march'd,  he  met,  he  fought  the  daring  foe — 
He  fell — to  me  the  cause  of  ceaseless  woe. 
Again  is  Rothmar's  battle  drawing  near, 
To  shake  at  Croma's  walls  his  bloody  spear. 

Hence  be  the  feast,  I  said;  I  seized  my  shield; 
The  deathful  sword,  and  heavy  spear  I  wield ; 
My  heros  saw  the  lightning  of  mine  eyes. 
And  round  their  chief  a  gallant  host  arise  : 
To  meet  the  foe  we  camped  on  the  heath. 
And  long'd  for  morn  to  dare  the  deeds  of  death. 
The  early  dawn  display'd  its  cheering  beam, — 
A  vale  appears,  where  fiows  a  rushing  stream; 
Along  its  banks  dark  Rothmar's  army  lies, 
But  seeing  us  with  shouts  they  quickly  rise. 
We  fought — and  long  the  tide  of  battle  roared. 
Till  Rothmar  fell  beneath  my  vengeful  sword  ; 
Then  o'er  the  heath  his  scatt'ring  anny  flew — 
With  bloody  haste  my  conqu'ring  troops  pursue. 


The  setting  sun  vermillioned  all  the  land, 
When  Rothmar's  head  I  gave  to  Crothar's  hand; 
The  aged  felt  the  armour  of  his  foe. 
And  dawning  joy  assumes  the  place  of  woe. 

Now  to  the  hall  the  joyful  people  haste, 
The  harp  resounds,  and  makes  the  mirthfi'l  feast ; 
Five  hoary  bards,  amidst  the  ardent  throng. 
In  Ossians  praise  pour  forth  the  mirthful  song; 
Full  of  the  theme  they  chant  the  mirthful  lay, 
And  mirth  and  triumph  wing  the  hours  away. 
With  joy  the  heart  of  Croma's  sons  expand. 
For  peace  blooms  o'er  a  lately  bleeding  land. 
No  daring  foe  since  gloomy  Rothmar's  fall 
Assaults,  or  Croma's  tribe,  or  Croma's  wall. 

I  rais'd  the  song  to  Favergarmo's  shade. 
When  low  in  earth  the  lovely  youth  was  laid; 
Crothar,  though  then  suppress'd  the  mournful  moan, 
But  search'd  the  wounds  of  his  beloved  son  ; 
Full  in  the  breast  he  found  the  deathful  place. 
And  conscious  pride  illumes  his  aged  face. 
To  Ossian,  full  of  joy,  the  aged  came, 
O  King  of  spears,  my  Hero  fell  with  fame : 
In  dastard  flight  he  yielded  not  to  breath. 
But,  daring  danger,  met  the  pointed  death. 

Happy  are  they  iu  early  youth  who  die — 
Short  is  their  day,  but  their  renown  is  high ; 
Within  their  halls  no  feeble  sneering  bands 
Mark  with  derisive  smile  their  trembling  hands ; 
The  Virgin's  secret  tear  for  them  is  shed. 
And  songs  embalm  their  memory  when  dead. 

Not  so  the  aged,  withering  away 
The  deeds  forgotten  of  their  youthful  day; 
Neglected  and  in  secret  how  they  die. 
No  sons  express  for  them  the  grateful  sigh ; 
Carelessly  laid  along  the  deathful  bier, 
Their  stone  of  fame  is  placed  without  a  tear. 

0  happy  they  in  blooming  youth  who  die, 
Short  is  their  day,  but  their  renowu  is  high. 


Drunkenness. — Young  men  are  generally  introduced 
to  this  vice  by  the  company  they  keep ;  but  do  you  carefully 
guard  against  ever  submitting  yourself  to  be  the  companion 
of  low,  vulgar,  and  dissipated  men  ;  and  hold  it  as  a  maxim 
that  you  had  better  be  alone  than  in  mean  company.  Let 
your  companions  be  such  as  yourself,  or  superior;  for  the 
worth  of  a  man  will  always  be  rated  by  that  of  his  company. 
You  do  not  find  pigeons  associate  with  hawks,  or  lambs 
with  bears;  and  it  is  unnatural  for  a  moral  man  to  be  the 
companion  of  blackguards. 


St 


TO    A    PICTURE    OF    EVENING,    NEAR    THE 
BAVARIAN  ALPS. 

BY    MISS     M.    A.    BROWNB. 

Evening  and  Sunset ! — what  a  thousand  dreams 

Are  those  two  spell-words  to  my  heart  recalling ; 
The  ripple  of  my  native  mountain  streams, 

The  quiet  home,  whereon  the  dews  were  falling; 
And  leaves  without  were  drooping  'neath  their  power. 

And  hearts  within  were  closing  like  the  flower; 
And  the  low  murmur  of  the  evening  prayer 

Stole  from  the  casement,  till  the  passer  by 
Might  deem  it  was  the  jessamine  blossoms  there. 

Breathing  a  deeper  and  more  fervent  sigh 
Unto  His  praise,  who  hung  them  on  their  stems, 
Like  pearls  on  diadems ; 

But  oh,  sweet  picture  !  where  I  fix  mine  eye 

Until  it  fills  with  tears,  unbidden  springing, 
Why,  like  to  a  remembered  melody, 

Are  vague  sweet  voices  in  my  spirit  ringing, 
At  sight  of  thee  ?     Thou  art  not  like  my  home, 

Nor  the  dim  quiet  haunts  of  leafy  gloom 
VThere  once  I  dwelt ! — The  holy  evening  hour 

Is  the  sole,  slender  clue  for  memory  : 
But  she  is  like  the  lightning  in  her  power; 

And,  though  it  is  so  slight,  it  still  may  be 
The  link  to  guide  to  the  electric  chain. 

That  thrills  through  heart  and  brain. 

The  painter  in  a  hallowed  hour  did  trace  thee, 

Thou  bright  creation  of  his  wondrous  art! 
And  time  may  dim  thy  colouring  and  efface  thee. 

But  cannot  blot  thine  image  from  my  heart : 
Nor  the  broad  river,  that  to  the  pure  sky 

Looks  up  with  all  the  calmness  of  an  eye. 
Through  which  a  great  and  holy  soul  is  shining — 

The  scattered  sheep,  the  overshadowing  trees, 
And  the  far  mountains,  'neath  the  Sun's  declining. 

Looking  like  waves  of  the  dark  troubled  seas. 
Stayed  in  one  moment  by  the  power  of  God, 
Bursting  from  his  abode 

In  Heaven,  like  sunshine! — Picture  !  thou  hast  borne  me 

Away  from  my  first  thought  of  mine  own  fate  ; 
I  feel,  though  grief  from  many  a  tie  hath  torn  me. 

While  such  scenes  are,  I  am  not  desolate  ! 
In  such  an  hour  as  this  my  spirit  catches 

The  light  of  loveliness,  until  it  matches 
Almost  in  glory  the  resplendent  burst 

Of  sunset  on  the  world;  when,  from  some  cloud. 
The  Day-God  droppeth,  as  a  spirit  nurst 

Ou  earth  for  Heaven  breaks  from  its  fragile  shroud ! 


My  thoughts  are  too  extatic  to  be  glad. 
Too  holy  to  be  sad. 

Vast  hill !  this  strain  of  mine  will  never  reach  you — 

Yet  want  it  not — a  thousand  sweeter  far. 
If  ye  could  understand,  would  surely  teach  you, 

That  you  might  teach  your  children  ,what  ye  are : 
Made  only  to  be  loved  in  liberty — 

Fit  only  to  be  trodden  by  the  free ! 
The  peasant  maiden's  song,  in  timid  tone. 

Hath  floated  'midst  you  oft  on  eves  like  this  ; 
And  bolder  strains  have  burst  from  many  a  son, 

Who  knoweth  what  the  right  of  Nature  is : 
May  still  your  echoes  Freedom's  voice  prolong. 
Poured  in  a  glorious  song ! 


GO,  DIG  YE  A  TOMB! 

Go,  dig  ye  a  tomb!  for  the  joys  of  the  earth  are 

More  frail  than  the  vanity  foredoom'd  of  yore; 

Youth  has  nought  but  wild  passion,  and  middle  age  care. 

And  the  ripeness  of  years  is  a  fate  to  deplore : — 

Hot,  hot  and  evanishing  all  our  first  pleasures. 

Which  yield  to  the  struggle  of  life  and  its  gloom. 

And  then,  to  complete  what  the  earth  counts  its  treasures 

Come  the  pains  of  decline — oh  !  go,  dig  ye  a  tomb ! 

Go,  dig  ye  a  tomb  !  though  the  magic  of  loving 
Gives  to  earth  its  sole  gleam  of  a  transient  bliss. 
Though  a  moment  may  pass,  perfect  happiness  proving — 
'Tis  the  moment  the  kiss  lasts — it  dies  with  the  kiss. 
What  though  all  heaven  swells  in  the  bosom  you  cherish ; 
Though  no  Persian  rose  like  that  sigh's  fond  perfume ; 
That  bosom  so  beauteous  is  form'd  but  to  perish. 
And  that  sigh  to  a  groan  change* — Dig  ye  a  tomb  I 

Go,  dig  ye  a  tomb  !  but  be  honour'd  in  story. 
Let  the  trumpet  and  laurel  illustrate  your  fame  ; 
On  the  blood-streams  of  battle  establish  your  glory, 
And  bid  dying  gasps  your  high  triumphs  proclaim, — 
With  the  hurras  of  victory  mingling  proudly — 
Oh  !  how  the  soul  beats  in  its  poor  mortal  room ! 
But  the  hour  is  at  hand ;  let  it  rise  e'er  so  loudly, 
The  applause  is  unheard;  and  ye  sleep  in  the  tomb  ! 

Go,  dig  ye  a  tomb  !  yet  for  wealth  are  ye  panting? 
Have  ye  bound  the  dull  power  in  your  chains  as  a  slave, 
Till  luxury  pants  to  invent  what  is  wanting — 
Death  strikes, — can  ye  car'y  your  gold  to  the  grave  ? 
No!  youth,  age,  love,  glory,  and  wealth,  are  the  dreaming 
Of  idiot  dreams  that  our  short  span  consume; 
Existence  is  only  a  flash  hardly  gleaming 
On  thy  dark  edge,  eternity  !  Dig  ye  a  tomb  ! 

Anonymous. 


2» 


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HYMN  ON   THE  NATIVITY. 

INSCRIPTION    FOR    A  BATH. 

3 

When  Jesus,  by  the  Virgin  brought, — 

WHITEHEAD. 

(So  runs  the  law  of  Heaven), 

Was  offered  holy  to  the  Lord, 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  approach. — Has  medicine  failed? 

And  at  the  altar  given ; 

Have  balms  and  herbs  essayed  their  powers  in  vain  ? 

Simeon,  the  just  and  the  devout. 

Nor  the  free  air,  nor  fostering  sun  prevailed 

Who  frequent  in  the  fane 

To  raise  thy  drooping  strength,  or  soothe  thy  pain  ? 

Had  for  his  Saviour  waited  long, 

Yet  enter  here.     Nor  doubt  to  trust  thy  frame 
To  the  cold  bosom  of  this  lucid  lake. 

But  waited  still  in  vain ; 

Came  Heaven-directed,  at  the  hour 

Here  health  may  greet  thee,  and  life's  languid  flame 

When  Mary  held  her  son  ; 

Even  from  its  icy  grasp  new  vigour  take. 

He  stretched  forth  his  aged  arms, 

While  tears  of  gladness  run: 

What  soft  Ausonia's  genial  shores  deny. 

May  Zembla  give.     Then  boldly  trust  the  wave  ; 

.    With  holy  joy  upon  his  face 

So  shall  thy  grateful  tablet  hang  on  high. 

The  good  old  father  smiled. 

And  frequent  votaries  bless  this  healing  Cave. 

While  fondly  in  his  withered  arms 

He  clasped  the  promised  child. 

And  then  he  lifted  up  (o  Heaven 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

An  earnest,  asking  eye  : — 

'•  My  joy  is  full,  my  hour  is  come, 

As  the  sweet  flower  which  scents  the  morn, 

Lord,  let  thy  servant  die ! 

But  withers  in  the  rising  day ; 

"  At  last  my  arms  embrace  my  Lord, 
Now  let  their  vigour  cease ; 

Thus  lovely  was  my  Henry's  dawn. 

Thus  swiftly  led  his  life  away. 

At  last  my  eyes  my  Saviour  see. 

And  as  the  flower,  that  early  dies. 

Now  let  them  close  in  peace  ! 

Escapes  from  many  a  coming  woe, 

"  The  Star  and  Glory  of  the  land 

No  lustre  lends  to  guilty  eyes. 

Hath  now  begun  to  shine; 

Nor  blushes  on  a  guilty  brow  ; 

The  morning  that  shall  gild  the  globe 

Breaks  on  these  eyes  of  mine  !" 

So  the  sad  hour  that  took  my  boy. 

LOGAN. 

Perhaps  has  spared  some  heavier  doom ; 
Snatch'd  him  from  scenes  of  guilty  joy. 
Or  from  the  patgs  of  ill  to  come. 

TO  SUSANNAH, 

He  died  before  his  infant  soul 

ON     HER      B   I  R  T  H-D  A  Y. 

Had  ever  burnt  with  wrong  desires; 

From  the  Dutch. 

Had  ever  spurn'd  at  Heaven's  controul 
Or  ever  quencb'd  its  sacred  fires. 

Think  not  I  shall  deck  thy  hands 

With  a  silken  riband  gay 

He  died  to  sin,  he  died  to  care. 

On  thy  happy  natal  day ; 

But  for  a  moment  felt  the  rod ; 

For  I  know  thou  hat'st  the  bands, 

Then,  springing  on  the  viewless  air. 

Yes,  the  shew  of  slavery. 

Spread  his  light  wings,  and  soar'd  to  God. 

Nor  expect  a  wreath  from  me ; 

For  the  colours  on  thy  cheek 

This — the  blest  theme  that  cheers  my  voice, 

And  thy  breath  of  fragrance  (ne'er 

The  grave  is  not  my  darling's  prison ; 

Flowers  gave  forth  a  breath  so  fair!) 

The  "stone"  that  cover'd  half  my  joys 

Of  themselves  a  wreath  can  make. — 

Is  "  rolled  away,"  and  "he  is  risen." 

But  the  pure,  the  virtuous  truth 

Of  thy  undesembling  youth. 

E'en  far  better  garlands  owns — 

Virtues  are  the  noblest  crowns! 

\ 

•iJ 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON. 

Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar— for  'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 
Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 
By  Bonnivardl— May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God.— Br  eon. 

The  Castle  of  Chillon  can  never  be  viewed  without  ex- 
citing the  noblest  associations — those  to  which  liberty  and 
genius  give  birth.  The  names  of  Bonnivard  the  martyr  of 
freedom,  and  of  Byron,  her  martyr  and  her  laureate,  have 
consecrated  the  scene.  With  the  prisoner  of  Chillon  are 
connected  feelings  no  less  in  unison  with  the  writer's  early 
and  deplored  fate  than  with  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
scenery  around.  The  greatest  of  our  modern  poets  is 
known  to  have  passed  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  his 
brief  and  chequered  existence  in  the  vicinity  of  Chillon. 
Passionately  fond  of  sailing,  the  lake  afforded  him  the  full 
indulgence  of  this  taste,  combined  with  that  character  of 
scenery  he  from  a  boy  most  admired,  and  with  the  sort  of 
leisure  and  social  enjoyment  he  always  best  loved.  It  was 
here  he  first  formed  some  of  his  most  agreeable  connexions, 
in  particular  with  the  Shelleys,  and  several  distinguished 
strangers  and  foreigners,  whom  he  ever  afterwards  con- 
tinued to  esteem. 

In  this  retirement  too,  his  health  was  said  to  have 
rapidly  improved;  he  had  every  thing  around  him  calcula- 
ted to  give  scope  to  a  genius  like  his,  and  to  those  "fitful 
moods  and  fancies"  by  which  he  was  always  so  liable  to  be 
surprised.  He  had  here  even  formed  habits  of  regular 
study  and  exercise ;  he  had  solitude  and  society  at  his 
command;  and  his  mind  and  manners  evidently  partook 
of  the  beneficial  change.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  opinion  of 
those  who  there  knew  himin  the  zenith  of  his  genius,  when 
engaged  in  writing  the  third  and  fourth  Cantos  of  his 
'  Childe  Harold,'  and  that  admirable  embodying  of  "  the 
spirit  and  the  power"  of  captivity  in  his  "Prisoner  of 
Chillon." 

It  seems  to  have  been  his  object  in  this  exquisitely 
pathetic  and  beautiful  poem  to  analyse  the  nature  and  efi'ect 
of  solitary  confinement  on  the  human  mind.  He  makes  us 
feel  its  encroachments  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day,  upon 
the  victim's  heart:  w«  breathe  another  atmosphere;  "the 
common  sun,  the  air,  the  sky,"  become  eclipsed  from  our 
view,  as  if,  by  this  intense  and  fearful  vision,  the  enthusi- 
ast of  liberty  burned  to  hold  up  "  tyranny'  to  the  everlast- 
ing abhorrence  of  mankind. 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ' 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art. 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart. — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind, 


And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned— 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vaults  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom. 
And  freedoms  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

The  subject  was  doubtless  first  suggested  by  the  singu- 
larly wild  and  gloomy  yet  picturesque  appearance  of  the 
Castle  from  the  lake  on  approaching  near  the  town  of 
Villeneuve.  From  this  point  of  view  Lord  Byron  most 
frequently  must  have  beheld  it,  and  there,  probably,  he 
conceived  the  idea  of  investing  it  with  a  fame  that  will  en- 
dure when  not  a  stone  shall  be  left  uncovered  by  the 
surrounding  waters. 

The  style  of  architecture  which  the  castle  exhibits  is  that 
of  the  middle  ages :  its  aspect  is  gloomy  and  low,  and  there 
is  nothing  very  striking,  far  less  pleasing,  about  it,  when 
divested  of  its  surrounding  scenery  and  associations.      It  is, 
in  short,  a  strong,  low  fortress,  built  on  a  rock  emerging  out 
of  the  lake,  and  only  connected  with  the  shore  by  means  of 
a  drawbridge,  or  rather  platform,  for  the  accommodation  of 
its  visitors.     On  one  side  there  rises  to  view  the  delightful 
Clareus,  and  upon  the  other  is  seen  the  town  of  "Villeneuve. 
Not  far  from  the  latter  the  river  Rhone  pours  itself  into  the 
lake.      Almost  immediately   opposite   rise  the   rocks    of 
Meillerie,  a  name  too  celebrated,  perhaps,  in  the  romantic 
descriptions  of  Rousseau.     The  scene  of^his  well-known 
romance  is  there,  the  catastrophe  of  which  is  laid  at  a 
spot  nearly  adjoining  the  Castle.     Beneath  its  walls  are 
situated  the  dungeons,  excavated  in  the  solid  rock,  below 
the  level  of  the  waters.  In  these  were  buried  alive  numbers 
of  state  prisoners,    particularly  during  the  long  and  san- 
guinary conflicts  between  the  ancient  dukes  of  Savoy  and 
the  citizens  of  Geneva,,  the  latter  of   whom  were    often 
consigned  to  captivity.      The  cells  now  seen  there,  exten- 
sive as  they  appear,  were  once  filled  with  thes  e  victims  of 
political  strife.      In  one  part  is  placed  a  beam  of  oak, 
roughly  hewn  and  blackened  by  age,  formerly  used  as  a 
block  on  which  many  of  those  executions  so  disgraceful  to 
the  times,  and  for  which  this  Castle  was  so  remarkable, 
repeatedly  took  place. 

The  large  arched  vault  aoove  is  supported  by  seven 
pillars,  and  to  some  of  these  iron  rings  are  still  fastened, 
intended  for  the  purpose  of  restraining  the  wretched 
inmates  within  the  limits  allotted  to  them  by  their  gaolers. 
In  the  hard  pavement  are  left  many  traces  of  the  footsteps 
of  the  prisoners. 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod  :— 

and  doubtless  among  others  by  Francois  Bonnivard,  one 
of  the  boldest  and  most  persevering  assertors  of  Geneva's 
liberties,  imprisoned  there  for  a  space  of  six  years. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do— and  did  my  best-^ 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 


30 


The  two  younger  at  length  fell  victims:  the  free  spirit 
efthe  hunter  first  pines  within  him,  and  he  dies;  next  the 
youngest  and  most  loved.  The  passage  in  which  the  fate 
of  the  last  is  related  is  exquisitely  beautiful;  the  most 
masterly,  with  one  exception,  in  the  entire  poem. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  mart)  red  father's  dearest  thought. 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free : 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stork  away. 

Oh  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood. — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swol'n  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  sin,  delirious  with  its  dread; 

But  there  were  horrors,  this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such — but  sure,  and  slow; 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  fearless,  yet  so  tender — kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind. 

After  this  event  the  poet  supposed  Bonnivard  to  lose  all 
sense  of  his  sorrows  in  stupor  and  delirium.  When  again 
restored  to  a  consciousness  of  his  lot,  he  hears  near  him  the 
note  of  a  bird.  This  trivial  and  natural  little  incident, 
with  its  effect  upon  the  captive's  mind,  is  admirably  em- 
ployed to  heighten  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  picture. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; — 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 
The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track; 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  ot  the  sun, 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 


But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched  as  fond  as  tame. 

And  tamer  than  upon  ine  tree 
A  lovely  bird  with  azure  wings, 
A  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 
And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ' 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more; 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate. 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again. 
And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 
Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 
Sweet  bird ! — I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For, — Heaven  forgive  that  thought!  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile — 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  : 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  'twas  mortal — well  1  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
L  one  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone as  a  solitary  cloud. 

If  this  be  a  truly  poetical  and  correct,  no  less  than  an 
appalling  picture  of  the  sorrows  of  a  captive's  heart,  the 
following  will  be  found  equally  true  in  point  of  local  and 
descriptive  interest.  The  traveller  gazing  around  him 
from  the  walls  of  Chillon,  will  not  fail  to  recognize  the 
scenery  described  by  the  delighted  Bonnivard  when  he  is 
represented  as  obtaining  a  view  of  it  from  his  prison. 

But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 

Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


1  saw  them— and  they  were  the  same. 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousaud  years  of  snow 

On  high — their  wide,  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow  ; 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  chan  nel'd  rock  and  broken  bush; 

I  saw  the  white  walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down: 


31 


And  then  there  was  a  little  itie 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view : 

A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 

But  m  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 

And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 

Of  gentle  breadth  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 

And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 

Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly. 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 

I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 

The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  lieavy  load. — 

When  at  length  the  prisoner  is  set  free,  it  seems  to  him 
like  a  mockery  rather  than  a  blessing;  he  had  become 
familiar  even  with  the  reptile  inmates  of  his  den,  and  felt 
the  pressure  of  his  chain  like  the  hand  of  a  friend. 

My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends. 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  : — even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

In  making  Bonnivard  the  hero  of  his  poem.  Lord 
Byron  has  not  attempted  to  sketch,  with  correctness,  the 
history  or  the  character  of  the  patriot.  "  When  the  fore- 
going poem  was  composed,"  he  observes,  in  a  note  "  I  was  not 
suflSciently  aware  of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should 
have  endeavoured  to  dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt  to 
celebrate  his  courage  and  his  virtues. 


FoETiTUDE  is  the  fairest  blossom  that  springs  from  a 
noble  mind,  and  with  conscious  innocence  for  its  support, 
may  defy  the  wrongs  of  a  malignant  and  unjust  world,  to 
deprive  it  of  internal  peace. 


Sorrow  and  disappointment  humanize  the  mind ;  and  the 
only  lasting  and  true  pleasure  the  soul  can  feel  arises  from 
benevolent  actions. 


FORGIVENESS. 

BT    THE    BBVEBEND    DR.    CRABBB. 

"  But,  tell  me,  Ellis,  didst  thou  then  desire 
To  heap  upon  their  heads  those  coals  of  fire  ?'* 

"If  fire  to  melt — that  feeling  is  confest: 
If  fire  to  burn — I  let  that  question  rest. 
But  if  aught  more  the  sacred  words  imply, 
I  know  it  not;— no  commentator  I." 

"  Then  didst  thou  freely — from  thy  soul — forgive  ?" 

"  Sure,  as  I  trust  before  my  Judge  to  live; 

Sure,  as  I  trust  his  mercy  to  receive; 

Sure,  as  his  word  I  honour  and  believe  ; 

Sure,  as  the  Saviour  died  upon  the  tree 

For  all  that  sin — for  that  poor  wretch  and  me. 

Whom  never  more,  on  earth,  will  I  forsake  or  see  !" 


MEMENTO  MORI. 

We  start  to  see  our  neighbours  fall. 
And  feel  a  trembling  dread ; 

Yet  still  we  haste  at  pleasure's  call 
Unmindful  of  the  dead. 

Like  as  a  keel  that  parts  the  wave 

And  leaves  no  trace  behind. 
Eager,  tho'  God  the  warning  gave, 

We  chase  it  from  our  mind : 

Or  the  swift  arrow  sent  on  high. 

That  nu  imprassion  makes. 
The  soul  immers'd  in  sensual  joy. 

At  death  no  warning  takes. 

Oft  business,  noise,  and  empty  show. 

Concur  to  make  us  blind. 
If  we  are  sometimes  touch'd  with  woe. 

We  soon  a  lenient  find- 
Haste  to  the  tombs — learn  to  be  wise, 

And  bear  thou  home  this  line 
Inscrib'd  where  each  honest  rustic  lies,- 

The  next  grave  open'd  may  be  thine. 


A  King  may  confer  titles,  but  it  is  personal  merit,  and 
acknowledged  worth  alone,  that  gives  a  man  any  claim  to 
respect. 


32 


Z-iit^yT/y 


t>^«>^€?^^^?2« 


*&»'  tz^ifZa<X>^^ 


VIRGINIA. 

If  I  were  like  thee,  lovely  child, 

As  happy  and  as  gay, 
I  would  not  care  where  splendour  smilM, 

Nor  seek  ambition's  way. 

The  gather'd  flowers  that  round  thee  lie 

Are  still  in  sweets  array'd; 
But  mine  Vere  gather'd  but  to  die, 

And  only  bloom'd  to  fade. 

So  light  thy  fairy  footstep  bounds, 

It  scarce  awakes  the  air ; 
To  after  years  the  echo  sounds, 

To  tell  what  change  is  there. 

For  soon  the  honey  dews  are  past. 
That  life's  first  blossoms  fill : 

Ah  why,  when  pleasures  fade  so  fast. 
Should  sorrow  linger  still ! 


SOLITUDE. 

BY    JAMES    EDMISTON. 

Give  me  solitude  awhile. 

From  the  tumult  of  the  earth ; 

I  would  some  short  hours  beguile 
With  a  dream  of  higher  birth ; 

Thoughts  all  radiant  and  bright. 

As  the  seraph's  wings  of  light. 

On  this  bank,  where  forest- rose 
Weaves  a  shelter  from  the  heat,— 

Where  the  woodbine  round  it  grows, 
And  the  green  turf  forms  a  seat, 

Will  I  sit  and  sing  away 

This  so  cloudless  summer's  day  : 

* 

While  the  brook  beside  me  sounds. 
Gently  murmuring  along. 

And  the  deer  starts  up,  and  bounds, 
Waken'd  by  my  forest  song, — 

And  the  birds,  from  tree  to  tree, 

Make  their  wild  wood  minstrelsy. 

Ah !  methinks,  this  world  how  fair, 
Were  it  but  from  sin  refined  I 

Man  how  free  and  happy  there. 
Were  he  pure  as  God  is  kind ! 

But  the  breath  of  sin  has  past 

O'er  it  like  a  poison  blast. 


Lovely  still,  some  happy  hours 
Beam  between,  to  glad  us  here  ; 

And  these  forest-thicket  bowers 
Almost  void  of  ill  appear, 

Smiling  as  if  nought  had  been 

Here  to  mar  the  lovely  scene. 

Yet,  how  many  forms  of  harm, 

R'en  these  green-wood  coverts  bear! 

Well  the  deer  starts  with  alarm. 
Well  the  wild  bird  shuns  the  snare  ; 

And  within  the  flowery  brake 

Lurks  the  evil-venomed  snake. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

The  last  pale  gleam  of  day 

Had  pass'd  from  earth  away. 
And  waned  beyond  the  fountain  and  the  flood, — 

Where  o'er  the  field  of  fight. 

Fast  fading  into  night. 
The  sun  that  rose  in  beauty  set  in  blood. 

From  morn  to  noon  had  played 

The  ruthless  cannonade,— 
And  now  the  battle  field  was  lost  and  won ; 

Though  still  amid  the  gloom, 

Came  back  with  hollow  boom. 
The  rolling  thunder  of  the  '  random  gun.' 

Then  'mid  the  dim  night-fall, 

The  bugles  rung  recall, 
Deem'd  by  the  vengeful  victors  all  too  soon,— 

Who  saw  the  foe  retire 

Beneath  the  parting  fire 
Of  sullen  Tollies  pealing  by  platoon. 

The  moon  rose  round  and  red 

Above  the  plunder'd  dead, 
That  in  their  gory  wounds  all  shroudless  there 

Were  stiffening  seen  to  lie, 

With  faces  to  the  sky. 
All  wan  and  ghastly,  glimmering  in  her  glare. 

And  winds  were  loaded  then 

With  moans  of  dying  men. 
Mingled  with  wild  hoarse  voices  from  afar, 

Upon  the  ear  that  fell 

Like  chorus  sent  from  hell,— 
Curses,  and  shrieks  and  laughter, — such  is  war! 


33 


SENTIMENT 

It  is  the  fashion  in  this  philosophic  day  to  laugh  at 
Romance,  and  cut  all  acquaintance  with  sentiment;  but  I 
doubt  whether  these  same  philosophers  are  not  making 
themselves  '  too  wise  to  be  happy,'  Wordsworth  has  called 
'fancy  the  mother  of  deep  truth,'  and  perhaps  the  time  will 
come  when  the  learned  will  acknowledge  that  there  is  more 
philosophy  in  Romance,  than  their  sagacity  has  dreamed  of. 
Mysterious  aspirations  after  something  higher  and  holier — 
the  gladness  of  fancy  that  comes  upon  the  heart  in  the 
stillness  of  nature — impatience  under  the  tyranny  of  earth- 
born  passions — and  the  pure  and  joyous  light  of  truth, 
reflecting  its  own  innocei.t  brightness  on  a  corrupted  and 
selfish  world — all  these  belong  to  the  young  and  the 
romantic.  What  does  increase  of  years  and  knowledge 
teach  us?  It  teaches  us  to  seem  what  we  are  not — to  act 
as  if  the  world  were  what  we  know  it  is  not — and  to  be 
cautious  not  to  alarm  the  self-love  of  others,  lest  our  own 
should  be  wounded  in  return.  And  is  this  wisdom?  No. 
I  do  believe  the  young  mind,  that  has  not  reasoned  itself 
into  scepticism  and  coldness,  stands  nearer  heaven's  own 
light,  and  reflects  it  more  perfectly,  than  the  proud  ones 
who  laugh  at  its  intuitive  perceptions.  Do  not  all  the 
boasted  results  of  human  research  and  human  philosophy 
vary  in  different  ages,  climates,  situations,  and  circum- 
stauces?  Are  not  the  deep,  immutable,  and  sacred 
sympathies,  that  bind  mankind  in  the  golden  chain  of 
brotherhood,  instinctive  ?  Yes,  I  do  believe  the  influences 
of  a  better  world  are  around  youthful  purity,  teaching  it  a 
higher  and  more  infallible  morality  than  has  ever  been 
taught  by  worldly  experience.  Man  must  wander  from 
the  school  of  Nature  before  he  can  need  to  look  for  his 
duties  in  a  code  of  ethics. 

The  Egyptians  had  a  pleasant  fancy  with  regard  to  the 
soul.  They  thought  that  the  minds  of  men  were  once 
angelic  spirits,  who,  discontented  with  their  heavenly  home, 
had  passed  its  boundary,  drank  the  cup  of  oblivion  suspend- 
ed half-way  between  heaven  and  earth,  and  descended  to 
try  their  destiny  among  mortals.  Here,  reminiscences  of 
what  they  had  left  would  come  before  them  in  glances  and 
visions,  startling  memory  into  hope,  and  waking  experience 
into  prophecy.  Various  philosophers  have  supposed  that 
our  souls  have  passed,  and  will  yet  pass,  through  infinite 
modes  of  existence.  It  is  a  theory  I  love  to  think  upon. 
There  is  something  beautiful  in  the  idea  that  we  have  thus 
obtained  the  sudden  thoughts,  which  sometimes  flash  into 
life  at  the  touch  of  association,  fresh  as  if  newly  created, 
yet  familiar  as  if  they  had  always  slumbered  in  the  soul. 
How  the  beautiful  things  of  creation  arouse  a  crowd  of 
fitful  fancies  in  the  mind.  Is  not  the  restlessness  produced 
by  their  indistinct  loveliness  strangely  like  a  child's 
puzzled  remembrance  of  its  early  abandoned  home? 

But  all  this  is  not  to  the  point.     My  question  is,  not  how 


romantic  ideas  came  into  the  soul — but  whether  it  be  true 
wisdom  to  drive  them  thence  ? 

Observation  of  the  world  will  convince  us  that  it  is  not 
wise  to  expel  romantic  ideas,  but  simply  to  regulate  them. 
All  our  nicest  sympathies,  and  most  delicate  perceptions, 
have  a  tinge  of  what  the  world  calls  romance.  Let  earthly 
passions  breathe  upon  them,  or  experience  touch  them  with 
her  icy  finger,  and  they  flit  away  like  fairies  when  they 
hear  the  tread  of  a  human  foot.  There  are  those  who 
laugh  at  love,  imagination,  and  religion,  and  sneeringly 
call  them  '  dreams — all  dreams;'  but  the  proudest  of  them 
cannot  laugh  at  the  lover,  the  poet,  and  the  devotee, 
without  a  smothered  sigh  that  their  aerial  visitants  have 
gone  from  him  for  ever,  and  the  dark  mantle  of  wordly 
experience  fallen  so  heavily  over  their  remembered 
glories. 

It  is  wise  to  keep  something  of  romance,  though  not  too 
much.  Our  nature  is  an  union  of  extremes;  and  it  is  true 
philosophy  to  keep  them  balanced. 

To  let  the  imagination  sicken  with  love  of  ideal  beauty, 
till  it  pines  away  into  echo,  is  worse  than  folly;  but  to 
check  our  afflictions,  and  school  our  ideas,  till  thought  and 
feeling  reject  every  thing  they  cannot  see,  touch,  and 
handle,  certainly  is  not  wisdom. 

Do  not  send  reason  to  the  school  of  theory,  and  tien  bid 
her  give  a  distinct  outline  of  shadowy  fancies — she  will  but 
distort  what  she  cannot  comprehend.  Do  not  by  petulance 
and  sensuality,  frighten  away  the  tenderness  and  holy 
reverence  of  youthful  love — philosophy  may  teach  you  a 
lesson  of  resignation,  or  scorn,  but  your  heart  is  human, 
and  it  cannot  learn  it.  Do  not  reason  upon  religion  till  it 
becomes  lifeless ;  would  you  murder  and  dissect  the  oracle 
to  find  whence  the  voice  of  God  proceeds  ? 

Be,  then,  rational  enough  for  earth;  but  keep  enough  of 
romance  to  remind  us  of  heaven.  We  will  not  live  on 
unsubstantial  fairy-ground — but  we  will  let  the  beautiful 
troop  visit  us  without  being  scared  from  the  scene  of  their 
graceful  and  happy  gambols. 


Minds  must  assimulate,  and  be  capable  of  feeling  reci- 
procal pleasure  in  conversation,  to  convey  any  satisfaction 
to  either  party.  The  language  of  nature  speaks  more  to 
the  heart  than  to  the  understanding,  and  false  refinements 
make  us  prefer  the  artificial  to  the  natural,  because  custom 
and  education  has  made  it  more  congenial  to  our  feelings. 


The  best  way  to  prove  the  clearness  of  our  mind,  is  by 
shewing  its  faults;  as  when  a  stream  discovers  the  dirt  at 
the  bottom,  it  convinces  us  of  the  transparency  and  purity 
of  the  water. 


34 


AN  ELEGY, 

WEITTKN  IN  THB  ABBET  CHURCH,    EDINBURGH. 

Fled  from  the  mansions  of  the  great  and  gay, 
Where  idle  pleasure  wastes  her  fleeting  breath. 

Through  this  sad  cell  I'll  take  my  lonely  way, 
And  view  the  havoc  made  by  time  and  death. 

And,  as  I  enter,  let  no  swelling  rage, 

No  thoughts  impure,  my  pensive  bosom  load. 

But  sweet  religion  all  the  man  engage : 
For  this  was  once  the  sacred  house  of  God; 

Where  oft  Devotion,  with  her  pious  train. 

In  silent  contemplation  spent  her  days. 
Or  waked  to  ectasy  the  glowing  strain, 

With  grateful  accents  to  her  Maker's  praise. 

No  more  shall  youth  and  beauty  grace  the  shrine. 

Or  pious  sages  to  the  portals  throng; 
No  more  the  arch  shall  meet  the  voice  divine. 

Receive  the  sound,  or  echo  back  the  song. 

The  pride  and  glory  of  our  country  's  fled, 
The  great  supporters  of  the  nation's  laws. 

The  statesmen,  heroes,  and  the  kings  are  dead. 

Who  fought  through  fields  of  blood  in  freedom's  cause. 

Vast  heaps  of  kindred  here  bestrew  the  ground, 
And  skulls  and  coffins  to  my  view  arise; 

Here's  friend  and  foe  profusely  scatter'd  round, 
And  here  a  jaw,  and  there  a  thigh-bone,  lies. 

Perhaps  this  hand  has,  in  some  bloody  fray, 
With  lusty  sinews  grasp'd  the  flaming  brand, 

Fought  through  the  creadful  carnage  of  the  day, 
And  drove  Oppression  from  its  native  land. 

Yet  fame  and  honour  are  but  empty  things, 

The  fleeting  sunshine  of  uncertain  day; 
For  statesmen,  peasants,  beggars,  lords,  and  kings, 

All  fall  alike  to  cruel  Time  a  prey. 

Though  men,  mere  men,  may  unregarded  rot. 
And  buried  in  their  native  dust  consume, 

Shall  Scotland's  great  commander  be  forgot. 
And  moulder,  unregretted,  in  the  tomb  ? 

Will  no  kind  bard  in  grateful  numbers  sing 
The  mighty  wonders  of  each  heroe's  arm? 

Will  no  kind  friend  protect  a  clay-cold  king, 
Collect  his  bones,  and  keep  them  safe  from  harm  ? 


Would  some  sweet  muse  assist  me  in  the  song, 
I'd  dwell  with  rapture  on  the  glowing  strain. 

Roll  the  smooth  tide  of  harmony  along, 
Till  echo  undulate  applause  again. 

When  night's  dark  curtain  hid  the  beams  of  day 
From  these  sad  eyes,  my  soul  should  banish  sleep; 

Again  I'd  raise  the  sympathetic  lay. 

And  teach  the  sullen  monument  to  weep. 

Ye  sons  of  Scotland!  though  you  cannot  raise 
Your  long-lost  monarch  from  the  silent  bier. 

Their  deeds  are  worthy  of  the  highest  praise. 
And  simple  gratitude  demands  a  tear. 

For  you  they  bore  the  falchion  and  the  shield. 
For  you  each  piercing  winter  blast  they  stood, 

For  you  they  struggled  in  the  hostile  field, 
For  you  they  wither'd  in  their  crimson  blood. 

Let  no  base  slander  on  their  mem'ry  fall, 

Nor  malice  of  their  little  faults  complain  ; 
They  were  such  men,  as,  take  them  all  in  all, 

We  shall  not  look  upon  their  like  again! 

Here  lies  the  partner  of  the  heroe's  bed, 

Whose  every  feature  wore  unequall'd  grace : 

Can  Love's  soft  murmurs  raise  this  death-struck  head, 
Or  take  the  pale  complexion  from  the  face  ! 

Go  then,  ye  fair  !  exert  your  utmost  skill, 
Employ  each  art  to  keep  your  beauty  fast: 

Try  each  perfume,  use  paint,  do  what  you  will. 
Of  this  sad  colour  you  must  be  at  last. 

Ah,  me  !  how  melancholy  seem  these  walls. 

To  earth  returning  with  a  quick  decay  ! 
Take  heed,  O  man !  for,  as  each  atom  falls, 

So  wastes  thy  little  spark  of  life  away. 

O  thou,  my  soul,  from  worldly  vices  fly. 
And  follow  Innocence  where'er  she  strays ; 

See  with  what  ease  an  honest  man  can  die, 
None  but  the  wicked  wish  for  length  of  days. 

Charles  Salmon. 


Sceptics— A  man  may  be  allowed  to  doubt,  because  his 
powers  of  comprehension  are  extremely  limited;  but  surely 
a  man  ought  not  to  be  vain-glorious  of  his  doubting.  But 
sceptics  are  generally  proud  of  their  septicism ;  according 
to  the  old  story,  they  thank  God  for  their  ignorance,  and 
i'faith  they  have  generally  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for. 


35 


BISHOP'S  AUCKLAND  PALACE. 

This  most  princely  palace,  formerly  a  castle,  is  seated 
upon  a  hill  between  two  rivers,  and  has  been,  for  a  long 
period  of  time,  the  chosen  residence  of  the  bishops  of 
Durham.  Its  original  castellated  form,  erected,  it  is 
supposed,  by  Antoniusde  Beck,  is  entirely  lost.  According 
to  Lelaad,  •'  he  raised  a  great  haulle,  and  divers  pillars  of 
black  marble,  speckeled  with  white,  and  an  exceeding  faire 
gret  churche,  with  others  there.  He  made  also  an 
exceedingly  goodly  chappelle  of  ston,  well  squaiid,  and  a 
college  with  dene  and  prebends  in  it,  and  a  quadrant  on 
the  north-east  side  of  the  castelle  for  minisires  of  the 
college."  There  are  scarcely  any  remains  of  these — the 
quaint  description  of  the  writer  has  survived  them;  and 
now,  the  "  gret  haulle"  and  "  exceeding  faire  gret 
churche,"  have  been  leug  since  transformed,  or  rather  have 
made  way  for  one  of  the  most  splendid  episcopal  seats  in 
the  empire. 

Bishop's  Auckland  castle  more  nearly  approaches  to  the 
grand  and  magnificent  monasteries  which  we  find  on  the 
Continent  than  any  other  structure  of  the  same  kind  we 
have  seen  in  England.  It  is  an  irregular  pile,  built  at 
several  periods,  and  can  boast  of  no  very  great  antiquity ; 
indeed,  excepting  the  church,  there  are  no  remains  of  the 
labours  of  Antonius  de  Beck  ;  for  this  place,  having  been 
granted  by  parliament  to  that  furious  partizan.  Sir  Arthur 
Hazlerigg,  he  demolished  almost  the  whole  of  the  buildings 
there — prostrated  in  all  directions  the  fond  erections  of 
Beck's  architectural  fancy,  and  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time  converted  the  ruins  into  a  spacious  and  noble 
dwelling  for  himself.  A  like  fate,  however,  in  turn 
attended  Sir  Arthur's  Vitruvian  achievements. 

A  series  of  the  most  merciless  persecutions,  contrived 
and  excited  by  his  enemies,  had  produced  in  the  celebrated 
Dr.  Cousin,  Bishop  of  Durham,  an  aversion  even  to  touch 
or  look  upon,  much  more  to  possess,  any  thing  that  had 
belonged  to  or  had  been  associated  with  them.  He, 
therefore,  upon  his  appointment  to  the  bishopric,  resolved 
to  destroy  the  work  of  hands  which  had  been  dipped  in  the 
blood  of  the  martyr  Charles  I.,  and  soon,  in  his  excess  of 
piety,  accomplished  it.  The  bishop,  having  thus  pulled 
down,  restored  the  materials  to  their  original  character. 


IMAGINARY  ADDRESS  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Oh  !  bury  me  deep  in  the  boundless  sea — 
Let  my  heart  have  a  limitless  grave ; 

For  my  spirit  in  life  was  as  fierce  and  free 
As  the  course  of  the  tempest's  wave. 

And  as  far  from  the  reach  of  mortal  control 
Were  the  depths  of  my  fathomless  mind; 

And  the  ebbs  and  flows  of  my  single  soul 
Were  tides  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 


Then  my  briny  pall  shall  engirdle  the  world, 
As  in  life  did  the  voice  of  my  fame ; 

And  each  mutinous  billow  that  sky-ward  curl'd, 
Shall  to  fancy  re-echo  my  name. 

That  name  shall  be  storied  in  records  sublime, 
In  the  uttermost  corners  of  earth, 

And  renown'd  'till  the  wreck  of  expiring  time 
Be  the  glorified  land  of  my  birth. 

Yes  !  bury  my  heart  in  the  boundless  sea — 
It  would  burst  from  a  narrower  tomb, 

Should  less  than  an  ocean  my  sepulchre  be. 
Or  wrapp'd  in  less  horrible  gloom. 


THE  CYPRESS. 


Thou  graceful  tree. 
With  thy  green  branches  drooping. 
As  to  yon  blue  heaven  stooping, 
I   mek    humility. 

Like  one  who  patient  grieves. 

When  the  fierce  wind's  o'er  thee  sweeping. 

Thou  answerest  but  by  weeping. 

While  tear- like  fall  thy  green  leaves. 

When  summer  flowers  have  birth, 
And  the  sun  is  o'er  thee  shining, 
Yet  with  thy  slight  boughs  declining. 
Still  thou  seekest  the  earth. 

Thy  leaves  are  ever  green  : 
When  other  trees  are  changing. 
With  the  seasons  o'er  them  ranging; 
Thou  art  still  as  thou  hast  been. 

It  is  not  just  to  thee. 
For  painter  or  bard  to  borrow 
Thy  emblem  as  that  of  Sorrow; 
Thou  art  more  like  Piety. 

Thou  wert  made  to  wave. 
Patient  when  Winter  winds  rave  o'er  thee, 
Lowly  when  Summer  suns  restore  thee, 
On  some  martyr's  grave. 

Like  that  martyr  thou  hast  given 
A  lesson  of  faith  and  meekness, 
Of  patient  strength  in  thy  weakness. 
And  trust  in  Heaven  ! 


ae 


^ 

¥ 


-N  ■§ 


©    o 


4  i 


'o 


k 


AN  EVENING'S   AMUSEMENT. 

It  was  on  one  of  tnose  chilling  evenings  in  the  month  of 
October,  that  the  family  of  Sir  William  and  Lady  Dorville 
were,  from  the  somewhat  mournful  aspect  of  nature  at  that 
season  of  the  year,  particularly  in  the  country,  induced  to 
collect  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual  round  the  blazing 
hearth,  where  they  thought  no  better  amusement  could  be 
found  than  the  ancient  and  well-approved  one  of  story- 
telling, I  do  not  mean  the  practice  of  circulating 
abominable  slanders  against  one's  friends,  but  the  harmless 
and  good-natured  recreation  of  retailing  wonderful 
narratives.  Sir  William  immediately  proposed  that 
himself,  his  sons,  Augustus  and  William,  should  each  relate 
some  tale  founded  on  fact,  and  in  which  they  had  been 
either  directly  or  indirectly  interested — that,  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  each  narrative,  his  daughters,  Emma,  Julia,  and 
Marion,  should  repeat  some  lines  from  their  respective 
favourite  authors.  The  order  of  the  evening  being  thus 
agreed  upon,  Sir  William  commenced  the  following  story, 
perfacing  it  with  the  fact,  that  his  father,  mother,  and 
great  aunt,  formed  the  principal  characters  in  this  strange 
history. 

SINGULAR  INSTANCE  OF  SECOND  SIGHT. 

"  My  father  and  mother,  whom  I  will  designate  as  Sir 
Charles  and  Lady  Dorville,  had  lately  been  made  happy  in 
the  possession  of  each  other:  they  had  gone  from  the 
neighbouring  Scottish  border  to  spend  some  delightful 
weeks  as  the  guest  of  Lord  Roland.  A  few  days  after 
their  arrival.  Sir  Charles  was  persuaded  to  accompany 
Lord  Roland  on  a  visit  to  the  distant  mansion  of  a  neigh- 
bouring chieftain,  and  was  to  return  upon  the  following 
day.  That  period  arrived,  and  although  the  other  ladies 
were  well  aware  of  the  numerous  chances  which  the 
warmth  of  Highland  kindness  afforded  to  prevent  the 
departure  of  a  guest  on  the  appointed  day,  yet  the  restless 
emotion  which  Lady  Dorville  felt  in  her  own  bosom  was 
excited  by  her  husband's  absence :  she  guessed,  and  guessed 
rightly,  that  no  temptation,  however  powerful,  could 
operate  to  delay  his  return,  when  its  object  was  to  regain 
the  enjoyment  of  her  society.  She  therefore  continued 
still  to  expect  him,  after  every  one  else  had  abandoned 
all  hope  of  his  appearance.  She  started  at  every  sound, 
and  glanced  her  fine  eyes  hastily  to  the  door  at  every 
footstep,  nor  could  the  assurances  of  her  companions 
persuade  her  to  dismiss  her  anxiety,  or  convince  her  that 
it  was  not  now  at  all  probable  that  the  gentlemen  would 
arrive  that  night,  late  as.it  then  was;  but  that  it  was  more 
likely  thsy  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  remain  to  participate 
in  some  hunting  expedition,  projected  for  the  amusement 
of  the  stranger. 

"  There  was  another  personage,    a  guest  at  a  festive 


board  of  Lord  Roland,  on  whom  mirth  seemed  to  have 
little  effect;  its  beams,  which  shot  in  every  direction  from 
the  eyes  of  the  young  and  the  gay  around  her,  fell  on  her 
high  and  marble  features,  and  raven  eye,  like  those  of  the 
sun  on  the  dark  cavern  of  some  cheerless  and  sea-beaten 
crag,  engulfing,  rather  than  reflecting,  its  light.  This 
was  the  Lady  Assynt,  my  old  aunt:  she  added  but  little  to 
the  general  mirth,  for  ever  since  her  arrival,  she  had  sat  in 
the  midst  of  hilarity,  like  the  lonely  cormorant  on  its  rock, 
unmoved  and  regardless  of  the  playful  waves  that 
murmured  around  her.  Few  attempts  were  made  to  bring 
her  into  the  play  of  conversation,  and  even  those  few  were 
soon  silenced  by  chilling  monosyllabic  replies,  delivered  in 
a  lofty  and  repulsive  manner.  She  was,  therefore,  left 
undisturbed  to  the  full  possession  of  her  own  gloomy 
thoughts.  At  last  her  very  presence  seemed  to  be  almost 
forgotten,  or,  if  observed  at  all,  she  was  noticed  with  no 
other  interest  than  were  the  stiff  and  smoke-discoloured 
portraits  of  family  ancestry,  that  stared  in  sullen  and 
silent  majesty  from  the  deep  carved  pannels  of  the  ancient 
apartment  where  the  party  was  seated. 

"  The  good-humoured  jest,  and  the  merry  tale  went 
round,  and  the  laugh  of  youthful  joy  was  at  its  highest, — 
when  a  piercing  shriek  produced  a  sudden  and  death4ike 
silence,  and  directed  every  head  toward  the  Lady  Assynt, 
who  seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  violently  convulsed.  The 
effect  of  such  an  unlooked-for  interruption  to  the  general 
gaiety  may  be  easily  conceived.  The  ladies  arose  in 
confusion;  every  assistance  was  proffered;  and  numerous 
inquiries  were  made.  But  seeming  to  endeavour,  by  a 
desperate  effort,  to  summon  up  resolution  to  overcome  the 
sudden  nervous  malady  which  apparently  affected  her,  she 
put  back  both  the  kind  and  the  curious  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  and  haughtily  resumed  her  usual  dignified  and 
freezing  deportment,  without  deigning  to  give  any  expla- 
nation. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  the  company  was  restored  to 
its  composure ;  hilarity  had  hardly  begun  again  to  enliven 
it,  when  a  louder  and  yet  more  unearthly  shriek  again 
roused  their  alarm,  and  raised  them  from  their  seats  in  the 
utmost  consternation.  The  Lady  Assynt  now  presented  a 
spectacle  that  chilled  every  one.  The  same  convulsion 
seemed  to  have  recurred  with  redoubled  violence.  She 
started  up  in  its  paroxysm ;  and  her  uncommonly  tall  figure 
was  raised  to  its  full  height,  and  set  rigidly  against  the 
high  back  of  the  gothic  chair  in  which  she  had  been  seated, 
as  if  from  anxiety  to  retreat  as  far  as  its  confined  space 
would  allow,  from  some  horrible  spectacle  that  appalled 
her.  Her  arms  were  thrown  up  in  a  line  with  her  person  ; 
each  particular  bony  finger  was  widely  separated  from  its 
fellow ;  and  her  stretched  eyeballs  were  fixed  in  glassy  and 
motionless  unconsciousness.  She  seemed  for  a  time  to  lose 
all  sense  of  existence,  and,  though  in  an  upright  posture, 
to  have  been  suddenlv  struck  into  a  stiffened  corse.     By 


37 


degrees  she  began  to  writhe,  as  if  enduring  extreme  agony : 
her  lived  lips  moved  rapidly,  without  the  utterance  of 
sound;  until  finally  overcome  by  her  sufferings,  she  sank 
within  the  depth  of  the  antique  chair,  and  remained  for 
some  minutes  in  a  languid  and  abstracted  reverie.  The 
mingled  anxiety  and  curiosity  of  the  company  was 
unbounded;  numerous  and  loud  were  the  inquiries;  and  of 
the  inquirers,  Lady  Dorville,  who  seemed  instinctively  to 
apprehend  something  dreadful  connected  with  her  own  fate, 
was  the  most  earnestly  solicitous  of  all.  The  Lady  Assynt 
heeded  not  the  swarm  of  interrogatories  which  buzzed 
around  her.  She  looked  at  first  as  if  she  heard  them  not ; 
then  raised  herself  solemnly,  and  somewhat  austerely,  from 
the  reclining  position  into  which  she  had  dropped,  she 
spread  her  hands  before  her,  and  sweeping  them  slowly 
backwards  to  right  and  left,  she  divided  the  ring  of  females 
who  surrounded  her,  and  brought  Lady  Dorville  full  within 
the  range  of  her  vision.  At  first  she  started  involuntarily 
at  sight  of  her;  but  melancholy  and  pity  mingling 
themselves  amidst  the  sternness  of  features  to  which  such 
tender  emotions  seemed  to  have  been  long  strangers,  in  a 
deep  and  articulate  voice,  and  with  a  solemn  and  sibylline 
air,  she  slowly  addressed  her  niece,  whilst  profound  silence 
sat  upon  every  other  lip.  *  Let  the  voice  of  gladness  yield 
to  that  of  mourning  I  Cruel  is  the  blow  that  hangs  over 
thee,  poor  innocent  dove !  and  sad  is  it  for  me  to  tell  thee 
what  thou  art  but  too  anxious  to  know.  A  vision  crossed 
my  sight,  and  I  saw  a  little  boat,  in  which  were  thy  lord 
and  Lord  Roland:  it  was  tossed  by  a  sudden  and 
temptestuous  gust,  that  swept  the  dark  surface  of  the  loch 
in  a  whitening  line.  I  saw  the  waves  dashing  over  the 
frail  bark  ,•  and  sorely  did  the  two  Highlanders  who  rowed 
them  contend  with  their  oars  against  the  outrageous 
whirlwind.     I  hoped,    yet  shuddered,    from    fear    of   the 

event. Again  the  spirit  of  vision  opened  my  unwilling 

eyes,  and  compelled  me  to  behold  that  last  wave,  which 
whelmed  them  beneath  the  burst  of  its  tremendous  swell. 
The  land  was  near.  Stoutly  the  drowning  wretches 
struggled  with  their  fate.  I  saw  Lord  Roland  and  his 
sturdy  servants,  one  by  one,  reach  the  shore,  but ' 

"  'My  husband!'  shrieked  Lady  Dorville,  in  anguish, 
as  she  grasped  the  arm  of  the  seer.  '  Oh  !  tell  me  that  my 
husband  was  saved!' 

"  '  His  body,'  replied  the  Lady  Assynt,  in  a  lower  and 
more  melancholy  voice — '  his  body  was  driven  by  the 
merciless  waves  upon  the  yellow  beach:  the  moonbeam  fell 
upon  his  face,  but  the  spark  of  life  was  quenched.'  Lady 
Dorville's  death-like  grasp  was  relaxed,  but  she  swooned 
away  in  the  arms  of  those  who  surrounded  her.  The  Lady 
Assynt  regarded  her  not :  somewhat  of  her  former  convul- 
sion again  came  upon  her;  and  starting  up  in  a  frenzied 
manner,  she  exclaimed,  in  a  piercing  voice,  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable from  a  scream,  'And  now  they  bear  him 
hither  '.—See  how  pale  and  cold  he  looks — how  his  long 


hair  drips— how  ghastly  are  his  unclosed  eyes — how  blanch- 
ed those  lips  where  lately  sat  the  warm  smile  of  love  !* 
Then  sinking  again,  after  a  short  interval,  she  continued, 
in  a  more  subdued  tone,  '  He  is  gone  for  ever !  No  more 
shall  he  revisit  his  own  fair  halls  and  fertile  fields.  Yet  is 
not  all  hope  lost  with  him ;  for  his  son  shall  live  after  him, 
and  bring  back  anew  the  image  of  his  father.' 

"  The  ladies  were  now  buised  about  Lady  Dorville,  who 
lay  in  a  deep  faint.  All  seemed  to  be  as  much  interested 
in  her  as  if  the  events  described  in  the  waking  visions  of 
the  Lady  Assynt  had  already  actually  happened.  Ya*. 
every  one  affected  to  treat  her  words  as  the  idle  d^  niti  of 
a  distempered  brain ;  although,  in  the  very  \mk»  of  the 
different  speakers,  there  was  a  fear  betn.ytd,  that  ill- 
accorded  with  their  words,  manifesting  the  general  appre- 
hension that  something  tragical  was  to  be  dreaded.  At 
last  a  confused  noise  seemded  to  arise  from  the  under 
apartments  of  the  castle  ;  mutterings,  and  broken  senten- 
ces, and  half-suppressed  exclamations,  were  heard  on  the 
great  stairs  and  in  the  passages.  The  name  of  Sir  Charles 
was  frequently  repeated  by  different  voices.  The  more 
anxious  of  the  party  tried  to  gain  information  by  running 
to  the  windows.  The  flaring  lights  of  torches  were  seen 
to  hurry  across  the  court-yard,  where  all  seemed  to  be 
bustle  and  dismay.  And  then  it  was  that  the  doleful 
sound  of  the  bagpipe,  playing  a  sad  and  wailing  lament, 
came  upon  the  ear  from  without  the  castle-gate.  A  slow, 
heavy,  ana  measured  tramp  of  many  feet  upon  the  draw- 
bridge, told  that  a  party  of  men  were  bearing  some  heavy 
weight  across  it.  Unable  longer  to  submit  to  the  suspense 
in  which  they  were  held,  the  greater  part  of  the  females 
now  rushed  from  the  hall.  A  cry  of  horror  was  heard; 
and  the  mysterious  anticipations  of  the  gifted  Lady  Assynt 
were  found  to  be,  in  truth,  too  dreadfully  realized. 

"  Lord  Roland,  in  the  deepest  affliction,  told  the  sad  tale, 
with  all  its  circumstances.  Though  much  pressed  to 
remain.  Sir  Charles  had  resisted  all  the  kind  importunity 
of  their  host.  Their  homeward  way  lay  across  the  ferry 
of  The  sudden  squalls  affecting  such  inland  arms 

of  the  sea  are  too  well  known:  one  of  these  had  assailed 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  loch,  and  had  been  productive 
of  the  melancholy  catastrophe.  Nor  was  the  prophetic 
conclusion  of  the  seer's  vision  left  unaccomplished.  There 
was  no  suspicion  of  Lady  Dorville's  pregnancy  at  the  time  ; 
but  such  proved  to  be  the  case,  and,  according  to  the 
prediction,  the  child  was  a  son.  That  child,"  continued 
Sir  William,  addressing  his  children,  "  is  now  your 
father." 


After  the  ebullition  of  feeling  excited  by  the  relation  of 
the  foregoing  tale,  had  subsided,  Emma  repeated  the 
following  poem  from  the  German,  by  Lord  Francis  Leveson 
Gower:— 


38 


RESIGNATION. 


FROM  SCHItLER. 


I  TOO  was  born  Arcadia's  happy  child, 

And  nature  on  my  infant  years, 
In  pledge  of  many  a  future  blessing,  smiled: 
I  too  was  born  Arcadia's  happy  child, 

Yet  my  short  spring  has  left  me  nought  but  tears. 

The  May  of  life  but  once  for  man  may  bloom; 

For  me  its  bloom  is  o'er : 
Weep,  brethren,  weep !  the  deity  of  gloom 
Inverts  the  torch  he  ne'er  will  re-illume — 

The  vision  smiles  no  more. 

Thy  aid,  enfolded  in  thy  awful  veil. 

Dark  arbitress,  I  claim ! 
Of  thee  they  told  me  once  a  pious  tale, 
That  judgment  trembled  in  thy  blanched  scale-^ 

That  Retribution  was  thy  awful  name! 

E'en  now  the  arch  that  spans  thy  gloomy  reign, 

Eternity  I  press! 
Take  back  the  pledge  of  bliss  oestowed  in  vain, 
Take  the  false  record  unredeemed  again— 

I  know  no  happiness ! 

They  told  how  pain  awaits  the  evil  there, 

And  joys  the  virtuous  few — 
That  thou  would'st  lay  the  evil  bosom  bare. 
The  wondrous  riddle  of  my  life  declare, 

And  clear  th'  account  to  long  endurance  due. 

There,  as  they  told,  the  wanderer's  couch  was  spread- 
There  closed  the  sufferer's  thorny  path  of  pain: 
A  goddess  child,  whose  name  was  Truth,  they  said. 
Whom  few  embraced,  from  whom  the  many  fled. 
Hung  on  my  rapid  course,  and  checked  the  reign. 

"  I  will  repay  thee  in  a  future  state, 

"  Give  me  thy  youth  in  this : 
"  I  can  but  pledge  the  payment — sure,  though  late," 
I  took  the  pledge,  signed  for  a  future  state. 

And  gave  her  all  my  youth  aqd  all  its  bliss. 

Give  me  thine  own  I  the  loved  one  of  thy  heart! 

"  Thy  Laura  give!  thy  bride! 
"  With  interest  after  death  I  pay  the  smart." 
I  tore  her  bleeding  from  my  wounded  heart. 

And  wept  aloud,  and  gave  her  from  my  side. 

"  Thy  bond  must  be  exacted  from  the  dead," 

Thus  scoffed  the  world  at  me ; 
"  And  she  to  whom  thy  substance  now  is  fled, 
"  False  one,  has  given  a  shadow  in  its  stead — 

"  Its  term  expires,  when  thou  hast  ceased  to  be." 


Taunting,  they  told  me,  that  my  bliss  was  sold 

For  dreams,  which  old  prescriiition's  right  defends. 
What  can  those  agents,  who,  as  fables  old 
Pretend,  creation's  tottering  frame  uphold. 
Whom  man's  invention  to  his  misery  lends? 

They  talked  of  future,  by  the  tomb  conceal' d — 

Eternity,  thy  empty  boast  and  pride. 
What  are  they  ?     Honoured,  awful,  till  revealed — 
Fear's  giant  spectres,  in  the  concave  field 

Of  thy  false  mirror,  conscience,  magnified. 

"  A  mummy  form  emerging  from  the  tomb, 

"  To  cheat  mankind  and  lie ; 
"  By  hope's  balsamic  juice  through  years  of  gloom 
"  Preserved,  it  leaves  his  proper  catacomb, 

"  And  madmen  call  it  Immortality. 

"  For  hopes,  which  cold  corruption  stamps  for  lies, 

"  Thou  gav'st  thy  tried  and  certain  happiness; 
"  None  from  the  grave  have  yet  been  known  to  rise — 
"  Six  thousand  years  have  passed,  and  death  denies 
"  All  tidings  of  the  gloomy  Arbitress," 

To  other  regions  time  slow  winged  his  way. 

And  nature's  form,  which  bloomed  so  bright  before, 
Behind  his  path,  a  corpse,  all  blasted  lay; 
Yet  from  the  grave  none  rose  to  upper  day— 

I  still  believed  the  oath  the  goddess  swore. 

"  To  thee  my  joys  I  sacrificed  and  slayed, 

"  And,  goddess,  cast  me  now  before  thy  throne. 

•*  With  scorn  the  taunting  many's  scorn  I  paid ; 

"  Thy  gifts  alone  against  the  world  I  weighed, 
"  And  kneel  before  thee  now  to  ask  my  own. 

"  My  love  proclaims  each  child  of  earth  my  friend." 

A  viewless  Deity  exclaimed ; 
"  Two  flowers — my  children,  listen  and  attend— 
"  Two  flowers  reward  each  mortal  aid  and  end, 

"  Hope  and  Enjoyment  named. 

"  He  who  has  plucked  the  one  needs  not  to  gain, 

"  And  may  not  strive  to  pluck,  the  sister  flower : 
"  Taste  he  who  trusts  not ;  'tis  an  ancient  strain, 
"  Old  as  the  world,  let  him  who  trusts  refrain, 

"  The  world's  records  confirm  the  maxim's  power. 

"  Hope  has  been  thine:  thy  bliss  is  won  and  worn — 

"  Thy  Faith  thy  blessing — thy  Belief  thy  lot. 
"  Ask  all  the  wisest  men  of  women  born — 
"  What  from  the  passing  moment  has  been  torn 
"  Eternity  refunds  it  not." 


39 


It  now  became  Augustus's  turn  to  give  some  account  of 
his  travels:  he  had  but  lately  returned  from  Sweden,  where 
he  had  sojourned  for  nearly  two  years.  "  I  will,"  observed 
Augustus,  "  narrate  to  you  the  manner  in  which  the 
festival  of  Christmas  is  celebrated  in  Sweden,  and  conclude 
my  part  in  the  evening's  amusement  with  some  anecdotes 
of  the  wolves,  which  came  within  my  own  observation." 

FESTIVITIES  OF  CHRISTMAS  IN  SWEDEN. 

"  The  last  Christmas  I  spent  at  Wildeholm,  where, 
early  in  December,  great  preparations  were  making  by  all 
classes  to  celebrate  the  solemn  festival  of  Christmas,  The 
floors  of  the  rooms,  belonging  to  the  rich  as  well  as  the 
poor,  after  undergoing  a  through  purification,  were  littered 
with  straw,  in  commemoration  of  the  birth  of  our  Saviour 
in  a  stable.  Like  with  us  in  England  at  this  season,  every 
good  that  can  pamper  the  appetite,  as  far  as  means  will 
allow,  is  likewise  put  into  requisition.  Amidst  all  their 
preparations  for  their  own  gratification  the  peasants  do  not 
forget  the  inferior  order  of  the  creation.  In  fact,  it  is 
almost  an  universal  custom  among  them  to  expose  a  sheaf 
of  unthrashed  corn  on  a  pole  in  the  vicinity  of  their 
dwellings,  for  the  poor  sparrows  and  other  birds,  which  at 
this  inclement  period  of  the  year,  are  in  a  state  of  actual 
starvation.  The  reason  alleged  by  these  kind-hearted 
people  for  performing  this  act  of  beneficence  is,  that  all 
creatures  should  be  made  to  rejoice  on  the  anniversary  of 
Christ's  coming  among  us  mortals. 

"  Christmas  Eve  I  had  the  pleasure  of  spending  at  the 
residence  of  Mrs.  Geijert.  Near  the  conclusion  of  the 
supper,  two  figures,  masked  and  attired  in  the  most  gro- 
tesque habiliments,  entered  the  room — one  carrying  a  bell, 
the  other  a  large  basket;  this  latter  contained  a  great 
variety  of  presents,  destined  for  the  different  branches  of 
the  family  and  guests.  To  many  of  these  presents  some 
amusing  little  scrap  of  prose  or  verse  was  appended,  the 
reading  of  which  occasionally  created  no  little  merriment 
among  the  assembled  party.  The  donors  do  not  attach 
their  names  to  the  presents,  but  in  most  instances  a 
tolerably  shrewd  giiess  is  intertained  from  whom  they  come. 
This  merry  and  hearty  sociality  of  the  time,  as  observed 
here  and,  I  understand,  all  over  Sweden,  will  remind  you 
of  what  you  have  read  of  our  old  English  Christmas 
celebrations,  when  feasting  alone  was  not  considered 
sufficient,  without  an  interchange  of  the  kindness  of  the 
heart.  Alas!  the  over-refinement  of  England  now  has 
degraded  this  genial  custom  into  the  sordid  Christmas-box 
given  to  menials.  In  fact,  throughout  Sweden,  the  hearty 
though  homely  manner  in  which  this  season  is  celebrated, 
is  the  admiration  of  all  foreigners. 

"  On  Christmas  Day  I  attended  divine  service,  which 
commenced  at  six  in  the  morning.  As  it  was  nearly  three 
hours  before  the  sun  was  above  the  horizon,  candles   were 


made  use  of.  In  spite,  however,  of  the  earliness  of  the 
hour,  the  church  was  crowded  to  excess.  Near  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  service,  and  after  some  observations 
apposite  to  the  occasion,  the  clergyman  read  from  a  paper, 
entitled  Personalia,  the  names  of  those  persons  who  had 
recently  died  within  the  parish.  This  contained  also  many 
particulars  relating  to  the  birth,  parentage,  &c.  of  each  of 
the  deceased  individuals.  He  then  expatiated  on  their  good 
or  bad  deeds  upon  earth,  and  concluded  with  some  remarks 
on  the  uncertainty  of  life,  or  other  reflections  of  a  similarly 
impressive  nature.  The  Personalia,  which  I  happened  to 
hear,  and  which  I  ha  /e  in  my  possession,  I  wiU  here  read 
to  you. 

"  '  There  is  but  one  step  between  me  and  death,'*  said  a 
man,  whose  life  was  at  that  time  in  imminent  danger;  and 
every-day  experience  shows  the  truth  of  this  saying.  If 
we  always  thought  and  saw  how  near  death  was  to  us — how 
near  he  follows  our  steps — how  soon  he  comes  up  with  us — 
then  we  should  tread  the  uncertain  path  of  life  with  more 
caution,  and  count  the  passing  moments,  and  contemplate 
with  awe  his  inevitable  coming.  Of  what  immense 
importance  is  this  step !  We  must  all  take  it,  and  how 
soon  it  is  taken  !  In  one  moment  we  are  snatched  from 
the  theatre  of  life,  on  which  we  appeared  as  passing 
shadows !  What  a  difference  between  the  light  of  day  and 
the  darkness  of  night — the  warmth  of  life  and  the  chill  of 
death — the  animating  feeling  of  existence,  and  the  moulder- 
ing grave  I 

"We  have  now  before  us  a  melancholy  instance  of  the 
uncertainty  of  human  life.  A  young  man,  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  health  and  vigour,  is  in  a 
few  moments  bereft  of  existence — lifeless!  What  an 
example  does  that  corpse  exhibit  to  us  !  What  does  it  say 
to  us,  though  dumb  ?  What  I  have  just  said,  '  There  is 
only  one  step  between  me  and  death.' 

"  He  that  has  now  taken  this  last  earthly  step,  and 
whose  remains  we  have  this  day  consigned  to  the  grave, 
was  Olof  Carlsson,  from  Bu-torp,  eldest  son  of  Carl 
Dicksson,  and  his  wife  Christina.  He  was  born  the  22nd. 
of  October,  1810,  and  was  drowned  in  the  river  Uf,  the 
thirtieth  of  last  month,  being  then  in  the  eighteenth  year 
of  his  age.  This  unlooked-for  event  is  to  be  deeply 
lamented  for  many  reasons. 

"  All  participate  in  your  sorrows,  disconsolate  parents  ! 
You  are  advanced  in  years.  Heavy  will  be  the  afflictions 
of  your  old  age,  now  that  they  can  no  longer  be  lightened 
by  the  hand  of  your  child.  You  had  without  doubt  fondly 
anticipated  that  he  would  have  been  the  prop  of  your 
declining  years,  when  you  were  tottering  on  the  brink  of 
the  grave,  and  have  rendered  you  the  last  sad  offices  by 
closing  your  eyes. 

*  1  Samuel,  zx.  3, 


40 


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"  For  many  reasous  the  departed  has  made  himself 
worthy  of  our  regrets.  One  of  the  sublimest,  and,  alas! 
unusual  epitaphs  of  our  days  which  we  can  inscribe  to  his 
memory  as  an  example  for  the  present  and  future  genera- 
tion, is,  that  he  was  never  known  to  take  the  Lord's  name 
in  vain.  For  this  he  deserves  our  unqualified  praise,  that 
sin  being  unhappily  so  prevalent.  According  to  the  con- 
current testimony  of  every  one,  the  life  of  the  deceased,  in 
other  respects,  was  irreproachable.  He  was  always  to  be 
seen  near  his  aged  parents.  The  evening  of  the  day  may 
be  different  from  the  morning.  Every  one  knows  in  what 
short  space  of  time  this  unhappy  occurrence  took  place. 
Thus  hastily  was  the  prop  of  your  old  age,  and  the  good 
example  for  youth,  hurried  into  another  life. — But  you 
sigh  heavily  !  Do  you  think  he  is  gone  for  ever  ?  I  will 
pour  balsam  into  your  bleeding  heart ;  the  departed  live, 
and  we  become  immortal  through  death.  He  is  only  gone 
a  little  while  before  you.  When  you  have  finished  your 
course  on  earth,  you  will  find  him  in  the  blessed  abodes  of 
eternity.  And  time  flies  so  fast,  that  perhaps  in  a  few 
moments  some  of  us  will  be  reckoned  among  the  dead." 


"  Having  given  you  this  account  of  the  mode  of  celebra- 
ting Christmas,  I  will  now  relate  to  you  the  particulars  of  a 
wolf-shooting  excursion  in  which  I  was  myself  a  party; 
and  also  a  circumstance  showing  the  savage  nature  of  the 
wolf. 

WOLF-SHOOTING. 

"  In  company  with  a  friend  of  mine,  a  Captain  Norde- 
nalder,  together  with  several  companions,  we  started  off 
during  a  very  severe  froston  an  expedition  of  wolf-shooting. 
These  voracious  animals  being  very  partial  to  pigs,  we 
caused  one  of  a  small  size  to  be  sewed  up  in  a  sack,  with 
the  exception  of  his  snout.  We  provided  ourselves  with  a 
large  sledge,  such  as  are  used  in  Sweden  to  convey  coke  to 
the  furnaces,  a  pig,  and  an  ample  supply  of  guns,  ammuni- 
tion, &c.  We  drove  on  to  a  great  piece  of  water  which 
was  then  frozen  over,  in  the  vicinity  of  Forsbacka,  and  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  town  of  Gefle.  Here  we  began 
to  pinch  the  ears,  &c.  of  the  pig,  who,  of  course,  squeaked 
out  tremendously. 

*'  This,  as  we  anticipated,  soon  drew  a  multitude  of 
famished  wolves  about  our  sledge.  When  these  had 
approached  within  range,  we  opened  a  fire  upon  them,  and 
destroyed  or  mutilated  several  of  the  number.  All  the 
animals  that  were  either  killed  or  wounded  were  quickly 
torn  to  pieces  and  devoured  by  their  companions.  This, 
as  I  understand,  is  invariably  the  case,  if  there  be  many 
congregated  together. 

"  The  blood  with  which  the  ravenous  beasts  had  now 
glutted  themselves,  instead  of  satiating  their  hunger,  only 


served  to  make  them  more  savage  and  ferocious  than 
before  ;  for,  in  spite  of  the  fire  we  kept  up,  they  advanced 
close  to  the  sledge,  with  the  apparent  intention  of  making 
an  instant  attack.  To  preserve  our  lives,  therefore,  the 
Captain  threw  the  pig  on  to  the  ice ;  this,  which  was  quick- 
ly devoured  by  the  MldIvcs,  had  the  effect,  for  the  moment, 
of  diverting  their  fury  to  another  object. 

"  Whilst  this  was  going  forward,  our  horse,  driven  to 
desperation  by  the  near  approach  of  the  ferocious  animals, 
struggled  and  plunged  so  violently,  that  he  broke  the 
shafts  to  pieces  :  being  thus  disengaged  from  the  vehicle, 
the  poor  animal  galloped  off,  and  succeeded  in  making  good 
his  escape. 

"  When  the  pig  was  devoured,  which  was  probably 
hardly  the  work  of  a  minute,  the  wolves  again  threatened 
to  attack  our  party  ;  and  as  the  destruction  of  a  few  out  of 
so  immense  a  drove  as  was  then  assembled,  only  served  to 
render  the  survivors  more  blood-thirsty,  the  Captain  now 
proposed  our  turning  the  sledge  bottom  up,  and  thus  take 
refuge  beneath  its  friendly  shelter. 

"  In  this  situation  we  remained  for  many  hours,  the 
wolves  in  that  while  making  repeated  attempts  to  get  at  us, 
by  tearing  the  sledge  with  their  teeth.  At  length,  however, 
assistance  arrived,  and  we  were  then,  to  the  great  joy  of  all 
the  party,  relieved  from  our  most  perilous  situation. 


"  I  will  now  conclude  with  the  following  interesting 
story  of  the  savage  nature  of  the  wolf. 

A  WOMAN  ATTACKED  BY  WOLVES. 

"  A  woman  accompanied  by  three  of  her  children,  were 
one  day  in  a  sledge,  when  they  were  pursued  by  a  number 
of  wolves.  On  this,  she  put  the  horse  into  a  gallop,  and 
drove  towards  her  home,  from  which  she  was  not  far  distant, 
with  all  possible  speed.  All,  however,  would  not  avail,  for 
the  ferocious  animals  gained  upon  her,  and  at  last  were  on 
the  point  of  rushing  on  the  sledge.  For  the  preservation  of 
her  own  life  and  that  of  her  children,  the  poor  frantic 
creature  now  took  one  of  her  babes,  and  cast  it  a  prey  to 
her  blood-thirsty  pursuers.  This  stopped  their  career  for  a 
moment;  but,  after  devouring  the  little  innocent,  they 
renewed  the  pursuit,  and  a  second  time  came  up  with  the 
vehicle.  The  mother,  driven  to  desperation,  resorted  to  the 
same  horrible  expedient,  and  threw  her  ferocious  assailant 
another  of  her  offspring.  To  cut  short  this  melancholy 
story,  her  third  child  was  sacrificed  in  a  similar  manner. 

"  Soon  after  this,  the  wretched  being,  whose  feelings 
may  more  easily  be  conceived  than  described,  reached  her 
home  in  safety.  Here  she  related  what  had  happened,  and 
endeavoured  to  palliate  her  own  conduct,  by  describing  the 
dreadful  alternative  to  which  she  had  been   reduced.     A 


4i 


peasaut,  however,  who  was  among  the  bystanders,  and 
heard  the  recital,  took  up  an  axe,  and  with  one  blow  cleft 
her  skull  in  two  ;  saying,  at  the  same  time,  that  a  mother 
who  could  thus  sacrifice  her  children  for  the  preservation  of 
her  own  life,  was  no  longer  fit  to  live. 

"  This  man  was  committed  to  prison,  but  subsequently 
received  his  pardon." 


Augustus  having  finished,  Julia  immediately  recited  the 
two  following  pieces — the  first  from  the  works  of  Charles 
Lamb,  and  the  second  from  the  German. 

SABBATH  BELLS. 

"  The  cheerful  Sabbath  bells,  wherever  heard, 

Strike  pleasant  on  the  sense,  most  like  the  voice 

Of  one,  who  from  the  far-off  hills  proclaims 

Tidings  of  good  to  Zion  •  chiefly  when 

Their  piercing  tones  fall  sudden  ou  the  ear 

Of  the  contemplant,  solitary  man, 

Whom  thoughts  abstruse  or  high  have  chanced  to  lure 

Forth  from  the  walks  of  man,  revolving  oft, 

And  oft  again,  hard  matter,  which  eludes 

And  baffles  his  pursuit — thought-sick  and  tired 

Of  controversy,  where  no  end  appears. 

No  clue  to  his  research,  the  lonely  man 

Half  wishes  for  society  again. 

Him,  thus  engaged,  the  sabbath  bells  salute 

Sudden  !  his  heart  awakes,  his  ears  drink  ia 

The  cheering  music ;  his  relenting  soul 

Yearns  after  all  the  joys  of  social  life, 

And  softens  with  the  love  of  human  kind. 

OUR     JOYS. 

FROM    GOETHE. 

"  There  fluttered  round  the  spring 
A  fly  of  filmy  wing, 

Libella,  lightly  ranging , 
Long  had  she  pleased  my  sight, 
From  dark  to  lovely  bright, 

Like  the  cameleon,  changing : 
Red,  blue,  and  green, 
Soon  lost  as  seen — 
Oh  1  that  I  had  her  near,  and  knew 
Her  real  changeless  hue! 

She  flutters  and  floats — and  will  for  ever — 

But  hold — on  the  willow  she'll  light — 

There,  there,  I  have  her !  I  have  her  ! 

And  now  for  a  nearer  sight — 

I  look — and  see  a  sad  dark  blue  ; 

Thus,  Analyst  of  Joy,  it  fares  with  you." 


Captain  William  Dorville,  (who  was  at  the  taking  ol 
Torres  Vedras  during  the  late  war,)  now  commenced  his 
story. 

HOSPITAL  SCENE  IN  PORTUGAL. 

"  I  will  give  you,"  said  he,  "  some  idea  of  a  scene  I 
witnessed  at  Miranda  do  Cervo,  on  the  ninth  day  of  our 
pursuit  of  the  enemy.  Yet  I  fear  that  a  sight  so  terrible 
cannot  be  shadowed  out,  except  in  the  memory  of  him  who 
beheld  it. 

"  I  entered  the  town  about  dusk.  It  had  been  a  black, 
grim,  and  gloomy  sort  of  a  day — at  one  time  fierce  blasts 
of  winds,  and  at  another  perfect  stillness,  with  far-off 
thunder.  Altogether  there  was  a  wild  adaptation  of  the 
weather  and  the  day  to  the  retreat  of  a  great  army.  Huge 
masses  of  clouds  lay  motionless  on  the  sky  before  us;  and 
then  they  would  bre^k-up  suddenly,  as  with  a  whirlwind, 
and  roll  off  in  the  red  and  bloody  distance.  I  felt  myself, 
towards  the  fall  of  the  evening,  in  a  state  of  strange  excite- 
ment. My  imagination  got  the  better  entirely  of  all  my 
other  faculties,  and  I  was  like  a  man  in  a  grand  but  terrific 
dream,  who  never  thinks  of  questioning  anything  he  sees 
or  hears,  but  believes  all  the  phantasms  around  with  a 
strength  of  belief  seemingly  proportioned  to  their  utter 
dissimilarity  to  the  objects  of  the  real  world  of  nature. 

"  Just  as  I  was  passing  the  great  cross  in  the  principal 
street,  I  met  an  old,  haggard-looking  wretch — a  woman, 
who  seemed  to  have  in  her  hollow  eyes  an  unaccountable 
expression  of  cruelty — a  glance  like  that  of  madness  ;  but 
her  deportment  was  quiet  and  rational,  and  she  was 
evidently  of  the  middle  rank  of  society,  though  her  dress 
was  faded  and  squalid.  She  told  me  (without  being 
questioned,)  in  broken  English,  that  I  would  find  comfort- 
able accommodation  in  an  old  convent  that  stood  at  some 
distance  among  a  grove  of  cork  trees ;  pointing  to  them  at 
the  same  time,  with  her  long  shrivelled  hand  and  arm,  and 
giving  a  sort  of  hysterical  laugh.  You  will  find,  said  she, 
nothing  there  to  disturb  you. 

"  I  followed  her  advice  with  a  kind  of  superstitious 
acquiescence.  There  was  no  reason  to  anticipate  any 
adventure  or  danger  in  the  convent ;  yet  the  wild  eyes,  and 
the  wilder  voice  of  the  old  crone  powerfully  affected  me ; 
and  though,  after  all,  she  was  only  such  an  old  woman  as 
one  may  see  any  where,  I  really  began  to  invest  her  with 
many  most  imposing  qualities,  till  I  found,  that,  in  a  sort 
of  reverie,  I  had  walked  up  a  pretty  long  flight  of  steps, 
and  was  standing  at  the  entrance  to  the  cloisters  of  the 
convent.  I  then  saw  something  that  made  me  speedily 
forget  the  old  woman,  though  what  it  was  I  did  see,  I  could 
not,  in  the  first  moments  of  my  amazement  and  horror, 
very  distinctly  comprehend. 

"  Above  a  hundred  dead  bodies  lay  and  sat  before  ncy 
eyes,  all  of  them  apparently  in  the  very  attitude  or  posture 


42 


in  which  they  had  died.  I  looked  at  them  for  at  least  a 
minute,  before  I  knew  that  they  were  all  corpses.  Some- 
thing in  the  mortal  silence  of  the  place  told  me  that  I 
alone  was  alive  in  this  dreadful  company.  A  desperate 
courage  enabled  me  then  to  look  steadfastly  at  the  scene 
before  me.  The  bodies  were  mostly  clothed  in  mats,  and 
rugs,  and  tattered  great-coats;  some  of  them  merely  wrap- 
ped round  about  with  girdles  of  straw;  and  two  or  three 
perfectly  naked.  Every  face  had  a  different  expression, 
but  all  painful,  horrid,  agonized,  bloodless.  Many  glazed 
eyes  were  wide  open ;  and  perhaps  this  was  the  most 
shocking  thing  in  the  whole  spectacle.  So  many  eyes  that 
saw  not,  all  seemingly  fixed  upon  different  objects:  some 
cast  up  to  heaven,  some  looking  straight-forward,  and  some 
with  the  white  orbs  turned  round,  and  deep  sunk  in  the 
sockets. 

"  It  was  a  sort  of  hospital.  These  wretched  beings  were 
mostly  all  desperately  or  mortally  wounded;  and  after 
having  been  stripped  by  their  comrades,  they  had  been 
left  there  dead  and  to  die.  Such  were  they,  who,  as  the 
old  hag  said,  would  not  trouble  me. 

"  I  had  begun  to  view  this  ghastly  sight  with  some  com- 
posure, when  I  saw,  at  the  remotest  pari  of  the  hospital,  a 
gigantic  figure  sitting,  covered  with  blood  and  almost 
naked,  upon  a  rude  bedstead,  with  his  back  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  his  eyes  -fixed  directly  on  mine.  I 
thought  he  was  alive  and  shuddered ;  but  he  was  stone 
dead.  In  the  last  agonies  he  had  bitten  his  under  lip 
almost  entirely  off,  and  his  long  black  beard  was  drench- 
ed in  clotted  gore,  that  likewise  lay  in  large  blots  on  his 
shaggy  bosom.  One  of  his  hands  had  convulsively  grasp- 
ed the  wood-work  of  the  bedstead,  which  had  been  crushed 
in  the  grasp.  I  recognised  the  corpse.  He  was  a  sergeant 
in  a  grenadier  regiment,  and,  during  the  retreat,  distin- 
guished for  acts  of  savage  valour.  One  day  he  killed,  with 
his  own  hand,  Harry  Warburton,  the  right-hand  man  of 
my  own  company,  perhaps  the  finest  made  and  most  power- 
ful man  in  the  British  army.  My  soldiers  had  nicknamed 
him  with  a  very  coarse  appellation,  and  I  really  felt  as  if 
he  and  I  were  acquaintances.  There  he  sat,  as  if  frozen  to 
death.  1  went  up  to  the  body,  and  raising  up  the  giant's 
musculai  arm,  it  fell  down  again  with  a  hollow  sound 
against  the  bloody  side  of  the  corpse. 

"  My  eyes  unconsciously  wandered  along  the  walls. 
They  were  covered  with  grotesque  figures  and  caricatures 
of  the  English,  absolutely  drawn  in  blood.  Horrid  blas- 
ohemies,  and  the  most  shocking  obscenities  in  the  shape  of 
socgs,  were  in  like  manner  written  there ;  and  you  may 
guess  what  an  effect  they  had  upon  me,  when  the  wretches 
who  had  conceived  them  lay  all  dead  corpses  around  my 
feet.  I  saw  two  books  lying  on  the  floor.  I  lifted  them 
up.  One  seemed  to  be  full  of  the  most  hideous  obscenity, 
the  other  was  the  Bible  !  It  is  impossible  to  tell  you  the 
hovror  produced  in  me  by  this  circumstance.      The  books 


fell  from  my  hand.  They  fell  upon  the  breast  of  one  of  the 
bodies.  It  was  a  woman's  breast.  A  woman  had  lived 
and  died  in  such  a  place  as  this  !  What  had  been  in  that 
heart,  now  still,  perhaps  only  a  few  hours  before !  I 
knew  not.  It  is  possible,  love  strong  as  death, — love, 
guilty,  abandoned,  depraved,  and  linked  by  vice  unto 
misery, — but  still  love,  that  perished  but  with  the  last 
throb,  and  yearned  in  the  last  convulsion  towards  some 
one  of  these  grim  dead  bodies.  I  think  some  such  idea 
as  this  came  across  me  at  the  time ;  or  has  it  now  only 
arisen  ? 

"  Near  this  corpse  lay  that  of  a  perfect  boy,  certainly 
not  more  than  seventeen  years  of  age.  There  was  a  little 
copper  figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary  round  his  neck,  suspen- 
ded by  a  chain  of  hair.  It  was  of  little  value,  else  it  had 
not  been  suffered  to  remain  there.  In  his  hand  was  a 
letter.  I  saw  enough  to  know  that  it  was  from  his 
mother — Mon  chere  fila,  &c.  It  was  a  terrible  place  to 
think  of  mother— of  home — of  any  social  human  ties. 
Have  these  ghastly  things  parents, brothers,  sisters,  lovers? 
Were  they  once  all  happy  in  peaceful  homes  ?  Did  these 
convulsed,  and  bloody,  and  mangled  bodies  once  lie  in  un- 
disturbed beds  ?  Did  those  clutched  hands  once  press  in 
infancy  a  mother's  breast  ?  Now  all  was  loathsome, 
terrible,  ghostlike.  Human  nature  itself  seemed  here  to 
be  debased  and  brutified.  Will  such  creatures,  I  thought, 
ever  live  again  ?  Why  should  they  ?  Robbers,  ravishers, 
incendiaries,  murderers,  suicides  (for  a  dragoon  lay  with  a 
a  pistol  in  his  hand,  and  his  skull  shattered  to  pieces), 
heroes !  The  only  two  powers  that  reigned  here,  were 
agony  and  death.  Whatever  might  have  been  their 
characters  when  alive,  all  faces  were  now  alike.  I  could 
not,  in  those  fixed  contortions,  tell  what  was  pain  from 
what  was  anger — misery  from  wickedness. 

"It  was  now  almost  dark,  and  the  night  was  setting  in 
stormier  than  the  day.  A  strong  flash  of  lightning  sud- 
denly iUuminated  this  hold  of  death,  and  for  a  moment 
showed  me  more  distinctly  the  terrible  array.  A  loud 
squall  of  wind  came  round  about  the  building,  and  the  old 
window-casement  gave  way,  and  fell  with  a  shivering  crash 
in  upon  the  floor.  Something  rose  up  with  an  angry  growl 
from  among  the  dead  bodies.  It  was  a  huge,  dark-coloured 
wolf-dog,  with  a  spiked  collar  round  his  neck ;  and  seeing 
me,  he  leaped  forwards  with  gaunt  and  bony  limbs.  I  am 
confident  that  his  jaws  were  bloody.  I  had  instinctively 
moved  backwards  towards  the  door.  The  surly  savage 
returned  growling  to  his  lair  ;  and,  in  a  state  of  stupefac- 
tion, I  found  myself  in  the  open  air.  A  bugle  was  playing, 
and  the  light-infantry  company  of  my  own  regiment  was 
entering  the  village  with  loud  shouts  and  hurras." 


43 


Marion  now  concluded  the  evening's  amusement,  by 
repeating  the  annexed  beautiful  lines  from  Schiller. 

THE  INTERVIEW. 

"  I  SEE  her  yet  amidst  her  lovely  train, 
As  there,  the  loveliest  of  them  all,  she  stood; 
Her  sunlike  beauty  struck  the  glance  with  pain, 
I  stood  aloof,  irresolute,  subdued, 
A  pleasing  shudder  thrilled  each  beating  vein, 
Awed  by  the  circling  loveliness  I  viewed  ; 
But  all  at  once,  as  on  resistless  wing. 
An  impulse  came,  and  bade  me  strike  the  string. 

What  may  have  been  that  moment's  wildered  feeling. 

And  what  my  song,  in  vain  would  I  recall; 

My  heart  had  found  an  organ  new,  revealing 

Its  every  wish,  its  holy  movements  all. 

My  soul,  for  long  long  years  its  love  concealing, 

Now  burst  at  once  impetuous  from  its  thrall, 
And  from  its  deepest  depths  aroused  a  tone. 
Which  slumbered  there  divine,  yet  all  unknown. 

Hushed  were  the  chords,  and  that  wild  impulse  by. 

My  soul  relapsed  into  itself  again ; 

But  in  her  angel  face  I  might  descry 

Sweet  bashfulness  resisting  love  in  vain. 

Rapt  with  the  pure  delight  of  realms  on  high, 

Her  few  soft  words  I  caught,  a  soothing  strain — 

Oh  !  none  henceforth  may  breathe  such  tones  of  love, 
But  spirits  blest,  that  swell  the  choirs  above. 

The  faithful  heart  that  pines  disconsolate, 

Nursing  a  timid  love  in  silence  long. 

Shall  find  one  soul  its  self-hid  worth  to  rate. 

Be  mine  to  wreak  that  heart  on  fortune's  wrong  ; 

Poor  though  it  be,  it  claims  the  brightest  fate ; 

To  love  alone  the  flowers  of  love  belong ; 
The  fairest  boon  rewards  the  heart  aright, 
Which  feels  its  worth,  and  will  that  worth  requite." 


Content. — I  knew  a  man  that  had  wealth  and  riches, 
and  several  houses,  all  beautiful  and  ready  furnished,  and 
who  would  often  trouble  himself  and  family  by  removing 
from  one  house  to  another.  Being  asked  by  a  friend  why 
he  removed  so  often,  he  replied,  it  was  to  find  content  in 
some  one  of  them.  "Content,"  said  his  friend,  "ever 
dwells  in  a  meek  and  quiet  soul." J.  w. 


THE   SHADOW. 

I  HUNG  o'er  the  side  of  the  vessel  while  cleaving 
Mid  the  blue  rolling  waters  her  pathway  of  light; 

Behind  was  the  white  silver  track  she  was  leaving, 
And  before  her  the  billows  lay  buoyant  and  bright 

Her  white  sail  was  spread  to  the  beauty  of  Morning, 

Which  waked  like  a  rose  crimson  from  her  night's  rest- 
Now  wooing  the  wind,  and  now,  woman-like,  scorning 
The  lover  whose  home  was  yet  deep  in  her  breast. 

On  sprang  the  ship,  like  the  stag  trom  its  pillow,  » 

In  beauty,  in  music,  in  gladness,  she  past ; 

But  follow'd  her  still  one  dark  shade  on  the  billow; 
That  fair  ship  !  from  her  could  such  darkness  be  cast  ? 

The  sun-beam  hath  its  shadow,  and  youth  hath  its  sorrow, 
The  fair  bark  its  dark  side, — and  such  is  mine  own; 

Brightness  and  gladness  my  pathway  may  borrow, 
But  still  my  heart's  darkness  upon  it  is  thrown. 


THE    RAINBOW. 

Oh  !  look  ye  on  the  rainbow,  in  its  first 

Exceeding  faintness,  like  a  rising  thought. 

Or  a  fine  feeling  of  the  beautiful. 

An  evanescence !  so  you  fear  must  be 

The  slight  tinged  silence  of  the  showery  sky. 

Nor  yet  dare  name  its  name,  till  breathing  out 

Into  such  colours  as  may  not  deceive. 

And  ixndelusive  in  their  heavenliness. 

O'er  all  the  hues  that  happy  nature  knows, 

Although  it  be  the  gentlest  of  them  all 

Prevailing  the  celestial  violet, 

To  eyes  by  beauty  made  religious,  lo ! 

Brightening  the  house  by  God  inhabited 

The  full  form'd  rainbow  glows  !  beneath  her  arch 

The  glittering  earth  once  more  is  paradise ; 

Nor  sin  nor  sorrow  hath  her  dwelling  there. 

Nor  death ;  but  an  immortal  happiness 

For  us  made  angels !  swifter  than  a  dream 

It  fades — it  flies — and  we  and  this  our  earth 

Are  disenchanted  back  to  mortal  life ; 

Earth  to  its  gloom,  we  to  our  miseries." 


■44 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 


BY    W.   f.    BRYANT. 


The  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm; — 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpassed, 
And,  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm. 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out,  and  villages  between. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around. 

Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground. 

Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers  ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 

And  gossipped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 
To  the  gray  oak,  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping,  from  the  ground  the  grashopper  upsprunj 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves,  that  kept  them  dry, 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there. 

And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
i'hat  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air, 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 

The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair  ; 

The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay. 

And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 

Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  cell, 

And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall. 

And  glassy  river,  and  white  waterfall. 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 

And  beauteous  scene;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens,  the  same  soft,  golden 
light. 

1  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 

An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between. 

The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony  ; 
When  millions  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 

No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee. 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabonred  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 


loo  long  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers, 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm  ;  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past ; 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


THE  WHITE  ELEPHANT  OF  BURMAH. 

The  Burmese,  like  all  other  heathen  countries,  have 
religious  services  performed  in  various  ways  to  their  gods; 
but   one  in   particular  is   deserving  of  notice,   as  being 
altogether  peculiar  to  themselves.     This  is  the  adoration 
paid  to  a  White  Elephant,  which  is  kept  with  a  degree  of 
splendour  not  exceeded  by  that  of  the  ilmperor  himself. 
How  well  does  the  Apostle's  assertion  apply  here  to  those 
men  who,  thinking  themselves  wise,  have  '  become  vain  in 
their  imaginations,  and  their  foolish  hearts  are  darkened.' 
This  white  elephant  has  his  residence  contiguous  to  the 
royal  palace,  with  which  it  is  connected  by  a  long  open 
gallery.     At  the  further  end  of  this  gallery,  a  lofty  curtain 
of  black  velvet,  richly  embossed  with  gold,  conceals  the 
animal  from  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar.     Before  this  curtain 
the  presents  that  are  intended  to  be  offered  to  him,  consist- 
ing  of  gold  and  silver,  muslins,  broad  cloths,  altar,  (otto) 
of  roses,   rose   water,    Benares   brocades,   tea,   &c.    are 
displayed  on  carpets.     His  dwelling  is  a  lofty  hall,  richly 
gilt  from  top  to  bottom,  both  inside  and  out,  and  supported 
by  sixty-four  pillars,  thirty- six  of  which  are  also  richly  gilt. 
His  two  fore-feet  are  fastened  by  a  thick  silver  chain  to  one 
of  these  pillars.     His  bedding  consists  of  a  thick  straw 
mattress,  covered  with  the  finest  blue  cloth,  over  which  is 
spread  another  of  softer  materials,  covered  with  crimson 
silk.     He  has  a  regular  household,  consisting  of  a  chief 
minister,  a  secretary  of  state,   an  inferior  secretary,  an 
obtaiuer    of    intelligence,    and    other  inferior   ministers. 
Besides  these,  he  has  oflBcers  who  transact  the  business  of 
several  estates  which   he  possesses  in  various  parts  of  the 
country,  and  an  establishment  of  a  thousand  men,  including 
guards,  servants,  and  other  attendants.     His  trappings  are 
of  extreme  magnificence,  being  all  of  gold,  and  the  richest 
iTold  cloth,  thickly  studded  with  large   diamonds,   pearls, 
sapphires,  rubies,  and  other  precious  stones.     The  vessels 
out  of  which  he  eats  and  drinks  are  likewise  of  gold,  inlaid 
with  numerous  precious  stones. 


45 


THE  CRUSADE. 

Bound  for  holy  Palestine, 
Nimbly  we  brushed  the  level  brine; 
All  in  azure  steel  arrayed, 
O'er  the  wave  our  weapons  played, 
And  made  the  dancing  billows  glow ; 
High  upon  the  trophied  prow, 
Many  a  warrior-minstrel  strung 
His  sounding  harp,  and  boldly  sung ; 

"  Syrian  virgins,  wail  and  weep, 
English  Richard  ploughs  the  deep  ! 
Tremble,  watchmen,  as  ye  spy. 
From  distant  towers,  with  anxious  eye. 
The  radiant  range  of  shield  and  lance 
Down  Damascus'  hills  advance: 
From  Sion's  turrets,  as  afar 
Ye  ken  the  march  of  Europe's  war  ! 
Saladin,  thou  paynim  king, 
From  Albion's  isle  revenge  we  bring  ! 
On  Aeon's  spiry  citadel. 
Though  to  the  gale  thy  banners  swell, 
Pictured  with  the  silver  moon; 
England  shaU  end  thy  glory  soon ! 
In  vain,  to  break  our  firm  array. 
Thy  brazen  drums  hoarse  discord  bray : 
Those  sounds  our  rising  fury  fan : 
English  Richard  in  the  van. 
On  to  victory  we  go, 
A  vaunting  infidel  £he  foe." 

Blondel  led  the  tuneful  band. 
And  swept  the  wire  with  glowing  hand. 
Cyprus,  from  her  rocky  mound. 
And  Crete,  with  piny  verdure  crowned. 
Far  along  the  smiling  main 
Echoed  the  prophetic  strain. 

Soon  we  kissed  the  sacred  earth 
That  gave  a  murdered  Saviour  birth : 
Then  with  ardour  fresh  endued. 
Thus  the  solemn  song  renewed. 

"  Lo !  the  toilsome  voyage  past. 
Heaven's  favoured  hills  appear  at  last ! 
Object  of  our  holy  vow. 
We  tread  the  Tyrian  valleys  now. 
From  Carmel's  almond-shaded  steep 
We  feel  the  cheering  fragrance  creep ; 
O'er  Engaddi's  shrubs  of  balm 
Waves  the  date-empurpled  palm ; 
See  Lebanon's  aspiring  head 
Wide  his  immortal  umbrage  spread ! 
Hail  Calvary,  thou  mountain  hoar, 
Wet  with  our  Redeemer's  gore  ! 
Ye  trampled  tombs,  ye  fanes  forlorn. 
Ye  stones,  by  tears  of  pilgrims  worn  ; 


Your  ravished  honours  to  restore, 

Fearless  we  climb  this  hostile  shore  1 

And  thou,  the  sepulchre  of  God ! 

By  mocking  Pagans  rudely  trod, 

Bereft  of  every  awful  rite. 

And  quenched  thy  lamps  that  beamed  so  bright ; 

For  thee,  from  Britain's  distant  coast, 

Lo,  Richard  leads  his  faithful  host ! 

Aloft  in  his  heroic  hand, 

Blazing,  like  the  beacon's  brand. 

O'er  the  far-afiFrighted  fields. 

Resistless  Kaliburn  he  wields. 

Proud  Saracen,  pollute  no  more 

The  shrines  by  martyrs  built  of  yore  ! 

From  each  wild  mountain's  trackless  crown 

In  vain,  thy  gloomy  castles  frown; 

Thy  battering  engines,  huge  and  high. 

In  vain  our  steel-clad  steeds  defy. 

And,  rolling  in  terrific  state. 

On  giant-wheels  harsh  thunders  grate. 

When  eve  has  hushed  the  buzzing  camp. 

Amid  the  moon-light  vapours  damp, 

Thy  necromantic  forms,  in  vain. 

Haunt  us  on  the  tented  plain : 

We  bid  those  spectre-shapes  avaunt, 

Ashtaroth,  and  Termagaunt  I 

With  many  a  demon,  pale  of  hue, 

Doomed  to  drink  the  bitter  dew 

That  drops  from  Macon's  sooty  tree. 

Mid  the  dread  grove  of  ebony. 

Nor  magic  charms,  nor  fields  of  hell. 

The  Christian's  holy  courage  quelL 

Salem,  in  ancient  majesty 
Arise,  and  lift  thee  to  the  sky 
Soon  on  thy  battlements  divine 
Shall  wave  the  badge  of  Constantine. 
Ye  barons,  to  the  sun  unfold 
Our  cross  with  crimson  wove  and  gold  ! 

WARTON, 


FRIENDSHIP. 

FEiENDBHiPis  the  joy  of  reason. 
Dearer  yet  than  that  of  love : 

Love  but  lasts  a  transient  season- 
Friendship  makes  the  bliss  above. 

Who  would  lose  the  secret  pleasure 
Felt,  when  soul  with  soul  unites  ? 

Other  blessings  have  their  measure : 
Friendship  without  bound  delights. 


46> 


THE  MARINER'S  DREAM, 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay, 
His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind; 
But,  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 
And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dream'd  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  morn  ; 
While  Memory  stood  side-ways,  half  cover'd  with  flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  the  thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise; 
Now,  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide. 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o'er  the  thatch. 
And  the  swallow  sings  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall ; 
All  trembling  with  transport  he  raises  the  latch, 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight, 

His  cheek  is  impearl'd  with  a  mother's  warm  tear; 

And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  Sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast, 
Joy  quickens  his  pulse — all  his  hardships  seem  o'er  ! 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest — 
"  O  God !  thou  hast  blest  me,  I  ask  for  no  more  1" 

Ah !   whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  that  sound  that  now  larums  his  ear  ? 
'Tis  the  lightning's  red  glare  painting  hell  on  the  sky  ! 
'Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere! 

He  springs  from  his  hammock — he  flies  to  the  deck  ; 
Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire; — 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a  wreck, 
The  masts  fly  in  splinters,  the  shrouds  are  on  fire  I 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tumultuously  swell. 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell. 

And  the  Death-Angel  flaps  his  broad  wings  o'er  the  wave. 

O  Sailor  boy  !  wo  to  thy  dream  of  delight ; 
In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  bliss ; 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  Fancy  touch'd  bright, 
Thy  parent's  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honoy'd  kiss  ? 


Oh  !  Sailor  boy !  Sailor  boy  !  never  again 
Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay ; 
Unbless'd  and  unhonour'd,  down  deep  in  the  main 
Full  many  a  score  fathom  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee. 
Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the  merciless  surge; 
But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge. 

On  beds  of  green  sea-flower  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid. 
Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow ; 
Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made. 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages,  shall  circle  away. 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll : 
Earth  loses  thy  pattern  for  ever  and  aye — 
Oh  Sailor  boy  !  Sailor  boy !  peace  to  thy  soul ! 


LOVE  ME  LOVE  MY  DOG. 

The  bee  delights  in  opening  flowers. 
The  birds  rejoice  in  scented  bowers. 
The  plover  loves  the  lonesome  hill, 
The  speckled  trout  the  silver  rill, 
The  wakeful  bittern  loves  the  bog 
And  I  love  thee,  my  faithful  dog 
I  love  with  thee,  as  forth  we  walk. 
Mute  as  thou  art,  to  smile  and  talk, 
Through  beds  of  lilies  white  as  snow 
Treading  their  dewy  heads,  we  go 
Arousing  in  our  merry  race, 
The  mousing  cat  thou  fear'st  to  fact  • 
The  mild  of  mood  ay  look  with  awe 
On  creatures  wearing  tooth  and  claw 
But  let  at  night  the  scared  owl  screech. 
Thy  look  is  fire,  thy  bark  is  speech; 
With  tail  exteuded,  white  teeth  baring, 
No  lion  looks  more  fierce  and  daring : 
Thy  back  with  rage  is  all  one  bristle. 
Thy  whiskers  sharpen  like  a  thistle, 
On  days  of  state,  'tis  grand  to  see 
Thee  strut  with  dogs  of  high  degree. 
No  peacock  waves  his  golden  tail. 
So  statelv  as  thou  shak'st  thy  tail. 
Live  on  unharmed  by  chain  or  clog. 
My  word  is, — Love  me — Love  my  dog, 


47 


CHOCORUA'S  CURSE. 

The  rocky  county  of  Strafford,  New  Hampshire,  is 
remarkable  for  its  wild  and  broken  scenery.  Ranges  of 
hills  towering  one  above  another,  as  if  eager  to  look  upon 
the  beautiful  country,  which  afar  off  lies  sleeping  in  the 
embrace  of  heaven;  precipices,  from  which  the  young 
eagles  take  their  flight  to  the  sun ;  dells  rugged  and  tangled 
as  the  dominions  of  Roderick  Vich  Alpine,  and  ravines 
dark  and  deep  enough  for  the  death  scene  of  a  bandit,  form 
the  magnificent  characteristics  of  this  picturesque  region. 

A  high  precipice,  called  Chocorua's  Cliff,  is  rendered 
peculiarly  interesting  by  a  legend  which  tradition  has 
scarcely  saved  from  utter  oblivion.  Had  it  been  in  Scot- 
land, perhaps  the  genius  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  would  have 
hallowed  it,  and  Americans  would  have  crowded  there  to 
kindle  fancy  on  the  altar  of  memory.  Being  in  the  midst 
of  our  own  romantic  scenery,  it  is  little  known,  and  less 
visited;  for  the  vicinity  is  as  yet  untraversed  by  rail-roads 
or  canals,  and  no  "  Mountain  House,"  perched  on  these 
tremendous  battlements,  allures  the  traveller  hither  to  mock 
the  majesty  of  nature  with  the  insipidities  of  fashion. 
A  distinguished  artist,  Mr.  Cole,  found  the  sunshine  and 
the  winds  sleeping  upon  it  in  solitude  and  secrecy;  and  his 
pencil  has  brought  it  before  us  in  its  stern  repose. 

In  olden  time,  when  Goffe  and  Whalley  passed  for 
wizards  and  mountain  spirits  among  the  superstitious,  the 
vicinity  of  the  spot  we  have  been  describing  was  occupied 
by  a  very  small  colony,  which,  either  from  discontent  or 
enterprize,  had  retired  into  this  remote  part  of  New 
Hampshire.  Most  of  them  were  ordinary  men,  led  to  this 
independent  mode  of  life  from  an  impatience  of  restraint, 
which  as  frequently  accompanies  vulgar  obstinacy  as 
generous  pride.  But  there  was  one  master  spirit  among 
them,  who  was  capable  of  a  higher  destiny  than  he  ever 
fulfilled.  The  consciousness  of  this  had  stamped  something 
of  proud  humility  on  the  face  of  Cornelius  Campbell; 
something  of  a  haughty  spirit  strongly  curbed  by  circum- 
stances he  could  not  control,  and  at  which  he  scorned  to 
murmur.  He  assumed  no  superiority;  but  unconsciously 
he  threw  around  him  the  spell  of  intellect,  and  his 
companions  felt,  they  knew  not  why,  that  he  was  "  among 
them,  but  not  of  them."  His  stature  was  gigantic,  and  he 
had  the  bold,  quick  tread  of  one  who  had  wandered 
frequently  and  fearlessly  among  the  terrible  hiding  places 
of  nature.  His  voice  was  harsh,  but  his  whole  countenance 
possessed  singular  capabilities  for  tenderness  of  expression ; 
and  sometimes,  under  the  gentle  influence  of  domestic 
excitement,  his  hard  features  would  be  rapidly  lighted  up, 
seeming  like  the  sunshine  flying  over  the  shaded  fields  in 
an  April  day. 

His  companion  was  one  peculiarly  calculated  to  excite 
and  retain  the  deep,  strong  energies  of  manly  love.  She 
had  possessed  extraordinary  beauty  ;  and  had,  in  the  full 


maturity  of  an  excellent  judgment,  relinquished  several 
splended  alliances,  and  incurred  her  father's  displeasure, 
for  the  sake  of  Cornelius  Campbell.  Had  political  circum- 
stances proved  favourable,  his  talents  and  ambition  would 
unquestionable  have  worked  out  a  path  to  emolument  and 
fame ;  but  he  had  been  a  zealous  and  active  enemy  of  the 
Stuarts,  and  the  restoration  of  Charles  the  Second  was  the 
death-warrant  of  his  hopes.  Immediate  flight  became 
necessary,  and  America  was  the  chosen  place  of  refuge. 
His  adherence  to  Cromwell's  party  was  not  occasioned  by 
religious  sympathy,  but  by  political  views,  too  liberal  and 
philosophical  for  the  state  of  the  people ;  therefore  Corne- 
lius Campbell  was  no  favourite  with  our  forefathers,  and 
being  of  a  proud  nature,  he  withdrew  with  his  family  to  the 
solitary  place  we  have  mentioned. 

It  seemed  a  hard  fate  for  one  who  had  from  childhood 
been  accustomed  to  indulgence  and  admiration,  yet  Mrs. 
Campbell  enjoyed  more  than  she  had  done  in  her  days  of 
splendour ;  so  much  deeper  are  the  sources  of  happiness 
than  those  of  gaiety.  Even  her  face  had  suffered  little 
from  time  and  hardship.  The  bloom  on  her  cheek,  which 
in  youth  had  been  like  the  sweet  pea  blossom,  that  most 
feminine  of  all  flowers,  had,  it  is  true,  somewhat  faded ;  but 
the  rich,  intellectual  expression,  did  but  receive  additional 
majesty  from  years;  and  the  exercise  of  quiet  domestic 
love,  which,  where  it  is  suffered  to  exist,  always  deepens 
and  brightens  with  time,  had  given  a  bland  and  placid 
expression,  which  might  well  have  atoned  for  the  absence 
of  more  striking  beauty.  To  such  a  woman  as  Caroline 
Campbell,  of  what  use  would  have  been  some  modern  doc- 
trines of  equality  and  independence? 

With  a  mind  sufficiently  cultivated  to  appreciate  and 
enjoy  her  husband's  intellectual  energies,  she  had  a  heart 
that  could  not  have  found  another  home.  The  bird  will 
drop  into  its  nest  though  the  treasures  of  earth  and  sky  are 
open.  To  have  proved  marriage  a  tyranny,  and  the  cares 
of  domestic  life  a  thraldom,  would  have  affected  Caroline 
Campbell  as  little,  as  to  be  told  that  the  pure,  sweet  atmos- 
phere she  breathed,  was  pressing  upon  her  so  many  pounds 
to  every  square  inch  !  Over  such  a  heart,  and  such  a  soul, 
external  circumstances  have  little  power ;  all  worldy 
interest  was  concentrated  in  her  husband  and  babes,  and 
her  spirit  was  satisfied  with  that  inexhaustible  fountain  of 
joy  which  nature  gives,  and  God  has  blessed. 

A  very  small  settlement,  in  such  a  remote  place,  was  of 
course  subject  to  inconvenience  and  occasional  suffering. 
From  the  Indians  they  received  neither  injury  nor  insult. 
No  cause  of  quarrel  had  ever  arisen  ;  and,  although  their 
frequent  visits  were  sometimes  troublesome,  they  never 
had  given  indications  of  jealousy  or  malice.  Chocorua 
was  a, prophet  among  them,  and  as  such  an  object  of  pecu- 
liar respect.  He  had  a  mind  which  education  and  motive 
would  have  nerved  with  giant  strength ;  but,  growing  up 
in  savage  freedom,  it  wasted  itself  in  dark,  fierce,  un  'o- 


4» 


MIHHA   TM,(0)I[]L   I'm     THE    CHAMBlETEt  ®F  -KrOB-WA, 

VinF.    SiHWALTLI-i     SCO  1  I   5     I^IKAlt 

^^^TJ?".  <-/;?.  i'/u^^/r/j^  './M//A?id' m^^y^ 

hruirajvedf  b'u  f.Jlope  . 


vernable  passions.  There  was  something  fearful  in  the 
quiet  haughtiness  of  his  lip — it  seemed  so  like  slumbering 
power,  too  proud  to  be  lightly  roused,  and  too  implacable  to 
sleep  again.  In  his  small,  black,  fiery  eye,  expression  lay 
coiled  up  like  a  beautiful  snake.  The  white  people  knew 
that  his  hatred  would  be  terrible;  but  they  had  never 
provoked  it,  and  even  the  children  became  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  him  to  fear  him, 

Chocorua  had  a  son,  about  nine  or  ten  years  old,  to 
whom  Caroline  Campbell  had  occasionally  made  such 
gaudy  presents  as  were  likely  to  attract  his  savage  fancy. 
This  won  the  child's  affections,  so  that  he  became  a 
familiar  visitant,  almost  an  inmate  of  their  dwelling ;  and 
being  unrestrained  by  the  courtesies  of  civilized  life,  he 
would  inspect  every  thing,  and  taste  of  every  thing  which 
came  in  his  way.  Some  poison,  prepared  for  a  mischievous 
fox,  which  had  long  troubled  the  little  settlement,  was 
discovered  and  drunk  by  the  Indian  boy;  and  he  went 
home  to  his  father  to  sicken  and  die.  From  that  moment 
jealousy  and  hatred  took  possession  of  Chocorua's  soul. 
He  never  told  his  suspicions — he  brooded  over  them  in 
secret,  to  nourish  the  deadly  revenge  he  contemplated 
against  Cornelius  Campbell. 

The  story  of  Indian  animosity  is  always  the  same. 
Cornelius  Campbell  left  his  hut  for  the  fields  early  one 
bright,  balmy  morning  in  June.  Still  a  lover,  though  ten 
years  a  husband,  his  last  look  was  turned  towards  his  wife, 
answering  her  parting  smile — his  last  action  a  kiss  for  each 
of  his  children.  When  he  returned  to  dinner,  they  were 
dead — all  dead !  and  their  disfigured  bodies  too  cruelly 
showed  that  an  Indian's  hand  had  done  the  work! 

la  such  a  mind,  grief,  like  all  other  emotions,  was 
tempestuous.  Home  had  been  to  him  the  only  verdant 
spot  in  the  wide  desert  of  life.  In  his  wife  and  children  he 
had  garnered  up  all  his  heart;  and  now  they  were  torn 
from  him,  the  remembrance  of  their  love  clung  to  him  like 
the  death-grapple  of  a  drowning  man,  sinking  him  down, 
down,  into  darkness  and  death.  This  was  followed  by  a 
calm  a  thousand  times  more  terrible — the  creeping  agony 
of  despair,  that  brings  with  it  no  power  of  resistance. 

"  It  was  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  him  steal." 

Such,  for  many  days,  was  the  state  of  Cornelius 
Campbell.  Those  who  knew  and  reverenced  him,  feared 
that  the  spark  of  reason  was  for  ever  extinguished.  But  it 
rekindled  again,  and  with  it  came  a  wild,  demoniac  spirit 
of  revenge.  The  death-groan  of  Chocorua  would  make 
him  smile  in  his  dreams ;  and  when  he  waked,  death 
seemed  too  pitiful  a  vengeance  for  the  anguish  that  was 
eating  into  his  very  soul. 

Chocorua's  brethren  were  absent  on  a  hunting  expedition 
at  the  time  he  committed  the  murder;  and  those  who 


watched  his  movements  observed  that  he  frequently 
climbed  the  high  precipice,  which  afterward  took  his  name, 
probably  looking  out  for  indications  of  their  return. 

Here  Cornelius  Campbell  resolved  to  effect  his  deadly 
purpose.  A  party  was  formed  under  his  guidance,  to  cut 
off  all  chance  of  retreat,  and  the  dark-minded  prophet  was 
to  be  hunted  like  a  wild  beast  to  his  lair. 

The  morning  sun  had  scarce  cleared  away  the  fogs  when 
Chocorua  started  at  a  loud  voice  from  beneath  the  precipice, 
commanding  him  to  throw  himself  into  the  deep  abyss 
below  He  knew  the  voice  of  his  enemy,  and  replied  with 
an  Indian's  calmness,  "The  Great  Spirit  gave  life  to 
Chocorua;  and  Chocorua  will  not  throw  it  away  at  the 
command  of  a  white  man."  "  Then  hear  the  Great  Spirit 
speak  in  the  white  man's  thunder  !"  exclaimed  Cornelius 
Campbell,  as  he  pointed  the  gun  to  the  precipice.  Chocorua, 
though  fierce  and  fearless  as  a  panther,  had  never  over- 
come his  dread  of  fire-arms.  He  placed  his  hand  upon  his 
ears  to  shut  out  the  stunning  report;  the  next  moment  the 
blood  bubbled  from  his  neck,  and  he  reeled  fearfully  on 
the  edge  of  the  precipice.  But  he  recovered  himself,  and, 
raising  himself  on  his  hands,  he  spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  that 
grew  more  terrific  as  its  huskiness  increased,  "  A  curse 
upon  ye,  white  men  !  May  the  Great  Spirit  curse  ye  when 
he  speaks  in  the  clouds,  and  his  words  are  fire  !  Chocorua 
had  a  son — and  ye  killed  him  while  his  eye  still  loved  to 
look  on  the  bright  sun,  and  the  green  earth  !  The  Evil 
Spirit  breathe  death  upon  your  cattle  !  Your  graves  lie  in 
the  war  path  of  the  Indian  !  Panthers  howl,  and  wolves 
fatten  over  your  bones  !  Chocorua  goes  to  the  Great 
Spirit — his  curse  stays  with  the  white  men!" 

The  prophet  sunk  upon  the  ground,  still  uttering  inaudi- 
ble curses — and  they  left  his  bones  to  whiten  in  the  sun. 
But  his  curse  rested  on  the  settlement.  The  tomahawk 
and  scalping  knife  were  busy  among  them,  the  winds  tore 
up  trees  and  hurled  them  at  their  dwellings,  their  crops  were 
blasted,  their  cattle  died,  and  sickness  came  upon  their 
strongest  men.  At  last  the  remnant  of  them  departed 
from  the  fatal  spot  to  mingle  with  more  populous  and 
prosperous  colonies.  Cornelius  Campbell  became  a  her- 
mit, seldom  seeking  or  seeing  his  fellow-men;  and  two 
years  after  he  was  found  dead  in  his  hut. 

To  this  day  the  town  of  Burton,  in  New  Hampshire,  is 
remarkable  for  a  pestilence  which  infects  its  cattle ;  and 
the  superstitious  think  that  Chocorua's  spirit  still  sits 
enthroned  upon  Jiis  precipice,  breathing  a  curse  upon  them. 


By  taking  revenge,  a  man  is  out  even  with  his  enemy , 
but  in  passing  it  over,  he  is  superior.. 


4» 


THE  MARQUISA  AND  HER  DOG. 

Ay,  clasp  thy  treasure,  gentle  one '.  such  love  is  pure  and 

sweet; 
In  this  fair  bond  of  kindness,  there  lurketh  no  deceit; 
Well  suits  the  sportive  favourite  with  the  sunshine  of  thy 

years, 
A  love  which  never  breaketh— a  joy  which  knows  not  tears. 

Sport'st  thou  among  the  flow'rs,  fair  girl !  he  sports  beside 

thee  there, 
Joying  in  gambols  like  thine  own,  in  knowing   aught  of 

care; 
Thy  garlands  of  the  wilding  blooms,    the  green  woods 

yield,  will  deck. 
In  their  pure  and  simple  elegance,  his  dark  and  glossy 

neck. 

Sleep'st  thou  beneath  the  shady  boughs,   thy  love  meets 

its  reward. 
The  partner  of  thy  pleasures  wakes,  to  serve   thee  as  a 

guard; 
No  stranger- hand  to  scare  thy  rest  with  startling  touch 

may  dare, 
For  he  who  shares  thy  waking  sports,  is  watching  o'er  thee 

there. 

His  love  will  never  turn  to  hate ;  like  thee,  he  does  not 

guess 
That  there  can  come   a  cloud  to  chill  affection's  sweet 

excess ; 
He  knows  not  of    the  thousand    lures,   which   help   to 

overthrow 
The  dream  of  joy — as  thou  too  sure,  fair  girl !  wilt  one  day 

know. 

Ay,  cling  to  thy  mute  favourite — let  thy  guileless  heart 

pour  forth 
The  gentle   feelings  which  were  giv'n  to  gladdeq  us  on 

earth ; 
For  years  will  come,  and  loves  will  rise,  to  which  this 

infant  one 
Will  seem  a  blessed  dream  of  peace,  too  early  lost  and  gone ! 

Far  other  steps  will  follow  thine,  young  beauty  !  on  thy  way; 
And  other  eyes  look  into  thine — yet  both  in  turn  will  stray ; 
New  smiles  may  lure  aside  the  feet  which  foUow'd  in  thy 

train, 
And  glances  thou  shalt  learn  to  love,  ne'er  answer  thine 

again. 

For  otber  favourites  will  join  in  the  world's  giddy  game, 
And  some  may  fill  thine  eye  with  tears,  and  some  thy  heart 
with  blame : 


All — all — may  leave  a  sting  behind,  thou  caust  not  guess 

at  now, 
And  cast  a  shadow  o'er  thy  soul — a  gloom  upon  thy  brow  ! 

Life  is  a  pageant  with  thee  here — a  dream  of  sport  and  light; 
Sweet  sounds  are  in  thy  infant  years,  sweet  forms  beneath 

thy  sight : 
Thy  waking  thoughts  are  love  and  joy,  and  when  thy  head 

hath  prest 
Its  pillow, 'tis  In  tenderness,   young   dove!  thou  seekest 

rest. 

This  passion  leaves  no  bitterness — this  fondness  wakes  no 

tears — 
Oh !  that  it  were  a  type  of  those  which  wait  thy  after  years  ; 
Yet  cling  to  this  sweet  dream,  fair  child!  for  none  will 

love  so  well, 
And  leave  such  perfect  bliss  behind,  as   thy   poor  fond 

Fidele  ! 

TO  MRS.  HEMANS. 

With  a  mosaic  pegasus  brought  from  Rome,  and  a  leaf  of  bay 
gathered  at  the  fountain  of  Castalia. 

BY    THE    VEN.    ARCHDEACON    BUTLER. 

Too  old  to  climb  the  sacred  hill, 
Around  its  base  I  linger  still, 
And  send  my  Pegasus  to  try 
A  loftier  range  than  1  can  fly. 
Him,  lighted  on  Hesperian  ground. 
By  Tiber's  yellow  stream  I  found, 
With  arching  neck,  and  floating  mane, 
And  wings  outspread  for  flight  again. 
I  seized  him,  though  control  he  spurned, 
And  from  his  frontlet,  as  he  turned. 
Ere  from  my  grasp  he  burst  away, 
There  dropt  a  leaf  of  Delphic  bay. 
Who  shall  receive  the  gift  divine, 
'Midst  all  the  suppliants  of  the  Nine  ? 
Who,  but  the  worthiest,  best,  shall  keep 
The  leaf  that  wav'd  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Pluck'd  from  the  god's  own  Virgin  tree. 
And  bath'd  in  dews  of  Castaly  ? 
Who,  but  the  child  of  sweetest  song  ? 
To  whose  enraptured  lays  belong, 
Words  that  the  flintest  heart  can  move. 
And  thoughts  that  angels  may  approve  : 
The  tenderest  grace,  the  magic  skill 
To  lead  the  captive  soul  at  will ; 
To  thrill  with  fear,  and  awe  to  sway. 
And  guide  in  virtue's  holiest  way. 

Who  can  this  best  and  worthiest  be  ? 
Whom,  Hemans,  can  we  name  but  thee  7 


THE  SPLENDID  ANNUAL. 

Literature,  even  in  this  literary  age,  is  not  the 
ordinary  pursuit  of  the  citizens  of  Loudon,  although  every 
merchant  is  necessarily  a  man  of  letters,  and  underwriters 
are  as  common  as  cucumbers.  Notwithstanding,  however, 
my  being  a  citizen,  I  am  tempted  to  disclose  the  miseries 
and  misfortunes  of  my  life  in  these  pages,  because,  having 
heard  the  "  Drawing  Room  Album"  called  a  splendid 
annual,  I  hope  for  sympathy  from  its  readers,  seeing  that 
I  have  been  a  "  splendid  annual"  myself. 

My  name  is  Scropps — I  am  an  Alderman — I  was 
Sheriff — I  have  been  Lord  Mayor — and  the  three  great 
eras  of  my  existence  were  the  year  of  my  shrievalty,  the 
year  of  my  mayoralty,  and  the  year  after  it.  Until  I  had 
passed  through  this  ordeal  I  had  no  conception  of  the 
extremes  of  happiness  and  wretchedness  to  which  a  human 
being  may  be  carried,  nor  ever  believed  that  society  pre- 
sented to  its  members,  an  eminence  so  exalted  as  that 
which  I  once  touched,  or  imagined  a  fall  so  great  as  that 
which  I  experienced. 

I  came  originally  from  that  place  to  which  persons  of 
bad  character  are  said  to  be  sent — I  mean  Coventry, 
where  my  father  for  many  years  contributed  his  share  to 
the  success  of  parliamentary  candidates,  the  happiness 
of  new  married  couples,  and  even  the  gratification  of  am- 
bitious courtiers,  by  taking  part  in  the  manufacture  of 
ribands  for  election  cockades,  wedding  favours,  and  cor- 
dons of  chivalry ;  but  trade  failed,  and,  like  his  betters, 
he  became  bankrupt,  but,  unlike  his  betters,  without  any 
consequent  advantage  to  himself;  and  I,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  was  thrown  upon  the  world  with  nothing  but  a 
strong  constitution,  a  moderate  education,  and  fifteen 
shillings  and  eleven  pence  three  farthings  in  my  pocket. 

With  these  qualifications  I  started  from  my  native  town 
on  a  pedestrian  excursion  to  London ;  and  although  I  fell 
into  none  of  those  romantic  adventures  of  which  I  had 
read  at  school,  I  met  with  more  kindness  than  the  world 
generally  gels  credit  for,  and  on  the  fourth  day  after  my 
departure,  having  slept  soundly,  if  not  magnificently,  every 
night,  and  eaten  with  an  appetite  which  my  mode  of 
travelling  was  admirably  calculated  to  stimulate,  reached 
the  great  metropolis,  having  preserved  of  my  patrimony, 
no  less  a  sum  than  nine  shillings  and  seven-pence. 

The  bells  of  one  of  the  churches  in  the  city  were  ring- 
ing merrily  as  I  descended  the  heights  of  Islington ;  and 
were  it  not  that  my  patronymic  Scropps  never  could,  under 
the  most  improved  system  of  campanology,  be  jingled  into 
any  thing  harmonious,  I  have  no  doubt,  I,  like  my  great 
predecessor  Whittington,  might  have  heard  in  that  peal  a 
prediction  of  my  future  exaltation ;  certain  it  is  I  did  not ; 
and,  wearied  with  my  journey,  I  took  up  my  lodging  for 
the  night  at  a  very  humble  house  near  Smithfield,  to  which 
I  had  been  kindly  recommended  by  the  driver  of  a  return 


postchaise,  of  whose  liberal  offer  of  the  moiety  of  his  bar  to 
town  I  had  availed  myself  at  Barnet. 

As  it  is  not  my  intention  to  deduce  a  moral  from  my 
progress  in  the  world  at  this  period  of  my  life,  I  need  not 
here  dilate  upon  the  good  policy  of  honesty,  or  the  advan- 
tages of  temperance  and  perseverance,  by  which  I  worked 
my  way  upwards,  until  after  meriting  the  confidence  of  an 
excellent  master,  I  found  myself  enjoying  it  fully.  To  his 
business  I  succeeded  at  his  death,  having  several  years 
before,  with  his  sanction,  married  a  young  and  deserving 
woman,  about  my  own  age,  of  whose  prudence  and  skill  in 
household  matters  I  had  long  had  a  daily  experience.  In 
the  subordinate  character  of  his  sole  domestic  servant,  in 
which  she  figured  when  I  first  knew  her,  she  had  but  few 
opportunities  of  displaying  her  intellectual  qualities,  but 
when  she  rose  in  the  world,  and  felt  the  cheering  influence 
of  prosperity,  her  mind,  like  a  balloon,  soaring  into  regions 
where  the  bright  sun  beams  on  it,  expanded,  and  she 
became,  as  she  remains,  the  kind  unsophisticated  partner 
of  my  sorrows  and  my  pleasures,  the  friend  of  my  heart, 
and  the  guiding  star  of  my  destinies. 

To  be  brief.  Providence  blessed  my  efforts  and  increased 
my  means ;  I  became  a  wholesale  dealer  in  every  thing, 
from  barrels  of  gunpowder  down  to  pickled  herrings ;  in  the 
civic  acceptation  of  the  word  I  was  a  merchant;  amongst 
the  vulgar  I  am  called  a  drysalter.  I  accumulated 
wealth;  with  my  fortune  my  family  also  grew,  and  one 
male  Scropps,  and  four  female  ditto,  grace  my  board  at 
least  once  in  every  week ;  for  I  hold  it  an  article  of  faith 
to  have  a  sirloin  of  roasted  beef  upon  my  table  on  Sun- 
days, and  all  my  children  round  me  to  partake  of  it :  this 
may  be  prejudice — no  matter — so  long  as  he  could  afford  it, 
my  poor  father  did  so  before  me  ;  I  plead  that  precedent, 
and  am  not  ashamed  of  the  custom. 

Passing  over  the  minor  gradations  of  my  life,  the  remo- 
val from  one  residence  to  another,  the  enlargement  of  this 
warehouse,  the  rebuilding  of  that,  the  anxiety  of  a  canvass 
for  common  councilman,  activity  in  the  company  of  which 
I  am  liveryman,  inquests,  and  vestries,  and  ward  meetings, 
and  all  the  other  pleasing  toils  to  which  an  active  citizen 
is  subject,  let  us  come  at  once  to  the  first  marked  epoch  of 
my  life— the  year  of  my  Shrievalty.  The  announcement 
of  my  nomination  and  election  filled  Mrs.  S.  with  delight ; 
and  when  I  took  my  children  to  Great  Queen  Street, 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  to  look  at  the  gay  chariot  brushing 
up  for  me,  I  confess  I  felt  proud  and  happy  to  be  able  to 
show  my  progeny  the  arms  of  London,  those  of  the  Spec- 
tacle Makers'  Company,  and  those  of  the  Scroppses 
(recently  found  at  a  trivial  expense)  all  figuring  upon  the 
same  pannels.  They  looked  magnificent  upon  the  pea- 
green  ground,  and  the  wheels,  "  white  picked  out  crimson," 
looked  so  chaste,  and  the  hammercloth,  and  the  fringe, 
and  the  festoons,  and  the  Scropps'  crests  all  looked  so  rich, 
and  the  silk  linings  and  white  tassels,  and  the  squabs  and 


51 


the  yellow  cushions  and  the  crimson  carpet  looked  so 
comfortable,  that,  as  I  stood  contemplating  the  equipage,  I 
said  to  myself,  "What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this? — O 
that  my  poor  father  were  alive  to  see  his  boy  Jack  going 
down  to  Westminster,  to  chop  sticks  and  count  hobnails, 
in  a  carnage  like  this!"'  My  children  were  like  mad 
things:  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  put  on  my  first  new 
brown  court  suit  (lined,  like  my  chariot,  with  white  silk) 
and  fitted  up  with  cut  steet  buttons,  just  to  try  the  effect, 
it  all  appeared  like  a  dream ;  the  sword,  which  I  tried  on, 
every  night  for  half  an  hour  after  I  went  to  bed,  to  prac- 
tiee  walking  with  it,  was  very  inconvenient  at  first;  but 
use  is  second  nature;  and  so  by  rehearsing  and  rehearsing 
I  made  myself  perfect  before  that  auspicious  day  when 
Sheriffs  flourish — and  geese  prevail — namely,  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  September. 

The  twelve  months  which  followed  were  very  delightful, 
for  independently  of  the  positive  honour  and  eclat  they 
produced,  I  had  the  Mayoralty  in  prospestu  (having  ob- 
tained my  aldermanic  gown  by  an  immense  majority  the 
preceding  year),  and  as  I  used  during  the  session  to  sit  in 
my  box  at  the  Old  Bailey,  with  my  bag  at  my  back  and  my 
bouquet  on  my  book,  my  thoughts  were  wholly  devoted  to 
one  object  of  contemplation;  culprits  stood  trembling  to 
hear  the  verdict  of  a  jury,  and  I  regarded  them  not; 
convicts  knelt  to  receive  the  fatal  fiat  of  the  Recorder,  and 
I  heeded  not  their  sufferings,  as  I  watched  the  Lord  Mayor 
seated  in  the  centre  of  the  bench,  with  Ihe  sword  of  justice 
stuck  up  in  a  goblet  over  his  head — there,  thought  I,  if  I 
live  two  years,  shall  /sit — however,  even  as  it  was,  it  was 
very  agreeable.  When  executions,  the  chief  drawbacks 
to  my  delight,  happened,  I  found,  after  a  little  seasoning,  I 
took  the  thing  coolly,  and  enjoyed  my  toast  and  tea  after 
the  patients  were  turned  off,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happen- 
ed ;  for,  in  my  time,  we  hanged  at  eight  and  breakfasted  at 
a  quarter  after,  so  that  without  much  hurry  we  were  able  to 
finish  our  mufiins  just  in  time  for  the  cutting  down  at  nine. 
I  had  to  go  to  the  House  of  Commons  with  a  petition,  and 
to  Court  with  an  address — trying  situation  for  one  of  the 
Scroppses — however,  the  want  of  state  in  parliament,  and 
the  very  little  attention  paid  to  us  by  the  members,  put  me 
quite  at  my  ease  at  Westminster;  while  the  gracious 
urbanity  of  our  accomplished  Monarch  on  his  throne  made 
me  equally  comfortable  at  St.  James's.  Still  I  was  but  a 
secondary  person,  or  rather  only  one  of  two  secondary 
persons — the  chief  of  bailiffs  and  principal  Jack  Ketch  ; 
there  was  a  step  to  gain — and,  as  I  often  mentioned  in 
confidence  to  Mrs.  Scropps,  I  was  sure  my  heart  would 
never  be  still  until  I  had  reached  the  pinnacle. 

Behold  at  length  the  time  arrived! — Guildhall  crowded 

to  excess — the  hustings  thronged — the  aldermen  retire 

they  return — their  choice  is  announced  to  the  people it 

has  fallen  upon  John  Ebenezer  Scropps,  Esq.  Alderman 


and  spectacle  maker — a  sudden  shout  is  heard — "  Scropps 
for  ever  !"  resounds — the  whole  assembly  seems  to  vanish 
from  my  sight — I  come  forward — am  invested  with  the 
chain — I  bow — make  a  speech — tumble  over  the  train  of 
the  Recorder,  and  tread  upon  the  tenderest  toe  of  Mr. 
Deputy  Pod — leave  the  hall  in  ecstasy,  and  drive  home  to 
Mrs.  Scropps  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  upon  insanity. 

The  days  wore  on,  each  one  seemed  as  long  as  a  week, 
until  at  length  the  eighth  of  November  arrived,  and  then  did 
it  seem  certain  that  I  should  be  Lord  Mayor — I  was  sworn 
in — the  civic  insignia  were  delivered  to  me — I  returned 
them  to  the  proper  officers — my  chaplain  was  near  me — 
the  esquires  of  my  household  were  behind  me — the  thing 
was  done — never  shall  I  forget  the  tingling  sensation  I  felt 
in  my  ear  when  I  was  first  called  "My  Lord" — I  even 
doubted  if  it  were  addressed  to  me,  and  hesitated  to  answer 
— but  it  was  so — the  reign  of  splendour  had  begun,  and, 
after  going  through  the  accustomed  ceremonies,  I  got  home 
and  retired  to  bod  early,  in  order  to  be  fresh  for  the 
fatigues  of  the  ensuing  day. 

Sleep  I  did  not — how  was  it  to  be  expected  ? — some  part 
of  the  night  I  was  in  consultation  with  Mrs.  Scropps  upon 
the  different  arrangements;  settling  about  the  girls,  their 
places  at  the  banquet,  and  their  partners  at  the  ball ;  the 
wind  down  the  chimney  sounded  like  the  shouts  of  the 
people;  the  cocks  crowing  in  the  mews  at  the  back  of  the 
house  I  took  for  trumpets  sounding  my  approach  ;  and  the 
ordinary  incidental  noise  in  the  family  1  fancied  the  pop- 
guns at  Stangage,  announcing  my  disembarkation  at 
Westminster — thus  I  tossed  and  tumbled  until  the  long 
wished-for  day  dawned,  and  I  jumped  up  anxiously  to 
realize  the  visions  of  the  night.  I  was  not  long  at  my 
toilet — I  was  soon  shaven  and  dressed — but  just  as  I  was 
settling  myself  comfortable  into  my  beautiful  brown  broad- 
cloth inexpressibles,  crack  went  something,  and  I  dis- 
covered that  a  seam  had  ripped  half  a  foot  long.  Had  it 
been  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  a  Lord  Mayor  to  swear, 
I  should,  1  believe  at  that  moment,  have  anathematized  the 
offending  tailor ; — as  it  was,  what  was  to  be  done? — I  heard 
trumpets  in  earnest,  carriages  drawing  up  and  setting 
down  sheriffs,  and  chaplains,  mace  bearers,  train  bearers, 
sword  bearers,  water  bailiffs,  remembrancers,  Mr.  Com., 
mon  Hunt,  the  Town  clerk,  and  the  deputy  town  clerk, 
all  bustling  about — the  bells  ringing — and  /late,  with  a  hole 
in  my  inexpressibles!  There  was  but  one  remedy — my 
wife's  maid,  kind,  intelligent  creature,  civil  and  obliging, 
and  ready  to  turn  her  hand  to  any  thing,  came  to  my  aid, 
and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  her  activity,  exerted  in  the 
midst  of  the  confusion,  repaired  the  injury,  and  turned  me 
out  fit  to  be  seen  by  the  whole  corporation  of  London. 

When  I  was  dressed,  I  tapped  at  Mrs.  Scropps's  door, 
went  in,  and  asked  her  if  she  thought  I  should  do ;  the 
dear  soul,  after  settling  my  point  lace  frill  (which  she  had 


o2 


i'ajjiteil  i^-r.d.wm.  laDdactc'.R-A. 


yA^\^^:a^^^y^y^/^.^^' <2f\^  e^^^-df^'  &^-/<2 


^ii^^^ 


been  good  enough  to  pick  off  her  own  petticoat  ou  purpose) 
and  putting  my  bag  straight,  gave  me  the  sweetest  salute 
imaginable. 

"  1  wish  your  Lordship  health  and  happiness,"  said  she. 
"  Sally,"  said  I,  "your  Ladyship  is  an  angel ;"  and  so, 
having  kissed  each  of  my  daughters,  who  were  in  progress 
of  dressing,  I  descended  the  stairs,  to  begin  the  auspicious 
day  in  which  I  reached  the  apex  of  my  greatness.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  bows — the  civilities — the  congratulations 
— Sheriffs  bending  before  me — the  Recorder  smiling — the 
Common  Serjeant  at  my  feet — the  pageant  was  intoxicat- 
ing ;  and  when,  after  having  breakfasted,  I  stepped  into 
that  glazed  and  gilded  house  upon  wheels,  called  the  state 
coach,  and  saw  my  sword  bearer  pop  himself  into  one  of 
the  boots,  with  the  sword  of  state  in  his  hand,  I  was  lost  in 
ecstacy,  I  threw  myself  back  upon  the  seat  of  the  vehicle 
with  all  imaginable  dignity,  but  not  without  damage,  for  in 
the  midst  of  my  ease  and  elegance  I  snapped  off  the  cut 
steel  hilt  of  my  sword,  by  accidentally  bumping  the  whole 
weight  of  my  body  right,  or  rather  wrong,  directly  upon  the 
top  of  it. 

But  what  was  a  sword  hilt  or  a  bruise  to  we  ?  I  was  the 
Lord  Mayor— the  greatest  man  of  the  greatest  city  of  the 
greatest  nation  in  the  world.  The  people  realized  my 
anticipations,  and  "Bravo.  Scropps  I"  and  "Scropps  for 
ever!"  again  resounded,  as  we  proceeded  slowly  and 
majestically  towards  the  river,  through  a  fog,  which 
prevented  our  being  advantageously  seen,  and  which  got 
down  the  throat  of  the  sword  bearer,  who  coughed  inces- 
santly during  our  progress,  much  to  my  annoyance,  not  to 
speak  of  the  ungraceful  movements  which  his  convulsive 
barkings  gave  to  the  red  velvet  scabbard  of  the  official 
glave  as  it  stuck  out  of  the  window  of  the  coach. 

We  embarked  in  my  barge;  a  new  scene  of  splendour 
awaited  me,  guns,  shouts,  music,  flags,  banners,  in  short, 
every  thing  that  fancy  could  paint  or  a  water  bailiff  provide; 
there,  in  the  gilded  bark,  was  prepared  a  cold  collation — I 
ate,  but  tasted  nothing — fowls,  pates,  tongue,  game,  beef, 
ham,  all  had  the  same  flavour;  champagne,  hock,  and 
Madeira  were  all  alike  to  me — Lord  Mayor  was  all  I  saw, 
all  I  heard,  all  I  swallowed ;  every  thing  was  pervaded  by 
the  one  captivating  word,  and  the  repeated  appeal  to  "  my 
Lordship"  was  sweeter  than  nectar. 

At  Westminster,  having  been  presented  and  received,  I 
— desired — I  John  Ebenezer  Scropps,  of  Coventry — I 
desired  the  Recorder  to  invite  the  Judges  to  dine  with  me — 
I — who  remember  when  two  of  the  oldest  and  most  innocent 
of  the  twelve,  came  the  circuit,  trembling  at  the  sight  of 
them,  and  believing  them  some  extraordinary  creatures 
upon  whom  all  the  hair  and  fur  I  saw,  grew  naturally — I, 
not  only  to  ask  these  formidable  beings  to  dine  with  me, 
but,  as  if  1  thought  it  beneath  my  dignity  to  do  so  in  my 
proper  person,  deputing  a  judge  of  my  own  to  do  it  for  me; 


I  never  shall  forget  their  bows  in  return — Chinese  man- 
darins on  chimney-pieces  are  fools  to  them. 

Then  came  the  return — we  landed  once  more  in  the 
scene  of  my  dignity— at  the  corner  of  Fleet  Street  we 
found  the  Lady  Mayoress  waiting  for  the  procession — 
there  she  was — Sally  Scroops  (her  maiden  name  was 
Snob) — there  was  my  own  Sally,  with  a  plume  of  feathers 
that  half  filled  the  coach,  and  Jenny  and  Maria  and  young 
Sally,  all  with  their  backs  to  my  horses,  which  were 
pawing  the  mud  and  snorting  and  smoking  like  steam 
engines,  with  nostrils  like  safety  valves,  and  four  of  my 
footmen  hansjing  behind  the  coach,  like  bees  in  a  swarm. 
There  had  not  been  so  much  riband  in  my  family  since  my 
poor  father's  failure  at  Coventry — and  yet  how  often,  over 
and  over  again,  although  he  has  been  dead  more  than 
twenty  years,  did  I,  during  that  morning,  in  the  midst  of 
all  my  splendour,  think  of  him,  and  wish  that  he  could  see 
me  in  my  greatness. — Yes,  even  in  the  midst  of  my 
triumph  I  seemed  to  defer  to  my  good  kind  parent — in 
heaven,  as  I  hope  and  trust — as  if  I  were  anxious  for  his 
judgment  and  his  opinion  as  to  how  I  should  perform  the 
arduous  and  manifold  duties  of  the  day. 

Up  Ludgate  Hill  we  moved — the  fog  grew  thicker  and 
thicker — but  then  the  beautiful  women  at  the  windows — 
those  up  high  could  only  see  my  knees  and  the  paste 
buckles  in  my  shoes ;  every  now  and  then,  I  bowed 
condescendingly  to  people  I  had  never  seen  before,  in 
order  to  show  my  courtesy  and  my  chain  and  collar,  which 
I  had  discovered  during  the  morning  shone  the  better  for 
being  shaken. 

At  length  we  reached  Guildhall — as  I  crossed  the 
beautiful  building,  lighted  splendidly,  and  filled  with  well 
dressed  company,  and  heard  the  deafening  shouts  which 
rent  the  fane  as  I  entered  it,  I  really  was  overcome — I 
retired  to  a  private  room — refreshed  my  dress,  rubbed  up 
my  chain,  which  the  damp  had  tarnished,  and  prepared  to 
receive  my  guests.  They  came,  and — shall  I  ever  forget 
it  ? — dinner  was  announced ;  the  bands  played  "  O  the 
roast  beef  of  Old  England."  Onwards  we  went,  a  Prince 
of  the  blood,  of  the  blood  royal  of  my  country,  led  out  my 
Sally — my  own  Sally — the  Lady  Mayoress !  the  Lord 
High  Chancellor  handed  out  young  Sally — I  saw  it  done — 
I  thought  I  should  have  choked;  the  Prime  minister  took 
Maria;  the  Lord  Privy  Seal  gave  his  arm  to  Jenny;  and 
my  wife's  mother,  Mrs.  Snob,  was  honoured  by  the  protec- 
tion of  the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the 
King's  Bench — Oh,  if  my  poor  father  could  but  have  seen 
that ! 

It  would  be  tiresome  to  dwell  upon  the  pleasures  of  the 
happy  year,  thus  auspiciously  began,  in  detail;  each 
month  brought  its  delights,  each  week  its  festival ;  public 
meetings  under  the  sanction  of  the  Right  Honourable  the 
Lord  Mayor;  concerts  and  balls  under  the  patronage  of 


_~.»l 


03 


the  Lady  Mayoress ;  Easter  and  its  dinner,  Blue-coat 
boys  and  buns  ;  procession  here,  excursion  there. — Summer 
came,  and  then  we  had  swan-hopping  up  the  river,  and 
white-baiting  doicn  the  river;  Yantlet  Creek  below,  the 
navigation  barge  above  ;  music,  flags,  streamers,  guns,  and 
company;  turtle  everyday  in  the  week;  peas  at  a  pound 
a  pint,  and  grapes  at  a  guinea  a  pound  ;  dabbling  in  rose- 
water  served  in  gold,  not  to  speak  of  the  loving  cup,  with 
Mr.  Common  Hunt,  in  full  dress,  at  my  elbow  :  my  dinners 
were  talked  of,  Ude  grew  jealous,  and  1  was  idolized. 

The  days,  which  before  seemed  like  weeks,  were  now 
turned  to  minutes :  scarcely  had  I  swallowed  my  breakfast 
before  I  was  in  my  justice-room :  and  before  I  had 
mittimused  half  a  dozen  paupers  for  beggary,  I  was  called 
away  to  luncheon ;  this  barely  over,  in  comes  a  deputation, 
or  a  dispatch,  and  so  on  till  dinner,  which  was  barely  ended 
before  supper  was  announced.  We  all  became  enchanted 
with  the  Mansion  House ;  my  girls  grew  graceful  by  the 
confidence  their  high  station  gave  them ;  Maria  refused  a 
good  offer  because  her  lover  chanced  to  have  an  ill-sound- 
ing name ;  we  had  all  got  settled  in  our  rooms,  the 
establishment  had  began  to  know  and  appreciate  us  ;  we 
had  just  become  in  fact  easy  in  our  dignity  and  happy  in 
our  position,  when  lo  and  behold  !  the  ninth  of  November 
came  again — the  anniversary  of  my  exaltation,  the  consum- 
mation of  my  downfall. 

Again  did  we  go  in  state  to  Guildhall,  again  were  we 
toasted  and  addressed,  again  were  we  handed  in,  and  let 
out,  again  flirted  with  cabinet  ministers  and  danced  with 
ambassadors,  and  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  drove 
home  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  to  our  old  residence  in 
Budge  Row. — Never  in  this  world  did  pickled  herrings 
and  turpentine  smell  so  powerfully  as  on  that  night  when 
we  entered  the  house ;  and  although  my  wife  and  the  young 
ones  stuck  to  the  drinkables  at  Guildhall,  their  natural 
feelings  would  have  way,  and  a  sort  of  shuddering  disgust 
seemed  to  fill  their  minds  on  their  return  home, — the 
passage  looked  so  narrow — the  drawing  rooms  looked  so 
small — the  staircase  seemed  so  dark — our  apartments  ap- 
peared so  low, — however,  being  tired,  we  all  slept  well,  at 
least  I  did,  for  I  was  in  no  humour  to  talk  to  Sally,  and  the 
only  topic  I  could  think  upon  before  I  dropped  into  my 
slumber,  was  a  calculation  of  the  amount  of  expenses  which 
I  had  incurred  during  the  just  expired  year  of  my  great- 
ness. 

In  the  morning  we  assembled  at  breakfast, — a  note  lay 
on  the  table,  addressed — "  Mrs.  Scropps,  Budge  Row." 
The  girls,  one  after  the  other,  took  it  up,  read  the  super- 
scription, and  laid  it  down  again.  A  visitor  was  announ- 
ced— a  neighbour  and  kind  friend,  a  man  of  wealth  and 
importance—what  were  his  first  words  ? — they  were  the 
first  I  had  heard  from  a  stranger  since  my  job, — "  How 
are  you,  Scropps,  done  up,  eh  ?" 

Scropps!  no  obsequiousness,  no  deference,  no  respect; 


—no,  "my  lord,  I  hope  your  lordship  passed  an  agreeable 
night — and  how  is  her  ladyship  and  your  lordship's  amiable 
daughters?" — not  a  bit  of  it — "How's  Mrs.  S.  and  the 
gals  ?"  This  was  quite  natural,  all  as  it  had  been,  all 
perhaps  as  it  should  be — but  how  unlike  what  it  was,  only 
one  day  before  !  The  very  servants,  who,  when  amidst  the 
strapping,  stall-fed,  gold-laced  lacqueys  of  the  Mansion 
House,  (transferred  with  the  chairs  and  tables  from  one 
Lord  Mayor  to  another)  dared  not  speak  nor  look,  nor  say 
their  lives  were  their  own,  strutted  about  the  house,  and 
banged  the  doors,  and  talked  of  their  "  Missis,"  as  if  she 
had  been  an  apple  woman. 

So  much  for  domestic  miseries; — I  went  out — I  was 
shoved  about  in  Cheapside  in  the  most  remorseless  manner! 
my  right  eye  had  a  narrow  escape  of  being  poked  out  by  the 
tray  of  a  brawny  butcher's  boy,  who,  when  I  civilly  remon- 
strated, turned  round  and  said,"  Vy,  I  says,  who  are  you  I 
vonder,  as  is  so  partiklar  about  your  hysight."  I  felt  an 
involuntary  shudder, — to-day,  thought  I,  I  am  John  Eben- 
ezer  Scropps — two  days  ago  I  was  Lord  Mayor;  and  so 
the  rencontre  ended,  evidently  to  the  advantage  of  the 
bristly  brute.  It  was  however  too  much  for  me — the  effect 
of  contrast  was  too  powerful,  the  change  was  too  sudden — 
and  I  determined  to  go  to  Brighton  for  a  few  weeks  to  re- 
fresh myself,  and  be  weaned  from  my  dignity. 

We  went — we  drove  to  the  Royal  Hotel;  in  the  hall 
stood  one  of  his  Majesty's  ministers,  one  of  my  former 
guests,  speaking  to  his  lady  and  daughter :  my  girls  passed 
close  to  him, — he  had  handed  one  of  them  to  dinner  the 
year  before,  but  he  appeared  entirely  to  have  forgotten  her. 
By  and  by,  when  we  were  going  out  in  a  fly  to  take  the  air, 
one  of  the  waiters  desired  the  fly  man  to  pull  off,  because 
Sir  Something  Somebody's  carriage  could  not  come  up, — it 
was  clear  that  the  name  of  Scropps  had  lost  its  influence. 

We  secluded  ourselves  in  a  private  house,  where  we  did 
nothing  but  sigh  and  look  at  the  sea.  We  had  been  totally 
spoiled  for  our  proper  sphere,  and  could  not  get  into  a 
better;  the  indifference  of  our  inferiors  mortified  us,  and 
the  familiarity  of  our  equals  disgusted  us, — our  potentiality 
was  gone,  and  we  were  so  much  degraded  that  a  puppy  of  a 
fellow  had  the  impertinence  to  ask  Jenny  if  she  was  going 
to  one  of  the  Old  Ship  balls.  "Of  course,"  said  the  cox- 
comb, "  I  don't  mean  the  '  Almacks,'  for  thev  are  uncom- 
monly select." 

In  short,  do  what  we  would,  go  where  we  might,  we  were 
outraged  and  annoyed,  at  least  thought  ourselves  so ;  and 
beyond  all  bitterness  was  the  reflection,  that  the  days  of 
our  dignity  and  delight  never  might  return.  There  were 
at  Brighton  no  less  than  three  men  who  called  me  Jack, 
and  iAa^  out  of  flies  or  in  libraries,  and  one  of  these  chose 
occasionally,  by  way  of  making  himself  particularly  agree- 
able, to  address  me  by  the  familiar  appellation  of  Jacky. 
At  length,  and  that  only  three  weeks  after  my  fall,  an 
overgrown    tallow  chandler   met  us  on  the  Steyne,  and 


5i 


stopped  our  party  to  observe,  "  as  how  he  thought  he  owed 
me  for  two  barrels  of  coal  tar,  for  doing  over  his  pigstyes." 
This  settled  it, — we  departed  from  Brighton,  and  made  a 
tour  of  the  coast;  but  we  never  rallied;  and  business, 
which  must  be  minded,  drove  us  before  Christmas  to  Budge 
Row,  where  we  are  again  settled  down. 

Maria  has  grown  thin — Sarah  has  turned  methodist — 
and  Jenny,  whodanced  with  his  Excellency  the  Portuguese 
Ambassador,  who  was  called  angelic  by  the  Right  Honour- 
able the  Lord  Privy  Seal,  and  who  moreover  refused  a 
man  of  fortune  because  he  had  an  ugly  name,  is  going  to 
be  married  to  Lieutenant  Stodge,  on  the  half  pay  of  the 
Royal  Marines — and  what  then  ? — I  am  sure  if  it  were  not 
for  the  females  of  my  family  I  should  be  perfectly  at  my 
ease  in  my  proper  sphere,  out  of  which  the  course  of  our 
civic  constitution  raised  me.  It  was  unpleasant  at  best : — 
but  I  have  toiled  long  and  laboured  hard  ;  I  have  done  my 
duty,  and  Providence  has  blessed  my  works.  If  we  were 
discomposed  at  the  sudden  change  in  our  station,  I  it  is 
who  was  to  blame  for  having  aspired  to  honours  which  I 
knew  were  not  to  last-  However  the  ambition  was  not 
dishonourable,  nor  did  I  disgrace  the  station  while  I  held 
it ;  and  when  I  see,  as  in  the  present  year,  that  station 
filled  by  a  man  of  education  and  talent,  of  high  character 
and  ample  fortune,  I  discover  no  cause  to  repent  of  having 
been  one  of  his  predecessors.  Indeed  I  ought  to  apologize 
for  making  public  the  weakness  by  which  we  were  all 
a£Fected ;  especially  as  I  have  myself  already  learned  to 
laugh  at  what  we  all  severely  felt  at  first — the  miseries  of  a 
Sflendid  Annual. 


THE  YOUNG  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

Forget  me  not — forget  me  not— 

When,  dearest !  thou  art  far  away ; 
When  happier  fortunes  gild  thy  lot. 

And  Heaven  bestows  a  brighter  day, 
Thou  wilt  not,  then,  thy  faith  betray; 

Thou  wilt  not  from  remembrance  blot 
The  parting  vows  we  pledge  to-day — 

Forget  me  not — forget  me  not ! 

Think  who,  in  hours  of  grief  and  gloom, 

When  friends  and  kindred  false  had  proved. 
Unchanging  shared  thy  darker  doom, 

And  link'd  her  fate  to  thine  unmoved, 
Reckless  of  all,  save  that  she  loved:— 

Nought  heeded  I,  in  that  dear  cot, 
Who  blamed,  or  pitied,  or  reproved  :— 

Forget  me  not — forget  me  not ! 


Thou  goest  to  raise  a  fallen  name, 

To  win  the  wealth  we  long  have  spared : 
Dearest,  wilt  thou  return  the  same  ? 

Bring  me  the  heart  none  else  hath  shared, 
And  thou  shalt  find  me  well  prepared 

To  live,  to  die  in  that  lone  spot 
Where  all  was  mine  I  ask'd  or  cared 

Forget  me  not — forget  me  not ! 

If,  while  with  tears  of  love  for  thee. 
Nightly  my  wakeful  eyes  are  wet ; 

I,  while  my  cheek — where'er  I  be— 
Is  pale  with  ceaseless  fond  regret, 

Thou  wilt  not  all  our  love  forget- 
Then  shall  I  never  be  forgot. 

Nor  needs  my  heart  to  whisper  yet, 
Forget  me  not — forget  me  not ! 


A  LOVER'S  HOUR. 

A  STAR  was  twinkling  in  the  west, 

And  rising  o'er  our  woody  hill; 
The  moon,  upspringing  from  her  nest, 

Turn'd  looks  of  light  on  lake  and  rill ; 
Afar  was  heard  the  surging  sea 

Rustling  o'er  the  pebbled  strand, 
A  low  dull  moan, — it  seem'd  to  be 

The  ripple  dying  on  the  sand  ! 

Soft  flow'd  our  thoughts  that  twilight  hour, 

As  I  sat  by  thee  in  that  lolely  bower, 
And  gazed  uncheck'd  on  those  dark  fringed  eyes, 

Where  I  saw  reflected  the  deep  blue  skies. 
And  felt  thy  averted  glance  revealing 

The  tenderness  which,  o'er  thee  stealing. 
Made  thee  turn  gently  round  with  one  full  look, 

A  brief,  a  single  look  ! — and  all  was  told  ! 

Sweet  were  our  thoughts  that  silent  hour, 

As  the  moonbeams  chequer'd  through  our  bower  ; 

And  when  our  shadows  startled  thee. 
And  closer  still  thou  crept  to  me, 

I  felt  thy  bosom  quickly  prest 

One  yielding  moment  to  my  breast! 

Earth  was  forgot— it  was  holy  bliss 

To  love  a  maiden  so  gentle  as  thee  ; 
And  though  we  met  in  one  deep  kiss. 

Our  hearts  were  calm  as  that  evening  sea. 
And  then  thy  band  was  placed  in  mine. 

And  we  knelt  'mid  flowers  in  the  pale  moonshine ; 
And  we   vow'd   in  our    hearts — for  no    words  were 
spoken— 

That  the  link  of  true  love  should  never  be  broken ! 


STIRLING   CASTLE, 

AND    TOWN. 

The  approach  to  which  is  thus  desrribed  hy  Scott  :  — 
"With  a  mind  more  at  ease,  Waverley  ctnild  not  have 
failed  to  admire  the  mixture  of  romance  and  beauty  which 
renders  interesting  the  scene  through  which  he  was  now 
passing — the  field  which  had  been  the  scene  of  the  tourna- 
ments of  old—the  rock  from  which  the  ladies  beheld  the 
contest,  while  each  made  vows  for  the  success  of  some 
favourite  knight — the  towers  of  the  gothic  church,  where 
these  vows  might  be  paid — and,  surmounting  all,  the 
fortress  itself,  at  once  a  castle  and  palace,  where  valour 
received  the  prizes  from  royalty,  and  knights  and  dames 
closed  the  evening  amidst  the  revelry  of  the  dance,  the 
song,  and  the  feast.  All  these  were  fitted  to  arouse  and 
interest  a  romantic  imagination." 

It  was  here  that  the  party  of  Balmawhapple,  while 
passing  the  fortress,  were  saluted  with  a  bullet;  in  return 
for  which  compliment  the  valiant  laird  discharged  his  pistol 
at  the  inhospitable  rock. 

In  approaching  the  town  from  the  West,  in  addition  to 
the  castle-hill,  which  has  been  the  scene  of  encounters  so 
numerous,  that  a  bare  list  would  occupy  more  room  than 
we  can  spare,  the  traveller  sees  before  him  three  other  hills, 
all  famous  Golgothas,  and  all  celebrated  in  song  and  history. 
One  of  these  is  the  Abbey  Craig  where  the  Scots  were 
posted  on  the  day  the  English  crossed  the  Forth  to  receive 
80  memorable  a  defeat  from  Wallace ;  the  second  is  the 
Gilleis  Hill,  the  western  termination  of  the  field  Ban- 
nockburn ;  and  the  third  Sauchie  Hill,  where  the  battle 
was  fought  between  James  III.  and  his  rebellious  subjects, 
which  ended  in  the  defeat  and  death  of  that  monarch. 

On  the  plain  opposite  the  castle  the  conflict  took  place 
in  1297,  which  established  the  military  reputation  of 
Wallace,  and  led  the  way  to  the  ultimate  deliverance  of  the 
kingdom.  The  skill  of  the  Scottish  general  would  seem  to 
be  consummate,  from  the  account  of  the  battle ;  but  it 
may  be  a  question  how  far  he  was  indebted  to  the  want  of 
skill  on  the  part  of  the  English  commander. 

The  town  of  Stirling  is  built  on  a  ridge  of  rock,  rising 
from  east  to  west,  and  terminated  by  a  lofty  precipice,  on 
which  the  castle  stands.  The  very  same  description  applies 
to  Edinburgh ;  and  yet  the  character  of  the  two  towns  is 
altogether  dififerent.  The  hills  and  precipices  around 
Edinburgh,  form  part  of  the  magnificent  picture,  of  which 
the  city  is  the  principal  object,  and  while  they  obstruct  the 
view,  elevate  its  beauty  almost  to  the  sublime.  Stirling,  on 
the  contrary,  raising  its  lofty  head  from  a  carse  or  plain, 
of  immense  extent,  and  said  to  have  once  been  the  bed  of 
the  Frith  of  Forth,  is  almost  isolated.  The  view  from  the 
castle- hill  extends,  on  a  clear  day,  to  the  capital  itself; 
while,  on  the  other  points  of  the  compass,  it  is  only  bounded 


by  the  Ochil  and  Campsie  hills,  and  the  gigantic  bulk  of 
Ben-Lomond. 

This  rock  was  the  seat  of  a  fortress  at  a  very  early  date  ; 
but,  till  the  accession  of  the  house  of  Stewart,  very  little  is 
known  about  its  fortunes.  It  was  the  birth-place  of  James 
II.,  and  a  favourite  residence  of  succeeding  princes.  The 
palace  was  built  by  James  V.  Its  form  is  quadrangle ; 
the  exterior  walls  are  of  polished  stone;  and  the 
whole  is  ornamented  with  statues,  in  the  taste  of  that 
amorous  prince.  On  the  south  angle,  of  which  the  archi- 
tecture is  much  plainer,  there  is  an  apartmentcalled"  Dou- 
glas's Room,"  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  scene  of 
the  murder  of  one  of  that  family,  perpetrated  by  James  II., 
with  his  own  hand.  If  the  tradition  be  correct,  this  portion 
of  the  building  is,  of  course,  the  most  ancient. 


THE  POPPY. 

He  wildly  errs  who  thinks  1  yield 
Precedence  in  the  well-clothed  field. 

Though  mixed  with  wheat  I  grow  : 
Indulgent  Ceres  knew  my  worth, 
And  to  adorn  the  teeming  earth, 

She  bade  the  Poppy  blow 

Nor  vainly  gay  the  sight  to  please, 
But  blessed  with  power  mankind  to  ease, 
The  Goddess  saw  me  rise  : 

•  Thrive  with  the  life-supporting  grain,' 
She  cried, '  the  solace  of  the  swain, 

The  cordial  of  his  eyes. 

•  Seize,  happy  mortal !  seize  the  good; 
My  hand  supplies  thy  sleep  and  food, 

And  makes  thee  truly  blest : 
With  plenteous  meals  enjoy  the  day, 
In  slumbers  pass  the  night  away, 

And  leave  to  fate  the  rest.' 


Maxims. Make  your  heart  your  happiest  home,  and 

you  will  always  be  in  the  best  company ;  for  your  thoughts 
will  never  drive  you  into  dissipation  by  self-reproach. 

Consider  the  wise  as   the  most  honourable  part  of 
society,  and  the  virtuous  as  the  wisest. 


66 


iMTIKB-ffi  S 


J^TicWi  <a>K^    cJ'U^/ia/  ^:2^a^^^i^ull■'^  JA.., 


J^narz-vcd  tv  ^.  JiensKoM.  . 


^£^PZ.?U72a!/y7ZjiP. 


I.<mami,'M)lisheiAug'l»'=1834.ty  Siinpkin.  fc  MiCshaJL  Stationer  s  Coiir'-.  St  J.W.  StevsTis,  lO.DerbrStreot  Kngs  Cros 


4 


FOTHERINGAY. 


BY   THE    REV.   J,    FARBT. 


I  STOOD  upon  the  solitary  mound, 

Where  the  proud  castle  once  upreared  its  Keep  ; 

And  as  I  paced  within  the  grassy  round, 

Which  far-gone  Time  hath  hallowed — from  their  sleep 

A  thousand  visions  thronged  the  mental  eye, 

Raised  from  the  sepulchres  of  memory- 

Before  me  frowned  a  lone  and  shattered  wall, 
The  wreck  of  many  years,  and  at  its  base 
A  river  poured  its  waters  musical ; 
Whilst  in  the  distant  landscape  I  might  trace 
The  tangled  forest's  outlines,  and  around 
All  Nature's  glories  in  each  sight  and  sound. 

And  in  its  antique  beauty  rising  high. 

Yon  '  House  of  Prayer,'  which  passing  years  have  swept 

Less  fiercely  than  the  wrecks  that  round  it  lie — 

Spoiled  of  its  earlier  grace,  that  Fane  hath  kept 

Much  of  its  spleudour  still :  its  long  array 

Of  shaft  and  arch  yet  triumphs  o'er  decay. 

But  not  on  things  like  these  the  Pilgrim  dwells  : 
He  communes  with  far  other  themes,  and  holds 
Converse  with  the  departed :  from  the  cells 
Of  recollection  all  the  past  unfolds 
Its  treasures  ;  and  upon  the  raptured  gaze 
All  gorgeous  still,  the  pomp  of  vanished  days 

Descends  :  or,  in  some  sadder  mood,  may  rise 
The  thoughts  of  her,  who  in  her  latter  years 
Counted  the  lonely  watches,  and  with  eyes 
Dimmed  by  the  agony  of  burning  tears, 
Tears  such  as  captives  shed,  saw  hope  depart, 
And  knew  too  well  the  sickness  of  the  heart. 

Yes — ruined  Keep  !  her's  is  the  name  that  flings 
Such  witchery  o'er  thee  ;  nor  may  Time  efface 
The  spell  that  wins  us,  in  our  wanderings. 
To  walk  where  Mary  walked,  and  fondly  trace 
All  that  reminds  the  spirit  of  her  doom. 
Her  hanless  beauty,  and  her  bloody  tomb. 

And  Schiller's  glowing  song  hath  shed  around 
Thy  time-worn  ruins,  Fotheringay!  a  charm 
Which  may  not  perish  :  all  is  holy  ground 
Where  the  Bard's  step  hath  been,  and  ripe  and  warm 
The  young  creations  of  his  mind  appear. 
Gathering  fresh  fame  as  wanes  each  fleeting  year. 


Then  fare  thee  well !  thou  lonely,  moss-grown  wall— 

I  had  not  greeted  thee  with  idle  lay, 

But  that  my  feelings  prompt  me  to  recall 

A  pilgrimage — the  journey  of  a  day — 

In  which  I  roved,  well-pleased,  and  at  my  side 

A  Friend,  right-dearly  loved — in  good  and  evil  tried. 


UNRENEWED  YEARS. 

BY   WILLIS   GAYLOHD   CLABK,   BSQ. 

I  KNOW  not  why  thus  on  my  heart 

A  cloud  of  early  sorrows  fall; 
Bidding  each  gentle  thrill  depart. 

And  waking  sighs  unspeakable : 
Why  Love  just  laughed  upon  my  way. 

And  scattered  a  few  blossoms  there: 
When  came  the  mildew  of  decay: 

And  rushed  the  tempest  of  despair. 

I  know  not  when  the  golden  dream. 
Which  stirred  my  heart  in  thankfulness, 

Which  shed  o'er  earth  a  feerless  gleam, 
Will  ere  again  my  spirit  bless: 

It  was  too  much  of  bliss,  to  stay 

About  my  changeful  pathway  long ; 

It  passed  like  summer  clouds  away- 
Like  the  rich  cadence  of  a  song. 

Perchance  it  ne'er  will  come  again— 

And  Earth  will  never  wear  a  smile 
So  bright  above  its  wide  domain. 

The  unsullied  bosom  to  beguile: 
It  is  not  meet  that  Joy  should  fling 

His  light  around  my  pathway  here  ; 
For  Time  hath  clipped  his  painted  wing. 

And  dimmed  his  radiant  atmosphere. 

I  know  not  wherefore ; — ^but  my  hours 

Pass  like  a  sad  and  funeral  train  ; 
And  gathering  Memory's  wasted  flowers, 

My  soul  returns  to  Youth  again  ;— 
And,  in  its  varied  light  and  shade, 

I  see  how  much  my  heart  is  changed— 
What  wrecks  the  tide  of  years  hath  made 

Where  childhood's  frolic  feet  nave  ranged ! 

Roll  on,  ungentle  tide  ! — I  feel 

The  gladness  of  a  hope  withm. 
Which  Sorrow  cannot  all  conceal. 

E'en  when  its  darkest  hours  begin! 
Life  is  the  Journey  of  a  Day, 

And  rest  awaits  its  even-tide. 
When  the  unfettered  soul  can  lay 

This  weight  of  cumbrous  dust  aside  ! 
Philadelphia,  1830. 


WEARIE'S  WELL. 

In  a  saft  simmer  gloamin, 

In  yon  dowie  dell, 
It  was  there  we  twa  first  met 

By  Wearie's  cauld  well. 
We  sat  on  the  brume  bank, 

And  look'd  in  the  burn, 
But  side-lang  we  look'd  on 

Ilkitherin  urn. 

The  corn-craik  was  chirming 

His  sad  eerie  cry, 
And  the  wee  stars  were  dreaming 

Their  path  through  the  sky. 
The  burn  babbled  freely 

Its  luve  to  each  flower, 
But  we  heard  and  wo  saw  nought 
In  that  blessed  hour. 

We  heard  and  we  saw  nought 

Above  or  around. 
We  felt  that  our  luve  lived. 

And  loathed  idle  sound, 
I  gazed  on  that  sweet  face 

Till  tears  fiU'd  mine  e'e, 
And  they  drapt  on  your  wee  loof 

A  warld's  wealth  to  me ! 

Now  the  winter  snaw's  fa'in 

On  bare  holm  and  le  i ; 
And  the  cauld  wind  is  strippin' 

Ilk  leaf  aff  the  tree ; 
But  the  snaw  fa's  not  faster. 

The  leaf  disna  part 
Sae  sune  frae  the  bough,  as 

Faith  fades  in  your  heart. 

Ye've  waled  out  anither 

Your  bridegroom  to  be ; 
But  can  his  heart  love  sae 

As  mine  luvit  thee  ? 
Ye'll  get  biggins  and  mailing. 

And  mony  braw  claes ; 
But  they  a'  winna  buy  back 

The  peace  o'  past  days. 

Fareweel,  and  for  ever . 

My  first  luve  and  last ; 
May  thy  joys  be  to  cume. 

Mine  live  in  the  past. 
In  sorrow  and  sadness. 

This  hour  fa's  on  me; 
But  light,  as  thy  love,  may 

It  fleet  over  thee. 


THE  SCULPTOR  LORTA. 

A    RBCOLLBCTION  OF  THE  GRAND    TRIANON  AT  VERSAILLES. 

Within  the  walls,  the  marble  walls 

Of  Trianon,  a  statue's  shewn. 
Of  LovB,  who  pensively  recalls, 

'Midst  scattered  flowers,  some  pleasure  flown. 

But  he  who  formed  it — he  to  whom 

It  rose  a  vision  of  delight. 
Is  shrouded  now  in  cheerless  gloom. 

And  wanders  in  perpetual  night. 

With  that  pure  thirst  for  fame  alone, 
Which  conquers  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain. 

He  laboured  at  the  chissel'd  stone  : 
'Twas  finished — but  ne'er  seen  again. 

Yet,  old  and  blind,  he  oft  will  stand 

Amidst  the  crowd  that  comes  to  gaze, 
And  touch  the  marble  with  his  hand. 

And  trace  the  work  of  happier  days. 

How,  round  his  heart,  that  touch  must  draw 

A  world  of  feelings  cherished  yet ! 
Twas  the  last  object  that  he  saw — 
'Twill  be  the  last  he  can  forget. 


MATIN-SONG. 

The  day's  wan  light  breaks  fair  and  far. 
The  wave  is  restless  on  the  stream ; — 

Dallying  with  the  morning  star, 

It  rocks  the  slight  and  silvery  beam. 

Freshly  the  heart  of  day  is  breathing! 

The  wild-flower  trembles  for  the  bee: — 
On  ocean's  cheek  a  smile  is  wreathing, 

Tenderly  and  merrily ! 

The  sky-lark  leaves  its  nest. 

With  pearls  upon  its  breast; — 
From  its  nested  sedge  the  crowned  swan  glides,  sio'.r. 
And  forth  into  the  morning,  like  the  light,  doth  go : 


5« 


THE  PERSIAN  LOVERS. 

The  Sun  was  in  his  western  chamber 

Sunk  on  his  cloudy  ottomans, 
All  tissued  scarlet,  gold,  and  amber ; 

The  beeezes  round  him  waved  their  fans. 
Below,  the  twilight  ting'd  the  water; 

The  bee  was  humming  through  the  roses ; 
The  ringdove  told  what  nature  taught  her : 

'Tis  thus  a  Persian  evening  closes. 

Who  paces  with  such  fairy  feet 

Beside  that  fountain's  dewy  gushings  ? 
Why  does  her  heart  so  wildly  beat, 

Why  paint  her  cheek  those  crimson  flushings  ? 
Why,  like  the  fawn  from  hunters  flying, 

Those  glances  through  the  perfum'd  grove  ? 
Why  panting,  weeping,  smiling,  sighing  ? 

Thus  Persian  maidens  fall  in  love. 

But  see,  the  rustling  of  the  blossoms. 

Like  snow,  a  warrior  shakes  them  round  him ; 
And  to  the  loveliest  of  all  bosoms 

Swears  that  its  spells  for  life  have  bound  him. 
The  turtle (-i'er  them  waves  its  wing; 

In  silver  o'er  them  smiles  the  Moon  ; 
And  still  the  Persian  maidens  sing 

The  iovea  of  Osmyn  and  Meiuoua. 


RURAL  PICTURE. 

Nor  could  the  pencil  of  Poussin  or  Claude  have  em- 
bodied upon  their  canvas  a  more  delightful  picture  of  rural 
loveliness  and  solitude,  than  that  which  has  been  drawn 
for  us  by  the  sweet  fancy  of  Sidney  and  his  sister. 

*  Lord  !  dear  Cousin,'  said  he, '  doth  not  the  pleasantness 
of  this  place  carry  in  itself  sufficient  reward  for  any  time 
lost  in  it  ? — do  you  not  see  how  all  the  things  conspire  to- 
gether to  make  the  Country  a  heavenly  dwelling  ? — do  you 
not  see  the  Grass,  how  in  colour  they  excel  the  emerald, 
every  one  striving  to  pass  his  fellow,  and  yet  they  are  all 
kept  of  an  equal  height  ? — and  see  you  not  the  rest  of  those 
beautiful  Flowers,  each  of  which  would  require  a  man's 
wit  to  know,  and  his  life  to  express  ? — do  not  these  stately 
Trees  seem  to  maintain  their  flourishing  old  age  with  the 
only  happiness  of  their  being  clothed  with  a  continual 
spring,  because  no  beautv  here  should  ever  fade  ? — doth 
not  the  Air  breathe  health,  which  the  Birds,  delightful 
both  to  ear  and  eye,  do  daily  solemnize  with  the  sweet  con- 
sent of  their  voices?  is  not  every  Echo  thereof  a  perfect 


music  ?  and  those  tresh  and  delightful  Brooks,  how  slowly 
they  slide  away,  as  loth  to  leave  the  company  of  so  many 
things  united  in  perfection,  and  with  how  sweet  a  murmur 
they  lament  their  forced   departure  1' 


SONG. 

Under  the  green-wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie,  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  birds'  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  Ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i*  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets  ; 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

THE  TIDE  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

A    SONNET. 

Hark  !  the  loud  breakers  dash  against  the  shore. 

Whilst  midnight  spreads  her  shadowy  pall  around  ; 

Now,  venturing  forth,  amid  the  gloom  profound, 
We  listen  to  the  waters'  thundering  roar, 
And  God  in  His  maguiflcence  adore. 

But  soon  the  mighty  waves,  with  rushing  sound, 

Their  destin'd  course  roil  o'er  th'  accustom'd  ground. 
As,  trembling,  we  the  dubious  bank  explore ; 

And  now  the  dashing  of  the  salt  sea-spray 
Warns  our  swift  footsteps  from  the  shelvy  coast, 

Whilst  not  a  star  affords  a  glimmering  ray, 
Shrouded  in  misty  veil  the  heavenly  host ; 

But  lights  phosphoric  on  the  billows  play, 
A  glittering  squadron  at  their  nightly  post! 

E.J.  T 

Mkdicine. — Akenside  one  day  defended  medicine 
against  the  raillery  of  Saxby,  who  was  something  of  a 
cynic.  After  having  parried  all  the  Doctor's  arguments, 
so  as  to  keep  the  laugh  continually  in  his  favour,  Saxby 
hastily  exclaimed — "  Bold,  Doctor,  I  will  tell  you  once  for 
all,  what  1  think  of  your  profession  :  the  ancients  took  much 
pains  to  make  a  science  of  it ;  but  did  not  accomplish  it : 
the  moderns  set  about  making  it  a  trade,  and  they  have 
completely  succeeded." 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DAYS  OF  CHIVALRY. 

O,  FOR  Knighthood's  golden  time 

When  Romance  was  yet  adored. 
When  Love  wrought  the  minstrel  rhyme, 

When  Love  drew  the  warrior  sword,— 
When  in  woman's  eye  to  shine, 

Every  deed  of  fame  was  done ; 
Peace  the  garland  used  to  twine. 

War  flung  down  the  banner  won. 

Then  was  Love  no  idle  dream, 

Lightly  come  and  lightly  past, 
But  a  pure  and  holy  beam 

Burning  brightly  to  the  last; 
Leading  on  the  young  and  brave 

To  the  charge  of  steel-clad  men. 
To  the  peril  of  the  wave. 

To  the  dragon  in  his  den. 

On  it  led  through  court  and  camp 

Raging  floods,  and  battle  heath, 
Cheering  Faith  in  dungeon-damp, 

Gilding  e'en  the  form  of  death: 
When  the  hero  dying  lay, 

Borne  to  earth  in  bloody  strife; 
O'er  him  still  the  constant  ray 

Lit  the  hour  of  parting  life. 

Were  it  Knighthood's  golden  time, 

When  Romance  was  yet  adored, 
I  for  Love  would  weave  the  rhyme 

I  for  Love  unsheath  the  sword; 
But  remains  alone  for  me, 

Of  a  time  so  fair  and  bright. 
True  in  Love  as  then  to  be. 

And  to  mourn  departed  light. 


OVER  THE  SEA. 

Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea, 

Lies  the  land  that  is  loved  by  me ; 

A  sunnier  sky  may  be  over  my  head. 

And  a  richer  soil  beneath  my  tread, 

And  a  softer  speech  in  my  ears  be  rung. 

Than  the  notes  of  my  own  wild  mountain  tongue ; 

But  never,  0,  never  so  dear  to  me 

Can  the  loveliest  spot  in  this  wide  world  be. 

As  the  bleak  cold  land,  where  the  heather  waves 

Round  the  place  of  my  birth,  o'er  my  fathers'  graves. 


Ocean  is  wide,  and  his  storms  are  rude, 

And  my  heart  feels  faint  in  its  solitude, 

To  think  of  the  terrible  gulf  that  lies 

Betwixt  me  and  all  that  my  soul  doth  prize; 

And  I  gaze  for  hours  on  the  measureless  deep, 

Till  my  heart  could  break,  though  I  cannot  weep ; 

And  I  feel  the  desire  of  my  soul  in  vain, 

That  the  land  of  my  sires  I  shall  ne'er  see  again, 

That  my  tomb  shall  be  hollowed  out  where  now  I  stand^ 

And  my  eyelids  be  closed  by  some  unknown  hand. 

Mark  not  the  spot  where  my  bones  are  laid. 

Whether  it  be  in  the  dark  forest  shade. 

Or  fast  by  the  beach  where  the  wild  wave  lashes, 

Or  deep  in  the  pass  where  the  hill-torrent  dashes 

Or  high  on  the  cliff  where  the  eagle  sweeps — 

What  matters  it  where  the  stranger  sleeps  ? 

But  over  the  sea,  over  the  sea. 

How  then  shall  my  chainless  spirit  flee 

Back  to  the  land  that  I  love  so  well, 

To  the  craggy  steep,  and  the  heathy  dell. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  FAM^. 

Minstrel,  though  gay  and  gliltering  throngs 

Court  thee  with  ardent  zeal, 
And  lavish  praises  on  the  songs 

Beyond  their  power  to  feel ; 
Oh !  build  not  on  those  specious  arts. 

The  honours  of  thy  name. 
In  simpler  scenes,  in  warmer  hearts, 

Seek  for  thy  truest  fame. 

Where'er  a  gifted  band  are  met 

Around  the  quiet  hearth. 
Who,  wrapt  in  thy  sweet  strains,  forget 

The  gilded  toys  of  earth ; 
Where'er  the  student's  midnight  hours. 

Sacred  to  learning's  claim. 
Are  brightened  by  thy  magic  powers, 

There,  rest  for  thy  real  fame. 

Thine  is  the  soul  refined  and  high. 

And  thine  the  hallowed  lyre. 
Can  worldly  minds  to  such  reply 

With  pure  congenial  fire  ? 
Oh  !  sigh  not  their  applause  to  own, 

Nor  heed  their  fickle  blame. 
But  seek  in  kindred  hearts  alone, 

For  true  and  changeless  fame. 


60 


F  I  S  M  IS 


©  X  S  . 


oj}i^m^  ///^  6//i^:?ialJ_^/u/m^  /L  %.^3m^^i^. 


inxarai/id-  bif  K  Srruih  . 


-^ 


A  SONG  OF  DELOS. 


BY-  MRS,    HEMAN3, 

It  wil  be  remembered,  that  this  beautiful  island  was  sacred  to  the 
ancient  Greeks,  from  having  been  the  birth-place  of  Apollo  and 
Diana,  None  were  born  or  died  there — the  mothers  and  the  dying 
were  carried  to  the  neighbouring  islet  of  Rhane.  Solemn  expe- 
ditions, with  much  priestly  pomp,  were  frequently  made  from 
Athens  to  enforce  this  ordinance,  particularly  to  propitiate  the 
Gods  in  time  of  public  calamity.  Our  era  refers  to  the  celebrated 
lustration,  at  the  time  of  the  Pelopounesian  war,  during  the  plague 
of  Athens, 


A  SONG  was  heard  of  old — a  low,  sweet  song. 

On  the  blue  seas  by  Delos:  from  that  isle, 

The  Sun-God's  own  domain,  a  gentle  girl. 

Gentle — yet  all  inspired  of  soul,  of  mien, 

Lit  with  a  life  too  perilously  bright, 

Was  borne  away  to  die.     How  beautiful 

Seems  this  world  to  the  dying  I — but  for  her 

The  child  of  beauty  and  of  poesy. 

And  of  soft  Grecian  skies — oh  I  who  may  dream 

Of  all  that  from  her  changeful  eye  flashed  forth. 

Or  glanced  more  quiveriugly  through  starry  tears. 

As  on  her  land's  rich  vision,  fane  o'er  fane 

Coloured  with  loving  light — she  gazed  her  last, 

Her  young  life's  last,  that  hour  !     From  her  pale  brow 

And  burning  cheek  she  threw  the  ringlets  back. 

And  bending  forward — as  the  spirit  swayed 

The  reed-like  form  still  to  the  shore  beloved, 

Breathed  the  swan-music  «f  her  wild  farewell 

O'er  dancing  waves  : — "  Oh!  linger  yet,"  she  cried  ; 

"  Oh  !  linger,  linger  on  the  oar, 
Oh  !  pause  upon  the  deep  ! 
That  I  may  gaze  yet  once,  once  more. 
Where  floats  the  golden  day  o'er  fane  and  steep. 
Never  so  brightly  smiled  mine  own  sweet  shore : 
— Oh  !  linger,  linger  on  the  parting  oar! 

"  I  see  the  laurels  fling  back  showers 
Of  soft  light  still  on  many  a  shrine; 
I  see  the  path  to  haunts  of  flowers 
Through  the  dim  olives  lead  its  gleaming  line  j 
I  hear  a  sound  of  flutes — a  swell  of  song — 
Mine  is  too  low  to  reach  that  joyous  throng  1 

"  Oh !  linger  linger,  on  the  oar, 
Beneath  my  native  sky  ! 
Though  breathing  from  the  radiant  shore 
Voices  of  youth  too  sweetly  wander  by ! 
Mine  hath  no  part  in  all  their  summer-mirth, 
Yet  back  they  call  me  to  the  laughing  earth. 


"  A  fatal  gift  hath  been  thy  dower, 
Lord  of  the  Lyre  !  to  me  ; 
With  song  and  wreath  from  bower  to  bower, 
Sisters  went  bounding  like  young  Oreads  free  ; 
While  I,  through  long,  lone,  voiceless  hours  apait, 
Have  lain  and  listened  to  my  beating  heart, 

"  Now,  wasted  by  the  inborn  fire, 
I  sink  to  early  rest; 
The  ray  that  lit  the  incense-pyre. 
Leaves  unto  death  its  temple  in  my  breast. 
O  sunshine,  skies,  rich  flowers !  too  soon  I  go. 
While  round  me  thus  triumphantly  ye  glow ! 

"  Bright  Isle !  might  but  thine  echoes  keep 
A  tone  of  my  farewell, 
One  tender  accent,  low  and  deep, 
'Shrined  'midst  they  founts  and  haunted  rocks  to  dwell ! 
Might  my  last  breath  send  music  to  thy  shore! 
— Oh  linger,  seamen,  linger  on  the  oar ' 


THE  BISCAYEN  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Oh!  softly  falls  the  foot  of  love 

Where  those  he  worships  rest, 
More  gently  than  a  mother  bird, 

Who  seeks  her  downy  nest. 
And  thus  I  steal  to  thee,  beloved. 

Beneath  the  dark  blue  night: 
O  come  to  our  unconijuer'd  hills. 

For  there  the  stars  are  bright. 

Oh !  pleasant  'tis  to  wander  out. 

When  only  thou  and  I 
Are  there,  to  speak  our  happy  thought 

To  that  far  silent  sky! 
The  valleys  down  beneath  are  full 

Of  voices  and  of  men ; 
Oh  !  come  to  our  untrodden  hills. 

They  will  not  tell  again. 

The  balmy  air  may  breathe  as  sweet, 

With  perfume  floating  slow ; 
But  here  where  thou  and  I  may  roam. 

The  fresh  wild  breezes  blow; 
Oh!  here  each  little  floweret  seems 

To  know  that  it  is  free: 
The  winds  on  our  unconquer'd  hills 

Are  full  of  liberty ! 


61 


ELEGY. 

BY   THE    ETRICK   SHEPHERD. 

Fair  was  thy  blossom,  tender  flower. 

That  open'd  like  the  rose  in  May, 
Thouffh  nursed  beneath  the  chilly  shower 

Of  fell  regret  for  love's  decay  ! 

How  oft  thy  mother  heaved  the  sigh 
O'er  wreaths  of  honour  early  shorn, 

Before  thy  sweet  and  guiltless  eye 
Had  open'd  on  the  dawn  of  morn! 

How  oft  above  thy  lowly  bed. 

When  all  in  silence  slumber'd  low, 

The  fond  and  filial  tear  was  shed, 

Thou  child  of  love,  of  shame,  and  wo ! 

Her  wrong'd,  but  gentle  bosom  burn'd 
With  joy  thy  opening  bloom  to  see. 

The  only  breast  that  o'er  thee  yearn'd. 
The  only  heart  that  cared  for  thee. 

Oft  her  young  eye,  with  tear-drops  bright. 
Pleaded  with  Heaven  for  her  sweet  child, 

When  faded  dreams  of  past  delight 
O'er  recollection  wander'd  wild. 

Fair  was  thy  blossom,  bonny  flower. 
Fair  as  the  softest  wreath  of  spring, 

When  late  I  saw  thee  seek  the  bower 
In  peace  thy  morning  hymn  to  sing ! 

Thy  little  feet  across  the  lawn 

Scarce  from  the  primrose  press'd  the  dew, 
I  thought  the  spirit  of  the  dawn 

Before  me  to  the  greenwood  flew. 

Even  then  the  shaft  was  on  the  wing, 
Thy  spotless  soul  from  earth  to  sever; 

A  tear  of  pity  wet  the  string 

That  twang'd  and  seal'd  thy  doom  for  ever. 

I  saw  thee  late  the  emblem  fair 

Of  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth, 
Start  tiptoe  on  the  verge  of  air, 

'Twixt  childhood  and  unstable  youth: 

But  now  I  see  thee  stretch'd  at  rest. 

To  break  that  rest  shall  wake  no  morrow ; 

Pale  as  the  grave-flower  on  thy  breast ! 
Poor  child  of  love,  of  shame,  and  sorrow! 

May  thy  long  sleep  be  sound  and  sweet. 
Thy  visions  fraught  with  bliss  to  be; 

And  long  the  daisy,  emblem  meet, 
Shall  shed  its  earliest  tear  o'er  thee. 


THE   BRIDE  OF   DEATH. 

How  calm  thou  art !  on  that  fair  brow 
Hath  Peace  for  ever  set  her  seal; 

And  Grief  can  ne'er  displace  it  now, 
For  thou  hast  ceased  to  feel. 

Thou,  from  a  world  too  rude  for  thee, 
Sweet  maiden  I  has  for  ever  flown, 

And,  in  thy  virgin  purity, 
Hast  to  the  grave  gone  down. 

Life's  fading  roses  yet  a  while 

Are  lingering  on  thy  placid  cheek; 

And  on  thy  lips  that  angel  smile 
Thy  joy  in  death  should  speak. 

I  may  not  view  those  lovely  eyes. 

Now  shrouded  in  their  last  long  sleep; 

But  in  their  death  no  sadness  lies, 
And  they  have  ceased  to  weep. 

The  patient  look  of  grief  resign'd. 

Which  thou  wert  wont  in  life  to  wear. 

When  secret  anguish  crush'd  thy  mind, 
No  longer  lingers  there. 

But  traits  more  heavenly  far  than  this, 
And  milder,  more  seraphic  grace, 

Reflecting  from  thy  spirit's  bliss, 
Are  painted  on  thy  face. 

The  pangs  that  wrung  that  tender  heart 

Are  now  for  ever  past  and  o'er; 
And  Falsehood's  stings,  and  Love's  keen  dart, 

Shall  never  pierce  it  more. 

In  Death,  who  early  mark'd  thy  charms, 

Thou  hast  a  kinder  lover  found. 
And  thou  wilt  in  his  friendly  arms 

Sleep  sweetly  in  the  ground ; 

Where  bitter  thoughts  of  slighted  truth 
And  wither'd  hopes  shall  never  come. 

Nor  aught  that  cross'd  thy  wasted  youth 
Disturb  that  quiet  home. 

But  vernal  buds  and  summer  flowers 
Around  thy  lowly  bed  shall  bloom. 

And  heaven's  best  dews  and  purest  showers 
Weep  o'er  thy  silent  tomb. 

Agnes  Strickland. 


62 


WINDSOR    CASTLE. 

Yb  distant  spires !  ye  antique  towers ! 

That  crown  the  watery  glade 

Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade ; 

And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 

Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among. 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver- winding  way.  Gray. 

Windsor,  the  favourite  residence  of  a  long  line  of  kings, 
has  been  a  royal  demesne  since  the  days  of  William  the 
Conqueror,  who  took  possession  of  it  from  the  hands  of  the 
abbot  of  Westminster  in  exchange  for  lands  in  Essex.  It  is 
situated  in  the  county  of  Berks,  and  its  name  is  derived 
from  a  Saxon  term  which  means  winding  banks.  The 
picturesque  beauty  of  the  Thames,  the  finely  wooded  dis- 
trict through  which  it  bends  its  course,  and  the  interesting 
historical  associationsconnected  with  the  vicinity, — all  com- 
bine to  confer  upon  Windsor  peculiar  attractions.  The 
town  was  presented  with  its  first  charter  by  Edward  I,,  and 
received  its  last  in  the  reign  of  William  III.  It  is  governed 
by  a  corporation  of  thirty  brethren,  ten  of  whom  are  called 
aldermen,  and  the  rest  consist  of  benches  and  burgesses. 
From  the  former  of  these  are  annually  elected  a  mayor, 
and  justice  ;  and  two  bailiffs  from  the  latter.  The  guild- 
hall, which  is  the  principal  public  edifice,  contains  several 
noble  apartments,  and  is  decorated  chiefly  with  portraits 
of  the  English  sovereigns.  ?The  church  is  of  ancient  archi- 
tecture ;  and  the  monuments  it  preserves  are  worthy  the 
antiquarian's  notice.  It  is  less  however  for  the  objects  it 
contains  in  itself  than  for  the  beauty  of  the  scenery — its 
noble  forest,  and  stately  castle, — that  the  town  of  Windsor 
is  generally  visited,  and  to  these  it  chiefly  owes  its  cele- 
brity. 

Between  the  reigns  of  William  the  Conqueror  and  Ed- 
ward III.  the  palace  of  Windsor  was  considerably  enlarged 
and  improved,  and  the  latter  prince,  who  was  born  there, 
caused  the  greater  part  of  the  old  edifice  to  be  removed, 
and  rebuilt  it  in  its  present  form.  It  was  built  by  William 
of  Wykeham,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Winchester;  and  it 
has  been  recorded  that  his  fortune  was  made  by  the  skill 
and  genius  he  displayed.  It  is  a  curious  comment  on  the 
then  arbitrary  nature  of  royal  government,  that  the  king  is 
stated  to  have  issued  orders  for  those  persons  to  be  deprived 
of  their  property  who  dared  to  offer  higher  wages  to  the 
workmen  than  what  he  himself  gave,  and  the  men  to  be 
imprisoned  in  Newgate.  The  commissioners  employed  to 
provide  the  building  materials  were  also  enjoined  to  seize 
as  many  vehicles  as  they  might  require  for  their  convey- 
ance; and  by  these  summary  and  speedy  measures  the 
structure  was  rapidly  approaching  its  completion  before 
that  great  monarch's  death.     In  the  reign  of  Edward  lY. 


it  received  numerous  additions;  and  still  more  in  that 
of  Henry  VIII.  and  his  successor;  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth, 
and  by  Charles  H.  But  it  is  since  the  accession  of  the 
illustrious  House  of  Brunswick,  and  in  particular  during 
the  reign  of  George  III,,  that  the  castle  approached  its 
present  completion,  and  under  George  the  Fourth  assumed 
its  final  grand  and  splendid  appearance.  Having  fallen 
into  a  state  of  dilapidation,  designs  for  rebuilding  and 
enlarging  it  were  submitted  by  Sir  Jeffrey  Wjattville. 
Under  his  active  and  judicious  superintendance  many 
parts  of  the  old  edifice  were  removed,  and  those  elegant 
and  noble  portions  introduced  which  now  render  it  every 
way  a  suitable  residence  for  a  race  of  kings. 

The  castle  is  divided  into  two  large  courts,  the  upper  and 
the  lower;  only  separated  from  each  other  by  the  round 
tower  which  is  allotted  for  the  residence  of  the  governor. 
On  the  north  side  of  the  upper  court  are  situated  the  state 
apartments;  on  the  east  were  George  I V.'s  private  apart- 
ments; and  on  the  south  side  is  the  suite  of  rooms  set  apart 
for  the  officers  of  the  state.  The  new  grand  entrance  to 
the  royal  apartments  was  constructed  from  designs  by  the 
late  James  Wyatt,  and  under  the  immediate  inspection  of 
George  III.,  whose  taste  in  architecture,  no  less  than  that 
of  George  IV.  is  well  known.  In  the  centre  of  the  court 
is  placed  an  equestrian  statue  of  Charles  II. ;  and  the  royal 
apartments  are  adorned  with  a  splendid  collection  of  paint- 
ings, chiefly  formed  by  his  majesty.  In  the  hall  of  St. 
George  are  usually  celebrated  the  rites  and  ceremonies 
connected  with  the  order  of  the  garter.  The  royal  chapel 
is  embellished  with  a  variety  of  superb  carvings  by  the 
hand  of  the  celebrated  Gibbons  ;  and  in  the  lower  ward  of 
the  castle  is  St.  George's  chapel,  an  elegant  and  highly 
finished  structure  of  pointed  architecture.  Connected 
with  this  is  the  charitable  institution  of  the  poor  knights  of 
W^indsor,  who  receive  a  yearly  allowance  of  about  £40, 
with  blue  cloaks,  embroidered  with  the  cross  of  St.  George. 
The  chapel  was  founded  by  Edward  III.  in  the  year  1377, 
and  completed  and  embellished  as  it  is  now  seen  during 
tht  reigns  of  Edward  IV.  and  Henry  VJI-  In  its  vaults 
are  interred  many  of  our  sovereigns  ;  and  here  also  is  the 
new  royal  cemetery,  which  was  commenced  by  George  III., 
under  the  direction  of  the  late  James  Wyatt.  That  archi- 
tect caused  an  excavation  to  be  made  in  the  dry  rock  of 
chalk,  of  the  entire  width  and  length  of  the  building,  called 
Cardinal  Wolsey's  tomb-stone,  within  the  walls  of  which  it 
is  enclosed  to  more  than  the  depth  of  fifteen  feet  from  the 
surface.  The  entire  dimensions  extend  to  seventy  feet 
long,  by  twenty  eight  wide,  and  140  deep.  To  this  abode 
the  remains  of  the  princess  Amelia  were  first  consigned, 
followed  soon  after  by  those  of  the  duchess  of  Brunswick  ; 
the  third  was  that  of  the  ever  lamented  princess  Charlotte ; 
and  the  fourth  consigned  to  it  were  the  remains  of  the 
venerable  George  III.  The  deaths  of  these  illustrious  indi* 
viduiils  occurring  within  a  brief  period,  have  still  more 


63 


recently  been  succeeded  by  the  demise  of  the  three  eldest 
brothers  of  the  same  royal  bouse, — events  which  cannot 
fail  to  excite  deep  and  salutary  reflections  in  the  public 
mind. 

From  the  tower  of  the  castle  the  eye  embraces  one  of 
the  mostnoble  and  extensive  prospects  that  England  affords. 
Not  fewer  than  twelve  counties  may  be  discerned  with  the 
naked  eye ;  while  the  landscape  which  8';retches  below 
presents  every  combination  of  picturesque  beauty  and  en- 
chantment to  gratify  the  taste.  Amidst  green  luxuriant 
foliage,  forming  the  most  agreeable  and  refreshing  shades, 
is  seen  the  Thames,  winding  his  serene  and  majestic  course; 
the  vivid  green,  or  the  deeper  brown  shades  of  the  forest ; 
hamlets,  villas,  fields,  and  hills, — all  presenting  to  the  be- 
holder a  rural  panorama  of  unrivalled  brilliancy  and  effect. 

In  the  interior  of  the  same  building  is  a  guard  chamber, 
filled  with  ancient  armour,  and  various  kinds  of  warlike 
weapons.  Among  other  remarkable  specimens  of  this  des- 
cription, are  seen  the  coats  of  mail  said  to  have  been  worn 
by  John,  king  of  France,  and  David  of  Scotland,  both  of 
whom  are  known  to  have  been  prisoners  in  the  castle. 

The  beauty  of  Windsor  and  its  environs  has  long  been 
the  favourite  theme  of  England's  choicest  poets.  A  num- 
ber of  old  writers,  before  the  days  of  Pope  and  Gray, 
struck  with  the  variety  of  its  natural  scenery  and  local  at- 
tractions, sought  in  the  most  secluded  haunts  and  delight- 
ful solitudes  of  its  forests  to  give  expression  to  those  feel- 
ings of  admiration  and  pleasure  derived  from  the  contem- 
plations it  inspired.  Abounding  also  in  historical  associa- 
tions, both  of  a  heroic  and  domestic  kind,  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  our  poets  should  have  selected — 

"  Thy  forest,  Windsor,  and  its  green  retreats, 
At  once  the  monarch's  and  the  muses'  seats." 

With  how  much  pathetic  beauty  and  tenderness  the 
poet  Gray  ha*  described  the  adjacent  scenes,  and  dwelt 
upon  the  recollections  and  regrets  they  awakened  of  earlier 
days,  on  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton  college,  we  need  hardly 
recal  to  the  reader's  mind  :— 

I  feel  the  gales  that  from  you  blow 
A  momentary  hliss  below. 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 
To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

It  is  in  the  poem,  however,  of  Windsor  Forest,  in  the  ex- 
quisite beauty  of  its  descriptions,  the  noble  episodes  and 
pleasing  fable  with  which  it  is  interwoven— the  celebration 
of  the  exploits  of  some  of  our  greatest  British  monarchs, — 
combined  with  the  charm  of  its  versification,  that  we  meet 
with  so  much  to  interest  us  in  the  local  scenery,  and  to 
confer  upon  Windsor  and  its  forest  an  additional  attraction 


to  the  mind  of  the  patriot  and  the  poet,  which  they  never 
before  possessed. 

About  half  a  mile  south-east  of  Windsor  is  situated 
Frogmore,  which  boasts  an  elegant  and  beautiful  mansion, 
with  fine  gardens,  long  the  favourite  residence  of  the  queen 
of  George  III. 


SONG. 

Who  is  Sylvia  ?     What  is  she. 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  Heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  ; 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair. 

To  kelp  him  of  his  blindness  ; 
And  being  helped,  inhabits  there* 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing^ 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


AMERICAN  TASTE. 

Greek  and  Latin  are  generally  cultivated,  but  with 
very  few  exceptions,  not  in  a  suflScient  degree  to  give  a 
perception  or  taste  for  the  beauties  of  the  great  masters  of 
Greece  and  Italy,  otherwise  could  it  be  possible,  that  in 
the  public  prints  they  should  boast  of  the  Columbiad  of 
Barlow,  as  a  poem  equal,  nay,  superior,  to  Homer  and 
Virgil,  and  the  speeches  of  their  representatives  as  models 
of  eloquence  infinitely  above  those  of  Demosthenes  and 
Cicero?  It  is  not  to  be  denied,  that  the  Americans  ex- 
press themselves  with  great  facility  and  elegance,  and 
sometimes  display  fine  traits  of  real  eloquence.  In  short, 
after  gold,  this  is  their  idol ;  but  of  the  various  branches 
which,  according  to  the  greatest  masters,  make  up  the  art 
of  speaking  well,  elDcution  is  the  one  on  which  they  be- 
stow the  greatest  care.  Provided  a  speaker  or  writer  deals 
in  choice  expressions,  elegant  phrases,  and  harmonious 
periods,  nothing  more  is  required  to  stamp  him  as  a  great 
orator,  however  deficient  he  may  be  in  the  richness  of  in- 
vention, felicity  of  thought,  weight  of  sentiment,  and  com- 
mand of  the  passions,  which  would  ekewhere  be  required. 


04 


Tirana  bj  A.  F.- ChaiOD.K.A 


^^^4^  ^yZ.c^^A^^!d>9ty  ^-^-e^z^/zc . 


THE   MORGUE. 

"M.  Perrin,  keeper  of  the  Morgue,  is  a  little  old  man. 
who  coughs  incessantly.  When  I  explained  to  him  the 
object  of  my  visit,  he  very  politely  offered  to  show  me  all 
the  details  of  his  administration,  regretting  much,  as  he  said, 
that  there  was  not  so  much  variety  as  could  be  desired. 
"But  I  will  show  you  what  I  have — be   pleased  to  walk 

!lp." 

As  we  were  climbing  the  narrow  stairs,  and  he  was  in- 
forming me  that  his  establishment  was  connected  both  with 
the  prefecture  and  the  police,  with  the  one  on  account  of 
the  local  expenses,  with  the  other  from  its  connection  with 
the  public  health,  we  were  obliged  to  stand  close  against 
the  wall  to  allow  a  troop  of  young  girls  to  pass,  well 
dressed,  gay,  but  shivering  with  the  cold,  which  blew  from 
the  river  through  the  chink  which  lighted  the  stair. 

"  These  are  four  of  my  daugliters,  I  have  eight  children. 
Francois,  the  keeper,  has  had  four,  and  he  has  had  the 
good  fortune  to  get  them  all  married.  Francois  is  a  kind 
father." 

*'  So,"  said  I,  "  twelve  children  then  have  been  born  in 
the  Morgue.  Dreams  of  joy,  and  conjugal  endearments, 
and  parental  delights,  have  been  experienced  in  this  cham- 
ber of  death.  JMarriage  with  its  orange  flowers,  baptism 
with  its  black  robed  sponsors,  the  communion  and  the 
embroidered  veil,  love,  religion,  virtue,  have  had  their 
nome  here  as  elsewhere.  God  has  sown  the  seeds  of  happi- 
ness everywhere." 

*'  Papa,  we  are  going  to  a  distribution  of  prizes.  My 
sisters  are  sure  to  get  a  prize.  Don't  weary,  we  wiU  be 
back  in  good  time." 

"  Go,  my  children," — and  all  four  embraced  him. 
I  thought  of  the  body  of  the  little  Norman  in  the  dreary 
room  beneath,  and  of  the  mother  who  even  now,  perhaps, 
was  anxiously  looking  for  her  from  the  window. 

"This  is  the  apartment  of  Francois."  Francois  did  the 
honours  with  the  activity  of  a  man  who  is  not  ashamed  of 
his  establishment.  His  room  is  comfortably  furnished; 
two  modern  pendules  mounted  on  bronze,  a  wardrobe  with 
a  Medusa's  head,  a  high  bed,  and  a  handsome  rosecolouied 
curtain.  If  the  room  was  not  overburdened  with  furniture, 
if  there  was  not  much  of  luxury,  yet,  to  those  not  early  ac- 
customed to  superfluities,  it  might  even  seem  gay.  It 
represented  the  tastes,  opinions,  and  habits  of  its  master. 
Vases  of  flowers  threw  a  green  reflection  on  the  curtains, 
for  Francois  is  fond  of  flowers.  Among  his  gallery  of 
portraits  were  those  of  Augereau  and  Kleber,  both  in  long 
coats,  leaning  on  immense  sabres,  with  peruques  and 
powder.     Ntpoleon  is  there  three  times. 

"Look  at  these  jars,"  said  Francois,  "these  are  sweet- 
meats of  my  wife's  making  :  she  excels  in  sweetmeats."  I 
read  upon  them,  "gooseberries  of  1831."  We  left  Fran- 
cois's apartment,  which  forms  the  right  wing  of  the  Morgue, 


while  the  clerk's  house  is  on  the   left,   and  entered  the 
cabinet  of  administration  of  M.  Perrin. 

If  Francois  is  fond  of  flowers,  M.  Perrin  has  the  same 
penchant  for  hydraulics  and  the  camera  obscura  ;  he  draws, 
he  makes  jets  from  the  Seine,  by  an  ingenious  piece  of 
machinery  of  his  own  invention;  while  he  was  retouching 
his  syphon,  I  asked  permission  to  turn  over  the  register 
where  suicides  are  ranged  in  two  columns. 

The  fatal  "  unknown"  was  the  prevailing  designation; 
"brought  here  at  three  in  the  morning,  skull  fractured, 
unknown;" — "brought  at  twelve  at  night,  drowned  under 
the  Pontdes  Arts,  cards  in  his  pocket,  unknown ;" — "young 
woman,  pregnant,  crushed  by  a  fiacre  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Mander,  unknoivn  ;" — "new  born  child  found  dead  of 
cold,  at  the  gate  of  an  hotel,  unknown." 

I  said  to  M.  Perrin  that  he  mu^t  weary  here  very  much 
occasionally  during  the  long  nights  of  winter. 

"No,"  replied  he  good  humouredly,  "the  children  sing, 
we  all  work,  Francois  and  I  play  at  draughts  or  piquet;  the 
worst  of  it  is,  we  are  sometimes  interrupted;  a  knock  comes, 
we  must  go  down,  get  a  stone  ready,  undress  the  new  comer 
and  register  him;  that  spoils  the  game;  we  forget  to  mark 
the  points." 

"And  this  is  the  way  you  generally  spend  your  evenings?" 
— "  Always,  except  when  Francois  has  to  go  to  Vaugirard 
at  four  o'clock,  then  he  must  go  to  bed  earlier.  Perhaps 
you  do  not  know  that  our  burying-ground  is  at  Vaugirard  : 
— as  that  burying-ground  is  not  much  in  fashion,  we  have 
been  allowed  to  retain  our  privilege  of  having  a  fosse  to 
ourselves." 

"I  understand, — it  is  a  fief  of  the  Morgue." 
"  You  saw  that  chariot  below  near  the  entrance-gate,  in 
which  the  children  were  hiding  themselves  at  play, — that  is 
our  hearse." 

"  And  rich  or  poor,  all  must  make  use  of  your  conveyance  ' 
If  for  instance  a  suicide  is  recognized,  his  relations  or 
friends  may  reclaim  him,  take  him  home,  and  bestow  the 
rites  of  sepulture  on  him  at  his  own  house  ?" 

"No,  the  Morgue  does  not  give  back  what  has  been 
once  deposited  here.  It  allows  the  funeral  ceremonies  to 
be  as  pompous  as  they  will,  but  they  must  all  set  out  from 
hence;  one  end  of  the  procession  perhaps  is  at  Notre  Dame, 
while  the  other  is  starting  from  the  Morgue.  The  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris  may  be  there ;  but  Francois's  place  is  fixed. 
It  is  the  first." 

"  And  the  priests  of  Notre  Dame,  do  they  never  make 
any  difficulty  about  administering  the  funeral  rites  to  your 
dead?" 
"Never!" 

"Not  even  to  the  suicides  ?" 

"  There  are  no  suicides  for  Notre  Dame;  one  is  drowned 
by  accident,  another  killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  gun,  a  third 
has  fallen  from  a  scaffold.  I  invent  the  excuse,  and  the 
conscience  of  the  priest  accepts  it.     That's  enough." 


65 


So,  thought  I!  Notre  Dame,  which  formerly  witnessed 
the  execution  at  the  stake  of  sorcerers,  alchymists,  and 
gipsies  on  the  Grande  Place,  has  now  no  word  of  reproba- 
tion for  the  carcase  of  the  suicide,  once  allowed  to  rot  on 
the  ground,  or  be  devoured  by  birds.  She  asks  not  here, 
what  was  his  faith.  The  priest  says  mildly,  "Peace  be 
with  you." 

We  walked  down,  and  Francois  opened  the  first  room, 
that  which  contains  the  dresses ;  habits  of  all  shapes,  all 
dimensions,  hideously  jumbled  together;  gaiters  pinned  to 
a  sleeve,  a  shawl  shading  the  neck  of  a  coat;  dresses  of 
peasants,  workmen,  carters  and  brewers'  frocks,  women's 
gowns,  all  faded,  discoloured,  shapeless,  flap  against  each 
other  in  the  current  of  air  which  enters  through  the  windows. 
There  is  something  here  appalling  in  the  sight  and  sound 
of  these  objects,  soulless,  bodyless,  yet  moving  as  if  they 
had  life,  and  presenting  the  form  without  the  flesh.  Your 
eye  rests  on  a  handkerchief,  the  property  of  some  poor 
labourer,  suddenly  seized  with  the  idea  of  suicide,  after 
some  day  that  he  has  wanted  work. 

Francois,  who  followed  the  direction  of  my  eyes  to  see 
what  impression  the  picture  produced  on  me,  sighed  heavily. 

"  Does  it  move  you  too  ?"  said  I :  "  Are  you  discontented 
with  your  lot — unhappy  ?" 

"Not  exactly  I  But  sir,  formerly,  you  must  know,  the 
dresses,  after  being  six  months  exhibited,  became  a  per- 
quisite of  ours;  we  sold  them.  Now  they  talk  of  taking 
the  dresses  from  us." 

I  reassured  Francois  as  to  the  intention  of  government, 
and  assured  him  there  was  no  talk  of  taking  away  the 
dresses. 

The  second  room,  that  which  adjoins  the  public  exhibition 
room,  is  appropriated  for  the  dissection  of  those  the  mode 
of  whose  death  appears  to  the  police  to  be  suspicious.  Its 
only  furniture  is  a  marble  table,  on  which  the  dissections 
take  place,  and  a  shelf  on  which  are  placed  several  bottles 
of  chlorate.  This  room  is  immediately  above  the  room  of 
M.  Perrin,  The  dissecting-table  above  just  answers  to  the 
girls'  piano  below. 

In  this  room,  which  I  crossed  rapidly  to  avoid  as  much 
as  possible  the  sight  of  a  body  extended  on  the  plank,  I 
saw  the  little  girl,  who  had  been  stifled  the  night  before  in 
the  diligence ;  she  was  a  lovely  child.  The  other  figure 
was  frightfully  disfigured;  scarcely  even  would  his  mother 
have  recognized  him. 

There  remained  only  the  public  room;  it  is  narrow,  ill 
aired;  ten  or  twelve  black  and  sloping  stones  receive  the 
suicides,  who  are  placed  on  it  almost  in  a  state  of  nudity ; 
the  places  are  seldom  all  occupied,  except  perhaps  during 
a  revolution.  Then  it  is  that  the  Morgue  is  recruited;  two 
more  days  of  glory  and  immortality  in  July,  and  the  plague 
had  been  in  Paris. 

"It  is  true."  said  M.  Perrin,  "we  worked  hard  during 


the  three  days,  and  were  allowed  the  use  of  two  assistants. 
Corpses  evere  where,  within,  without,  at  the  gate  on  the 
bank."  .  .  . 

"  And  your  girls?" 

"During  those  days  they  did  not  leave  their  apartment, 
nor  looked  out  to  the  street,  nor  to  the  river ;  besides,  you 
are  mistaken  if  you  think  the  sight  would  have  terrified 
them.  Brought  up  here,  they  will  walk  at  night  without  a 
light  in  front  of  the  glass,  which  divides  the  corpses  from 
the  public,  without  trembling;  we  become  accustomed  to 
any  thing." 

Methought  I  heard  the  poor  children,  so  familiar  with 
the  idea  of  death,  so  accustomed  to  this  domestic  spectacle 
of  their  existence,  asking  innocently  of  the  strangers  whom 
they  visited. — as  one  would  ask  where  is  your  garden,  your 
kitchen,  or  your  cabinet, — "  where  do  you  keep  your  dead 
here?" 

These  were  all  the  facts  I  could  gather  with  regard  to  the 
establishment.  I  was  opening  the  glass  door  to  breathe 
the  fresh  air  again,  when  the  entrance  of  the  crowd  drove 
me  back  into  the  interior;  they  were  following  a  bier,  on 
which  lay  a  body,  from  which  the  water  dripped  in  a  long 
stream.  From  one  of  the  hands  which  were  closely 
clenched,  the  keeper  detached  a  strip  of  coloured  Unen, 
and  a  fragment  of  lace.  "Ah!"  said  he,  "let  me  look,  'tis 
shel" 

"  Who  is  it  ?" 

"The  nurse  who  was  here  this  morning;  the  nurse  of 
the  little  Norman  girl.  Good !  they  may  be  buried  together." 
And  M.  Perrin  put  on  his  spectacles,  opened  his  register, 
and  wrote  in  his  best  current-hand — "unknown.'' 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

Thou  art  amid  the  festive  halls. 

Where  beauty  wakes  her  spells  for  thee ; 
Where  music  on  thy  spirit  falls 

Like  moonlight  on  the  sea ; 
But  now  while  fairer  brows  are  smiling. 
And  brighter  lips  thy  heart  beguiling, 

Thiukest  thou  of  me  ? 

Fair  forms  and  faces  pass  thee  by 
Like  bright  creations  of  a  dream. 

And  love-lit  eyes,  when  thou  art  nigh, 
With  softer  splendours  beam : 

Life's  gayest  witcheries  are  round  thee ; 

But  now  while  mirth  and  joy  surrouad  thee, 
Thiukest  thou  of  me  7 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP. 

We  were  on  board  a  slave  ship,  bound  to  the  coast  of 
Africa,  I  had  my  misgivings  about  the  business;  and  I 
believe  others  had  them  too.  We  had  passed  the  Straits 
of  Gibraltar,  and  were  lying  off  Barbary,  one  clear,  bright 
evening,  when  it  came  my  turn  to  take  the  helm.  The  ship 
was  becalmed,  and  everything  around  was  as  silent  as  the 
day  after  the  deluge.  The  wide  monotony  of  water, 
varied  only  by  the  glancings  of  the  moon  on  the  crest  of  the 
waves,  made  me  think  the  old  fables  of  Neptune  were  true  ; 
and  that  Amphitrite  and  her  Naiads  were  sporting  on  the 
surface  of  the  ocean,  with  diamonds  in  their  bair.  Those 
fancies  were  followed  by  thoughts  of  wife,  children,  and 
home;  and  all  were  oddly  enough  jumbled  together  in  a 
delicious  state  of  approaching  slumber.  Suddenly  I  heard, 
high  above  my  head,  a  loud,  deep,  terrible  voice,  call  out, 
"  Stand  from  under !"  I  started  to  my  feet — it  was  the 
customary  signal  when  any  thing  was  to  be  thrown  from 
the  shrouds,  and  mechanically  1  sung  out  the  usual  answer, 
"  Let  go!"  But  nothing  came — I  looked  up  in  the  shrouds 
—there  was  nothing  there.  I  searched  the  deck — and 
found  that  I  was  alone  !  I  tried  to  think  it  was  a  dream — 
but  that  sound,  so  deep,  so  stern,  so  dreadful,  rung  in  my 
ears,  like  the  bursting  of  a  cannon  ! 

In  the  morning,  I  told  the  crew  what  I  had  heard.  They 
laughed  at  me;  and  were  all  day  long  full  of  their  jokes 
about  "  Dreaming  Tom."  One  fellow  among  them  was 
most  unmerciful  in  his  raillery.  He  was  a  swarthy,  ma- 
lignant-looking Spaniard ;  who  carried  murder  in  his  eye, 
and  curses  on  his  tongue;  a  daring  and  lordly  man,  who 
boasted  of  crime,  as  if  it  gave  him  pre-eminence  among  his 
fellows.  He  lauglied  longest  and  loudest  at  my  story.  "A 
most  uncivil  ghost,  Tom,"  said  he;  "when  such  chaps 
come  to  see  me,  I'll  make  'em  show  themselves.  I'll  not 
be  satisfied  without  seeing  and  feeling,  as  well  as  hearing  " 

The  sailors  all  joined  with  hnn ;  and  I,  ashamed  of  my 
alarm,  was  glad  to  be  silent.  The  next  night,  Dick  Bur- 
ton took  the  helm.  Dick  had  nerves  like  an  ox,  and  si- 
news like  a  whale ;  it  was  little  he  feared,  on  the  earth,  or 
beneath  it.  The  clock  struck  one — Dick  was  leaning  his 
headon  the  helm,  as  he  said,  thinking  nothing  of  me,  or 
my  story — when  that  awful  voice  again  called  from  the 
shrouds,  "Stand  from  under!"  Dick  darted  forward  like 
an  Indian  arrow,  which  they  say  goes  through  and  through 
a  buffalo,  and  wings  on  its  way,  as  if  it  had  not  left  death 
in  the  rear.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  he  found 
presence  of  mind  to  call  out  "Let  go!"  Again  nothing 
was  seen — nothing  heard.  Ten  nights  in  succession,  at 
one  o'clock,  the  same  unearthly  sound  run  through  the  air, 
making  our  stoutest  sailors  quail.  At  last  the  crew  grew 
pale  when  it  was  spoken  of;  and  the  worst  of  us  never 
went  to  sleep  without  saying  our  prayers.  For  myself,  I 
would  have  been  chained  to  the  oar  all  my  life,  to  have  got 


out  of  that  vessel.  But  there  we  were  in  the  vast  solitude 
of  ocean  ;  and  this  invisible  being  was  with  us  !  No  one 
put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  but  Antonio,  the  Spaniard. 
He  laughed  at  our  fears,  and  defied  Satan  himself  to  terrify 
him.  However,  when  it  came  his  turn  at  the  helm,  he  re- 
fused to  go.  Several  times,  under  the-  pretence  of  illness, 
he  was  excused  from  a  duty,  which  all  on  board  dreaded. 
But  at  last,  the  Captain  ordered  Antonio  to  receive  a  round 
dozen  lashes  every  night,  until  he  should  consent  to  per- 
form his  share  of  the  unwelcome  ofiice.  For  awhile  this 
was  borne  patiently ;  but  at  length,  he  called  out,  "  I  may 
as  well  die  one  way  as  another — Give  me  over  to  the 
ghost  I" 

That  night  Antonio  kept  watch  on  deck.  Few  of  the 
crew  slept ;  for  expectation  and  alarm  had  stretched  our 
nerves  upon  the  rack.  At  one  o'clock,  the  voice  called, 
"Stand  from  under!"  "Letgo!"  screamed  the  Span- 
iard. This  was  answered  by  a  shriek  of  laughter — and  such 
laughter ! — It  seemed  as  if  the  fiends  sung  to  each  other 
from  pole  to  pole,  and  the  bass  was  howled  in  hell !  Then 
came  a  sudden  crash  upon  the  deck,  as  if  our  masts  and 
spars  haa  fallen.  We  all  rushed  to  the  spot — and  there  was 
a  cold  stiff  gigantic  corpse.  The  Spaniard  said  it  was 
thrown  from  the  shrouds,  and  when  he  looked  on  it  he 
ground  his  teeth  like  a  madman.  "  I  know  him,"  ex- 
claimed he ;  "I  stabbed  him  within  an  hour's  sail  of  Cuba, 
and  drank  his  blood  for  breakfast." 

We  all  stood  aghast  at  the  monster.  In  fearful  whispers 
we  asked  what  should  be  done  with  the  body.  Finally  we 
agreed  that  the  terrible  sight  must  be  removed  from  us, 
and  hidden  in  the  depth  of  the  sea.  Four  of  us  attempted 
to  raise  it;  but  human  strength  was  of  no  avail — we  might 
as  well  have  tugged  at  Atlas.  There  it  lay,  stiff,  rigid, 
heavy,  and  as  immoveable  as  if  it  formed  a  part  of  the 
vessel.  The  Spaniard  was  furious;  "let  me  lift  him," 
said  he;  "I  lifted  him  once,  and  can  do  it  again.  I'll 
teach  him  what  it  is  to  come  and  trouble  me."  He  took  the 
body  round  the  waist,  and  attempted  to  move  it.  Slowly 
and  heavily  the  corpse  raised  itself  up;  its  rayless  eyes 
opened ;  its  rigid  arms  stretched  out,  and  clasped  its  victim 
in  a  close  death  grapple — and  rolling  over  to  the  side  of  the 
ship,  they  tottered  an  instant  over  the  waters — then  with  a 
loud  plunge  sunk  together. 


There  is  neither  age,  nor  condition,  nor  situation,  which 
does  not  leave  a  man  the  liberty  and  the  necessary  means 
of  practising  any  virtue.  Cicero  has  said  that  there  is  not 
a  moment  without  some  duty. 


61 


CHARLES  CAMERON. 

-------  See  where  he  comes  1 

His  mauly  liaeaments,  his  beaming  ej-e 
The  same,  butnow  a  holier  imioceiice 
Siis  on  his  cheelc,  and  loftier  thouijhts  illume 
The  enlightened  glance."— southey. 

The  newspapers  of  the  day  announced  a  brilliant  vic- 
tory, and  Britons  were  called  on  to  glory  in  their  name, 
and  to  share  in  the  proud  triumph  of  their  invincible  coun- 
trymen. Loud  aud  long  was  the  answering  burst  of  public 
gratulation: — but  many  a  sickening  heart  refused  to  join 
in  the  note  of  joy,  and  many  a  tearful  eye  looked  around 
on  the  diminished  circle  it  once  had  fondly  gazed  on,  but 
looked  in  vain  for  the  father,  brother,  husband,  child,  that 
would  return  no  more  ! 

Among  the  names  of  those  who  fell,  that  of  Charles 
Cameron  had  its  passing  meed  of  admiration  for  gallant 
deeds,  and  of  sincere,  though  short-lived,  regret,  that  youth 
and  valour  should  have  been  thus  untimely  snatched  away. 
But  deep  was  the  wound  which  his  loss  had  made  in  the 
bosom  of  an  idolizing  family,  who  wept  over  the  removal  of 
the  son  and  the  brother  whose  place  could  never  again  be 
filled.  When  long  years  had  softened  down  the  first  bit- 
terness of  their  regrets,  still  was  he  fondly  and  sadly 
remembered.  The  mother's  heart,  as  her  eye  glanced  on 
the  childish  sports  of  her  boys,  would  still  revert  to  her 
first-born,  and  ponder  over  many  a  scene  of  days  gone  by, 
forgotten  or  unmarked  save  by  a  mother's  love.  The 
father  thought  on  the  goodly  youth  that  should  have  sus- 
tained the  honours  of  his  name  through  days  to  come,  aud 
transmitted  it  with  added  lustre  to  his  sons.  Tlie  sister's 
undying  love  was  ever  with  the  sweet  play-mate  of  her 
infancy,  the  sharer  of  all  her  little  joys  and  sorrows,  the 
friend  and  the  counsellor  of  her  more  advanced  youth.  So 
wore  the  years  away,  and  many  a  day  of  pleasure  and  of 
pain,  as  they  rolled  on,  renewed  the  anguish  of  the  mour- 
ners. 

Peace  came  at  length,  and  with  it  many  a  thought  arose 
of  the  happier  feelings  with  which,  under  other  circumstan- 
ces, they  too  might  have  welcomed  the  jjeueral  blessing. 
Oh  man,  rebellious  man!  thus  ever  prone  to  aggravate  thy 
woes,  thus  ceaselessly  clinging  to  that  which  tUe  Almighty 
in  His  wisdom  sees  fit  to  remove,  how  dost  thou  still 
ungratefully  turn  from  the  voice  that  would  speak  peace  to 
the  wounded  spirit ;  that  bids  thee  look  from  the  sorrows 
of  time  to  the  hopes  of  eternity ;  and  calls  on  thee  to 
receive  the  chastening  trials  of  earth  as  an  invitation  to 
draw  yet  nearer  to  that  world,  where  they  shall  be  for  ever 
unknown! 

But  I  wander  from  my  tale.  Peace  came  at  length, 
I  have  said;  and  many  a  heart  beat  high  as  it  welcomed 
back  the  long  absent  and  the  loved.  Soon  followed  strange 
tidings  to  the   mourning  family  of  Charles  Cameron- 


strange  and  bewildering,  awakening  hopes  that  long  had 
slept — and  that  now  scarcely  did  they  dare  to  admit.  One, 
returned  to  foreign  captivity,  spoke  of  him  as  wounded  and 
a  prisoner  long  after  the  day  on  which  he  was  supposed  to 
have  fallen.  There  was  agony  even  in  the  short  suspense 
that  followed,  ere  a  letter  from  himself  confirmed  their 
wildest,  fondest  hopes. 

During  the  years  they  had  mourned  him  as  dead,  he  had 
languished  in  the  dungeons  of  a  foreign  land;  but  the  doors 
of  his  prison  were  now  unclosed,  and  the  friends  of  his 
youth  were  about  to  welcome  him  back  to  their  hearts  and 
their  home.  The  wanderer  returned  to  the  land  of  his 
birth: — a  mother's  smile,  a  father's  welcome,  greeted  his 
arrival — sisters,  brothers,  with  looks  of  love,  gathered  round 
the  dear  being  thus  restored  to  them  as  from  the  grave — 
a<'ain  their  little  home  seemed  the  abode  of  bliss — the 
dreary  void  there  was  filled — they  looked  around,  and 
gratefully  asked  what  now  was  wanting — their  cup  of 
felicity  was  full !  But  how  changed  was  the  form  over 
which  they  hung  with  fond  delight — how  altered  since  last 
their  eyes  had  rested  on  it  !  He  had  left  them  radiant  in 
health,  and  youth,  and  spirits — ardent,  sanguine,  impetu- 
ous : — now,  sickness  aud  "  hope  deferred"  had  left  their 
withering  trace  on  the  faded  form,  but  on  the  spirit  had 
passed  a  nobler  change, — there,  sorrow  and  trial  had  early 
accomplished  their  purifying  work,  and  the  sweet,  the  ele- 
vating influence  of  religion  was  shed  on  all  around  him. 

Many  were  the  inquiries  which  fond  aifeclion  dictated 
on  the  events  of  the  past,  but  human  language  is  poor 
when  it  would  express  such  feelings  as  he  then  described. 

Cut  off,  as  it  had  seemed  to  him,  from  every  earthly 
enjoyment;  every  energy  of  his  ardent  character  repressed, 
every  hope  of  active  usefulness,  of  honourable  distinction, 
crushed ;  torn  from  every  tie  which  had  hitherto  endeared 
life,  he  had  mourned  in  bitterest  anguish  over  the  hope- 
lessness of  his  lot — he  had  dared  to  question  the  wisdom  of 
that  decree  which  prolonged  an  existence  thus  useless,  as 
he  deemed  it,  to  himself  or  others.  The  walls  of  his  prison 
had  echoed  to  the  cries  of  repining  and  despair.  From 
its  inmost  recesses  a  voice  had  reached  him,  had  demanded, 
"  Who  art  thou,  mortal,  that  darest  thus  to  arraign  the 
wisdom  of  Providence,  thus  to  reason  on  the  designs  of 
Omnipotence  ?  Man  judgeth  blindly  from  the  little  part 
he  sees,  but  to  the  eyes  of  the  Almighty,  the  past  and  the 
future  are  oiie  great  present ;  to  Him  the  means  and  the 
end  are  ahke  discernible,  by  Him  alike  directed." 

Eagerly  had  he  turned  to  the  voice  of  correcting  admo- 
nition, and  gratefully  did  he  welcome  the  companion,  thus 
mercifully  allotted  him,  to  cheer  the  solitude  of  his  dun- 
ireon,  and  to  dispel  the  night  of  spiritual  darkness  which 
surrounded  him.  Gradually  was  then  unfolded  to  his 
brightening  spirit  the  wonderful  ways  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence ;  and  sweetly  was  he  taught  to  trace  the  hand  of  a 
Father,  even  in  the  afflictive  events  of  a  world  which  ha 


I 


fiS 


h 


♦» 

m' 


then  first  learned  to  estimate  justly,  not  as  the  scene  of 
man's  lasting:  joys,  but  as  the  probationary  state  which  is 
to  fit  him  for  the  enjoyment  of  more  exalted  delights,  and 
to  train  him  for  the  exercise  of  higher  duties,  during  an 
existence  of  which  this  is  but  the  infancy. 

The  friend  and  companion  of  his  solitude  was  one  who 
had  himself  been  aisciplined  in  the  salutary  school  of 
adversity.  On  his  heart  were  engraven  the  lessons  of  com- 
fort and  encouragement  which  the  blessed  Volume  of 
Inspiration  holds  out  to  the  weary  and  heavy-laden,  to  the 
soul  just  sinking  under  the  trials  of  life,  or  awakening  to 
the  first  overwhelming  conviction  of  its  utter  sinfulness  in 
the  sight  of  a  God  of  infinite  purity.  To  the  treasured 
records  of  that  book  he  directed  the  eye  so  lately  be\)t  to 
earth  in  lowest  despondency.  He  bade  him  read  there 
how  they  "of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy"  had  been 
"  perfected  through  sufi"ering." — He  bade  nim  look  on  Him 
who  had  "borne  our  griefs  and  carried  our  sorrows,"  who, 
"though  He  were  a  Son,  yet  learned  He  obedience  by  the 
things  which  He  suffered." — He  taught  him  that  resignation 
which  bids  the  Christian  exclaim  with  his  sufi'ering  Lord, 
"  the  cup  which  my  Father  hath  given  me  shall  I  not  drink 
it?" — which,  though  permitted  to  ask  "if  it  be  possible 
that  the  bitter  cup  may  pass  away,"  yet  adds,  with  the 
deepest  humility,  "  nevertheless  not  my  will  but  Thine  be 
done." — He  infused  into  his  sinking  spirit  that  faith  which 
enables  the  Chrishian's  eye  to  penetrate  beyond  the  dark- 
ness of  this  clouded  and  troubled  scene;  which  enjoins  him 
to  receive  every  trial  as  the  chastening  of  a  Father's  love, 
designed  for  his  profit,  though  for  the  present  grievous  to 
poor  shrinking  humanity. — He  cheered  with  heavenly  hopes 
that  heart  so  lately  bowed  down  with  hopeless  anguish. — 
He  tuned  to  heavenly  themes  that  tongue  whose  accents 
had  breathed  only  the  murmurs  of  despair. 

"  I  know  and  feel  now,"  exclaimed  the  young  soldier, 
"  that  it  is  good  for  me  that  I  was  thus  afilicted  : — through 
time  and  through  eternity  I  can  never  cease  to  acknowledge 
that  my  all  of  real  happiness  has  sprung  from  what  I  once 
blindly  believed  the  extinction  of  every  hope  of  felicity. " 

Oh,  mortal!  and  will  it  not  ever  be  thus!  Who  can 
look  back  on  the  short  space  of  life  through  which  he_has 
passed,  nor  trace  there  the  wonder-working  hand  of  an 
over-ruling  and  directing  Providence. 

"Merciful  over  all  His  works,  with  good 
Still  overcoming  evil,  and  by  small 
Accomplishing  great  things." 

Even  here  it  is  given  us  to  conceive,  though  faintly,  the 
feelings  of  rapture,  love  and  admiration,  with  which  the 
purified  spirit  shall  hereafter  look  back,  and  trace  the 
minutest  steps  of  that  wondrous  path  from  which  it  has  been 
led  from  sin  to  purity,  from  darkness  to  light,  from  earth  to 
Heaven,  where  its  powers  shall  expand  to  comprehend  that 


love  which  has  been  exerted  to  reclaim  it  from  misery  and 
death,  and  when  the  feelings  of  more  than  mortal  enjoy- 
ment, which  are  sometimes  permitted  to  irradiate  this 
earthly  scene,  shall  be  exchanged  for  those  yet  more 
exalted,  those  enduring  pleasures  which  are  at  the  right 
hand  of  God,  for  ever  more ! 

L.  H.  c. 


THE  SLANDERER. 

The  slanderer  either  thinks  that  his  evil-speaking 
affects  not  much  the  happiness  of  those  whom  he  defames, 
or,  if  he  does,  he  disregards  it.  In  the  latter  case,  he  is 
condemned  by  both  heaven  and  earth.  If  a  pretended  zeal 
for  religion  and  morality  be  the  motive  for  his  holding  up 
another's  character  to  infamy,  a  heaven-inspired  apostle 
will  declare  to  him  that  even  "  if  he  gave  his  body  to  be 
burned"  in  religion's  cause,  "  and  have  not  charity,  it 
profiteth  him  nothing;"  that,  however  true  may  be  the 
charge  against  a  sinner,  it  is  the  part  of  charity  to  veil  the 
multitude  of  sins : — let  him  who  hath  no  sin  cast  the  first 
stone.  If  a  desire  of  raising  his  own  character  be  the 
motive  for  the  defamation,  poor  and  pitiful  is  that  ambition 
which  only  seeks  to  rise  on  the  degradation  of  another; 
and  however  willingly  the  enemies  of  the  person  of  whom 
he  is  speaking  evil  may  receive  and  rejoice  in  the  tale,  the 
tale-bearer,  be  assured,  is  always  held  in  contempt.  If  the 
defamer  thinks  that  the  object  of  his  defamation  is  not 
affected  in  tranquillity,  because  the  injury  is  not  resented 
nor  concern  betrayed,  let  him  be  assured,  that  sin,  wherever 
it  exists,  will,  sooner  or  later,  sit  heavy  enough,  without 
his  unchristian  and  cruel  exposure  of  the  sinner.  If  the 
defamation  be  groundless,  and  only  raised  against  supposed 
and  suspected  crime,  and  the  slanderer  think  that  in  that 
case  his  calumny  affects  not  the  mind  of  the  person  whom 
he  injures,  he  must  be  a  stranger  to  every  feeling  of  the 
virtuous  and  ingenuous  heart. 


Pleasure  is  a  rose  near  which  there  ever  grows  the 
thorn  of  evil.  It  is  wisdom's  work  so  carefully  to  cull  the 
rose,  as  to  avoid  the  thorn,  and  let  its  rich  perfume  exhale 
to  heaven  in  grateful  adoration  of  Him  who  gave  the  rose 
to  blow. 


With  friends  there  should  be  no  reserves,  with  acquaint- 
ances it  is  quite  different;  and  how  few  friends  do  we  meet 
with  in  our  journey  through  life, 


THE  MARKET  BOAT. 


A   SEA    SIDE    SKETCH. 

"Aye,  Annie,  weel  I  remember  the  morns  I  ha' gone  to  the 
market  wi'  my  fish,  whiles  we  had  i'th  market  boat  horses  and 
sheep,  an'  the  skipper  had  enow'  to  do  to  keep  'em  aw  quiet" 

"  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  or  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  but  siiEple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray, 


My  home  is  od  the  ocean  shore, 

My  father's  cot  beside  the  wave, 
Where  winds  of  Winter  loudest  roar, 

And  crested  billows  hoarsest  rave. 
My  Brothers,  beautiful  and  brave  ! 

At  Trafalgar,  by  Nelson's  side. 
Too  early  won  a  watery  grave, 

And  fell  in  boyhood's  pride 

111  could  my  Mother's  heart  sustain 

A  blow  so  sudden  and  severe; 
She  died  !  and  I  alone  remain 

My  sire's  else  childless  home  to  cheer: — 
/"wept!  but  he  could  shed  no  tear, 

Though  I  might  hear  his  stifled  groan. 
When  slowly  from  my  Mother's  bier 

He  turn'd — to  me  alone  ! 

But  Poverty,  whate'er  its  grief. 

Must  labour  for  its  daily  bread; 
Its  hour  of  mourning  must  be  brief. 

However  dear  the  humble  dead : 
And  Childhood's  tear,  though  freely  shed, 

Is  soon  forgotten: — day  by  day. 
As  o'er  our  lowly  roof  it  sped, 

Some  sorrow  stole  away. 

And  now  I  would  not  change  my  lot 

For  that  of  Wealth's  most  splendid  home ; 
More  dear  to  me  our  sea-side  cot 

Than  Grandeur's  proudest,  loftiest  dome: 
The  beach,  where  hour  by  hour  I  roam, 

Is  more  than  flowery  fields  to  me ; 
Its  breakers,  crested  white  with  foam. 

My  playmates  frank  and  free. 

The  rocky  cliffs,  that  lift  on  high, 
Their  fronts  to  battle  with  the  breeze, 

Arc  lovelier  to  my  partial  eye 

Than  verdant  clamps  of  leafy  trees : 


The  solemn  sound  of  tossing  seas. 
The  fisher's  song,  the  gull's  loud  cry. 

My  youthful  fancy  better  please 
Than  inland  melody. 

Then  think  me  not  of  hope  forlorn, 

Or  weighed  by  toil  and  sorrow  down : 
With  basket  on  my  arm,  each  morn 

I  gaily  seek  the  Market-town: 
None  greet  me  with  an  angry  frown. 

But  all  my  humble  labours  aid  ; — 
Pity  the  king  who  wears  a  crown, 

But  not  the  Fisher  Maid! 


A  MOTHER'S   LAMENT  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF 
A  BELOVED  SON. 

BY    GERALD    GRIFFKN. 

Tub  Christmas  light  is  burning  bright. 

In  many  a  village  pane ; 
And  many  a  cottage  rings  to-night 

With  many  a  merry  strain. 

Young  boys  and  girls  run  laughing  by, 

Their  hearts  and  eyes  elate, — 
I  can  but  think  on  mine  and  sigh. 

For  I  am  desolate. 

There's  none  to  watch  in  our  old  cot, 

Beside  the  holy  light. 
No  tongues  to  bless  the  silent  spot 

Against  the  parting  night. 

I've  closed  the  door — and  hither  come 

To  mourn  my  lonely  fate ; 
I  cannot  bear  my  own  old  home, 

It  is  so  desolate  ! 

I  saw  my  father's  eyes  grow  dim. 

And  clasped  my  mother's  knee ; 
I  saw  my  mother  follow  him ; 

— My  husband  wept  with  me. 

My  husband  did  not  long  remain, 

— His  child  was  left  me  yet ; 
But  now  my  heart's  last  love  is  slam, 

And  I  am  desolate  ! 


THE   INFANT  BACCHUS, 
BROUGHT    BY    MERCURY  TO   THE   NYMPHS. 

BY    GEORGE    EMERSON,    ESQ. 

No  rustling  wind  stirred  a  leaf  in  the  Groves  of  Arcadia; 
the  etheral  sky  was  redolent  with  the  glories  of  a  summer's 
noon-tide  sun — the  herds  and  the  flocks  reposed  in  happy 
tranquillity  in  various  groups  on  the  fertile  plains, — not  a 
sound  was  heard  save  the  cooing  of  the  woodpigeon,  or  the 
feathered  choristers  trilling  their  hymn  to  nature, — when 
Silenus,  whose  serenity  of  countenance  told  the  pleasant 
feelings  of  his  heart,  sought  the  shelter  of  the  grove,  to 
indulge  in  that  pleasant  reverie  which  the  universal  happi- 
ness around  him  inspired.  His  Nymphs  had  quitted  their 
dance — they  had  laid  aside  their  pipes — they  had  hung 
their  tabor  on  a  tree,  they  had  seated  themselves  on  their 
sylvan  couch,  they  enjoyed  the  extensive  beauties  of  the 
scene,  they  beheld  with  rapture  the  attention  their  favourite 
goat  paid  to  her  kid — whose  frolics  appeared  to  delight  its 
dam,  while  her  tender  bleatings  called  it  to  that  food  sup- 
plied by  nature  ;  their  thoughts  turned  to  the  happiness  of 
mothers — they  mentally  invoke  the  Gods  to  impart  to  them 
that  blessing — when  lo  !  the  air  became  full  of  voices,  the 
mighty  trees  on  the  hills  sung  to  a  breeze  unfelt  on  the 
plains,  and  between  the  valley  and  the  sun  there  suddenly 
appeared  a  floating  glory, — a  rush  of  wings  was  heard,  and 
their  eyes  were  strained  to  watch  a  far  vision  in  the  distant 
skies,  taking  an  earthward  flight.  Anon,  over  their  heads 
hangs  the  Messenger  of  the  Gods;  as  quick  as  the  lightning 
of  Jove  he  unfolds  his  mantle,  and  displays  to  their  wonder- 
ing eyes  the  Infant  Bacchus,  whose  smiles,  and  happy 
features,  make  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  their 
hearts:  they  receive  the  innocent  from  Mercury,  who 
returns  to  Olympus  bearing  their  fervent  thanksgiving  for 
the  blessing  sent;  they  embrace  him  with  ardour,  they 
make  thpir  goat  subservient  to  his  nutriment,  they  induce 
Silenus  to  be  his  instructor,  and  in  due  time  the  boy,  like 
other  spoiled  urchins,  becoming  unruly  and  turbulent,  re- 
duces Silenus  from  his  happy  state,  and  by  his  luxurious 
and  viscious  propensities,  destroys  the  golden  and  silver 
age?  of  the  world. 


The  air  is  full  of  voices  ! — the  huge  pines 

Are  singing  to  a  breeze  unfelt  below  ! 

A  murmur  in  the  ivy!  and  the  vines 

Wave,  to  their  own  glad  music,  to  and  fro ! 

Through  the  long  valley,  like  a  living  thing, 

Rushes  the  river,  with  its  joyous  song. 

Thro'  shores — like  rainbows  of  the  earth — that  fling 

Back  its  loud  uttering,  as  it  leaps  along  ! 


Amid  the  shade  of  forests  old  and  dim, 

From  flutes  of  fauns,  breathes  many  a  loving  tale, 

Or  echo  listens  to  some  satyr's  hymn, 

And  flings  a  low,  wild  answer  down  the  vale! 

The  air  is  full  of  voices  ! — whoops  and  calls. 

Uttered  by  spirits,  from  the  far,  blue  hills; 

Shouts,  'mid  the  ringing  sound  of  waterfalls. 

And  naiads,  singing  by  their  silver  rills  ; 

And  one  wide  ansvvering  peean,  far  on  high, 

From  birds  that  have  gone  half-way  to  the  sky! 

The  air  is  full  of  incense ! — where  the  dew 
Lies,  star-like,  on  the  fields  of  asphodel, 
From  myrtle  thickets,  bowers  of  every  hue 
The  orange  blossom,  and  the  lotus  bell. 
Rise  thousand  perfumes ! — Like  a  silver  bark. 
Anchors  the  sun,  within  a  sapphire  sea. 
Bright  as  it  bore  a  God,  within  its  ark  ; 
And  hill  and  valley,  flower  and  wave  and  tree 
Glitter,  beneath  its  pennant,  gloriously! 

By  a  blue  stream  that,  like  the  streams  of  old, 

Through  vallies  echoing  to  immortal  tread, 

— Long  ere  Pactolus — flowed  o'er  sands  of  gold. 

And  uttered  tones,  by  spirits  only  read. 

Recline  four  beings,  of  unearthly  form — 

Shapes  such  as  vanished  with  the  golden  time. 

But  come  again  to  poets'  visions,  warm 

As  when  the  world  was  in  its  glowing  prime, 

Ere  beauty  wore  the  Promethean  curse : — 

To  dream  of  such  is  immortality  ! 

Witness  the  Chian,  with  his  deathless  verse  ! — 

And  near  them, — wisdom  throned  within  his  eye, 

And  thought  upon  his  forehead, — in  the  shade 

Of  ancient  trees  that  whisper  in  his  ear 

A  knowledge  and  amystery, — is  laid 

The  old  Silenus  !— .listening,  all,  to  hear 

The  oracles  that  speak  from  stream  and  tree. 

And  gazing  through  the  amethystine  air. 

Into  the  empyrean,  silently  ! — 

To  mortal  ken — if  mortal  ken  were  there, — 

There's  nothing  lives  between  them  and  the  skies, — 

A  purple  ocean  and  a  ship  of  light! 

But  they  have  caught  a  murmur, — and  their  eyes 

Watch  a  far  vision,  in  its  earthward  flight! 

— And  lo !  between  the  valley  and  the  sun, 

A  floating  glory,  and  a  rush  of  wings. 

Ambrosial  breezes  o'er  the  earth  that  run. 

And  harpings  in  the  air,  from  viewless  strings  ! — 

O'er  that  Egyptian  Tempe's  sacred  spring, 

Hovers  the  Triple  God,  upon  a  gale 

Brought,  with  him,  from  the  skies ;  then  folds  his  wing. 

And,  like  an  arrow,  stoops  upon  the  vale, — 


7i 


That  rings  with  music,  and  the  voice  of  mirth, 
Waters  that  laugh,  and  woods  that  prophesy,— 
Till — like  a  heart-dream  fading  in  its  birth, — 
The  white-robed  bearer  seeks  the  distant  sky, 
And  the  child  Bacchus  treads  the  shouting  earth  ! 

In  the  picture  which  these  lines  are  intended  to  illustrate,  Mr. 
Howard  has,  with  equal  taste  andjudgment,  drawn  Silenus.withnut 
any  of  those  attributes  ascribi'd  to  him  by  the  Roman  mytholo- 
gists,  and  with  which  we  are  now  in  the  general  habit  of  identi- 
fying him;  and  has  painted  hira  as  he  was  represented  in  the 
earlier,  and  (as  Mr.  Howard  calls  them),  better  times  of  art. 
Silenus  having  been,  according  to  some  authors,  the  philosophic 
friend  and  useful  counsellor  of  Bacchus,  in  his  Indian  expedi- 
tion, the  character  with  which  Mr.  Howard  has,  here,  invested 
him,  is  much  more  judicious,  when  the  subject  has  reference  to 
the  education  of  that  God,  than  his  ordinary  and  better  known 
cue  of  the  fat,  drunken  and  vine-crowned  Silenus. 


STANZAS. 

Go  bid  the  winds  of  winter  sleep  ; 

Go  hush  the  stormy  wave, 
But  do  not  tell  me  not  to  weep 

O'er  joy's  untimely  grave; 
But  do  not  try  to  smile  away 

The  grief  that  clouds  my  brow, — 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay : 

Grief  is  my  nature  now. 

I  have  not  always  wept,  for  friends 

Once  filled  my  trusting  ear 
With  every  vow  that  friendship  lends, 

To  those  she  holds  most  dear  ; 
Butfortune  changed,  and  friendship's  words 

Grew  rarer  and  less  warm ; 
My  friends  were  only  summer  birds — 

They  shunned  the  coming  storm. 

I  have  not  always  wept ;  for  love 

Once  made  my  heart  his  own ; 
And  hope's  rich  branches  waved  above 

His  gay  and  glittering  throne; 
But  injured  love  indignant  fled, 

And  hope  was  blighted  then ; 
His  fragile  blossoms  soon  were  shed, 

It  nf^ver  bloomed  again. 

Then  do  not  tell  me  not  to  mourn ; 

Oh  !  mock  not  my  distress, 
My  heart  has  been  so  long  forlorn, 

It  loves  its  loneliness. 
Away,  shall  I  capricious  fling 

What  I  can  ne'er  forget  ? 
Grief  is  the  only  constant  thing 

I  ever  cherished  yet. 


THE  AULD  MAN. 

Down  Lyddal  glen  the  stream  leaps  glad; 

The  lily  blooms  on  Lyddal  lea ! 
The  daisy  glows  on  the  sunny  sod ; 

The  birds  sing  loud  on  tower  and  tree  ; 
The  earth  laughs  out,  yet  seems  to  sav. 
Thy  blood  is  thin,  and  thy  locks  are  gray. 

The  minstrel  trims  his  merriest  string, 
And  draws  his  best  and  boldest  bow  ; 

The  maidens  shake  their  white  brow-locks, 
And  go  starting  ofi"  with  their  necks  of  snow. 

I  smile,  but  my  smiling  seems  to  say, 

Thy  blood  is  thin,  and  thy  locks  are  gray. 

The  damsels  dance :  their  beaming  eyes 
Shower  light  and  love,  and  joy  about ; 

The  glowing  peasant  answers  glad, 

With  a  merry  kiss,  and  mirthsome  shout. 

I  leap  to  ray  legs,  but,  well-a-day  ! 

Their  might  is  gone,  and  my  locks  are  gray, 

A  maiden  said  to  me  with  a  smile, 
Though  past  thy  hour  of  bridal  bliss. 

With  hoary  years,  and  pains  and  fears, 
A  frosty  pow  and  a  frozen  kiss ; 

Come  down  the  dance  with  me,  I  pray, 

Though  thy  blood  be  thin,  and  thy  locks  be  gray. 

Sweet  one,  thou  smilest !  but  I  have  had. 
When  my  leaf  was  green,  as  fair  as  thee 

Sigh  for  my  coming,  and  high-born  dames 
Have  loved  the  glance  of  my  merry  e'e; 

But  the  brightest  eye  will  lose  its  ray, 

And  the  daikest  locks  will  grow  to  gray, 

I've  courted  till  the  morning  star 

Wax'd  dim  ere  came  our  parting  time  ; 

I've  walked  with  jeweli'd  locks,  which  shone 
r  the  moon,  when  past  her  evening  prime  : 

And  I've  ta'en  from  rivals  rich  away 

The  dame  of  my  heart,  though  my  locks  be  gray. 


It  is  an  obliging  condescension  that  we  expect  from  the 
great,  an  bumble  submission  from  those  in  the  lower  ranks 
of  life,  and  from  our  equals  frankness  devoid  of  that  saucv 
familiarity  which  is  equally  a  foe  to  friendship  and  good- 
breeding. 


7-i 


"Draw  V  A.r.  C!iatei.  K-A. 


]te0ritivdl}T  iT.  C.  F-dwarfls. 


Q^€/   (^i^zA^  i 


I  Ifasa/iteUc.j 


f» 


MISS  CROKEK. 

Beautiful  creature  !  in  the  sunny  prime 

Of  youthful  loveliness,  whose  gentle  brow 
Hath  ne'er  been  furrowed  by  the  frown  of  time, 

Nor  cankered  by  Despair !  To  such  as  Thou 
In  all  thy  spotless  innocence  of  guile — 

And  Virtue's  own  omnipotence  arrayed  ; 
With  eyes  of  lightning  and  cherubic  smile — 

The  homage  of  devotion  may  be  paid  ! 

Thou  need'st  no  trappings  of  the  modern  art 

To  aid  the  charms  that  emanate  from  thee  ; 
What  would  Vermillion  to  thy  cheeks  impart 

Besides  pollutions  vulgar  glare  and  glee  ? 
Thou  dwellest  in  the  atmosphere  of  love 

And  quiet  joy,  and  undisturbed  delight; 
Like  the  pure  spirits  of  the  realms  above. 

And  chaste  as  the  clear  moonbeam  at  midnight. 

Beautiful  creature  !  may  thy  snowy  breast 

Ne'er  throb  but  unto  pleasure's  kindest  call! 
In  youth  beloved,  and  oh  !  in  age  caressed — 

The  living  model,  and  the  friend  of  all ! 
So  shall  the  memory  of  thy  name  endure 

With  thy  rich  virgin  beauty,  in  the  lines 
Where  praise  and  immortality  is  sure, — 

For  glorious  Lawrence  from  the  canvas  shines  ! 


THE  FARMER,  THE  SPANIEL,  AND  THE  CAT. 

Why  knits  my  love  her  angry  brow, 
What  rude  offence  alarms  you  now  ? 
I  said  that  *  *  *  *  's  fair,  't  is  true  ; 
But  did  I  say  she  equalled  you  ? 
Can't  I  another's  face  commend. 
Or  to  her  virtues  be  a  friend. 
But  constantly  your  forehead  lowers, 
As  if  her  merit  lessened  yours  ? 
From  female  envy  never  free. 
Must  all  be  blind  because  you  see  7 

Survey  the  gardens,  fields,  and  bowers, 
The  buds,  the  blossoms,  and  the  flowers ; 
Then  tell  me,  where  the  woodbine  grows 
That  vies  in  sweetness  with  the  rose  ? 
Or  where  the  lily's  snowy  white, 
That  throws  such  beauties  on  the  sight  ? 
Yet  folly  is  it  to  declare 
That  these  are  neither  sweet  nor  fair. 
The  crystal  shines  with  fainter  rays 
Before  the  diamond's  brighter  blaze, 
And,  fops  will  say,  the  diamond  dies 
Before  the  lustre  of  your  eyes. 


But  I,  who  deal  in  truth,  deny 
That  neither  shine  when  you  are  by. 

As  at  his  board  a  Farmer  sat. 
Replenished  by  his  homely  treat. 
His  favourite  Spaniel  near  him  stood, 
And  with  his  master  shared  the  food— 
The  crackling  bones  his  jaws  devoured, 
His  lapping  tongue  the  trenches  scoured  ; 
Till,  sated  now,  supine  he  lay. 
And  snored  the  rising  fumes  away. 

The  hungry  Cat  in  turn  drew  near, 
And  humbly  craved  a  servant's  share  ; 
Her  modest  worth  the  master  knew, 
And  straight  the  fattening  morsel  threw. 
Enraged,  the  snarling  cur  awoke. 
And  thus  with  spiteful  envy  spoke. 

'  They  only  claim  a  right  to  eat. 
Who  earn  by  services  their  meat ; 
Me,  zeal  and  industry  inflame 
To  scour  the  fields,  and  spring  the  game  ; 
Or  plunging  in  the  wintry  wave. 
For  man  the  wounded  bird  to  save. 
With  watchful  diligence  I  keep 
From  prowling  wolves,  his  fleecy  sheep; 
At  home  his  midnight  hours  secure. 
And  drive  the  robber  from  the  door  ; 
For  this  his  breast  with  kindness  glow. 
For  this,his  hand  the  food  bestows. 
And  shall  thy  indolence  impart, 
A  warmer  friendship  to  his  heart. 
That  thus  he  robs  me  of  my  due. 
To  pamper  such  vile  things  as  you  ?' 

'  I  own  (with  meekness  Puss  replied), 

Superior  merit  on  your  side ; 

Nor  does  my  breast  with  envy  swell 

To  see  it  recompensed  so  well : 

Yet  I,  in  what  my  nature  can, 

Contribute  to  the  good  of  man. — 

Whose  claws  destroy  the  pilfering  mouse  ? 

Who  drives  the  vermin  from  the  house  ? 

Or,  watchful  for  the  labouring  swain. 

From  lurking  rats  secures  the  grain  ? 

From  hence  if  he  rewards  bestow, 

Why  should  your  heart  with  gall  o'erflow  ? 

Why  pine  my  happiness  to  see. 

Since  there's  enough  for  you  and  me  ?' 

*  Thy  words  are  just,'  the  Farmer  cried, 
And  spurned  the  snarler  from  his  side. 


73 


A  TALE  OF  THE    SPANISH   WARS. 

(fEOM  "  LE  LIT  DU  CAMP.") 

The  French  army  was  still  in  Spain.  Our  division,  which 
formed  part  of  the  centre,  received  orders  to  go  into  canton- 
ments near  Valladolid;  the  remainder  of  the  troops  were 
encamped  near  Segovia.     Adrien  was  incessantly  harassed 
with   the   desire   of  returning  to  his   native   country;   his 
ruined  health  rendered  rest  and  peace  necessary  to  his 
exibtence,    and   consequently  his    sufferings    were   more 
poignant.     Metz  !     Metz  which  he  had  quitted  early   in 
life,   and  where    his  family  were  anxiously  awaiting   his 
return,  seemed  to  him  every  morning  as  a  goal  which  he 
could  reach  with  his  hand.     The  call-drum  would  put  an 
end  to  his  reverie,  and  all  his  pleasing  hopes  would  vanish, 
when  at  every  arrival  of  the  couriers,  no  news  was  brought 
to  him,  and  the  only  answer  to  his  repeated  and  earnest 
enquiries  was,  "No  letter:  no  news  of  any  kind."      Once 
the  idea  of  a  cowardly  act  crossed  his  mind;  he  thought  of 
leaving  his  division  and  of  following  the  soldiers  who  had 
been  ordered  to  France;  twenty  times  did  he  resolve  to 
seek  death  in  the  first  engagement  that  should  take  place, 
if  he  should  see  no  hopes  of  return.     By  good   fortune, 
at  the  moment  when  despair  was  about  to   master  him 
entirely,  his  station  was  changed,  and  the  busy  scene  in 
which  he  was  for  some  time  engaged,  diverted  his  thoughts, 
in  some  measure,  from  the  letters  which  had  been  so  long 
delayed.     Increased  exertion,  and  the  excitement  attendant 
upon  the  presence  of  the  court  at  Valladolid,  afforded  him 
no  leisure  to  reflect  upon  his  situation,  or  to  pay  attention 
to  the  delicate  state  of  his  health.     Tbe  fever  of  the  country 
had  just  given  place  to  an  alarming  langour,  which  had  a 
detrimental  effect  upon  his  constitution  ;  and  he  was  almost 
in  a  dying  state,  when  a  letter  was  transmitted  to  him. 
He  opened  it,  without  looking  at  the  direction.     At  sight 
of  the  writing,  his  arms  fell,  his  thoughts  returned  to  their 
distressing  subject,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  grief.     He 
had   thought  at  first  that  it  was  from  his   sister;  but  it 
brought  him  no  news   of  his  family ;    a  comrade,   who 
belonged  to  the  army  in  Navarre  informed  him,  that  in  an 
expedition  against  a  band  of  guerillas,  he  had  received  a 
wound  which  would  confine  him  to  his  bed  for  some  time. 
The  disappointment  was  doubtless  terrible,  and  its  severity 
was  increased  when  news  came  from  all  quarters,  that  the 
enemy  was   concentrating   his  forces.       Adrien,  though 
feeble  and  ill,  was  obliged  to  accompany  his  division  in  the 
march  towards  Burgos. 

La  Uochefoucault  says,  in  some  part  of  his  works,  "  We 
are  more  willing  to  love  those  who  hate  us,  than  those  wno 
love  us  more  than  we  wish."  Such  was  the  case  with 
Adrien,  whose  heart  yearned  to  this  sentiment  in  order  to 
fill  the  void  which  had  been  left  there,  when  his  affections 
were  lacerated  by  his  sudden  departure. 


Well !  the  troops  arrived  at  Burgos,  and  relaxation  was 
at  last  afforded  to  them.  We  found  many  women  and 
friars  there;  and  from  the  conduct  of  the  latter  nothing 
favourable  could  be  augured  to  the  new  comers :  conse- 
quently Adrien  kept  his  sabre  constantly  at  hand;  and  the 
old  posadero  with  whom  he  lodged,  all  Spaniard  as  he  was, 
did  not  ridicule  him  for  this  precaution.  "  I  confess  I 
approve  of  your  conduct,  for  I  like  you  dearly.  Heavens, 
if  any  one  has  heard  me  speak  thus,  I  am  undone." 

"  What,  do  you  fear  that  the  walls  of  your  inn  have  ears  ?" 
"  If  the  walls  cannot  hear,  there  are  people  behind  who 
can." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  You  must  know,  brave  Frenchman,  that  every  hour  of 
the  day  for  the  last  week,  my  people  and  myself  have 
observed  a  monk  enter  the  neighbouring  chamber.  Heaven 
forefend  that  I  should  speak  ill  of  him." 

"  Well,  what  would  this  man  do  to  you  ?  has  he  not 
sufficient  regard  for  you  to  keep  secret  your  attachment  to 
our  army  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  suspect  that  he  is  one  of  the  familiars  of 
the  inquisition,  on  the  search  fer  heretics  and  sorcerers, 
and  criminals  of  every  description.  Good  God,  I  have 
uttered  words  that  make  me  tremble,  and  which  I  dare  not 
repeat." 

"If  you  have  any  fears,  keep  your  secrets  to  yourself, 
my  good  host ;  as  to  me,  I  shall  always  have  my  sabre 
drawn  and  my  gun  loaded." 

The  posadero,  who  was  dying  to  relate  what  he  had 
heard,  went  to  the  door  and  called,  "  Loretta,  when  Don 
Syneros  comps,  tell  me  immediately,  as  I  have  something 
to  say  to  his  highness."  He  then  returned  to  Adrien,  and 
seated  himself.  "  I  am  sure  you  are  not  acquainted  with 
this  Don  Syneros.  He  is  the  protector  of  the  monk,  and 
his  descent  is  so  illustrious,  that  for  three  generations  past 
his  ancestors  have  possessed  the  privilege  of  speaking  to 
the  king,  without  uncovering.  This  nobleman  was  madly 
desirous  of  being  bethrothed  to  a  young  lady  of  high  rank, 
but  he  had  the  mortification  of  finding  a  more  successful 
rival  in  the  person  of  the  chamberlain.  Blood  alone,  in 
his  opinion,  could  wipe  out  the  insult,  and  blood  Don 
Syneros  was  determined  to  have.  As  a  more  immediate 
means  of  gratifying  his  thirst  for  vengeance,  he  had 
recourse  to  the  all-powerful  influence  of  gold. 

Among  the  guests  who  frequented  the  hotel  of  the  king's 
chamberlain,  he  observed  a  monk  who  had  been  the  lady's 
confessor  before  the  ceremony  had  taken  place.  A  single 
glance  at  the  man  informed  him  that  he  was  the  very 
person  he  wished  to  find.  Having  made  him  many  valu- 
able presents  and  numberless  promises,  he  slipped  a  dagger 
and  a  paper  into  his  hand.  The  dagger  was  one  of  the 
most  deadly  kind :  and  on  the  paper  was  written : 

"  You  know  my  wishes.     At  some  distant  period  I  shall 


71 


have  boundless  influence  ;  if  a  cardinal's  hat  would  please 
you,  serve  me.     Let  this  be  secret  1" 

The  next  morning  the  chamberlain  was  found  dead :  a 
report  was  spread  that  some  slight  at  court  had  induced  him 
to  commit  suicide,  and  two  days  afterwards  he  was  interred 
in  the  family  vault.  This  that  I  have  related  to  you, 
happened  many  years  ago.  The  lady  in  question,  who 
was  a  mere  child  at  the  time,  did  not  even  dream  of 
lamenting  her  husband ;  she  knew  not  the  extent  of  her 
loss. 

Don  Syneros  thought  proper  to  leave  it  to  time  to 
destroy  every  trace  of  the  affair.  When  he  renewed  his 
attentions,  the  young  widow  had  disappeared,  while  her 
family  instituted  an  enquiry.  The  monk  on  his  part 
thought  it  most  prudent  to  decamp.  This  flight  gave  rise 
t)  suspicion  ;  pursuit  was  proposed  ;  but  the  priests  hushed 
up  the  business,  and  nothing  more  was  said  about  it.  It 
appears  that  themonk  wandered  for  along  time  in  distress, 
subsisting  upon  charity.  About  a  week  ago,  he  knocked 
at  my  door;  on  the  same  evening  came  Don  Syneros. 
They  recognized  each  other  at  supper.  Some  muttered 
words  and  indistinct  observations  roused  my  curiositj',  so 
that  I  followed  them  when  they  retired  for  the  night. 

The  monk  entered  the  chamber  of  Don  Syneros.  I 
recognized  him  by  his  voice,  for  they  had  the  precaution  to 
jhui  the  door.  The  monk  grew  warm,  and  his  words  were 
hurried.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have 
forgotten  your  promises?  no,  no;  I  claim  the  cardinal's 
hat;  it  is  my  due." — "Is  it  in  my  power  to  control 
circumstances  ?  Your  hair  has  become  white,  and  mine 
<'-rey ;  and  you  perceive  that  my  power  is  not  greater  than 
before,  and  consequently  you  have  not  been  promoted." — 
"  And  whose  is  the  fault?  Was  it  for  me  to  wait  and  be 
put  off  like  this?" — "The  plot  has  failed — Oh!  those 
confounded  French." — "Well!"  exclaimed  the  monk, 
after  a  short  silence  which  was  only  interrupted  by  the 
counting  o^'  money  upon  the  table,  "that  is  not  sufficient; 
every  five  weeks  the  holy  tribunal  compels  me  to  remit  as 
much.  And  now  this  is  the  only  condition  upon  which  my 
silence  can  be  obtained,  unless  you  choose  to  employ  your 
sword.  Benigna  has  been  seen  at  Saragossa  and  Toledo, 
she  is  still  a  widow  ;  she  has  ceased  to  be  young,  without 
ceasing  to  be  beautiful ;  she  is  still  rich  and  would  make 
any  man  happy.  It  is  said,  that  she  follows  the  French 
army ;  let  us  hasten  to  find  her,  and  she  is  yours ;  but  one 
night  for  me,  and  our  accounts  shall  be  cleared."  There 
was  a  short  interval  of  silence;  after  which  Don  Syneros 
exclaimed,  "  Give  me  time  for  consideration ;  you  shall 
have  an  answer  to-morrow."  The  monk  took  his  leave,  and 
retired  to  his  chamber,  without  having  the  least  idea  that 
his  conference  had  been  overheard  ;  at  day-break  he  failed 
not  to  be  at  the  appointed  place,  and  I  also  was  there 
concealed.  The  answer  was  evidently  unsatisfactory,  for 
the    conversation   was  warm    and  loud,    and  the    monk 


departed  in  a  rage,  tearing  into  a  thousand  pieces  the 
written  promise  of  his  employer. 

They  have  since  met  frequently,  and  appear  to  be  on  a 
more  friendly  footing.  Yesterday  morning,  Don  Syneros 
ordered  me  to  bring  up  some  wine,  and  as  I  was  entering 
the  room,  I  caught  these  words  :  "  The  French  have 
commenced  a  retreat  upon  Burgos  :  we  shall  see  them 
to-morrow;  and  if  you  have  told  me  truly," — "  By  St. 
Francesco!" — "Swear  not,  for  Heaven's  sake;  it  is 
always  well  to  leave  no  room  for  perjury."  He  ceased, 
and  both  applied  themselves  to  the  wine.  At  a  sign  from 
Don  Syneros,  I  departed,  and  left  them  alone.  "  Now, 
my  brave  fellow,  what  think  you  of  all  this  ?" 

"That  your  Don  and  your  monk  are  a  couple  of 
scoundrels,  who  deserve  to  be  burned." 

"  Not  so  loud,  I  entreat  you ;  speak  lower,"  whispered 
the  innkeeper,  trembling  all  over;  "  if  they  learn  that  I 
have  revealed  all,  I  am  a  dead  man." 

"  Wait  awhile,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Adrien,  rising  with 
his  drawn  sabre  in  his  hand,  "  Madman,  where  are  you 
going  ?"  demanded  the  other,  catching  hold  of  his  uniform. 

"  Oh !  stir  not  for  mercy's  sake!  I  would  rather  perform 
penance  in  each  of  the  eighty-two  churches  of  Barcelona, 
than  have  you  commit  so  thoughtless  an  action.  Leave 
the  wretches  alone ;  heaven  will  punish  them  in  good 
time  ;  and  do  not  give  me  reason  to  repent  having  revealed 
to  you  a  crime  which  has  remained  so  long  a  secret." — 
"  Coward,"  cried  Adrien,  "  you  are  as  much  afraid  as  if 
you  were  guilty  !" — "  Then  let  me  at  least  point  them  out 
to  you,  that  you  may  be  able  to  recognize  them  when  an 
opportunity  shall  off'er."— ."  Willingly." 

Adrien,  however,  was  compelled  to  depart  before  he 
could  meet  the  men  he  so  longed  to  encounter.  The 
troops  defiled  at  the  foot  of  the  heights;  but  previous  to 
continuing  the  march,  orders  were  given  to  blow  up  a 
castle  which  commanded  the  road,  Duclos,  a  comrade  of 
Adrien's,  was  among  the  number  of  those  who  were 
commissioned  to  set  fire  to  the  train.  Through  some 
accident  the  mine  exploded  sooner  than  was  intended,  and 
several  soldiers,  among  whom  was  Duclos,  were  mortally 
wounded  by  the  fragments  of  stone  scattered  in  all 
directions  by  the  explosion.  Before  he  breathed  his  last, 
he  sent  for  Adrien,  and  also  one  of  the  quarter-masters, 
named  Moline.  "  Adrien,"  said  he,  "  give  me  your  hand." 
Adrien  wept:  "  when  you  return  to  your  country,  console 
your  sister,  Lucie,  and  give  this  to  her  without  opening  it." 
He  pressed  his  hand  and  gave  him  a  small  packet;  "as 
to  yourself,  here  is  a  comrade  to  whom  I  will  commend — 
you  will,  Moline,  I  am  sure,  have  the  same  regard  for 
Adrien  as  you  have  had  for  me."  The  quarter- master 
gave  him  his  word  ;  Duclos  was  not  able  to  hear  his  reply. 
He  had  expired. 

Adrien  was  heart-broken  ;  and  in  the  extremity  of  his 
grief,  his  thoughts  turned  towards  religion.     He  regretted 


that  his  friend  could  not  be  interred  in  a  cemetery,  where 
his  ashes  would  be  treated  with  respect.  "  Who  knows," 
he  murmured,  "but  that  the  cross  erected  over  his  body 
would  serve  as  a  rallying  spot  for  banditti  ?  And  would 
not  the  Spaniards  rejoice  over  the  last  resting  place  of  one 
of  our  nation.  And  that  there  should  not  be  a  priest  to 
perform  the  accustomed  duties!" 

In  this  country  in  which  monasteries  abound,  it  would 
have  been  strange,    indeed,  if  some  one  of  the  members 
could  not  have  been  found.     Just  as  those  whose  sad  office 
it  was  to  bury  the  body,  had  finished  their  labours,  and  were 
on  the  point  of  falling  into  the  ranks,  a  monk  rose  up  as  if 
by  magic  at  the  edge  of  the  grave.     He  arrived  too  late  for 
Doclus,  and  too  soon  for  himself.     Adrien's  eyes  flashed 
fire  at  the  sight;  the  monk  started,  and  gave  him  a  respect- 
ful salutation.     "  Wretch,"  cried  Adrien,  as  he  heard  his 
voice;    "I  know  you,  though  this  is  the  first  time  we  have 
met.     Under  thy  cowl,  is  concealed  a  villian."     As  he 
grasped   him  by  the   arm,    he   perceived    that   the   monk 
trembled  with  rage.     "  Do   you  think,"    said  he  again, 
pointing  to  the  grave,   "  do  you  think  that  he  will  be  con- 
demned by  his  judge,  since  he  has  not  had  the  benefit  of 
your  prayers  in  his  mortal  agony  ?" — "  God  is  great  and 
merciful,"  replied  the  monk.   "  Will  he  be  so  to  a  murder- 
er?"- The  monk  suddenly  grew  pale,  and  the  small  portion 
of  his  face  that  was  not  concealed  by  his  thick  beard  became 
of  the  deadly  hue  of  a  corpse.     Adrien  now  was  perfectly 
furious,  and  in  an  almost  ungovernable  paroxysm  of  rage, 
he  asked,  "  Shall  I  now  with  my  sabre  send  your  head  to 
Rome,  that  it  may  be  covered  with  the  hat  of  a  cardinal  ?" 
The  monk  fell  on  his  knees,  giving  utterance  to  the  most 
abject  petitions  for  mercy,  and  as  he  was  submissively  rais- 
ing his  head  to  see  if  the  threat  would  be  put  in  force,  he 
received  from  the  clenched  fist  of  Adrien,  a  tremendous 
blow  on  the  breast,   the  force  of  which  hurled  him  back- 
wards some  paces     "Go,  go,  thou  accursed  monk  !    Goand 
be  burned  wherever  you  please,  but  return  not  again  to  ob- 
serve our  route."     The  monk  hastily  rose,  and  drawing  a 
pistol  from  beneath  his  robe,  fired  at  Adrien,  but  happily 
missed  his  aim.     Adrien  levelled  his  musket,  and  had  not  a 
secret  impulss  restrained  his  arm,  the  wretched  man  would 
have  sufi'ered  the  punishment  due  to  his  crime.      As  it  was, 
he  was  permitted  to  escape. 

From  this  day,  an  intimate  friendship  was  established  be- 
tween Adrien  and  the  quarter  master.  The  former  had 
partially  recovered  his  strength,  and  managed  to  endure 
with  less  difficulty  the  fatigue  he  was  compelled  to  under- 
go- 

A  series  of  complicated  military  movements  followed 
these  events:  and  the  division  to  which  Adrien  was  at- 
tached hastily  advancing  to  its  allotted  station,  resembled 
an  army  in  retreat,  rather  than  soldiers  engaged  in  the  ex- 
ecution of  a  well  matured  plan.  The  near  approach  of  the 
eucniy  greatly  increased  the  confusion  incident  to  this  hur- 


ried movement,  and  the  disorder  was  at  its  height  when  it 
was  discovered  that  they  had  missed  their  way.  To  at- 
tempt to  describe  the  scene  which  ensued  when  thsir  luck- 
less condition  became  fully  known,  would  be  out  of  the 
power  of  language.  In  the  universal  trepidation,  Adrien 
who  was  in  the  rear  of  the  division,  lost  none  of  his  accus- 
tomed coolness  and  presence  of  mind.  Ashe  passed  by  the 
foot  of  a  steep  embankment,  he  perceived  a  waggon  that 
had  been  stopped;  one  of  the  horses  was  extended  on  the 
ground,  and  the  driver  was  not  to  be  seen.  Some  marau- 
ding soldiers  were  attempting  to  break  open  the  chests,  and 
pillage  the  money  contained  in  them.  Adrien  hurried 
forward  to  hinder  their  design,  and  though  almost  speech- 
less with  anger,  his  quick  eye  caught  a  glance  of  a  female 
lying  upon  some  cushions,  young,  and  beautiful  even  in  the 
pallid  hue  that  overspread  her  countenance;  and  richly 
apparelled.  Wishing  to  afi'ord  assistance  if  he  should  hap- 
pen to  be  in  time,  he  advanced  with  the  utmost  rapidity. 
Upon  this  movement,  the  plunderers,  who  had  been  busied 
with  the  booty,  thinking  that  Adrien  and  the  soldiers  who 
accompanied  him  were  about  to  claim  their  share,  levelled 
their  muskets  and  fired.  "The  villains!  the  murderers! 
they  are  not  our  men,"  he  exclaimed;  and  a  well-directed 
volley  from  his  own  men  quickly  reminded  the  marauders, 
that  their  only  safety  was  in  flight;  and  the  life  of  the  lady, 
who  had  only  fainted,  was  happily  preserved.  The  atten- 
tive care  of  Adrien  soon  restored  her  to  herself,  and  without 
losing  time  in  making  frivolous  enquiries,  he  assisted  her  to 
proceed,  after  having  advised  her  to  take  the  articles  that 
were  of  most  value  from  the  waggon,  and  so  leave  the  re- 
mainder to  the  robbers.  A  miniature,  a  small  cofl'er,  and  a 
casket  of  jewels,  were  all  that  could  be  preserved. 

It  was  not  till  midnight  that  the  disordered  troops  enter- 
ed Salvatierra,  without  either  artillery  or  baggage.  The 
unfortunate  Spaniard  still  remained  with  her  deliverers, 
and  the  poignancy  of  her  grief  gave  her  no  time  to  observe 
the  laceration  her  feet  had  undergone  from  the  length  of 
the  march.  Adrien  contrived  to  procure  her  an  apartment , 
and  she  withdrew  to  rest,  after  offering  all  the  recompense 
in  her  power  to  her  brave  deliverers;  to  Adrien  alone, 
whose  deportment  had  struck  her,  did  she  smile  her  thanks, 
and  as  she  retired  she  begged  him  to  call  her  at  the  expira- 
tion of  three  hours.  She  locked  herself  in  her  chamber, 
and  spent  the  time  in  fervent  prayer.  She  was  still  at  her 
devotions  when  Adrien  returned;  and  he  would  have  been 
completely  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  having  done  a 
generous  action,  had  not  his  pleasure  been  somewhat  damp- 
ed by  the  absence  of  Moline,  whom  he  had  not  met  since 
the  confusion  arose.  As  he  entered  the  lady's  chamber, 
there  was  an  instant  of  silence;  curiosity  rendered  the  one 
mute,  trepidation  the  other.  The  Spaniard  was  of  small 
stature,  but  extremely  well  made;  her  features  were  of  the 
cast  of  beauty  peculiar  to  the  inhabitants  of  Andalusia, 
and  her  manners  betrayed  traces  of  a  French  education. 


76 


WF-SIMORtLANO, 


jytcTm,  a./i- 


-k^^ 


Loii&a  ftihtshfd-Aiigl-r.'  W,H.  bv-Simpkin.  t  Matshsfll  Sia'airaers  Court.  &:  J. AVStewns,  10. Deroy- Street, ffin^e  Ctoss 


.^pv 


4* 


At  that  hour  of  the  night,  the  lady  resembled  some  hea- 
venly apparition.  Adrian  observed  a  tear  in  her  eye,  and 
heard  a  long  and  deep-drawn  sigh.  After  a  few  moments, 
observing  Adrien's  indecision,  she  broke  the  painful  si- 
lence,— "  Have  you  nothing  to  say,  my  friend  ?"  The  word 
fl*iend  awoke  him  with  a  start  from  the  reverie  in  which  he 
was  wrapped  while  gazing  on  her  beauteous  face,  and  he 
seemed  as  if  he  had  been  just  roused  from  a  deep  sleep, 
"  Speak  to  me  then,  what  are  you  afraid  of?"  "  Spain  may 
produce  prettier  women,  but  it  never  can  shew  one  more 
handsome."  "  Have  you  nothing  else  to  say  ?  Forget  for 
an  instant  that  you  are  French.  Have  you  thought  of  the 
debt  T  owe  you  for  your  repeated  attention  to  me  ?" 

"  I  know  not,  madam,  what  meritorious  action  I  have 
performed.  I  have  saved  your  life ;  and  had  another  been 
in  my  situation,  he  would  have  done  the  same.  I  have  only 
done  my  duty." 

"  And  as  to  myself,  I  am  under  such  obligation  to  you 
that  I  know  not  how  to  acquit  myself  of  it.  Listen  to  me 
for  a  few  minutes." 

And  she  here  related  to  him  the  story  with  which  our 
readers  are  acquainted,  and  informed  him  that  she  was 
Benigna,  the  unhappy  lady  of  whom  Don  Syneros  was  in 
quest.  He  endeavoured  to  give  her  all  the  consolation  in 
his  power,  but  the  signal-drum  soon  put  an  end  to  their  in- 
terview. The  soldiers  received  orders  to  continue  their 
march,  and  by  the  exertions  of  the  officers,  the  division  was 
restored  to  its  usual  good  order.  Adrien  had  with  some 
difficulty  procured  a  mule;  and  on  his  return  with  it  to  the 
house  in  which  he  had  left  his  beauteous  charge,  he  obser- 
ved a  shadow  flitting  across  his  path.  He  instantly  shoul- 
dered his  musquet,  and  at  the  rattling  of  the  weapon  the 
figure  disappeared,  and  he  saw  it  no  more.  He  did  not 
mention  this  adventure  to  the  Spaniard,  nor  the  suspicions 
that  it  had  aroused  in  his  mind.  He  joined  the  troops, 
and  continued  his  march,  in  great  uneasiness  as  to  the  fate 
of  his  friend  Moline,  who  had  not  yet  rejoined  him.  In  the 
evening  the  enemy's  light  troops  were  hovering  on  the  rear, 
and  consequently  the  march  was  conducted  with  all  possi- 
ble rapidity ;  and  the  column  with  but  little  opposition 
regained  the  high  road  to  Tolosa.  In  all  the  hardships  to 
which  she  was  exposed,  Donna  Benigna  maintained  the 
most  astonishing  firmness  and  composure.  Her  energy 
surpassed  even  that  of  the  men  themselves.  At  lasta  short 
period  of  repose  was  afforded  to  her;  for  the  regiment  to 
which  Adrien  belonged  was  ordered  into  garrison  at  Pam- 
peluna;  and  at  that  town  Moliae  rejoined  his  comrade, 
who  had  almost  despaired  of  seeing  him  again. 

They  had  been  stationed  thus  for  some  time,  when  Adrien 
returning  one  evening  from  an  interview  with  Benigna,  to 
whom  he  was  become  deeply  attached,  was  jostled  by  a 
soldier  who  wore  the  French  uniform.  The  street  was  wide, 
and  deserted.     Stern  were  the  glances  that  passed  between 


them,  and  bitter  and  rapid  was   the  exchange  of  words. 
Adrien  did  not  recognize  the  marauder. 

"  A  bird  in  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  observed  the 
man.  Adrien  indignantly  demanded  to  what  he  alluded. 
"  To  you  and  to  the  Spanish  lady  who  accompanies  you. 
The  whole  regiment  is  aware  that  you  have  seduced  her, 
an!  that  you  intend  to  abandon  her  as  soon  as  you  have 
stripped  her  of  her  property."  Great  was  Adrien's  aston- 
ishment at  hearing  this  accusation,  and  he  angrily  answered, 
"  I  could  slay  you  on  the  spot,  but  I  only  answer  your 
insults  by  a  defiance."  "  Do  you  defy  me?"  "  Is  that 
wonderful?"  continued  Adrien,  grinding  his  teeth  with 
passion  ;  "  oh  !  true ;  I  had  forgotten  that  cowardice  was 
allied  to  baseness."  "Wretch!"  "  I  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  coward  as  well  as  a  villian."  "  Do  you  insult  in  your 
turn  ?"  "  Shall  I  be  really  more  fortunate  than  I  expected  ? 
For  the  third  time,  I  tell  you  that  I  treat  you  as  a  man 
utterly  devoid  both  of  honour  and  courage."  "  To-morrow 
you  shall  have  proof  of  the  contrary."  "  To-morrow  let  it 
be."  "  Where?"  "  Behind  the  walls  of  the  grand  ceme- 
tery." "The  time?"  "  Four  in  the  morning."  "The 
weapon?"  "  Pistol,  or  sword,  or  what  other?  We'll  say 
the  sword,"  "Agreed;  to-morrow,  then,  at  four." — Two 
strangers,  with  slouched  hats,  and  large  mantles  folded 
round  them,  passed  the  two  disputants  at  this  moment,  and 
muttered  as  they  proceeded  "Four  o'clock!"  Adrien, 
however,  paid  no  attention  to  them;  and  he  determined  to 
inform  Donna  Benigna  of  every  thing  that  had  transpired. 
He  requested  Moline  to  be  his  second,  who,  when  he  was 
informed  of  the  affair,  offered  to  take  the  place  of  his  young 
friend.  Adrien  would  by  no  means  allow  of  this ;  and 
Moline,  who  had  never  before  felt  the  least  tremor  at  the 
prospect  of  a  duel,  was  much  disturbed  at  the  danger  which 
Adrien  would  incur. 

As  our  story  has  been  protracted  to  an  unusual  length, 
we  are  compelled  to  pass  over  the  interview  between  Adrien 
and  Benigna.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  scene  was  such  as 
might  be  supposed  from  the  relations  of  the  parties  con- 
cerned. 

Moline  and  Adrien  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night  in 
practising  at  the  sword.  Adrien  displayed  uncommon 
dexterity  and  command  over  his  weapon,  and  Moline 
already  congratulated  him  upon  the  victory  he  would  obtain. 
As  they  continued  their  practice,  the  button  unluckily  flew 
from  the  foil  of  Moline,  who  not  perceiving  it  at  the  mo- 
ment, made  a  lunge,  and  the  point  of  the  foil  entered 
beneath  Adrien's  eye,  who  instantly  fainted  away  at  the 
blow.  The  blood  poured  forth  in  torrents;  surgeons  were 
immediately  in  attendance,  but  he  still  remained  insensi- 
ble — The  day  dawned:  four  o'clock  had  struck;  and 
behind  the  wall  of  the  cemetery  was  the  opponent  of  Adrien 
waiting,  with  his  second.  The  marauder  grew  impatient  at 
the  delay,  and  mounted  the  wall  of  the  cemetery,  that  he  might 


77 


J 


have  a  more  extended  view,  and  the  first  object  that  met 
his  eager  gaze  was  a  funeral  procession — it  was  that  of 
Adrien. 

The  cemetery  had  been  the  place  appointed  for  the 
rendezvous.  Adrien  thought  not  that  he  would  fail  to  be 
there;  but  did  he  think  that  he  would  have  arrived  in  that 
state?  Neither  Moline  nor  Donna  Benigaa  could  credit 
that  he  was  dead.  The  latter,  giving  herself  up  to  despair, 
threw  herself  on  the  corpse  of  her  preserver,  uttering  the 
most  piteous  lamentations.  As  she  pressed  him  in  her  arms, 
and  placed  her  hand  on  the  heart  which  had  lived  for  her, 
she  discovered  a  packet.  She  hastily  opened  it,  and  found 
a  letter  signed  Lucie,  and  a  brooch  with  hair.  It  had 
belonged  to  the  unfortunate  Duclos.  Suspicion  instantly 
flashed  across  the  mind  of  the  Spaniard;  her  tears  ceased, 
and  she  stood  the  semblance  of  a  corpse.  Seeing  her  in 
this  sad  state,  Moline  muttered  to  himself,  "  She  will  die 
of  it."  As  he  was  walking  away,  a  prey  to  all  the  heart- 
rending emotions  which  would  naturally  occur  to  a  man  in 
his  situation,  he  heard  the  cries  of  a  female  in  distress,  and 
a  carriage  passed  rapidly  by  drawn  by  a  couple  of  mules ; 
and  what  was  most  strange,  it  was  a  monk  who  was  driving 
them  I 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  the  army  received  orders  to 
continue  its  retreat,  and  to  cross  the  Pyrenees. 


MARY. 


There  lives  a  young  lassie 

Far  down  yon  lang  glen ; 
How  I  lo'e  that  lassie 

There's  nae  ane  can  ken! 
O !  a  saint's  faith  may  vary, 

But  faithfu'  I'll  be; 
For  weel  I  lo'e  Mary, 

And  Mary  lo'es  me. 

Red — red  as  the  rowan 

Her  smiling  wee  mou'; 
An'  white  as  the  gowan 

Her  breast  and  her  brow  t 
Wi'  a  foot  o'  a  fairy 

She  links  o'er  the  lea; 
0 !  weel  I  lo'e  Mary, 

And  Mary  lo'es  me. 

Where  yon  tall  forest  timmer, 

And  lowly  broom  bower, 
To  the  sunshine  o*  simmer 

Spread  verdure  and  flower; 
There,  when  night  clouds  the  cary, 

Beside  her  I'll  be; 
For  weel  I  lo'e  Marv, 

And  Mary  lo'es  me ! 

JOHN  IMLAH. 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER. 


TO   HER    INFANT   CHILD. 


'  Heaven  lies  abuot  us  in  our  infancy." 


fyordtteorth. 


Joyous  infant !  thou  art  waking. 
To  the  morning's  early  rav- 

For  the  golden  sun  is  breaking 

Through  the  eastern  clouds  of  day  : 

Thou  shalt  wake  to  infant  gladness. 

And  to  joy,  until  the  west 
Shall  again,  with  shade  and  sadness, 

Bring  to  thee  the  hour  of  rest. 

Happy  infant !  thou  art  thinking 
Only  on  the  dreams  of  joy  : 

May  thy  heart  be  kept  from  sinking, 
Should  it  feel  life's  cold  alloy. 

Be  his  blessing  ever  with  thee, 
Who  alone  can  make  thee  bleet : 

May  his  mercies  full  and  freely. 
Guide  thee  to  his  home  of  rest. 

Lovely  infant !  thou  art  sleeping, 
Whilst  the  evening  shadows  close, - 

Whilst  the  silent  dews  are  weeping 
O'er  thy  spirit's  mild  repose: 

Whilst  the  twilight  star  is  shining, 
Like  an  angel  from  the  west. 

Thou,  sweet  bade,  art  now  reclining, 
Hushed  in  slumber's  quiet  rest. 

Beauteous  infant  1  thou  art  dreaming. 
Ere  the  night  is  o'er  thee  spread, 

And  each  quiet  star  is  beaming, 
From  the  sky  above  thine  head ; 

See  the  shadows  of  the  even. 

Gliding  slowly  to  the  west. 
While  the  azure  hue  of  heaven, 

Peaceful  tints  thy  tranquil  rest. 


78 


ARUNDEL    CASTLE. 

THE  SEAT  OF  HIS   GBAOB  THE  DUKE  OF  NOBFOLK. 

Arunele  Castle  has  been  famed  for  its  strength  from 
the  earliest  periods.  Under  the  Saxon  government,  it  be- 
longed to  the  crown,  and  was  at  that  time  an  important 
fortress.  Shortly  after  the  Norman  conquest  it  was 
repaired  by  Roger  de  Montgomery,  upon  whom  it  had  bei^n 
bestowed  by  the  conqueror,  who  created  him,  at  the  same 
time.  Earl  of  Arundel  and  Shrewsbury.  From  the  former, 
however,  he  took  his  title,  though  his  real  title  was  that  of 
Earl  of  Sussex  and  Chichester. 

The  manor  is  inseparably  annexed  to  the  castle,  as  also 
is  the  honour  of  earl,  so  that  whoever  possesses  the  castle 
thereby  becomes  an  earl  without  any  other  creation. 

The  castle  was  twice  besieged  during  the  civil  wars  in 
the  time  of  Charles  I.  The  Lord  Hopton  having  seized  it 
with  the  king's  forces,  it  was  speedily  re-taken  by  Sir 
William  Waller,  general  of  the  parliamentary  army.  At 
this  siege,  the  learned  Chillingworth  was  taken  prisoner, 
who,  by  his  skill  as  an  engineer,  had  rendered  himself  of 
much  service  during  the  period  of  the  investment. 

Since  that  epoch  the  Castle  of  Arundel  has  not  been 
looked  upon  as  a  fortress.  During  the  civil  wars,  it  was 
committed  to  all  the  barbarities  of  military  execution — its 
furniture  ransacked — its  walls  demolished,  and  its  south- 
front,  comprehending  the  magnificent  state-room  of  the 
Fitzalaus,  entirely  destroyed.  From  that  perod,  till  the 
repairs  by  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk,  nothing  remained  of 
this  noble  structure,  but  a  few  lofty  apartments,  a  gallery, 
and  a  spacious  kitchen. 

Arundel  Castle  is  delightfully  situated  amongst  a  variety 
of  woods  and  charming  hills,  and  commands  a  prospect  of 
the  sea,  and  of  fertile  meadows,  pleasantly  watered  and 
divided  by  the  windings  of  a  navigable  river — the  Avon, 
which,  in  addition  to  the  other  recommendations,  is  supplied 
with  excellent  mullet. 


ON  TASTE. 

Agueeable  emotions  and  sensations  may  be  devided 
into  three  orders :  those  of  pleasure,  which  refer  to  the 
senses; — those  of  harmony,  which  refer  to  the  mind  ; — and 
those  of  happiness,  which  are  the  natural  result  of  an  union 
between  harmony  and  pleasure  :  the  former  being  exercised 
in  virtue — the  latter  in  temperance.  Harmony  is  princi- 
pally enjoyed  by  those  men,  who  possess,  what  has 
analogically  been  termed,  taste  ; — which  Mr.  Melmoth 
defines, '  that  universal  sense  of  beauty,  which  every  man 
in  some  degree  possesses,  rendered  more  exquisite  by 
genius  and  more  correct  by  cultivation.'  'It  is  very  re- 
n;arkable,'  says  Dr.  Akenside,  '  that  the  disposition  of  the 
m  iral  powers  is  always  similar  to  that  of  the  imagination  j 


—that  those,  who  are  most  inclined  to  admire  prodigious 
and  sublime  objects  in  the  natural  world,  are  also  most 
inclined  to  applaud  examples  of  fortitude  and  heroic  virtue 
in  the  moral; — while  those,  who  are  charmed  rather  with 
the  delicacy  and  sweetness  of  colours,  forms,  and  sounds, 
never  fail  in  like  manner  to  yield  the  preference  to  the 
softer  scenes  of  virtue  and  the  sympaties  of  a  domestic  life.' 
Exciting  a  love  of  true  glory,  and  an  admiration  of  every 
nobler  virtue,  Taste  exalts  the  affections,  and  purifies  our 
passions; — clothes  a  Private  life  in  white,  and  a  Public  one 
in  purple.  Adding  a  new  feature,  as  it  were,  to  the  pomp, 
the  bloom,  and  the  exuberance  of  nature,  it  enables  the 
mind  to  illumine  what  is  dark,  and  to  colour  what  is 
faded ; — giving  a  lighter  yellow  to  the  topaz,  and  a  more 
celestial  blue  to  the  sapphire,  and  a  deeper  crimson  to  the 
ruby,  it  imparts  a  higher  brilliance  to  the  diamond,  and  a 
more  transparent  purple  to  the  amethyst. 

Bearing  a  price,  which  only  the  heart  and  the  imagina- 
tion can  estimate,  and  being  the  mother  of  a  thousand 
chaste  desires,  and  a  thousand  secret  hopes,  taste  strews 
flowers  in  the  paths  of  literature  and  science  ;  and  breath- 
ing inexpressive  sounds,  and  picturing  celestial  forms, 
qualifies  the  hour  of  sorrow,  by  inducing  that  secret  sense 
of  cheerfulness,  which,  in  its  operation,— 

Refines  the  soft,  and  swells  the  strong  ; 
And  joining  nature's  general  song. 
Through  many  a  varying  tone  unfolds 
The  harmony  of  human  souls. 


SONG  OF  HESPERUS  TO  CYNTHIA. 

Queen,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep. 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  cloie. 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight. 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal- shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever  : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 


SONG  OF   THE  GREEKS. 

Again  to  the  battle,  Achaians  ! 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 

Our  land,  the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree — 

It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be  the  land  of  the  free  ; 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted. 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

And  we  march,  that  the  foot-prints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 

May  be  wash'd  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Ah  !   what  though  no  succour  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretch'd  in  our  aid — be  the  combat  our  own  ! 

And  we'll  perish  or  conquer  mote  proudly  alone: 

For  we've  sworn  by  our  Country's  assaulters, 

By  the  virgins  they've  dragg'd  from  our  altars. 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins. 

That  living,  we  shall  be  victorious, 

Or  that  dying,  our  death  shall  be  glorious. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not; 

The  sword  that  we've  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not; 

Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 

And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whe-tted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide — waves  engulf — fire  consume  us. 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us  : 

It  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves ; 

But  we've  smote  them  already  with  fire  on  the  waves, 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us, — 

To  the  charge! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

This  day  shall  ye  blush  for  its  story, 

Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory. 

Our  women.  Oh  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair. 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest  with  wreaths  in  their  hair  ? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken. 

If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken, 

Till  we've  trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  ourselves  worth. 

Being  sprung  from  and  named  for  the  godlike  of  earth. 

Strike  home,  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 

As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion, 

Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  Ocean; 
Fanes  rebuilt  and  fair  towns  shall  with  jubilee  ring. 

And  the  Nine  shall  new-hallow  their  Helicon's  spring. 

Our  hearts  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness. 
That  were  cold  and  extinguish'd  in  sadness; 


Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white- waving  arms, 
Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  deliver'd  their  charms. 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  crimson'd  the  beaks  of  our  ravens. 

Campbell. 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE 

Eve  closes  o'er  as  fair  a  scene 

As  mortal  eye  could  wish  to  greet; 
The  world  of  waters  spread  serene, 

And  murmurs  music  wild  and  sweet. 
I  wander  on  the  darkening  shore. 

The  harmless  waves  my  pathway  sweep — 
One  lonely  sail  skims  distant  o"er 

The  surface  of  the  eternal  deep. 

0  God  !  how  beautiful !  how  grand 

The  wonders  of  this  solitude  ! 
How,  at  the  still,  yet  stern  command, 

The  spirit  bows,  becalm'd — subdued  ! 
How  exultation  sinks  to  rest, 

How  passion  dies  before  the  spell; 
How  human  feelings  fly  the  breast. 

And  tears,  nor  joys,  nor  sorrows  swell. 

And  this,  indeed,  were  bliss  to  roe. 

If  one  fair  hand  were  press'd  in  mine— 
Thou  star  that  shin'st  in  memory. 

When  all  beside  have  ceased  to  shine; 
Even  here  thy  calm  and  lovely  light. 

Where  all  to  me  is  strange  and  wild. 
Still  holds  its  influence  pure  and  bright, 

By  change  and  wonder  unbeguiled. 

No,  no!  though  all  of  loveliness 

Where'er  it  turns,  allures  the  eye. 
It  cannot  make  thy  beauty  less. 

Nor  wake  one  faithless  smile  or  sigh. 
With  one  bright  hue  too  deeply  died, 

By  others  o'er  controU'd  to  be, 
This  heart,  all  themes  of  joy  beside, 

Tints  with  the  passitm'd  thought  of  thee  ! 


80 


~tv 


4t 


KOSALINE. 

The  masquers  were  fast  crowding  to  the  hall 

Where  princes,  princely  beauty,  lords,  and  knights, 
Were  mingled  at  a  splendid  carnival, 

Midst  silken  tapestries  and  streaming  lights, 
And  glittering  gems,  soft  words,  and  whisper'd  sighs, 
And  sprightly  melodies,  and  sparkling  eyes. 
Beneath  a  tent,  whose  azure  vault  display'd, 

Profusely  shed,  a  host  of  silver  stars. 
Upon  a  couch  in  weary  sadness  laid, 

I  gazed  upon  the  scene— for  pleasure  jars 
Against  the  wounded  heart ;  and  I  had  come 
From  distant  climes,  and  found  an  alter'd  home. 

Friends  dead,  companions  scatter'd  or  estranged — 
The  frowning  hills  alone,  and  pathless  wood. 

Of  all  the  scenes  where  happy  childhood  ranged, 
Firm  in  the  everlasting  grandeur  stood; 

And  I  had  sought  those  brilliant  halls  to  try 

How  heartless  joy  could  medicine  misery. 

Light  forms  were  there,  the  joyous  and  the  young, 
Who  ne'er  had  felt  misfortune's  withering  chill; 

And  gilded  harps  to  melting  lays  were  strung, 
Pouring  through  willing  ears  the  gentle  thrill 

That  woman's  voice,  at  such  a  time  can  bring 

To  bounding  hearts,  in  life's  unclouded  spring. 

None  sought  the  canopy  where  then  I  lay. 
Few  knew  the  wanderer  on  his  late  return ; 

For  ten  long  summers,  from  my  home  away. 
Had  seen  the  western  sun  above  me  burn,— 

When  I  was  mingling  in  the  strife  that  gave 

The  liberty  they  sigh'd  for,  to  the  brave. 

Before  me  spread  green  slopes  and  forests  brown, 
And  tranquil  waters  darkly  deep  yet  clear; 

While  bright  o'er  all  the  cloudless  skies  look'd  down, 
And  faintly  breathing  from  a  terrace  near, 

Soft  words  were  warbled  to  a  mandolin 

By  lips,  from  that  lone  spot,  but  dimly  seen. 

I  listen'd — 'twas  a  tale  of  other  days. 

Of  joy's  bright  morning  melting  into  tears, 

Of  manly  constancy  that  ne'er  decays. 
And  love  that  even  baffled  hope  endears : 

Fond  memory  woke — the  words  she  sung  were  mine. 

And  there  before  me  stood  my  own  sweet  Rosaline, 

The  scene  before  was  fair : — above,  around 
Was  dazzling  splendour — not  for  me  it  shone  ! 

But  now  affection  made  it  hallow'd  ground, 

And  the  heavens  beam'd  in  those  soft  eyes  alone. 

Though  oft  she  wept,  and  told — each  pause  between— 

How — as  myself — a  wanderer  she  had  been. 


For  gallant  hearts,  to  madness  driven,  had  tried 
A  desperate  effort  in  their  country's  cause, 

And,  in  the  struggle,  had  her  kinsmen  died. 
Or  fled  to  distant  lands  and  milder  laws  ; 

But  not  on  woman  had  the  tyrant  dared 

To  wreak  his  vengeance— she,  alone,  was  spared. 

'Twas  thus  my  Rosaline  was  made  my  own — 
Forgot  were  toils  and  perils,  strife  and  wrong ; 

And  oh  how  oft  I  bless'd  the  gentle  tone, 
That,  warbling  to  her  mandolin  my  song. 

Came  o'er  my  spirit  in  its  troubled  hour. 

Soothing  and  mild  as  twilight's  dewy  shower. 


WHERE  IS  HE? 

And  where  is  he  ?  not  by  the  side 

Of  her  whose  wants  he  loved  to  tend  ; 
Not  o'er  those  valleys  wandering  wide. 

Where  sweetly  lost,  he  oft  would  wend 
That  form  beloved  he  marks  no  more. 

Those  scenes  admired  no  more  shall  see. 
Those  scenes  are  lovely  as  before. 

And  she  as  fair— but  where  is  he  ? 

No,  no,  the  radiance  is  not  dim, 

That  used  to  gild  his  favourite  hill, 
The  pleasures  that  were  dear  to  him. 

Are  dear  to  life  and  nature  still ; 
But  ah !  his  home  is  not  as  fair. 

Neglected  must  his  gardens  be. 
The  lilies  droop  and  wither  there, 

And  seem  to  whisper  "  where  is  he?" 

His  was  the  pomp,  the  crowded  hall — 

But  where  is  now  this  proud  display  ? 
His  riches,  honours,  pleasures,  all 

Desire  could  frame — ^but  where  are  they  ? 
And  he,  as  some  tall  rock  that  stands 

Protected  by  the  circling  sea. 
Surrounded  by  admiring  bands, 

Seem'd  proudly  strong — and  where  is  he  ? 

The  church-yard  bears  an  added  stone, 

The  fire-side  shews  a  vacant  chair, 
Here  sadness  dwells,  and  weeps  alone, 

And  death  displays  his  banner  there; 
The  life  is  gone,  the  breath  has  fled. 

And  what  has  been  no  more  shall  be. 
The  well-known  form,  the  welcome  tread, 

Oh !  where  are  they,  and  where  is  he  ? 


Neelb. 


I 


yZ 


ABBOTSFORD. 
(the  author  of  waverlet  in  his  study.) 

[We  have  mnch  pleasure  in  presenting  to  our  readers  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  residence  of  the  late  Sir  Walter  Scott,  from  the  private 
letter  of  a  distinguished  American,  The  fame  of  the  illustrious 
proprietor  has  flown  far  and  wide ;  and  his  name  has  become  a 
passport  to  his  countrymen  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe  where 
the  glory  of  genius  is  acknowledged.  The  admiration  which  his 
numerous  works  have  excited,  naturally  creates  a  wish  to  know 
something  more  of  one  who  has  delighted  us  all  so  much — to  see 
the  place  where  he  gave  himself  up  to  meditation — the  walks  in 
which  he  mused,  and  the  study  in  which  he  conceived  and 
poured  forth  his  magical  productions.  The  pen  of  our  friend  has 
recorded  his  own  impressions  with  great  vividness  and  graphic 
rigour :  to  the  aid  of  the  pen  we  have  brought  the  pencil,  and 
rendered  more  complete  the  account  of  the  distinguished  tourist.] 

I  HAVE  been  exceedingly  unfortunate  as  to  one  of  the 
chief  objects  of  this  northern  expedition;  iu  a  word,  it  has 
been  my  luck  to  select  for  my  visit  to  Scotland,  the  only 
montii  in  which,  for  some  years  past,  Sir  Walter  has  been 

out  of  it.     My  good  friend  R had  told  me  that  by  the 

12th  or  13th  he  was  sure  to  be  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed, 
and  amply  provided  with  letters  of  introduction,  I  quitted 
the  mail  coach  at  Selkirk  on  the  15th,  without  the  slightest 
doubt  that  I  was  within  an  hour's  ride  of  the  great  Minstrel, 
as  well  as  of  his  castle.  The  people  at  the  inn,  too,  con- 
firmed me  in  my  belief.  "  The  Sheriff,"  so  they  called 
him,  was,  they  said,  sure  to  be  at  home,  for  "  the  session 
was  up,"  and  he  never  was  known  to  linger  amidst  the  dust 
of  Edinburgh  when  his  professional  duties  permitted  him  to 
be  in  the  country.  On  accordingly  I  drove,  in  high  hope ; 
and  ere  long  the  towers  of  Abbotsford  were  pointed  out  to 
me,  amidst  a  beautiful  wood  chiefly  of  young  oak  and  birch, 
and  at  no  great  distance  from  the  river.  But  to  cut  the 
story  short,  I  found  the  outer  gates  barred  and  bolted ;  there 
was  nothing,  after  we  knocked  and  rang  for  some  minutes, 
but  a  woful  howling  of  dogs  from  the  interior ;  and  at  last 
a  rough  looking  countryman  issuing,  with  a  staghound  at 
his  heels  and  an  axe  over  his  shoulder,  from  a  side  postern, 
informed  me,  in  a  dialect  not  over  intelligible,  that  Sir 
Walter  and  bis  family  had  gone  on  a  tour  to  Ireland,  and 
were  not  expected  back  again  for  some  weeks.  This  was 
grievous  enough :  but  what  remedy  ?  I  asked  to  see  the 
house  and  gardens,  and  was  told  I  might  do  so  any  other 
day  1  pleased,  but  that  on  this  particular  day  there  was  a 
fair  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  showkeepers  had  quitted 
their  post  to  partake  of  its  festivities.  Upon  a  little  reflec- 
tion, I  resolved  to  go  on  to  "fair  Melrose,"  and  return  to 
Abbotsford  next  morning.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
scrape  acquaintance,  ere  this,  with  Mr.  «•***  of  ♦♦***, 
who  politely  offered  to  act  as  my  cicerone,  and  I  believe,  in 
the  absence  of  the  Poet's  own  household,  there  was  no  one 
better  able  to  perform  those  functions.  I  breakfasted  with 
him,  and  he  conducted  me  once  more  to  the  huge  baronial 


gates,  which  I  no  longer  found  reluctant  to  turn  on  their 
hinges.  He  took  me  all  over  the  house  and  its  environs, 
and  I  spent  a  delightful  evening  afterwards  under  his  own 
hospitable  roof,  which  is  one  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Tweed. 

Some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  ago,  he  tells  me,  there  was 
not  a  more  unlovely  spot,  in  this  part  of  the  world,  than 
that  on  which  Abbotsford  now  exhibits  all  its  quaint  ar- 
chitecture and  beautiful  accompaniment  of  garden  and 
woodland,  A  mean  farm  house  stood  on  part  of  the  site 
of  the  present  edifice ;  a  "  kcile  yard"  bloomed  where  the 
stately  embattled  court  yard  now  spreads  itself;  and  for 
many  thousand  acres  of  flourishing  plantations,  half  of 
which  have  all  the  appearance  of  being  twice  as  old  as  they 
really  are,  there  was  but  a  single  long  straggling  stripe  of 
unthriving  firs.  The  river,  however,  must  needs  remain 
in  statu  quo  ;  and  I  will  not  believe  that  any  place  so  near 
those  clearest  and  sweetest  of  all  waters,  could  ever  have 
been  quite  destitute  of  charms.  The  scene,  however,  was 
no  doubt  wild  enough, — a  naked  moor — a  few  little  turnip 
fields  painfully  reclaimed  from  it — a  Scotch  cottage — a 
Scotch  farm  yard,  and  some  Scots  firs.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a  more  complete  contrast  to  the  present  Abbots- 
ford. 

Sir  W.  is,  (this  was  written  in  the  year  1828,)  as  you 
have  no  doubt  heard,  a  most  zealous  agriculturist,  and 
arboriculturist  especially  ;  and  he  is  allowed  to  have  done 
things  with  this  estate,  since  it  came  into  his  possession, 
which  would  have  been  reckoned  wonders,  even  if  they 
had  occupied  the  whole  of  a  clever  and  skilful  man's 
attention,  during  more  years  than  have  elapsed  since  he 
began  to  write  himself  Laird  of  Abbotsford.  He  has  some 
excellent  arable  land  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  and 
towards  the  little  town  of  Melrose,  which  lies  some  three 
miles  from  the  mansion ;  but  the  bulk  of  the  property  is 
hilly  country,  with  deep  narrow  dells  interlacing  it.  Of 
this  he  has  planted  fully  one  half,  and  it  is  admitted  on  all 
hands,  that  his  rising  forest  has  been  laid  out,  arranged, 
and  managed  with  consummate  taste,  care,  and  success. 
So  much  so,  that  the  general  appearance  of  Tweedside,  for 
some  miles,  is  already  quite  altered  and  improved  by  the 
graceful  ranges  of  his  woodland ;  and  that  the  produce  of 
these  plantations  must,  in  the  course  of  twenty  or  thirty 
years  more,  add  immensely  to  the  yearly  rental  of  the 
estate.  In  the  meantime,  the  shelter  afforded  by  the 
woods  to  the  sheep  walks  reserved  amidst  them,  has 
prodigiously  improved  the  pasturage,  and  half  the  surface 
yields  already  double  the  rent  the  whole  was  ever  thought 
capable  of  affording,  while  in  the  old  unprotected  condition. 
All  through  those  woods  there  are  broad  riding-ways,  kept  in 
capital  order,  and  conducted  in  such  excellent  taste,  that 
we  might  wander  for  weeks  amidst  their  windings  without 
exhausting  the  beauties  of  the  Poet's  lounge.  There  are 
scores    of  charming  waterfalls  in  the  ravines,  and  near 


83 


every  one  of  them  you  find  benches  or  bowew  at  the  most 
picturesque  points  of  view.  There  are  two  or  three  small 
mountain  lakes  included  in  the  domain — one  of  them  not 
so  small  neither — being,  I  should  suppose,  nearly  a  mile  in 
circumference ;  and  of  these  also  every  advantage  has 
been  taken.  On  the  whole,  it  is  already  a  very  beautiful 
scene ;  and  when  the  trees  have  gained  their  proper  dignity 
of  elevation,  it  must  be  a  very  grand  one.  Amidst  these 
woods,  Mr.  *****  tells  me,  the  proprietor,  when  at  home, 
usually  spends  many  hours  daih',  either  on  his  pony,  or  on 
foot,  with  axe  and  pruning  knife  in  hand.  Here  is  his 
study }  he,  it  seems,  like  Jaques,  is  never  at  a  loss  to  find 
"books  in  trees." 

"The  Muse  nae  poet  ever  fand  her 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learned  to  wander 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander. 
An'  no  think  lang," 

As  Bums  says ;  and  one  of  his  hurns,hj  the  by,  is  Huntley 
Burn,  where  Thomas  of  Erceldoune  met  the  Queen  of 
Faery.  The  recontre,  according  to  the  old  Rhymer  him- 
self, occurred  beside  "The  Eildon  Tree."  That  landmark 
has  long  since  disappeared,  but  most  of  Sir  Walter's  walks 
have  the  Eildon  Hills,  in  some  one  or  other  of  their  innu- 
merable aspects,  for  background.  But  I  am  keeping  you 
too  long  away  from  "The  Roof-tree  of  Monkbarns,''  which 
is  situated  on  the  brink  of  the  last  of  a  series  of  irregular 
hills,  descending  from  the  elevation  of  the  Eildons,  step- 
wise, to  the  Tweed.  On  all  sides,  except  towards  the  river, 
the  house  connects  itself  with  the  gardens  (according  to 
the  old  fashion  now  generally  condemned)  ;  so  that  there  is 
no  want  of  air  and  space  about  the  habitation.  The 
building  is  such  a  one,  I  dare  say,  as  nobody  but  he  would 
ever  have  dreamed  of  erecting;  or,  if  he  had,  escaped 
being  quizzed  for  his  pains.  Yet  it  is  eminently  imposing 
in  its  general  effect;  and  in  most  of  the  details,  not  only 
full  of  historical  interest,  but  of  beauty  also.  It  is  no  doubt 
a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches,  but  they  have  been  combined 
by  a  masterly  hand  j  and  if  there  be  some  whimsicalities, 
that  in  an  ordinary  case  might  have  called  up  a  smile,  who 
is  likely  now  or  hereafter  to  contemplate  such  a  monument 
of  such  a  man's  peculiar  tastes  and  fancies,  without  feelings 
of  a  fardifferent  order?  Borrowing  outlines  and  ornaments 
from  every  part  of  Scotland,  a  gateway  from  Linlithgow, 
a  roof  from  Roslin,  a  chimneypiece  from  Melrose,  a  postern 
from  the  "  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  &c.  &c.  &c.  it  is  totally 
unlike  any  other  building  in  the  kingdom,  as  a  whole  ;  and 
that  whole  is,  I  have  said,  a  beautiful  and  a  noble  whole — 
almost  enough  so  to'  make  me  suspect  that,  if  Sir  Walter 
had  been  bred  an  architect,  he  might  have  done  as  much 
in  that  way  as  he  has  de facto,  in  the  woodman's  craft,  or 
(which  they  swear  he  is  less  vain  of)  the  novelist's. 
By  the  principal  approach  you  come  very  suddenly  on 


'  the  edifice— as  the  French  would  say,  "Vous  tomhez  sur 
le  chateau;"  but  this  evil,  if  evil  it  be,  was  unavoidable,  in 
consequence  of  the  vicinity  of  a  public  road  which  cuts  off 
the  chateau  and  its  plaisance  from  the  main  body  of  park 
and  wood,  making  it  a  matter  of  necessity,  that  what  is 
called,  in  the  improvement-men's  slang  "the  avenue 
proper,"  should  be  short.  It  is  but  slightly  curved,  and 
you  find  yourself,  a  very  few  minutes  after  turning  from 
the  road,  at  the  great  gate  already  mentioned.  This  is  a 
lofty  arch  rising  out  of  an  embattled  wall  of  considerable 
height ;  and  i\^ejougs,  as  they  are  styled,  those  well  known 
emblems  of  feudal  authority,  hang  rusty  at  the  side :  this 
pair  being  dit  on  relics  from  that  great  citadel  of  the  old 
Douglasses,  Thrieve  Castle,  in  Galloway.  On  entering, 
you  find  yourself  within  an  enclosure  of  perhaps  half  an 
acre  or  better,  two  sides  thereof  being  protected  by  the 
high  wall  above  mentioned,  all  along  which,  inside,  a 
Irellissed  walk  extends  itself — broad,  cool  and  dark  over- 
head with  roses  and  honeysuckles.  The  third  side,  to  the 
east,  shows  a  screen  of  open  arches  of  Gothic  stone  work, 
filled  between  with  a  net  work  of  iron,  not  vissible  until 
you  come  close  to  it.  and  affording  therefore  delightful 
glimpses  of  the  gardens,  which  spread  upwards  with  many 
architectural  ornaments  of  turret,  porch,  urn,  vase,  and 
what  not,  after  a  fashion  that  would  make  the  heart  of  old 
Price  of  the  Picturesque  to  leap  within  him:  this  screen 
is  a  feature  of  equal  novelty  and  grace,  and  if  ever  the  old 
school  of  gardening  come  into  vogue  again,  will  find  abun- 
dance of  imitators.  It  abutts  on  the  eastern  extremity  of 
the  house,  which  runs  along  the  whole  of  the  northern  side 
(and  a  small  part  of  the  western)  of  the  great  enclosure. 
And,  by  the  way,  nothing  can  be  more  delightful  than  the 
whole  effect  of  the  said  enclosure,  in  the  still  and  solitary 
state  in  which  I  chanced  to  see  it  There  is  room  for  a 
piece  of  the  most  elaborate  turf  within  it,  and  rosaries  of  all 
manner  of  shapes  and  sizes  gradually  connect  this  green 
pavement  with  the  roof  of  the  trellis  walk,  a  verdant  clois- 
ter, over  which  appears  the  gray  wall  with  its  little  turrets ; 
and  over  that  again,  climb  oak,  elm,  birch,  and  hazel,  up 
a  steep  bank — so  steep  that  the  trees,  young  as  they  are, 
give  already  all  the  grand  effect  of  a  sweeping  amphitheatre 
of  wood.  The  background  on  that  side  is  wholly  forest ; 
on  the  east,  garden  loses  itself  in  forest  by  degrees ;  on  the 
west,  there  is  wood  on  wood  also,  but  with  glimpses  of  the 
Tweed  between  ;  and  in  the  di^itance  fsome  half  a  dozen 
miles  off)  a  complete  sierra,  the  ridge  of  the  mountain 
between  Tweed  and  Yarrow,  to  wit — its  highest  peak  being 
that  of  Newark  hill,  at  the  bottom  of  which  the  old  castle, 
where  "  the  latest  Minstrel  sang,"  still  exhibits  some 
noble  ruins. 

Not  being  skilled  in  the  technical  tongue  of  the  archi- 
tects, I  beg  leave  to  decline  describing  the  structure  of  the 
house,  further  than  merely  to  say,  that  it  is  more  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  in  front,  as  I  paced  it;  was 


built  at  two  different  onsets;  has  a  tall  tower  at  either  end; 
the  one  not  the  least  like  the  other;  presents  sundry  crow- 
footed,  alias  zigzagged,  gables  to  the  eye ;  a  myriad  of 
indentations  and  parapets  and  machicolated  eaves ;  most 
fantastic  waterspouts;  labelled  windows,  not  a  few  of  them 
of  painted  glass;  groups  of  right  Elizabethan  chimneys; 
balconies  of  divers  feishions,  greater  and  lesser;  stones 
carved  with  heraldries  innumerable  let  in  here  and  there 
in  the  wall ;  and  a  very  noble  projecting  gateway,  a  fac 
simile,  I  am  told,  of  that  appertaining  to  a  certain  dilapi- 
dated royal  palace,  which  long  ago  seems  to  have  caught  in 
a  particular  manner  the  Poet's  fancy,  as  witness  the 
stanza  ■ 

Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair. 

Built  for  the  royal  dwelling. 
Above  the  rest,  beyond  compare, 

Linlithgow  is  excelling. 

The  prints  will  give  you  a  better  notion  of  these  matters 
than  my  pen  could  do, — and,  by  the  by,  the  best  likeness  I 
have  as  yet  met  with,  is  one  that  adorns  the  cover  of  a  cer- 
tain species  of  sticking  plaster.  From  this  porchway, 
which  is  spacious  and  airy,  quite  open  to  the  elements  in 
front,  and  adorned  with  some  enormous  petrified  staghorns 
overhead,  you  are  admitted  by  a  pair  of  folding  doors  at 
once  into  the  hall,  and  an  imposing  coup  d'oeil  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  Poet's  interior  does  present.  The  lofty  win- 
dows, only  two  in  number,  being  wholly  covered  with  coats 
of  arms,  the  place  appears  as  dark  as  the  twelfth  century, 
on  your  first  entrance  from  noonday;  but  the  delicious 
coolness  of  the  atmosphere  is  luxury  enough  for  a  minute 
or  two ;  and  by  degrees  your  eyes  get  accustomed  to  the 
effect  of  those  "  storied  panes,"  and  you  are  satisfied  that 
you  stand  in  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  apartments. 
The  hall  is,  I  should  guess,  about  forty  feet  long,  by  twenty 
in  height  and  breadth.  The  walls  are  of  richly  carved  oak, 
most  part  of  it  exceedingly  dark,  and  brought,  it  seems, 
from  the  old  palace  of  Dumfermline:  the  roof,  a  series  of 
pointed  arches  of  the  same,  each  beam  presenting,  in  the 
centre,  a  shield  of  arms  richly  blazoned :  of  these  shields 
there  are  sixteen,  enough  to  bear  all  the  quarterings  of  a 
perfect  pedigree  if  the  poet  could  show  them ;  but  on  the 
maternal  side  (at  the  extremity)  there  are  two  or  three 
blanks  (of  the  same  sort  which  made  Louis  le  Grand  un- 
happy) which  have  been  covered  with  sketches  of  Cloud- 
land,  and  equipped  with  the  appropriate  motto,  "  Nox  alta 
velat."  The  shields,  properly  filled  up,  are  distinguished 
ones ;  the  descent  of  Scott  of  Harden  on  one  side,  and 
Rutherford  of  that  ilk  on  the  other;  all  which  matters,  are 
they  not  written  iu  the  book  of  the  chronicles  of  Douglas 
and  Nisbet?  There  is  a  doorway  at  the  eastern  end,  over 
and  round  which  the  Baronet  has  placed  another  series  of 
9scatcheous,  which  I   looked  on   with  at  least  as  mach 


respect;  they  are  the  memorials  of  his  immediate  personal 
connexions,  the  bearings  of  his  friends  and  companions. 
All  around  the  cornice  of  this  noble  room,  there  runit  a 
continued  series  of  blazoned  shields,  of  another  sort  still ; 
at  the  centre  of  one  end,  I  saw  the  bloody  heart  of  Douglas; 
and  opposite  to  that,  the  royal  lion  of  Scotland, — and 
between  the  ribs  there  is  an  inscription  in  black  letter, 
which  I,  after  some  trials,  read,  and  of  which  I  wish  I  had 
had  sense  enough  to  take  a  copy.  To  the  best  of  my  recol- 
lection, the  words  are  not  unlike  these :  "  These  be  the 
coat  armories  of  the  clannis  and  chief  men  of  name,  wha 
keepit  the  marchys  of  Scotlande  in  the  aulde  tyme  for  the 
Kinge,  Trewe  ware  they  in  their  tyme,  and  in  their 
defense  God  them  defendyt."  There  are  from  thirty  to 
forty  shields  thus  distinguished — Douglas,  Soulis,  Buc- 
cleugh,  Maxwell,  Johnstoune,  Glendoning,  Herries,  Ruth- 
erford, Kerr,  Elliott,  Pringle,  Home,  and  all  the  other 
heroes,  as  you  may  guess,  of  the  border  minstrelsy.  The 
floor  of  this  hall  is  black  and  white  marble,  from  the 
Hebrides,  wrought  lozengewise;  and  the  upper  walls  are 
completely  hung  with  arms  and  armour.  Two  full  suits 
of  splendid  steel  occupy  niches  at  the  eastern  end  by 
themselves;  the  one  an  English  suit  of  Henry  the  Fifth's 
time,  the  other  an  Italian,  not  quite  so  old.  The  variety  of 
curiasses,  black  and  white,  plain  and  scultured,  is  endless; 
helmets  are  in  equal  profusion ;  stirrups  and  spurs,  of 
every  fantasy,  dangle  about  and  below  them;  and  there  are 
swords  of  every  order,  from  the  enormous  twohanded 
weapon  with  which  the  Swiss  peasants  dared  to  withstand 
the  spears  of  the  Austrian  chivalry,  to  the  claymore  of  the 
"Forty-five,"  and  the  rapier  of  Dettingen.  Indeed,  I 
might  come  still  lower,  for  among  other  spoils;  I  saw  Polish 
lances,  gathered  by  the  author  of  Paul's  Letters  on  the 
field  of  Waterloo,  and  a  complete  suit  of  chain  mail  taken 
ofi"  the  corpse  of  one  of  Tippoo's  body  guard  at  Seringapa- 
tam.  A  series  of  German  executioners'  swords  was  inter  alia 
pointed  out  to  me ;  on  the  blade  of  one  of  which  I  made  out 
the  arms  of  Augsburg,  and  a  legend  which  may  be  thus 
rendered : 

Dust,  when  I  strike,  to  dust :  From  sleepless  grave. 
Sweet  Jesu,  stoop,  a  sin-stained  soul  to  save. 

1  am  sorry  there  is  no  catalogue  of  this  curious  collection. 
Sir  Walter  ought  to  make  one  himself,  for  my  cicerone 
informs  me  there  is  some  particular  history  attached  to 
almost  every  piece  in  it,  and  known  in  detail  to  nobody  but 
himself.  "  Stepping  westward,"  as  Wordsworth  says, 
from  this  hall,  you  find  yourself  in  a  narrow,  low,  arched 
room,  which  runs  quite  across  the  house,  having  a  blazoned 
window  again  at  either  extremity,  and  filled  all  over  with 
smaller  pieces  of  armour  and  weapons,  such  as  swords, 
firelocks,  spears,  arrows,  darts,  daggers,  &c.  &c.  &c.  Here 
are  the  pieces,  esteemed  most  precious  by  reason  of  their 


fci 


histories  respectively.  I  saw,  among  the  rest,  Rob  Roy's 
gun,  with  his  initials,  R.  M.  C.  i.  e.  Robert  Macgregor 
Campbell,  round  the  touch-hole  :  the  blunderbuss  of  Hofer, 
a  present  to  Sir  Walter  from  his  friend  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy  ;  a  most  magnificent  sword,  as  magnificently  mount- 
ed, the  gift  of  Charles  the  First  to  the  great  Montrose,  and 
having  the  arms  of  Prince  Henry  worked  on  the  hilt;  the 
hunting  bottle  of  bonnie  King  Jamie ;  Buonaparte's  pistols 
(found  in  his  carriage  at  Waterloo,  I  believe),  cum  multis 
aliis.  I  should  have  mentioned  that  staghorns  and  bulls' 
horns  (the  petrified  relics  of  the  old  mountain  monster,  I 
mean),  and  so  forth,  are  suspended  in  great  abundance 
above  all  the  doorways  of  these  armories;  and  that,  in  one 
corner,  a  dark  one  as  it  ought  to  be,  there  is  a  complete 
assortment  of  the  old  Scottish  instruments  of  torture,  not 
forgetting  the  very  thumbekins  under  which  Cardinal 
Carstairs  did  not  flinch,  and  the  more  terrific  iron  crown 
of  Wisheart  the  martyr,  being  a  sort  of  barred  head-piece, 
screwed  on  the  victim  at  the  stake,  to  prevent  him  from  crying 
aloud  in  his  agony.  In  short,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
like  Grose  of  merry  memory,  the  mighty  Minstrel 

——Has  a  fouth  o'  auld  nick-nackets, 
Rusty  aim  caps  and  jinglin'  jackets. 
Wad  baud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 
A  towmont'  guid. 

These  relics  of  other,  and  for  the  most  part  darker,  years, 
are  disposed,  however,  with  so  much  grace  and  elegance, 
that  I  doubt  if  Mr,  Hope  himself  would  find  any  thing  to 
quarrel  with  in  the  beautiful  apartments  which  contain 
them.  The  smaller  of  these  opens  to  the  drawing  room  on 
one  side,  and  the  dining  room  on  the  other,  and  is  fitted  up 
with  low  divans  rather  than  sofas  ;  so  as  to  make,  I  doubt 
not,  a  most  agreeable  sitting  room  when  the  apartments  are 
occupied,  as  for  my  sins  I  found  them  not.  In  the  hall, 
when  the  weather  is  hot,  the  Baronet  is  accustomed  to 
dine;  and  a  gallant  refectory  no  question  it  must  make.  A 
ponderous  chandelier  of  painted  glass  swings  from  the  roof; 
and  the  chimney-piece  (the  design  copied  from  the  stone- 
work of  the  Abbot's  Stall  at  Melrose)  would  hold  rafters 
enough  for  a  Christmas  fire  of  the  good  old  times.  Were 
the  company  suitably  attired,  a  dinner  party  here  would 
look  like  a  scene  in  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 

Beyond  the  smaller,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  the  narrower 
armoury,  lies  the  dining  parlour  proper,  however;  and 
though  there  is  nothing  Udolphoish  here,  yet  I  can  well 
believe  that,  when  lighted  up  and  the  curtains  drawn 
at  night,  the  place  may  give  no  bad  notion  of  the  private 
snuggery  of  some  lofty  lord  abbot  of  the  time  of  the 
Canterbury  Tales.  The  room  is  a  very  handsome  one, 
with  a  low  and  very  richly  carved  roof  of  dark  oak  again; 
a  huge  projecting  bow  window,  and  the  dais  elevated  more 
majorum;  the  ornaments  of  the  roof,  niches  for  lamps,  &c. 


&c.  in  short,  all  the  minor  details  are,  I  believe,  fac  similes 
after  Melrose.  The  walls  are  hung  in  crimson,  but  almost 
entirely  covered  with  pictures,  of  which  the  most  remarka- 
ble are — the  parliamentary  general,  Lord  Essex,  a  full 
length  on  horseback  ;  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  by  Lely;  a 
capital  Hogarth,  by  himself;  Prior  and  Gay,  both  by 
Jervas ;  and  the  head  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  in  a 
charger,  painted  by  Amias  Canrood  the  day  after  the 
decapitation  at  Fotheringay,  and  sent  some  years  ago  as  a 
present  to  Sir  Walter  from  a  Prussian  nobleman,  in  whose 
family  it  had  been  for  more  than  two  centuries.  It  is  a 
most  deathlike  performance,  and  the  countenance  answers 
well  enough  to  the  coins  of  the  unfortunate  beauty,  though 
not  at  all  to  any  of  the  portraits  I  have  happened  to  see.  I 
believe  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  authenticity  of  this  most 
curious  picture.  Among  various  family  pictures,  I  noticed 
particularly  Sir  Walter's  great  grandfather,  the  old  cava- 
lier mentioned  in  one  of  the  epistles  in  Marmion,  who  let 
his  beard  grow  after  the  execution  of  Charles  the  First, 
and  who  here  appears,  accordingly,  with  a  most  venerable 
appendage,  of  silver  whiteness,  reaching  even  unto  his 
girdle.  This  old  gentleman's  son  hangs  close  by  him ;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  costume,  &c,  I  should  have  taken 
it  for  a  likeness  of  Sir  Walter  himself.  (It  is  very  like 
the  common  portraits  of  the  Poet,  though  certainly  not  like 
either  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  picture  or  Chantrey's  bust). 
There  is  also  a  very  splendid  full  length  of  Lucy  Waters, 
mother  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth ;  and  an  oval,  capitally 
painted,  of  Anne  Dutchess  of  Buccleugh,  the  same  who, 

In  pride  of  youth,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb. 

All  the  furniture  of  this  room  is  massy  Gothic  oak  ;  and, 
as  I  said  before,  when  it  is  fairly  lit  up,  and  plate  and  glass 
set  forth,  it  must  needs  have  a  richly  and  luxuriously  an- 
tique aspect.  Beyond  and  alongside  are  narrowish  pas- 
sages, which  make  one  fancy  one's  self  in  the  penetralia 
of  some  dim  old  monastery ;  for  roofs  and  walls  and  win- 
dows (square,  round,  and  oval  alike)  are  sculptured  in  stone, 
after  the  richest  relics  of  Melrose  and  Roslin  Chapel. 
One  of  these  leads  to  a  charming  breakfast  room,  which 
looks  to  the  Tweed  on  one  side,  and  towards  Yarrow  and 
Ettricke,  famed  in  song,  on  the  other:  a  cheerful  room, 
fitted  up  with  novels,  romances,  and  poetry,  I  could  per- 
ceive, at  one  end;  and  the  other  walls  covered  thick  and 
thicker  with  a  most  valuable  and  beautiful  collection  of 
watercolour  drawings,  chiefly  by  Turner,  and  Thomson  of 
Duddingstone,  the  designs,  in  short,  for  the  magnificent 
work  entitled  "  Provincial  Antiquities  of  Scotland."  There 
is  one  very  grand  oil  painting  over  the  chimneypiece, 
Fastcastle,  by  Thomson,  alias  the  Wolfs  Crag  of  the 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,  one  of  the  most  majectic  and 
melancholy  sea  pieces  I  ever  saw ;  and  some  large  black 


bS 


and  white  drawings  of  the  Vision  of  Don  Roderick,  by  Sir 
James  Steuart  of  AUanbank  (whose  illustrations  of  Mar- 
mion  and  Mazeppa  you  have  seen  or  heard  of),  are  at  one 
end  of  the  parlour.  The  room  is  crammed  with  queer 
cabinets  and  boxes,  and  in  a  niche  there  is  a  bust  of  old 
Henry  Mackenzie,  by  Joseph  of  Edinburgh.  Returning 
towards  the  armoury,  you  have,  on  one  side  of  a  most  reli- 
gious looking  corridor,  a  small  greenhouse  with  a  fountain 
playing  before  it — the  very  fountain  that  in  days  of  yore 
graced  the  cross  of  Edinburgh,  and  used  to  flow  with  claret 
at  the  coronation  of  the  Stuarts — a  pretty  design,  and  a 
standing  monument  of  the  barbarity  of  modern  innovation. 
From  the  small  armoury  you  pass,  as  1  said  before,  into  the 
drawing  room,  a  large,  lofty,  and  splendid  salon,  with 
antique  ebony  furniture  and  crimson  silk  hangings,  cabi- 
nets, china,  and  mirrors  quantum  suff.  and  some  por- 
traits ;  among  the  rest  glorious  John  Dryden,  by  Sir  Peter 
Lely,  with  his  gray  hairs  floating  about  in  a  most  pic- 
turesque style,  eyes  full  of  wildness,  presenting  the  old 
Bard,  I  take  it,  in  one  of  those  "  tremulous  moods,"  in 
which  we  have  it  on  record  he  appeared  when  interrupted 
in  the  midst  of  his  Alexander's  Feast.  From  this  you  pass 
into  the  largest  of  all  the  apartments,  the  library,  which, 
I  must  say,  is  really  a  noble  room.  It  is  an  oblong  of  some 
fifty  feet  by  thirty,  with  a  projection  in  the  centre,  oppo- 
site the  fireplace,  terminating  in  a  grand  bow  window, 
fitted  up  with  books  also,  and,  in  fact,  constituting  a  sort  of 
chapel  to  the  church.  The  roof  is  of  carved  oak  again — a 
very  rich  pattern — I  believe  chiefly  d  la  Roslin,  and  the 
bookcases,  which  are  also  of  richly  carved  oak,  reach  high 
up  the  walls  all  round.  The  collection  amounts,  in  this 
room,  to  some  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  volumes,  arran- 
ged according  to  their  subjects:  British  history  and  anti- 
quities filling  the  whole  of  the  chief  wall;  English  poetry 
and  drama,  classics  and  miscellanies,  one  end ;  foreign 
literature,  chiefly  French  and  German,  the  other.  The 
cases  on  the  side  opposite  the  fire  are  wired,  and  locked, 
as  containing  articles  very  precious  and  very  portable. 
One  consists  entirely  of  books  and  MSS.  relating  to  the 
insurrections  of  1715  and  1745;  and  another  (within  the 
recess  of  the  bow  window),  of  treatises  de  re  magica,  both 
of  these  being  (I  am  told,  and  can  well  believe),  in  their 
several  ways,  collections  of  the  rarest  curiosity.  My 
cicerone  pointed  out,  in  one  corner,  a  magnificent  set  of 
Mountfaucon,  ten  volumes  folio,  bound  in  the  richest  man- 
ner in  scarlet,  and  stamped  with  the  royal  arms,  the  gift  of 
his  present  Majesty.  There  are  few  living  authors  of  whose 
works  presentation  copies  are  not  to  be  found  here.  My 
friend  showed  me  inscriptions  of  that  sort  in,  I  believe, 
every  European  dialect  extant.  The  books  are  all  in 
prime  condition,  and  bindings  that  would  satisfy  Mr. 
Dibdia.  The  only  picture  is  Sir  Walter's  eldest  son,  in 
hussar  uniform,  and  holding  his  horse,  by  Allan  of  Edin- 
burgh, a  noble  portrait,  over  the  fireplace  ;  and  the  only 


bust  is  that  of  Shakspeare,  from  the  Avon  monument,  in 
a  small  niche  in  the  centre  of  the  east  side.  On  a  rich 
stand  of  porphyry,  in  one  corner,  reposes  a  tall  silver  urn 
filled  with  bones  from  the  Piraeus,  and  bearing  the  in- 
scription, "Given  by  George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron,  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Bart."  It  contained  the  letter  which  ac- 
companied the  gift  till  lately  :  it  has  disappeared  ;  no  one 
guesses  who  took  it,  but  whoever  he  was,  as  my  guide 
observed,  he  must  have  been  a  thief  for  thieving's  sake 
truly,  as  he  durst  no  more  exhibit  his  anitograph  than  tip 
himself  a  bare  bodkin.  Sad,  infamous  tourist  indeed ! 
Although  I  saw  abundance  of  comfortable  looking  desks 
and  arm  chairs,  yet  this  room  seemed  rather  too  large  and 
fine  for  work,  and  I  found  accordingly,  after  passing  a 
double  pair  of  doors,  that  there  was  a  sanctum  within  and 
beyond  this  library.  And  here  you  may  believe  was  not 
to  me  the  least  interesting,  though  by  no  means  the  most 
splendid,  part  of  the  suite. 

The  lion's  own  den  proper,  then,  is  a  room  of  about  five- 
and-twenty  feet  square  by  twenty  feet  high,  containing  of 
what  is  properly  called  furniture  nothing  but  a  small 
writing  table  in  the  centre,  a  plain  arm  chair  covered  with 
black  leather — a  very  comfortable  one  though,  for  I  tried 
it— and  a  single  chair  besides,  plain  symptoms  that  this  is 
no  place  for  company.  On  either  side  of  the  fireplace 
there  are  shelves  filled  with  duodecimos  and  books  of 
reference,  chiefly,  of  course,  folios  ;  but  except  these  there 
are  no  books  save  the  contents  of  a  light  gallery  which  runs 
round  three  sides  of  the  room,  and  is  reached  by  a  hangin<» 
stair  of  carved  oak  in  one  corner.  You  have  been  both  at 
the  Elisee  Bourbon  and  Malmaison,  and  remember  the 
library  atone  or  other  of  those  places,  I  forget  which  ;  this 
gallery  is  much  in  the  same  style.  There  are  only  two 
portraits,  an  original  of  the  beautiful  and  melancholy  head 
of  Claverhouse,  and  a  small  full  length  of  Rob  Roy. 
Various  little  antique  cabinets  stand  round  about,  each 
having  a  bust  on  it :  Stothard's  Canterbury  Pilgrims  are 
on  the  mantelpiece ;  and  in  one  corner  I  saw  a  collection 
of  really  useful  weapons,  those  of  the  forest-craft,  to  wit — 
axes  and  bills  and  so  forth  of  every  calibre.  There  is  only 
one  window  pieroed  in  a  very  thick  wall,  so  that  the  place 
is  rather  sombre;  the  light  tracery  work  of  the  gallery 
overhead  harmonizes  with  the  books  well.  It  is  a  very 
comfortable  looking  room,  and  very  unlike  any  other  I  ever 
was  in.  I  should  not  forget  some  Highland  claymores, 
clustered  round  a  target  over  the  Canterbury  people,  nor  a 
writing  box  of  carved  wood,  lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and 
furnished  with  silver  plate  of  right  venerable  aspect,  which 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  the  implement  of  old 
Chaucer  himself,  bnt  which  from  the  arms  on  the  lid  must 
have  belonged  to  some  Italian  prince  of  the  days  of  Leo 
the  Magnificent  at  the  furthest. 

In  one  corner  of  this  sanctum  there  is  a  little  holy  of 
holies,  in  the  shape  of  a  closet,  which  looks  like  the  oratory 


of  some  dame  of  old  romance,  and  opens  into  the  gardens ; 
and  the  tower  which  furnishes  this  below,  forms  above  a 
private  staircase  accessible  from  the  gallery  and  leading  to 
the  upper  regions.  Thither  also  I  penetrated,  but  I  sup- 
pose you  will  take  the  bed  rooms  and  dressing  rooms  for 
granted. 

The  view  to  the  Tweed  from  all  the  principal  apartments 
is  beautiful.  You  look  out  from  among  bowers,  over  a 
lawn  of  sweet  turf,  upon  the  clearest  of  all  streams,  fringed 
with  the  wildest  of  birch  woods,  and  backed  with  the  green 
hills  of  Ettricke  Forest.  The  rest  you  must  imagine. 
Altogether,  the  place  destined  to  receive  so  many  pilgrim- 
ages contains  within  itself  beauties  not  unworthy  of  its 
associations.  Few  poets  ever  inhabited  such  a  place; 
none,  ere  now,  ever  created  one.  It  is  the  realization  of 
dreams :  some  Frenchman  called  it,  I  hear,  "a  romance  in 
stone  and  lime." 


SONG. 

BY    W.    ROSCOH,    ESQ. 

Quench  not  the  light  that  soon  must  fade. 
Nor  damp  the  fire  that  soon  must  die, 
Nor  let  to-morrow's  ills  invade 
The  hour  to-day  devotes  to  joy. 

Ah!  who  with  music's  softest  swell 
Would  mingle  sorrow's  piercinjj  moan  ? 
Or  to  the  bounding  spirit  tell 
How  soon  the  charm  of  life  is  flown? 

Say,  is  the  rose's  scent  less  sweet 
Because  its  bloom  must  soon  decay  ? 
Or  shall  we  shun  the  bliss  to  meet 
That  cannot  here  for  ever  stay  ? 

No:  by  the  Power  that  bliss  who  gave, 
This  hour  we'll  from  the  future  borrow. 
And  all,  that  fate  allows  us,  save 
From  the  dread  shipwreck  of  to-morrow. 


Vulgarity — This  is  a  composition  formed  of  ignorance, 
conceit,  grossness,  stupidity,  and  insolence. — Vulgarity  is 
a«  disgusting  to  an  elegant  mind,  as  vice  is  to  an  innocent 
one. — Vulgarity  is  the  offspring  of  avaricious  drudgery. 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  GLENCOE. 

Broab  set  the  sun  o'er  wild  Glencoe, 
Red  gleam'd  the  heights  of  drifted  snow, 
And  loud  and  hoarse  the  torrent's  flow 
Dash'd  through  the  drear  domain. 

Bright  shines  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 
The  dancers  bound  in  wanton  maze. 
And  merry  minstrels  tune  their  lays, 
Blyth  o'er  the  mountain  reign. 

Yon  level  sun  sinks  down  in  blood. 
Lowering  in  dark  ingratitude ; 
It  warns  the  guileless  and  the  good, 
Glencoe's  woe-fated  clan ! 

Each  smiling  host  salutes  his  guest, 
"  Good  night !"— that  hand  so  kindly  prest 
Shall  plunge  the  dagger  in  thy  breast. 
Long  e'er  the  orient  dawn ! 

All's  still— but,  hark !  from  height  to  height 
Comes  rushing  on  the  breeze  of  night 
The  startling  shriek  of  wild  affright, 
The  hoarse  assassin  yell ! 

Is  there  no  arm  on  high  to  save 
From  foulest  death  the  trustful  brave? — 
Each  by  his  threshold  found  a  grave, 
Or  where  he  slumber'd  fell ! 

Red  rose  the  sun  o'er  lone  Glencoe, 
What  eye  shall  mark  that  crimson'd  snow  ? 
What  ear  shall  list  the  torrent's  flow, 
Dashing  the  dreary  wild  ? 

Round  shiel  and  hamlet's  sheltering  rock 
High  soars  destruction's  volumed  smoke. 
But  hush'd  the  shriek  which  maddening  broke 
From  mother,  maiden,  child ! 

All's  still  '.—save  round  yon  mountain's  head, 
Where  men  of  blood  the  snow-path  tread, 
Startling,  lest  voices  from  the  dead 
A  deed  of  hell  proclaim. 

Wo  !  for  thy  clan,  thou  wild  Glencoe  ! 
Whose  blood  dyes  deep  the  mouutaiu-snow ; 
But  deadlier  pale,  and  deeper  wo, 
Glenorchy,  on  thy  name  ! 

Author  of  Clan-albin. 


81 


THE  TOOTH  DRAWER. 

A  Dentist,  love,  makes  teeth  of  bone. 
For  those  whom  fate  has  left  without; 

And  finds  provision  for  his  own, 
By  pulling  other  people's  out. 


FEMALE    DEVOTEDNESS. 

Events,  which  are  sometimes  to  be  found  in  the  records 
of  history,  are  not  unfrequently  as  strange,  as  dark,  and  as 
tragical,  as  the  most  sombre  fictions  of  romance.     In  the 
reign  of  Francis  I.  there  served  in  the  armies  a  gentleman 
of  the  island  of  Corsica,  named  Sampietro  Bartelica;  he 
was  more  known  and  esteemed  for  his  valour  than  for  his 
fortune,  or  the  greatness  of  his  family ;  he  always  mani- 
fested an  attachment  to  France,  and  by  his  fidelity,  dis- 
played a  striking  contrast  to  the  conduct  of  the  Genoese, 
who  were  masters  of  Corsica,  and  who,  without  any  ap- 
parent reason,  were  constantly  revolting  against  the  power 
of  France,      Sampietro  was    present  at  numerous  sieges 
and  engagements,  in  which  he  had  always   greatly  distin- 
guished himself.     After  the  death  of  Francis  I.,  in  1546, 
he  returned  to  Corsica,  where  he  married  Vannina,  daugh- 
ter and  only  heiress  of  Francisco  d'Ornano,  whose  family 
was  one  of  the  most  noble  and  most  ancient  of  the  isle. 
His  reputation  alone  procured  him  this  important  alliance. 
His  popularity  among  his  countrymen  rendered  him  formi- 
dable to  the  Genoese,   who  resolved  on  his  destruction. 
Giovanni  Maria  Spinola,  the  governor  of  the  island,  sent 
an  order  for  bim  to  repair,  with  his  father-in-law,  to  the 
citadel  of  Bastia,  where  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  he 
would  have  been  put  to  death,  but  for  the  powerful  inter- 
cession of  the  King,  Henry  II.     Sampietro  entertained  a 
grateful  recollection  of  this  service,  and  at  the  same  time 
conceived  a   deadly  hatred  to  the  Genoese,  with    ardent 
thirst  for  vengeance.     War  having  broke  out  in  Italy,  in 
1551,  he  served  in  the  campaign,  and  his  assistance  was 
found  to  be  very  valuable  by  Octavio  Farnese,  whom  the 
King  of  France  had  taken  under  his  protection.     Sampie- 
tro then  instigated  the  French  Government  to  attempt  the 
subjugation  of  Corsica.     In  this  expedition  he  accompanied 
M.  de  Thermes,  subsequently  a  Field-Marshal,   and  was 
accompanied  by  some  of  the  bravest  of  the  islanders,  who 
were  attracted  by  his  renown, and  were  discontented  with  the 
Genoese  :  the  latter  were  driven  from  the  principal  town. 
Sampietro  was  recalled  to  France,  and  returned,  in  Sep- 
tember 1555,  to  Corsica,  where  he  continued  to  carry  on 
the  war.     The  peace  of  Chateau  Cambreses,  in  1569,  and 
the  fatal  death  of  Henry  II.,  induced  him  to  take  other 
measures.     He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Constantinople,  to 
demand  assistance  there  ;  as  the  Genoese  had  confiscated 


all  his  property,  and  had  set  a  price  upon  his  head,  be 
determined  to  drive  them  to  extremities.  During  his 
absence  on  this  mission,  he  was  informed  that  Donna 
d'Ornana,  his  wife,  whom  he  had  left  at  Marseilles,  had 
resolved  to  pass  over  to  Genoa ;  this  intelligence  nearly 
rendered  him  desperate :  he  sent  Antonio  de  San  Fiorenzo, 
one  of  his  followers,  to  prevent  her  :  she  had  been  persuaded, 
that  she  might  obtain  her  husband's  pardon  from  the  Re- 
public,  and  her  anxiety  on  this  subject  induced  her  to  take 
this  resolution.  Sampietro,  on  his  return,  found  his  wife 
atAixjhe  accompanied  her  back  to  Marseilles,  and  coldly 
informed  her  that  she  must  prepare  to  die.  Vannina 
obeyed  with  calmness,  and  asked  but  one  favour  of  her 
husband,  that  as  no  man  but  himself  had  ever  laid  hands 
on  her,  that  she  might  have  the  same  privelege  at  that 
moment,  and  might  die  by  his  hands !  It  is  said  that  Sam- 
pietro dropped  on  his  knees,  called  her  his  love,  asked  her 
forgiveness,  and  then  strangled  her  with  a  napkin.  So 
atrocious  an  action  greatly  tarnished  the  reputation  of  Sam- 
pietro, who  returned  to  Corsica  in  1564,  effected  an  insur- 
rection throughout  the  whole  island,  although  he  had  but 
five  and  twenty  men  with  him  when  he  first  arrived :  he 
was  successful  in  several  actions,  and  took  many  cities  and 
fortresses  from  the  Genoese,  who  instigated  Vitelli,  one  of 
his  captains,  to  assassinate  him,  iu  the  month  of  January, 
1567.— 


SONNET. 

BY   JOHN   CLABB. 
[The  Northamptonshire  Peasant.] 

I  WOULD  not  that  my  being  all  should  die. 
And  pass  away  with  every  common  lot ; 
I  would  not  that  my  humble  dust  should  lie 
In  quite  a  strange  and  unfrequented  spot, 
By  all  unheeded,  and  by  all  forgot. 
With  nothing  save  the  heedless  winds  to  sigh, 
And  nothing  but  the  dewy  morn  to  weep, 
About  my  grave,  far  hid  from  the  world's  eye,— 
I  feign  would  have  some  friend  to  wander  nigh, 
And  find  a  path  to  where  my  ashes  sleep. 
Not  the  cold  heart  that  merely  passes  by, 
To  read  who  lieth  there,  but  such  that  keep 
Past  memories  warm  with  deeds  of  other  years, 
And  pay  to  friendship  some  few  friendly  tears. 


THE   TEMPTir^"^     PMT.SKT^T 


THOUGHTS. 

•    »••»#/.  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  was  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man," 

Wordsworth. 

The  day  was  closinj?  in,  and  as  I  sat  watching  the 
scarcely  moving  foliage  of  a  neighbouring  elm,  my  mind 
gradually  sank  into  a  state  of  luxurious  repose,  amounting 
to  total  unconsciousness  of  all  the  busy  sights  and  sounds 
of  earth. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  seated  by  a  calm,  deep 
lake,  surrounded  by  graceful  and  breezy  shrubbery,  and 
listening  to  most  delicious  music.  The  landscape  differed 
from  any  thing  I  had  ever  seen.  Light  seemed  to  be  in 
every  thing,  and  to  emanate  from  every  thing,  like  a  glory. 
Yet  I  felt  at  home  ;  and  could  I  see  a  painting  of  it,  I 
should  know  it  as  readily  as  the  scenes  of  my  childhood. 
And  so  it  is  with  a  multitude  of  thoughts  that  come  sud- 
denly into  the  soul,  new  as  visitants  from  farthest  Saturn, 
yet  familiar  as  a  mother's  voice.  Whence  do  they  coma? 
Is  Plato's  suggestion  something  more  than  poetry?  Have 
we  indeed  formerly  lived  in  a  luminous  and  shadowless 
world,  where  all  things  wear  light  as  a  garment?  And  are 
our  bright  and  beautiful  thoughts  but  casual  glimpses  of 
that  former  state  ?  Are  all  our  hopes  and  aspirations 
nothing  but  recollections  ?  Is  it  to  the  fragments  otmemory's 
broken  mirror  we  owe  the  thousand  fantastic  forms  of 
grandeur,  or  of  loveliness,  which /ancy  calls  her  own? 

And  the  gifted  ones,  who  now  and  then  blaze  upon  the 
world,  and  "darken  nations  when  they  die," — do  they 
differ  from  other  mortals  only  in  more  cloudless  reminiscen- 
ces of  their  heavenly  home  ? 

Or  are  we  living  separate  existences,  at  one  and  the  same 
time  ?  Are  not  our  souls  wandering  in  the  spirit-land 
while  our  bodies  are  on  earth  ?  And  when  in  slumber,  or 
deep  quietude  of  thought,  we  cast  off 'this  mortal  coil,'  do 
we  not  gather  up  imagies  of  reality,  that  seem  to  us  like 
poetry  ?  Might  not  the  restless  spirit  of  Byron  have  indeed 
learned  of  "archangels  ruined"  those  potent  words,  which, 
like  infernal  magic,  arouse  every  sleeping  demon  in  the 
human  heart  ? 

Are  dreams  merely  visits  to  our  spirit-home;  and  are  we 
in  sleep  really  talking  with  the  souls  of  those  whose  voice 
wa  seem  to  hear  ? 

As  death  approaches  and  earth  recedes,  do  we  not  more 
clearly  see  that  spiritual  world,  in  which  we  have  all  along 
been  living,  though  we  knew  it  not  ?  The  dying  man  tells 
us  of  attendant  angels  hovering  round  him.  Perchance 
it  is  no  vision— they  may  have  often  been  with  him,  but 
his  inward  eye  was  dim,  and  he  saw  them  not.     What  is  | 


that  mysterious  expression,  so  holy  and  so  strange,  so 
beautiful  yet  so  fearful,  on  the  countenance  of  one  whose 
soul  has  just  departed?  Is  it  the  glorious  light  of  atten- 
dant seraphs,  the  luminous  shadow  of  which  rests  awhile 
on  the  countenance  of  the  dead?  Does  infancy  owe  to 
this  angel  crowd  its  peculiar  power  to  purify  and  bless  ? 


MY  COUCH, 

Blessings  on  the  man,"  says  the  immortal  Sancho 
Panza,  "  who  first  invented  sleep  1 — it  wraps  one  round  like 
a  cloak," — It  must  be  admitted,  that  the  state  of  repose, 
which  serves  to  refresh  and  renew  both  the  outward  and 
inward  frame,  is  one  of  the  chief  consolations  which  Provi- 
dence has  bestowed  upon  mankind:  and  we  are  accordingly 
somewhat  of  the  French  opinion,  as  regards  their  fondness 
for  a  convenient,  a  roomy,  and  even  handsome  apartment, 
wherein  to  propitiate  the  drowsy  deity.  "  Next  my  arm- 
chair," says  an  elegant  writerof  that  country,  "  as  I  proceed 
northward  in  my  room,  I  iind  my  bed,  which  is  stationed  at 
the  end  of  the  chamber,  forming  a  delicious  perspective. 
Its  situation  is  happily  chosen;  the  early  rays  of  the 
awakening  sun  shine  upon  my  curtains !  I  watch  them  in 
the  fine  mornings  of  summer,  stealing  gradually,  as  day 
advances,  along  the  wall.  The  elms  which  grow  before  my 
window  divide  them  into  a  thousand  beams,  and  dart  them, 
according  to  the  impulse  of  the  wind,  lo wards  my  bed,  the 
furniture  of  which,  being  rose-colour  and  white,  reflects  a 
glowing  tint  upon  every  thing  around.  I  hear  each  morn- 
ing the  confused  chirpiug  of  the  swallows  which  have  taken 
possession  of  the  roof  of  my  house,  and  of  other  birds  in  the 
elm  trees;  a  thousand  cheei'ful  reflections  throng  into  my 
mind,  and  no  person  in  the  universe  enjoys  so  enchanting, 
so  peaceful  an  awakening  as  myself. 

"I  confess  that  I  love  to  trifle  with  these  delightful 
moments,  and  to  prolong  the  pleasure  I  experience  whilst 
meditating  in  the  genial  indolence  of  my  bed.  Does  the 
busy  theatre  give  more  play  to  the  imagination? — does  it 
arouse  more  tender  thoughts;  or  charm  us  so  sweetly  into 
forgetfulness  ?  Modest  reader,  be  not  startled;  but  may  I 
not  hint  at  the  happiness  of  the  lover,  who  for  the  first  time 
clasps  in  his  arms  his  virtuous  bride  ? — unspeakable  plea- 
sure ! — which  my  evil  destiny  has  decreed  that  I  shall  never 
taste.  Is  it  not  in  her  bed,  that  the  mother,  intoxicated 
with  joy  at  the  birth  of  a  son,  forgets  every  previous  pain  ? 
It  is  there  that  the  phantom-realizations  of  enterprise  and 
hope  agitate  and  elevate  our  fancy.  In  fine,  in  this  haven 
we  forget  for  one  half  of  our  lives,  the  troubles  of  the  other 
half. 

"  A  bed  is  the  witness  of  the  birth  and  of  the  death  of  man. 
It  is  the  varying  stage  on  which  the  human  race  exhibit 
alternately  interesting  scenes,   grotesque  fantasma,   and 


8)» 


THE  SIOUX  PRINCESS. 

"  May  slighted  woman  turn. 
And  as  a  rine  the  oak  has  shaken  off. 
Bend  lightly  to  her  tendencies  again? 
Oh,  no  !  by  all  her  loveliness,  by  all 
That  makes  life  peotry  and  beauty,  no  ! 
Make  her  a  slave  ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness— yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  her's. 
But,  oh !  estrange  her  once,  it  boots  not  how 
By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness — 
And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  Of  heaven. 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not." 


Willis. 


Tahmiroo  was  the  daughter  of  a  powerful  Sioux  chief- 
lain  ;  and  she  was  the  only  being  ever  known  to  turn  the 
relentness  old  man  from  a  savage  purpose.  Something  of 
this  influence  was  owing  to  her  infantile  beauty;  but  more 
to  the  gentleness  of  which  that  beauty  was  the  emblem. 
Her's  was  a  species  of  loveliness  rare  among  Indian  girls. 
Her  figure  had  the  flexile  grace  so  appropriate  to  protected 
and  dependant  women  in  refined  countries ;  her  ripe 
pouting  lip,  and  dimpled  cheek,  wore  the  pleading  air  of 
aggrieved  childhood;  and  her  dark  eye  had  such  an 
habitual  expression  of*  timidity  and  fear,  that  the  Young 
Sioux  called  her  the  "  Startled  Fawn."  I  know  not 
whether  her  father's  broad  lands,  or  her  own  appealing 
beauty,  was  the  most  powerful  cause  of  her  admiration ; 
but  certain  it  is,  Tahmiroo  was  the  .unrivalled  belle  of  the 
Sioux.  She  was  a  creature  all  formed  for  love.  Her 
downcast  eye,  her  trembling  lip,  and  her  quiet,  submissive 
motion,  all  spoke  its  language;  yet  various  young  chief- 
tains had  in  vain  sought  her  affections,  and  when  her  father 
urged  her  to  strengthen  his  power  by  an  alliance,  she 
answered  him  only  by  her  tears. 

This  state  of  things  continued  until  1765,  when  a  com- 
pany of  French  traders  came  to  reside  there,  for  the  sake  of 
deriving  profit  from  the  fur  trade.  Among  them  was 
Florimond  de  Ranee,  a  young,  indolent  Adonis,  whom 
pure  ennui  had  led  from  Quebec  to  the  Falls  of  St.  An- 
thony.  His  fair,  round  face,  and  studied  foppery  of  dress, 
might  have  done  little  towards  gaining  the  heart  of  the 
gentle  Sioux ;  but  there  was  a  deference  and  courtesy  in 
his  manner,  which  the  Indians  never  pay  woman ;  and 
Tahmiroo's  deep  sensibilities  were  touched  by  it.  A  more 
careful  arrangement  of  her  rude  dress,  and  anxiety  to 
speak  his  language  fluently,  and  a  close  observance  of  his 
European  customs,  soon  betrayed  the  subtle  power  which 
was  fast  making  her  its  slave.  The  ready  vanity  of  the 
Frenchman  quickly  perceived  it.     At  first  he  encouraged 


it  with  that  sort  of  undefined  pleasure  which  man  always 
feels  in  awakening  strong  affection  in  the  hearts  of  even  the 
most  insignificant.  Then  the  idea  that,  though  an  Indian, 
she  was  a  princess,  and  that  her  father's  extensive  lands 
on  the  Missouri  were  daily  becoming  of  more  consequence 
to  his  ambitious  nation,  led  him  to  think  of  marriage  with 
her  as  a  desirable  object.  His  eyes  and  his  manner  had 
said  this,  long  before  the  old  chief  began  to  suspect  it ;  and 
he  allowed  the  wily  Frenchman  to  twine  himself  almost  as 
closely  around  his  heart,  as  he  had  around  the  more  yield- 
ing soul  of  his  darling  child.  Though  exceedingly  indo- 
lent by  nature,  Florimond  de  Ranee  had  acquired  skill  in 
many  graceful  acts,  which  excited  the  wonder  of  the 
savages. 

He  fenced  well  enough  to  foil  the  most  expert  antagonist ; 
and  in  hunting,  his  rifle  was  sure  to  carry  death  to  the 
game.  These  accomplishments,  and  the  facility  with  which 
his  pliant  nation  conform  to  the  usages  of  every  country, 
made  him  a  universal  favourite;  and,  at  his  request,  he  was 
formally  adopted  as  one  of  the  tribe.  But  conscious  as  he 
was  of  his  power,  it  was  long  before  he  dared  to  ask  for  the 
daughter  of  the  haughty  chief.  When  he  did  make  the 
daring  proposition,  it  was  received  with  a  still  and  terrible 
wrath,  that  might  well  fright  him  from  his  purpose.  Rage 
showed  itself  only  in  the  swelling  veins  and  clenched  hand 
of  the  old  chief. 

With  the  boasted  coldness  and  self-possession  of  an 
Indian,  he  answered,  "There  are  Sioux  girls  enough  for 
the  poor  pale  faces  that  come  among  us.  A  King's  daugh- 
ter weds  the  son  of  a  King.  Eagles  must  sleep  in  an  eagle's 
nest." 

In  vain  Tahmiroo  knelt  and  Supplicated.  In  vain  she 
promised  Florimond  de  Ranee  would  adopt  all  his  enmities 
and  all  his  friendships;  that  in  hunting,  and  in  war,  he 
would  be  an  invaluable  treasure.  The  chief  remained 
inexorable.  Then  Tahmiroo  no  longer  joined  in  the  dance, 
and  the  old  man  noticed  that  her  rich  voice  was  silent, 
when  he  passed  her  wigwam.  The  light  of  her  beauty 
began  to  fade,  and  the  bright  vermillion  current,  which 
mantled  under  her  brown  cheek,  became  sluggish  and  pale. 
The  languid  glance  she  cast  on  the  morning  sun  and  the 
bright  earth,  entered  into  her  father's  soul.  He  could  not 
see  his  beautiful  child  thus  gradually  wasting  away.  He 
had  long  averted  his  eyes  whenever  he  saw  Florimond  de 
Ranee;  but  one  day,  when  he  crossed  his  hunting  path,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  pointed  to  Tahmiroo's 
dwelling.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  proud  old  man 
and  the  blooming  lover  entered  it  together.  Tahmiroo  was 
seated  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  wigwam,  her  head  lean- 
ing on  her  hand,  her  basket-work  tangled  beside  her,  and 
a  bunch  of  flowers,  the  village  maidens  had  brought  her, 
scattered  and  whithering  at  her  feet. 

The  Chief  looked  upon  her  with  a  vehement  expression 
uf  love,   which  none  but  stern   countenances  can  wear. 


«2 


^ 


4 


Piriird  iy  VI    Dcaall 


£ugr»/«i  hy  C.  licaUi. 


'  (^c-ii-^iy^ 


» 


"  Tahmiroo,"  he  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "go  to  the  wigwam 
of  the  stranger,  that  your  father  may  again  see  you  love  to 
look  on  the  rising  sun,  and  the  opening  flowers."  There 
was  mingled  joy  and  modesty  in  the  upward  glance  of  the 
'•  Startled  Fawn"  of  the  Sioux ;  and  when  Florimond  de 
Ranee  saw  the  light  of  her  mild  eye,  suddenly  and  timidly 
veiled  by  its  deeply-fringed  lid,  he  knew  that  he  had  lost 
none  of  his  power. 

The  marriage  song  was  soon  heard  in  the  royal  wigwam, 
and  the  young  adventurer  became  the  son  of  a  King. 

Months  and  years  past  on,  and  found  Tahmiroo  the 
same  devoted,  submissive  being.  Her  husband  no  longer 
treated  her  with  the  uniform  gallantry  of  a  lover.  He  was 
not  often  harsh;  but  he  adopted  something  of  the  coldness 
and  indifference  of  the  nation  he  had  joined.  Tahmiroo 
sometimes  wept  in  secret ;  but  so  much  of  fear  had  lately 
mingled  with  her  love,  that  she  carefully  concealed  her 
grief  from  him  who  had  occasioned  it.  When  she  watched 
his  countenance,  with  that  pleading,  innocent  look,  which 
had  always  characterized  her  beauty,  she  sometimes  would 
obtain  a  glance  such  as  he  had  given  her  in  former  days; 
and  then  her  heart  would  leap  like  a  frolicsome  lamb,  and 
she  would  live  cheerfully  on  the  remembrance  of  that 
smile,  through  many  wearisome  days  of  silence  and  neglect. 
Never  was  woman,  in  her  heart-breaking  devotedness, 
satisfied  with  such  slight  testimonials  of  love,  as  was  this 
gentle  Sioux  girl  If  Florimond  chose  to  fish,  she  would 
herself  ply  the  oar,  rather  than  he  should  suffer  fatigue ; 
and  the  gaudy  canoe  hpr  father  had  given  her,  might  often 
be  seen  gliding  down  the  stream,  while  Tahmiroo  dipped 
her  oar  in  unison  witk  her  soft  rich  voice,  and  the  indolent 
Frenchman  lay  sunk  in  luxurious  repose.  She  had  learned 
his  religion ;  but  for  herself  she  never  prayed.  The  cross 
he  had  given  her  was  always  raised  in  supplication  for  him  ! 
and  if  he  but  looked  unkindly  on  her,  she  kissed  it,  and 
invoked  its  aid,  in  agony  of  soul.  She  fancied  the  sound 
of  his  native  land  might  be  dear  to  him ;  and  she  studied 
his  language  with  a  patience  and  perseverance  to  which  the 
savage  has  seldom  been  known  to  submit.  She  tried  to 
imitate  the  dresses  she  had  heard  him  describe;  and  if  be 
looked  with  a  pleased  eye  on  any  ornament  she  wore,  it 
was  always  reserved  to  welcome  his  return.  Yet,  for  all 
this  lavishnessof  love,  she  asked  but  kind,  approving  looks, 
which  cost  the  giver  nothing.  Alas,  for  the  preverseness 
of  man,  in  scorning  the  affection  he  ceases  to  doubt !  The 
little  pittance  of  love  for  which  poor  Tahmiroo's  heart 
yearned  so  much,  was  seldom  given.  Her  soul  was  a 
perpetual  prey  to  anxiety  and  excitement ;  and  the  quiet 
certainty  of  domestic  bliss  was  never  her  allotted  portion. 
There  were,  however,  two  beings  on  whom  she  could  pour 
forth  her  whole  fl(»d  of  tenderness,  without  reproof  or 
disappointment.  She  had  given  birth  to  a  son  and 
daughter  of  uncommon  promise.  Victoire,  the  eldest, 
had  her   father's  beauty,  save  in  the   melting  dark  eye, 


with  its  plaintive  expression,  and  the  modest  drooping  of 
its  silken  lash.  Her  cheeks  had  just  enough  of  the  Indian 
hue  to  give  them  a  warm,  rich  colouring ;  and  such  was 
her  early  maturity,  that  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  her  tall 
figure  combined  the  graceful  elasticity  of  youth,  with  the 
majesty  of  womanhood.  She  had  sprung  up  at  her  father's 
feet,  with  the  sudden  luxuriance  of  a  tropical  flower ;  and 
her  matured  loveliness  aroused  all  the  dormant  tenderness 
and  energy  within  him.  It  was  with  mournful  interest  he 
saw  her  leaping  along  the  chase,  with  her  mother's  bounding, 
sylph-like  joy;  and  he  would  sigh  deeply  when  he  observed 
her  oar  rapidly  cutting  the  waters  of  the  Missouri,  while 
her  boat  flew  over  the  surface  of  the  river  like  a  wild  bird 
in  sport — and  the  gay  young  creature  would  wind  among 
the  eddies,  or  dart  forward  with  her  hair  streaming  on  the 
wind,  and  her  lips  parted  with  eagerness,  Tahmiroo  did 
not  understand  the  nature  of  his  emotions.  She  thought, 
in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  that  silence  and  sadness 
were  the  natural  expressions  of  a  white  man's  love ;  but 
when  he  turned  his  restless  gaze  from  his  daughter  to  her, 
she  met  an  expression  which  troubled  her.  Indifference 
had  changed  into  contempt;  and  woman's  soul,  whether 
in  the  drawing-room,  or  in  the  wilderness,  is  painfully  alive 
to  the  sting  of  scorn.  Sometimes  her  placid  nature  was 
disturbed  by  a  strange  jealousy  of  her  own  child,  "  I  love 
Victoire  only  because  she  is  the  daughter  of  Florimond," 
thought  she  ;  "  and  why,  oh !  why,  does  he  not  love  me  for 
being  the  mother  of  Victoire  ?" 

It  was  too  evident  that  De  Ranee  wished  his  daughter 
to  be  estranged  from  her  mother,  and  her  mother's  people. 
With  all  members  of  the  tribe,  out  of  his  own  family,  he 
sternly  forbade  her  having  any  intercourse;  and  even  there 
he  kept  her  constantly  employed  in  taking  dancing  lessons 
from  himself,  and  obtaining  various  branches  of  learning 
from  an  old  Catholic  priest,  whom  he  had  solicited  to  reside 
with  him  for  that  purpose.  But  this  kind  of  life  was  irk- 
some to  the  Indian  girl,  and  she  was  perpetually  escaping 
the  vigilance  of  her  father,  to  try  her  arrow  in  the  woods,  or 
guide  her  pretty  canoe  over  the  waters.  De  Ranee  had 
long  thought  it  impossible  to  gratify  his  ambitious  views 
for  hii  daughter  without  removing  her  from  the  attractions, 
of  her  savage  home  ;  and  each  day's  experience  convinced 
him  more  and  more  of  the  truth  of  this  conclusion. 

To  favour  his  project,  he  assumed  an  affectionate  manner 
towards  his  wife;  for  he  well  knew  that  one  look,  or  word, 
of  kindness,  would  at  any  time  win  back  all  her  love.  When 
the  deep  sensibilities  of  her  warm  heart  were  roused,  he 
would  ask  for  leave  to  sell  her  lands;  and  she,  in  her 
prodigality  of  tenderness,  would  have  given  him  any  thing, 
even  her  own  life,  for  such  smiles  as  he  then  bestowed. 
The  old  chief  was  dead,  and  there  was  no  one  to  check  the 
unfeeling  rapacity  of  the  Frenchman.  Tract  after  tract  of 
Tahmiroo's  valuable  land  was  sold,  and  the  money  remitted 
to  Quebec,  where  he  intended  to  convey  his  children,  on 


m 


y3 


pretence  of  a  visit;  but  in  reality  with  the  firm  intent  of 
never  again  beholding  bis  deserted  wife. 

A  company  of  Canadian  traders  chanced  to  visit  the 
Falls  of  St.  Anthony,  just  at  this  juncture;  and  Florimond 
de  Ranee  took  the  opportunity  to  apprize  Tahmiroo  of  his 
intention  to  educate  Victoire.  She  entreated  with  all  the 
earnestness  of  a  mother's  eloquence;  but  she  pled  in  vain, 
Victoire  and  her  father  joiued  the  company  of  traders  on 
their  return  to  Canada.  Tahmiroo  knelt,  and  fervently 
besought  that  she  might  accompany  them.  She  would  stay 
out  of  sight,  she  said;  they  should  not  be  ashamed  of  her 
among  the  great  white  folks  of  the  east;  and  if  she  could 
but  live  where  she  could  see  them  every  day,  she  should  die 
happier. 

"Ashamed  of  you!  and  you  the  daughter  of  a  Sioux 
King !"  exclaimed  Victoire  proudly,  and  with  a  natural 
impulse  of  tenderness,  she  fell  on  her  mother's  neck  and 
wept. 

"  Victoire,  'tis  time  to  depart,"  said  her  father,  sternly. 
The  sobbing  girl  tried  to  release  herself;  but  she  could  not. 
Tahmiroo  embraced  her  with  the  energy  of  despair;  for, 
after  all  her  doubts  and  jealousies,  Victoire  was  the  darling 
child  of  her  bosom — she  was  so  much  the  image  of  Flori- 
mond when  he  first  said  he  loved  her. 

"  Woman!  let  her  go!"  exclaimed  De  Ranee,  exaspera- 
ted by  the  length  of  the  parting  scene.  Tahmiroo  raised 
her  eyes  anxiously  to  his  face,  and  she  saw  that  his  arm  was 
raised  to  strike  her. 

"  I  am  a  poor  daughter  of  the  Sioux;  oh!  why  did  you 
marry  me  ?"  exclaimed  she,  in  a  tone  of  passionate  grief. 
"  For  your  father's  land,"  said  the  Frenchman  coldly. 
This  was  the  drop  too  much.  Poor  Tahmiroo,  with  a 
piercing  shriek,  fell  on  the  earth,  and  hid  her  face  in  the 
grass.  She  knew  not  how  long  she  remained  there.  Her 
highly  wrought  feelings  had  brought  on  a  dizziness  of  the 
brain;  and  she  was  conscious  only  of  a  sensation  of  sickness, 
accompanied  by  the  sound  of  reeeeding  voices.  When  she 
recovered,  she  found  herself  alone  with  Louis,  her  little  boy, 
then  about  six  years  old.  The  child  had  wandered  there 
after  the  traders  had  departed,  and  having  in  vain  tried  to 
waken  his  mother,  he  laid  himself  down  by  her  side,  and 
slept  on  his  bow  and  arrows.  From  that  hour  Tahmiroo 
was  changed. 

Her  quiet  submissive  air  gave  place  to  a  stem  and  lofty 
manner ;  and  she,  who  had  always  been  so  gentle,  became 
as  bitter  and  implacable  as  the  most  blood-thirsty  of  her 
tribe.  In  little  Louis  all  the  strong  feelings  of  her  soul 
were  centred;  but  even  her  affection  for  him  was  charac- 
terized by  a  strange,  unwonted  fierceness-  Her  only  care 
seemed  to  be  to  make  him  like  his  grandfather,  and  to  instil 
a  deadly  hatred  of  white  men.  The  boy  learned  his  lessons 
well.  He  was  the  veriest  little  savage  that  ever  let  fly  an 
arrow.   To  his  mother  alone  he  yielded  any  thing  like  sub- 


mission ;   and  the  Sioux  were  proud  to  hail  the  haughty 
child  as  their  future  chieftain. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  things  ou  the  shores  of  the 
Missouri,  when  Florimond  de  Ranee  came  among  them, 
after  an  absence  of  three  years.  He  was  induced  to  make 
this  visit,  partly  from  a  lingering  curiosity  to  see  his  boy, 
and  partly  from  the  hope  of  obtaining  more  land  from  th© 
yielding  Tahmiroo.  He  affected  much  contrition  for  his 
past  conduct,  and  promised  to  return  with  Victoire,  before 
the  year  expired.  Tahmiroo  met  him  with  the  most 
chilling  indifference,  and  listened  to  him  with  a  vacant 
look,  as  if  she  heard  him  not. 

It  was  only  when  he  spoke  to  her  boy,  that  he  could 
arouse  her  from  this  apparent  lethargy.  On  this  subject 
she  was  all  suspicion.  She  had  a  sort  of  undefined  dread 
that  he,  too,  would  be  carried  away  from  her ;  and  she 
watched  over  him  like  a  she-wolf,  when  her  young  is  in 
danger.  Her  fears  were  not  unfounded ;  De  Ranee  did 
intend,  by  demonstrations  of  fondness,  and  glowing  des- 
criptions of  Quebec,  to  kindle  in  the  mind  of  his  son  a 
desire  to  accompany  him. 

Tahmiroo  thought  the  hatred  of  white  men.  which  she 
had  so  carefully  instilled,  would  prove  a  sufficient  shield ; 
but  many  weeks  had  not  elapsed  before  she  saw  that  Louis 
was  fast  yielding  himself  up  to  the  fascinating  power  which 
had  enthralled  her  own  youthful  spirit.  With  this  discovery 
came  horrible  thoughts  of  vengeance ;  and  more  than  once 
she  had  nearly  nerved  her  soul  to  murder  the  father  of  her 
son;  but  she  could  not.  Something  in  his  features  still 
reminded  her  of  the  devoted  young  Frenchman,  who  had 
carried  her  quiver  through  the  woods,  and  kissed  the 
moccasin  he  stooped  to  lace  ;  and  she  could  not  kill  him. 

The  last  cutting  blow  was  soon  given  to  the  heart  of  the 
Indian  wife.  Young  Louis,  full  of  boyish  curiosity, 
expressed  a  wish  to  go  with  his  father,  though  he  at  the 
same  time  promised  a  speedy  return.  He  always  had  been 
a  stubborn  boy  ;  and  she  felt  now  as  if  her  worn  out  spirit 
would  vainly  contend  against  his  wilfulness.  With  that 
sort  of  resigned  stupor  which  often  indicates  approaching 
insanity,  she  yielded  to  his  request ;  exacting,  however,  a 
promise  that  he  would  sail  a  few  miles  down  the  Missis- 
sippi with  her  the  day  before  his  departure. 

The  day  arrived.  Florimond  de  Ranee  was  at  a  distance 
on  business.  Tahmiroo  decked  herself  in  the  garments 
and  jewels  she  had  worn  on  the  day  of  her  marriage,  and 
selected  the  gaudiest  wampum  belts  for  the  little  Louis. 
"  Why  do  you  put  these  on?"  said  the  boy. 
"Because  Tahmiroo  will  no  more  see  her  son  in  the 
land  of  Sioux,"  said  she,  mournfully,  "  and  when  her 
father  meets  her  in  the  Spirit  Land,  he  will  know  the  beads 
he  gave  her." 

She  took  the  wondering  boy  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to 
the  water  side.     There  lay  the  canoe  her  father  had  given 


I-. 


her  when  she  left  him  for  "the  wigwam  of  the  stranger." 
It  was  faded  and  bruised  now,  and  so  were  all  her  hopes. 
She  looked  back  on  the  hut,  where  she  had  spent  her  brief 
term  of  wedded  happiness,  and  its  peacefulness  seemed  a 
mockery  of  her  misery.  And  was  she — the  lone,  the 
wretched,  the  desperate,  and  deserted  one — was  she  the 
"  Startled  Fawn"  of  the  Sioux,  for  whom  contending  Chiefs 
had  asked  in  vain  ?  The  remembrance  of  all  her  love  and 
all  her  wrongs  came  up  before  her  memory,  and  death 
seemed  more  pleasant  to  her  than  the  gay  dance  she  once 
loved  so  well.  But  then  her  eye  rested  on  her  boy — and,  O 
God !  with  what  an  agony  of  love !  It  was  the  last  vehe- 
ment struggle  of  a  soul  all  formed  for  tenderness.  "  We 
will  go  the  Spirit  Land  together,"  she  exclaimed.  "He 
cannot  come  there  to  rob  me !" 

She  took  Louis  in  her  arms,  as  if  he  had  been  a  feather, 
and  springing  into  the  boat,  she  guided  it  towards  the 
falls  of  St.  Anthony. 

"  Mother,  mother  !  the  canoe  is  going  over  the  rapids !" 
screamed  the  frightened  child.  "My  father  stands  on  the 
waves  and  beckons  !"  she  said.  The  boy  looked  at  the 
horribly  fixed  expression  of  her  face,  and  shrieked  aloud 
for  help. 

The  boat  went  over  the  cataract. — 

Louis  de  Ranee  was  seen  no  more.  He  sleeps  with  the 
"Startled  Fawn"  of  the  Sioux,  in  the  waves  of  the  Missis- 
sippi! The  story  is  well  remembered  by  the  Indians  of 
the  present  day ;  and  when  a  mist  gathers  over  the  fall, 
they  often  say,  "  Let  us  not  hunt  to-day.  A  storm  will 
certainly  come  ;  for  Tahmiroo  and  her  son  are  going  over 
the  falls  of  St.  Anthony." 


THE  NEW  ZEALANDERS. 

I  was  roused  one  morning  at  day-break  by  my  servant 
running  in  with  the  intelligence  that  a  great  number  of 
war  canoes  were  crossing  the  bay.  As  King  George  had 
told  us  but  the  evening  before  that  he  expected  a  visit  from 
Ta-ri-ah,  a  chief  of  the  tribe  called  the  Narpooes,  whose 
territory  lay  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay,  and  given  us 
to  understand  that  Ta-ri-ah  was  a  man  not  to  be  trusted, 
and  therefore  feared  some  mischief  might  happen  if  he 
really  came,  the  sight  of  these  war  canoes  naturally  caused 
us  considerable  alarm,  and  we  sincerely  wished  that  the 
visit  was  over. 

We  dressed  ourselves  with  the  utmost  expedition,  and 
walked  down  to  the  beach.  The  landing  of  these  warriors 
was  conducted  with  a  considerable  degree  of  order !  and 
could  I  have  divested  myself  of  all  idea  of  danger,  I  should 
have  admired  the  sight  excessively.  All  our  New  Zealand 
friends — the  tribe  of  Shulitea — were  stripped  naked,  their 
bodies  were  oiled,  and  all  were  completely  armed ;  their 


muskets  were  loaded,  their  cartouch-boxes  were  fastened 
round  their  waists,  and  their  patoo-patoos  were  fixed  to 
their  wrists.  Their  hair  was  tied  up  in  a  tight  knot  at  the 
top  of  their  heads,  beautifully  ornamented  with  feathers  of 
the  albatross.  As  the  opposite  party  landed,  ours  all 
crouched  on  the  ground,  their  eyes  fixed  on  their  visitors, 
and  perfectly  silent.  When  the  debarkation  was  com- 
pleted, I  observed  the  chief,  Ta-ri-ah,  put  himself  at  their 
head,  and  march  towards  us  with  his  party  formed  closely 
and  compactly,  and  armed  with  muskets  and  paddles. 
When  they  came  very  near,  they  suddenly  stopped.  Our 
party  continued  still  mute,  with  their  firelocks  poised  ready 
for  use.  For  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  all  was  still,  each 
party  glaring  fiercely  on  the  other ;  and  they  certainly 
formed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  extraordinary  pictures 
I  had  ever  beheld.  The  foreground  was  formed  by  a  line 
of  naked  savages,  each  resting  on  one  knee,  with  musket 
advanced  ;  their  gaze  fixed  on  the  opposite  party,  their 
fine  broad  muscular  backs  contrasting  with  the  dark  foliage 
in  front,  and  catching  the  gleam  of  the  rising  sun.  The 
strangers  were  clothed  in  the  most  grotesque  manner  ima- 
ginable ;  some  armed,  some  naked,  some  with  long  beards, 
others  were  painted  all  over  with  red  ochre :  every  part  of 
each  figure  was  quite  still,  except  the  rolling  and  glaring 
of  their  eyes  on  their  opponents.  The  back-ground  was 
formed  by  the  beach,  and  a  number  of  ^their  beautiful  war 
canoes  dancing  on  the  waves;  while,  in  the  distance,  the 
mountains  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  were  just  tinged 
with  the  varied  aud  beautiful  colours  of  the  sun  then  rising 
in  splendour  from  behind  them. 

The  stillness  of  this  extraordinary  scene  did  not  last  long. 
The  Narpooes  commenced  a  noise  and  discordant  song  and 
dance,  yelling,  jumping,  and  making  the  most  hideous 
faces.  This  was  soon  answered  by  a  loud  shout  from  our 
party  who  endeavoured  to  outdo  the  Narpooes  in  making 
horrible  distortions  of  their  countenances :  then  succeeded 
another  dance  from  our  visitors ;  after  which  our  friends 
made  a  rush,  and  in  a  sort  of  rough  joke  set  them  running. 
Then  all  joined  in  a  pell-mell  sort  of  encounter,  in  which 
numerous  hard  blows  were  given  and  received;  then  all 
the  party  fired  their  pieces  in  the  air,  and  the  ceremony  of 
landing  was  thus  deemed  completed.  They  then  ap- 
proached each  other,  and  began  rubbing  noses  ;  and  those 
who  were  particular  friends  cried  and  lamented  over  each 
other. 


Nature. — She  is  ever  provident;  shb  has  left  every  man 
a  capacity  of  being  agreeable,  though  not  of  shining  in 
company;  and  there  are  a  hundred  men  sufficiently  qualifi- 
ed for  both,  who,  by  a  very  few  faults,  that  they  might 
correct  in  half  an  hour,  are  not  so  much  as  tolerable. 


MUSIC'S    MISHAP. 

The  parish-clerk,  the  Tillage  music-master, 
Master  at  once  of  music,  and  her  slave, 
Of  late  I  saw — (not  Dan  Apollo  touch'd 
The  horsehair  faster) — seeking  souls  to  save 
By  teaching  Sunday  scholars  the  true  stave ; 
And  much  it  pleased  me,  in  my  unseen  station, 
To  watch  the  efforts  of  the  tutor  grave 
To  modify  the  heathenish  squallation, 
To  gods  and  columns  both  a  sheer  abomination. 

Upon  his  eyebrows  sat  authority. 
And  at  his  feet  his  dog;  before  him  stood 
The  neophytes  of  sacred  minstrelsy, 
Cecilias  in  reversion  :  the  sweet  wood, 
The  handle  of  his  viol,  not  too  good, 
He  held  with  gentle  hand  to  guard  from  harm  ; 
For  much  he  prized  it,  more  than  flesh  and  blood. 
With  resin,  magic  drug,  to  aid  the  charm. 
The  master  arm'd  his  bow,  and  then  he  bow'd  his  arm. 

At  once  uplifting  voice  and  instrument. 
He  led  the  way — a  lamentable  sound 
(Whose  name  was  Legion,  being  many)  went 
Forth  from  the  throat  of  all  that  stood  around ; 
Discord,  that  did  all  harmon  yconfound. 
Loader,  and  louder,  did  the  master  bawl ; 
In  philosophic  quiet  sat  the  hound. 
Worthy  of  praise,  amid  that  Babelish  squall 
Of  notes  not  flat,  not  sharp — certes  not  natural. 

His  patient  ears  hung  down  upon  his  face. 
Curtaining  out  the  nose,  perchance,  in  part; 
All  as  unmoved,  behind  the  master's  place, 
There  stood  his  better  half,  his  life,  his  heart, 
Who,  partner  of  his  cares,  would  not  depart : 
With  arms  across,  and  face  demurely  still. 
Unmoved  she  watch'd  the  triumphs  of  his  art ; 
While  he  with  might  and  main,  and  toilsome  skill. 
With  love  of  music  strove  untuneful  souls  to  fill. 

In  vain  !  no  bars  restrain  th*  impatient  crowd ; 
Notes  are  unnoted,  limping  time  forgot: 
Yet  still  the  treble  discord  grows  more  loud. 
And  would  abate  the  master  not  a  jot. 
With  music  and  impatience  waxing  hot. 
More  fiercely  did  he  bid  the  resin  move  ; 
Voice,  hand,  and  foot  in  unison  were  got : 
The  urchin  choir  inspired  to  follow  strove ; 
His  dame  more  sweetly  smiled — for  music  melts  to  love. 

In  ecstasy  the  minstrel  rock'd  his  chair ; 
His  tail  in  approbation  Tray  did  bend ; 


96 


(For  in  grave  souls,  whose  praise  is  slow  and  spare, 
Approval  comes  but  in  the  latter  end). 
But  why  did  cruel  fate  that  motion  send  ? 
Oh  hapless  tale,  and  yet  more  hapless  tail  I 
The  chair,  not  charily,  did  swift  descend. 
That  thou  wert  a  grave  dog  did  not  avail, 
Oh  Tray  !  nor  did  avert  what  I  must  needs  bewaii. 

Then  rose  from  earth  to  sky  the  mighty  yell ; 
Fled  Polyhymnia  with  psalmodic  groans  : 
With  chair  inverted,  straight  the  master  fell ; 
His  stronger  head  preserved  his  weaker  bones. 
Ah !  much  the  wounded  tail  the  Muse  bemoans. 
And  sad  mischance  of  this  disastrous  day 
(Day  to  be  mark'd  for  ever  with  black  stones). 
Where  triumph  did  to  overthrow  betray  : 
So  clouds  and  storms  succeed  a  too  resplendent  day. 

SONNET  TO  HIS  NATIVE  RIVER,  ANKER. 

(bT    MICBASL  CKAYTON.) 

Clear  Anker,  on  whose  silver- sanded  shore, 

Aly  soul-shrined  saint,  my  fair  Idea,  lies  ; 

O  blessed  brook  !   whose  milk-white  swans  adore 

Thy  crystal  stream,  refined  by  her  eyes, 

Where  sweet  myrrh-breathing  Zephyr  in  the  Spring 

Gently  distils  his  nectar-dropping  showers, 

Where  nightingales  in  Arden  sit  and  sing 

Amongst  the  dainty  dew-impearled  flowers  ! 

Say  thus,  fair  brook,  when  thou  shalt  see  my  queen, 

Lo  !  here  thy  shepherd  spent  his  wandering  years ; 

And  in  these  shades,  dear  nymph,  he  oft  had  been, 

And  here  to  thee  he  sacrificed  his  tears  : 
Fair  Arden,  thou  my  Tempe  art  alone, 
And  thou,  sweet  Anker,  art  my  Helicon. 


ON  THE  ROSE, 

Sweet  flower  !  emblem  of  innocence  and  truth, 
Fit  subject  to  pourtray  the  hours  of  youth  ; 
When  pure,  unspotted,  every  action  has  a  grace. 
Which  after  years  of  woe  and  danger  will  efface. 

Like  thee  the  bud  of  youth  too  oft  contains 
A  worm  that  mars,  and  every  beauty  stains  ; 
A  little  worm  which,  overlooked,  will  flourish, 
First    feed  on,    then  destroy    the    heart   in  which  t'was 
nourished. 

And  yet  again,  some  buds  like  them  will  grow. 
From  which  all  beauty,  grace,  and  virtue  flow ; 
Matured  by  age  they  strengthen  and  adorn  the  soul. 
Till  death  with  icy-hand  destroys  the  whole. 


w 


■a 


(f^- 


*,^ 


-■V. 


THE  REIN-DEER. 

Few  animals  present  so  interesting  a  range  of  observa- 
tion and  enquiry  as  the  Rein-Deer  in  its  natural  history 
and  economy.  The  ancients  were  vaguely  acquainted  with 
this  animal  through  the  accounts  they  received  from  the 
Scythians  ;  and  Caesar  mentions  its  existence  in  his  Com- 
mentaries. It  is  found  abundantly  in  free  herds  through- 
out the  north  of  Europe :  in  Kamtschatka,  Spitzbergeu, 
and  over  the  whole  of  Northern  Russia,  where  the  Tungu- 
sians  rear  a  large  breed,  which  they  ride  more  generally 
than  harness  to  the  sledge ;  in  Sweden  and  Norway ;  but 
Cuvier  has  proved  that  they  never  extended  further  South 
than  the  Baltic  and  the  northern  parts  of  Poland.  In  Asia, 
however,  the  Rein-Deer  is  found  to  the  foot  of  the  Cauca- 
sus ;  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  formerly  extended 
further  south  than  at  the  present  time.  In  the  arctic 
regions  it  is  also  found  in  great  numbers ;  whence  it 
extends  even  to  the  rocky  mountains  of  central  North 
America.  In  all  these  countries  the  Rein-Deer  is  found 
in  a  wild  state;  but  in  Lapland,  where  the  domestication 
of  the  animal  is  identified  with  all  the  comforts  of  the 
people,  there  are  but  few  wild  Rein-Deer  remaining. 

The  usual  size  of  the  adult  Rein-Deer  in  a  wild  state  is 
equal  to  a  stag,  or  even  superior;  but  the  tame  races, 
particularly  of  Lapland,  are  not  much  higher  at  the  shoul- 
der than  fallow-deer.  In  large  males  the  horns  are 
sometimes  above  four  feet  long;  in  the  females  they  are 
constantly  smaller,  and  the  palmated  or  flattened  parts 
narrower.  This  peculiar  shape  of  the  horns,  we  may  here 
mention,  appears  to  be,  in  several  species,  a  provision  of 
nature,  to  enable  the  animals  to  clear  the  snow  from  their 
food ;  for  it  is  observed  that  this  structure  is  confined  to 
those  of  the  higher  latitudes,  and  rendered  applicable  in 
proportion  as  they  inhabit  more  rigorous  climates.  Thus, 
in  the  Rein-Deer,  who  are  absolutely  arctic,  it  is  most  so ; 
and  least  in  the  fallow-deer,  who  belong  to  the  more  tem- 
perate regions.  This  observation  will  likewise  apply  to 
the  magnitude  of  the  Rein-Deer,  which  is  greatest  towards 
the  Pole,  and  least  in  the  south. 

There  is,  however,  no  species  of  deer  whose  boms  vary  to 
such  an  extent  as  the  Rein-Deer;  indeed,  it  is  difiicult  to 
meet  with  two  alike.  In  general  they  are  at  first  thrown 
back  from  the  forehead,  and  then  curve  with  a  considerable 
sweep  forwards.  Over  the  face  they  bear  two  branches, 
mostly  palmated,  and  from  the  back  part  of  the  curves  other 
snags  arise.  The  form  of  the  animal,  compared  with  other 
deer,  is  heavy  and  low ;  the  neck  is  short,  the  head  carried 
straight  forward  in  a  line  with  the  back ;  the  legs  are  short 
and  stout;  and  the  hoofs  are  very  broad  and  spreading: 
they  contract  when  the  foot  is  raised  from  the  ground ;  but 
when  the  Rein  Deer  crosses  the  yielding  snows  the  foot 
presents  a  larger  surface,  and  thus  prevents,  to  a  certain 
extent,  the  animal  sinking  as  deeply  as  it  would  if  the  hoof 


were  small  and  compact.  The  hair  of  the  Rein-Deer  is 
of  two  kinds,  close  and  woolly  ;  under  the  throat  it  is  long, 
and  in  winter  long  hairs  spread  over  the  body.  Sir  Arthur 
de  Brooke,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  best  account 
of  the  economy  of  the  Rein-Deer,  states  the  hair  of  its  coat 
to  be  "so  thick  that  it  is  hardly  possible  by  separating 
them  in  any  way  to  discern  the  least  portion  of  the  naked 
hide ;"  and  Dr.  Richardson  says,  clothing  made  of  deer- 
skin "  is  so  impervious  to  the  cold,  that,  with  the  addition 
of  ci  blanket  of  the  same  material,  any  one  so  clothed  may 
bivouack  on  the  snow  with  safety  in  the  most  intense  cold 
of  an  arctic  winter's  night." 

The  colour  of  the  upper  parts  of  the  Rein- Deer  is  mostly 
brown,  which  becomes  greyish  in  winter;  while  the  under 
parts  are  always  of  greyish  white. 

Rein-Deer  swim  with  ease,  and  are  so  buoyant  as  to  keep 
half  their  bodies  above  water :  their  broad  feet,  struck  with 
great  force,  imj)el  them  so  fast  in  the  strongest  currents 
and  across  the  broadest  rivers,  that  a  boat  well  manned, 
can  scarcely  keep  pace  with  them.  When  irritated  or  at- 
tacked, they  strike  downwards  with  their  horns,  but  do  not 
gore  ;  they  kick  with  violence  and  repel  the  wolf  with  suc- 
cess: but  their  most  dangerous  enemy  is  the  glutton,  who 
is  stated  to  drop  down  upon  the  Deer  from  the  branch  of 
some  tree  while  they  are  oflF  their  guard.  In  a  wild  state 
they  live  in  herds,  and  emigrate,  according  to  the  season. 
In  winter  they  retire  to  the  woods,  and  subsist  on  lichens, 
which  hang  upon  the  trees.  As  spring  approaches,  they 
return  to  the  open  country,  where  their  food  is  similar. 
They  sufi'er  much  in  the  summer  months  from  the  attacks 
of  insects,  to  avoid  which  they  migrate  to  the  sea-shore  or 
the  mountains. 

The  importance  of  the  Rein.Deer  for  the  purposes  of 
draught  in  Lapland  is  well  known.  It  possesses  great 
strength  in  its  shoulders  and  fore-quarters,  and  surety  of 
foot  even  in  storms  of  sleet  and  snow  :  these  habits,  toge- 
ther with  their  quick  scent,  guide  them  with  wonderful 
precision  through  the  most  dangerous  passes,  and  in  the 
darkest  nights  of  an  arctic  winter.  To  this  sagacity  the 
Laplander  trusts  his  life  with  confidence,  and  accidents 
are  of  very  rare  occurrence.  They  draw  his  sledge  with 
such  speed,  that  a  pair  of  them,  in  the  language  of  Lap- 
land, will  change  his  horizon  three  times  in  twenty-four 
hours;  that  is,  they  can  pass  three  times  the  furthest  limit 
in  sight  on  starting,  which,  in  their  latitudes,  is  computed 
at  above  one  hundred  miles.  They  will  draw  about  three 
hundred  pounds  each,  but  the  burden  is  generally  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds;  their  trot  is  about  ten 
miles  an  hour.  In  the  palace  of  Drotningholm,  in  Sweden, 
is  a  portrait  of  a  Rein-Deer,  which  is  stated  to  have  drawn 
an  officer  with  important  dispatches  the  distance  of  eight 
hundred  English  miles  in  forty-eight  hours,  and  the  Deer 
is  said  to  have  dropped  down  lifeless  upon  his  arrival. 
Fictet,  a  French  astronomer,  who  visited  Lapland  in  1769, 


97 


DUN ROBIN  CASTLE. 

THE  SEAT  OF  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OP  SOTHBRLAND. 

DuNROBiN  Castle,  on  the  east  coast  of  Sutherlandshire, 
is  the  seat  of  the  ancient  earls  of  Sutherland.  It  is  in 
excellent  repair,  and  great  agricultural  exertions  have  been 
successfully  made  around  it.  It  was  founded  about  the 
year  1100,  by  Robert  or  Robin,  second  earl  of  Sutherland, 
and  being  built  upon  a  round  hill,  as  the  word  dun  imports, 
was  hence  called  Dun-Robin  Castle.  It  is  situated  on  an 
eminence  near  the  sea.  As  very  few,  if  any  alterations 
have  been  made  in  the  castle  within  the  last  two  hundred 
years,  a  short  description  of  it  from  the  manuscript  of  Sir 
Robert  Gordon,  will  suffice  to  convey  an  idea  of  it  to  our 
readers. 

"  The  castles  and  pyles  of  Sutherland  or  Demough, 
Dunrobin,  (the  Earl  of  Sutherland  his  special  residence,) 
a  house  well  seated  upon  a  round  mote,  hard  by  the  sea, 
with  fair  orchards,  wer  ther  be  pleasant  gardens,  planted 
with  all  kynds  of  froots,  hearbs,  and  floors,  used  in  this 
kingdome,  and  abundance  of  good  saphron,  tobacco,  and 
rosemarie.  The  froot  here  is  excellent,  and  chiefly  the 
pears  and  cherries.  There  is  in  Dunrobin  one  of  the 
deepest  draw-wells,  all  of  aister  work  from  the  ground  to 
the  top,  called  St.  John  his  well,  which  is  within  the  castle 
in  the  midst  of  the  court." 

There  is  a  very  curious  structure  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
castle,  of  which  Pennant  gives  the  following  account: — 

"  Not  far  from  Dunrobin  is  a  very  entire  piece  of 
antiquity  of  the  kind  known  in  Scotland  by  the  name  of 
Pictish  Castles  and  called  here  Cairn  Lia,  or  Grey  Town. 
That  I  saw  was  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  yards  in 
circumference,  round,  and  raised  so  high  above  the  ground 
as  to  form  a  considerable  mount.  On  the  top  was  an 
extensive  but  shallow  hollow;  within  were  three  low 
concentric  galleries  at  small  distances  from  each  other, 
covered  with  large  stones ;  and  the  side  walls  were  about 
four  to  five  feet  thick,  rudely  made.  There  are  generally 
three  of  these  places  near  each  other,  so  that  each  may  be 
seen  from  anyone.  Buildings  of  this  kind  are  frequent  along 
this  coast,  that  of  Caithness  and  Strathnaver.  Others, 
agreeing  in  external  form,  are  common  in  the  Hebrides,  but 
differ  in  their  internal  construction.  In  the  islands  they 
are  attributed  to  the  Danes — here  to  the  Picts.  They  were 
probably  the  defensible  habitations  of  the  times." 

The  Ant. — The  ant  seems,  of  all  others,  to  have  been 
Plutarch's  favourite  insect.  He  even  pronounces  her  a 
wise  and  virtuous  animal.  Friendship,  fortitude,  continen- 
cy,  patience,  justice,  and  industry,  are  among  the  moral 
qualities  which  he  deservedly  places  to  her  account. 


HOSPITALITY. 

Domestic  powers  !  erewhile  revered, 
Where  Syria  spread  her  palmy  plain, 

"Where  Greece  her  tuneful  Muses  heard, 
Where  Rome  beheld  her  patriot  train. 

Thou  to  Albion  too  were  known, 

'Midst  the  moat  and  moss-grown  wall 
That  girt  her  Gothic-structured  hall, 

With  rural  trophies  strown. 

The  traveller,  doubtful  of  his  way 
Upon  the  pathless  forest  wild ; 

The  huntsman  in  the  heat  of  day. 

And  with  the  tedious  chase  o'ertoiled — 

Wide  their  view  around  them  cast. 
Marked  the  distant  rustic  tower. 
And  sought  and  found  the  festive  bower. 

And  shared  the  free  repast. 

E'en  now,  on  Caledonia's  shore. 
When  eve's  dun  robe  the  sky  arrays. 

Thy  punctual  hand  unfolds  the  door. 
Thy  eye  the  mountain  road  surveys; 

Pleas'd  to  spy  the  casual  guest, 

Pleas'd  with  food  his  heart  to  cheer, 
With  pipe  or  song  to  soothe  his  ear. 

And  spread  his  couch  for  rest. 

Nor  yet  e'en  here  disdained  thy  sway. 
Where  grandeur's  splendid  modern  seat 

Far  o'er  the  landscape  glitters  gay ; 
Or  where  fair  quiet's  lone  retreat 

Hides  beneath  the  hoary  hill. 
Near  the  dusky  upland  shade. 
Between  the  willow's  glossy  glade. 

And  by  the  tinkling  rill. 

There  thine  the  pleasing  interviews 

That  friends  and  relatives  endear. 
When  scenes,  not  often  seen,  amuse. 

When  tales,  not  often  told,  we  hear. 
There  the  scholar's  liberal  mind 

Oft  instruction  gives  and  gains  ; 

And  oft  the  lover's  lore  obtains 
His  fair-one's  audience  kind. 

0  gentle  power  !  where'er  thy  reign, 
May  health  and  peace  attend  thee  still ; 

Nor  folly's  presence  cause  thee  pain, 
Nor  vice  reward  thy  good  with  ill. 

Gratitude  thy  altar  raise. 

Wealth  to  thee  her  offerings  pay, 
And  Genius  wake  his  tuneful  lay 

To  celebrate  thy  praise. 


100 


BA^TTLE  OF  TRAFALGAR. 

Nelson  arrived  off  Cadiz  on  the  29th  of  September, 
1805 — his  birth-day.  Fearing  that  if  the  enemy  knew  his 
force  they  might  be  deterred  from  venturing  to  sea,  he  kept 
out  of  sight  of  land,  desired  Collingwood  to  fire  no  salute 
and  hoist  no  colours,  and  wrote  to  Gibraltar  to  request  that 
the  force  of  the  fleet  might  not  be  inserted  there  in  the  Ga- 
zette. His  reception  in  the  Mediterranean  fleet  was  as 
gratifying  as  the  farewell  of  his  countrymen  at  Portsmouth  : 
the  officers,  who  came  on  board  to  welcome  him,  forgot  his 
rank  as  commander  in  their  joy  at  seeing  him  again.  On 
the  day  of  his  arrival,  Villeneuve  received  orders  to  put 
to  sea  the  first  opportunity.  Villeneuve,  however,  hesitated 
when  he  heard  that  Nelson  had  resumed  the  command.  He 
called  a  council  of  war,  and  their  determination  was  that  it 
would  not  be  expedient  to  leave  Cadiz,  unless  they  had 
reason  to  believe  themselves  stronger  by  one-third  than  the 
British  force.  In  the  public  measures  of  this  country,  se- 
cresy  is  seldom  practicable  and  seldom  attempted :  here, 
however,  by  the  precautions  of  Nelson  and  the  wise  mea- 
sures of  the  Admiralty,  the  enemy  were  for  once  kept  in 
ignorance;  for,  as  the  ships  appointed  to  re-inforce  the 
Mediterranean  fleet  were  dispatched  singly,  each  as  soon 
as  it  was  ready,  their  collected  number  was  not  stated  in 
the  newspapers,  and  their  arrival  was  not  known  to  the 
enemy. 

On  the  9th  of  October  Nelson  sent  Collingwood  what  he 
called,  in  his  diary,  the  Nelson-touch.  "I  send  you,''  said 
he,  "my  plan  of  attack,  as  far  as  a  man  dare  venture  to 
guess  at  the  very  uncertain  position  the  enemy  may  be  found 
in  :  but  it  is  to  place  you  perfectly  at  ease  respecting  my  in- 
tentions, and  to  give  full  scope  to  your  judgment  in  carrying 
them  into  effect.  We  can,  my  dear  Coll,  have  no  little 
jealousies.  We  have  only  one  great  object  in  view,  that  of 
annihilating  our  enemies,  and  getting  a  glorious  peace  for 
our  country.  No  man  has  more  confidence  in  another 
than  I  have  in  you;  and  no  man  will  render  your  services 
more  justice  than  your  very  old  friend.  Nelson  and  Bronte." 
The  order  of  sailing  was  to  be  the  order  of  battle  :  the  fleet 
in  two  lines,  with  an  advanced  squadron  of  eight  of  the 
fastest-sailing  two-deckers.  The  second  in  command, 
having  the  entire  direction  of  his  line,  was  to  breakthrough 
the  enemy,  about  the  twelfth  ship  from  the  rear :  he  would 
lead  through  the  centre,  and  the  advanced  squadron  was  to 
cut  off  three  or  four  a-head  of  the  centre.  This  plan  was  to 
be  adapted  to  the  strength  of  the  enemy,  so  that  they  should 
always  be  one-fourth  superior  to  those  whom  they  cut  off. 
Nelson  said,  "That  his  admirals  and  captains,  knowing  his 
precise  object  to  be  that  of  a  close  and  decisive  action,  would 
supply  any  deficiency  of  signals,  and  act  accordingly.  In 
case  signals  cannot  be  seen  or  clearly  understood,  no  cap- 
tain can  do  wrong  if  he  places  his  ship  alongside  that  of 
an  enemy."     One  of  the  last  orders  of  this  admirable  man 


was,  that  the  name  and  family  of  every  oflicer,  seaman,  and 
marine,  who  might  be  killed  or  wounded  in  the  action, 
should  be,  as  soon  as  possible,  returned  to  him,  in  order  to 
be  transmitted  to  the  chairman  of  the  patriotic  fund,  that  the 
case  might  be  taken  into  consideration,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  sufferer  or  his  family. 

On  the  21st,  at  day-break,  the  combined  fleets  were  dis- 
tinctly seen  from  the  Victory's  deck,  formed  in  a  close  line 
of  battle  a-head,  on  the  starboard-tack,  about  twelve  miles 
too  lee-ward,  and  standing  to  the  south.  Onr  fleet  con- 
sisted of  twenty-seven  sail  of  the  line  and  four  frigates;  theirs 
of  thirty-three  and  seven  large  frigates.  Their  superiority 
was  greater  in  size  and  weight  of  metal  than  in  numbers. 
They  had  four  thousand  troops  on  board ;  and  the  best  rifle- 
men who  could  be  procured,  many  of  them  Tyrolese,  were 
dispersed  through  the  ships.  liittle  did  the  Tyrolese,  and 
little  did  the  Spaniards,  at  that  day  imagine  what  horrors 
the  wicked  tyrant  whom  they  served  was  preparing  for 
their  country. 

Soon  after  daylight  Nelson  came  on  deck.  The  21st  of 
October  was  a  festival  in  his  family,  because  on  that  day 
his  uncle.  Captain  Suckling,  in  the  Dreadnought,  with  two 
other  line-of-battle  ships,  had  beaten  off  a  French  squadron 
of  four  sail  of  the  line  and  three  frigates.  Nelson,  with 
that  sort  of  superstition  from  which  few  persons  are  entirely 
exempt,  had  more  than  once  expressed  his  persuasion  that 
this  was  to  be  the  day  of  his  battle  also ;  and  he  was  well 
pleased  at  seeing  his  prediction  about  to  be  verified.  The 
wind  was  nowfrom  the  west,  light  breezes,  with  a  long  heavy 
swell.  Signal  was  made  to  bear  down  upon  the  enemy  in 
two  lines,  and  the  fleet  set  all  sail.  Collingwood,  in  the 
Royal  Sovereign,  led  the  lee-line  of  thirteen  ships,  the 
Victory  led  the  weather-line  of  fourteen.  Having  seen 
that  all  was  as  it  should  be.  Nelson  retired  into  his  cabin, 
and  wrote  the  following  prayer:  — 

"May  the  great  God,  whom  I  worship,  grant  to  my  coun- 
try, and  for  the  benefit  of  Europe  in  general,  a  great  and 
glorious  victory,  and  may  no  misconduct  in  any  one  tarnish 
it;  and  may  humanity  after  victory  be  the  predominant 
feature  in  the  British  fleet !  For  myself  individually,  I 
commit  my  life  to  Him  that  made  me  ;  and  may  his  bless- 
ing alight  on  my  endeavours  for  serving  my  country  faith- 
fully! To  Him  I  resign  myself,  and  the  just  cause  which 
is  entrusted  to  me  to  defend.     Amen,  Amen,  Amen." 

Blackwood  went  on  board  the  Victory  about  six.  He 
found  him  in  good  spirits,  but  very  calm ;  not  in  that  exhil- 
aration whichhe  had  felt  upon  enteriningto  tattle  atAboukir 
and  Copenhagen:  he  knew  that  his  own  life  would  be 
particularly  aimed  at,  and  seems  to  have  looked  for  death 
with  almost  as  sure  an  expectation  as  for  victory.  His 
whole  attention  was  fixed  upon  the  enemy.  They  tacked 
to  the  northward,  and  formed  their  line  on  the  larboard-tack; 
thus  bringing  the  shoals  of  Trafalgar  and  St.  Pedro  under 
the  lee  of  the  British,  and  keeping  the  port  of  Cadiz  open 


101 


for  themselves  This  was  judiciously  done  ;  and  Nelson, 
aware  of  all  the  advantages  which  it  gave  them,  made  signal 
to  prepare  to  anchor. 

Villeneuve  was  a  skilful  seaman,  worthy  of  serving  a  bet- 
ter master  and  a  better  cause.  His  plan  of  defence  was  as 
well  conceived  and  as  original  as  the  plan  of  attack.  He 
formed  the  fleet  in  a  double  line,  every  alternate  shipbeing 
about  a  cable's  length  to  windward  of  her  second  a-head 
and  astern.  Nelson,  certain  of  a  triumphant  issue  to  the 
day,  asked  Blackwood  what  he  should  consider  as  a  vic- 
tory ?  That  officer  answered,  that,  considering  the  hand- 
some way  in  which  battle  was  offered  by  the  enemy,  their 
apparent  determination  for  a  fair  trial  of  strength,  and  the 
situation  of  the  land,  he  thought  it  would  be  a  glorious 
result  if  fourteen  were  captured.  He  replied,  "I  shall  not 
be  satisfied  with  less  than  twenty."  Soon  afterwards  he 
asked  him,  if  he  did  not  think  there  was  a  signal  wanting  ? 
Captain  Blackwood  made  answer,  that  he  thought  the 
whole  fleet  seemed  very  clearly  to  understand  what  they 
were  about.  These  words  were  scarcely  spoken  before  that 
signal  was  made,  which  will  be  remembered  as  long  as  the 
language,  or  even  the  memory  of  England,  shall  endure : 
—Nelson's  last  signal—"  ENGLAND  EXPECTS 
EVERY  MAN  TO  DO  HIS  DUTY!"  It  was  received 
throughout  the  fleet  with  a  shout  of  answering  acclamation, 
made  sublime  by  the  spirit  which  it  breathed  and  the  feel- 
ing which  it  expressed.  "Now,"  said  Lord  Nelson,  "I 
can  do  no  more.  We  may  trust  to  the  great  Disposer  of 
all  events,  and  the  justice  of  our  cause.  I  thank  God  for 
this  great  opportunity  of  doing  my  duty." 

He  wore  that  day,  as  usual,  his  admiral's  frockcoat, 
bearing  on  the  left  breast  four  stars,  of  the  different  orders 
with  which  he  was  invested.  Ornaments  which  rendered 
him  so  conspicuous  a  mark  for  the  enemy  were  beheld  with 
ominous  apprehension  by  his  officers.  It  was  known  that 
there  were  rifle-men  on  board  the  French  ships,  and  it 
could  not  be  doubted  but  that  his  life  would  be  particularly 
aimed  at.  They  communicated  their  fears  to  each  other; 
and  the  surgeon,  Mr.  Beatty,  spoke  to  the  chaplain.  Dr. 
Scott,  and  to  Mr.  Scott,  the  public  secretary,  desiring  that 
some  person  would  entreat  him  to  change  his  dress,  or 
cover  the  stars  ;  but  they  knew  that  such  a  request  would 
highly  displease  him.  "  In  honour  I  gained  them,"  he  had 
said,  when  such  a  thing  had  been  hinted  to  him  formerly, 
"  and  in  honour  1  will  die  with  them."  A  long  swell  was 
netting  into  the  Bay  of  Cadiz;  our  ships  crowding  all  sail, 
moved  majestically  before  it,  with  light  winds  from  the 
south-west.  The  sun  shone  on  the  sails  of  the  enemy:  and 
their  well-formed  line,  with  their  numerous  three-deckers, 
made  an  appearance  which  any  other  assailants  would  have 
thought  formidable ; — but  the  British  sailors  only  admired 
the  beauty  and  splendour  of  the  spectacle;  and,  in  full 
confidence  of  winning  what  they  saw,  remarked  to  each 


other,  "what  a  fine  sight  yonder  ships  would   make  at 
Spithead!" 

The  French  admiral,  from  the  Bucentaure,  beheld  the 
new  manner  in  which  his  enemy  was  advancing — Nelson 
and  CoUingwood  each  leading  his  line;  and  pointing  them 
out  to  his  officers,  he  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  that  such 
conduct  could  not  fail  to  be  successful.  Yet  Villeneuve 
had  made  his  own  dispositions  with  the  utmost  skill,  and 
the  fleets  under  his  command  waited  for  the  attack  with 
peifect  coolness. 

Nelson's  column  was  steered  about  two  points  more  to 
the  north  than  Colliagwood's,  in  order  to  cut  off  the 
enemy's  escape  into  Cadiz;  the  lee-line,  therefore,  was 
first  engaged.  "  See,"  cried  Nelson,  pointing  to  the  Royal 
Sovereign,  as  she  steered  right  for  the  centre  of  the  enemy's 
line,  cut  through  it  astern  of  the  Santa  Anna,  three-deck- 
er, and  engaged  her  at  the  muzzle  of  her  guns  on  the  star- 
board side;  "see  how  that  noble  fellow  CoUingwood 
carries  his  ship  into  action  !"  CoUingwood,  delighted 
at  being  first  in  the  heat  of  the  fire,  and  knowing  the  feel- 
ings of  his  commander  and  old  friend,  turned  to  his  captain 
and  exclaimed,  "Rotherham,  what  would  Nelson  give  to 
be  here!" 

The  enemy  continued  to  fire  a  gun  at  a  time  at  the 
Victory,  till  they  saw  that  a  shot  had  passed  through  her 
main-top-gallant  sail ;  then  they  opened  their  broadsides, 
aiming  chiefly  at  her  rigging,  in  the  hope  of  disabling  her 
before  she  could  close  with  them.  Nelson,  as  usual,  had 
hoisted  several  flags,  lest  one  should  be  shot  away.  The 
enemy  showed  no  colours  till  late  in  the  action,  when  they 
began  to  feel  the  necessity  of  having  them  to  strike.  For 
this  reason,  the  Santissima  Trinidad,  Nelson's  old  ac- 
quaintance, as  he  used  to  caliber,  was  distinguishable  only 
by  her  four  decks;  and  to  the  bow  of  this  opponent  he 
ordered  the  Victory  to  be  steered.  Meantime  an  inces- 
sant raking  fire  was  kept  up  upon  the  Victory.  The 
admiral's  secretary  was  one  of  the  first  who  fell;  he  was 
killed  by  a  cannon-shot  while  conversing  with  Hardy. 
Captain  Adair  of  the  marines,  with  the  help  of  a  sailor, 
endeavoured  to  move  the  body  from  Nelson's  sight,  who 
had  a  great  regard  for  Mr.  Scott;  but  he  anxiously  asked 
— "  Is  that  poor  Scott  that's  gone  ?"  and  being  informed 
that  it  was  indeed  so,  exclaimed,  "  Poor  fellow  !"  Pre- 
sently a  double-headed  shot  struck  a  party  of  marines,  who 
were  drawn  up  on  the  poop,  and  killed  eight  of  them ; 
upon  which  Nelson  immediately  desired  Captain  Adair 
to  disperse  his  men  round  the  ship,  that  they  might  not 
suffer  so  much  from  being  together.  A  few  minutes 
afterwards  a  shot  struck  tha  fore-brace-bits  on  the  quarter- 
deck, and  passed  between  Nelson  and  Hardy,  a  splinter 
from  the  bit  tearing  off  Hardy's  buckle  and  bruising  his 
foot.  Both  stopped,  and  looked  anxiously  at  each  other, 
each  supposing  the  other  to  be  wounded.    Nelson  then 


102 


smiled,  and  said,  "  This  is  too  warm  work,  Hardy,  to  last 
long." 

The  Victory  had  not  yet  returned  a  single  gun ;  fifty  of 
her  men  had  been  by  this  time  killed  oi  wounded,  and  her 
main-top-mast,  with  all  her  studding-sails  and  their  booms, 
shot  away.  Nelson  declared,  that,  in  all  his  battles,  he  had 
seen  nothing  which  surpassed  the  cool  courage  of  his  crew 
on  this  occasion.  At  four  minutes  after  twelve  she  opened 
her  fire  from  both  sides  of  her  deck.  It  was  impossible  to 
Ireak  the  enemy's  line  without  running  on  board  one  of 
their  ships:  Hardy  informed  him  of  this,  and  asked  him 
which  he  would  prefer.  Nelson  replied,  "  Take  your 
choice,  Hardy,  it  does  not  signify  much."  The  master  was 
ordered  to  put  the  helm  to  port,  and  the  Victory  ran  on 
board  the  Redoubtable,  just  as  her  tiller  ropes  were  shot 
away.  The  French  ship  received  her  with  a  broadside ; 
then  instantly  let  down  her  lower-deck  ports,  for  fear  of 
being  boarded  through  them,  and  never  afterwards  fired  a 
great  gun  during  the  action.  Her  tops,  like  those  of  all  the 
enemy's  ships,  were  filled  with  ritiemen.  Nelson  never 
placed  musketry  in  his  tops;  he  had  a  strong  dislike  to  the 
practice,  not  merely  because  it  endangers  setting  fire  to  the 
sails,  but  .also  because  it  is  a  murderous  sort  of  warfare,  by 
which  individuals  may  sufi'er,  and  a  commander  now  and 
then  be  picked  off,  though  it  never  can  decide  the  fate  of  a 
general  engagement. 

Captain  Harvey,  in  the  Temeraire,  fell  on  board  the 
Redoubtable  on  the  other  side.  Another  enemy  was  in  like 
manner  on  board  the  Temeraire :  so  that  these  four  ships 
formed  as  compact  a  tier  as  if  they  had  been  moored  toge- 
ther, their  heads  lying  all  the  same  way.  The  lieutenants  of 
the  Victory  seeing  this,  depressed  their  guns  of  the  middle 
and  lower  decks,  and  fired  with  a  diminished  charge,  lest  the 
shot  should  pass  through  and  injure  the  Temeraire.  And 
because  their  was  danger  that  the  Redoubtable  might  take 
fire  from  the  lower-deck  guns,  the  muzzle  of  which  touched 
her  side  when  they  were  run  out,  the  fire-man  of  each  gun 
stood  ready  with  a  bucket  of  water,  which,  as  soon  as  the 
gun  was  discharged,  he  dashed  into  the  hole  made  by  the 
shot.  An  incessant  fire  was  kept  up  from  the  Victory,  from 
both  sides ;  her  larboard  guns  playing  upon  the  Bucentaure 
and  the  huge  Santissima  Trinidad. 

It  had  been  part  of  Nelson's  prayer,  that  the  British 
fleet  might  be  distinguished  by  humanity  in  the  victory 
which  he  expected.  Setting  an  example  himself,  he  twice 
gave  orders  to  cease  firing  upon  the  Redoubtable,  supposing 
that  she  had  struck,  because  her  great  guns  were  silent;  for 
as  she  carried  no  flag,  there  was  no  means  of  instantly  as- 
certaining the  fact.  From  this  ship,  whichhe  had  thus  twice 
spared,  he  received  his  death.  A  ball  fired  from  her  mizen- 
top,  which,  in  the  then  situation  of  the  two  vessels,  was  not 
more  than  fifteen  yards  from  that  part  of  the  deck  where  he 
was  standing,  struck  the  epaulette  on  his  left  shoulder, 
about  a  quarter  after  one,  just  iu  the  heatof  the  action.     He 


fell  upon  his  face  on  the  spot  which  was  covered  with  his 
poor  secretary's  blood.  Hardy,  who  was  a  few  steps  from 
him,  turning  round,  saw  three  men  raising  him  up — "  They 
have  done  for  me  at  last,  Hardy!"  said  he. — "I  hope  not!" 
cried  Hardy. — "Yes!"  he  replied;  "my  back-bone  is  shot 
through."  Yet  even  now,  not  for  a  moment  losing  his 
pre»ence  of  mind,  he  observed,  as  they  were  carrying  him 
down  the  ladder,  that  the  tiller-ropes,  which  had  been  shot 
away,  were  not  yet  replaced,  and  ordered  that  new  ones 
should  be  rove  immediately: — then,  that  he  might  not  be 
seen  by  the  crew,  he  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  covered 
his  face  and  his  stars. — Had  he  but  concealed  these  badges 
of  honour  from  the  enemy,  England  perhaps  would  not 
have  had  cause  to  receive  with  sorrow  the  news  of  the  battle 
of  Trafalgar.  The^  cockpit  was  crowded  with  wounded  and 
dying  men;  over  whose  bodies  he  was  with  some  difficulty 
conveyed,  and  laid  upon  a  pallet  in  the  midshipman's  berth. 
It  was  soon  perceived,  upon  examination,  that  the  wound 
was  mortal.  This,  however,  was  concealed  from  all. except 
Captain  Hardy,  the  chaplain,  and  the  medical  attendants. 
He  himself  being  certain,  from  the  sensation  in  his  back, 
and  the  gush  of  blood  he  felt  momently  within  his  breast, 
that  no  human  care  could  avail  him,  insisted  that  the 
surgeon  should  leave  him,  and  attend  to  those  to  whom  he 
might  be  useful :  "  For,"  said  he,  "  you  can  do  nothing  for 
me."— All  that  could  be  done  was  to  fan  him  with  paper, 
and  frequently  to  give  him  lemonade,  to  alleviate  his 
intense  thirst.  He  was  in  great  pain,  and  expressed  much 
anxiety  for  the  event  of  the  action,  which  now  began  to 
declare  itself.  As  often  as  a  ship  struck,  the  crew  of  the 
Victory  hurraed ;  and  at  every  hurra,  a  visible  expression 
of  joy  gleamed  in  the  eye  and  marked  the  countenance  of 
the  dying  hero.  But  he  became  impatient  to  see  Captain 
Hardy ;  and  as  that  oflScer,  though  often  sent  for,  could  not 
leave  the  deck.  Nelson  feared  that  some  fatal  cause  prevent- 
ed him,  and  repeatedly  cried,  "Will  no  one  bring  Hardy 
to  me?  He  must  be  killed!  He  is  surely  dead!" — An 
hour  and  ten  minutes  elasped  from  the  time  when  Nelson 
received  his  wound  before  Hardy  could  come  to  him.  They 
shook  hands  in  silence:  Hardy  in  vain  struggled  to  suppress 
the  feelings  of  that  most  painful  and  yet  sublimest  moment. 
"  Well,  Hardy,"  said  Nelson,  "  how  goes  the  day  with  us  ?" 
"  Very  well,"  replied  Hardy;  "ten  ships  have  struck,  but 
five  of  the  van  have  tacked,  and  show  an  intention  to  bear 
down  upon  the  Victory.  I  have  called  two  or  three  of  our 
fresh  ships  round,  and  have  no  boubt  of  giving  them  a 
drubbing."  "  I  hope,"  said  Nelson,  "  none  of  our  ships 
have  struck?"  Hardy  answered,  "There  is  no  fear  of 
that."     Then,  and  not  till  then,  Nelson  spoke  of  himself 

"  I  am  a  dead  man,  Hardy,"  said  he;  "I  am  going  fast: 

it  will  be  all  over  with  me  soon.  Come  nearer  to  me.  Let 
my  dear  Lady  Hamilton  have  my  hair  and  all  other  things 
belonging  to  me."  Hardy  observed,  that  he  hoped  Mr. 
Beatty  could  yet  holdout  some  prospect  of  life.    "  Oh  no!" 


103 


he  replied;  "  it  is  impossible:  my  back  is  shot  through; 
Beatty  will  tell  you  so."  Captain  Hardy  then  once  more 
shook  hands  with  him;  and,  with  a  heart  almost  bursting, 
hastened  upon  deck. 

By  this  time  all  feeling  below  the  breast  was  gone ;  and 
Nelson,  having  made  the  surgeon  ascertain  this,  said  to 
him,  "  You  know  I  am  gone.  I  know  it.  I  feel 
something  rising  in  my  breast" — putting  his  hand  on  his 
left  side — "  which  tells  me  so."  And  upon  Beatty's 
inquiring  whether  his  pain  was  very  great  ?  he  replied, 
"  So  great  that  he  wished  he  was  dead.  Yet,"  said  he  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  one  would  like  to  live  a  little  longer  too  !" 
And  after  a  few  minutes,  in  the  same  under  tone,  he  added, 
"  What  would  become  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton  if  she 
knew  my  situation?" — Next  to  his  country  she  occupied 
his  thoughts.  Captain  Hardy,  some  fifty  minutes  after  he 
left  the  cockpit,  returned  ;  and,  again  taking  the  hand  of 
his  dying  friend  and  commander,  congratulated  him  on 
having  gained  a  complete  victory.  How  many  of  the 
enemy  were  taken,  he  did  not  know,  as  it  was  impossible 
to  perceive  them  distinctly;  but  fourteen  or  fifteen  at 
least,  "  That's  well,"  cried  Nelson,  "  but  I  bargained  for 
twenty."  And  then,  in  a  stronger  voice,  he  said,  "  Anchor, 
Hardy — anchor."  Hardy,  upon  this,  hinted  that  Admiral 
CoUingwood  would  take  upon  himself  the  direction  of 
affairs.  "  Not  while  I  live.  Hardy,"  said  the  dying 
Nelson,  ineffectually  endeavouring  to  raise  himself  from 
the  bed :  do  you  anchor."  His  previous  order  for 
preparing  to  anchor  had  shown  how  clearly  he  foresaw 
the  necessity  of  this.  Presently  calling  Hardy  back,  he 
said  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  "  Don't  throw  me  overboard ;" 
and  he  desired  that  he  might  be  buried  by  his  parents, 
unless  it  should  please  the  king  to  order  otherwise.  Then 
reverting  to  private  feelings ;  "  Take  care  of  my  dear 
Lady  Hamilton,  Hardy ; — take  care  of  poor  Lady 
Hamilton. — Kiss  me.  Hardy,"  said  he.  Hardy  knelt 
down  and  kissed  his  cheek ;  and  Nelson  said,  "Now  I  am 
satisfied.  Thank  God,  I  have  done  my  duty."  Hardy 
stood  over  him  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  knelt 
again,  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "Who  is  that?"  said 
Nelson  :  and  being  informed,  he  replied,  "  God  bless  you. 
Hardy. '     And  Hardy  then  left  him — for  ever. 

Nelson  now  desired  to  be  turned  upon  his  right  side, 
and  said,  "  I  wish  I  had  not  left  the  deck;  for  I  shall  soon 
be  gone."  Death  was  indeed  rapidly  approaching.  He 
said  to  the  chaplain,  "Doctor,  I  have  not  been  a  yreat 
sinner ;"  and  after  a  short  pause,  "  Remember  that  I 
leave  Lady  Hamilton  and  my  daughter  Horatiaas  a  legacy 
to  my  country."  His  articulation  now  became  difficult; 
but  he  was  distinctly  heard  to  say,  "  Thank  God,  I  have 
done  my  duty  !"  These  words  he  repeatedly  pronounced, 
and  they  were  the  last  words  which  he  uttered.  He 
expired  at  thirty  minutes  after  four — three  hours  and  a 
quarter  after  he  had  received  his  wound. 


Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Nelson  was  wounded, 
above  fifty  of  the  Victory's  men  fell  by  the  enemies' 
musketry.  They,  however,  on  their  part,  were  not  idle; 
and  it  was  not  long  before  there  were  only  two  Frenchmen 
left  alive  on  the  mizen-top  of  the  Redoubtable. — One  of 
them  was  the  man  who  had  given  the  fatal  wound :  he  did 
not  live  to  boast  of  what  he  had  done.  An  old  quarter- 
master had  seen  him  fire,  and  easily  recognized  him, 
because  he  wore  a  glazed  cocked  hat  and  a  white  frock. 
This  quarter-master  and  two  midshipmen,  Mr.  CoUingwood 
and  Mr.  Pollard,  were  the  only  persons  left  in  the 
Victory's  poop ; — the  two  midshipmen  kept  firing  at  the 
top,  and  he  supplied  them  with  cartridges.  One  of  the 
Frenchmen,  attempting  to  make  his  escape  down  the 
rigging,  was  shot  by  Mr.  Pollard,  and  fell  on  the  poop. 
But  the  old  quarter-master,  as  he  cried  out,  "  That's  he — 
.nat's  he,"  and  pointed  at  the  other,  who  was  coming 
forward  to  fire  again,  received  a  shot  in  his  mouth,  and  fell 
dead.  Both  the  midshipmen  then  fired  at  the  same  time, 
and  the  fellow  dropped  in  the  top.  When  they  took 
possession  of  the  prize,  they  went  into  the  mizen  top,  and 
found  him  dead,  with  one  ball  through  his  head  and 
another  through  his  breast. 

The  Redoubtable  struck  within  twenty  minutes  after  the 
fatal  shot  had  been  fired  from  her.  During  that  time  she 
had  been  twice  on  fire — in  her  forechains  and  in  her 
forecastle.  The  French,  as  they  bad  done  in  other 
battles,  made  use,  in  this,  of  fire-balls  and  other  combusti- 
bles — implements  of  destruction,  which  other  nations, 
from  a  sense  of  honour  and  humanity,  have  laid  aside; 
which  add  to  the  sufferings  of  the  wounded,  without 
determining  the  issue  of  the  combat ;  which  none  but  the 
cruel  would  employ,  and  which  never  can  be  successful 
against  the  brave.  Once  they  succeeded  in  setting  fire, 
from  the  Redoubtable,  to  some  ropes  and  canvass  on  the 
Victory's  booms.  The  cry  ran  through  the  ship,  and 
reached  the  cockpit ;  but  even  this  dreadful  cry  produced 
no  confusion  :  the  men  displayed  that  perfect  self-possessi- 
on in  danger  by  which  English  seamen  are  characterized: 
they  extinguished  the  flames  on  board  their  own  ship, 
and  then  hastened  to  extinguish  them  in  the  enemy,  by 
throwing  buckets  of  water  from  the  gangway. 

The  Spaniards  began  the  battle  with  less  vivacity  than 
their  unworthy  allies,  but  they  continued  it  with  greater 
firmness.  The  Argonauta  and  Bahama  were  defended 
till  they  had  each  lost  about  four  hundred  men:  the  St. 
Juan  Nepomuceno  lost  three  hundred  and  fifty.  Often  as 
the  superiority  of  British  courage  has  been  proved  against 
France  upon  the  seas,  it  was  never  more  conspicuous  than 
in  this  discisive  conflict.  Five  of  our  ships  were  engaged 
muzzle  to  muzzle,  with  five  of  the  French.  In  all  five  the 
Frenchmen  lowered  their  lower-deck  ports,  and  deserted 
their  guns ;  while  our  men  continued  deliberately  to  load 
and  fire,  till  they  had  made  the  victory  securs 


lOi 


Once,  amidst  his  sufferings,  Nelson  liad  expressed  a  wish 
that  he  were  dead ;  but  immediately  the  spirit  subdued  the 
pains  of  death,  and  he  wished  to  live  a  little  longer — doubt- 
less that  he  might  hear  the  completion  of  the  victory  which 
he  had  seen  so  gloriously  begun.  This  desire  was  granted, 
and  the  last  guns  which  were  fired  at  the  flying  enemy  were 
heard  a  minute  or  two  before  he  expired.  The  ships  which 
were  thus  flying  were  four  of  the  enemy's  van,  all  French 
under  Rear-Admiral  Dumanoir.  They  had  borne  no  part 
in  the  action;  and  now,  when  they  were  seeking  safety  in 
flight,  they  fired  not  only  into  the  Victory  and  Koyal 
Sovereign  as  they  passed,  but  poured  their  broadsides  into 
the  Spanish  captured  ships ;  and  they  were  seen  to  back 
their  top-sails  for  the  purpose  of  firing  with  more  pre- 
cision. The  indignation  of  the  Spaniards  at  this  detestable 
cruelty  from  their  allies,  for  whom  they  had  fought  so 
bravely,  and  so  profusely  bled,  may  well  be  conceived. 
It  was  such,  that  when,  two  days  after  the  action,  seven  of 
the  ships  which  had  escaped  into  Cadiz  came  out,  in  hopes 
of  retaking  some  of  the  disabled  prizes,  the  prisoners  in  the 
Argonauta,  in  a  body,  offered  their  services  to  the  British 
prize-master,  to  man  the  guns  against  any  of  the  French 
ships,  saying,  that  if  a  Spanish  ship  came  alongside,  they 
would  quietly  go  below ;  but  they  requested  that  they 
might  be  allowed  to  fight  the  French,  in  resentment  for 
the  murderous  usage  which  they  had  suffered  at  their 
hands.  Such  was  their  earnestness,  and  such  the  im- 
plicit confidence  which  could  be  placed  in  Spanish  honour, 
that  the  offer  was  accepted,  and  they  were  actually  stationed 
at  the  lower  deck-guns.  Dumanoir  and  his  squadron  were 
not  more  fortunate  than  the  fleet  from  whose  destruction 
they  fled:  they  fell  in  with  Sir  Richard  Strachan,  who  was 
cruising  for  the  Rochefort  squadron,  and  were  all  taken. 

The  total  British  kss  in  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  amounted 
to  1587.  Twenty  of  the  enemy  struck; — unhappily  the 
fleet  did  not  anchor,  as  Nelson,  almost  with  his  dying 
breath,  had  enjoined;  a  gale  came  on  from  the  south-west; 
some  of  the  prizes  went  down,  some  went  on  shore ;  one 
effected  its  escape  into  Cadiz ;  others  were  destroyed ;  four 
only  were  saved,  and  those  by  the  greatest  exertions.  The 
wounded  Spaniards  were  sent  ashore,  an  assurance  being 
given  that  they  should  not  serve  till  regularly  exchanged ; 
and  the  Spaniards,  with  a  generous  feeling,  which  would 
not,  perhaps,  have  been  found  in  any  other  people,  offered 
the  use  of  their  hospitals  for  our  wounded,  pledging  the  ho- 
nour of  Spain  that  they  should  be  carefully  attended  there.. 
When  the  storm,  afteh  the  action,  drove  some  of  the  prizes 
upon  the  coast,  they  declared  that  the  English,  who  were 
thus  thrown  into  taair  itWiis,  should  not  be  considered  as 
prisoners  of  war;  and  the  Spanish  soldiers  gave  up  their 
own  beds  to  their  shipwrecked  enemies.  The  Spanish 
vice-admiral,  Alva,  died  of  his  wounds.  Villeneuve  was 
sent  to  England,  and  permitted  to  return  to  France.  The 
French  government  say  that  he  destroyed  himself  on  the 


way  to  Paris,  dreading  the  consequences  of  a  court-martial. 
— It  is  almost  superfluous  to  add,  that  all  the  honours  which 
a  grateful  country  could  bestow  were  heaped  upon  the 
memory  of  Nelson.  His  brother  was  made  an  earl,  with  a 
grant  of  £6000  a-year  ;— £10,000  were  voted  to  each  of  his 
sisters,  and  £100,000  for  the  purchase  of  an  estate.  A 
public  funeral  was  decreed,  and  a  public  monument.  Sta- 
tues and  monuments  also  were  voted  by  most  of  our  princi- 
pal cities.  The  leaden  cofiin  in  which  he  was  brought 
home  was  cut  in  pieces,  which  were  distributed  as  relics 
of  Saint  Nelson — so  the  gunner  of  the  Victory  called  them ; 
and  when,  at  his  interment,  his  flag  was  about  to  be 
lowered  into  the  grave,  the  sailors  who  assisted  at  the  cere- 
mony, with  one  accord  rent  it  in  pieces,  that  each  might 
preserve  a  fragment  while  they  lived. 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as  something 
more  than  a  public  calamity:  men  started  at  the  intelligence, 
and  turned  pale,  as  if  they  had  heard  the  loss  of  a  dear 
friend.  An  object  of  our  admiration  and  affection,  of  our 
pride  and  of  our  hopes,  was  suddenly  taken  from  us  ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  we  had  never  till  then  known  how  deeply  we 
^oved  and  reverenced  him.  What  the  country  had  lost  in 
its  great  naval  hero — the  greatest  of  our  own,  and  of  all 
former  times,  was  scarcely  taken  into  the  account  of  grief. 
So  perfectly,  indeed,  had  he  performed  his  part,  that  the 
maritime  war,  after  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  was  considered  at 
an  end:  the  fleets  of  the  enemy  were  not  merely  defeated,  but 
destroyed  ;  new  navies  must  be  built,  and  a  new  race  of  sea- 
men reared  for  them,  before  the  possibility  of  their  invading 
our  shores  could  again  be  contemplated.  It  was  not, 
therefore,  from  any  selfish  reflection  upon  the  magnitude  of 
our  loss  that  we  mourned  for  him :  the  general  sorrow 
was  of  a  higher  character.  The  people  of  England  grieved 
that  funeral  ceremonies,  and  public  monuments,  and  pos- 
thumous rewards,  were  all  which  they  could  now  bestow 
upon  him,  whom  the  king,  the  legislature,  and  the  nation, 
would  have  alike  delighted  to  honour ;  whom  every  tongue 
would  have  blessed  ;  whose  presence  in  every  village  through 
which  he  might  have  passed  would  have  wakened  the 
church-bells,  have  given  school-boys  a  holiday,  have  drawn 
children  from  their  sports  to  gaze  upon  him,  and  "  old  men 
from  the  chimney  corner,"  to  look  upon  Nelson  ere  they 
died.  The  victory  of  Trafalgar  was  celebrated,  indeed, 
with  the  usual  forms  of  rejoicing,  but  they  were  without 
joy ;  for  such  already  was  the  glory  of  the  British  navy, 
through  Nelson's  surpassing  genius,  that  it  scarcely  seem- 
ed to  receive  any  addition  from  the  most  signal  victory 
that  ever  was  achieved  upon  the  seas ;  and  the  destruction 
of  this  mighty  fleet,  by  which  all  the  maritime  schemes  of 
France  were  totally  frustrated,  hardly  appeared  to  add  to 
our  security  or  strength ;  for,  while  Nelson  was  living  to 
watch  the  combined  squadrons  of  the  enemy,  we  felt  our- 
selves as  secure  as  now  when  they  were  no  longer  in 
existence.  Southky. 


IU5 


REBECCA. 

Alonk,  a  captive,  and  a  stranger. 

She  sat  within  the  Christian's  tower, 
The  Jewish  maid,  in  grief  and  danger. 

But  stedfast  in  her  trial  hour. 
In  her  dark  eye  was  not  a  tear, 

Pale  was  her  cheek,  though  little  moved, 
Cold  as  the  marble  that  we  rear 

To  guard  the  relics  of  the  loved. 

•'  There  is  a  pain  upon  my  soul, 

It  speaks  of  grief,  it  speaks  of  death  ; 
My  beating  heart  knows  no  control, 

And  almost  stays  my  labouring  breath. 
My  spirit  can  but  ill  sustain 

The  thoughts  of  this  my  hour  of  wo; 
They  rend  my  heart,  they  fire  my  brain  ; 

I  bid  them,  but  they  will  not  go. 

"  My  father:   I  am  bound  to  thee 

With  more  than  nature's  common  ties ; 
Thy  aid  in  life  I  hop'd  to  be. 

The  light  of  thine  expiring  eyes. 
Though  this  sad  joy  the  oppressor's  power 

Forbids,  yet  love  is  still  the  same : 
And  well  I  know  in  life's  last  hour 

Thy  lips  will  bless  Rebecca's  name. 

"  My  father  !  though  to  thee  and  Heaven 

My  thoughts  are  due,  are  due  alone; 
Yet  be  it,  if  a  sin,  forgiven 

One  other  secret  thought  to  own. 
One  name  with  thine  and  Heaven's  hath  been 

Lov'd,  treasur'd,  pray'd  for,  all  in  vain  ; 
That  name  is  thine,  young  Nazarene  ! 

I  ne'er  will  speak  that  name  again. 

"  To  think  of  thee  as  I  have  thought 

Was  surely  folly,  if  not  guilt; 
Yet  virtue's  self  no  stain  had  caught 

From  feelings  such  as  I  have  felt. 
For  what  am  I  ?  and  what  art  thou  ? 

Of  adverse  faith,  and  adverse  birth  ; 
And  I  resign  thy  memory  now, 

To  have  my  spirit  free  from  earth. 

"  Yes,  I  resign  it !  be  thou  blest : 

Farewell!  but  never  think  of  me  ; 
I  would  not  dwell  within  thy  breast 

A  thing  unlov'd,  contemn'd,  by  thee  1 
For  well  I  know  thy  haughtier  lot 

Despises  Judah's  banner  torn  ; 
And  it  were  bliss  to  be  forgot, 

Ere  be  thy  pity  or  thy  scorn. 


"  My  pain  is  past,  my  struggle  over; 

My  father,  take  thy  child's  last  blessing  ; 
May  heaven  within  my  heart  discover 

No  thought  unworthy  its  possessing 
Now  as  the  bird  of  morning  springs 

To  hail  the  light,  and  upward  soars, 
My  earth-tir'd  spirit  spreads  its  wings 

To  meet  the  heaven  that  it  adores.*' 


MIGRATION   OF  BIRDS. 

When  Autumn  scatters  his  departing  gleams. 
Warned  of  approaching  Winter,  gathered,  play 
The  swallow  people  ;  and  tossed  wide  around. 
O'er  the  calm  sky,  in  convolution  swift 
The  feathered  eddy  floats :  rejoicing  once. 
Ere  to  their  winter  slumbers  they  retire  ; 
In  clusters  clung,  beneath  the  mouldering  bank, 
And  where,  unpierced  by  frost,  the  cavern  sweats, 
Or  rather  into  warmer  climes  conveyed, 
VVith  other  kindred  birds  of  season,  there 
They  twitter  cheerful,  till  the  vernal  months 
Invite  them  welcome  back  :  for  thronging,  now 
Innumerous  wings  are  in  commotion  all. 

Where  the  Rhine  loses  his  majestic  force 
In  Belgian  plains,  won  from  the  raging  deep 
By  diligence  amazing,  and  the  strong 
Unconquerable  hand  of  liberty. 
The  stork  assembly  meets  :  for  many  a  day, 
Consulting  deep,  and  various,  ere  they  take 
Their  arduous  voyage  through  the  liquid  sky. 
And  now,  their  route  designed,  their  leader  chosen, 
Tbeir  tribes  adjusted,  cleaned  their  vigorous  wings. 
And  many  a  circle,  many  a  short  essay, 
Wheeled  round  and  round,--in  congregation  full 
The  figured  flight  ascends  ;   and,  riding  high 
The  aerial  billows,  mixes  with  the  clouds. 

Or  where  the  Northern  Ocean,  in  vast  whirls, 
Boils  round  the  naked,  melancholy  isles 
Of  farthest  Thule,  and  the  Atlantic  surge 
Pours  in  among  the  stormy  Hebrides  ; 
Who  can  recount  what  transmigrations  there 
Are  annual  made  ? — what  nations  come  and  go  ? 
And  how  the  living  clouds  on  clouds  arise  ? 
Infinite  wings  !  till  all  the  plume-dark  air 
And  rude  resounding  shore  are  one  wild  cry. 
Here  the  plain  harmless  native  his  small  flock, 
And  herd  diminutive,  of  many  hues. 
Tends  on  the  little  island's  verdant  swell, 
The  shepherd's  sea-girt  reign  ;  or,  to  the  rocks 
Dire  clinging,  gathers  his  ovarious  food  ; 
Or  sweeps  the  fishy  shore;  or  treasured  up 
The  plumage,  rising  full,  to  form  the  bed 
Of  luxury.  Thompson. 


KW 


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/P 


LA  ROSIERE: 

OR    THE    TRIUMPH    OF    GOODNESS. 


"  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild  ; 

And  innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 

To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes." 

Wordsworth. 


In  France  there  is  an  old  and  very  graceful  custom, 
called  the  fete  of  la  Rosiere.  On  this  occasion  those  in 
authority  publicly  present  a  garland  of  roses  to  the  best 
and  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  village.  This  custom  had 
its  origin  deep  in  national  feeling  and  true  morality;  but, 
alas  !  wheresoever  human  passions  can  creep  in,  they  leave 
their  smile  upon  the  roses  of  life — the  fete  of  la  Rosiere, 
like  other  triumphs,  too  often  becomes  an  affair  of  jealous 
rivalry  and  petty  intrigue. 

Angelique  Duroy  was  one  of  the  prettiest  of  her  be- 
witching countrywomen.  Her  clear,  dark  eye  was  neither 
flashing  nor  languid — it  had  a  quiet,  deep  expression, 
brilliant  yet  thoughtful;  her  complexion  inclined  to  olive; 
but  the  perpetual  colour  that  mantled  there,  gave  her  cheek 
the  tempting  ripeness  of  tropical  fruit ;  while  the  laugh- 
ing dimples  on  either  side  came  and  went,  like  whirlpools 
in  a  sunny  stream.  Every  thing  in  her  look  and  motion 
argued  an  exuberance  of  life  and  happiness.  Her  voice 
had  the  clear,  gushing  melody  of  the  thrush,  her  little 
nimble  graceful  feet  made  one  think  of  a  swallow  just  ready 
to  take  wing;  and  altogether  she  was  so  small,  so  airy,  so 
pretty,  so  gay,  and  so  musical,  that  I  am  sure  if  her  soul 
transmigrate,  it  will  pass  into  a  yellow  bird,  or  a  Java 
sparrow. 

The  young  men  all  admired  Angelique,  because  she 
was  so  lady-like  and  unaffected;  the  old  people  loved  her 
becau-se  she  was  such  a  good  child  to  her  parents,  and 
always  so  kind  and  respectful  to  the  aged — while  the 
children,  when  asked,  were  always  ready  to  say,  "We  love 
Angelique  best,  because  she  is  always  so  good-natured  and 
obliging,  and  she  knows  how  to  make  us  so  many  pretty 
things."  Indeed,  Angelique  was  famous  for  her  ingenuity 
and  industry.  After  examining  any  thing,  she  always 
found  out  how  to  do  it  without  being  taught;  and  what  she 
did,  she  always  did  well.  The  prettiest  dresses  and  bon- 
nets in  the  village  were  made  by  her;  and  her  artificial 
flowers  were  so  natural,  that  I  think  the  very  honey-bees 
would  have  been  deceived  by  them.  Some  told  her  if  she 
went  to  Paris  she  would  make  a  fortune  by  her  ingenuity  ; 
but  Angelique  blushed,  and  said  she  had  rather  live  with 
her  good  mother,  than  grow  rich  among  strangers. 

It  is  strange  this  artless  Jittle  French  girl  should  have 
enemies;  for  she  never  had  an  uncommonly  pretty  cap, 
or  garland,  that  she  was  not  perfectly  willing  to  make  her 


young  companions  one  just  like  it ;  but  great  gifts,  if 
borne  ever  so  meekly,  do  excite  envy — Angelique  had  her 
enemies.  The  daughter  of  the  Maire  of  the  village  was 
eight  or  nine  years  older  than  Angelique;  and  she  never 
from  her  childhood  had  been  either  pretty  or  amiable. 
She  was  very  rich,  very  idle,  very  haughty,  and  very 
jealous.  It  vexed  her  that  her  fairy  neighbour,  unadorned, 
save  by  her  own  tasteful  industry,  should  be  so  much  more 
admired  than  she  was,  with  all  her  jewellery,  and  Pari- 
sian fiuery.  Besides,  she  bad  long  been  in  love  with  the 
son  of  a  wealthy  proprietaire  ;  and  this  young  man,  when 
urged  by  his  father  to  make  suit  to  so  great  an  heiress, 
openly  declared  that  his  affections  were  engaged  to  Ange- 
lique. This  made  the  father  very  angry — he  called  it  a 
boyish  passion.  "Antoinette  is  the  only  child  of  the  Maire, 
and  he  has  immense  wealth  and  high  character ;  will  you 
give  up  such  an  union,  when  father  and  daughter  both 
evidently  wish  for  it,  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  pretty  play- 
thing, a  giddy  little  butterfly,  like  Angelique  Duroy  ?" 
said  he. 

The  young  man  insisted  that  Angelique  was  as  good  as 
she  was  pretty;  and  that  she  was  also  industrious,  modest, 
and  noble-hearted.  "As  a  proof  of  it,"  continued  he, 
"  every  one  in  the  village,  except  Antoinette,  says  the 
Cure  will  crown  her  at  the  fete  of  la  Rosiere." 

The proprietaire  was  a  kind-hearted,  wise,  old  man; 
his  neighbours  called  him  odd,  but  bis  oddity  was  always  of 
a  benevolent  kind.  "Well,  Jacques,"  said  he,  "  if  you 
think  the  girl  has  so  many  good  qualities,  besides  herprettv 
looks,  your  choice  will  meet  with  my  approbation.  I  know 
Angelique  has  resolutely  refused  to  receive  any  attention 
from  you  without  the  knowledge  and  approbation  of  her 
mother  and  myself — this  speaks  well — but  how  do  you 
know  that  the  young  lady  will  smile  upon  your  suit?" 

Jacques  looked  down,  blushed  very  slightly,  hesitated 

then  looked  up  with  an  arch  look,  and  said,  "  If  she  knew 
you  gave  your  approbation,  I,  at  least,  might  try." 

The  old  man  smiled — "  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "I  see  how 
it  is.  The  girl,  though  not  rich,  is  highly  respectable.  I 
will  attend  the  fete  of  la  Rosiere  ;  you  shall  dance  with  the 
crowned  fair  one,  and  if  1  think  she  deserve  this  distinc- 
tion, Angelique  shall  be  to  me  as  a  daughter." 

Jacques  knelt  down,  and  kissed  his  father's  hand  with 
overflowing  gratitude.  He  had  not  expected  to  gain  his 
point  so  easily ;  for  he  knew  his  father  had  very  much  set 
his  heart  upon  joining  his  estates  to  those  of  the  Maire. 
"You  are  the  best  father  in  the  world!"  exclaimed  he. 
"  You  call  me  so  Jacques — the  world  will  say  I  am  an  old 
fool;  but  after  all,  what  do  we  live  for,  if  not  for  hap- 
piness ?" 

Away  went  the  young  man,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy, 
to  impart  the  tidings  to  Angelique;  and  she,  above  all 
petty  coquetry,  heard  it  with  unaffected  delight. 

The  fete  of  la  Rosiere  was  anxiously  awaited.     Every 


JU7 


body  80  often  repeated  that  Angelique  would  certainly  be 
crowned,  for  she  was  la  plus  belle  et  la  plus  bonne,  that 
modest  as  she  was,  she  could  act  help  expecting  it.  The 
important  day  came — aud  who  do  you  think  was  crowned? 
Antoinette,  the  ugly,  idle  daughter  of  the  Maire  !  she  was 
crowned  the  best  and  most  beautiful !  The  Maire  gave  a 
great  ball  that  night.  Augeiique  went;  for  she  was  above 
showing  any  resentment.  She  saw  Jacques  dancing  with 
la  Rosiere — she  saw  that  his  father  observed  her  closely ; 
and  though  she  could  not  be  gay,  she  was  cheerful  and 
dignified.  Antoinette  whispered  to  her  companions,  "  See 
what  bold  airs  she  puts  on  :  I  should  think  she  would  be 
mortified,  when  she  and  eill  her  friends  have  been  boasting 
that  she  would  be  crowned."  The  old  proprietaire  heard 
one  or  two  such  speeches  as  this,  and  he  shook  his  head 
expressively.  He  disappeared  from  the  room  a  short 
time;  while  he  was  gone,  his  sister,  a  maiden  lady,  came 
up  to  Angelique  :  "  My  dear  child,"  said  she,  "  there  is 
something  wrong  about  this  affair — all  the  village  said  you 
would  be  crowned."  "  My  friends  flattered  me,"  said 
Angelique,  modestly;  "  I  knew  they  thought  more  highly 
of  me  than  I  deserved.*'  "  But  think  of  crowning 
Antoinette!"  continued  the  lady — "  Such  an  ugly,  sluttish 
thing  as  she  is  !" 

"  Her  dress  is  very  becoming,"  said  Angelique ;  "  and  I 
think  she  is  the  best  dancer  in  the  room  :"  the  tears  came 
to  her  eyes  as  she  said  this  ;  for  Jacques  was  again  dancing 
with  la  Rosiere,  and  her  garland  of  Provence  roses  was 
very  beautiful. 

Angelique  retired  very  early  that  night— not  without  a 
kind  look  from  Jacques,  and  an  expression  of  benevolent 
approbation  from  the  old  proprietaire  and  his  maiden 
sister.  As  soon  as  she  reached  her  own  little  bed-room, 
she  knelt  down,  and  bursting  into  tears,  prayed  that  all 
envious  and  repining  thoughts  might  be  subdued  within 
her  heart.  The  prayer  proved  to  be  a  strength  and  a 
consolation;  and  she  soon  sunk  to  sleep  as  sweetly  as  an 
infant. 

Jacques  came  the  next  day.  He  was  loud  in  his  com- 
plaints. He  said  the  whole  village  was  indignant  about 
it.  Much  good  might  the  crown  of  roses  do  Miss  An- 
toinette ! — Nobody  thought  she  deserved  it.  He  knew  one 
thing,  the  Maire  had  given  the  Cure  a  splendid  suit  of 
clothes  just  before  the/efe/  and  he  himself  had  seen  An- 
toinette's diamond  ring  on  his  finger.  No  wonder  the 
Cure  gave  the  crown  to  a  rich  man's  daughter,  "  Nay,  I 
do  not  think  the  Cure  could  do  so  wrong  as  to  take  bribes 
from  any  body,"  replied  Angelique;  "and  I  beg  you  will 
not  say  so."  "  All  the  village  think  so,"  replied  Jacques ; 
"and  they  always  will  think  so.  I  danced  with  her, 
because  my  father  said  it  would  give  offence  if  I  did  not,  on 
such  an  occasion  ;  but  I  will  never  dance  with  her  again." 
"  I  am  sure  she  is  one  of  the  best  dancers  I  ever  saw," 
answered  Angelique. 


Anomaly. — It  is  a  remarkable  anomaly,  that  those  who 
possess  the  power  and  disposition  to  make  others  happy,  are 
but  too  frequently  uncomfortable  themselves;  while  those 
who  are  a  perpetual  annoyance  wherever  they  go,  seem  to 
have  a  "  widow's  cruise"  of  comfort  in  their  inordinate  self- 
esteem. 


Nothing  soothed  by  her  gentleness,  Jacques  went  away 
more  indignant  than  ever,  that  so  good  a  girl  should  be 
thus  wronged. 

A  week  or  two  alter,  a  great  ball  was  given  by  the  pro- 
prietaire. He  himself  called  to  invite  Angelique:  and  in 
the  intervening  time,  hardly  a  day  passed  without  his  spend- 
ing an  hour  or  two  at  her  parent's  dwelling.  The  more  he 
saw  of  her,  the  more  he  was  convinced  that  she  was  a  good 
girl,  and  worthy  of  his  son.  When  the  evening  of  the  ball 
arrived,  Angelique  and  her  family  were  received  at  his  large 
mansion  with  distinguished  kindness.  "Before  the  danc- 
ing begins,  I  have  a  whim  to  be  gratified,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted,  but  eccentric  old  man.  There  was  a  universal 
hum  of  assent  among  the  assembly ;  for  the  wealthy  old 
laudlord  was  very  popular  ;  and  a  proposition  of  his  could 
at  any  time  be  carried  by  acclamation  in  the  village.  The 
old  gentleman  smiled,  and  holding  up  a  wreath  of  roses  and 
orange-buds,  he  said,  "There  were  once  two  Popes  in  the 
church;  why  should  there  not  be  two  crowned  ^allosiere  ?" 
As  he  spoke,  he  placed  the  garland  on  the  head  of  An- 
gelique. "  I  crown  her,  because  I  have  proved  that  she 
cannot  be  tempted  to  speak  ill  of  a  rival,"  said  he  ;  "the 
roses  are  my  own  gift — the  orange-buds  came  from  a 
younger  hand."  Angelique  blushed  crimson  :  for  orauge- 
buds  form  the  bridal  wreath  in  France.  She  looked  up 
timidly :  Jacques  was  at  her  side,  the  music,  struck  up 
"  C'est  V  amour,  r  amour,"  aud  the  exulting  lover  led  her 
to  the  dance  amid  the  applauses  of  the  guests. 

Angelique  afterwards  found  that  the  good  maiden  lady 
had  been  instructed  to  try  her  generosity,  and  that  the  father 
of  Jacques  had  been  a  concealed  listener  to  her  replies. 

Antoinette  was  not  invited  to  the  proprietaire' s  ball. 
He  said  he  had  learned  instances  of  her  art  ana  selfishness, 
which  had  destroyed  all  esteem  for  her;  but  that  he  would 
not  openly  insult  her  by  the  triumph  of  one  she  had  always 
tried  to  injure. 

Soon  after,  Angelique  actually  wore  the  white  veil  and 
the  orange-buds,  to  the  village  church,  and  the  Maire  and 
his  daughter  left  a  place  where  they  had  never  been  popu- 
lar, and  now  were  odious.  By  the  influence  of  the  proprie- 
taire, a  new  Cure  was  appointed  before  the  next  fete  of  la 
Rosiere. 


108 


"^  THE  LADY  IN   WHITE. 

When  I  was  a  young  boy,  I  had  delicate  health,  and 
was  somewhat  of  a  pensive  and  contemplative  turn  of  mind : 
it  was  my  delight,  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  to  slip 
away  from  my  noisy  and  more  robust  companions,  that  I 
might  walk  in  the  shade  of  a  venerable  wood,  my  favourite 
haunt,  and  listen  to  the  cawing  of  the  old  rooks,  who  seemed 
as  fond  of  this  retreat  as  I  was. 

One  evening  I  sat  later  than  usual,  though  the  distant 
sound  of  the  cathedral  clock  had  more  than  once  warned 
me  to  my  home.  There  was  a  stillness  in  all  nature  that 
I  was  unwilling  to  disturb  by  the  least  motion.  From  this 
reverie  1  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  tall  slender 
female,  who  was  standing  by  me,  looking  sorrowfully  and 
steadily  in  my  face.  Slie  was  dressed  in  white,  from  head  to 
foot,  in  a  fashion  that  I  had  never  seen  before;  her  garments 
were  unusually  long  and  flowing,  and  rustled  as  she  glided 
through  the  low  shrubs  near  me,  as  if  they  were  made  of 
the  richest  silk.  My  heart  beat  as  if  I  was  dying,  and  I 
knew  not  that  I  could  have  stirred  from  the  spot :  but  she 
seemed  so  very  mild  and  beautiful  I  did  not  attempt  it. 
Her  pale  brown  hair  was  braided  round  her  head,  but  there 
were  some  locks  that  strayed  upon  her  neck ;  and,  alto- 
gether, she  looked  like  a  lovely  j)icture,  but  not  like  a 
lovely  woman.  1  closed  my  eyes  forcibly  with  my  hands, 
and  when  I  looked  again  she  had  vanished. 

I  cannot  exactly  say  why  I  did  not  on  my  return  speak 
of  this  beautiful  appearance  :  nor  why,  with  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  hope  and  fear,  I  went  again  and  again  to  the  same  spot, 
that  I  might  see  her.  She  always  came;  and  often  in  the 
storm  and  splashing  rain,  that  never  seemed  to  touch  or  to 
annoy  her,  looked  sweetly  on  me,  and  silently  passed 
on  :  and  though  she  was  so  near  to  me,  that  once  the  wind 
lifted  those  light  straying  locks,  and  I  felt  them  against  my 
cheek,  yet  I  never  could  move  or  speak  to  her.  I  fell  ill ; 
and  when  1  recovered,  my  mother  closely  questioned  me  ot 
the  tall  lady,  of  whom,  iu  the  height  of  my  fever,  I  had  so 
often  spoken. 

I  cauuot  tell  you  what  a  weight  was  taken  from  my  boyish 
spirits,  when  I  learned  that  this  was  no  apparition,  but  a 
lovely  woman,  not  young,  though  she  had  kept  her  young 
looks;  for  the  grief  which  had  broken  her  heart  seemed  to 
have  spared  her  beauty. 

When  the  rebel  troops  were  retreating  after  their  total 
defeat,  iu  that  very  wood  I  was  so  fond  of,  a  young  officer, 
unable  any  longer  to  endure  the  anguish  of  his  wounds,  sunk 
from  his  horse,  and  laid  himself  down  to  die.     He  was  found 

there  by  the  daughter  of  Sir  Henry  R ,  and  conveyed 

by  a  trusty  domestic  to  her  father's  mansion.  Sir  Heury 
was  a  loyalist:  but  the  oificer's  desperate  condition  excited 
his  compassion,  and  his  many  wounds  spoke  a  language  a 
brave  man  could  not  misunderstand.  Sir  Henry's  daughter, 
with  many  tears,  pleaded  for  him,  aud  promised  that  he 


should  be  carefully  and  secretly  attended.  And  well  she 
kept  that  promise:  for  she  waited  upon  him  (her  mother 
being  long  dead)  for  many  weeks,  and  anxiously  watched 
for  the  opening  of  eyes,  that,  languid  as  he  was,  looked 
brightly  and  gratefully  upon  his  young  nurse. 

You  may  fancy,  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  as  he  slowly 
recovered,  all  the  moments  that  were  spent  in  reading,  and 
low-voiced  singing,  aud  gentle  playing  on  the  lute;  and 
how  many  fresh  flowers  were  brought  to  one  whose  wound- 
ed limbs  would  not  bear  him  to  gather  them  for  himself; 
and  how  calmly  the  days  glided  on  in  the  blessedness  of 
returning  health,  and  in  that  sweet  silence  so  carefully 
enjoined  him.  I  will  pass  by  this,  to  speak  of  one  day, 
which,  brighter  and  pleasanter  than  others,  did  not  seem 
more  bright  or  more  lovely  than  the  looks  of  the  young 
maiden,  as  she  gaily  spoke  of"  a  little  festival  which, 
(i  hough  it  must  bear  an  unworthier  name)  she  meant  really 
to  give  in  honour  of  her  guest's  recovery  ;"  "And  it  is  time, 
lady,"  lady,"  said  he,  "  for  that  guest,  so  tended  and  so 
honoured,  to  tell  you  his  whole  story,  and  speak  to  you  of 
one  who  will  help  to  thank  you:  may  I  ask  you,  fair  lady, 
to  write  a  little  billet  for  me,  which,  even  in  these  times  of 
danger,  I  may  find  some  means  to  forward."  To  his  mo- 
ther, no  doubt,  she  thought,  as  with  light  steps  aud  a  lighter 
heart  she  seated  herself  by  his  couch,  and  smilingly  bade 
him  dictate  :  but  when  he  said,  "  My  dear  wife,"  and  lilted 
up  his  eyes  to  be  asked  for  more,  he  saw  before  him  a  pale 
statue,  that  gave  him  one  look  of  utter  despair,  and  fell,  for 
he  had  no  power  to  help  her,  heavily  at  his  feet.  Those 
eyes  never  truly  reflected  the  pure  soul  again,  or  answered 
by  answering  looks  thefoud  enquiries  of  her  poor  old  father. 
She  lived  to  be  as  I  saw  her,  sweet  and  gentle,  and  delicate 
always :  but  reason  returned  no  more.  She  visited  till 
the  day  of  her  death  the  spot  where  she  first  saw  that  young 
soldier ,  and  dressed  herself  in  the  very  clothes  that  he  said 
so  well  became  her. 


TO  THE  LADIES. 

Ladies,  fly  from  love's  smooth  tale. 
Oaths  steep'd  in  tears  do  oft  prevail ; 
Grief  is  infectiou.s,  and  the  air, 
Inflam'd  with  sighs,  will  blast  the  fair. 
Then  stop  your  ears  when  lovers  cry. 
Lest  yourself  weep,  when  no  soft  eye 
Shall  with  a  sorrowing  tear  repay 
That  pity  which  you  cast  away. 


1(19 


THE  MINE. 

They  were  two  lovers, — 0,  how  much  is  said 

In  that  brief  praise  ;  how  much  of  happiness. 

Of  all  that  makes  life  precious,  is  summ'd  up 

In  telling  they  were  lovers  !  In  this  world, 

In  all  its  many  pleasures,  all  its  dreams  • 

Of  riches,  fame,  ambition,  there  is  naught 

That  sheds  the  light  of  young  and  passionate  love. 

Ah,  its  first  sigh  is  worth  all  else  on  earth  ; 

That  sigh  may  be  most  fugitive,  may  leave 

A  burning,  broken,  or  a  withered  heart ; 

It  may  know  many  sorrows,  may  be  crost 

With  many  cares,  and  all  its  joys  may  be 

But  rainbow  glimpses  seen  in  clouds  ;  yet  still 

That  sigh  breathes  paradise. — Love,  thou  hast  been 

Our  ruin  and  our  heaven.     Well,  they  loved— 

Olave  and  his  Elore  ;    from  infancy 

They  had  been  playmates,  and  they  ever  were 

Each  other's  shadow;  but  when  woman's  blush 

Came  o'er  the  cheek,  and  woman's  tenderness 

Shaded  Elore's  blue  eyes,  then  Olave's  heart 

Caught  deeper  feeling.     It  was  just  the  time 

When  soft  vows  have  been  breathed,  and  answered 

By  blushes,  gentle  sighs,  the  eloquent  signs 

Of  maiden  bashfulness  and  maiden  love. 

And  Olave  knew  he  was  beloved;  that  when 

The  fresh  spring  leaves  were  on  the  firs,  Elore 

Would  be  his  own  indeed,     'Tis  a  sweet  time, 

This  season  of  young  passion's  happiness  : 

The  spirit  revels  in  delicious  dreams  ; 

The  future  is  so  beautiful,  for  hope 

Is  then  all-powerful.     They  would  often  sit 

For  hours  by  their  bright  hearths  and  tell  old  tales 

Of  love,  true  as  their  own — or  talk  of  days 

Of  quiet  joy  to  come.     And  when  the  Spring 

Smiled  in  green  beauty,  they  would  sweetly  roam 

By  the  pale  moon,  and  in  her  tender  light 

Read  the  love  written  in  each  other's  eyes. 

And  call  her  for  a  witness.     0  'tis  bliss 

To  wander  thus,  arm  link'd  in  arm; — a  look, 

A  sigh,  a  blush,  the  only  answer  given 

To  the  so  witching  tales  fond  lips  are  telling. 

One  eve  they  parted  even  more  tenderly 

Than  they  vpere  wont  to  do ;  but  one  day  more, 

And  their  fate  would  be  link'd  in  a  true  bond 

Of  deep  affection ;  henceforth  but  one  life  • 

But  the  next  morn  he  came  not,  and  Elore 
Watched  down  the  vale  in  vain  !  The  evening  closed, 
And  by  her  fire-side  there  was  solitude; 
Morn  blush'd  again,  and  found  her  still  alone, 
That  promised  morning,  whose  light  should  have  shed 


Gladness  o'er  the  sweet  bride,  but  shone  on  tears. 

On  loneliness  and  terror.     Days  pass'd  by, 

But  Olave  came  not;  none  knew  of  his  fate  : 

It  was  all  mystery  and  fear.     They  search'd 

The  valleys  and  the  mountains,  but  no  trace 

Was  left  to  tell  of  either  life  or  death : 

He  had  departed  like  a  shadow.     Strange 

And  drear  were  now  the  tales  they  told 

In  his  own  village  :  some  said  the  snow-pit 

Had  been  his  grave,  and  some  that  he  still  lived; 

And  wild  old  histories  were  now  recali'd 

Of  mortals  loved  by  powerful  beings,  who 

Bore  them  from  earth— and  Olave  was  so  young. 

So  beautiful,  he  might  well  be  beloved 

By  mountain-spirits.     But,  alas  !  for  her, 

His  widow'd  Bride!  how  soon  she  changed  from  all 

The  beauty  of  her  youth— her  long  gold  hair 

Lost  its  bright  colour,  and  her  fair  blue  eyes 

Forgot  the  sunshine  of  their  smile ;  for  never 

Her  countenance  was  brighten'd  up  again 

By  the  heart's  gladsome  feelings.     So  she  lived 

A  solitary  thing,  to  whom  the  world 

Was  nothing;  and  she  shunn'd  all  intercourse, 

Shrunk  even  from  the  voice  of  soothing;  all 

Her  earthly  ties  were  broken,  and  she  could 

But  brood  o'er  her  great  misery — 

'Twas  in  Fahlun's  deep  mines  a  corse  was  found. 
As  the  dark  miners  urged  their  toilsome  way. 
Preserved  from  all  decay  ;  the  gold  locks 
Curl'd  down  in  rich  luxuriance  o'er  a  face 
Pale  as  a  statue's — cold  and  colourless. 
But  perfect  every  feature. — No  one  knew 
What  youth  it  was.     The  dress  was  not  the  same 
As  worn  by  miners,  but  of  antique  shape. 
Such  as  their  fathers',  and  they  deem'd  it  was 
Some  stranger  who  had  curiously  explored 
The  depths  of  Fahlun,  and  the  falling  rock 
Had  closed  him  from  the  face  of  day  for  ever. 
Thrice  fearful  grave  !  They  took  the  body  up 
And  bore  it  to  the  open  air,  and  crowds 
Soon  gather'd  round  to  look  on  the  fair  face 
And  graceful  form,  yet  still  not  one  could  tell 
Aught  of  its  history.     But  at  length  there  came 
An  aged  woman  ;— down  beside  the  youth 
Trembling  she  knelt,  and  with  her  wither'd  hands 

Parted  from  off  his  face  the  thick  bright  hair 

She  sank  upon  his  bosom  ;  one  wild  shriek 
Rang  with  his  name. — My  love,  my  lost  Olave ! 


Jiiy 


THE  FOUNDLING. 

Away  from  me,  oh  restless  sleep. 

No  happy  dream  breaks  thy  sad  reign  ; 
'Tis  mine  to  wake — to  wake  and  weep, 

Ere  sunrise  cheers  the  village-train. 

Springing  to  light,  with  sweetest  song 
The  young  bird  minstrels  to  the  grove; 

With  food  its  mother  skims  along: — 
I  sob  to  see  maternal  love. 

Ah,  why  no  mother's  love  forme  ? 

Why  like  that  nestling  am  not  I, 
Bending  the  slight  twig  of  the  tree, 

As,  watch' d,  it  balances  on  high  ? 

B  ut  I  am  desolate,  alone ; 

Ne'er  cradled  was  my  infant  head: 
Its  first  bed  was  a  hard  cold  stone. 

Where  sleep  the  happier  village- dead. 

The  children  of  the  village  play, — 

Not  one  calls  me  a  sister  dear: 
I  hasten  from  their  sports  away, 

To  hide  the  bitter  gushing  tear. 

The  peasant  careless  sits  at  eve, 

His  darlings  cluster'd  round  his  knee. 

And  all  his  joy — why  do  I  grieve? 
There  is  no  place,  no  kiss  for  me. 

The  parish-bread,  the  workhouse-homo, 
There  only  not  a  stranger  poor. 

As  through  the  weary  world  I  roam. 
Is  refuge  and  the  unshut  door. 

Oft  to  the  church-yard  gloom  I  steal, 
Upon  the  conscious  stone  to  gaze, 

Where  first  'twas  mine,  oh  life,  to  feel 
The  miseries  of  thy  endless  maze. 

Prone  on  its  flint  my  eyeballs  strain, 
Affection's  parting  tears  to  trace, 

Perhaps  my  mother  shed. — In  vain ! 
My  floods  the  record  would  efface. 

Then  wandering  o'er  the  mound-heap'd  sod, 
I  ask  the  tombs  if,  done  with  strife, 

One  friend  rests  there  ?     For  me,  oh  God ! 
Alike  are  blank,  the  tombs  and  life. 


Again  I  throw  me  on  the  stone, 

Since  fourteen  springs  where  I  drew  breath : 
Come,  mother,  haste  to  claim  thy  own, 

I  wait  for  thee — for  thee  or  Death  ! 


THE  FAREWELL  OF  A  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

0  DO  not  blame  the  tears  that  roll 

Unbidden  down  my  cheek. 
But  them  alone  my  anxious  soul 

Her  griefs,  her  fears  may  speak  : 
The  trumpets  sounding  on  the  hill. 
Thy  mind  with  dreams  of  glory  fill — 

But  I,  a  woman  weak. 
Hear  in  their  notes  a  sadder  tale 
Of  woe,  and  death,  and  fruitless  wail. 

Nay,  frown  not,  dearest  1 — though  my  heart 

Should  in  the  trial  burst, 
No  sigh  shall  heave,  no  tear  shall  start. 

For  thee  in  silence  nurst; 
Nor  shalt  thou  hear  one  boding  word — 
The  prayer  alone  to  Heaven  preferr'd 

Shall  tell  those  griefs — the  first, — 
0  would  they  might  the  latest  be 
My  love  shall  ever  feel  for  thee. 

When  first  thy  plighted  faith  was  given, 

I  thought  not  we  should  part ; 
Nor  till  that  word  my  heart  had  riven. 

Knew  I  how  dear  thou  art. 
A  soldier's  bride  thou  bad'st  me  be,— 
And  'twas  a  joyous  name  to  me, 

0,  my  ill-judging  heart! 
The  mournful  truth  too  well  I've  tried, 
What  'tis  to  be  a  warrior's  bride. 


MY  MORNING'S  WISH. 

I  wish'd  that  two  vowels  were  join'd 
In  wedlock  so  holy  and  true  ; 

I  could  not  but  think  in  my  miud 
That  the  vowels  must  be  I  and  U. 

I  turn'd  it  again  in  my  thoughts. 

And  turn'd  myself  round  with  a  sigh; 

Yet  nought  could  I  make  of  the  two. 
For  reversed  thev  came  U  and  I. 


ill 


ENDURFNG  AFFECTION. 


BY    L. A.   H. 

The  story  related  in  the  following  lines  was  told  to  the  writer,  in 
substance,  as  he  has  presented  it  to  the  reader.  In  versifying 
it,  he  has  neither  added  nor  omitted  any  material  sentenct. 
The  young  lady  to  whom  it  refers,  laboured  for  several  years 
under  the  extraordinary  delusion  that  forms  the  groundwork  of 
the  tale  ;  and  it  completely  absorbed  every  other  feeling,  tem- 
poral and  eternal.  Toward  the  close  of  her  .life,  however,  she 
was  led  to  seek  that  good  Physician  who  giveth  "  rest  unto  all 
that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,"  and  she  died  in  the  "  sure  and 
certain  hope  of  a  blessed  immortality." 

In  days  of  early,  happy  youth, 

Ere  childhood's  bloom  of  heart  had  fled, 
When  Nature  taught  us  only  truth, 

The  love  was  born  that  is  not  dead. 
"We  loved  before  we  knew  the  name ; 

And  still  through  years  of  grief  and  gloom 
That  hallowed  feeling  lived  the  same, 

And  lives  tho'  buried  in  the  tomb. 
True  was  the  love  my  brother  bore. 

As  in  a  mind  like  his  should  dwell  ; 
I  loved  him,  oh  '.  J  loved  him  more 

Than  man's  or  woman's  tongue  can  tell. 
I  saw  him  die, — but  ne'er  decays 
The  love  that  lived  in  happier  days  ; 
Each  feeling  of  my  heart  is  fled. 
That  one  is  with  the  silent  dead. 

When  all  things  prospered, — then  his  heart 

Was  humble  as  an  artless  child ; 
He  saw  our  earthly  hopes  depart. 

And  still  thro'  all  our  sorrows  smiled  ; 
For  then  he  rose  above  the  fate, 

That  cannot  crush  a  noble  mind. 
Nor  gave  the  world  his  love  nor  hate. 

And  neither  sought  nor  shunned  mankind. 
Few  were  his  hopes,  but  few  his  fears  ; 
Hif  pathway,  thro'  this  vale  of  tears, 
Was,  like  his  own  deep  soul,  sublime. 
Yet  noiseless  as  the  step  of  time. 

But  I  must  haste  to  tell  you  how, 

Before  the  world  his  worth  had  told. 
Death  looked  not  on  his  youthful  brow, 

But  to  his  mind,  and  thought  him  old ; 
And  ere  his  life  had  well  begun, 
His  brief  but  glorious  race  was  run.  j 

One  evening,  ere  the  sun  had  set,  I 

He  talked  about  his  death  again,  I 

And  I  had  told  him  'twas  not  yet  , 

His  destiny  to  die— but  then 


A  flush  passed  o'er  his  cheek,  and  broke 
Jts  death-like  paleness,  while  he  spoke  :— 
"  Nay,  nay— all  hope  of  earth  is  o'er, 
But  let  me  see  that  earth  once  more  ; 
Let  the  sun  smile  on  me  and  all, 
Before  his  parting  beauties  fall, 
And  as  he  passes  from  the  sky 
And  sets  in  glory — I  wiU  die.'' 

'Twas  early  Spring — and  all  was  gay 
As  the  night  struggled  with  the  day 
For  mastery — the  setting  sun 
Seem'd  loth  to  think  his  labour  done. 
But  he  had  marked  the  parting  beam. 

Had  watched  the  day-star  slowly  set,— 
Sitting  beside  a  placid  stream, — 

Dying,  but  of  the  living  yet. 
The  bank  was  fresh,  and  green,  and  gay, 
As  if  it  never  would  decay  ; 
Around  him  many  a  wild  flower  grew, 

Passing  its  little  life  of  bloom  ; 
Behind,  a  shadowy  forest  threw 

A  pensive  shade  that  was  not  gloom, — 
Fit  emblem  of  my  brother's  mind — 
Upon  my  arm  his  head  reclined. 
The  hand  that  prest  to  mine  was  chill. 
But,  oh  !  so  gently  prest  me  still. 
I  turned  away  my  tears  to  hide. 

For  they  had  fallen  his  brow  to  steep  ; 
He  prest  my  baud  again,  and  sigh'd. 

And  bade  me  smile  on  him,  not  weep 
He  smiled,  and  look'd  up  in  my  face. 
So  faintly  smiled,  that  I  could  trace 
Death  on  his  clammy  cheek  and  brow  ; 
His  parting  glance  was  on  me  now, 
I  turned,  to  check  the  swelling  sigh. 
Then  gazed, — and  1  beheld  him  die  ! 
The  light  breeze  bore  his  parting  breath 
That  green  sod  was  his  bed  of  death. 

Ah!  well  I  knew  he  would  not  go 
To  leave  me  all  alone  below  :— ^- 
One  eve,  'twas  beautiful  and  bright, 

As  that  on  which  he  passed  away. 
When  1  had  gone  to  mark,  ere  night. 

The  grave  m  which  my  brother  lay; 
And  if  the  flowers  still  blossomed  fair, — 
The  few  that  I  had  planted  there, — 
To  linger  till  the  day  withdrew. 
And  night  had  given  its  holier  hue. 
I  knelt  upon  his  narrow  bed, 
And  pressed  the  clay  that  pressed  the  dead 
There,  as  I  wept,  I  heard  a  sounu, 

So  soft,  methought  it  was  the  breath 


112 


Of  eve,  which,  gently  gliding  round, 

Above  the  dull  abode  of  death, 
T^  echo  of  some  grave  awoke, — 
A  voice,  while  yet  I  listened,  spoke— 
"  Rise,  weeping  child  of  earth — arise. 
And  gaze  upon  the  midnight  skies.'' 
I  turn'd  to  the  voice  I  knew  so  well, 
But  my  gaze  upon  the  dark  heaven  fell. 
And  there  a  light  cloud  met  mine  eye, 
Midway  between  me  and  the  sky  ; 
That  sky  was  of  the  deepest  gray, 
But  the  cloud  was  bright  as  the  brightest  day  ; 
One  star  was  in  heaven,  and  I  could  see 
That  lone  star  through  its  drapery. 

I  knew  the  voice  that  spoke  to  me, — 

I  knew  it — I  could  not  forget, 
The*  sweeter  than  it  us'd  to  be. 

The  sound  that  lives  in  memory  yet. 
And  while  the  well-known  words  gave  birth 
To  joys  that  were  not  of  this  earth, 
They  mingled  with  a  human  thrill 
Of  love  for  him  who  loved  me  still. 

I  staid  till  night  had  pass'd  away ; — 

He  spoke  of  such  unearthly  things, 
And  many  a  thing  I  must  not  say  : — 

Of  realms  where  God,  the  Kings  of  kings, 
Listens  to  never-ceasing  song 
Of  angels  that  around  him  throng  ; 
Where  brighten  neither  moon  nor  sun. 
Because  their  day  is  never  done. 
And  he  could  leave  that  world  of  light, 
Those  spirits,  perfect,  pure,  and  bright. 
To  visit  this  cold  earth  and  me, — 

To  promise,  when  the  soul,  that  now 

Hath  but  a  little  while  to  bow 
Beneath  its  weight  of  clay,  should  be 
Unburden'd,  free,  and  purified  ; 
That  he  would  come  and  be  my  guide. 
From  this,  a  world  of  varied  woe. 

To  that  above  yon  starry  skies  ; 
For  sorrow  tinges  all  below. 

But  there  affection  never  dies. 

An  Old  Campaigner. — Formerly,  farmers  in  the 
vicinity  of  Cork  used  to  send  their  milk  to  town  in  large 
churns,  one  on  each  side  of  a  horse,  between  which  a  wo- 
man frequently  rode  astride,  and  in  that  position  disposed 
of  the  railk  to  her  customers.  It  so  happened  that  a  cast 
dragoon  horse  was  employed  in  this  manner,  and  as  he  was 
passing  near  a  regiment  of  cavalry  at  exercise,  he  heard 
the  well-known  sound  of  the  trumpet,  which  he  immedi- 
ately obeyed,  and  with  his  woman  and  churns  fell  into  the 
ranks,  to  the  no  small  terror  of  his  rider,  and  amusement 
of  the  spectators. 


MUSIC. 

Thou  beauty  !  what  is  all  the  world  to  thee  ? 
Come,  with  the  night-wind  murmuring,  to  me : 
Oh  !  born  not  of  the  earth,  and  not  to  breathe 
Thy  charm  in  bright  society  !     The  heath, 
At  constellated  midnight,  the  rose-bower 
Is  all  thy  pleasure,  and  thy  palace — home; 
Thy  lingering  is  about  the  purple  dome  ; 
Thy  travel  is  athwart  the  waveless  seas  ; 
Thou  lovest  the  gentle  rivers  and  the  trees  ; 
The  stillest  and  the  coolest,  is  thine  hour. 

Passionate  music  !     Round  about  the  spheres 
Suspend  thy  lute  and  harp,  thy  smiles  and  tears  ; 
And  in  thy  march,  omnipotent,  aloud 
Peal  thy  sublimer  organs  from  the  cloud  : 
Come  gracefully  !     And  for  my  soul  to  sip, 
Give  me  the  breathing  of  thy  parted  lip  : 
Under  the  starlight  let  me  hear  thy  voice, 
For  I  was  born  thy  lover,  and  rejoice 
To  mark  thee  in  the  multitude  of  woods. 
And  on  the  brink  of  the  eternal  floods, 
And  underneath  the  white  sun  of  the  night, 
Where  thou  art  soft  and  sweetest  as  the  light. 

I  pray  thee  come,  if  by  the  lone  sea-shore 
Thou  bendest  o'er  the  waters,  and  the  sand 
Is  smooth  beneath  thy  small  and  magic  hand  : 
And  if  thy  charm  is  floating  on  the  deep, 
Or  through  the  sparry  caverns,  full  of  sleep, 
Breathless  and  calm,  like  sleep  for  evermore. 

Celestial  music  1  how  I  love  thy  form, 
Bowing  as  doth  the  meek  flower  to  the  storm. 
Thy  shining  arms  cast  upwards,  and  thine  eye 
Beaming  like  noon,  oh  immortality  ! 
Sweep  the  loud  lyre,  and  while  thy  garments  blue 
Like  air,  and  lighter  than  the  dawn,  and  few, 
Entangle  the  wild  winds,  sing  thou  of  joy, 
And  passion,  and  the  brave  Dardanian  boy. 
With  her  who  walked  the  world  without  a  peer, 
And  was,  to  him  who  died  of  her,  how  dear ! 

Stand  tiptoe  on  the  rock,  and  I  will  lie 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  love  thy  minstrelsy  ; 
And  dream  of  all  the  gorgeous  things  that  were 
Under  the  shadow  of  thy  golden  hair. 


Time. — Time  is  like  a  creditor  who  allows  an  ample 
space  to  make  up  accounts,  but  is  inexorable  at  last.  Time 
is  like  a  verb  that  can  be  used  only  in  the  present  tense. 
Time,  well  employed,  gives  that  health  and  vigour  to  the 
soul  which  rest  and  retirement  give  to  the  body.  Time 
never  sits  heavily  on  us  but  when  it  is  badly  employed. 
Time  is  a  grateful  friend— use  it  well,  and  it  never  fails  to 
make  a  suitable  requital. 


ll^i 


THE  CHESS  PLAYERS. 


BY    THOMAS   ATKINSON. 


Bbhold  an  image  of  the  strife 
Which  man  with  fortune  holds  for  life. 
The  anxious  look,  the  ardent  heart, 
The  pondering  thought,  the  subtle  art, 
The  skill,  the  sharpness,  touch  and  tact. 
Where  cunning  gathers  strength  from  fact : 
And  speculation  loves  to  soar 
Above  the  sea  that  has  no  shore. 
Behold  all  these — though  thrice  a  span 
That  boy  is  yet  from  measuring  man — 
'Tis  but  a  step,  at  most  a  stride. 
From  boyhood  meek  to  bearded  pride. 

Age  thinks  of  youth's  gay  time  and  weeps; 
Youth  looks  and  laughs  and  forward  sweeps. 
And  chants  his  song  and  sips  his  wine, 
Thinks  earth  is  heaven  and  man  divine. 
O'erflowed  with  health  and  strength,  he  braves 
The  battle  shout  and  ocean  waves, 
Or  shakes  the  senate  in  the  hour 
When  virtue  goes  to  strife  with  power ; 
Or  quotes  old  sages,  makes  grave  saws, 
And  reads  to  wide  earth's  worms  her  laws; 
Till  grim  Death  levels,  with  his  shafts. 
This  monarch  of  life's  game  at  draughts. 


REPUBLICAN  MANNERS 
ON  BOARD  AMERICAN  STEAM-VESSELS. 

"  I  must  not  omit  to  notice  supper  or  tea,  for  itwas  both, 
and  an  excellent  meal  it  was,  served  about  eight  o'clock 
upon  two  parallel  tables,  which  ran  the  whole  length  of 
the  cabin,  at  least  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet ;  and  to 
which  sat  down  about  one  hundred  persons,  of  aU  ranks, 
the  richest  merchants,  the  most  eminent  statesmen,  and 
the  humblest  mechanic,  who  chose  to  pay  for  a  cabin 
fare,  as  most  of  those  persons  who  travel  do.  I  was  seated 
with  an  exceeding  lady-like  and  well-bred  woman  on  my 
left  hand,  and  on  my  right,  sat  a  man  who,  although 
decently  dressed,  was  evidently  a  working  operative  of  the 
humblest  class ;  yet  there  was  nothing  in  either  his  manner 
or  appearance  to  annoy  the  most  refined  female;  he  asked 
for  what  he  wanted  respectfully,  performed  any  little 
attention  he  could  courteously,  and  evinced  better  breeding 
and  less  selfishness  than  I  have  witnessed  at  some  public 
dinners  at  home,  where  the  admission  of  such  a  person 
would  have  been  deemed  derogatory. 

"  I  do  not  mean  by  this  description  to  infer  that  a  crowded 
table  of  this  kind  is  as  agreeable  as  a  party  whose  habits, 


education,  and  sympathies,  being  on  a  level,  render  inter- 
course a  matter  of  mutual  pleasure  ;  what  I  would  show  is, 
that  in  this  mingling  of  classes,  which  is  inevitable  in  tra- 
velling here,  there  is  nothing  to  disgust  or  debase  man  or 
woman,  however  exclusive  ;  for  it  would  really  be  impossi- 
ble to  feed  a  like  multitude,  of  any  rank  or  country,  with 
slighter  breaches  of  decency  or  decorum,  or  throw  persons 
so  wholly  dissimilar  together  with  less  personal  incon- 
venience either  to  one  class  or  another. 

"I  had  been  accustomed  to  see  this  set  down  as  one  of  the 
chief  nuisances  of  travelling  in  this  country,  and  the  con- 
sequences greatly  exaggerated  ;  things  must  have  improved 
rapidly  since,  as  far  as  I  have  hitherto  gone.  I  protest  I 
prefer  the  steam-boat  arrangements  here  to  our  owii,  and 
would  back  them  to  be  considered  less  objectionable  by  any 
candid  traveller  who  had  fairly  tested  both." — Power. 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  AMERICA. 

"  The  young  ladies  of  America  appear  possessed  of  the 
same  native,  simple,  yet  perfectly  easy  manners  which 
characterize  their  countrywomen  of  the  North,  where  in- 
deed they  are  principally  educated  and  instructed  in  all 
those  graceful  accomplishments  which  embellish  and  refine 
our  life.  It  appears  upon  a  first  view  strange,  that,  superior 
as  they  are,  they  do  not  exercise  a  greater  influence  over 
the  youth  of  the  other  sex ;  but  this  may  be  ascribed  to  the 
fact,  that  they  are  brought  out  before  either  their  judgment 
or  knowledge  of  the  world  are  suflBciently  matured  to  make 
them  aware  of  the  existence  of  certain  abuses,  or  of  their 
own  power  of  reforming  them.  Then  again,  marrying 
very  young,  they  commonly  quit  society,  in  a  great  measure, 
at  the  moment  the  influence  of  their  example  migth  be  of 
the  srreatest  service  to  it." — Power. 


ON  SOME  SPRIGS  OF  FUCHIA  WITHERING. 

The  flowers  I  prized  so  are  withered  and  dead, 
Their  fragrance  and  beauty  for  ever  are  fled  ; 
Ah  !  why  is  it  thus,  that  whatever  we  cherish. 
Is  sure  to  be  first  to  wither  and  perish. 

There's  nought  in  this  world  I  ever  could  prize. 
But  'twas  sure  too  early  to  fade  from  mine  eyes  ; 
I  never  affectionately  loved  a  dear  friend 
But  something  was  certain  our  union  to  end. 

Those  fuchias'  whose  beauty  I  admired  so  much. 

Have  faded  beneath  cold  Time's  icy  touch  ; 

In  vain  my  endeavours  to  nourish  them  were. 

They  died  in  despite  of  my  fostering  care.  M.  m.  h. 


114 


WOMAN'S    TRIALS. 


A   TALE. 


BY  MRS,  S.  C.  HALL. 


"  Favour  is  deceitful  and  beauty  is  vain ;  but  a  woman  that 
feareth  the  Lord  she  shall  be  praised." 


THK  PROVERBS. 


In  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  counties  of  England, 
near  a  town  whose  real  name  I  shall  conceal  under  that  of 
Mondrich,  the  following  circumstances  occurr„J.  My 
tale  is  but  a  simple  narration,  and  had  little  to  recommend 
it  but  its  reality.  To  those  who  yearn  after  exaggerated 
pictures  of  life,  in  any  situation,  it  may  be  dull  and  weari- 
some ;  but  those  who  can  appreciate  the  sufferings  and 
struggles  of  virtue,  under  trials  of  a  more  than  ordinary 
nature,  lyill,  I  doubt  not,  feel  interested  in  what  I  am 
about  to  relate. 

"  Well,  good  night,  Mr.  Hinton,  good  night,  we  are 
neighbours  now,  and  shall  often  meet,"  said  Edward 
Hoskins,  as  he  closed  the  cottage-door  after  his  retreating 
guest.  "A  very  pleasant  fellow,  Agnes,"  he  continued, 
addressing  his  wife ;  "  though  you  were  not  particularly 
civil  to  him,  I  know  who  was ;"  and  his  bright  blue  eye 
rested  for  a  moment  on  his  sister-in-law — a  merry-looking 
maiden,  busied  in  assisting  Agnes  Hoskins  in  placing  aside 
the  remains  of  their  frugal  supper. 

"  For  shame,  Ned!"  retorted  the  blushing  Jessy ;  "  but 
you  are  ever  teasing  me  in  some  way  or  other;  and  here's 
my  sister  says  it  is  very  wrong  to  be  putting  such  things 
into  my  head." 

Agnes  turned  her  handsome,  cheerful  countenance 
towards  her  sister,  and  observed,  in  a  low  and  more  serious 
tone  of  voice  than  was  her  wont,  "  Jessy,  I  should  indeed 
be  sorry  if  any  thing  got  into  either  your  head  or  your 
heart  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  root  out  again." 

"  Well,"  laughed  Edward,  "  I  don't  see  what  harm 
Harry  Hinton's  getting  into  her  head,  or  heart  either, 
could  do ;  he  is  a  good- tempered,  fi-ee,  frank,  industri- 
ous  " 

"Stop  there,  Edward,"  interrupted  his  wife,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "  not  industrious — surely  not  industri- 
ous !" 

"  No,  perhaps  not  that  exactly,"  replied  Ned,  "not  what 
you  would  call  industrious.  But  really,  Agnes,  I  think  we 
both  work  too  hard ; — we  ought,  as  Harry  says,  take  a 
little  pleasure  now  and  then,  and  we  should  return  to  our 
daily  labour  with  more  earnestness,  and  do  all  the  better 
for  it." 

"  I  don't  think  we  need  do  better ;  your  situation  at  the 
manor,  the  produce  of  your  own  little  farm — all  contribute 
to  render  us  independent.  And  as  to  pleasure — as  to  hap- 
piness, Ned,  look  there  1" 


She  drew  aside  a  large  linen  cloth  that  fell  from  the 
upper  part  of  her  baby's  cradle,  so  as  to  shade  it  from  the 
light.  Although  the  little  thing  had  not  cried,  it  was 
awake;  and,  as  the  father  stooped  to  kiss  it,  the  hands 
were  stretched  forward  to  meet  him,  and  the  rosy  lips  par- 
ted by  the  light  noiseless  laughter  of  earliest  infancy  !  It 
was  a  blessed  moment:  both  parents  gazed  upon  their 
child,  and,  as  the  mother  placed  it  to  her  bosom,  the  father 
said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  You  are  right,  Agnes ;  thank 
God,  we  are  happy  ;  and  though,  love,  as  you  were  better 
brought  up  than  I  was,  I  should  like  to  be  richer  for  your 
sake,  yet  somehow  I  think  it  shows  you  to  more  advantage, 
and  draws  you  more  into  my  heart,  to  be  as  you  are. 
What  the  minister  said  of  you  was  true,  though  I  did  not 
mean  to  tell  it  you,  lest  it  might  make  you  conceited  : — 
'Your  wife,  Hoskins,'  said  he,  '  is  never  without  a  jar  of 
honey,  and  a  flask  of  oil,  to  sweeten  and  soften  your  path 
through  life.'  " 

"  Reach  down  the  Bible,  Jessy;  although  it  is  past  ten, 
we  must  not  go  to  bed  without  our  chapter,"  observed 
Agnes  after  a  long  pause ;  "  But  what  books  are  placed 
upon  it,  Jessy  ?" 

"A  volume  of  songs  and  a  novel,  sister." 

Agnes  continued,  in  a  reproving  tone,  "I  thought  I  had 
no  need  to  tell  you  that  that  shelf  was  appropriated  to  the 
Bible,  Prayer,  and  Hymn-book  only  ;  profane  and  sacred 
things  should  never  mingle.'* 

"  It  was  not  Jessy,  but  Hinton,  who  put  them  there," 
said  Edward.  Agnes  sighed.  "  Why  do  you  sigh  so 
heavily  ?"  enquired  the  husband,  as  he  turned  over  the 
leaves  to  find  one  of  his  wife's  favourite  chapters. 

"  Because  it  confirms  my  opinion  of  our  new  neighbour. 
The  word  of  God  will  be  ever  treated  by  a  true  Christian 
with  outward  respect—  the  proof  of  inward  reverence.  One 
who  venerates  Scripture  could  not  rest  a  song-book  even 
upon  its  binding," 

Edward  made  no  reply,  and  soon  after  the  party  retired 
to  rest. 

This  little  passage  in  the  lives  of  those  humble  indivi- 
duals occurred  about  the  latter  end  of  the  month  of  April,  a 
few  years  ago,  in  a  retired  spot,  near  the  town  of  Mond- 
rich, to  which  I  shall  give  the  name  of  Mosspits.  It  was  a 
sweet  and  quiet  nesting  of  five  cottages,  inhabited,  with  one 
exception,  by  happy  industrious  people.  Four  of  these 
dwellings  were  joined  together;  the  fifth,  the  abode  of 
Hoskins,  stood  apart,  surrounded  by  a  blossoming  garden, 
and  was  of  a  larger  size  than  the  others.  The  scene  might 
be  aptly  discribed  as— 

"  A  gentle,  lonely  place  ;  the  path  o'ergrown 
With  primroses,  and  broad-leaved  violets. 
Arched  by  laburnums  and  the  sweet  woodbine. 


115 


"Across  the  green  a  silver  streamlet  ran. 
Hidden  and  silent,  as  it  fear«>d  to  wake 
The  deep  tranquillity  that  dwelt  and  slept 
Even  on  the  fuU-leaved  trees." 


It  was  far  away  from  the  public  road,  and  one  large  oak 
spread  its  huge  branches  over  the  green  in  front  of  the 
Mosspit  cottages ;  the  trunk  was  surrounded  by  a  rustic 
seat,  where  the  inhabitants  met  every  fine  evening,  and 
discussed  affairs  of  state  or  business  with  the  affected  saga- 
city of  wiser  heads.  Hoskins  possessed,  as  his  wife  had 
said,  a  lucrative  situation, — one  that  gave  them  abundant 
comforts,  and  would,  if  carefully  husbanded,  enable  them  to 
lay  by  a  provision  for  after  years. 

Agnes  and  Jessy  were  the  orphan  daughters  of  a  Pres- 
byterian clergyman.     Mrs.  Hoskins  was  some  years  older 
than  her  giddy  sister,  and  had  enjoyed,  during  her  father's 
lifetime,  many  advantages  which  he  did  not  remain  long 
enough  in  the   world  to   bestow  upon  his  youngest-born. 
Agnes  had  been  chosen  by  the  lady  of  the  manor,  Mrs,  Ce- 
cil Wallingford,  as  a  humble,  very  humble,  companion  for 
her  daughter — an  only  child,  and  a  heiress  :  she  was,  there- 
fore, to  use  the  accepted  phrase,  "  comfortably  situated  ;" 
which,  being  interpreted,  means,  that  she  had  her  board, 
washing,  and  lodging,  and  the  young  lady's  society  when 
she  was  ill  or  without  company — dined  with  the  house- 
keeper— rode  either  inside  the  carriage  when  her  friend 
pleased,  or  outside  on  the  dicky  when  ditto — curled  the 
lap-dog's  hair — and  sometimes  suffered,  under  the  practi- 
cal jokes  of  her  young  tormentor,  such  mortifications  as 
nought    but  her  enduring  spirit  could   have  supported — 
was  stared  at,  whenever  seen,  by  the  young  men,  who  al- 
ready scented  the   heiress's   gold  afar  off — and  received 
divers  lessons  from  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford,  not  on  errors 
she  had  committed,  but  on  those  which   the  lady  supposed 
she  might  commit.     The  dependant  on  this  purse-proud 
family  could  not  have  been  strickly  called  beautiful ;  but 
there  was  that  about  her  which  suppassed  beauty — a  kind, 
yet    animated  countenance,  illuminated  by  mild  and  fre- 
quently upturned  eyes,  which  lent  a  sort  of  holy  expression 
to  her  delicate  features.   Under  her  after-trials  it  seemed  al- 
most as    if  a   heavenly   communion  supported  her;  for, 
while  the  tear  trembled  in  her  eye,  the  smile  sprang  to  her 
lip,  and  she  regained  her  serenity  apparently  without  an 
effort. 

Agnes  was  fortunate  enough  to  make  one  real  friend  in 
this  mighty  family.  The  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Middleton, 
was  a  curate's  widow,  and  felt  much  and  kindly  for  the 
situation  of  one  so  young  and  unprotected ;  she  did  all  she 
could  to  sofien  the  innumerable  mortifications  that  awaited 
the  pure  and  delicately  minded  girl ;  and  often,  when  the 
household  had  retired  to  rest,  they  would  seek  each  other's 
chamber,  and  hold  sweet  counsel  together,  thus  imparting 
cheerfulness  to  the  aged,  and    instruction  to    the  young. 


When  Agnes  had  been  about  twelve  mouths  at  the  manor, 
Edward  Hoskins  was  strongly  recommended,  on  account 
of  his  great  skill  in  horticulture  and  floriculture,  to  the 
situation  of  gardener  in  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford's  establish- 
ment, vacant  by  the  death  of  the  old  man  who  had  exerci- 
sed unbounded  dominion  over  grapery,  pinery,  and  green- 
house, for  nearly  half  a  century.  Hoskins  wisely  brought 
with  him  a  new  carnation  of  his  own  discovery,  which  had 
gained  the  first  prize  of  the  Horticultural  Society.  The 
splendid  flower  decided  the  matter,  and  he  was  immediate- 
ly engaged,  at  a  salary  of  a  hundred  and  ten  guineas  per 
annum  (as  the  lady  found  he  could  not  only  act  as  gardener, 
bu*  as  steward),  and  the  very  prettiest  cottage  at  Mosspit 
was  appropriated  for  his  residence. 

AH  was  bustle  in  the  servants'  hall  as  the  handsome 
young  gardener  talked  for  a  moment  with  the  head  butler. 
The  lady's  maid  and  chief  house-duster  positively  quarrelled 
as  to  the  right  of  first  setting  their  caps  at  him;  though  they 
both  agreed  that  he  behaved  very  rudely  in  passing  into  the 
housekeeper's  room  without  besowing  the  slightest  notice 
upon  their  pretty  persons.  Mrs.  Middleton  and  her  young 
friend  were  quietly  seated  at  tea,  when  the  butler  respect- 
fully asked  permission  to  introduce  the  new  resident ;  long 
after  Agnes  had  departed,  he  lingered,  and  lingered,  and  at 
last  asked  who  the  young  lady  was.  Her  history  was  at  once 
told;  and,  to  dismiss  allmattersofcourtshipbriefly,  they  were 
soon  married.  To  do  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford  justice,  she 
behaved  very  generously  to  her  portegee  on  the  occasion, 
presented  to  the  young  couple  some  neat  and  appropriate 
furniture,  stood  godmother  to  their  first  infant,  and  Miss 
Cecil  Wallingford  (when  sentimentally  inclined)  always 
talked  of  love  in  the  Mosspit  cottage,  and  her  sweet  humble 
friend  Agnes  Hoskins, 

Much  had  been  of  course  said,  at  the  commencement 
of  their  union,  as  to  the  probability  of  Agnes  being  too 
dainty  a  damsel  to  make  a  useful  wife  ;  but  a  little  time 
proved  the  incorrectness  of  such  surmises,  Hoskins  insisted 
on  Agnes  domesticating  her  only  sister  with  them,  and  went 
for  her  to  Scotland,  where  she  had  previously  resided  with 
a  distant  relative.  No  further  help  than  Jessy's  was 
necessary  to  keep  all  things  in  order,  and  no  dwelling  even 
at  the  Mosspits  was  half  so  neat,  half  so  cheerful,  as  their 
cottage.  Indeed,  cheerfulness  was  Agnes's  peculiar 
attribute — that  sweet,  gentle,  and  unobtrusive  cheerfulness, 
which  is  felt  rather  than  seen.  Her  very  voice  told  of 
happiness  I  her  eyes  beamed  with  faith  and  love  ;  and  the 
minister's  description  of  one  of  the  favourites  of  bis  flock 
w£is  no  less  beautiful  than  true.  The  disposition  of  Jessy 
was  not  so  valuable  as  that  of  her  sister;  she  was  more 
mirthful,  more  gay,  and.  alas  !  both  giddy  and  inconside- 
rate ;  but  then,  as  Edward  kindly  observed,  "  she  was  only 
seventeen,  and  every  body  could  not  be  perfect  like  Agnes, 
who  certainly  was  different  from  every  one  else." 

It  is  a  happy  thing  when  married  folk  believe  perfection 


116 


enthroned  in  each  other;  out  it  is  a  wise  thing  when  they 
see  each  other's  faults,  and  yet  endeavour  to  conceal  them. 
It  is  a  severe  trial  of  a  woman's  judgment  if  she  discover 
her  mental  superiority  to  the  lord  of  her  affections,  and  yet, 
while  she  secretly  manages  all  things  for  the  best,  makes 
the  world  believe  that  she  is  only  the  instrument  of  his  will. 
A  wise  woman  will  do  this,  but  it  is  only  a  wise  woman 
who  can. 

Edward  was  certainly  inferior  to  Agnes  in  intellect;  and 
yet,  woman  though  she  was,  she  never  allowed  her  mind  to 
rest  upon  the  circumstance  she  could  not  avoid  perceiving. 
She  was  a  superior  woman — he  was  only  an  ordinary  man, 
but  one  in  whom  all  kind  elements  were  so  happily  blended, 
that  his  faults  were  forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
better  qualities.  The  great  difference  iu  their  characters 
was,  that  Edward  acted  invariably  from  impulse — Agnes 
from  principle. 

My  friends  will  remember  that  my  little  tale  commenced 
in  the  gentle  month  of  April,  the  kindly  season  sung  of  by 
the  elegant  Surry  as — 

"  The  suote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings. 
With  grerie  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale  ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings. 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale." 

And,  passing  over  the  two  first  months  of  summer,  I 
come  to  the  latter  end  of  July.  Stating  at  the  same  time, 
that  though  nothing  had  occurred  of  a  nature  to  destroy  the 
actual  quiet  of  our  Mosspit  family,  yet  a  great  many  name- 
less events  had  filled  the  mind  of  Agnes  with  an  apprehen- 
sion which  she  could  not  account  for,  and  dreaded  to 
encourage.  Harry  Hinton  was  always  so  cooly  received 
by  her  that  he  spent  very  little  time  at  their  cottage;  and 
Agnes  was  continually  oh  the  watch  to  prevent  any  intimacy 
between  Jessy  and  their  idle  neighbour.  Still  it  was 
almost  certain  that  the  thoughtless  girl  regarded  Harry 
with  any  thing  but  indifi'erence;  and  the  proximity  of 
their  dwellings  rendered  it  impossible  to  prevent  their 
meeting.  If  Jessy  took  her  little  nephew  into  the  garden, 
Hinton  was  most  likely  in  his;  if  she  stood  at  the  door, 
Hinton  passed  it;  if  she  went  for  water  to  the  well,  Hinton 
would  carry  the  pitcher,  at  all  events  as  far  as  the  great 
tree  that  shaded  them  from  observation  ;  and,  above  all, 
Agnes  could  not  make  either  her  husband  or  her  sister 
think  otherwise  than  well  of  Harry  Hinton.  Edward  did 
not  spend  his  evenings  as  constantly  at  home  as  before  his 
acquaintance  with  his  neighbour ;  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford 
complained  that  her  grapes  were  not  so  fine  as  they  had 
been ;  and  the  clergyman  called  one  morning  to  reprimand 
her  husband  for  being  absent  from  Sabbath  worship. 
Agnes  witnessed  the  reproof,  and  heard  also — what  shocked 
her  still  more — her  Edward  utter  a  decided  falsehood  as  to 
the  cause.  She  knew  that  he  had  gone  with  Hinton, 
under  some  pretext  or  other,  two  successive  Sundays  to  the 


next  market^town;  and  when  he  stated  he  had  been 
compelled,  through  the  negligence  of  the  under-gardener, 
to  remain  at  the  Manor  while  he  should  have  been  at 
church,  his  wife's  face  was  suffused  with  the  blush  of  shame, 
and  she  left  their  little  sitting-room  with  a  sense  of  degra- 
dation both  new  and  insupportable  to  a  mind  like  hers. 
Tue  bed-room  into  which  she  retired  was  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  her  child,  who  hourly  improved  in  strength 
and  beauty,  was  sleeping  silently  on  the  snowy  coverlet. 
The  open  window  was  literally  curtained  with  roses  and 
woodbine,  through  which  the  sunbeams  could  not  penetrate  ; 
her  fingers  wandered  amid  their  foliage,  while  her  tearful 
gaze  was  fixed  upon  her  boy ;  and  she  started  as  from  a 
dream  when  the  clear  merry  laugh  of  Jessy  rang  upon  her 
ear  :  it  did  not  harmonize  with  her  feelings,  and  it  was 
followed  by  words  still  more  painful. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,  Jessy;   your 

sister  is  too  much  occupied  with  the  parson  to  heed  you  just 

now ;  and  I  long  for  the  time  that  will  make  you  mine,  and 

remove  you  from  her  tyranny." 

"  Agnes  is  no  tyrant,  Harry,"  replied  the  maiden,  "only 

a  little  strict ;  and  I  wish  you  would  let  me  tell  her " 

"  What  ?'*  enquired  Hinton,  after  waiting  for  some  time 
the  conclusion  of  Jessy's  speech — "  What  do  you  want  to 
tell  her  ? — that  I'm  your  lover  ? — why,  silly  lass,  she 
knows  that  already  !" 

"  Not  that,  exactly,  but — " 

"  But,  what  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  her  what  you  think  of  our  laws, 
and  of  the  rights  of  men  and  women  ;  and  about  that  good 
gentleman,  in  London,  who  proves  we  are  all  equal, 
and — " 

"  That  you  have  as  good  a  right  to  wear  satin  and  gold, 
and  ride  in  a  coach,  as  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford  herself;  but 
Agnes  would  not  believe  you,  Jessy,  her  mind  is  not 
comprehensive  like  yours." 

*'  Oh,  Harry — Harry  !"  exclaimed  the  thoughtless  girl, 
to  the  conclusion  of  her  lover's  speech;  "how  nice 
I  should  look  in  white  satin  and  French  curls !  It  is  very 
hard  that  Agnes  will  persist  in  making  me  band  my  hair 
like  a  Methodist ;  but  I  cannot  think  I  have  as  good  a 
right  to  ride  in  a  coach  as  Mrs.  Wallingford;  because,  you 
know,  all  her  relations  keep  carriages — and  mine — " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished;  but  Hinton  soon 
satisfied  her  scruples,  as  to  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford  and  the 
carriage,  by  an  encomium  on  her  beauty,  a  reiterated 
assurance  of  what  he  termed  love,  and  a  present  which,  first 
having  received — secondly,  having  admired — thirdly,  and 
lastly,  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with. 

"  I  don't  think  Agnes  would  let  me  wear  such  a  beauti- 
ful brooch  ;  and  I  am  sur-s  she  would  not  nermit  me  to  take 
a  present  from  you,  Harry." 

"  You  need  not  say  any  thing  about  it" 

"  But  Agnes  might  see  it." 


117 


"  Then  tell  her  you  found  it!" 

Breathlessly  did  Agnes  Hoskins  wait  for  the  reply,  but 
she  heard  it  not — the  lovers  had  passed  the  window  and 
walked  on.  Almost  on  the  instant  her  husband  entered 
the  room,  with  an  air  of  boisterous  gaiety,  and,  as  if  he  had 
quite  forgotten  the  clergyman's  visit,  rallied  his  wife  upon 
the  seriousness  of  her  looks  ;  she  felt  too  much,  and  too 
deeply,  to  reply  even  with  her  usual  smile.  He  took  no 
notice  of  her  change  of  manner — probably  from  a  wish  to 
avoid  a  recurrence  to  what  he  knew  must  have  given  her 
much  pain — but  fondled  and  kissed  his  child,  and,  taking  it 
in  his  arms,  was  leaving  the  apartment,  when  Jessy 
quickly  passed  the  door.  "Stay,  Edward:  sister,  come 
here  !"  exclaimed  Agnes.  Jessy  did  come,  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  a  downcast  eye, 

"  What  have  you  this  moment  put  into  your  bosom  ?" 
enquired  Agnes  ;  adding,  without  waiting  for  a  reply, 
"  I  will  not  oblige  you  to  utter  the  falsehood  you  have  been 
directed  to^where  is  the  brooch  that  young  Hinton  gave 
you  but  now  under  this  window  ?  You  tremble — you  turn 
pale  ;  Jessy,  my  sister  Jessy! — when  you  crouched  beside 
the  heather  and  the  harebell  at  our  father's  feet,  while  the 
sun  was  sinking  amid  the  hills  of  our  own  Scotland — there, 
at  the  cottage-door,  when  our  aged  parent  taught  you  to  lift 
up  your  then  innocent  hands  to  the  Almighty  in  prayer 
and  praise — I  little  thought  you  would  have  so  soon 
forgotten  his  precept !" 

The  thoughtless  girl  burst  into  tears,  and  Edward,  whose 
good-nature  was  an  active  not  a  passive  quality,  kindly 
took  her  hand,  and  looked  at  his  wife — "  Do  not  be  so 
angry,  Agnes,  at  her  receiving  a  love-token;  Harry  meant 
no  harm — that  I'll  answer  for ;  surely  if  he  is  to  be  her 
husband — " 

"  Her  husband  !"  repeated  Agnes,  with  an  energy  that 
startled  both  Edward  and  Jessy ; — •'  the  husband  of  Jessy 
Grey !  I  would  rather  shroud  her  for  her  coffin  than  see 
her  married  to  a  man  devoid  of  religious  and  moral 
principle." 

You  are  strangely  prejudiced  against  poor  Harry,  and  a 
thousand  times  more  Methodistical  than  ever,  Agnes," 
observed  her  husband. 

"I  am  not  Methodistical,  Edward — I  am  not  changed — 
it  is  you  who  think  differently ;  and,  as  the  change  has 
marred  our  happiness,  you  cannot  wonder  at  my  disliking 
him  who  has  wrought  it.  You  were  independent,  industri- 
ous, and  happy  ;  you  talk  of  the  wealth  of  your  superiors  ; 
you  say  it  is  wrong  for  them  to  possess  so  much,  and  yet 
you  covet  more  ;  Edward,  now  you  seldom  smile — or  smile 
80  that  1  would  rather  see  you  weep ;  if  you  attend  the 
village  church  your  eyes  and  mind  wander  from  your 
devotions,  and  you  rejoice  at  the  conclusion  of  the  service. 
The  flowers  in  our  garden  are  neglected — " 

"Stop,  Agnes  !"  interrupted  Hoskins,  "  you  have  lectur- 
ed me  pretty  sharply,  I  think,  for  nothing  !    have  I  ever 


suffered  you  to  want? — have  I  ever  treated  you  unkindly  ?'* 
"  Oh,  no ! — no  Edward,  not  unkindly — not  that  yet." 
"  Nor  ever  will,  my  own  Agnes  !  I  will  be  more  with  you^ 
and  show  you  how  much  you  have  wronged  me,   and  Jessy 
too,  by  these  misunderstandings." 

"  I  will  speak  to  my  sister  apart,  Edward — give  her  the 
infant — there  Jessy,  do  not  weep." 

Jessy  left  the  room  in  tears.  "  Now,  in  truth,  Agnes," 
said  Hoskins,  when  the  door  was  closed,  "  your  prejudices 
are  amazing  to  me  ;  there  is  not  a  better-hearted  fellow 
in  the  world  than  Harry,  or  a  more  clever — I  own  that  he 
thinks  a  little  too  freely,  and  you  women  don't  understand 
that :  the  people  are  improving." 

"  Would,"'  ejaculated  Agnes,  "  that  they  felt  Christianity 
to  be  their  best  legacy,  and  inherited  the  virtue  of  their 
ancestors !" 

"  The  very  thing  Harry  says  ;  he  vows  the  landlords  grow 
worse  and  worse  ;  and  unless  the  people  take  them  in  hand 
there'll  be  no  end  to  their  tyranny  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  experience  any  tyranny,  Edward  ?" 
"Never,  Agnes," 
"  Did  Hinton  ?" 

"  No — but  yes  he  did,  poor  fellow,  and  that  no  later  than 
last  week.  'Squire  Nicol's  fox-hounds  and  the  whole  hunt 
went  right  through  his  barley;  but  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it 
—when  he  lived  near  Chester,  his  sister  ran  off  with  and 
was  deserted  by  his  landlord's  eldest  son." 

"  lam  not  surprised  at  that,"  replied  Agnes,  coolly,  "if  he 
instructed  his  sister  in  the  principles  of  equality,  the  rights 
of  women,  and  Mr.  Owen's  Morality.  She  only  practiced 
what  he  preached.'' 

Agnes  then  proceeded  to  state  to  her  husband  the  conver- 
sation that  had  passed  between  Jessy  and  Harry  Hinton ;  but 
in  natural  and  forcible  colours  she  pourtrayed  the  danger  of  his 
principles,  aided  by  his  insinuating  manners,  and  conclud- 
ed with  a  request  that  Edward  would  at  once  relinquish  so 
dangerous  an  acquaintance.  Hoskins  was  much  shocked 
at  the  idea  that  Hinton  should  have  breathed  such  notions 
into  the  ear  of  the  innocent  girl,  whom  he  loved  witb  all 
the  warmth  of  brotherly  affection  ;  he  promised  his  wife  that 
he  would  speak  seriously  to  him  on  the  subject,  and  unite 
with  her  in  endeavouring  to  break  off  his  connexion  with 
Jessy  Grey,  whom  Agnesd  eclared  she  would  send  on  a 
visit  to  an  aged  relative  of  her  friend  Mrs,  Middleton,  who 
dwelt  near  the  Scottish  border, 

"  I  think  your  plan  is  best ;  absence  and  time  will  soon 
put  love  out  of  her  head,"  observed  Edward. 

"  It  may  do  so,  and  I  hope  it  most  fervently,"  was  the 
wife's  reply — and  again  she  entreated  her  husband,  even 
with  tears,  to  avoid  Hinton, 

"  I  promise  you  faithfuily  so  much,  Agnes ;  but  circum- 
stances,  which  I  cannot  explain,  will  oblige  me  to  see  him 
occasionally ;  in  fact,  I  am  in  his  secrets,  and  it  would  be 
ungenerous  to  desert  him  when  I  know  my  friendship  is  of 


i   8 


value  to  him;  he  may  judge  wrongly,  at  times;  but  I 
know  him  to  be  both  clever,  and  as  good-hearted  a  fellow 
as  ever  lived." 

Agnes  shook  her  head,  unbelievingly,  at  the  refuge  of 
good-heartedness,  under  which  such  a  multitude  of  sins 
shelter;  and  pleased  at  having,  as  she  hoped,  lessened  his 
influence  over  her  husband,  and  resolved  upon  a  plan  of 
action  with  her  sister,  she  wisely  for  a  time  forbore  any 
allusion  to  what  at  first  so  bitterly  grieved  her — Edward's 
deviation  from  truth. 

Heavy  were  the  tears  of  Jessy  when  told  that  she  must 
leave  Mosspits  for  a  season,  and  her  sister  refused  to  tell 
her  destination.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  Harry  Hinton 
speak  on  the  subject  to  Edward  Hoskins.  But  Edward 
firmly  told  him  in  that  matter  he  would  not  interfere ; 
Jessy  was  his  wife's  sister,  and  consequently  Agnes  had 
the  best  right  to  determine  how  she  was  to  be  situated. 
"  My  wife  says,"  he  continued,  "  that  when  Jessy  comes 
of  age  she  may  do  as  she  pleases,  but  till  then  she  will  act 
towards  her  as  her  father  would  have  done  had  he  lived  till 
now." 

Hinton  made  no  reply,  and  turned  moodily  away,  mut- 
tering curses,  not  loud  but  deep.  Agnes,  almost  immedi- 
ately after,  journeyed  to  London,  and  placed  Jessy  under 
the  care  of  a  respectable  female  of  her  acquaintance  who 
was  going  to  Berwick.  It  was  not  without  many  tears 
that  the  sisters  parted :  tears  of  reproachfulness  and  sorrow, 
on  the  one  side,  and  of  affection  and  anxiety  on  the  other 
When  Agnes  returned,  in  the  evening,  to  her  cotteige,  she 
felt  it  very  desolate;  a  strange  girl,  whom  she  had  hired 
for  the  purpose,  was  nursing  her  little  boy.  No  Jessy's 
light  step  and  gay  smile  welcomed  her  as  in  former  times  ; 
and  Edward  was  not  at  home — not  come  in — had  not  been 
home  to  dinner,  nor  to  tea.  She  took  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  seated  herself  on  a  little  mound  in  the  meadoflr  that 
overlooked  the  high  road  ;  it  was  early  autumn,  and  troops 
of  merry  reapers  passed  from  time  to  time,  beguiling  the 
way  with  song  and  noisy  laughter ;  her  boy  sat  on  her  knee, 
twisting  the  tough  stems  of  the  corn-flower  into  what  he 
lispiugly  called  "  posy,"  and,  ever  and  anon,  pointing, 
with  infant  wonder,  at  the  happy  groups  hastening  to  their 
quiet  homes.  Gradually,  the  passengers  became  fewer  in 
number,  the  voices  died  away  upon  the  hill,  one  by  one 
the  stars  came  forth  in  the  blue  heavens,  and  no  note,  save 
the  creaking  of  the  rail,  disturbed  the  tranquillity  that  was 
covering  the  earth  as  with  a  mantle.  The  Mosspit  cottages, 
nesting  in  their  little  dell,  looked  the  very  abode  of  cheer- 
fulness; and  lights  twinkled  from  two  or  three  of  the  small- 
paned  windows,  showing  that  the  dames  within  were  busy 
with  their  small  housewifery.  The  eyes  of  Agnes  had  res- 
ted for  some  moments  upon  the  scene,  when  her  boy's 
gestures  drew  her  attention  towards  the  road.  She  was 
somewhat  surprised  at  observing  a  woman  whose  tattered 
dress  and  red  cloak  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  gipsy, 


forcing  her  way  through  the  hedge,  approaching  her  at  an 
uneven  but  hurried  pace.  If  she  had  been  struck  by  her 
boldness,  her  attention  was  riveted  by  the  expression  of  her 
wild  and  restless  eye,  which  both  watched  and  wandered. 
She  appeared  young,  and,  perhaps,  under  other  circumstan- 
ces, would  have  been  called  pretty :  her  figure  was  slight, 
and  her  hair,  of  a  light  auburn,  fell  in  profuse  but  unar- 
ranged  tresses  over  her  face.  She  was  without  shoes,  and  the 
blood  streamed  from  a  wound  in  her  foot  so  as  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  little  boy,  who  pointed  to  it  with  one  hand, 
while  he  wound  his  arm  tightly  round  his  mother's  neck. 

"You  did  wrong  to  trespass,  young  woman,"  said  Agnes 
mildly,  while  the  stranger  stood  gazing  upon  her  with  a 
peculiar  and  bewildered  look — "  you  did  wrong  to  tres- 
pass— but  you  have  been  sufficiently  punished  :  wrap  this 
handkerchief  round  your  foot,  and  if  you  will  follow  me  td 
the  cottage  I  will  give  you  a  pair  of  old  shoesto  protect  you." 

The  woman  did  not  accept  the  offered  handkerchief,  but, 
still  staring  at  Mrs,  Hoskins,  who  had  risen  from  her 
grassy  seat,  at  last  said,  "  Do  you  want  your  fortune 
told?" 

"  No,"  replied  Agnes,  "  and,  false  as  the  art  is,  you  have 
no  pretention  to  it — you  are  not  even  a  gipsy." 

"  You  say  truly,"  replied  the  girl ;  "  I  am  not  a  gipsy  ; 
and  yet  I  could  tell  much  that  will  happen  to  you — you 
must  be  the  married  one — where's  the  other  ?" 

"If  you  mean  my  sister,"  replied  Agnes,  "she  has  left 
England." 

'•  Left  England  ! — left  England  !"  repeated  the  young 
woman,  jumping  and  clapping  her  hands — "  gone  away 
from" — then  suddenly  changing  the  joyful  tone  in  which 
she  had  spoken,  added — "  But  not  of  her  own  accord — not 
of  her  own  accord — no  girl  would  leave  him  of  her  own  ac- 
cord." 

Agnes  looked  upon  her  with  astonishment,  and  the  sus- 
picion  that  the  poor  wanderer  was  a  maniac  occurred  so 
forcibly  to  her  mind  that  she  held  her  child  closely  to  her 
bosom,  and  commenced  returning  to  the  Mosspits. 

"  Stop,  Agnes  Hoskins,  stop! — you  sent  Aer  away,  and 
I  would  bless  you  if  I  know  how — but  I  cannot  remember 
the  words,"  She  paused,  pressed  her  soiled  but  delicate 
fingers  to  her  brow,  and  sighed  so  deeply  that  Mrs. 
Hoskins  could  not  have  said  an  unkind  word  to  her  for 
worlds. 

"  He  will  be  returning,  soon  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  at 
last,  in  a  hurried  tone  :  "  but  look  you  to  her  husband — 
may-be  you  love  him;  and  it  is  very  sad,  as  the  song  says, 

'  To  love — and  love  for  ever,' 

and  then  to  find  your  lover  go  away  just  like  the  down  off 
the  thistle — and  may- be  for  as  light  a  breath  !  Well, 
keep  him  from  Hairy,  or  the  curse  will  oversnadow  you; 
for  I  was  as  blithe  and  as  happy  as  a  nightingale  till  I  kept 


119 


r 


his  company — not  but  what  I'm  gay  enough  still, — only  I 
don't  ever  feel  peaceful  here  (laying  her  hand  on  her 
heart),— .yes,  Jane  is  gay  enough  still,  and  does  his  bid- 
ding too,  as  well  as  if  he  loved  her  ;  only  I  must  not  tell 
because  it  would  get  Harry  into  trouble,  that  I  dance  round 
the  burning  ricks."  She  approached  closely  to  Mrs.  Hos- 
kins  while  uttering  the  last  sentence,  which  she  pronounced 
slowly,  and  in  an  under-tone. 

An  allusion  to  a  circumstance  that  had  excited  so  much 
terror  throughout  the  country,  and  made  every  one  look 
with  alarm  to  his  own  homestead,  caused  an  involuntary 
shudder  to  pass  over  the  frame  of  Agnes.  The  wild  girl 
skrieked,  and  clasped  her  hand  on  her  mouth ;  then,  without 
uttering  another  sentence,  retreated  rapidly  across  the 
meadow.  She  had  not,  however,  reached  the  spot  where 
she  entered,  ere  she  retraced  her  steps  with  visible  agitation. 

"  They  are  coming,"  said  she,  "  if  he  sees  me  here  he 
will  murder  me  outright ;  do— do,  just  let  me  hide  in  your 
house  till  he  goes  to  his  own,  and  then  1  can  go — for  it 
will  be  dark,  dark  night,  then." 

The  poor  creature  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and, 
before  Agnes  had  time  to  reply,  had  not  only  established 
herself  in  the  cottage,  but  coiled  herself  into  an  inconceiva- 
bly small  space  in  a  cupboard  that  opened  into  a  little 
passage.  Edward  Hoskins  and  Harry  Hinton  were  soon 
upon  the  green  that  fronted  the  cottage,  and  the  flush- 
ed cheek  and  loud  laughter  of  her  husband  told  Agnes,  but 
too  plainly,  he  was  intoxicated.  Her  first  feeling  was  that 
of  anger  and  disgust — her  second  brought  the  excuse, 
"  it  is  not  often  thus  with  him ;"  though  she  could  not  but 
acknowledge,  what  every  woman  so  circumstanced  must 
feel,  that  each  time  she  so  beholds  her  husband  must  lessen 
her  respect — and,  without  that,  woman's  love  for  man  is 
little  worth. 

"  Well,  Agnes — pale,  pensive,  as  usual !  he  exclaimed, 
as,  notwithstanding  his  situation,  she  had  advanced  to  the 
door  to  meet  him.  "  Wont  you  wish  Harry  good-night  ?" 
"  I  am  always  to  suffer  in  Mrs.  Hoskins's  opinion,  1  fear, 
although  I  hurried  her  husband  home.  We  saw  some  gipsies 
about,  amd  I  said  they  might  frighten  you" — he  added, 
drawing  nearly  to  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  peering 
into  her  face  with  his  small  grey  eye,  which  she  used  to 
characterise  as  "cold,"  but  which  now  appeared  illumined 
by  some  secret  fire — "  did  not  you  see  any  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Agnes,  without  shrinking  from  his  gaze  ; 
•'  many  persons  passed  on  their  way,  but  I  did  not  recog- 
nize any  as  gipsies."  Her  self-possession,  doubtless, 
disarmed  the  querist— for,  wishing  her  courteously  good- 
night, he  entered  his  cottage,  and  seemed  determined  to 
shut  out  intruders,  by  carefully  barring  doors  and  windows. 

"  So  you  saw  poor  Jessy  ofiE,  my  love  ?"  exclaimed 
Hoskius,  throwing  himself  on  the  chairs  that  stood  near  the 
table.  "  Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  look  so  calm  and  quiet 
— I  know  what  you  think — but  I  am  sober — not  quite  cool 


perhaps — but  sober — sober  as  a  judge.  Why  should'ntlbe 
a  judge  ?  Well,  if  I  am  not  wise  enough  for  a  judge,  you 
are  for  a  judgess — though  you  are  not  always  right ;  now 
you  were  wrong  about  Hinton,  for  he'd  have  made  a  good 
husband  for  Jessy — only,  as  I  said,  she's  your  sister,  not 
mine  ;  so  you've  had  your  own  way — banished  your  sister, 
and  smashed  that  poor  fellow's  heart  all  to  pieces.  But  the 
coach  must  have  come  very  quickly  ;  I  did  not  think  you 
could  have  been  home  these  two  hours.  Give  me  the  boy, 
Agnes,  I  have  not  had  a  kiss  from  either  of  you  since  I 
returned." 

Agnes  held  the  child  towards  him,  but — whether  it  was 
that  the  little  fellow  retained  a  remembrance  of  the  bleed- 
ing foot  and  the  red  cloak,  or  that  he  felt  the  antipathy  of 
childhood  to  the  smell  of  spirits,  I  cannot  determine — he 
shrunk  from  his  father,  and  hid  his  face  on  his  mother's 
bosom.  Edward  grew  angry,  and  forcibly  disengaged  the 
boy,  who  screamed  more  loudly,  "  mamma — mamma  !' 

"  Take  the  brat !  ejaculated  the  father,  with  an  oath, 
at  the  same  moment  throning  him  with  violence  to  Agnes — 
"  take  the  brat;  but  I  tell  you  that,  whatever  you  may  do, 
my  own  child  shan't  thwart  me  ;  this  is  what  comes  of  its 
having  an  aristocratic  godmother;  it  already  thinks  my 
hands  too  rough  to  hold  it,  I  suppose,!" 

A  silly  woman — nay,  a  woman  with  a  moderate  share  of 
good  sense,  as  it  is  called,  would  have  replied  to  this,  and  high 
words  would  have  ensued,  and  seeds  of  bitterness  therewith 
been  sown  :  but  Agnes  was  a  superior  woman ;  so,  without 
uttering  a  syllable,  without  suffering  an  unkind  word  or 
gesture  to  escape,  she  took  the  screaming  infant  out  of  the 
room,  gave  it  into  the  arms  of  the  little  serving-maiden, 
and,  having  wiped  those  eyes  to  which  uubidden  tears  had 
started,  and  offered  up  a  silent  but  fervent  prayer  to  the 
throne  of  God  for  wisdom  to  form  and  strength  to  persist  in 
her  good  resolves,  she  returned  to  prepare  her  husband's 
supper  with  her  own  hands. 

When  Agnes  had  seen  Edward  to  bed,  she  went  to  seek 
the  poor  wanderer,  who  had  sheltered  in  the  cupboard  ; 
but  the  girl  was  gone — how,  it  was  difficult  to  conjecture, 
unless  she  had  let  herself  down  from  the  bed-room  window, 
which  appeared  partially  open.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  Agnes  was  one  of  those  women  who  "  humour"  a 
husband  in  his  faults,  asserting,  with  a  mock  amiability 
the  sincerity  of  which  I  always  doubt),  that  they  "  have 
no  right  to  oppose  him  in  his  little  ways."  A  woman 
possessing  a  great  and  well-cultivated  mind  will  be  anxious 
that  her  husband  shall  both  be  and  appear  perfection,  and 
she  will  watch  for  a  fitting  opportunity  to  point  out,  with 
gentleness  and  humility,  whatever  his  better  judgment,  if 
exercised,  would  also  declare  wrong.  Agnes  knew  that  it 
was  not  when  he  was  intoxicated  that  she  ought  to  say  a 
word  calculated  to  add  fuel  to  the  flame,  but  her  resolution 
was  no  less  decidedly  taken  to  combat,  with  her  gentle 
strength,  the  growing  evil. 


i-0 


The  next  morning  Edward  was  very  penitent,  and  for  an 
entire  week  there  was  no  recurrence  of  the  same  fault ;  but 
the  evil  did  continue ;  and,  with  anguish  which  only  a  wife 
so  circumstanced  can  feel  or  understand,  Agnes  saw  that 
her  influence  and  happiness  were  both  decaying ;  the 
«erpent-coil  was  round  and  round  her  husband,  and  each 
day  added  to  its  closeness  and  to  its  strength  ;  she  prayed, 
she  wept,  she  entreated  ;  and  sometimes  Edward  himself 
would  seem  bitterly  to  feel  his  weakness  and  vow  to  amend 
it;  but  Hinton  had  attained  that  command  over  him  which 
the  powerful  mind  possesses  over  the  weaker;  and  his  duty, 
his  business,  were  neglected  for  the  society  of  him  he 
termed  his  friend.  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford  called  herself 
upon  Agnes,  and  told  her  that  unless  Edward  paid  more 
attention  to  her  affairs,  however  unwillingly,  she  should  be 
obliged  to  get  some  one  else  to  act  as  steward  and  gardener; 
the  suffering  wife  assured  the  lady  that  she  would  do  her 
utmost  to  correct  his  habits,  of  which  she  refrained  from 
complaining.  Mrs.  Wallingford,  to  say  the  truth,  felt 
sincere  sorrow  for  the  altered  looks  of  her  protegee,  and 
said  many  kind  and  complimentary  things  to  Agnes  on  the 
extreme  beauty  of  the  bud,  which  seemed  to  increase  in  the 
size  and  loveliness  in  proportion  to  the  fading  of  its  parent 
flower. 

Mrs.  Wallingford  had  hardly  departed  when  Agnes  re- 
ceived the  following  letter  :— 


'Berwick,  Nor.  23. 


"  My  Dsar  Friend, 


"  It  is  with  very  sincere  sorrow  1  inform  you  that  last  night, 
without  any  reason  that  1  can  discover,  your  sister  left  my  house  ; 
and  all  attempts  to  trace  her,  during  the  day,  have  been  ineflfec- 
tual ;  lately  she  manifested  a  great  uneasiness  and  restlessness  of 
disposition,  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  combat ;  perhaps  she  hjis 
returned  to  you ;  let  me  hear  immediately  ;  and,  praying  to  the 
Almighty  to  preserve  you  and  yours  in  peace  and  happiness, 

"  Believe  me  your  truly  affectionate 

"  T.  MlDDLETON." 


Agnes  sat,  with  the  open  letter  in  her  hand,  more  like  a 
thing  of  marble  than  a  breathing  creature  ;  and  when  her 
husband  came  in  she  presented  it  to  him,  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

"  Hinton  knows  of  this,  Edward,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and 
must  be  spoken  to  on  the  subject." 

"  Hinton  knows  no  more  of  it  than  you  do;  how  could 
he  ?  To  my  certain  knowledge  he  has  never  been  one  day 
or  night  from  home  since  she  left,  and  how  could  he  get  to 
Berwick  and  back  in  that  time,  think  you  ?  Poor  Jessy  ! 
it  would  have  been  better  she  had  married  Hinton  than  ran 
off  with  no  one  knows  who;  indeed,  Agnes,  you  were  wrong 
in  sending  her  from  us ;  but  troubles  never  come  alone — 


the  last  frost  has  got  into  the  pinery,  and  Mrs.  Cecil 
Wallingford  says  it's  my  fault ;  that  proud  lady  must  alter 
her  tone,  or  she'll  get  served  out  like  her  neighbours- 
there  are  ways  of  bringing  fine  people  down — Mr.  Flyhill's 
barns  and  kennel  were  burned  last  night." 

"  What  awful  times'"  ejaculated  Agnes;  "  but  I  know 
you  better,  Edward,  than  to  believe  you  would  ever  approve 
of  such  dreadful  doings  ;  you  know  your  duty  to  your  God, 
your  country,  and  your  neighbour;  and  nothing,  I  am  sure, 
would  ever  induce  you  to  act  contrary  to  it.     But  as  to 

Hinton,  I  believe  he  is  engaged  in  these  horrid  acts nay, 

Edward,  you  cannot  deceive  me,  I  have  combated  your  ex- 
traordinary infatuation  in  his  favour  by  every  means  in  my 
poor  power — you  will  not  hear  me,  Edward;  you  are  deaf 
and  blind  as  regards  that  evil  man;  and  nothing  now  is 
left  for  me,  but  to  weep  and  pray  in  solitude  and  silence- 
to  pray  for  you,  my  own  dear  and  beloved  husband,  that 
God  may  lead  you  to  see  the  error  of  your  ways,  and  con- 
duct you  again  into  the  right  path  !" 

Edward  kissed  her  brow,  as  it  rested  on  her  hands,  in 
silence,  and  almost  with  the  love  of  by-gone  days.  That 
religion  which  he  had  once  considered  her  brightest  orna- 
ment he  now  called  "the  weak  point  of  her  character," 
and  thought  he  was  doing  what  was  very  praiseworthy  in 
bearing  with  it  so  quietly.  He  immediately  wrote  to  some 
friends  in  Scotland,  about  Jessy,  and  applied  to  the  nearest 
magistrate  to  know  what  means  it  would  be  necessary  to 
adopt  to  trace  out  the  lost  and  unfortunate  girl.  Hinton 
protested  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter — swore  by  all 
that  was  sacred  he  had  never  heard  from  her  since  she  left 
MoBspits — but  failed  in  convincing  Agnes  of  the  truth  of 
one  word  he  uttered. 

'•  You  have  studied  the  character  of  St.  Thomas,  at  all 
events,"  said  her  husband,  in  a  sneering  tone,  "and  taken 
a  lesson  in  unbelief." 

"  If  I  could  find  out  what  it  is  that  Hinton  believes  in, 
and  he  would  swear  by  it,  then  I  might  believe  him,"  re- 
plied Agnes  mildly. 

Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  passed,  and  no  tidings 
came  of  the  lost  Jessy.  Much  did  Agnes  wish  that  the 
wandering  girl,  whose  mysterious  prophecy  seemed  rapidly 
fulfilling,  would  again  flit  across  her  path;  and  often  did 
she  watch  the  highway,  hoping  yet  dreading  that  the  tat- 
tered cloak  and  light  form  of  the  strange  being  might  issue 
from  it  towards  Mosspits.  Although  Edward  was  more  and 
more  estranged  from  his  home,  he  thought  it  necessary  to 
apologise  occasionally  to  Agnes  for  his  absence:  ill  at  ease 
with  himself,  he  could  not  be  expected  to  be  kindly  towards 
others ;  and  she  felt  how  very  bitter  it  is  to  be  obliged  to 
take  the  cold  leaden  coin  of  civility,  in  lieu  of  the  pure 
and  glowing  gold  of  warm  affection.  It  is  utterly  impos- 
sible to  describe  how  the  alteration  in  a  cherished  and 
beloved  object  affects  her  who  loves  more  fondly  and 
fervently,  after  years  of  union,  than  she  did  when,  like  the 


121 


most  admirable  of  Shakspear's  heroines,  she  bestowed 
herself  at  the  holy  altar  to  the  one  being  almost  of  her 
idolatry,  wishing 

••  That  only  to  stand  high  on  his  account 

She  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends. 

Exceed  account." 

How  quickly  does  the  ear  note  if  the  voice  be  not  as 
tender  as  in  former  days  !  To  father — mother — friends — 
all  may  seem  unchanged ;  but  the  wife,  who  has  dwelt  upon 
every  look — who  knows,  as  it  were,  even  the  number  of 
rays  which  the  beloved  eye  throws  forth — painfully  sees 
and  feels  the  difference.  The  words,  perchance,  may  be 
as  kind;  but  their  tone  is  altered.  What  boots  it  to  her 
if  the  universe  views  her  with  admiration — if  the  wealth  of 
nations  be  piled  at  her  feet!  He  is  changed  That 
consciousness  is  the  sword  which,  hanging  by  a  single  hair, 
threatens,  sooner  or  later,  her  destruction,  and  prevents  her 
enjoying  any  earthly  happiness  or  repose.  Not  only 
Edward,  however,  but  circumstances,  were  also  altering  at 
the  Mosspits.  The  disturbed  state  of  the  country  made 
each  person  suspicious  of  the  other ;  and,  as  the  winter 
advanced,  so  did  distress  progress.  In  the  neighbouring 
districts  workmen  of  all  trades  had  refused  to  take  employ- 
ment without  increased  wages ;  not  a  night  passed  but 
cattle  were  destroyed,  or  outhouses,  and  in  some  instances 
dwellings,  burned  to  the  ground.  Landlords  knew  not 
which  of  their  tenants  to  confide  in  ;  and  the  misery  was 
increased  by  soldiers  being  frequently  distributed  and 
stationed  where  the  people  absolutely  lacked  the  means  of 
supporting  themselves.  It  was  pretty  generally  rumoured 
that  Hinton  was  concerned  in  these  transactions,  though 
no  one  exactly  knew  how.  He  was  the  principal  leader  of 
a  debating-society  in  Mondrich,  which  had  the  misfortune 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  magistrate,  who  sought  to  put 
it  down  perhaps  by  measures  that  might  have  been  called 
violent.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  succeeded  ;  and  it  formed 
a  most  desirable  theme  for  the  disaffected  to  dwell  upon. 
Hoskins  grumbled  incessantly  at  the  magistrate's  *'  illegal" 
proceedings ;  and  Agnes  combated  his  arguments,  or 
rather  his  opinions,  in  vain.  Christmas,  that  tryting-time 
which  generally  brings  an  interchange  of  kindness  and 
social  feeling  amongst  all  classes  of  society  had  come  ;  and 
a  little  episode,  that  occurred  at  Mosspits,  will  at  once 
show  the  state  of  feeling  of  both  husband  and  wife.  They 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  exchanging  presents,  during 
preceding  years,  on  Chnstmas  day,  each  anxious  to  surprise 
the  other  with  some  more  peculiar  gift.  Christmas  eve, 
Edward  did  not  return  until  the  village  clock  had  chimed 
eleven,  and  then  he  went  sullenly  to  bed,  without  heeding 
the  little  preparations  that  Agnes  was  making  for  the 
approaching  festival.  She  was  alone ;  for,  finding  that  her 
husband's  habits  prevented  him  from   bringing  home  the 


produce  of  his  earnings,  she  had  wisely  parted  with  her 
little  servant,  considering  it  was  better  to  labour  with  her 
own  hands  than  to  incur  debt.  "  And,"  said  she  meekly, 
when  communing  with  her  own  thoughts,  "if  he  will  be 
extravagant,  the  more  necessity  is  there  for  my  being 
economical." 

Hoskins  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  the  sweet 
kisses  of  his  boy,  while  his  wife,  leaning  over  his  bedside, 
prayed  that  he  might  enjoy  many  happy  returns  of  that 
holy  day. 

"  Say  we,  Agnes,"  interrupted  Edward,  "  say  we, 
God  knows,  whatever  happiness  I  enjoy,  you  ought  to  share; 
for  I  make  you  miserable  enough  at  times.  Will  you 
forgive  me  ?" 

The  words  were  spoken  in  the  tone  that  Agnes  so  loved, 
and,  unable  to  sustain  her  feelings,  she  flung  herself  upon 
her  husband's  bosom,  and  burst  into  tears. 

When  Edward,  dressed  in  his  best  suit,  was  preparing  to 
go  to  the  Manor,  his  wife  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and, 
encouraged  by  his  kindness,  in  the  gentlest  manner  reques- 
ted him  to  read  one,  only  one,  chapter  to  her,  before  he 
went  out — it  would  not  take  him  five  minutes.  He  com- 
plied with  a  tolerable  grace;  and,  when  he  finisned,  she 
took  a  small,  heart-shaped  brooch  from  her  bosom,  and, 
telling  him  that  it  contained  their  child's  hair,  fastened  it 
in  his  shirt. 

"  You  did  not  forget,  Agnes,  though  I  did,"  said  he  ; 
"but  I  will  bring  you  something  from  Mondrich,  where  I 
must  go  after  1  leave  the  Manor;  and  I  will  be  back  to 
dinner  at  two,  and  remain  with  you  all  the  evening." 

Edward  returned  at  the  appointed  time,  but  a  cloud  was 
on  his  brow;  he  hardly  partook  of  the  dinner  she  had 
prepared,  and  had  forgotten  the  customary  token.  As  the 
evening  was  closing  over  a  cold  and  snowy  landscape, 
"  Agnes,"  he  said,  "I  must  go.  I  thought  I  could  have 
spent  all  this  day  with  you  but  somthing  has  occurred 
which  must  prevent  it,  I  will,  however,  return  early,  and 
do  more  justice  to  your  excellent  cheer  at  supper  than  I 
have  been  able  to  do  at  dinner." 

Never  had  his  wife  felt  it  so  difficult  to  part  from  him. 
She  requested,  entreated ;  and  for  a  long  time  his  child 
clasped  its  hands  round  his  neck,  and  hung  by  his  knees 
even  as  he  approached  (he  door.  His  departing  footsteps 
smote  heavily  on  the  heart  of  the  affectionate  Agnes,  and, 
as  the  last  echo  died  upon  her  ear,  she  wept. 

When  eight  o'clock  came  she  looked  from  the  window  ; 
but  the  fog  was  so  intense  that  she  could  see  nothing  save 
the  fantastic  boughs  of  the  old  oak,  looking  more  like 
deepened  shadows  of  darkness  than  separate  or  distinct 
objects.  The  song  and  cheerful  laugh  rang  from  two  of 
the  neighbouring  cottages;  and  at  a  third  there  was  an 
assembly  of  dancing  rustics.  Agnes  thought  it  was  the 
first  time  the  happiness  of  others  had  increased  her  misery, 
and  she  hated  herself  for  the  selfish  feeling.     Nine,  ten, 


122 


eleven,  twelve  ! — Christmas  day  had  ended,  the  revellers 
had  sought  their  homes,  and  no  sound  was  heard  save  the 
rushing  of  the  storm  amid  the  branches,  whose  outlines 
were  now  lost  in  midnight  obscurity.  It  would  seem  that 
the  ancient  of  days  sturdily  withstood  the  tempest,  and 
groaned  heavily  from  the  exertion ;  the  old  rooks,  who  had 
made  it  their  habitation  for  ages,  cawed  their  complainings 
whenever  the  sweeping  of  the  mighty  blast  passed  on,  as 
if  to  remonstrate  with  the  mysterious  power  that  disturbed 
their  repose.  She  stood  at  the  little  window,  and  pressed 
her  forehead  against  the  glass,  that  its  coolness  might  be 
imparted  to  her  burning  brow.  Suddenly  she  thought  she 
perceived  streaks  of  light,  or  rather  (so  deeply  coloured 
were  they)  of  flame,  intersecting  the  darkness,  and  gradu- 
ally illuminating  the  distant  sky.  Before  she  had  time  to 
draw  any  conclusion  from  so  singular  an  appearance,  she 
started  back  with  horror  on  observing,  so  close  that  she 
almost  fancied  it  touched  her  cheek,  a  thin,  shadowy  hand, 
with  the  forefinger  curved,  as  if  beckoning  her  forward. 
Despite  her  self-possession,  she  trembled  violently,  and 
could  hardly  prevent  herself  from  shrieking  aloud,  when, 
she  saw  distinctly  a  white,  ghastly  face  pressed  to  the  glass 
that  separated  her  from  this  untimely  visiter.  A  sort  of 
hissing  and  exulting  whisper  now  came  upon  her  ear. 
"Don't  you  know  me,  Agnes  Hoskins  ? — don't  you  remem- 
ber Lady  Jane  ?  Come,  come  with  me,  and  see  how 
bright  the  Manor  is  this  gay  Christmas  night !"  A  horrid 
suspicion — too  horrid  to  be  entertained — flashed  across  her 
mind,  as  Agnes  undid  the  door ;  and,  before  the  half- 
crazed  girl  entered,  she  had  sunk  upon  a  chair,  and  with 
difficulty  retained  her  seat.  For  a  few  moments  she  could 
not  think ;  and  the  half-maniac,  with  that  feeling  of 
sympathy  which  rarely  deserts  a  woman,  looked  mourn- 
fully into  her  face.  At  length  her  eye  rested  on  a  flagon 
of  elderberry-wine  that  stood  upon  the  table  with  the 
untasted  supper ;  she  poured  out  a  large  glass  of  it,  and, 
curtseying  with  mock  solemnity  to  the  trembling  Agnes, 
said,  before  she  drank  it  ofi",  "  Health  to  you,  my  lady,  and 
a  merry  Christmas  ! — a  cellar  full,  a  byre  full,  and  plenty 
of  faggots  !  See,  see  !  they  blaze — they  blaze !"  she 
continued,  pointing  to  the  sky,  that  was  reddening  higher 
and  higher.  "  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  as  we  go 
how  that  will  be  the  last  fire  Harry  will  light  for  many  a 
day  !  He  must  have  other  darlings,  indeed  ! — but  now  he 
can  have  only  me,  for  none  of  his  dainty  dames  will  follow 
him  into  strange  lands — none  but  poor  Jane!  The  police 
have  him  by  this  time,  and  Hoskins  too ;  so  you'd  better 
go  and  bring  them  all  home  to  supper  1" 

"  Woman  !"  exclaimed  Agnes,  springing  as  in  mortal 
agony  from  her  chair,  "  what  do  you  say  ? — Hoskins — my 
Edward — my  husband  there — at  the  burning  of  Walling- 
ford  Manor !"  She  seized  the  girl  fiercely  by  the  arm, 
but  suddenly  her  grasp  relaxed,  and  she  fell  stiff  and  cold 
to   the   earth.     How  long  she  remained  tnere    she  was 


perfectly  unconscious  ;  but,  when  she  recovered,  her  frame 
felt  paralyzed,  the  air  was  bitter  and  piercing,  the  light 
was  extinguished,  and  all  around  was  utterlj^  utterly 
desolate.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  was  restored  to  the 
recollection  of  what  she  had  heard,  and  it  was  still  longer 
before  she  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  move,  or 
settle  upon  any  plan  of  action.  The  very  ticking  of  the 
clock — that  gentle,  domestic  sound — struck  heavily  and 
painfully  upon  her  brain  ;  and,  when  it  gave  warning  that 
another  hour  had  passed  into  eternity,  she  could  hardly 
believe  the  sense  was  correct  which  counted  four.  She  en- 
deavoured to  compose  her  mind  by  supplication,  and  the 
Lord's  Prayer  occurred  to  her  at  once.  She  repeated  the 
words,  until  she  arrived  at  the  sentence — ''  Deliver  us  from 
evil,"  when  the  full  consciousness  of  the  evil  that  was 
suspended  over  their  devoted  heads  prevented  her  finish- 
ing the  holy  and  beautiful  intercession.  She  arose  from 
her  knees,  and  groped  about  until  she  procured  a  light. 
She  then  endeavoured  to  arrange  her  plans.  Her  very 
soul  recoiled  from  the  dreadful  idea  that  Hoskins  had  any 
thing  to  do  at  the  burning  which  had  but  a  little  while  past 
streaked  the  everlasting  sky  with  tokens  of  the  wickedness 
of  man.  The  heavens  were  still  as  intensely  black  as  when 
first  she  had  pressed  her  burning  brow  against  the  small 
panes  of  the  cottage-window,  and  looked  earnestly  and 
hopingly  for  him  with  whom  her  heart  perpetually  dwelt. 

While  she  paused,  and  paused,  she  heard  the  sound  of 
distant  voices ;  footsteps  approached — not  her  husband's. 
Her  breath  came  short  and  thick,  and,  instead  of  passing 
from  between  her  unclosed  lips,  seemed  to  encrust  itself 
upon  her  tongue,  and  forbid  the  power  of  utterance.  Men 
— strangers,  entered  ;  one  she  had  seen — known — the 
sergeant  of  police.  He  respectfully  removed  his  hat, 
"  hoped  that  Mrs,  Hoskins  would  forgive  him  for  doing  his 
duty."  If  salvation  had  depended  on  it,  she  could  not 
speak ;  but  she  looked  in  his  face  with  so  despairing,  so 
imploring  a  gaze,  that  the  man  turned  from  her,  with 
more  emotion  than  could  be  expected  from  one  who  had 
often  witnessed  distress  in  so  many  forms.  When  at  last 
she  was  enabled  to  ask  a  few  questions,  the  answers  she 
received  confirmed  her  worst  fears.  The  out-offices  of 
Wallingford  Manor  had  been  set  on  fire ;  Hoskins, 
Hinton,  and  a  pedlar  of  the  name  of  Paul  Dodder,  had 
been  found  on  the  spot ;  and,  added  the  man,  "  the  Manor 
itself  must  have  taken  fire  had  we  not  received  intimation 
immediately  after  it  was  kindled — long  before  there  was 
any  appearance  to  indicate  such  rapid  destruction." 

The  party  then  proceeded  to  search  the  cottage,  but 
found  nothing  which  they  considered  necessary  to  remove. 
"Matters  may  turn  out  better  than  you  think  for,"  said  the 
man  kindly,  "  Can  I  take  any  message  to  your  husband 
— it  may  comfort  him,  for  he  seemed  sadly  put  out — 
stupified  like." 

"  I  will  go ! — no — my  child — I  will — I  must   wait  till 


i2<. 


morning  !  Tell  him  my  blessing — and  I  will  be  with  him 
to-morrow.  I  shall  find  him,  I  suppose,  in  the — "  Jail, 
she  would  have  said,  but  could  not  utter  the  hateful 
word. 

The  man  understood  her,  and  replied  "Yes," — the 
monosyllable  of  hope,  but,  in  this  instance,  the  herald  of 
despair.  They  then  departed,  and  went  to  Hinton's 
dwelling,  where  they  remained  much  longer.  The  ser- 
geant, with  real  good  feeling,  knocked  at  the  door  of  a 
respectable  resident  at  Mosspits,  whom  he  knew  was 
esteemed  by  Agnes — told  her  the  circumstances— and  the 
woman  needed  no  farther  intimation  to  hasten  to  one  whom 
she  both  loved  and  respected. 

When  she  entered  the  cottage,  Agnes  was  weeping  bit- 
terly over  her  unconscious  boy,  who,  despite  her  loud 
sobbings,  slept  as  calmly  as  if  the  very  breath  of  happiness 
had  hushed  his  slumbers.  She  extended  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Lee,  and  said,  in  broken  and  hardly  audible  tones,  "They 
will  point  at  that  innocent  child  when  we  are  both  dead, 
and  call  him,  in  bitter  mockery,  the  orphan  of  the  house- 
burnerl  And  wiio  has  brought  this  bitterness  upon  us? 
Pray  for  me,  Mrs.  Lee,  pray  for  me  I — I  cannot  pray  for 
myself  now!  Oh,  that  God  in  his  mercy  had  left  us 
childless,  and  then  I  might  have  borne  it !  Wicked  that  I 
am !     Will  he  not  be,  perhaps,  the  only  thing  on  earth  left 

me  to   love,   when — when "    She   pressed  her  hands 

firmly  on  her  temples,  and  her  friend  almost  feared  that 
the  violence  of  her  grief  would  destroy  her  reason.  The 
feelings  that  had  long  been  pent  up  within  her  own  bosom 
had  at  last  vented  themselves  both  in  words  and  tears,  and 
before  nine  o'clock  she  had  apparently  regained  much  of 
her  usual  serenity.  She  dressed  her  child,  who  added 
unconsciously  to  her  misery  by  perpetually  enquiring  tor 
"papa,"  and  placing  a  cup  and  chair  for  him  before  the 
untasted  breakfast.  She  then  summoned  resolution  to 
change  her  dress;  and,  tying  a  cottage-bonnet  closely 
over  her  face,  proceeded,  with  a  sorrowing  heart,  towards 
Mondrich. 

Mrs.  Lea  kindly  took  charge  of  the  little  boy ;  and  to  do 
justice  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottages,  not  one  but 
saluted  her  kindly  and  respectfully  as  she  passed. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Lea,  "she  has  borne  a  great 
deal  lately;  she  looks  now  ten  years  older  than  she  did 
this  time  twelvemonths." 

"Pm  truly  sorry  for  her,"  responded  Miss  Nancy 
Carter,  famous  for  clear-starching  and  scandal,  who  had 
come  on  purpose  to  Mosspits  to  find  out,  as  she  expressed 
it,  "  the  truth  of  every  thing."  "  Pm  truly  sorry  for  her; 
but  she  always  carried  her  head  very  high,  as  if  she  were 
better  than  a  servant,  forsooth !  Pm  very  sorrv  for  her 
for  all  that  \" 

"So  you  ought  to  be.  Miss  Nancy,  for  she  sent  you 
plenty  of  black-currant  jelly  when  you  had  a  sore  throat, 
last  winter,"  observed  Mrs.  Lee. 


"  Do  you   think  that  poor  Hoskins   will  get  off  wit 
transportation?"  persisted  Nancy. 

"  I  could  never  think  him  guilty  of  setting  fire  to 
Wallingford  Manor,  for  one,"  replied  the  kind  hearted 
Mrs.  Lee.  "He  was  on  the  spot,  I  suppose,  or  they  could 
not  have  taken  him  there  ;  but  I  am  certain  it  was  to  save, 
not  to  destroy." 

"  Well,  time  will  tell,"  said  the  gossip,  who,  finding 
that  Mrs.  Lee  was  charitablygiven,  thought  she  would  seek 
some  "kindred  soul"  with  which  to  communicate;  "Time 
will  tell;  only  what  did  he  want  with  seven  firebrands,  tied 
in  red  tape,  a  cask  of  powder,  and  three  mould  candles  ? 
You  may  smile  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Lee,  but  it's  true, 
every  word  of  it!  Three  mould  candles,  with  the  ends 
scorched,  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  wax-ends.  I  had  it 
from  the  very  best  authority,  for  Pd  scorn  to  say  any  thing 
without  a  good  foundation !"  and  off  walked  Miss  Nancy 
Carter. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  feelings  with 
which  Agnes  entered  that  abode  of  misery  called  a  county 
jail.  Snow  and  ice  had  accumulated  in  a  little  court  she 
had  to  cross,  to  such  a  degree  that  she  could  hardly  extri- 
cate her  feet  from  the  humid  mass.  As  the  rusty  key 
turned  in  its  lock,  she  clung  to  the  slimy  walls  for  support ; 
and.  when  the  door  was  thrown  open,  she  had  scarcely 
power  to  crawl  into  the  dismal  cell  where  her  husband  was 
confined.  Hoskins  sat  upon  a  low  bed.  which  evidently 
had  not  been  discomposed,  his  elbows  resting  upon  his 
knees,  and  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Agnes  could  not 
speak,  but  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and,  passing  her  arm 
round  his  neck,  endeavoured  to  draw  his  head  so  as  to 
rest  it  on  her  bosom.  He  shrank  from  the  touch,  and  a 
low  and  bitter  groan  was  the  only  reply  to  her  caresses. 

"  Keep  a  good  heart,  measter,"  said  the  jailor,  "  keep  a 
good  heart,  and  it  may  all  go  well.  Bless  ye  !  Measter 
Hinton  doesn't  get  on  so,  but  has  taken  something  to  keep 
life  in  him." 

No  answer  was  returned  to  this  consolatory  speech,  and 
the  man  left  them,  observing  that  they  must  not  remain 
more  than  two  hours  together. 

Not  many,  but  kind  and  tranquillizing,  were  the  words 
which  this  admirable  woman  breathed  into  her  husband's 
ear.  She  kissed  his  cold  and  clammy  hands,  and  tried, 
though  in  vain,  to  prevail  upon  him  to  taste  of  the  refresh- 
ments she  had  not  forgotten  to  bring  with  her.  For  a 
length  of  time  she  obtained  no  word  from  his  lips;  and  at 
last  she  sat  silently  gazing  on  him — as  the  mariner  who 
looks  upon  a  rock  close  to  his  native  home,  where  he 
sported  in  infancy,  and  formed  his  plans  of  future  greatness, 
but  which,  on  his  return  from  a  long  and  prosperous 
voyage,  with  the  harbour  in  view,  had  wrecked  his  vessel, 
and  consigned  his  all  to  destruction !  Silence  is  the 
nurse  of  sorrow :  Agnes  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 
heard  the  sound  of  his  voice;  and,  when  at  last  he   did 


124 


speak,  his  tone  was  so  fearfully  changed — so  hollow,  so 
agonized — that  she  could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  that  of  her 
own  Edward. 

"  I  deserve  this,  and  worse,  Agnes,"  he  said,  "  for  I 
have  cast  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty  far  from  me.  And 
you,  who  ought  to  curse  me,  to  find  you  thus !  Do  not 
touch  me,  Agnes.  I  could  bear  your  reproaches;  but  your 
kindness  scorches  my  very  heart.  Yet  Agnes,  I  solemnly 
call  God  to  witness,  that  I  am  innocent  of  any  participa- 
tion in  the  burning  of  Wallingford  Manor ;  I  cannot  now 
dwell  upon  it ;  but,  as  you  have  borne  much,  bear  yet  a 
little  more — bear  with  my  silence ;  but  believe  me  inno- 
cent of  any  participation  in  that  crime.  However  I  may 
be  otherwise  guilty  —  however  despicable — I  repeat 
that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  burning  at 
Wallingford." 

How  sweet  and  how  natural  is  it  to  believe  in  the 
innocence  of  those  we  love  !  Although  Agnes  well  remem- 
bered the  fearful  habit  of  falsehood  which  her  husband  had 
contracted — although  he  had  so  often  deceived  her — yet 
she  clung  to  the  belief  that  he  was  guiltless,  and  blessed 
God  for  it,  as  though  it  were  an  established  fact  in  the  eyes 
of  those  judges  before  whom  he  was  shortly  to  appear  as  a 
fettered  culprit,  whose  life  only  might  appease  the  offended 
laws  of  his  country. 

"Would  to  God  it  were  come — that  dreaded,  dreadful 
day!"  she  murmured,  in  her  cottage-solitude. 

It  was  now  nearly  three  weeks  since  her  first  interview 
with  her  husband  ;  a  slow,  consuming  fever  had  been 
preying  upon  her  strength,  and  utterly  prevented  her  using 
the  smallest  exertion,  or  crawling  to  his  prison.  The  kind 
neighbour,  Mrs.  Lee,  undertook  lo  visit  him  daily,  and  to 
see  that  all  his  wants  were  cared  far;  the  little  boy  was 
often  her  companion. 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  his  poor  motlier,  kissing  his  rosy 
cheek,  "  thank  God  that  he  is  too  young  to  remember  his 
father  in  a  prison !  Were  he  even  a  year  older  its  memory 
might  dwell  upon  his  mind  and  wither  his  young  spirit 
within  him." 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  February,  and  still  she  had 
been  unable  to  reach  Mondrich,  although  nearly  every  day 
the  physician  described  her  as  growing  better.  The 
clergyman's  visits  afforded  her  much  consolation,  particu- 
larly as  he  told  her  how  completely  and  truly  penitent  her 
husband  was ;  this,  with  the  assurance,  repeated  in  every 
communication  she  received  from  him,  of  his  perfect  in- 
nocence, made  her  hope  for  the  best,  though  how  that  in- 
nocence was  to  be  proved  remained  a  mystery ! 

Mrs.  Lee  had  taken  her  boy  out  one  day,  earlier  than 
usual,  to  see  Mrs.  Middleton;  and,  as  Agnes  looked  forth 
on  the  clear  morning,  she  fancied  she  felt  stronger  than 
she  had  been  for  a  long  time.  The  crisp  hoar-frost  hung 
in  fantastic  forms  on  the  young  shoots  of  the  early-budding 
trees.      The  robin  hopped  among  the  lower  branches  of| 


the  oak,  and,  seeing  the  hand  resting  on  the  window  where  it 
had  so  often  been  fed,  flew  tothesill,andfearles8ly  pecked  the 
crumbs  she  threw  to  her  little  dependant.  The  air,  she 
thought,  was  almost  fragrant;  and,  ere  the  casement  was 
closed,  she  had  resolved  to  exert  her  strength,  and  walk  as 
far  as  the  stile  that  divided  the  Mondrich  meadows.  She 
sat  for  a  few  moments  on  the  step ;  and,  urged  by  the  eager 
desire  again  to  see  her  husband,  after  a  little  considera- 
tion, determined  to  reach  the  town.  She  walked  better 
than  she  anticipated ;  and  felt  much  pleasure  at  perceiving 
that  now  but  one  field  separated  her  from  the  turn  that 
led  directly  to  the  prison.  Suddenly  she  became  rooted  to 
the  earth ;  her  features  assumed  the  rigidity  and  colour  of 
death;  and  she  cast  off  the  bonnet,  which  had  been  tied  on 
so  firmly,  to  catch  every  note  of  the  awakening  sound  that 
passed  over  the  town.  Again  ! — was  it  a  dream  ? — or 
could  it  be  really  the  trumpet — the  awful  trumpet  that 
heralds  the  approach  of  him  who  is  to  sit  in  judgment  on 
the  crimes  of  his  fellow-beings ! 

"It  is  come! — it  is  come !"  she  exclaimed,  "the  daj' — 
the  very  hour  of  his  trial,  and  they  told  me  not  of  it ! 
Father  of  Mercy!" — and  as  she  spoke  she  sank  on  the  ice- 
bound and  crackling  grass,  and  stretched  forth  her  white 
attenuated  arms  towai-ds  heaven — "  Father  of  Mercy, 
remember  mercy,  for  the  sake  of  thy  blessed  Son  ! 
Mercy  ! — mercy ! — mercy  !  Lord,  this  cup  may  not  pass 
away,  but  crush  me  not  utterly  in  this  dreadful  moment! 
Mercy!  mercy!     0  my  God!" 

The  trumpet-sound  had  ceased,  and  the  bustle  of  the 
county-court  subsided,  when  Agnes  Hoskins — her  mantle 
shrouding  her  entire  figure,  and  its  hood  held  closely  round 
her  face,  glided,  almost  like  a  spectre,  into  a  corner  nearest 
the  dock,  where  the  three  prisoners  stood  arraigned  for 
trial.  With  tender  care  for  the  feelings  of  him  she  loved, 
she  concealed  herself  effectually  from  his  sight;  knowing 
that  it  would  increase  his  misery  to  see  her  there.  To  the 
indictment  they  all  pleaded  "  not  guilty ;"  but  Edward 
Hoskins  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and,  looking  firmly  in 
the  judge's  face,  added,  in  a  low  impressive  tone,  "so  help 
me,  God!"  The  bearing  of  the  unfortunate  culprits  was 
strongly  contrasted :  Paul  Dodder's  chin  had  sunk  on  his 
breast,  and  he  looked  down  with  the  sullen  expression  of 
one  who  knew  the  worst  was  come,  and  cared  not  for  it. 
Harry  Hinton  had  thrown  back  the  light  and  glowing  curls 
that  crowded  over  his  brow,  and  his  eye  seemed  enlarged 
by  the  bold  front  he  carried ;  his  features  were  high  and 
regular;  and  the  uaobserving  would  have  imagined  the 
firmness  with  which  he  regarded,  and  even  analyzed,  the 
countenances  of  his  judges,  little  betokened  the  hardihood 
of  guilt.  Edward  Hoskins  stood  as  a  sorrowful  and  heart- 
stricken  man — ashamed  of  his  offences,  yet  confident  that 
he  was  not  guilty  of  this  particular  crime.  His  suit  of 
solemn  black  seemed  still  more  dismal  beside  the  smart 
blue  coat  and  light  waistcoat  in  which  his  unabashed  com- 


1-2  f. 


panion  was  arrayed..  The  first  person  examined  was  the 
police-sergeant  by  whom  the  prisoners  had  been  taken  into 
custody.  The  counsel  for  the  crown,  who,  as  usual,  scented 
the  blood  afar  off,  lost  no  opportunity,  in  his  opening 
speech,  of  stating  the  worst,  and  dwelt  particularly  on 
Hoskin's  ingratitude  to  Mrs.  Cecil  Wallingford ;  while  the 
counsel  for  the  prisoners  seemed  equally  anxious  to  foil  his 
brother,  and,  if  possible,  make  a  way  for  his  clients  to 
escape. 

The  sergeant  deposed  to  his  finding  Dodder  and  Hinton 
close  to  the  burning  barn ;  the  latter,  when  first  he  saw 
him,  was  on  his  knees,  in  the  very  act  of  blowing  the  flame; 
the  other  held  a  quantity  of  combustibles  (which  he 
described),  and  was  laying  a  train  to  communicate  with 
the  stables.  Hoskins,  he  said,  was  near  the  spot,  but 
made  no  attempt  to  escape.  This  statement  went  so  clear- 
ly against  the  prisoners  that  the  jury  looked  at  each  other, 
as  well  as  to  say,  "  What  need  we  of  further  witness  ?" 
One  of  the  police  confirmed  all  that  the  other  had  stated ; 
and  at  evei-y  word  they  uttered  As^nes  felt  her  heart  beat 
slowly,  and  still  more  slowly,  until,  at  last,  she  scarcely 
breathed  or  lived. 

"  The  case,  my  lord,  against  those  unhappy  men  seems 
so  fully  made  out,"  said  the  counsel  for  the  crown,  ad- 
dressing the  bench,  "that  I  need  hardly  trouble  the  court 
with  the  examination  of  other  witnesses;  unless,  indeed,  the 
jury  require  it." 

"My  lord,"  observed  the  prisoners'  counsel,  "  I  particu- 
larly wish  that  a  girl  of  the  name  of  Jane  Hoole  be  called 
up;  much  depends  upon  her  evidence." 

"My  learned  brother  has  chosen  a  strange  person," 
replied  the  senior  barrister;  "  I  was  anxious  to  spare  the 
feelings  of  his  clients  ;  but,  by  all  means,  let  Jane  Hoole  be 
brought  forward." 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  wild  fantastic  girl  who 
now  ascended  the  witness-bex.  Her  rich  golden  hair  had 
been  curled  and  arranged  with  much  attention ;  her  pallid 
cheeks  were  tinted  by  that  fearful,  but  beautiful,  hue 
which  too  truly  indicates  consumption,  and  her  deep  blue 
eyes  were  of  a  dazzling  and  wandering  brightness;  her 
dress  was  of  faded  silk,  and  a  wide  red  sash  girdled  a  figure 
of  light  and  elegant  proportions.  She  seemed  much  terri- 
fied, and  trembled  violently. 

"The  prisoner,  Hinton,  intimidates  our  witness,  my 
lord,"  observed  the  counsel;  and  a  shudder  passed  over 
those  who  saw  the  expression  with  which  he  regarded  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  his  wickedness. 

"  Let  Henry  Hinton  stand  down,"  said  the  judge. 
After  a  little  time  the  poor  creature  seemed  at  ease,  and 
collected;  Agnes,  who  had  been  roused  by  her  appearance, 
thought  she  was  a  much  more  rational  being  than  she  had 
imagined  during  their  foimer  brief  meetings. 

"  You  know  the  prisoners  at  the  bar,"  commenced  the 
counsel. 


"  I  do,  sir." 

After  a  little  more  questioning,  the  rod  was  presented  to 
her,  and  she  was  directed  to  place  it  on  the  heads  of  those 
who  were  present  at  the  burning  at  Wallingford  Manor. 
With  a  trembling  hand  she  let  it  descend  on  the  heads  of 
Hinton  and  Dodder,  then  held  it  for  a  moment  or  two  sus- 
pended over  Hoskins,  and,  after  some  consideration,  was 
about  to  return  it  to  the  ofiicer. 

"Were  only  these  two  men  present?"  inquired  the 
counsel,  while  a  thrill  and  murmur  of  mingled  quality 
passed  through  the  court-house. 

"  Though  I  am  only  a  poor  half-witted  creature,"  said 
the  girl,  looking  round  with  an  imploring  air,  "I  want  to 
tell  the  truth,  which  I  will  if  you  let  me  do  it  in  my  own 
way.  He  was  therein  body  but  not  in  spirit;  don't  you 
see  the  difference?  He  didn't  mean  to  be  there  for  harm ; 
he  was  there  for  good.  But  let  me  go  on  my  own  way,  and 
then  you'll  understand  me," 

She  then,  in  wandering  but  simple  language,  stated  that 
Harry  Hinton  had  often  employed  her  to  procure  materials 
for  various  burnings,  and  that  she  did  as  he  desired,  "for 
the  love  that  warmed  her  heart  towards  him,"  That  he 
often  promised  to  marry  her,  but  the  fancy  he  took  to  Jessy, 
had,  she  knew,  prevented  it ;  and  so  she  thought,  if  he  was 
once  to  be  sent  beyond  seas,  she  would  follow  him,  and  have 
him  all  her  own.  He  always  promised  to  give  Jessy  up; 
but  she  found  that  he  had  got  her  back  from  Scotland,  after 
her  sister  had  sent  her  there,  and  resolved  to  punish  him 
for  his  infidelity  by  telling  the  police,  which  she  had  done  ; 
and  she  hoped,  now  she  had  told  their  lordships  the  truth, 
they  would  send  Jessy  far,  far  away,  and  make  Harry 
marry  her  at  once  ;  she  would  go  with  him  any  where — 
that  she  would — for  she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart. 

A  great  portion  of  this  was  unintelligible  to  both  judge 
and  jury  ;  but  the  witness  evidently  interested  them  ;  and 
though  the  counsel  frequently  interrupted  her,  saying  that 
what  she  stated  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  transaction, 
yet  they  were  obliged  to  let  her  go  on  her  own  way,  as  the 
only  chance  of  getting  at  the  truth.  As  to  Hoskins,  "he 
certainly  was,"  she  said,  "  at  Wallingford,  but  not  to  burn 
it."  It  was  in  vain  that  the  counsel  for  the  crown  declared 
that  hearsay  evidence  should  not  be  received; — the  judge 
was  of  opinion  that  she  ought  to  be  permitted  to  goon ;  and 
the  counsel  for  the  crown  resigned  her  to  the  cross-exam- 
ination of  the  counsel  for  the  prisoner. 

"  You  have  stated,  young  woman,  that  Edward  Hoskins 
did  not  aid  and  abet  in  the  burning  which  took  place  on  the 
night  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  December, 

"  I  have,  sir.  I  was  up  in  the  loft  where  they  met,  and 
when  he  found  out  what  they  were  after  he  prayed  and 
begged  them  not  to  go  on;  and  then  my  Harry  made  like 
to  give  It  up — and  Hoskins  went  home,  as  we  thought,  for 
my  Harry  sent  me  down  to  the  Manor  with  the  chips  for 
burning,  and  promised  to  come  after ;  but,  at  the  Manor, 


126 


dark  as  it  was,  I  saw  Hoskins,  who  let  himself  in  with  a 
private  key  to  the  out-places,  examining  and  looking  about 
as  if  to  see  all  safe.  And  I  wondered  what  kept  Harry 
away,  and  went  back ;  and  on  the  road  I  met  Dodder,  and 
a  little  behind  I  saw  Harry — my  Harry,  talking  to  the  girl 
I  hated ;  and  I  made  my  mind  to  tell  that  minute  and 
bring  the  police  to  them ;  and,  meeting  one,  I  gave  him  a 
hint,  and  returned  to  the  out-house,  at  Wallingford;  and 
there  was  Hoskins  and  Harry  quarrelling,  and  one  re- 
proached the  other — and  Edward  Hoskins  thought  to  put  out 
the  fire — and  I  was  sorry  when  Harry  struck  him;  and 
then  Paul  Dodder  went  on  lighting  the  fire  that  Edward 
tried  to  put  out — and  was  like  one  frantic,  and  Harry  and 
him  struggled  hard,  and  came  so  near  the  spot  where  I  was 
crouching,  that  I  ran  off  to  tell  Agnes  Hoskins  of  it,  and 
saw  the  police  coming — and  she  can  tell  you,"  continued 
the  girl,  turning  round  to  the  spot  where  Agnes  had  fancied 
herself  perfectly  concealed — "there  is  Mrs.  Hoskins.  I 
dare  say  she  remembers  what  I  said." 

Edward  Hoskins  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  dock,  and,  for 
a  moment  forgetting  the  propriety  he  had  hitherto  main- 
tained, shook  the  bars  violently,  and,  finding  that  he  could 
not  escape  to  her  side,  exclaimed,  "Support,  support  her! 
— will  no  one  look  to  her ! — she  is  fainting !"  But  she  did 
not  faint — she  approached  the  bar  with  a  blanched  cheek, 
but  a  step  of  almost  supernatural  firmness,  and,  passing 
her  thin,  cold  hand  through  the  aperture,  rested  her  clear 
blue  eyes  upon  the  jury;  and  in  a  low  voice,  which,  not- 
withstanding its  weakness,  was  so  earnest  as  to  be  heard  in 
every  corner  of  the  court — 

"  Forgive,  gentlemen,"  she  said,  "  a  wife's  presuming 
to  remind  you  that  more  than  one  life  hangs  upon  your 
verdict;  and" — she  was  interrupted  by  a  scream,  so  wild 
and  piercing  that  every  eye  was  again  turned  to  the 
witness-box,  from  whence  it  came. 

"  There — there — there  she  is  !"  exclaimed  Jane  HoUe. 
"  She  has  followed  him  even  here  to  take  him  from  me. 
But  you  will  not  let  her!"  She  leaped  down  the  steps, 
and,  in  an  instant,  before  the  officers  had  time  to  interpose, 
she  had  torn  off  a  cloak  and  hat,  in  which  the  unfortunate 
Jessy  Grey  had  endeavoured  to  enshroud  herself;  but 
which  could  not  deceive  her  lynx-eyed  rival.  "  Here  she 
is,  my  lord ! — here  she  is  I  Agnes  Hoskins,  I  will  trust 
her  to  you,"  she  continued,  dragging  her  forward.  Agnes 
did  not  see  the  deceiving  and  degraded  sister.  She  only 
beheld  the  child  of  her  father's  old  age — the  girl  she  had 
loved  with  a  mother's  tenderness,  and  cherished  with  a 
mother's  care.  Turning  from  the  dock,  she  opened  her 
arms,  but  Jessy  fell  at  her  feet  and  hid  her  face  on  the 
earth.  It  was  in  vain  that  order  was  endeavoured  to  be 
restored.  Agnes  Hoskins  and  her  virtues  were  known  to 
every  individual  in  the  court.  Husbands  had  often 
pointed  her  out  to  their  wives  as  a  model  of  virtue  and 
propriety— fathers  had  wished  for  such  a  daughter,  and 


young  men  for  such  a  partner.  And  as  she  stood  struggling 
with  emotion,  and  caressing  the  poor  lost  creature,  who 
twined  around  her  with  all  the  contrite  feeling  of  an  hum- 
bled sinner,  the  judge  waited  patiently  till  the  feelings  that 
had  thus  agitated  every  member  of  the  assembly  should 
subside. 

"I  have  made  one  effort,  Agnes,  to  repair  my  many 
crimes,"  whispered  Jessy  to  her  sister:  "I  have  no 
evidence  to  offer  in  favour  of  him  ;  but  I  believe  I  can  con- 
firm the  statement  just  made  by  that  unhappy  girl,  as  to 
your  Edward's  innocence."  This  information  was  conveyed 
to  the  counsel  for  the  prisoners;  and,  as  the  poor  changed 
creature  was  about  to  ascend  the  box,  Agnes  threw  her  own 
cloak  over  her  shoulders,  to  conceal  a  form  that  called  a 
crimson  blush  to  her  faded  cheek.  Her  quiet  and  distinct 
account  of  the  transaction  fully  corroborated  what  the  wild 
girl  had  sworn  to.  Unknown  to  her  deceiver,  she  had 
witnessed  the  quarrel  which  took  place  between  them  on 
that  awful  night ;  and  had  wandered  over  the  country 
ever  since,  "  seeking  rest  but  finding  none" — not  daring 
to  pollute  her  sister's  cottage  with  her  presence,  and 
resolved  not  to  visit  the  author  of  her  misery,  lest  he  might 
alter  the  fixed  purpose  of  her  soul — that  of  appearing  at 
her  brother-in-law's  trial  to  testify  his  innocence.  She 
was  supported  down  the  steps,  and  clung  to  her  sister's 
shoulder  during  the  jury's  deliberation.  Without  leaving 
the  box,  they  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty  against  Hinton 
and  Dodder,  and  acquitted  Edward  Hoskins.  Agnes  might 
well  be  excused  for  forgetting  Jessy's  feelings  in  the  over- 
whelming gratitude  she  experienced  for  the  preservation  of 
her  husband's  life.  So  completely  were  her  ears  closed  by 
a  new  sensation  of  joyfulness  and  hope,  that  overflowed  as 
it  were  all  her  senses,  that  she  hardly  understood,  when 
the  judge  had  absolutely  pronounced  sentence  of  death  on 
his  wretched  companions,  the  meaning  of  his  words.  One 
of  Jane  Hoole's  frightful  shrieks  aroused  her  from  those 
visions  of  returning  happiness  which  flitted  around  her. 

"  Death! — not  death — notdeath,  for  Harry  !"  vociferated 
the  maddened  craeture :  "  It  is  transportation — not  death ! — 
you  won't  kill  him!"  At  the  same  instant  Agnes  felt  the 
grasp,  that  her  sister  had  so  firmly  fixed  on  her  arm,  relax ; 
she  looked  upon  her — her  hands  were  stretched  towards  the 
dock;  and,  as  her  gaze  rested  upon  Harry  Hinton's  face, 
which  was  turned  towards  her,  those  beautiful  eyes  grew 
yet  more  dim;  her  livid  lips  parted  over  her  white  and 
glistening  teeth;  and,  with  a  frightful  convulsion,  the 
ardent,  misguided  spirit  of  Jessy  Grey  passed  from  its 
earthly  dwelling. 


Months  and  years  have  gone  by — the  Mosspits  are  quiet 
and  beautiful  as  ever — but  the  curate  of  the  parish,  a  mild 
and  benevolent  young  man,  dwells  in  the  cottage  that  had 


127 


once  been  gladdened  by  the  presence  of  the  excellent 
Agnes.  She  had  passed  with  her  small  household  to 
another  land,  where  we  will  for  a  moment  follow — it  is  even 
in  the  new  world ;  and  there,  in  a  well-built  dwelling,  on 
the  borders  of  a  green  savannah,  is  the  final  resting-place 
of  Edward  Hoskins  and  his  now  numerous  family. 

The  sun  is  setting  behind  the  dense  and  magnificent 
woods  that  seem  to  mount  even  to  the  heavens ;  and  its 
parting  rays  linger,  as  if  loath  to  part  from  the  richly-culti- 
vaied  corn  and  meadow-land  that  surrounds  his  house. 
There,  literally  under  the  shadow  of  their  own  vine  and 
fig-tree,  are  this  once  more  happy  family  assembled. 

"And  will  you  never  return  to  England,  father?"  demand- 
ed the  first-born,  as  he  carefully  examined  the  contents  of 
a  huge  chest  which  had  just  arrived  from  Europe. 

His  mother  replied,  "  Could  we  be  happier  there  than  we 
are  here  ?" 

Her  husband  thanked  her  with  a  look  that  told  of 
gratitude  unspeakable ;  and  when  the  group  hand  separa- 
ted, and  only  Edward  and  his  cherished  wife  remained  to 
enjoy  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  balmy  twilight,  he  dis- 
turbed the  meditation,  which  the  question  had  occasioned, 
by  the  utterance  of  a  natural  but  painful  idea.  "  If  our 
children  should  ever  go  to  England,  Agnes,  they  will  hear 
a  sad  story  of  their  father ;  but  they  would  hear  also  of 
their  mother's  virtue ;  had  you  been  unkind — had  you  even 
been  what  the  world  calls  just  to  yourself,  I  should  have 
been  a  banned  and  a  blighted  man,  but  you  did — " 

"  Only  what  every  woman,  who  truly  loves  her  husband, 
would  do,"  interrupted  the  unchanging  Agnes.  '  "  And, 
behold,  the  Lord  has  been  not  only  merciful,  but  boun- 
tiful;—the  treasures  bestowed  upon  us  on  earth  (she 
pointed  to  their  children  who  were  assembling  for  evening 
worship  within  the  porch)  can  only  be  exceeded  by  the 
treasures  appointed  for  humble  believers  in  heaven." 


AN  INQUIRY   AFTER  HAPPINESS. 

BT    MRS.    CARTER. 

The  midnight  moon  serenely  smiles 

O'er  nature's  soft  repose, 
No  lowering  cloud  obscures  the  sky, 

Nor  ruffling  tempest  blows. 

Now  every  passion  sinks  to  rest, 
The  throbbing  heart  lies  still ; 

And  varying  schemes  of  life  no  more 
Distract  the  labouring  will. 


In  silence  hushed,  to  Reason's  voice 
Attends  each  mental  power; 

Come,  dear  Emilia,  and  enjoy 
Refiectiou'g  favourite  hour. 

Come,  while  the  peaceful  scene  invites, 
Let's  search  this  ample  round ; 

Where  shall  the  lovely,  fleeting  form 
Of  Happiness  be  found  ? 

Does  it  amid  the  frolic  mirth 

Of  gay  assemblies  dwell  ? 
Or  hide  beneath  the  solemn  gloom 

That  shades  the  hermit's  cell? 

How  oft  the  laughing  brow  of  joy 
A  sickening  heart  conceals ; 

And  through  the  cloister's  deep  recess 
Invading  sorrow  steals. 

In  vain  through  beauty,  fortune,  wit, 

The  fugitive  we  trace ; 
It  dwells  not  in  the  faithless  smile 

That  brightens  Clodio's  face. 

Perhaps  the  joys  to  these  denied, 
The  heart  in  friendship  finds  ? 

Ah  !  dear  delusion,  gay  conceit 
Of  visionary  minds. 

Howe'er  our  varying  notions  rove, 

Yet  all  agree  in  one, — 
To  place  its  being  in  some  state 

At  distance  from  our  own. 

0  blind  to  each  indulgent  aim 

Of  power  supremely  wise. 
Who  fancy  Happiness  in  aught 

The  hand  of  Heaven  denies ! 

Vain  are  alike  the  joys  we  seek, 

And  vain  what  we  possess, 
Unless  harmonious  Reason  tunes 

The  passions  into  peace. 

To  tempered  wishes,  just  desires, 

Is  Happiness  confined, 
And,  deaf  to  Folly's  call,  attends 

The  music  of  the  mind. 


7^ 


^^ 


128