Skip to main content

Full text of "The gallery of engravings"

See other formats 


S: 


^      "A 


l>-  f» 


"^JT 


m 


•IP' 


C:^ 


3f 


^'N- 


i 


.y 


■*af^i 


'>^ 


'^V^^ft 


^f 


'N*^ 


,4. 


-  ^  :j 

-F  ^  !^ 

00   ^ 


>. 
^ 


tn 


'' .'  // 


HTIfKJACKSOH,  LOHnOM  A.PAiUr.  - 


nv  mS^ 


1 


E  1'  G  M.  .i.  ¥  if,  M  C;  S ., 


^^^^.  ,^'\t 


[ 


x. 


/!. 


•.^!>iuJ,lyfStrWaiafi.RA.  C'Vr 


J^^^^z^/y. 


l.OHUOH  v 


lO^n  Q  ri  ^ 


AAUPL/ART3 


THE   PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 


HER  MOST  GRACIOUS  MAJESTY  aUEEN  VICTORIA. 

BY  THE  HON.  MKS.  NORTON. 

A  TAiR  face,  and  a  fragile  arm, 

lu  England's  present  hour, 

Assume  the  Sceptre  and  the  Crown, 

Emblems  of  Royal  Power. 

And  he  who  deems  a  woman's  hand 

Should  scarce  have  strength  to  sway. 

Let  him  but  gaze  on  that  fair  face, 

And  it  shalVsay  him  nay. 

Bold  resolution, — frankest  truth. 

Courage  to  dare,  or  die. 

Live  in  that  snowy  brow's  expanse. 

That  blue  imperial  eye  : 

And  England  treasures  glorious  days, 

Liuk'd  with  a  woman's  reign  : 

The  Past  hath  given  the  Future  pledge, 

Such  trust  need  not  be  vain  ! 

Pirm  planted,  like  our  native  Oak, 

(To  flourish  evermore,) 

Religion  rose  in  Majesty, 

The  storms  of  faction  o'er. 

And  flung  her  holy  ample  shade. 

Along  the  quiet  land, 

When  England's  destinies  were  sway'd 

By  Woman's  Royal  hand  : 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  B 


THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

While  one  by  one,  like  circling  stars, 

That  dawn  upon  the  night. 

Name  after  name  its  glory  threw 

Around  the  Sovereign's  might. 

Sage,  Warrior,  Poet,  Statesman,  claim'd 

Their  place  in  History's  page, — 

And  stamp'd  that  term  of  Woman's  rule, 

As  Britain's  "  Golden  Age." 


With  many  a  glorious  motive  more. 

And  many  an  error  less. 

Than  made  the  Rainbow  and  the  Cloud, 

In  days  of  "  good  Queen  Bess  :" — • 

Without  th'  intolerance  which  blurr'd 

That  yet  unsettled  time ; 

(Gross  cruelties, — which  shall  not  mar 

This  light  triumphant  rhyme  !) 

Without  the  vanity  which  gave 

The  chrysolite  its  flaw, — 

And  bade  the  Courtier-Lovers  watch 

Her  will's  despotic  law : — 

Without  the  loneliness  which  brought. 

No  Heir  to  England's  throne, 

(But  vapid  boast  of  that  deep  loss. 

No  lovely  child  to  own:) — 

Blest  with  the  sunshine  of  dear  love, — 

And  Motherhood's  proud  joy, — 

Her  own  and  England's  hopes  renew'd, 

In  many  a  stately  boy  : — 

All  holy  ties  of  Life  complete, 

A  Woman, — though  a  Queen, 

So  may  Victoria's  reign  surpass, 

The  glories  that  have  been ! 

May  Justice  hold  with  equal  hand, 

The  balance  of  the  scale ; 

Nor  Favour,  nor  Oppression,  bid 

The  undue  side  prevail ; 

May  none  be  held  so  proud,  that  they 

May  impudently  dare; 

May  none  be  thought  too  low  and  mean, 

A  subject's  right  to  share ; 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

But  over  all, — since  Heaven  first  gave 

A  kiugdom,  for  a  dower, — 

May  Heaven's  clear  justice  still  appear, 

Protection,  joined  with  Power. 

And  God  prolong  the  happy  days, 

To  distant  lines  of  light, — 

And  guard  that  fair  anointed  head, 

In  every  sacred  right ! 


THE      i3    U    L   L-F   I    G   II   T. 

The  land  of  romance  and  enchantment  art  thou,  oh!  sunny  Spain;  so  bright  with  thy 

citron  groves  and  olive  bowers,  thy  fair  myrtle  flowers  half  shaded  by  dark  foliage,  thy 

shining  oranges  like 

"  golden  lamps  liid  in  a  night  of  green," 

and  thy  richly-laden  vines  with  their  purple  clusters,  glowing  in  the  warm  sunlight. 
And  the  sunbeams  fall  on  thy  ruined  towers  and  castles,  the  glorious  remnants  of 
antiquity.  There  are  the  proud  halls  where  the  Cid  held  his  banquet  of  state  ;  once 
they  were  filled  with  all  the  pomp  and  splendour  of  earthly  grandeur — they  are  silent 
now;  but  even  their  very  desolation  is  beauty  itself;  the  grass  grows  within  the  festal 
hall ;  and  wild  flowers  wreathe  themselves  around  the  polished  marble  columns  of  the 
regal  palaces  of  a  generation  long  since  past  away.  It  is  recorded,  that  the  last 
Moorish  monarch  who  sat  upon  the  Spanish  throne,  when  compelled  to  abdicate  his 
kingly  authority,  wept  as  he  took  a  farewell  gaze  of  the  luxuriant  valleys  and  bold 
rocky  heights  of  his  beloved  Spain ;  and  well  might  he  lament,  to  quit  thus  ignomini-> 
ously,  the  country  -which  his  ancestors  had  claimed  for  their  own  by  might  and  by 
strength — a  country,  too,  in  which  they  had  lived  as  kings  and  conquerors  of  the 
earth,  and  surrounded  by  all  the  pomp  and  splendour  wliicli  a  long  line  of  voluptuous 
princes  had  heaped  together  from  the  spoils  of  surrounding  nations.  Yes  1  Spain  is 
a  beautiful  country;  and  so  far  as  external  loveliness  is  concerned,  the  fair  daughters 
of  Iberia  hold  a  first  position  in  the  ranks  of  grace  aud  beauty.  But,  alas  1  how 
can  we  gaze  with  admiration  on  the  glowing  cheek ;  the  ruby  lip ;  the  dark  earnest 
eye,  with  its  drooping  lid,  and  long  silken  fiinge-like  lashes;  the  rich  raven  tresses; 
and  the  queen-like  figure  so  gracefully  enshrouded  in  the  folds  of  the  mantilla;  if  that 
"glorious  creation"  be  gladdening  her  woman's  heart  with  scenes  of  cruelty  and 
bloodshed  ?  The  Roman  matrons  of  old  bent  their  unwomanly  gaze  on  the  fierce 
gladiator,  as  he  struggled  in  mortal  agony  ■with  his  relent.css  foe,  and  the  very  soul 
sickens  at  the  remembrance  of  their  cruel  delight.  And  with  equal  horror  we  must 
turn  away  from  the  lovely  young  Spaniard  who  adorns  her  graceful  form  with  rich 


8  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

robes  and  glittering  jewels,  and  sets  forth  all  tlie  cliarms  of  her  resplendent  beauty 
to  mingle  ivith^ — what?  with  the  festive  dance,  or  the  thrilling  song?  No,  to  mix 
with  a  multitude  who,  like  herself,  young  and  fair,  are  met,  with  the  brave  and  bold 
of  the  sterner  sex,  to  gaze  on  all  the  sickly  horrors  of  a  bull-fight. 

The  hour  of  the  spectacle  is  arrived ;  the  areua  is  cleared ;  in  the  surrounding 
galleries  are  bright  eyes  and  flowing  tresses;  and  light  and  trifling  conversation  is 
passing  between  the  gay  young  donna  and  her  gallant  companion.  Soon  a  silence 
ensues;  the  noble  animal  is  driven  to  the  scene  of  combat;  his  cruel  opponent  is 
ready,  mounted  on  a  fiery  steed,  with  spear  or  lance  in  hand,  to  attack  his  defenceless 
victim.  The  unfortunate  creature  endeavours  to  retreat,  but  in  vain.  The  shouts  of 
the  spectators  and  the  anguish  of  his  wounds  goad  him  to  madness,  and  he  rushes  with 
redoubled  rage  against  his  remorseless  enemv,  who  seizes  the  opportunity  to  inflict  fresh 
torture;  till,  at  length,  from  loss  of  blood,  or  from  some  well-directed  mortal  thrust, 
the  miserable  bull  expires,  and  his  mangled  carcase  is  dragged  forth,  to  give  place  to 
another  noble  animal,  who  must,  in  like  manner,  suffer,  struggle,  and  die !  And  this 
is  done  iu  a  Christian  country ! — a  country  which  professes  a  religion  whose  first  moral 
principles  are  love,  gentleness,  and  mercy  !  Happily  this  barbarous  amusement  is  now 
excluded  from  British  shores;  but  though  never  so  prevalent  here  as  it  is  in  Spain, 
yet  it  was  once  sufficiently  practised  among  us  to  cause  Englishmen  to  blush  for  their 
country.  Let  us  hope,  that  the  day  will  arrive  when  the  sufferings  of  any  living  crea- 
ture shall  cease  to  give  pleasure  to  beings  possessing  rational  and  immortal  minds. 
This,  however,  can  only  be  when  Christian  principle  shall  influence  all  hearts.  If 
mothers  would  see  their  children  generous  and  humane,  let  them,  in  the  days  of  eai'ly 
childhood,  sow  those  seeds  of  piety,  which,  as  it  may  be  hoped,  will  spring  up  and 
bring  forth  abundantly  the  fair  fruits  of  love,  justice,  and  mercy. 


ENGLAND'S      HOPE. 

BY  MRS.  ELLIS. 

Say  not  that  England's  glorious  days 
Were  those  that  live  in  poets'  lays. 
With  tales  of  arm'd  or  conquering  host. 
Of  battle  won  or  banner  lost ; 
When  scarce  a  mountain,  field,  or  glen, 
Was  free  from  bands  of  lawless  men  ; 
Nor  sturdy  hand  could  guard  the  soil 
From  tyrant's  grasp,  or  rufiian's  spoil. 


^^ 


ENGLAND'S  HOPE.  9 

When  laws  were  feeble,  rights  were  few; 
Great  then  the  name  of  Champion  grew  j 
And  he  who  donn'd  him  for  the  fight, 
With  plumed  helm,  and  armour  bright, 
Or  he  who  came,  his  glittering  shield 
And  polish'd  lance,  with  grace  to  wield, 
Dash'd  on  the  ground  a  warrior's  glove. 
And  murder'd  man  for  woman's  love — 
These  were  the  hero-champions  then. 
The  flower  of  knighthood— glorious  men  I 


But  England  needs  no  Champion  now  I 
No  helm  to  bind  her  patriot's  brow, 
No  polish'd  lance,  or  glittering  shield. 
Or  tramp  of  war-horse  in  the  field. 
Hush'd  is  the  trumpet's  brazen  call ; 
And  echo  from  the  castle  wall 
No  longer  tells  of  gathering  bands. 
Of  burning  homes,  and  wasted  lauds. 

Yes  !  England  owns  a  wiser  creed ; 
Her  fattening  flocks  now  safely  feed  j 
Her  fertile  vales,  with  plenteous  grain. 
Pour  forth  their  produce  not  in  vain. 
But  chiefly  where  her  thousands  meet. 
With  ready  hand  and  busy  feet, 
With  earnest  care  of  actual  things. 
Behold  !  a  present  glory  springs  ; 
And  pride,  which  boasted  feats  of  war. 
Now  tells  where  richer  trophies  are  ; 
Points  to  the  teeming  human  hive. 
Where  thousands  meet  to  toil  and  strive. 
Not  with  that  combat,  fierce  and  bold, 
Which  stain'd  the  battle-plains  of  old, 
But  with  the  mastery  of  skill ; 
The  power  of  well-directed  will ; 
The  strength  of  numbers,  when  combined 
To  work  with  harmony  of  mind. 

So  let  it  be.     But  is  this  all  ? 
Shall  never  more  the  glorious  call 
e.  s. — VOL.  I.  C 


10  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS, 

To  loftier  thouglits  and  nobler  deeds 

Ring  through  our  country's  verdant  meads  ? 

Shall  never  more  the  pulse  of  life 

Beat  higher  than  with  sordid  strife  ? 

Nor  purer  hond,  nor  holier  tie, 

Than  interest,  bind  our  destiny? 

Forbid  it,  honour — virtue — truth  ! 

Forbid  it,  ye,  whose  generous  youth 

Gives  promise  fair  of  wider  scope, 

And  loftier  range  for  England's  Hope. 

We  would  not  hold  one  active  hand. 

Nor  bid  one  vast  machine  to  stand  ; 

But  something  we  would  ask  of  you. 

Young  British  Champions,  bold  and  true. 

Now  that  no  more  the  lance  and  shield. 

Or  warrior's  sword,  ye  need  to  wield ; 

Now  that  a  nation's  trusting  eye 

Looks  to  the  throned  majesty 

Of  Her  who  reigns,  all  fears  above. 

So  safely  in  her  people's  love. 

We  ask,  that  from  the  greedy  throng. 

Where  love  of  gold  leads  hosts  along. 

Ye  stand  apart — a  separate  band. 

With  manly  heart  and  generous  hand. 

To  guard  the  feeble  from  the  strong. 

And  stay  the  oppressor's  guilty  wrong. 


Bold  British  youths,  we  look  to  you  ! 

Your  hearts  are  warm,  your  lips  are  true. 

Awake  !  arise  !  Look  forth  and  see 

The  Soul  hath  need  of  liberty ! 

Look  forth  !  Man's  labour  is  not  all — 

His  skill  may  paint  the  princely  hall. 

And  looms  may  weave,  and  workmen  frame. 

What  brings  a  richly-purchased  fame ; 

But  higher  yet !  ye  British  youth  ! 

This  is  not  greatness,  virtue,  truth ; 

For  lives  there  one  of  meanest  birth 

Whose  soul  is  satisfied  with  earth  ? 

\M)0  never,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Has  bent  his  bruised  knee  to  pray 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM.  11 

"  Tliy  kingdom  come,"  witli  inward  trust. 
That  come  that  kingdom  would,  aud  must? 
Then  stand  ye  forth,  brave  youths,  nor  try 
To  still  this  bold,  this  onward  cry ; 
This  natural  impulse,  kindly  given 
To  help  naan's  upward  course  to  heaven  ; 
To  teach  liim  not  to  fail,  or  pause, 
"When  Champion  in  a  righteous  cause. 
Onward  1  for  youth  beams  on  your  brow, 
And  hfe's  quick  pulse  is  beating  now ; 
And  age  will  come  and  steal  away 
The  freshening  impulse  of  to-day. 
Laugh  ye  !  for  your's  was  meant  to  be 
The  season  bright  of  hope  and  glee  j 
But  let  your  frolic  and  your  fun 
These  sober  facts  be  stamp'd  upon, 
That  seldom  follow  words  of  truth 
From  lips  that  have  been  false  in  youth ; 
That  England's  Hope  can  only  rest 
With  safety,  in  a  generous  breast ; 
Let  youth  its  high  behest  obey — 
As  virtue's  Champion,  guard,  and  stay ! 


THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM. 

BY  MKS.  ELLIS. 

A  PEASANT  girl  stood  by  the  stream, 

Lost  in  the  mazes  of  a  dream. 

With  thoughtful  brow,  and  beaming  smile. 

The  rippling  brook  she  heard  the  while ; 

Its  voice  was  one  of  early  days, 

Which  told  of  childhood's  flowery  ways; 

Pamiliar  every  word  she  caught. 

And  every  tone  its  music  brought. 

As  household  language  to  her  ear. 

So  full  of  meaning,  soft,  and  clear. 

And  still  she  listened,  still  she  smiled, 

Till  answering  thus,  the  peasant  child 


12  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Betray'd  the  beatings  of  a  breast, 
No  mouutaia-stream  could  lull  to  rest. 

"  Sweet  mountain-stream,  where  hast  thou  been. 
Ere  nursed  witliin  these  banks  of  green  ? 
Perchance  amid  yon  crags  so  high, 
"Whose  summits  touch  the  azure  sky? 
There  did -it  thou  leap  from  rock  to  rock. 
Now  dash'd  upon  the  granite  block, 
Now  softly  sinking,  calm,  and  deep. 
Within  thy  marble  bed  to  sleep. 
Ah,  mountain-stream,  I  envy  thee 
Thy  wild,  wild  life  of  liberty. 
For  I  am  tired  of  toil  and  care, 
Of  humble  roof,  and  mountain  fare ; 
Sweet  mountain-stream,  and  I  would  be 
A  thing  of  bounding  life  like  thee ; 
Away,  away,  to  glide  and  go. 
No  hard  restraint,  no  fear  to  know. 
But  ever  onward — onward  still — 
To  feel  no  impulse  but  my  wiU." 

"  Ah !  peasant  maid,"  the  stream  replied, 
In  gentle  murmurs  by  her  side; 

"  Thou  little  know'st  what  fate  is  mine, 
Or  scarcely  would  thy  young  heart  pine 
To  lead  a  life  of  liberty. 
Mid  yon  far  mountain-heights  with  me. 
'Tis  true  I  feel  the  morning  light 
Reflected  iu  my  bosom  bright; 
'Tis  true  I  bask  at  noon  of  day 
Beneath  the  sun's  unshadow'd  ray ; 
'Tis  true  I  sparlde,  dance,  and  smile, 
And  hurrying  onward  many  a  mile. 
My  bright  and  silvery  course  I  wind ; 
But  home  like  thine  I  never  find. 
The  peaceful  roof  that  shelters  thee, 
Nor  shade,  nor  comfort  yields  to  me ,: 
And  when  thou  seek'st  thy  nightly  rest. 
Perchance  the  storm  beats  on  my  breast. 
No,  gentle  maid,  thou  knowest  not 
The  pains,  the  perils  of  my  lot; 


,...  ...  ^-^ 


oil  DON  Jc  PARIS. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM.  13 

How  much  of  what  tliou  deemest  play, 
Is  strife  with  things  that  block  my  way, 
The  stubborn  crag,  the  granite  rock, 
The  precipice,  and  thunder-shock, 
The  downward  plunge  in  hope  to  gain 
Some  place  of  rest — Oh  !  think  again. 
Young  peasant  maid,  nor  wish  to  be 
A  wandering,  homeless  thing  like  me." 


"  Sweet  stream,"  again  the  maid  began. 
Then  o'er  her  cheek  her  fingers  ran — 
To  hide  the  burning  blush  that  came. 
Yet  scarce  could  be  a  blush  of  shame. 
So  pure  its  tint,  so  soft  its  hue. 
To  woman's  bounding  heart  so  true. 

"  Sweet  stream,"  she  said,  "  perchance  'tis  not 
That  I  would  share  thy  mountain-lot. 
Enough  of  sterile  crags  I  see. 
Of  granite  rocks,  enough  for  me ; 
But  tell  me,  for  I  fain  would  know. 
Sweet  mountain-stream,  where  dost  thou  go  ? 
Say,  dost  thou,  wandering  through  the  vale, 
List  sometimes  to  the  nightingale. 
Mid  shadowy  groves,  and  leafy  bowers. 
And  gardens  gay  with  scented  flowers  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  kiss  the  palace  walls. 
Or  lave  the  steps  of  courtly  halls ; 
Or  hear  the  stir  of  trampling  feet. 
Where  busy  thousands  mix  and  meet  ? 
'Tis  there,  sweet  stream,  that  I  would  go, 
Down  to  those  plains,  where  softly  flow 
Thy  waters  ever  pure,  and  bright. 
Reflecting  to  the  wondering  sight. 
The  rainbow  hues,  the  pomp,  the  pride. 
The  courtly  pageants,  here  denied, 
The  waving  plume,  the  bearing  high, 
The  gems,  the  robes  of  richest  dye. 
Fair  forms  adorn'd  in  silken  sheen, — 
Where  those  are  worn,  where  these  are  seen, 
'Tis  there  that  I  would  go,  sweet  stream  j 
Nay,  murmur  not,  nor  chide  my  dream — 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  D 


14  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS,. 

'Tis  there  that  I  would  go,  and  be, 

Sweet  mountaiu-stream,  still  pure  like  thee." 

"  Ah  gentle  maid,"  the  stream  replied, 
Wliile  deeper  swell'd  its  mournful  tide ; 

"  Thou  little  know'st  what  fate  must  fall, 
Mid  those  gay  scenes,  on  me — on  all. 
Gaze  on  my  crystal  waters  now. 
Say  could'st  thou  bind  a  regal  brow 
With  purer  gems  of  brighter  hue. 
To  cloudless  suns  and  skies  more  true  ? 
See  how  thy  brother's  hand  may  play 
Unsullied  by  their  touch  all  day ; 
How  quench  his  thirst,  his  pitcher  fill. 
With  health  from  out  my  sparkling  rill. 
Such  hast  thou  ever  found  me  here. 
The  same  sweet  fountain,  pure,  and  clear ; 
But  meet  me  on  yon  peopled  plain, 
Scarce  wouldst  thou  know  thy  friend  again. 
Or  where  the  city's  heaving  tide 
Swells  with  the  pomp  of  human  pride, 
'Tis  there  the  deepest  stains  of  all, 
The  darkest  shadows,  o'er  me  fall ; 
'Tis  there,  a  low  polluted  thing, 
Scarce  fit  to  bathe  the  wild  bird's  wing, 
I  drag  my  weary  length,  and  feel 
No  ruby  lip  my  waters  steal. 
Nor  step  of  childhood  wandering  near ; 
My  wave,  no  longer  cool  and  clear. 
Invites  no  village  maid  to  stray 
Along  my  banks  at  close  of  day. 
Ah,  couldst  thou  meet  me  rolling  then 
Among  the  busy  walks  of  men. 
Their  wealth  upon  my  bosom  laid, 
A  weary  burden,  gentle  maid ; 
Scarce  wouldst  thou  breathe  a  pitying  sigh 
For  stream  so  dark,  so  stained,  as  I. 

"  Then,  peasant-maid,  contented  be, 
High  'mid  these  mountain-wilds  with  me. 
The  world  looks  fair  when  gazing  down 
On  peopled  plain,  and  busy  town, 


^,1 


^ 


1^ 


CANUTE'S  EEPROOF  OF  HIS  COURTIERS.  15 

And  many  a  charm  attracts  tliiue  eye; 

But  seek  tliem  not,  nor  fondly  try 

To  keep  within  thy  gentle  breast 

The  same  pure  thoughts,  the  same  sweet  rest, 

As  dance  around  thy  gentle  brow, 

And  meet  thee  in  thy  cottage  now. 

If  once  thy  steps  should  wander  there. 

Remember  me  ;  and,  oh  !  beware  !" 

The  peasant-girl  stood  still,  and  sighed ; 
Perchance  it  touched  her  maiden  pride 
To  hear  the  sermon  of  a  stream, 
Dispelling  every  golden  dream. 
But  soon  her  better  thoughts  came  back  : 
And  soon  again  her  homeward  track 
With  cheerful  tread  she  liasten'd  o'er. 
Content  to  reach  her  cottage  door  ; 
Content  to  feel,  that  high  and  low. 
All  wide  extremes  their  perils  know; 
That  safety,  peace,  and  comfort,  lie 
Half  way  between  the  low  and  high. 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  SCENE  OP  CANUTE'S  REPROOE  OF  HIS  COURTIERS. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  when  I  reached  the  celebrated  spot  where  Canute  the 
Dane  is  said  to  have  given  his  memorable  lesson  to  the  flattering  and  servile  courtiers 
of  his  train.  There  was  the  shingly  shore ;  there  were  the  bright  waters  of  the 
English  Channel;  there  was  the  many-coloured  sea-weed  floating  ashore,  as  the 
advancing  tide  swelled  higher  and  higher ;  and  there  were  the  wild  sea-birds,  scream- 
ing and  flitting  over  the  little  channels  of  salt  water,  which  intersected  the  beach — 
all  nature  remained  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  the  Dane.  The  wind  too  had  risen,  and 
the  proud  waves  were  rushing  onward,  each  one  displaying  its  silvery  crest  as  it  dashed 
over  rock  and  sand ;  and  while  the  western  horizon  was  glowing  with  all  gorgeous 
tints,  and  reflecting  its  crimson  and  golden  hues  on  the  rippling  waters  beneath, 
dark,  stormy-looking  clouds  were  rising  in  the  opposite  quarter,  and  lending  to  the 
scene  a  magnificent  beauty,  as  they  slowly  rose,  assuming  each  moment  a  more  leaden 
tinge,  and  contrasting  finely  with  the  glorious  sunset-dyes  in  the  west.  On  such  an 
evening  it  might  be,  that  Canute  sat  to  watch  the  gathering  clouds  and  the  rising 


16  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

tide ;  and  a  fanciful  mind  might  easily  forget  the  intervening  centuries,  and  see  in 
imagination  the  crowd  of  servile  flatterers  gathered  round  their  royal  master,  the 
smile  of  derision  and  wonder  curling  their  lying  lips  as  they  gazed  upon  him  who 
apparently  gave  credence  to  their  absurd  assurances.  And  the  noble  Canute — it  were 
easy  to  picture  him,  rising  from  his  wave-encircled  seat,  and  boldly  bearing  witness 
to  the  omnipotent  power  of  Him  who  alone  can  stay  the  raging  of  the  ocean,  and 
say  to  its  mighty  billows,  "  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  further ;  and  here  shall 
thy  proud  waves  be  stayed."  How  great  is  the  contrast  between  the  Danish  monarch 
and  the  vaunting,  fui'ious  Xerxes.  Surely  it  was  the  softening  power  of  Christianity 
which  caused  this  marvellous  difference  ;  for  man  naturally  is  high-minded  and 
vain-glorious,  and  loves  to  command  all  things  and  all  people. 

A  few  days  after  my  visit  to  this  spot,  I  stood  in  the  Cathedral  of  Winchester, 
its  solemn  aisles  and  deserted  chapels  re-echoing  my  footsteps  as  I  passed  along,  sur- 
rounded by  the  tombs  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth — and  there,  beneath  the  carved 
roof,  and  the  blazoned  heraldries  of  ancient  days,  reposed  the  ashes  of  the  illustrious 
Dane.  Many  of  his  valiant  actions  are  forgotten ;  the  memory  of  them  has  perished ; 
but  that  one  speech  on  the  sandy  shore  of  the  English  Channel  is  still  fresh  as  ever, 
and  registered  in  the  minds  of  all.  The  mighty  waves  of  the  sea  are  still  breaking 
on  the  weed-bound  rocks ;  the  sunset  sky  still  glows  with  all  the  rich  hues  of  gems 
and  flowers  ;  but  Canute  and  his  lordly  train  are  passed  away.  A  heap  of  ashes  alone 
remains  of  that  regal  form,  and  even  the  last  resting-places  of  his  followers  are  for- 
gotten. "  So  fades  the  glory  of  this  world,"  is  written  in  eternal  characters,  on  every 
marble  sepulchre,  and  on  every  scene  of  departed  grandeur. 


POLAND. 

BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

After  the  Night — the  Day  ! 

After  the  Darkness — Dawn ! 
Trust  to  thy  Star's  bright  ray, 

Tho'  its  light  be  awhile  withdrawn. 

Though  Ruin  and  Death  are  round. 
And  the  best  of  the  brave  he  slain  j 

Again  shall  the  war-cry  sound, 
And  the  standard  be  rear'd  again. 


I  E.aB;  ^;  ;-^'n. 


;:.T.  PAPJRI? 


POLAND.  17 


Not  all  the  red  current  is  dry, 

Thougli  blood  hath  been  freely  shed ; 

Not  all  of  the  lineage  high, 

Lie  heap'd  with  the  slaughter'd  Dead. 

The  dyke  of  the  river  is  cut, — 

The  branches  are  lopp'd  from  the  tree, — 

But  the  gap  shall  be  mended  and  shut. 
The  green  bough  wave  freshly  and  free  ! 

Slain  Fathers  have  left  to  their  Sons, 
No  store  but  the  blood  in  their  veins : 

Proud,  brave,  and  indignant  it  runs. 
And  it  may  not  be  fetter'd  by  chains. 

Then  smile, — little  orphan, — and  sleep  ! 

Though  the  Mother  that  rocks  thee  to  rest. 
Thro'  the  long  nights  does  nothing  but  weep. 

As  she  lulls  thee,  in  pain,  on  her  breast. 

Oh  !  smile,  till  thine  arm  is  grown  strong. 
For  the  sword,  with  its  gleaming  stroke ; 

Till  thy  heart  comprehends  the  wrong, 
Of  the  mighty  oppressor's  yoke ; 

Till  the  tale  of  thy  Father's  death. 
And  thy  Mother's  lingering  woe. 

Shall  quicken  thy  heaving  breath, 
And  thy  flush'd  cheek's  fever'd  glow. 

Oh,  sleep  !  till  the  dream  shall  break, 

Which  wrapp'd  thy  calm  childhood  round ; 

Till  thy  conscious  spirit  shall  wake. 
As  it  were,  to  a  trumpet's  sound ; 

Till  thou  hearest  thy  Mother  tell. 
In  her  low,  heart-broken  tones, 

Of  the  battle's  thundering  yell. 
And  thy  Father's  dying  groans. 

Then,  slumber  and  rest  no  more ! 
Be  the  task  of  thy  life  begun ; 

S.  S. VOL.  I.  ^ 


18  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Stand  ready,  the  blood  to  pour, 
Which  that  Father  bequeathed  his  son.    . 

Like  the  goal,  that  is  set  afar, 
For  the  swift  in  the  race  to  win ; 

Like  the  beacon-light's  changeless  star. 
Which  guides  the  worn  mariner  in  : 

Let  the  love  of  thy  country  gleam, 

Sole  aim  and  sole  end  of  all  j 
Thy  very  existence  seem. 

But  a  chance  to  break  her  thrall. 

Tho'  like  one  whom  a  shipwreck  hath  cast. 
On  a  restless,  wandering  lot, — 

In  exile  thy  life  be  past. 

In  a  land  where  thy  Dead  are  not : 

Thy  Poland  for  aye  untrod, — 

And  the  hymns  of  her  worship  sung. 

To  thy  God,  and  thy  Father's  God, 
In  an  alien  and  foreign  tongue : — 

Forget  not  the  land  of  thy  birth ! 

Abjure  not  those  memories  dear  : 
The  blood  that  was  soak'd  in  her  earth. 

Do  thou  in  thy  heart  revere. 

Let  the  mournful  and  terrible  truth, 
Still  present,  thy  thoughts  engage ; 

A  cloud  to  encompass  thy  youth. 
With  the  soberer  visions  of  Age. 

For  prison  and  exile  may  be, 

The  lot  of  the  true  and  the  brave  : 

But  to  smUe, — as  if  glad  and  free, — 
Is  the  part  of  a  willing  Slave. 

"  In  patience  possess  thou  thy  soul," 
Tho'  thy  hope  may  seem  faint  and  far ! 

How  near  is  the  unseen  goal  ? 
How  near  is  the  beacon-star  ? 


THE  TEACHER.  19 

Yet  both  may  be  reacted  at  last, 

By  the  steady  in  heart  and  eye : 
Time  enough,  when  all  hope  is  past. 

For  the  sake  of  the  cause,  to  die. 

But,  after  the  Night— the  Day  ! 

After  the  Darkness — Dawn  ! 
Trust  to  thy  star's  bright  ray. 

Though  its  light  be  awhile  withdrawn. 


THE       TEACHER. 

BY  LADY  DTJFFERIN. 

The  long  day's  done !  and  she  sits  still. 

And  quiet,  iji  the  gathering  gloom  : 

What  are  the  images  that  fill 

Those  absent  eyes — that  silent  room  ? 

Soft  winds  the  latticed  casement  stir  : 

The  hard  green  rose-buds  tap  the  pane. 

Like  merry  playmates,  beckoning  her 

To  join  them  at  their  sports  again  ; 

And  from  the  hill,  a  pleasant  chime 

Of  bells,  comes  down  upon  the  ear, 

That  seems  to  sing — "The  evening  time 

Is  passing  sweet !  come  forth  ! — come  here !" 

But  she  sits  still,  and  heedeth  not 

The  sweet  bell,  nor  the  fading  light ; 

Time,  space,  earth,  heaven,  are  all  forgot. 

In  one  dear  dream  of  past  delight. 

Oh,  letter  !  old,  and  crush'd,  and  worn ; 

Yet  fresh,  in  those  love-blinded  eyes. 

As  on  that  first  delightful  morn. 

That  gave  thee  to  her  patient  sighs  ; 

How  hoped  for — dreamed  of — dear,  thou  art ! 

What  earnest  of  like  joys  to  come  ! 

How  treasured  near  her  simple  heart, 

That  first  fond  letter,  from  her  Home ! 


20  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Poor  cliild  !  so  early  com'st  thou  forth. 
Like  Ruth,  to  gleau  in  alien  fields  ? 
Cold  welcome  greets  thee,  on  this  earth. 
And  poor  the  harvest  that  it  yields  ! 
No  wonder  that  thy  young  heart  burns. 
And,  with  such  aching  sense  of  love. 
To  that  dear  sheltering  ark  returns, 
That  sent  thee  forth — poor  wandering  Dove ! 
The  hour  will  come — tho'  far  it  seems — 
When  school'd  by  pain,  and  taught  by  time. 
Thou  'It  lose  no  more,  in  idle  dreams, 
The  good  hours  of  thy  golden  prime  : 
Each  day,  with  its  appointed  care. 
Shall  bring  its  calm  and  comfort  too ; 
The  power  to  act,  the  strength  to  bear. 
What  Duty  bids  thee  bear,  or  do : 
And  when  the  eve's  repose  shall  come. 
Thy  tranquil  thoughts  shall  then  be  given — 
Not  back  to  that  lost  earthly  home — 
But  forwards — to  thy  home  in  Heaven  ! 


WAKING     DREAMS. 

One  morn  a  country  maiden  gay. 
To  market  blithely  tripp'd  her  waj'. 
With  store  of  eggs ;  and  as  she  walk'd, 
'Twas  thus  the  village-beauty  talk'd. 

"  These  eggs  I  cannot  fail  to  sell. 
And  what  they  '11  bring  I  scarce  can  tell ; 
But  sure  enough  to  buy  a  hen ; 
My  future  chickens  will  I  then, 
With  their  plump  breasts  and  plumage  white, 
Guard  from  all  prowling  foxes'  bite. 
My  chickens  sold,  I'll  buy  a  dress  ! 
Two  flounces — fifteen  yards — no  less — 
Ah !  there's  a  dream  of  happiness  I 


Sir  7".  :  :v-'^;.P.  A 


.^,>%/ 


'ly// 


/A- 


y)v/^ 


PRINCE  ALBERT.  21 

Green  suits  me  best ;  and  many  a  swain 

I'll  captivate ;  but  I'll  not  deign 

To  cast  on  one  a  pitying  glance. 

For  coldness  will  my  charms  enhance." 

Thus  musing  in  her  virgin  pride, 
Her  basket  standing  by  her  side. 
On  mossy  bank  the  maid  reclined, 
And  future  triumphs  fill'd  her  mind ; 
The  hour  was  sultry,  and  a  doze 
Soon  perfected  her  soft  repose, 
While  in  her  sleeping  features  beam'd 
The  brightness  of  the  dreams  she  dream'd. 
At  length  she  opes  her  sparkling  eyes, 
And  moves  as  if  about  to  rise ; 
Alas  !  that  movement  overturns 
The  precious  basket ;  and  she  learns, 
Her  eggs  being  gone,  her  hopes  are  o'er, 
And  WAKING  DREAMS  are  hers  no  morej 
Tarewell  to  all  her  visions  bright, 
Alas  !  delusive  was  their  light ! 

Where  is  the  youth  or  maiden  fair. 

Who  ne'er  hath  "castles"  built  "in  air?" 

The  wisest  have  their  waking  dreams. 

Where  hope  with  flattering  radiance  beams  ; 

Our  fable  but  an  emblem  is 

Of  all  such  visionary  bliss. 


PRINCE      ALBERT. 

O'er  the  broad  ocean-wave,  Albert,  thou  camest ; 

Leaving  for  this  fair  Isle  thy  Father-land, 

Where  gloomy  hills,  like  solemn  altars,  rise 

E'en  to  the  sunset  clouds ;  where  the  deep  rivers 

Lave,  with  their  clear  blue  streams,  the  old  gray  stones 

Of  castle-fortresses  of  ancient  times ; 

Where  the  lone  dells  and  forest-wilds  are  ridi 

With  antique  songs,  and  legendary  lore ; 

Where  the  black  pine-woods  frown  in  darkest  awe, 

S. — VOL.  I.  F 


22  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Beneath  the  mighty  mountain's  misty  brow ; 

"Where  ancient  battlements,  moss-clad,  and  ivy-wreathed, 

Still  stand  in  undecaying  grandeur  stern, 

Yet  glowing,  as  of  old,  at  eventide. 

Bathed  in  the  crimson  light  of  parting  day ; 

The  old,  broad  Rhine  ;  the  glorious  forest  trees  ; 

The  ancient  halls  Avhere  once  the  voice  of  song 

Flung  forth  its  melody  ;  or  trumpet-note 

Of  battle  floated  on  the  stilly  breeze ; 

The  lone,  drear  rocks ;  the  mouldering  towers 

Of  by-gone  years,  have  deep  tones  all  their  own. 

Telling  of  deathless  deeds  of  valoui"  wrought, 

By  heroes  who  have  long  since  slept  in  dust. 

Though  all  unperish'd  is  the  fame  they  won. 

And  fresh  those  laurel  wreaths  that  ne'er  can  fade 

While  the  proud  mountains  stand  within  their  land  ! 

Such  was  thy  childhood's  home,  thy  native  clime. 

Thine  early  hopes,  thine  early  fears  were  breathed 

Amid  these  ancient  relics  of  old  time. 

It  was  thy  country,  thine  own  Father-land, 

And  England's  children  love  it  for  thy  sake ; 

And  well  may  bless  it !    for  from  lonely  cell 

Of  cloister'd  Erfurt,  sprang  that  star  of  truth 

Whose  beams  pierced  through  the  depths  of  error's  night 

Blessings  be  on  thee,  Albert !    All  the  joy 

That  fills  a  tender  fathei-'s  heart  be  thine  ! 

Of  princely  lineage  art  thou ;  and  the  sire 

Of  Britain's  royal  line ;  'Tis  thine  to  claim 

E'en  for  thine  own,  the  queen  of  these  proud  isles. 

Oh  yes,  we  bless  thee  1    and  we  pray  that  years 

To  come  may  be  as  cloudless  as  the  past ; 

I'liat  the  dark  storms  which  linger  in  the  sky 

May  fade  away;  and  that  the  warm,  glad  light 

Of  summer-sunshine  may  illume  thy  path 

Throughout  this  transitory  world.     And  when 

The  word  shall  come  to  summon  thee  from  earth. 

Oh  !  may  it  bid  thee  home  1  home  to  a  land 

Where  kingdoms  never  pass  away ;  and  where 

Unfading  crowns  encircle  deathless  brows  ! 

May  love  and  peace  be  thine,  and  all  that  Heaven 

Or  earth  can  give,  gladden  thy  mortal  life. 

Until  a  brighter  world  shall  dawn  for  thee. 

Where  thou  may'st  dwell  throughout  eternity  1 


23 


CORIOLANUS  AND   HIS  MOTHER. 

BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

Dissensions  having  arisen  between  the  Patricians  and  the  people  of  Rome,  Coriolanus  took  part  with  the 
former,  and  was  eventually  sentenced  to  perpetual  banishment.  Detennined  on  reventje,  he  joined  the  enemies  of 
his  country,  took  various  towns,  and  encamped  within  five  miles  of  the  city  itself.  A  deputation  was  sent  out 
to  treat  with  liim,  but  was  received  with  haughtiness,  and  thrice  returned,  without  the  slightest  hopes  of  a  recon- 
ciliation. At  length  his  mother,  wife,  and  children,  came  out,  and  pleaded  their  country's  cause.  To  their  entrea- 
ties he  could  no  longer  refuse  assent.  Raising  his  venerable  parent  from  the  ground,  he  exclaimed,  "  You  have 
saved  Rome,  my  mother,  but  you  have  destroyed  your  son."  He  retired  to  his  tent,  and  took  immediate  measures 
for  a  retreat. 

All, — the  Soldier's  heart  withstood, 
With  a  hero's  dauntless  mood  ; 
Till  that  ONE  voice  smote  his  ear, 
(Choked  with  agony  and  fear,) 
Which  from  childhood's  hour  had  proved 
Most  revered,  and  best  beloved  ! 
Deem  it  rather  praise,  than  blame, 
If  that  man  of  mighty  fame. 
Yielded  to  the  suppliant  tongue 
Wliich  Ms  cradle-hymn  had  sung, 
Leaving,  link'd  with  all  his  glory, 
That  most  sweet  and  touching  story. 
How  the  Warrior's  heart  could  melt. 
When  the  Son  so  deeply  felt ! 

Proud  one,  ruler  of  the  earth, 
Scorn  not  her  who  gave  thee  birth  1 
Scorn  her  not :  although  the  day 
Long  hath  waned  and  pass'd  away, 
When  her  patient  lullaby 
Hush'd  thy  peevish  wailing  cry ; 
When  the  rocking  on  her  breast 
LuU'd  thee  to  tliy  helpless  rest ; 
When,  if  danger  threaten'd  near, 
Tliou  didst  fly,  in  guileless  fear, 
Doubting  not  the  safety  tried 
By  her  loved  familiar  side  ; 


24  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS 

Doubting  not,  her  circling  arm 
Could  protect  from  every  harm. 
Let  this  thought  thy  bosom  stir,  — 
She  is,  what  thou  wert  to  her; 
Guard  her,  keep  her  from  all  pain, 
As  she  sought  to  guard  thee  then  ! 


Now  return  the  patient  care. 
When  her  curls  of  glossy  hair 
Bending  down  with  IMothei-'s  love 
Shadowed  thy  young  brow  above  ! 
Noiv  return  the  watches  kept 
When  thy  cradled  childhood  slept, 
And  her  smooth  and  glowing  cheek 
(Rosy  as  the  apple-streak) 
Scarcely  show'd  a  tinge  less  bright 
In  the  Morning's  coming  light. 
So  full  she  was  of  youthful  strength,— 
So  brief  appear'd  the  wan  night's  length, - 
When  full  of  love,  and  hope,  and  joy. 
She  rock'd  to  rest  her  slumberiug  boy ! 


And  if — (for  it  may  well  be  so, 
Since  nothing  perfect  dwells  below,) 
Thy  understanding,  grown  mature, 
Perceives  defect  which  must  endure, — 
Now  return  indulgence  given, 
(Meek  and  merciful  as  Heaven,) 
When  thy  faults  her  patience  tried. 
Dullness,  stubbornness,  or  pride. 
Thou, — with  all  thy  strength  and  lore. 
Art  the  child  she  nursed  before, — 
Also,  an  imperfect  creature. 
Faulty  by  thy  very  nature  : 
If  a  hard  or  peevish  word 
From  her  lips,  thou  now  hast  heard, — 
Bear  it — she  hath  borne  with  thee 
When  thou  hadst  not  sense  to  see 
Her  endurance  well  might  prove 
Patience  hath  its  root  in  Lovu. 


^ 


\ 


I 


THE  DOGE  FOSCARI.  25 

Love  her  therefore !    shame  not  thou, 

Like  the  hero,  to  avow 

That  thy  Mother's  voice  hath  power 

In  thy  fate's  decisive  hour. 

All  the  love  that  thou  canst  give, 

All  the  days  ye  both  shall  li\e, — 

Warm  altho'  the  pulse  it  stirs, 

Trust  me,  will  fall  short  of  Hers  ! 


THE    DOGE    EOSCARI. 

The  fearful  tragedy  to  which  this  plate  has  reference  occurred  during  the  fifteenth 
century.  A  murder  had  been  committed ;  and  Giacopo,  the  only  surviving  son  of 
Francesco  Foscari,  a  youth  who  had  already  given  mortal  offence  to  a  rival  Venetian 
family,  was  most  unjustly  charged  with  the  crime.  Torture  having  failed  to  wring 
from  the  unhappy  Giacopo  the  confession  of  a  crime  which  he  had  not  committed,  the 
youth  was  condemned  to  banishment.  This  banishment  he  endured  with  memorable 
fortitude,  during  a  period  of  six  years.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  was  seized 
by  an  irresistible  longing  to  see  once  more  his  native  country,  and  to  embrace  his 
kindred.  He  adopted  the  desperate  resource  of  addressing  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of 
Milan,  imploring  his  intercession  with  the  Republic.  This  unfortunate  step  led  to  his 
being  brought  back  as  a  malefactor ;  and  on  his  return,  the  old  scene  of  horror  was 
re-enacted.  Thirty  times,  even  in  the  presence  of  his  father,  Giacopo  was  stretched 
upon  the  torturing  cord,  and  finally  doomed  to  perpetual  banishment.  He  was  per- 
mitted one  last  interview  with  his  family — the  interview  represented  in  the  accompany- 
ing plate — and  the  final  parting,  as  related  by  different  historians,  was  fuU  of  heart- 
stirring  pathos. 

The  Doge  was  now  extremely  aged  and  decrepit ;  he  could  not  walk  without  the 
assistance  of  a  crutch  ;  yet  when  he  came  into  the  sick  chamber,  to  pronounce  the 
last  sentence  upon  his  ill-fated  son,  still  suffering  from  his  receat  torture,  and  sur- 
rounded by  his  weeping  wife  and  child,  he  spoke  to  Giacopo  in  a  firm  tone,  so  that 
a  spectator  would  have  thought  that  it  was  not  his  son  whom  he  was  thus  addressing — 
though  it  was  indeed  his  son,  and  his  only  surviving  son.  "When  solicited  by  the  sor- 
rowing exile  to  ask  mercy  once  more  from  his  relentless  tyrants,  so  that  he  might 
be  permitted  to  reside  in  Venice,  "  Go,  Giacopo  1"  was  the  old  man's  reply,  "  Go,  my 
son;  submit  yourself  to  the  will  of  your  country,  and  seek  nothing  further." 

The  strong  restraint  which  the  aged  father  thus  put  upon  his  feehngs,  was  more 
than  his  exhausted  frame  could  support ;  and  on  retiring,  he  fainted  in  the  arms  of  his 
attendants. 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  G 


2G  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Giacopo,  thus  deprived  of  the  sole  last  hope  that  had  supported  him  through  inex- 
pressible torments,  both  of  miud  aud  body — the  hope  of  dying  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family  and  of  his  country — only  lived  to  reach  his  Caudian  prison,  where  he  soon 
afterwards  breathed  liis  last.  His  afflicted  father  continued  to  live  during  a  few 
wretched  days,  but  buried  himself  in  the  seclusion  of  his  chamber,  and  never  more 
attended  the  sittings  of  the  Councils. 

Lord  Byron's  drama,  entitled  "The  Two  Foscari,"  is  famihar  to  multitudes 
of  readers : — 

"  ....     In  his  passionate  words 
Tlie  wild  lament  for  Venice — lovely  Venice — 
Breathed  by  those  dying  and  exhausted  lipa 
From  the  deep  well-springs  of  a  broken  heart, 
Must  live  for  ever !  Let  no  meaner  hand 
Sweep  the  strong  chords  of  that  now  silent  harp ; 
Its  echo  yet  hath  power  to  thrill  the  air, 
So  that  all  sound  seems  discord,  which  attempts 
A  variation  of  its  melody !" 


P    L     0    ¥    E     R    S. 


Sweet  flowers !  how  fair  your  silken  petals  seem, 

Beneath  the  bright  glad  sunlight's  golden  beam  j 

How  fresh  ye  are  !  when  bathed  in  sparkling  dews, 

The  crystal  drops  shine  o'er  your  rainbow  hues. 

Gently,  the  young  buds  fold  them  on  their  stems 

When  glitter  forth  night's  starry  diadems, 

And  in  the  summer  twilight's  solemn  hours 

The  faint  breeze  wafts  the  breath  of  summer  flowers. 

Ye  weave  a  wreath  of  beauty  through  the  year. 

Ye  lovely  ones  !    Pure  snowdrops — telhng  here 

Of  the  cold  Alpine  mounts  so  far  away — 

Gleam  forth  like  childhood's  hopes  amidst  decay ; 

Then  violets  with  purple  leaves  half  closed. 

Sleeping  within  their  shady,  grassy  shroud, 

Shed  their  sweet  perfume  through  the  spring-tide  hours, 

And  smile  by  primrose  tufts,  midst  April  showers ; 

And  flowers  of  rosy  broom,  or  pearly  thorn. 

White  lilies  in  the  pathless  valleys  born. 

Waxen  azaleas,  with  their  glossy  leaves. 

Unfold  their  buds,  where  the  lone  wood-bird  grieves, 


(  O  ::^^yyW//i. 


FISHEP... 


NDOM  &PAK[: 


FLOWERS.  27 

Anemones  that  droop  by  murmuring  streams 
O'er  whose  cool  waters  chasteu'd  sunlight  gleams, 
Graceful  laburnums  waving  iu  the  breeze 
Their  golden  chains,  with  bloom  of  cassia  trees. 
And  pure  syringa-stars  their  fragrance  spread 
O'er  the  soft  greensward  that  we  love  to  tread ; 
And  glowdng  roses  !  fairest  of  earth's  gems. 
How  queenlike  are  they  on  their  mossy  stems  ! 
In  the  wild  thickets  where  the  woodbines  meet 
How  do  they  scatter  forth  their  odours  sweet ! 
Those  pale  pink  petals,  tinged  like  sea-wave  shells. 
They  fling  their  beauty  o'er  the  silent  dells ; 
They  linger  through  the  long  bright  summer  day. 
Then  fade  and  droop — still  lovely  in  decay  j 
And  the  rich  clustering  I'oses  in  the  home 
Of  care  and  culture,  where  no  wild  flowers  come, 
How  gloriously  they  shine,  when  sunsets  burn. 
And  to  the  crimson  west  their  leaflets  turn  ! 
Their  fair  white  sisters,  bending  o'er  the  tomb 
Of  loved,  and  early  lost  ones — through  the  gloom 
As  silent  watch  they  keep — sweet  fragrance  shed 
Over  the  dreamless  slumbers  of  the  dead; 
Carnation's  glowing  tints,  pure  red  and  white. 
Blue  salvias  dazzling  with  their  sapphire  light. 
Geranium,  with  its  scarlet  bloom  so  deep, 
Gum-cistus,  bom  to  beauty  frail  and  brief; 
Meek  harebells,  lifting  to  their  kindred  sky 
One  pensive  glance  ere  yet  they  fade  and  die ; 
Pale  autumn  stars*  with  sad  and  solemn  smile, 
That,  though  the  soft  winds  go,  yet  rest  awhile ; 
And  with  the  crimson  fuchsia's  drooping  bell 
Linger  around  us,  with  their  flowery  spell — 
Oh  lovely  are  ye  !    E'en  in  deatii  so  bright, 
Ye  might  be  heralds  from  yon  world  of  light  I 
But  ere  the  blast  sweeps  o'er  the  leafless  trees, 
Ere  yet  we  hear  the  moaning  wintry  breeze. 
Those  children  of  the  summer-days  are  o'er, 
Their  glories  meet  om'  longing  eyes  no  more. 
Yet  still,  fair  roses  blossom,  buds  unfold. 
And  still  their  soft  pink  cups  the  night-dews  hold ; 

*  China-asters. 


28  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

When  all  our  floral  treasures  pass  away 

Our  garden-queen  smiles  on  through  drear  decay. 

Pair  flowers !  ye  are  too  lovely  for  this  earth. 

Was  this,  our  sin-cursed  soil,  your  place  of  birth  ? 

It  cannot  be !  from  Eden's  bowers  ye  came 

Wliere  first  ye  blossom'd,  ere  the  hour  of  shame ; 

And — types  of  mercy — ye  were  left  to  show 

How  God  yet  loved  this  rebel  world  below  ! 

Ye  share  niortahty — ye  too  must  die. 

Surely  there  is  some  home  beyond  the  sky 

Where  garlands  wither  not,  nor  roses  fade ; 

Where  never  leaves  upon  the  turf  are  laid. 

Oh  lovely  flowers  !  ye  unto  us  were  given 

To  raise  our  drooping  hearts  from  earth  to  heaven. 


CHARLES  THE  FIRST  AND  HIS  CHILDREN. 

He  sat  within  his  palace  walls. 

In  that  dark  solemn  hour; 
He  bow'd  his  head  in  bitter  woe, 

A  stately,  stricken  flower  1 
And  tears  gush'd  forth ;  his  hands  were  closed 

In  such  a  fervent  clasp. 
As  if  the  griefs  that  crush'd  his  soul 

Could  perish  in  his  grasp. 

Once  he  had  sat  upon  a  throne, 

And  worn  a  kingly  crown ; 
Once  thousands  press'd  to  win  his  smile. 

Or  crouch'd  beneath  his  frown. 
And  now,  of  all  that  dazzling  throng, 

How  few  true  hearts  were  left ! 
But  not  for  this  those  tears  burst  forth, 

'Twas  not  for  this  he  wept. 

Once  he  had  borne  in  battle-field 
Aloft  his  glittering  sword  j 


^' 


1 


«^ 


^ 
J 


CHARLES  THE  FIRST  AND  HIS  CHILDREN.  29 

Where  were  they  now?  those  faithful  ones 

Who  own'd  him  for  their  lord  ? 
Of  regal  state  and  royal  power. 

Of  kingly  wealth  bereft, 
A  captive  in  his  own  fair  realm — 

Yet  not  for  this  he  wept. 

He  stood  before  his  rebel  judge. 

With  brow  unmoved  and  calm ; 
No  eyelid  flutter'd,  no  faint  pulse 

Gave  token  of  alarm. 
He  knew  that  he  was  doom'd  to  die 

A  traitor's  shameful  death  ; 
He  did  not  fear  to  meet  that  hour. 

To  yield  his  mortal  breath. 

But  one  deep  chord  yet  linger'd  there 

Within  that  aching  breast ; 
The  yearning  of  a  father's  heart 

That  could  not  be  repress'd  ! 
'Twas  nought  to  him,  to  gaze  no  more 

On  star  and  golden  sun  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  think  the  strife  was  o'er. 

The  prize  so  nearly  won  1 

.  But  his  young  children  near  him  stood — 

And  love,  that  to  the  last 
Bums  in  the  soul  of  mortal  clay, 

Its  chains  around  him  cast. 
'Twas  bitterest  grief  that  he  no  more 

Might  clasp  those  fragile  forms — 
That  all  unshelter'd  they  must  brook 

The  wildest  earthly  storms. 

The  struggle  pass'd — again  he  raised 

His  heart  in  trusting  prayer ; 
The  fair  girl  marvel'd  at  the  cahn 

Her  parent's  brow  could  wear ; 
Once  more  he  held  within  his  arms 

His  lovely  infant  boy. 
And  swept  the  rich  curls  from  his  face 

With  all  a  father's  joy. 

S.  S. VOL.  I  H 


30  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OP  ENGRAVINGS. 

One  last  embrace,  one  long  farewell, 

One  clasp  of  tliose  small  hands  ; 
One  sad,  sweet  gaze — one  lingering  thought 

Of  those  in  other  lands, — 
And  he — the  martyr-king — return'd 

To  dreams  of  earth  no  more  ; 
The  bitterness  of  death  was  past, 

Its  griefs  and  pains  were  o'er. 

The  morrow's  sun  went  down  at  eve 

On  England's  blushing  guilt ; 
The  pale,  meek  king  had  bow'd  his  head. 

His  royal  blood  was  spilt. 
'Twas  meet  that  wearied  frame  should  lie 

In  peaceful  slumber  down ; 
He  lost  earth's  diadem,  to  wear 

An  everlasting  crown. 


THE  LADY  BLANCHE  EGERTON, 

Daughter  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  (brother  of  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,)  lately  created  Earl  of  EUesmere,  and 
Harriet-Catherine,  daughter  of  Charles  Fulke  Greville,  Esq. 


BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

A  LIFE-LIKE  pencil,  his,  who  thus  could  trace 
Thy  speaking  looks, — fair  child  of  a  fair  race  ! 
As  there  thou  standest,  listening  with  surprise 
And  rapt  attention  in  thine  earnest  eyes, 
While  thy  quaint  favourite  mocks  thy  silver  tone. 
And  gives  thy  words  a  harshness  all  his  own. 

Sure  a  Child's  Picture,  is  a  touching  thing  I 

For  who  can  tell  what  after-years  may  bring  ?  ^ 

What  storm,  slow  gatheiing  in  the  mists  of  Time,  « 

May  cloud  the  moments  of  untarnish'd  prime? 

What  dark  event  may  make  the  portrait  seem  m 

A  tearful  vision,  and  a  mocking  dream  1 


LADY  BLANCHE  EGERTON.  31 

I  know  a  picture, — hanging  far  away, — 

Where,  beautiful  as  Spring,  and  fresh  as  May, 

A  young,  slight,  radiant,  happy  creature  stands ; 

Poised  for  the  dance,  with  white  uplifted  hands. 

The  arch  smile  playing  round  her  coral  lips ; 

Bending,  (with  grace  that  none  shall  e'er  echpse,) 

And  looking  down,  with  softly  mirthful  eye, 

On  a  young  band  of  brothers,  seated  nigh. 

Friends  have  bemoan'd  Her,  in  a  liNdng  death  : 

Forsaken  sobs  have  choked  her  heaving  breath  : 

But  still  that  sketch  the  credulous  heart  beguiles, 

There,  still  she  dances, — and  there  still  she  smiles ; 

There,  through  the  long  dim  course  of  changeful  years. 

While  eyes  have  gazed  upon  her,  blind  with  tears. 

She  hath  look'd  forth — all  radiant  and  serene, — 

Glad, — youthful, — innocent, — and  beauty's  queen  : 

Oh  I    Bud, — thou  art  not  yet  a  Flower  complete, — 

Who  knows  what  canker  to  thy  heart  may  eat? 

Who  knows  what  grief  may  wake  the  fount  of  woe 

Which,  once  unseal'd,  so  seldom  stops  its  flow  ? 

Who  knows  what  Fate  may  send,  when  thou  shalt  roam 

From  the  safe  portal  of  thy  shelter'd  home  ? 

A  woman's  lot,  is  banishment, — at  best. 

Forth  from  her  Paradise  of  earlier  rest : 

Love, — in  the  Son, — engrafts  the  newer  claim, 

On  the  old  home ;  with  simple  change  of  name : 

Love, — in  the  Daughter, — sends  the  exiled  wife 

Into  an  untried  world,  with  sorrow  rife. 

Like  a  transplanted  flower,  her  chance  to  prove ; 

To  blossom  proudly  in  the  glow  of  love. 

Or  lost  to  blooming  hope,  and  joyful  frxiit, 

Sink  withering  down,  upon  a  perish'd  root ! 

Ah  1    may'st  thou  never,  in  the  strange  years'  flight. 

Pine  for  the  blessed  time,  when  day  and  night 

Brought  the  familiar  greetings  to  thine  eai'. 

Of  Friends  to  Childhood's  first  impressions  dear  1 

May'st  THOU  ne'er  deem  the  Mother's  gentle  breast 

A  place  of  refuge, — not  a  home  of  rest : — 

May'st  THOU  ne'er  hold  the  Father's  love  and  might 

A  strong  protection, — not  a  dear  delight : — 

May'st  thou, — with  weary  heart,  that  made  in  vain 

Its  long  sharp  struggle  with  opposing  pain, — 


32  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Ne'er, — like  the  Dove,  whose  weak  and  storm-beat  wing 

Left  far  behind  the  long-sought  hope  of  Spring, — 

Turn  to  the  home  which  first  true  shelter  gave, 

Whose  Ark  yet  floats  upon  the  sullen  wave  ! 

May  he,  to  whom  the  future  lot  is  given 

To  tread,  with  thee,  the  path  through  earth  to  Heaven, 

By  thee,  with  stedfast  love,  endure  to  stand. 

And  calmly  journey  to  the  Promised  Land  ! 

Still,  as  the  long  companionship  endears 

The  constant  sharer  of  his  joys  and  fears. 

Be  Memory's  course  enrich'd  with  sands  of  gold 

Wliere  Life's  quick  stream  of  daily  'nothings'  roll'd; 

Bright  Pactolus  !    supplying  links  which  bind 

Heart  closer  yet  to  heart, — and  mind  to  mind  ! 

Still  may  he  deem  no  gladder  light  can  shine 

Than  thy  dear  smile,  to  cheer  his  Life's  decline, — 

With  cordial  love,  and  willing  help  repay 

The  devious  windings  of  the  lengthy  way, — 

And,  when  the  allotted  time  is  well  nigh  o'er, 

When  the  hark  slackens  sail,  and  nears  the  shore, 

Still  greet  thee  fondly,  at  thy  journey's  end. 

As  "Guide,  Companion,  Monitress,  and  Friend  !" 


RICHARD    COBDEN,  ESQ.,  M.P. 

This  distinguished  man  affords  a  very  remarkable  instance  of  the  power  which  great 
natural  talent  accompanied  by  indomitable  perseverance  seldom  fails  to  command,  even 
though  the  individual  thus  eminently  gifted  may  lack  the  prestige  which  attends 
aristocratic  birth. 

Mr.  Cobden  is  the  son  of  a  respectable  farmer  of  Susses.  In  his  youth  he  applied 
himself  with  industry  and  success  to  commercial  pursuits,  and  eventually  settled  as 
a  calico-printer  in  the  town  of  Manchester ;  where  his  commanding  talents  and  singular 
energy,  together  with  the  honour  and  integrity  of  his  character,  soon  gained  for  him 
the  respect  and  esteem  of  his  fellow-townsmen;  in  concert  with  a  few  of  whom  he 
formed  the  plan  for  the  establishment  of  the  Anti-Corn-Law  League — that  most 
gigantic  association  of  modern  times;  an  association  which  (however  widely  people 
may  differ  respecting  the  expediency  of  its  object)  has  perhaps  never  been  equalled 
in  the  harmony  and  perfection  of  its  vast  ramifications ;  and  which,  after  a  severe  and 


K  I  ('  11  A  U  1)      C  O  B  D  E  N  ,    ESQ:    MP 


THE  ANGLERS.  33 

protracted  struggle  of  several  years'  duration,  has  finally  accomplished  the  overthrow 

of  the  Corn-Laws. 

Wliile  Mr.  Cobden  was  labouring  in  this  cause,  the  borough  of  Stockport  returned 

him  to  parhament;  where,  by  the  strength,  brilliancy,  and  logical  arrangement  of  his 

speeches,  as  well  as  by  the  undaunted  firmness  of  his  character,  he  proved  a  formidable 

antagonist  of  those  who  opposed  his  views. 

His  fame  could  now  be  no  longer  confined  within  the  limits  of  the  "United  Kingdom 

of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  but  became  rapidly  celebrated  among  all  the  nations  of 
Europe,  as  well  as  throughout  tlie  Western  Continent,  and  everywhere  his  name  was 
hailed  as  that  of  the  "  Apostle  of  Free-Trade." 

The  vast  mental  and  physical  exertions  consequent  upon  his  management  of  the 
afi'airs  of  the  League  j  his  constant  attendance  at  the  meetings  of  that  body,  and  his 
parliamentary  duties,  proved,  at  length,  too  much  even  for  Mr.  Cobden's  almost  super- 
human strength ;  and  it  became  necessary,  that  in  order  to  promote  the  restoration  of 
his  health,  he  should,  for  a  short  time,  leave  the  scene  of  his  indefatigable  labours. 
With  this  view  he  travelled  over  the  Continent ;  visiting  nearly  every  part  of  it ;  and 
everywhere  he  was  received  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm  and  the  most  generous 
hospitality;  the  aristocracy,  and  even  the  sovereigns  of  Europe,  vying  with  each  other 
in  paying  honours  to  the  calico-printer  of  Manchester. 

While  Mr.  Cobden  was  on  this  tour,  the  general  election  of  1847  took  place ;  and  he 
had  then  the  honour  not  only  of  being  re-elected  by  the  borough  of  Stockport,  but  also  of 
being  unanimously  chosen  to  represent  the  largest  constituency  in  the  kingdom— that 
of  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire.  As  member  for  the  West  Riding  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  that  great  constituency  he  now  represents. 

This  is  a  brief  account  of  the  most  prominent  featui-es  of  Mr.  Cobden's  eventful 


career. 


May  not  the  honours  and  rewards  which  he  has  reaped  be  regarded  as  affording  a 
fresh  assurance,  that  in  this  land  of  freedom  and  impartiality,  all  obstacles  may  be  over- 
come by  genius  and  perseverance  ?  It  is,  and,  as  it  may  be  hoped,  will  ever  be,  the  glory 
of  Britain,  that  she  values  her  sons,  not  by  rank  or  wealth,  but  by  talent  and  merit. 


THE      ANGLERS. 

'TwAs  in  the  smiling  month  of  May, 
The  flowers  were  waving  fair  and  gay. 
The  morning  sun  shone  bright  on  dews 
That  sparkled  with  all  brilliant  hues. 
The  birds  were  singing  in  the  trees 
Whose  green  leaves  rustled  in  the  breeze, 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  I 


34  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

When  lovelier  tliati  the  dews  and  flowers. 

And  all  tlie  buds  that  twined  the  bowers. 

Came  forth  a  maiden — passing  fair^ 

With  bright  blue  eyes,  and  golden  hair. 

Roses  were  blooming  on  her  cheek, 

The  lute  would  hush  to  hear  her  speak ; 

And  to  the  river's  Ijrink  she  sped, 

Nor  pluck'd  the  blossoms  round  her  spread — 

But  stay'd  not,  till  she  reach'd  the  stream 

That  glitter'd  in  the  sun's  glad  beam. 

And  on  the  banks  there  stood  a  youth, 

A  noble  goodly  one,  in  truth. 

He  came  to  fish ;  ('twas  so  he  said. 

By  some  'twould  not  be  credited ;) 

And  some  might  say  he  angled  there 

For  something  very  sweet  and  fair. 

However,  be  that  as  it  may. 

He  left  his  couch  at  dawn  of  day. 

And  hurried  to  the  river's  brink. 

Ere  yet  the  flowers  the  dew  could  drink ; 

The  hours  pass'd  on,  the  sun  was  high 

In  the  calm,  cloudless,  deep  blue  sky. 

And  there  the  pair  were  sitting  yet 

Though  no  fine  trout  were  in  the  net. 

The  maiden  learn'd  to  angle  too. 

And  in  the  stream  her  rod  she  threw ; 

And  there  it  stay'd,  as,  side  by  side. 

She  and  the  youth  gazed  on  the  tide. 

He  was  of  noble  birth,  I  trow. 

The  castle  on  yon  green  hill's  brow 

Own'd  him  for  heir ;  and  he  would  be 

One  day,  a  baron  bold  and  free. 

For  sport  he  woo'd  the  village  maid, 

Who  never  in  her  life  had  stray'd 

Ten  miles  from  that  dear  cottage  home 

From  which  she'd  never  wish'd  to  roam. 

But  now  she  heard  of  courtly  halls. 

Of  ladies'  bowers — where  fountain-falls. 

And  flowerets  of  another  land. 

And  gems  from  far-off  Indian  strand. 

And  perfumes  of  an  Eastern  clime. 

And  costly  relics  of  old  time. 


THE  ANGLERS.  35 


Were  gather'd  e'en  for  her  deliglit 


Whose  eyes  outshone  tlie  jewels  bright. 
Her  bosom  swell'd,  her  heart  beat  high 
At  thought  of  such  proud  destiny. 
She  heard  him  telling  of  the  day, 
When,  deck'd  with  gems  and  rich  array. 
She  should  before  the  altar  stand. 
The  fairest,  loveliest  of  the  land  ! 
And  oft  in  silent  hours  of  night. 
She  mused  with  joy,  and  deep  delight. 
On  all  the  pleasures  she  should  know 
That  wealth  and  grandeur  can  bestow. 
When  she  should  be,  in  beauteous  pride. 
Lord  Walter's  loved  and  loving  bride. 
Poor  simple  maid !  as  by  the  stream 
Day  after  day  in  that  sweet  dream, 
She  sat,  and  listen'd  to  his  tale 
Of  hopes — and  vows  that  could  not  fail. 
She  ceased  to  love  all  else  but  him. 
Her  cheek  grew  pale — her  blue  eye,  dim. 
At  thought  of  parting  for  a  week  j 
How  could  she  then  the  streamlet  seek  ? 
And  missing  each  dear  cherish'd  tone 
Feel  yet  more  bitterly  alone  ? 

The  glorious  summer  pass'd  away. 
The  anglers  came  from  day  to  day. 
Till  parting  came — that  mournful  hour 
When  sunbeams  fade,  and  dark  clouds  lower. 
He  swore  that  he  would  come  again. 
His  peerless  love,  and  bride  to  claim, 
For  aye  together  they  should  dwell ; 
So  kiss'd  her  cheek,  and  bade  farewell. 

The  winter  and  the  spring  had  past. 
And  floweiy  May  came  back  at  last. 
The  maiden  angled  in  the  flood 
But  no  fond  lover  near  her  stood ; 
From  day  to  day  she  gazed  in  vain, 
Along  the  green  and  shady  lane ; 
He  came  no  more — and  soon  'twas  said 
A  titled  fair  one  he  had  wed. 


36  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  maiden  wept  for  many  a  day, 

■"Twas  sad  to  see  her  fade  away. 

Like  a  young  openiag  rose  that  sheds 

Its  beauty,  ere  its  flower  unspreads. 

But  time  stole  on,  and  once  again 

She  smiled  and  danced,  nor  thought  of  pain. 

Time  heal'd  her  grief — and  she  was  gay. 

And  look'd  again  as  bright  as  day. 

Once  more,  she  was  the  village  belle. 

But  gravely  oft  her  tale  would  tell, 

And  bid  young  maidens  all  beware 

Of  oaths  and  vows  though  seeming  fair. 

She  bade  them  not  believe  soft  words. 

Though  whisper'd  sweetly  by  proud  lords ; 

Nor  trust  to  love's  young  summer  dreams. 

When  angling  in  the  meadow  streams. 


ALFRED  DIVIDING  HIS  LAST  LOAP  WITH  THE  BEGGAR. 

Wliile  Alfred  and  Elswitha  were  living  in  that  seclusion  wliich  surrounding  dangers  rendered  prudent,  a  sear- 
city  of  provisions  occurred  in  his  household,  and  his  followers  were  despatched  in  search  of  any  species  of  food 
that  could  be  procured.  During  their  absence,  a  pilgi'im  knocked  at  the  gate,  and  in  the  name  of  God  begged 
a  morsel  of  bread.  As  there  was  but  one  loaf  in  the  house,  the  queen  brought  it  first  to  her  husband,  and  repre- 
sented the  consequences  of  giving  it  to  the  supplicant,  should  the  foragers  return  with  empty  pouches.  "  Give  the 
hungry  man  one  half  of  the  loaf,"  said  Alfred  ;  "  He  that  could  feed  five  thousand  with  five  loaves  and  two  fishes, 
could,  if  it  so  pleased  him,  cause  the  remaining  half  to  suffice  for  our  necessities." 

In  no  proud  hall,  or  festive  bower 

The  Saxon  monarch  stood  ; 
But  mighty  thoughts  o'er  his  sad  soul 

Came  sweeping  like  a  flood 
Hosts  of  his  followers  on  the  turf 

Like  autumn-leaves  were  strown. 
And  some,  like  summer  singing  birds, 

Had,  with  the  sunshine,  flown. 

A  little  faitliful  band  were  left 

To  gather  round  their  king ; 
And  still  bright  hopes  of  victory 

Around  their  dreams  would  cling. 


^ 

■^ 


^ 

^ 

^ 


J 


^ 


ALFRED  AND  THE  BEGGAR.  87 

They  were  a  proud  and  gallant  throng, 

Royal — or  nobly  born ; 
Right  trusty  hearts,  that  waver'd  not, 

Nor  fled  before  the  storm. 

The  chilling  wintry  blast  had  swept 

Over  the  snow-clad  world ; 
While  England's  monarch  grieved  to  see 

The  flag  of  war  unfurl'd : 
For  mighty  towers  had  kiss'd  the  dust 

And  forest-glades  were  red. 
Not  with  rich  crimson'd  leaves  or  flowers. 

But  blood  in  battle  shed. 

The  Saxon  king,  in  that  sad  hour 

Sat  silent  and  alone : 
Even  to  seek  their  daily  food 

His  faithful  band  were  gone. 
No  sound  in  that  deserted  bower 

Awakened  echo's  voice, 
No  gleam  of  earthly  light  shone  forth 

To  bid  his  heart  rejoice. 

An  aged  pilgrim,  wayworn,  sad. 

With  care  upon  his  brow. 
His  white  hair  floating  on  the  wind. 

Came  to  that  threshold  low. 
His  pale  lips  quiver'd,  and  his  cheek 

Was  wan  and  deadly  pale. 
As  humbly,  and  in  faltering  tones. 

He  told  his  mournful  tale. 

A  shade  pass'd  o'er  the  monarch's  brow, 

His  clear  blue  eye  grew  dim ; 
And  his  deep  fervent  prayer  went  up 

For  faith  to  trust  in  Him 
Who  heareth  the  young  ravens'  cry, 

And  giveth  them  their  food  ; 
Who  shieldeth  the  young  tender  lambs 

From  east  winds  chill  and  rude. 

He  turn'd  to  his  fair  Queen,  and  bade 

Her  bring  her  little  store: 
"  Fear  not,"  he  cried ;  "  The  God  we  ferj 

Will  surely  give  us  more, 

S    S. — VOL.  I.  K 


38  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

For  he  who  fed  the  multitude 

In  the  wild  desert,  lone. 
Can  make  our  bread  and  water  sure  ; 

He  will  protect  his  own." 

A  blessing  from  the  pilgrim's  lips 

Came  on  that  royal  head ; 
A  prayer,  that  God  on  high  would  peace 

And  comfort  round  him  shed. 
And,  oh  !  those  words  were  sweeter  far 

Than  breath  of  spring's  sweet  flowers. 
Than  all  the  smiles  of  courtly  friends, 

In  summer-sunshine  hours. 

The  day  sped  on ;  the  wintry  sun 

In  crystal  skies  went  down ; 
The  night-wind  woke  its  whispering  tones. 

The  hour  of  rest  di-ew  on. 
But  ere  had  faded  quite  in  gloom 

The  hues  where  sunset  burn'd. 
All  laden  with  the  forest  spoil. 

The  gallant  band  return'd. 

And  when,  once  more,  the  royal  crown 

Press'd  on  that  trusting  brow. 
His  kingly  heart  rose  up  in  praise 

To  Him  who  quell'd  the  foe ; 
And  oft  he  gazed  with  memory's  eye 

Along  the  stream  of  time, 
And  bless'd  that  Power  who  sent  the  gloom. 

And  then  bright  sunlight's  prime. 

Oh,  Faith  !  How  beautiful  thou  art ! 

Aud  when  in  earthly  breast 
Thou  plantest  hopes  that  soar  above. 

How  dear,  how  bright  a  guest ! 
Through  this  cold  world  of  doubt  and  fear. 

Gilding  the  gloom  with  light. 
The  trusting  pilgrim  thou  canst  guide, 

Till  thou  art  lost  in  sight. 


Z",  T.  rAFLRIS. 


39 


HOPE. 

When  the  stormy  wind  is  strong. 

And  the  tempestj  loud  and  long, 

Strews  the  young  leaves  on  the  turf. 

And  crests  with  foam  the  silvery  surf,— 

When  the  tender  ilowrets  die, 

While  the  whirlwind  waxeth  high, 

Till  the  veil  of  darkening  clouds, 

That  the  clear  blue  heaven  shrouds. 

Parts  away — and  sunbeam's  smile 

Mingles  with  the  rain  awhile, — 

Then  the  glorious  bow  is  bent, 

Like  a  lovely  herald  sent ; 

And  in  rose  and  violet  shade. 

Ere  the  glowing  arch  can  fade. 

We  may  read  the  Hope  of  flowers, 

That  shall  blush  in  summer  bowers ; 

When  the  sunbeams  melt  the  snow. 

Mantling  all  the  mountain's  brow. 

When  the  crystal  waters  gush 

From  their  homes  of  reed  and  rush. 

Then  we  hope  ere  long  to  hear 

Streamlets'  music  far  and  near ; 

Winter  may  not  always  stay, 

Earth  shall  smile  in  Spring's  glad  ray  j 

Hope  !  bright  Hope,  is  nature's  voice. 

Bidding  care-worn  hearts  rejoice. 

Summer  will  be  here  again, 

Flowers  shall  bloom  o'er  all  the  plain. 

Birds  shall  sing  their  carols  sweet. 

Pearly  hawthorn's  birth  to  greet ; 

Hope  !  sweet  Hope,  with  rosy  wreath. 

Thou  canst  promise  more  than  this  j 

Sorrow  may  not  ever  last. 

Storms  will  soon  be  over-past. 

What  though  death  should  close  thy  grief. 

Weep  not !  for  the  journey  brief 


40  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Ends  before  the  golden  gate, 
Where  the  dazzling  angels  wait ; 
And  to  yonder  glorious  land, 
Hope  may  point  with  stedfast  hand. 
Like  a  star  in  rayless  night, 
Lovely  Grace  !  thou  smilest  bright, 
And  the  mourner's  throbbing  breast 
Looks  to  Thee  for  calm  and  rest ; 
Hopes  of  earth  are  sweet  and  fair. 
But  the  canker  eateth  there ; 
Earthly  hope  may  prove  in  vain, 
Dearest  smiles  may  end  in  pain  ; 
But  the  hope  enthroned  on  high 
Wears  a  bloom  that  cannot  die ; 
Smiles  on  ever  'mid  the  gloom, 
Hovers  o'er  the  darksome  tomb. 
Lives  till  faith  be  lost  in  sight, 
Hope,  itself,  in  full  delight. 
Heavenly  spirit !  with  me  stay, 
All  throughout  my  pilgrim-way; 
When  I  bend  beneath  the  storm. 
May  I  meet  thy  seraph  form  ! 
Amaranthine  wreaths  are  thine, 
Let  such  blossomings  be  mine  ! 
Rest  Avith  me  tiU  life  be  past. 
And  the  haven  gain'd  at  last ! 


VICTORIA,  PRINCESS  ROYAL. 

BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

Thou  wert  the  IMorning  Star  of  Hope,  fair  child ! 
Shining,  all  lonely,  in  thy  Royal  home : 
On  thee  a  youthful  IMother  fondly  smiled. 
And  glad  the  expectant  nation  saw  thee  come. 

But  now— a  constellation  of  bright  lights, 
As  nascent  blessings  to  thy  home  are  given : 
And  thick  as  silver  stars  on  summer  nights. 
With  a  clear  glory  stud  that  peaceful  heaven  1 


THE  HEIRESS.  41 

Now — to  one  Princely  planet,  eager  hnii 
The  loyal  eyes  that  welcomed  thee  before  ; 
And  stars  that  with  a  lesser  radiance  burn, 
Count  as  companion-satellites ; — no  more  ! 

But  to  the  Parent's  heart,  no  after-days 

Of  richer  glory  can  decrease  the  love, 

Felt,  oh  !  thou  gentle  light,  when  fifst  tliy  rays 

Shone  with  a  tender  radiance  from  above. 

Still  shall  this  halo  circle  thee  through  life ; 
Thou  wert  the  First-Born,  of  the  welcoming  heart ; 
The  dearest  joy,  when  hope  and  joy  were  rife, 
Grirt  with  sweet  thoughts  that  never  can  depart. 

Thou  wert  the  first,  whose  soft  and  feeble  cries 
Smote  on  the  Mother's  thrill'd  and  listening  ear: 
Thou  wert  the  first,  whose  closed,  unconscious  eyes. 
Her  kiss  proclaim'd  unutterably  dear  ! 


THE       HEIRESS. 

BY  MRS.  ELLIS. 

'Twas  on  a  bright  May  morning,  when  the  birds  did  gaily  sing. 
And  the  waving  woods  were  vocal  with  the  melody  of  spring. 
There  stood  a  youthful  maiden  before  her  father's  door. 
All  rich  in  wealth  and  beauty — what  could  she  wish  for  more  ? 

Say,  little  child  of  penury,  what  think  yoii  did  she  wish  ? — 

For  the  earth  to  yield  her  silver  dew,  the  ocean,  golden  fish? 

For  brighter  gems  around  her  brow,  where  health  its  garland  wreathed? 

Or  food  for  thee,  thou  famish'd  one — was  that  the  wish  she  breathed? 

Oh  listen,  gentle  gales  of  spring;  and  listen,  sweet  May  flowers ! 
There  are  many  kinds  of  suffering  in  this  fair  world  of  ours; 
And  she  who  stands  in  ermine  robes  beside  the  rich  man's  door. 
Is  sighing  to  the  passing  gale — "  I  wish  that  I  were  poor  !" 

S.  S. VOL.  I.  L 


43  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

"  The  lady  gay  with  jewels  deck'd — the  rich  and  noble  lord, 
Who  come  with  all  theii"  retinue,  and  throng  ray  father's  boarH, 
They  tell  me  of  their  constant  wish,  to  serve  me  raore  and  more. 
Oh  should  I  not  be  happy  then,  if  only  I  were  poor  ? 

"Yes,  I  would  be  a  peasant  girl,  so  pretty,  and  so  poor; 
It  would  be  such  a  pleasant  life,  to  stray  from  door  to  door. 
The  only  treasure  I  would  keep,  should  be  my  gentle  dove. 
And  that  because  I  have  not  learu'd,  to  do  without  its  love. 

"  Oh  !  I  would  be  a  peasant  girl,  so  simple  and  so  neat ; 
I  should  only  have  to  tell  the  rich,  I  had  no  bread  to  eat ; 
And  all  the  gifts  they  promise  now,  would  soon,  be  pour'd  on  me." 
Say,  little  child  of  penury,  how  are  they  pour'd  on  thee  ? 

Nay,  weep  not ;  there  are  many  tears  shed  on  the  rich  man's  floor 
And  she  who  stands  iu  ermine  robe,  is  wishing  she  were  poor ; 
She  is  tired  of  all  the  luxury,  the  fashion,  and  the  form. 
That  make  her  father's  hearth  so  cold,  while  thine  is  often  warm  • 

She  is  tired  of  all  the  empty  words  that  fall  upon  her  ear. 
And  fail  to  make  her  truly  feel  to  one  fond  bosom  dear. 
There  is  a  joy  she  cannot  taste,  within  her  haUs  of  pride, 
A  love  which  want  and  misery,  have  sorely  proved  and  tried. 

Oh  !  little  child  of  penury,  droop  nol  thy  lowly  head. 
Thou  hast  a  thousand,  thousand  gifts,  in  rich  abundance  spread  j 
Thou  hast  the  warmth  of  nature's  heart,  wherever  thou  may'st  go 
And  more — thine  own,  to  sympathize  in  every  human  wo. 

Thou  hast  the  song  of  summer  birds,  the  wild  flowers  on  the  lea. 
The  music  of  the  mountain-rill — these  all  are  gifts  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  along  thy  lonely  path,  a  Heavenly  Father's  love. 
His  everlasting  arms  beneath — his  canopy  above. 


.o^  y/?-/,.-/, 


PISHEE,  SON  &C?  LONDOM  V.?/UHS. 


43 


ROME. 

Oh  !  mighty  Rome  !  proud  city  of  the  past  I 

I  gaze  upon  thy  battlements  at  last ; 

I  see  thy  glorious  domes  in  bright  aiTay, 

All  glittering  in  the  setting  sunbeam's  ray  : 

I  see  thy  castle-fortress,  gray  and  stern, 

Thy  turrets,  where  the  twilight-gleams  yet  burn. 

From  northern  shores  and  colder  climes  I  come. 

To  dwell  within  thy  palaces.  Old  Rome  ! 

'Tis  eventide,  and  all  is  calm  and  still, 

Save  voice  of  song,  that  swells  from  hill  to  hill : 

Thine  ancient  temples  rise  against  the  skies. 

Radiant  with  rosy  hues  and  golden  dyes  ; 

And  round  thy  time-worn  walls  are  marble  tombs 

Clad  with  bright  verdure,  and  a  thousand  blooms : 

And  fallen  columns,  and  old  terrace  walls 

Are  mingling  with  thy  proudest  princely  halls  j 

And  the  rich  clusters  of  thy  purpling  vines. 

Trailing  acanthus,  and  wild  eglantines. 

All  glowing  in  the  crimson  light  of  eve, 

Their  garlands  round  thy  solemn  cloisters  weave ; 

Along  thy  ruin'd  aisles  and  lonely  bowers 

The  mournful  ivy  creeps,  and  star-like  flowers 

Are  mantling  round  the  moss-grown  sculptured  leaves 

Of  arch  and  column  gray ;  and  rosy  wreaths 

Are  gilding  all  with  their  rich  summer  glow. 

Though  solemn,  drear  decay,  is  round  thee  now  ! 

And  is  this  Rome?    The  Rome  of  ancient  time, 

The  Rome  that  ruled  in  every  realm  and  clime  ? 

Where  are  her  heroes,  with  their  laurel  crowns? 

Where  are  her  sceptres,  now,  her  dazzling  thrones? 

Where  are  her  sages  ?  where,  her  diadems, 

All  burning  with  red  gold,  and  sparkling  gems? 

All  have  departed — all  have  pass'd  away. 

Their  last,  faint  traces  moulder  in  decay. 

On  ancient  Tibur*  now  the  moonlight  falls — 

Gaze  on  those  voiceless  piles,  those  moss-clad  walls; 

The  emperor  Auielian  preseuted  his  captive  Zeuobia  ^\itli  a  villa  at  Tibur,  or  Tivoli. 


44  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLEP.Y  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Zenobia's  name  still  lingers  in  each  gust 
That  sweeps  her  palace-ruins'  mouldering  dust ; 
And  whispering  yet  of  Ciceronian  clays, 
Stands  forth  that  solemn  grove  of  laurel  bays. 
Oh  !  ancient  city  !  calm  and  slow  decay 
Hath  stolen  all  thy  glorious  pomp  away  ! 
Proud  Rome !    'Tis  sad  to  gaze  upon  thee  now, 
So  lovely  !  but  with  death  upon  thy  brow  ! 
Thou  art  like  beauty  meeten'd  for  tlie  grave. 
Or  some  fair  vessel  sinking  in  the  wave, 
When  storms  are  past,  and  sunset  calmly  shines 
Along  the  distant  mountain's  purple  lines. 
Oh  !  can  it  be,  that  thou  wilt  ever  stand. 
Like  bright  Palmyra,  'midst  the  desert  sand ! 
That  on  thy  stones  the  golden  sun  may  beam. 
Or  moonlight  glisten  on  old  Tiber's  stream, 
And  not  a  sound  fall  on  the  silent  night. 
Save  the  cold  gushing  waters'  rippling  light  ? 
Now,  while  I  stand  within  thy  temples'  sliade, 
Where  mitred  brows  in  death's  last  sleep  are  laid, 
Thy  gorgeous  altars,  bright  with  pearls  and  gold, 
And  dusky  banners  rich  with  crimson  fold. 
All  gemm'd  with  stars  like  thine  own  azure  sky. 
Still  rest  beneath  that  glorious  canopy ; 
But,  Rome  !  thy  day  of  majesty  is  past. 
And  o'er  thy  towers  a  shade  of  gloom  is  cast ; 
Thy  stately  pride  is  gone — on  thy  seven  hills 
No  more  the  song  of  triumph  proudly  swells ; 
Yet  art  tliou  glorious  even  in  decay. 
And  never  shall  thy  memory  fade  away  ! 

The  annexed  plate  presents  a  vie^v  of  the  Bridge  and  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  the  Palace  of  the  Vatican,  and 
the  Church  of  St.  Peter.  The  bridge  crosses  the  Tiber  opposite  to  the  Mutes  Hadiiani,  to  which  it  was  designed 
as  an  avenue.  The  piers  and  arclies  are  ancient;  but  having  gi\eu  way  with  a  vast  crowd  of  people  duiing  the 
jubilee  in  1450,  the  bridge  was  renewed  by  Nicholas  V.,  and  again  by  Clement  IX.,  who  erected  the  balustrade. 
The  Castle  of  8t.  Angelo,  the  fortress  and  state  prison  of  Rome,  is  constructed  from  the  remains  of  the  cele- 
brated Motes  Hadiiani,  or  mausoleum,  erected  by  Hadrian.  It  was  converted  into  a  fortress  during  the  siege  of 
Rome  by  the  Goths  in  537,  wljen  the  besieged  cast  down  from  its  walls  the  statues  and  other  ornaments  of  the 
place  upon  the  assailants.  '  It  is  a  circular  building,  two  Imudred  and  ninety  feet  in  diameter.  But,  like  the 
celebrated  Church  of  St.  Peter,  this  remarkable  edifice  has  been  too  often  described  at  length,  in  the  works  both 
of  early  and  modern  tourists,  to  call  for  more  than  a  reference  here. 


45 


BEAUTY     AND     DRESS. 

BY  THE  HON.  EDMUND  PHIPPS. 

Spare  not,  fair  maid,  each  glittering  gaud  to  seek, 

Grudge  not  tlie  wasted  hour ; 
Tinge  with  a  borrow'd  rose  thy  tender  cheek. 

Heightening  thy  beauty's  power ; 
Summon  more  maidens  for  the  mystic  rites. 

To  aid  thee  at  thy  call ; 
Arrange  the  mirrors,  and  dispose  more  lights. 

Then  deck  thee  for  the  Ball. 

It  was  not  always  thus.     In  days  gone  by. 

Simplicity,  not  art. 
Was  thy  first  charm ;  not  to  attract  the  eye, 

But  to  subdue  the  heart. 
Thoughtless  of  admiration,  how  could  men 

Not  worship  such  as  thou  ? 
Success  was  certain  to  attend  thee,  then, 

As  sure,  as  failure,  now. 

A  modest  blush  supplied  the  frequent  rose, 

Flowers  deck'd  thy  flowing  hair ; 
No  laboured  arts  delay'd  the  toilet's  close ; 

No  foreign  aid  was  there  : 
Then  thou  wert  simple,  innocent,  and  free ; 

Would  thou  wert  so  again  ! 
Free — for  the  world  had  not  then  trammel'd  thee. 

With  self-accepted  chain. 

Now  let  thy  flowing  flounces'  ample  round 

Thy  empty  pride  convey ; 
And  thy  fair  locks,  where  ornaments  abound, 

A  faulty  taste  display ; 
Let  the  imprisoning  whalebone  aptly  show 

Thy  intellect  confined. 
The  feather,  with  its  restless,  dancing  flow, 

Present  thy  fickle  mind. 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  M 


b^- 


46  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  softest  satin  of  the  loom  shall  e'en 

Thy  polish'd  skin  outvie ; 
And  diamonds  of  Golconda,  with  their  sheen, 

Outsparkle  thy  bright  eye ; 
Thus  deck'd,  thou  wilt  attract  each  passing  look. 

But  not  one  heart  retain : 
The  gaudiest  bait  that  floats,  without  a  hook. 

Would,  floating,  float  in  vain. 


THE    GLEANER. 

I  GAZED  upon  a  sunny  field. 

Where  golden  grain  was  waving  fair. 
And  cloudless  skies  shone  soft  and  calm. 

On  the  bright  poppies  glowing  there ; 
Blue  corn-flowers  smiled  like  summer  heaven. 

And  scarlet  weeds,  in  gorgeous  bloom, 
Laugh'd  in  the  sunlight's  burning  raj'. 

Unconscious  of  their  coming  doom. 

Th'  ethereal  arch  of  glorious  blue 

Cloudless  and  stainless  stretch'd  above, 
No  speck  upon  its  bright  expanse. 

Save  silvery  wing  of  flitting  dove  ; 
While  through  the  wood-paths'  leafy  shade 

A  thousand  birds  their  music  flung. 
And  o'er  the  banks  of  flowery  thyme 

Hover'd  the  wild  bee's  thrilling  hum. 

And  many  stricken  flowers  were  there. 

Where'er  the  reaper's  hand  had  been, 
And  ears  that  graceful  waved  at  morn. 

Were  scatter'd  ere  the  noon-tide  beam ; 
The  joyous  sound  of  "harvest-home'' 

Came  on  the  balmy  summer-breeze. 
While  rosy  children  sported  on. 

Beneath  the  spreading  hawthorn  trees. 

But  one  fair  girl  sat  lone,  and  stUl ; 
Her  silken  curls  with  untaught  grace. 


THE  GLEANER.  *'' 

Mantling  upon  her  earnest  brow, 

And  shading  her  sweet,  gentle  face. 
No  dream  of  care,  no  thought  of  grief, 

Had  dimm'd  her  sunny,  meek,  blue  eyes. 
That  through  their  silken  fringes  beam'd. 

As  soft  and  clear  as  sapphire  skies. 

Her  golden  tresses  like  a  veil, 

Hung  o'er  her  graceful  child-like  form ; 
Sure,  form  so  fair  could  ne'er  have  bent 

Beneath  earth's  grief,  or  sorrow's  storm  j 
The  rose-leaf  tinge  upon  her  cheek 

Had  never  paled  at  touch  of  woe, 
And  peace  shone  foi'th  in  that  sweet  smile. 

And  joy  in  that  soft  warbling  low. 

Bright,  lovely  child  1    All  things  are  fair 

That  meet  thy  innocent  young  gaze  ! 
The  stream  that  bathes  the  willow-leaves. 

The  hills,  half  hid  in  purple  haze  ; 
The  forest-trees'  rich  emerald  hue, 

The  moss  whereon  the  rock-springs  fall ; 
All,  all,  are  calm  and  beautiful. 

But  Thou,  the  fairest  of  them  all. 

Young  Gleaner  1   surely  thy  sweet  face 

Tells  not  of  rude  or  rustic  bower ; 
No  peasant  race  is  thine,  fair  child, 

Thou,  surely,  art  a  cultured  flower. 
It  may  be,  that  thy  parents'  hopes 

Have  all  been  blighted,  save  of  thee ; 
And  in  this  lonely,  woodland  vale, 

They  dwell  in  toil  and  poverty. 

Oh  !  be  to  them  a  sunbeam  bright. 

Though  all  things  else  have  pass'd  away ; 
Thy  gentle  love,  and  low,  sweet  voice 

Can  cheer,  though  wealth  no  longer  stay. 
Cling  to  thy  Mother,  Lovely  one ! 

Hide  not  from  her  one  passing  thought; 
In  doubt  or  sorrow,  shelter  there — 

Her  heart  with  tenderness  is  fraught. 


4«  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS 

Go  homeward  now,  young  Gleaner,  home, 

To  thine  own  rose-wreathed,  humble  cot ; 
Thou  earnest  like  a  lovely  dream. 

Unknown  ahke,  thy  name  and  lot. 
Go  ;  gather  up  thy  treasured  store. 

Part  back  the  ringlets  from  thy  brow ; 
The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  West ; 

Calm  twilight  steals  around  thee,  now. 

Lift  up  thy  young  unburden'd  heart. 

In  this  calm  hour  of  dewy  eve; 
No  longer  chant  thy  merry  song. 

Cease,  now,  the  corn-flower  buds  to  weave. 
Look  upwards  now ;  far,  far  beyond 

That  glowing  crimson  in  the  West ; 
Raise  thy  young  voice  in  prayer  and  praise 

To  Him  who  gives  the  hour  of  rest. 

Farewell !    Oh  !   may'st  thou  ever  glean 

Hope,  truth,  and  joy  through  all  thy  way. 
As  freely,  fully,  as  thou  hast 

Nature's  rich  gifts,  this  sunny  day  ! 
And  though  I  gaze  on  thee  no  more. 

Yet  thy  young  face  will  ever  dwell 
'Mid  the  bright  visions  of  the  past : 

Farewell,  sweet  Gleaner ;  Fare  thee  well. 


THE  RIGHT  HON.  HENRY,  VISCOUNT  HARDINGE,  G.C.B. 

LATE  GOVERNOR-GENERAL  OF  INDIA. 

Could  we  take  a  review  of  the  career  of  those,  who,  in  this  country,  have  risen, 
by  their  own  merit,  to  high  and  responsible  ofBces  of  state,  it  would,  perhaps,  be 
found,  that  by  no  class  of  men  have  such  oflSces  been  more  honourably  or  more 
effectively  filled,  than  by  soldiers  of  high  character,  and  acknowledged  ability  in  their 
own  profession.  The  personal  history  of  the  eminent  subject  of  this  memoir,  affords 
an  illustration  of  this  observation. 

The  present  Loan  Hardinge  is  the  grandson  of  Nicholas  Hardinge,  Esq.,  long 
known  and  respected  as  chief  clerk  of  the  House  of  Commons;  and  the  third  son  of 
the  Rev.  Henry  Hardinge,  rector  of  Stanhope,  in  the  county  of  Durham.     He  was 


y/. 


'//.  %■ 


LORD  HARDINGE.  49 

born  on  the  30th  of  Miircli,  1783  ;  and  being,  from  bis  cbiklbood  designed  for  the 
profession  of  arms,  be  devoted  less  time  than  is  usually  given  by  men  of  bis  degree, 
to  the  study  of  classical  literature.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  be  obtained  a  commission 
in  the  army,  and  thenceforward  gave  liimself  up,  with  singular  ardour,  to  the  duties 
of  the  military  profession. 

Having  been  placed  by  Sir  John  Moore  on  bis  staff,  C;iptain  Hardinge  accom- 
panied that  lamented  general  throughout  his  Spanish  campaign,  and  shared  bis 
disastrous  retreat  to  Corunna ;  and  into  his  arms,  it  was,  that  Sir  John  Moore  fell 
when  struck  by  the  shot  wliicb  caused  his  death. 

Under  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  then  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley,  the  subject  of  this 
memoir  served  throughout  the  campaigns  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  being  present  at  the 
battles  of  Busaco,  and  Albuera ;  at  tlie  ever-memorable  storming  of  Badajos  ;  and  at 
the  battles  of  Salamanca,  Vittoria,  the  Pyrenees,  Nivelle,  Nive,  and  Orthes.  His 
gallant  services  on  these  occasions  secured  for  him  a  high  mibtary  reputation,  together 
with  the  honourable  title  of  K.C.B.;  and  various  orders,  both  British  and  foreign. 
In  company  with  Wellington,  be  terminated  his  career  of  active  service  on  the  field 
of  Waterloo ;  and  in  the  action  which  there  secured  the  liberties  of  Europe,  lost  his 
right  arm. 

In  November,  1821,  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  married  the  Lady  Emily,  daughter  of 
Robert,  first  Marquis  of  Londonderry ;  and  about  the  same  time  entered  into  political 
life.  In  1823,  be  was  appointed  clerk  of  the  ordnance ;  which  office  be  filled  till,  in 
the  year  1828,  he  was  made  Secretary  at  War.  In  the  mean  time  he  had  entered 
parbament  as  member  for  Durham  ;  and  be  subsequently  sat  for  the  Cornish  boroughs 
of  Newport,  and  St.  Germain  ;  and  for  the  town  of  Launceston.  In  1830,  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge  was  appointed  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland,  but,  of  course,  lost  office  on  the 
breaking  up,  in  that  year,  of  his  friend  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  ministry.  In  1834,  he 
was  again  appointed  Secretary  for  Ireland,  but  resigned  that  high  office  in  April,  1835. 

The  great  talents  which  he  bad  displayed  in  these  various  situations  led  to  the 
selection  of  this  eminent  man  as  the  fittest  person  to  whom  to  entrust  the  government 
of  our  Eastern  possessions  ;  and  on  the  recall  of  Lord  Ellenborougb  in  1844,  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge  was  appointed  to  succeed  that  nobleman  as  Governor-General  of  India.  He 
was  sworn  into  bis  high  office  early  in  May,  1844,  and,  within  about  three  weeks,  was 
on  his  way,  overland,  to  the  seat  of  his  government. 

Our  space  forbids  us  to  enlarge  upon  the  peculiar  difficulties  and  dangers  which 
awaited  the  new  Governor-General,  on  bis  arrival  <it  Calcutta,  or  to  do  more  than  touch 
upon  the  main  points  of  bis  subsequent  career.  It  may  suffice  to  observe,  in  general, 
that  a  more  critical  period  than  that  during  which  he  presided  over  British  India,  has 
not  occurred  in  the  history  of  that  country  since  the  days  of  Warren  Hastings. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  when  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  reached  the  seat  of  bis  govern- 
ment, an  apparent  but  delusive  tranquillity  had  succeeded  to  the  recent  troubles  which 
had  disturbed  the  north-eastern  frontiers  of  our  Indian  Empire.  The  disasters  of  the 
Affghan  campaign  had  been  redeemed ;  Scinde,  our  most  recent  acquisition,  appeared 

S.  a. VOL.  I.  N 


50  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

to  be  a  secure  possession ;  and  the  distracted  condition  of  the  court  of  Lahore  seemed 
to  preclude  the  probability  of  any  outbreak  on  the  part  of  the  Sikhs.  The  keen  eye, 
however,  of  the  newly-arrived  Governor-General  discerned  the  clouds  of  war  which 
were  gathering  beyond  the  Sutlej.  The  Punjab,  from  the  time  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  had  been  the  scene  of  a  series  of  fierce  wars  and  bloody  revolutions;  the 
immense  army  of  the  Sikhs,  recently  organized  and  disciplined  by  the  late  Runjeet, 
presented  a  body  of  vast  power;  and  the  fact,  that  the  protected  Sikhs  on  the  British 
side  of  the  Sutlej  had  become  disaffected — a  fact  well  known  to  Sir  Henry  Hardinge — 
convinced  him  that  the  danger  was  more  imminent  and  extensive  than  might  pre- 
viously have  been  imagined. 

The  occurrences  which  ensued,  bore  witness  to  the  soundness  of  the  Governor- 
General's  judgment,  as  well  as  to  his  valour  and  military  skill. 

The  principal  events  of  the  war  of  the  Punjab ;  the  names  of  Moodkee — indis- 
solubly  connected  with  the  memory  of  Sale,  the  hero  of  Jallalabad — and  of  Feroze- 
SHAH,  are  in  the  recollection  of  every  reader;  nor  need  we  dwell  upon  the  generosity 
of  the  Goveruor-Geueral,  in  proposing  to  serve  as  second  in  command  to  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief, Sir  Hugh  Gough  ;  nor  upon  the  frank  and  manly  spirit  in  which 
that  proposal  was  received.  Honour  be  to  both  those  noble  soldiers !  for  well  have 
they  earned  their  coronets. 

The  terrific  fight  of  Ferozeshah  began  on  the  evening  of  the  21st  of  December,  1845. 
The  Sikhs  outnumbered  the  English  more  than  four-fold ;  and  the  issue  was  doubtful, 
when  darkness  suspended  the  combat.  The  night  was  spent  by  Generals  Hardinge 
and  Gough  in  making  preparation  for  the  tremendous  struggle  of  the  morrow,  and 
in  encouraging  their  forces;  and  when  the  signal  victory  was  won,  and  the  Sikhs  and 
their  country  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  conquerors,  these  Christian  commanders,  remem- 
bering, amid  the  triumph  of  their  great  achievement,  the  only  source  whence  all 
strength  and  all  glory  are  derived,  invited  the  survivors  from  the  fight  to  assemble 
near  the  Governor-General's  tent,  and  unite  with  him  in  returning  thanks  to  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  fur  the  success  with  which  He  had  crowned  their  arms. 

Lord  Hardinge,  who,  in  common  with  his  gallant  coadjutor.  Sir  Hugh  Gough, 
has  most  deservedly  been  raised  to  the  peerage,  used  his  great  victory  so  as  to  pro- 
mote the  happiness  of  the  vanquished.  He  organized  for  the  Sikhs  the  best  native 
government  of  which  circumstances  admitted ;  and  having  successfully  applied  himself 
to  the  development  of  the  agricultural  and  commercial  resources  of  the  Punjab,  he 
resigned  the  government  of  an  empire,  to  which,  under  Providence,  he  had  given 
security  and  stability.  Lord  Dalhousie,  the  present  Governor-General,  having  reached 
Calcutta,  and  having  been  installed  in  his  high  office.  Lord  Hardinge  quitted  India 
on  the  18th  of  January,  1848,  esteemed  and  applauded  by  all  classes  of  the  community. 
The  Crown  and  the  East  India  Company  have  vied  with  each  other  to  do  him  honour ; 
and  his  name — linked  with  that  of  his  brave  companion  in  arms — will  be  gratefully 
remembered  so  long  as  valour,  patriotism,  and  devotion  to  the  calls  of  duty,  shall 
be  esteemed  among  men. 


51 


LORD     BYRON. 

Oh,  glorious  Genius  !    what  might  was  thine  ! 

Proudly  thy  Poet-name  shall  ever  shine ! 

How  didst  thou  soar  away  in  realms  of  song, 

As  if  some  wondrous  spell  were  o'er  thee  flung, 

Embalming  in  thy  verse  old  Grecia's  shore. 

Where  Beauty  lingers  yet — though  never  more 

Shall  glory  scatter  laurels  on  her  plain, 

Nor  wake  again  that  long-forgotten  strain 

That  rang  from  JNIarathoti,  or  Leuctra's  field. 

With  voice  of  trumpet,  clang  of  sword  and  shield  ! 

Sad  was  thy  dirge-like  music,  o'er  the  tomb 

Of  that  which  once  had  boasted  matchless  bloom ; 

And  like  the  sound  of  song  o'er  waters  cast. 

Thy  sweet  bewailings  of  the  cherish'd  past ! 

Oft,  too,  in  Alpine  glens,  beneath  the  shade 

Of  some  dark,  wither'd  pine,  thy  footsteps  stray'd ; 

Thou  heardst  the  Avanlanche's  sulleu  roar, 

Then,  death-like  silence  reign'd  the  glaciers  o'er. 

'Mid  mighty  mountains  with  their  solemn  brows 

Shrouded  in  dazzling,  deep,  eternal  snows. 

And  awful  in  their  grandeur,  hast  thou  stood, 

Gazing  in  solitude  on  Leman's  flood. 

And  there  was  Venice  !    "  city  of  the  sea  !" 

Amid  her  halls  of  ancient  revelry, 

Thou  linger'dst  long ;  watching  the  wax  and  wane 

Of  many  moons  upon  her  azure  main  ; 

Loving  that  wave,  in  wild  and  starless  nights, 

When  the  fair  Island-city's  thousand  lights 

Flash'd  on  its  murky  waters,  for  a  brief 

And  sudden  space,  like  passing  smile  on  grief. 

Thou  trod'st  llavenna's  dreary  solitude. 

Thou  miiigledst  with  the  stormy  southern  feud. 

Echoing  the  cry  for  Liberty,  that  rang 

Along  Etruria's  shores,  with  martial  clang. 

Italia's  cause  thine  own,  bold  hast  thou  stood, 

Conqueror  or  victim  ;  while  the  threatening  flood. 

That  in  the  distance  lifted  up  its  voice 

All  stern  and  hoarse,  bade  thy  worn  heart  rejoice. 


53  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Proud  Genoa,  too,  and  Pisa's  letter'd  walls 
Welcomed  tliee  gladly  to  their  stately  halls  ; 
But  oft,  at  sunset-hour  thou  lovedst  to  roam 
'Mid  desolate  ruins,  moss  and  ivy-grown  ; 
Or  when  the  last  rich  rays  of  day  were  gone. 
To  sit  upon  some  fragment  of  huge  stone, 
And  there  to  gaze  upon  the  placid  sea, 
Its  low  faint  murmur  mingling  tranquilly 
With  the  pale  light  of  eve,  and  western  breeze. 
That  scarce  could  fan  the  fragrant  orange  trees. 

But  now,  again,  Greece  claim'd  thee  for  her  guest, 
Oh!  little  recking,  that'neath  her  green  breast. 
The  exiled  King  of  Song  would  sleep  in  death  ! 
Oh !  little  dreaming  that  his  pilgrim  breath 
Should  breathe  its  last  sweet  dying  swan-notes  there. 
His  eagle-eyes  close  on  that  land  so  fair  ! 

Yet  was  it  so. — On  Grecian  shores  he  stood. 

And  midst  the  roaring  of  old  Ocean's  flood. 

Demanded  Freedom  for  that  classic  ground. 

And  all  Ionia's  isles  gave  back  the  sound. 

With  dying  breath,  for  Liberty  he  cried ; 

The  Exile  wept  for  Greece  enslaved — and  died. 

He  died  !    departed  ! — Would  that  Hope  had  shed 

A  clearer  radiance  round  that  solemn  bed ! 

'Tis  sad  to  know  not,  that  he  look'd  on  high. 

To  worlds  beyond  the  blue  Morean  sky  ! 

Not  like  a  star,  but  as  of  meteor  birth. 

He  dazzled,  for  a  while,  this  lower  earth  ; 

To  Earth  alone,  his  genius  was  given ; 

Unlike  the  stars,  it  lent  no  light  to  Heaven. 

And  yet  no  scornful  voice  shall  mock  thy  doom ; 

Great  Poet !  none  may  trifle  near  thy  tomb ; 

Who  would  not  grieve  to  see  the  minster  aisle. 

Once  proudly  glorious,  stand  a  ruin'd  pile  ? 

Who  would  not  mourn  to  see  within  the  grave 

All  that  had  once  been  beautiful  and  brave  ? 

And  such  wert  Thou. — A  genius  rare  was  thine ; 

Thy  mighty  thoughts,  like  jewels  from  the  mine. 

Shone  forth,  and  charm'd  the  wondering  souls  of  men. 

Whose  meed  of  praise  was  thy  bright  diadem. 


SIR  ROBEllT  SALE.  53 

Thy  love,  alas  !    was  fixed  on  things  below, 
No  flowers  celestial  twined  thy  laurcl'd  brow  ; 
But  now  thy  race  is  mn ;  we  will  not  chide 
The  ashes  that  beneath  the  marble  hide : 
Deep,  deep  regret  must  cast  a  shade  of  gloom — 
But  be  thy  failings  buried  in  thy  tomb. 


SIR     ROBERT     SALE. 

Major-General  Sir  Robert  Henry  Sale,  G.C.B.,  late  Quarter-Master-General 
of  the  British  Forces  in  India,  was  the  second  son  of  the  late  Colonel  Sale,  many  years 
an  active  officer  in  the  East  India  Company's  service.  His  mother  was  the  daughter 
of  Henry  Brine,  Esq.,  of  Buckden,  Huntingdonshire.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1782  ; 
and,  having  early  discovered  an  inclination  towards  the  profession  of  arms,  he  entered 
the  army  as  an  Ensign  in  the  36th  regiment  of  foot,  in  179.5,  having  at  that  time  but 
just  completed  his  thirteenth  year.  His  education  had,  of  course,  been  in  some  measure 
professional ;  yet,  early  as  was  his  entrance  upon  the  active  life  of  a  soldier,  he  had 
attained  no  small  proficiency  in  literary  pursuits.  India  was  from  first  to  last  the 
scene  of  his  services.  There  he  entered  upon  his  military  career ;  and  there,  after 
half-a-ceutury's  active  service,  and  after  having  taken  part  in  not  less  than  twenty 
important  actions,  he  ultimately  fell  in  battle,  in  the  hour  of  victory. 

In  the  year  1799,  and  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen  years,  the  late  Sir  Robert 
Sale  first  drew  his  sword,  during  the  wars  against  Tippoo  Sultan,  at  the  siege  and 
storming  of  Seringapatam,  and  received  a  silver  medal  for  his  gallant  conduct  on  that 
occasion.  He  served  throughout  the  campaigns  in  the  "Wynaud  country  in  1801  ;  and 
after  a  series  of  less  imposing  but  not  less  important  services,  he  took  part,  in  1809, 
in  the  storming  of  the  lines  at  Travancore.  He  was  an  active  agent  in  the  capture 
of  the  Isle  of  France  in  1810;  and  served,  with  distinguished  honour,  throughout  the 
Burmese  war,  in  the  years  1824,  1825,  and  1826.  He  was  present  at  the  capture 
of  Rangoon ;  and  while  in  command  of  his  regiment  there,  drove  the  enemy  from 
the  vicinity  of  the  place,  stormed  the  stockades  near  Kemundine,  and  also  those  near 
Kumaroot  and  Pagoda  Point,  receiving,  during  the  latter  service,  a  severe  wound  in 
the  head.  He  next  commanded  a  brigade  employed  in  the  redaction  of  Bassein,  which 
service,  together  with  subsequent  operations,  occupied  the  months  of  February,  March, 
April,  and  May,  in  the  year  1825.  In  the  December  of  that  year  this  heroic  soldier 
repulsed  the  Shaans  and  Burmese  at  Prome ;  on  the  following  day  he  reduced  the 
neighbouring  heights;  and  in  January,  1826,  stormed  the  lines  at  Melloon,  in  which 
last  gallant  action  he  received  a  second  severe  wound.  At  the  close  of  the  Burmese 
war,  he  was  admitted  to  the  Companionship  of  the  Bath. 

S.  S. VOL.  I.  o 


54  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

At  the  opening  of  the  Affghanistan  campaign,  the  gallant  Sale,  being  one  of  our 
most  experienced  officers  in  Indiiiu  warfare,  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  first 
Bengal  Brigade  of  the  armv  of  the  Indus,  which  brigade  took  the  lead  throughout  the 
whole  of  that  memorable  campaign.  To  his  bold  and  experienced  guidance  was  entrusted 
the  command  of  the  detachment  of  2,500  men,  seut  to  Girishk  in  May,  1839;  and 
on  the  23d  of  the  following  July,  he  commanded  the  storming  p.irty  at  Ghuznee,  on 
which  occasion  he  received  a  sabre-cut  on  the  face,  and  various  other  wounds.  In 
September,  1840,  he  took  charge  of  the  force  sent  to  subdue  the  Kohistan  country; 
and,  by  a  series  of  most  brilliant  operations,  attacked  and  took  the  town  and  forts 
of  Tootumdurrah,  as  well  as  tliose  of  Jhoolghur,  Baboo  Koosh  Giiur,  and  Kardurrah; 
drove  tlie  enemy,  under  the  command  of  Dost  Mohammed  Khan,  from  the  strongholds 
of  Perwan,  and  compelled  that  commander  himself  to  surrender  to  Sir  William 
Macnaghten. 

A  success  so  decisive  might  have  been  expected  to  put  an  end  to  the  war;  but  the 
warlike  tribes  of  the  Affghans  had  mountain-fastnesses  to  which  they  could  resort. 
Sir  Robert  Sale,  however,  triumphing  alike  over  natural  as  over  artificial  obstacles, 
stormed  the  Khoord  Cabool  Pass,  drove  the  eueuiy  from  the  heights  of  Tezeen,  reduced 
the  fort  of  Mamoo-Khail,  and  finally  intrenched  himself  at  Jellalabad — a  place,  the 
name  of  which  his  heroic  gallantry  has  immortalized. 

Jellalabad  was  invested  by  the  wild  and  savage  Affghans  from  the  beginning  of 
November,  1841,  to  the  beginning  of  April,  1842  :  Lady  Sale  was,  during  this  period, 
a  prisoner ;  and  was  given  to  understand,  that  she  and  her  companions  in  captivity 
would  be  released,  on  C(mdition  that  she  should  induce  her  husband  to  abandon  his 
post.  The  heroic  lady  knew  her  dutj^  better.  She  conjured  Sir  Robert  to  defend 
Jellalabad  to  the  last  extremity;  declaring  that  she  would  rather  die  than  be  the 
means  of  tempting  him  to  the  slightest  departure  from  the  path  of  honour  and  duty. 

On  the  destruction  of  General  Elphinstone's  army,  the  ^vild  Affghans  rushed,  with 
fresh  furj^,  to  the  attack  of  Jellalabad.  Till  April,  1842,  as  we  have  said,  the  brave 
Sir  Robert  Sale  remained  on  the  defensive,  satisfied  to  repulse  the  assaults  of  the 
fierce  enemy.  On  the  seventh  of  that  month,  however,  being  aware  that  General 
Pollock  was  advancing  to  his  relief,  he  resolved  to  make  a  sortie,  and  to  attack 
Akbar  Khan  in  his  camp.  He  did  so,  and  completely  routing  the  adverse  forces, 
captured  their  guns,  bui'nefl  their  camp,  and  drove  them  fi'om  every  point  of  their 
position.  The  English  captives  were  subsequently  released,  and  Sir  Robert  Sale  and 
his  heroic  wife  were  reunited.* 

After  the  conclusion  of  this  memorable  war,  Sii"  Robert  Sale  and  his  Lady  returned 
to  England,  where  they  were  welcomed  by  the  applause  of  the  nation  at  large,  and 
by  the  warm  congratulations  of  their  personal  friends..  In  the  midst,  however,  of 
his  enjoyment  of  the  approbation  and  gratitude  of  his  country,  he  was  recalled  to 
India,  to  join  the  army  on  the  Sutlej  ;  and  on  the  19th  of  December,  1845,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-three,  he  closed  his  honourable  and  arduous  career,  on  the  hard-fought 

•  Vide  Lady  Sale's  "  Journal  of  the  Disasters  in  Afghanistan." 


■n^/ 


//  .^^// 


■yj^/. 


PETER  JACKSOH  LOKDONfcPARlS 


EARLY  LESSONS.  55 

field  of  Moodkee.  The  joy  of  the  victory  of  that  day  was  damped  by  the  loss  of 
many  a  gallant  soldier ;  but  of  none,  perhaps,  more  worthy  of  his  country's  gratitude 
than  was  Sir  Robert  Sale. 

"  Ilis  courage  and  his  worth  were  truly  shown 
In  pages  WTitten  by  a  woman's  hand  ; 
Meet  helpmate  for  a  soldier  !  .  . 
,  . ,.  .  .  All  is  over  now  ! 
He  lieth  cold,  where  it  shall  little  reck 
That  English  voices  sound  no  longer  near, 
In  the  far  Indian  land  !  .  .  . 
But  they  that  lose  him,  heavy  though  their  loss, 
May  feel  too  proud  for  gi'ief " 


EARLY       LESSONS. 

Sweet  shade  of  thought  on  that  young  brow  ! 

Sweet  lisping  tones  so  meek  and  low  ! 

Sweet  mother,  with  thy  deep  blue  eyes. 

Clear  as  those  crystal  sappliire  skies ; 

How  lovely  are  ye,  in  this  shade. 

Where  through  the  leaves  the  sunbeams  fade ! 

Sweet,  too,  the  thought  that  mother's  love 

In  tones  as  gentle  as  the  dove. 

Should  sow  fair  wisdom's  earliest  seeds. 

Before  have  sprung  the  noxious  weeds. 

A  thousand  flowers  are  round  thy  feet. 

Fair  matron — and  their  bloom  is  sweet. 

But  none  so  lovely  is  to  thee, 

As  the  young  bud  upon  thy  knee  ! 

Now,  mother  !  lay  aside  the  book, 

And  point  to  yonder  rippling  brook, 

And  to  that  calm  blue  heaven  on  high. 

Or  primrose  tufts  that  round  thee  lie. 

Tlie  warbling  birds,  the  honey-bee. 

The  wild  wnd  rushing  far  and  free. 

The  gentle,  balmy,  western  breeze. 

Scarce  fanning  trembling  aspen  trees. 

Rich  coronals  of  roses  flung 

"Where  the  wood-strawberries  are  strung. 


56  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  clustering  hyacinth's  perfume, 
Mingled  with  snowy  hawthorn-bloom, 
The  fountains  where  the  faint  lights  fall — 
And  say  "  Our  Father  made  them  all." 
And  thou,  sweet  baby  !  listen  now, 
Nor  heed  the  flowers  that  round  thee  blow ; 
Treasure  those  words  of  earnest  love ; 
It  may  be  thine,  sometime,  to  prove 
The  hollow  guise  of  brightest  smiles. 
Of  this  cold  world's  false,  honied  wiles ; 
And  broken  faith  mai/  cast  a  gloom 
Around  thee,  dreary  as  the  tomb ; 
And  tears  may  pale  that  rose-leaved  cheek, 
And  dim  those  blue  eyes'  radiance  meek ; 
And  those  rich  ringlets,  care  and  grief 
With  silvery  threads  may,  one  day,  streak. 
Oh  !  then,  through  years  of  shade  and  light. 
Look  back  upon  thy  childhood  bright ; 
And  though,  like  woodland  buds,  have  flown 
True-seeming  friends,  and  round  are  strown 
The  blossomings  of  life's  green  spring ; 
And  day  by  day  some  silvery  string 
Is  snapp'd  asunder,  till  the  mind 
On  earth  no  hope  of  rest  may  find ; 
Then  glance  adown  the  stream  of  time, 
To  this  calm  morn  of  summer's  prime. 
Remember  all  these  gentle  words. 
That  voice,  like  music's  richest  chords. 
That  tells  thee  of  a  Father's  love, 
Who  dwelleth  in  the  world  above ; 
A  tender  Father,  reconciled. 
Who  claims  thee  for  His  favour'd  child ; 
And  light  across  the  gloom  shall  beam, 
To  cheer  thy  spirit  with  its  beam ; 
And  faith  shall  spring  within  thy  breast, 
Though  earth  be  not  thy  place  of  rest. 
That  yet  thy  Father  throned  on  high. 
Still  looks  on  thee  with  watchful  eye  ; 
And  though  thy  weary  footsteps  roam. 
Erelong,  will  surely  call  thee  home. 
Then,  listen,  child  of  lofty  race. 
Gaze  on  thy  mother's  gentle  face ; 


////■//^y    ' ya/y/-/} . ' 


ELIZABETH-JANE  SOilERYILLE.  57 

No  teachings  can  be  lialf  so  meet. 
For  none  are  with  such  love  replete  j 
.And  what  to  thee  may  e'er  betide, 
Though  joy  or  grief  with  thee  abide, 
Through  all  the  mazy  paths  of  life 
Still  shalt  thou  bless,  through  peace  or  strife. 
These  holy  early  lessons  given 
Beneath  the  azure  vault  of  heaven. 


ELIZABETH -JANE, 

DVUGIITF.R  OF  SIR  WILLIAM  AND  LADY  MARIA  SOMERVILLE. 
BY  LADY  DUFFERIN. 

Sweet  Elf!  with  fingers  soft  and  round. 
Wild  wandering  o'er  the  shifting  keys, — 
With  gay  eyes  glistening  at  the  sound. 
As  conscious  of  thy  power  to  please  : 
The  gracious  forms  that  Love  will  take, 
How  well  this  "  graven  image"  shows  ; 
The  fond  idolatry — can  make 
E'en  discord  sweet, — for  thy  sweet  sake, — 
And  yet  no  miracle  disclose  ! 

Thy  smiles,  and  playful  gestures,  tell 

Glad  tales  of  a  most  happy  lot ; 

And  pleasant  Home  ;  wherein  there  dwell 

Good  angels, — though  thou  seest  them  not ! 

That  Patience,  Zeal,  and  watchful  Love, 

Are  ever  near  thee, — night  and  day, — 

A  thousand  nameless  virtues  prove : 

The  grace  with  which  those  small  hands  move,— 

Those  eyes  at  once  so  good  and  gay  1 

God  grant,  dear  child  !  thy  smile  may  long 
Adorn  and  bless  that  happy  home  j 
And  to  those  lips — so  form'd  for  song — 
May  nought  but  mirth  and  music  come. 

S.  S. VOL.  I,  p 


58  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERX-  OF  ENGRAAaNGS. 

No  wonder  that  the  painter  took 

Thy  fair,  round  face,  thus  turn'd,  this  way — 

(Unconscious  of  the  music  hook  !) 

Such  harmony  is  in  thy  look, 

We  would  not  hear  but  see  thee  play ! 

And  when,  perhaps,  in  after-days, 
Grown  learned  in  thy  lovely  art. 
Thy  graceful  skill  shall  challenge  praise 
More  smooth  in  word,  less  warm  in  heart ; 
Still  value  most  the  fond  applause 
That  greets  thy  infant  efforts  now, — 
For  now  thy  skill  is  not  the  cause 
That  tears  of  fond  affection  draws  ! 
Thy  music  charms  us  not, — but  thou  ! 


THE       CITY      OF      N   A   II   U   ^\ 

Nahtjn  is  one  of  the  principal  towns  of  Sirinagur,  or  Sirmoor,  a  province  of  India, 
bounded  on  the  north  and  north-east  by  the  mountain-chains  of  Thibet  and  Himalaya ; 
on  the  south  by  Delhi,  and  on  the  north-west  by  Lahore.  Though  comparatively  a 
small  place,  Nahun  is  considered  to  be,  in  point  of  situation,  and  style  of  architecture, 
one  of  the  finest  cities'  of  Northern  India.  Nothing  can  be  more  magnificent  thau 
the  scenery  in  this  part  of  Asia.  Nahun,  in  particular,  occupying  the  summit  of 
a  rock,  and  being  approached  by  a  picturesque,  well-watered,  and  richly-wooded  valley, 
commands  on  all  sides  extentiive  prospects  of  the  most  surpassing  beauty.  The 
immediately  surrounding  country  is  intersected  by  numerous  valleys  and  ravines, 
clothed  in  all  the  luxuriance  of  oriental  vegetation,  and  irrigated  by  the  picturesque 
waters  of  the  Deyrah  Dhoon,  a  stream  subsidiary  to  the  great  Ganges,  which  noble 
river  enters  the  province  of  Delhi,  a  little  below  Nahun ;  while  iu  the  distance,  low 
belts  of  hills  give  to  the  landscape  all  the  variety  and  beauty  of  mountain  scenery. 
The  road  leading  to  Nahun  is  exceedingly  steep  and  narrow,  and  forms  a  most  incon- 
venient and  precipitous  ascent,  up  which,  however,  eleph;ints,  even  when  heavily  laden, 
contrive  to  climb.  The  streets  of  the  city  present  somewliat  of  the  appearance  of 
stairs ;  so  numerous  are  the  steps,  which  the  height  and  irregularity  of  the  rock  on 
which  the  town  stands  have  rendered  necessary.  Ill-adapted  as  streets  so  constructed 
would  seem  to  be  to  the  exercise  of  riding  on  horseback  or  elephant-back,  the  principal 
inhabitants  of  Nahun,  with  the  ordinary  Eastern  disdain  of  difficulties  of  such  a 
nature,  are  accustomed  to  the  use   of  horses  and   elephants,  and  appear  perfectly  at 


ifimftiiif^^u 


S 


^ 

^ 


^j. 


CITY  OF  NAHUN.  59 

their  ease  when  thus  mounted.     This  circumstance  is  peculiarly  striking  to  European 
observers. 

The  Rajah  of  Sirmoor,  who  is  indebted  to  British  aid  for  the  security  of  his  domi- 
nions, is  exceedingly  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  Europeans  generally,  and  to  English 
travellers  in  particular,  who  may  pass  through  his  territories.  His  district  being 
mountainous  and  thinly  populated,  his  revenues  are  not  large ;  but  notwithstanding 
their  scantiness,  he  contrives  to  keep  up  such  an  appearance  as  may  be  likely  to 
impress  European  visitors  with  an  idea  of  his  dignity  and  importance. 

Few  things  are  more  apt  to  provoke  a  smile  than  the  formal  interviews  which 
occasionally  take  place  between  native  Indian  potentates  and  the  European  travellers, 
civil  or  military,  who  may  chance  to  pass  through  some  remote  principality.  The 
English  visitor  is  perhaps  in  the  last  stage  of  dishabille;  a  long  journey,  too,  has 
deplorably  deteriorated  the  appearance  of  his  equipage  and  his  attendants ;  and  most 
willingly  would  he  avoid  the  honours  that  are  thrust  upon  him.  The  rajah,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  most  anxious  to  exhibit  himself  as  a  person  of  importance,  and  havin" 
first  given  due  notice  of  his  approach,  he  pays  his  respects  to  the  representative  of 
Great  Britain,  with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  which  he  can  command.  The 
native  cavalcades  on  these  occasions  are  often  exceedingly  picturesque;  affording  an 
imposing  display  of  elephants  handsomely  caparisoned;  of  oruamentcd  litters;  gaudily 
dressed  troopers ;  and  crowds  of  men  on  foot,  brandishing  swords,  and  silver  maces ; 
while  the  deep  roll  of  the  drums,  and  the  shrill  blasts  of  the  trumpets,  come  upon 
the  ear  in  wild  and  wariike  music.  The  European  dignitary,  on  the  coutrarj-,  having 
none  of  these  "  appliances  and  means  to  boot,"  and  being,  moreover,  conscious  of 
many  awkward  circumstances,  in  the  shape  of  ragged  attendants,  and  perhaps  even 
of  a  personal  costume  unsuited  to  occasions  of  state,  finds  it  difficult,  yet  most 
necessary,  to  preserve  a  steady  countenance ;  since  laughter  would  be  deemed  unseemly; 
and  would,  certainly,  be  attributed  to  a  wrong  cause.  Tlie  Eajah  of  Nahun  is  rather 
proud  of  his  fortress,  and  never  fails  to  invite  Europeans  to  visit  it,  and  to  inspect 
his  troops,  which,  however,  are  neither  numerous,  nor  in  a  high  state  of  discipline. 

Within  view  of  the  city  of  Nahun  is  the  hill-fortress  of  Attock,  which  stands  four 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  fifty-four  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  which  is 
memorable  as  having  cost  the  lives  of  four  British  officers  on  the  occasion  of  its  capture 
during  the  Ghoorka  war.  The  fall  of  these  brave  men  is  commemorated  by  a  lofty 
obelisk  which  stands  in  the  very  centre  of  the  town  of  Nahun,  and  marks  their-  graves. 
It  is  superfluous  to  say,  that  this  obelisk  is  an  object  of  great,  though  melancholy 
interest  to  Englishmen,  who,  in  their  foreign  wanderings,  find  themselves  thus  suddenly 
reminded  of  the  services  and  death  of  those  brave  fellow-countrymen  who  have  here 
their  remote  place  of  rest. 

Nahun  is  at  no  great  distance  from  the  residence  of  an  English  agent ;  and  on  the 
intervening  road  there  are  convenient  bungalows  for  the  accommodation  of  travellers. 
The  city  is  considered  to  be  healthy;  but  notwithstanding  its  elevated  position  — 
upwards  of  three  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea— Europeans  suffer  there 


60  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

from  tlie  lieat  of  the  atmosphere.  It  is  also  exposed  to  unwholesome  hot  vrinds ;  and 
during  one  season  of  the  year,  the  jungles  in  its  neighbourhood  are  productive  of 
malaria,  and  the  consequent  diseases. 

The  accompanying  plate  presents  an  admirable  view  of  Nahun  and  its  vicinity. 
While  we  regret  tliat  a  country  externally  so  lovely  should  be  subject  to  the  natural 
evils  above  mentioned,  how  much  more  should  we  lament  the  spiritual  darkness  which 
still,  to  a  great  extent,  continues  to  overshadow  that  fair  portion  of  "  this  beautiful 
visible  world." 


THE    HON.   ANTHONY    ASHLEY, 

Eldest  son  of  Lord  Ashley  ( son  of  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury )  and  Lady  Emily  Cowper,  ( daughter  of  the 
Countess  Cowper,  now  Viscountess  Palmerston. ) 

BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

If  every  effort  for  the  right 

^Made  by  the  sire,  coidd  nerve  thy  youth 

To  battle  in  Temptation's  hour. 

For  holy  Righteousness  and  Truth  : 

If  every  prayer  which  humble  lips 
Have  breathed  with  simplest  eloquence. 
For  HIM,  (whose  heart  was  with  the  Poor,) 
Could  be  THY  shield  and  thy  defence : 

If  every  self-denying  act. 
And  solemn  thought,  his  spirit  gave 
Througli  dazzling,  careless,  flatter'd  years, 
Could  make  thee  wise,  and  keep  thee  brave : 

Safe,  through  a  world  of  many  storms. 
And  amply  guarded,  thou  might'st  tread ; 
While  delegated  blessings  made 
A  halo  round  thy  noble  head. 

So  let  it  be !    A  lovely  life 
Is  his,  who  from  the  earliest  dawn, 
Ne'er  found  the  averted  face  of  God, 
Like  sunlight  from  his  course  withdrawn  ; 


r,i,„t.,i  I;  .:■!,  ji\-Sms  JtA 


r    ^'/A    .     '////,■      /-///a 


^Z/y/-  -^f/'/ir 


w 


THE  LOVE  LETTER.  61 

Ne'er  felt  a  late  repentance  sting, 
And  mused,  while  gazing  sadly  back, 
Which  were  the  old  delightful  paths  ;  * 
Which  was  the  true,  the  glorious  track  : 

Ne'er  gave  to  Sin  his  noonday  strength, 
And  turn'd,  with  feeble,  wayworn  feet, 
And  downcast  eyes,  that  weeping  prayed. 
At  Eventide  his  God  to  meet : 

But  from  the  first  with  cheerful  heart, 

Uprose,  the  tasks  of  Life  to  do  : 

Keeping  the  steadfast  hope  of  Heaven, 

Through  cloud  and  shine — through  weal  and  woe : 

Deject,  nor  dazzled,  overmuch : 
Consulting  only  God's  high  will, — 
As  mariners,  through  changeful  daya 
Watch  the  abiding  compass  stiU  ! 


THE     LOVE     LETTER. 

Paler  she  grew  from  day  to  day, 

As,  fading  from  her  cheek  away. 

The  rose-tinge  left  her  gentle  brow 

All  fairer  than  the  mouatain-snow. 

The  glossy  ringlets  once  so  bright, 

So  dazzling  in  their  golden  light. 

Were  parted  back  from  that  sweet  face. 

Where  blossom'd  beauty's  every  grace. 

As  if  no  more  they  cared  to  stray 

Around  a  brow  no  longer  gay. 

Each  morn  the  Lady  Christabel 

Gazed  over  wood,  and  stream,  and  fell ; 

She  sat  alone  within  her  bower — 

Its  casement  wreathed  with  bud  and  flower — 

And  watch'd  the  golden  sun  arise. 

Painting  with  rosy  hues,  the  skies, 

•  "  TLus  saith  the  Lord,  Stand  ye  in  the  ways,  and  see,  and  ask  for  the  old  paths,  where  is  tha  good  way,  and 
walk  therein,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls." Jeremiah  yi.  16. 

8.  S. — VOL.  I.  Q 


THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

While  dewdrops,  scatter'd  by  the  breeze, 

Like  showers  of  pearls  fell  from  the  trees ; 

She  watch'd  the  river's  glassy  stream, 

The  wavelets  dancing  in  tlie  beam, 

That  quiver'd  'mid  the  depths  below. 

Where  iris-flags,  and  lilies  grow. 

And  noon-tide  came  ;  bright,  sunny  noon ! 

Its  glories  fading  all  too  soon 

For  hearts  that  know  no  care  or  grief. 

Or  only  mourn  for  joy  too  brief. 

And  still  the  Lady  Christabel 

Within  her  turret-bower  would  dwell, 

And  still  her  anxious  gaze  would  stray 

Along  the  wood-path's  shady  way ; 

She  watch'd  the  setting  sun  go  down  ; 

The  forest  trees  ;  and  distant  town. 

Bathed  in  the  crimson  light  of  eve ; 

While  garlands  that  the  roses  weave 

Were  radiant  in  the  western  light. 

Ere  yet  they  slept  at  fall  of  night : 

And  then  the  Lady  sadly  turn'd 

From  where  the  ruby  rays  yet  burn'd. 

And  while  the  moonbeams  dimly  fell 

O'er  donjon  tower,  and  mossy  dell. 

She  sigh'd  and  wept  the  night  away. 

And  loathed  the  cheerful  morning-ray. 

For  months  before,  her  virgin  heart 

Had  learn'd  what  sorrow  'tis  to  part 

With  those  we  love — and  scarcely  know 

If  e'er  to  meet  again  below. 

Her  lover  fought  in  distant  land. 

The  leader  of  a  gallant  band ; 

And  when  he  left  his  Ghristabel, 

With  earnest  vows  he  promised  well 

To  send  her  tidings  of  his  fate. 

Living  or  dying,  soon  or  late. 

But  days  and  weeks  were  ghding  on. 

And  the  ninth  moon  was  almost  gone ; 

Nor  messenger  nor  letter  came ; 

And  fiU'd  with  grief,  and  doubt,  and  shame, 

Sweet  Christabel  was  drooping  fast. 

And  deem'd  those  summer  days  her  last  I 


THE  LOVE  LETTER.  68 

The  Lady  sat  alone — dismay'd, 

Nor  page  nor  maiden  near  her  staid  ; 

She  felt  her  faintest  hopes  were  o'er, 

And  dream'd  of  happiness  no  more  j 

When  smiling,  and  with  joyous  mien. 

Her  tiring-woman's  face  was  seen, 

A  thrice  seal'd  packet  in  her  hand. 

And  safely  bound  with  silken  band. 

The  Lady  scarcely  drew  her  breath — 

Perchance  it  told  her  of  his  death  ; 

With  frantic  hand  she  burst  the  fetter. 

And  gazed  upon  her  first  love  letter  ! 

"  He  loves  me  yet ;"  she  murmur'd  low  ; 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  cannot  doubt  it  now ; 

Ere  long,  whatever  may  betide, 

He'll  claim  me  for  his  own  loved  bride." 

And  long  she  sat,  with  crimson'd  cheek. 

Her  violet  eyes,  so  soft  and  meek, 

Fix'd  on  those  dearly  valued  lines ; 

And  though  the  sunbeam  round  her  shines, 

And  flowers  perfume  the  balmy  breeze. 

And  birds  are  warbling  in  the  trees, 

AH — all  her  world  is  center'd  there. 

In  words  that  love's  own  impress  bear. 

Her  tiring-woman  stood  behind. 

And  sadly  wish'd,  and  long'd,  and  pined 

To  know  the  news  the  letter  brought ; 

But  unavailingly  she  sought 

To  rouse  the  Lady  from  her  dream 

Of  bliss,  an  ever-flowing  stream  ; 

And  then  she  gazed  again  once  more. 

As  Christabel  was  bending  o'er 

The  precious  missive  in  her  hand. 

The  token  from  a  far-off  land. 

And  gently  stepp'd  behind  her  chair, — 

The  characters  were  clear  and  fair — 

A  little  nearer  !  that  is  better — 

The  waiting-woman  read  the  letter. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !"  she  deeply  sigh'd, 

"  'Tis  sad  that  I  should  be  denied 

A  suitor  who  might  send  to  me, 

A  biUet  penn'd  so  lovingly. 


64  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OP  ENGRAVINGS. 

So  fairly  written,  and  so  well ; 
I  would  that  I  were  Christabel !" 

Again  the  Lady's  face  was  gay, 

And  swiftly  fled  each  happy  day ; 

She  tuned  her  lute,  and  twined  her  flowers 

Throughout  the  long  bright  summer  hours, 

Till,  faithful  to  his  plighted  word. 

And  girded  with  his  trusty  sword. 

Her  gallant  lover  hasten'd  home. 

No  more  from  Christabel  to  roam. 

And  when,  a  graceful  matron,  she. 

With  fair-hair'd  children  on  her  knee, 

Turn'd  to  her  lord,  who  by  her  side 

Loved  the  wife  better  than  the  bride, 

She  told  him  how  she  mourn'd  and  wept, 

When  day  by  day  so  sadly  crept. 

While  he  was  journeying  far  away  ; 

When  though  sweet  summer  round  her  lay. 

Nought  e'er  could  calm  her  anxious  breast. 

Nought  give  her  sickening  spirit  rest. 

Till  that  long-wished-for  letter  came. 

Which  all  her  doubtings  overcame ; 

"  But  then,"  she  whisper'd  in  his  ear, 

"  'Tis  sweeter  far  to  have  thee  here  j 

To  listen  to  thy  voice  is  better 

Than  e'en  that  first  and  last  love  letter." 


SNOWY  RANGE  FROM  LANDOUR. 

Central  Asia  has  been  well  described  as  being  one  vast  platform  of  irregular  shape, 
raised  to  a  considerable  height  above  the  surrounding  country,  and  bounded  by  a 
stupendous  mountain-wall,  the  peaks  of  which  are  covered  by  perpetual  snow.  Of  the 
table-land  thus  shut  in  by  "  cloud-capp'd"  hills,  the  great  range  of  the  Himalayah, 
or  Snowy  Mountains,*  one  of  which  towers  higher  than  any  other  mountain  in  the 
world,  is  the  southern  boundary.  The  Himalayah  ridge,  which  is  extended  from  Cabul 
across  the  whole  of  Hindostan,  eastward,  forms  a  chain  of  nearly  a  thousand  miles 
in  length,  and  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  breadth.     This  mountain-range 

•  The  word  Himalayah  is  derived  from  the  Sanscrit,  and  signifies  snowy. 


m 


SNOWY  RANGE  FROM  LA.NDOUR.  65 

consists,  in  many  parts,  of  bare  and  rugged  rocks,  towering  aloft  into  the  clear  sky, 
and  divided  by  dark  chasms,  or  by  wild  ravines,  which  are  in  some  cases  richly  wooded, 
but  in  others,  altogether  void  of  vegetation,  and  bearing  the  appearance  of  having  been 
worn  by  water-courses,  or  reft  asunder  by  some  great  convulsion  of  nature.  "  Here," 
says  a  powerful  writer,  speaking  of  the  Himalayan  range,  "is  concentrated  all  that 
is  sublime  in  the  scenery  of  nature.  On  every  side  rise  snowy  summits  of  stupendous 
height  aud  various  forms,  mingled  with  conical  volcanic  peaks,  regularly  rounded  hills, 
and  rugged  and  frightful  precipices." 

In  some  parts  of  this  stupendous  mountain-wall,  "  the  traveller  has  to  scale  the 
most  terrific  heights,  by  a  path  which  is  so  narrow  as  not  to  admit  two  abreast,  and 
which  winds  along  the  mountain,  and  often  along  bare  and  perpendicular  precipices, 
by  a  narrow  and  irregular  flight  of  steps,  or  by  natural  irregularities  on  the  face  of  the 
polished  marble  rock,  and  sometimes  by  a  projecting  ledge  not  more  than  a  foot  broad." 
The  steps,  at  certain  prominent  points,  where  the  rock  is  perpendicular,  wind  in  zigzag 
lines,  at  angles  so  sharp,  that,  in  a  length  of  twenty-four  feet,  the  actual  height  gained 
is  not  more  than  ten  feet ;  these  steps,  too,  are  placed  at  most  inconvenient  distances ; 
a  circumstance  which  greatly  increases  the  tourist's  danger  and  difficulty. 

In  some  parts  of  this  magnificent  mountain-ridge,  European  travellers  can  only 
make  their  way  by  the  help  of  the  natives,  who  carry  them  on  their  backs,  seated  in 
wooden  chairs.  Sufficiently  fearful  must  be  even  this  comparatively  easy  mode 
of  travelling  across  mountain-passes,  skirting  precipices  perhaps  of  sis  or  seven  hundred 
feet  in  depth,  and  in  a  region  where,  to  use  the  words  of  Bishop  Heber,  "  the  horizon 
is  terminated  by  a  vast  range  of  ice  and  snow,  extending  its  battalion  of  white  and 
shining  spears  from  east  to  west,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  follow  it ;  the  principal  hills 
rising  like  towers  in  a  glittering  rampart." 

In  the  neighbourhood,  however,  of  Landour,  from  whence  is  taken  the  accompanying 
view  of  the  Snowy  Range  of  the  Himalayah,  there  has  been  cut,  at  an  elevation  of 
seven  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  a  road,  by  means  of  which  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  district  may  make  excursions,  either  on  horseback  or  on  foot,  to  the 
extent  of  more  than  four  miles,  and  through  a  country  rich,  almost  beyond  comparison, 
in  objects  of  beauty  and  interest.  The  oak,  the  pine,  the  holly,  the  walnut,  and  the 
cherry,  are  here  mingled  with  the  standard  apricot,  which  grows  in  great  abundance 
upon  these  heaven-kissing  hills  ;  raspberries,  strawberries,  and  blackberries,  spring 
around  in  rich  luxuriance ;  the  wild  rose  scatters  its  glowing  leaves  in  crimson  showers, 
and  daisies,  primroses,  and  violets,  while  they  "broider  the  ground"  in  this  garden 
of  nature,  forcibly  remind  the  English  traveller  of  the  dear  land  which  he  has  left. 
It  may  seem  perhaps  extraordinary,  that  objects  comparatively  so  humble,  should  arrest 
the  attention  of  the  wayfarer  in  the  midst  of  scenery  so  magnificent  as  that  which  in 
these  regions  continually  meets  the  eye  of  the  observer.  Such,  however,  is  the  bene- 
ficent arrangement  of  Providence,  that  "  the  meanest  flower  that  scents  the  gale,"  has 
a  beauty  and  a  glory  peculiarly  its  own;  and  bears,  equally  with  the  monarch  of  the 
forest,  the  impress  of  the  creative  power  of  an  Almighty  hand.     It  would  appear,  too, 

S.  S. — VOL.  1.  B 


66  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

that  the  more  minute  beauties  of  the  vegetable  world  never  strike  us  more  forcibly 
than  when  we  view  them  in  connection  with  the  luxuriant  and  gigantic  productions 
of  a  tropical  climate. 

From  no  place  can  the  Snowy  Mountains  of  theHimalayah  be  seen  to  greater  advantage 
than  from  the  western  side  of  Landour.  Their  distance  from  this  place  is  about  thirty 
miles  ;  and  viewed  at  this  distance  they  produce  a  completeness  of  effect,  and  are  marked 
by  a  character  of  sublimity  and  repose,  which  is  lost  when  the  eye  of  the  spectator, 
by  a  nearer  approach,  becomes  as  it  were  perplexed  by  the  number  and  various  outline 
of  the  peaks  which  form  this  mighty  mountain-barrier.  It  should  be  observed,  also, 
that  in  consequence  of  the  extreme  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  in  this  "  cUme  of  the 
sun,"  this  range  of  mountains,  when  viewed  at  the  distance  above-mentioned,  is  seen, 
especially  at  sunrise,  with  a  distinctness  scarcely  conceivable  by  those  who  have  had 
experience  of  none  but  our  own  comparatively  sombre  skies.  When  the  Snowy  Range 
is  contemplated  under  such  circumstances  of  time  and  distance,  the  country  which 
intervenes  between  it  and  the  spectator  is  veiled  in  a  lake-like  mist,  and  the  snowy 
eminences,  apparently  rising  on  its  opposite  margin,  seem,  when  illuminated  by  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sim,  and  tinged  with  all  the  glories  of  heaven,  as  if  their  rose-tinted 
summits  could  be  easily  gained  ;  nor  is  it  until  the  mists  of  early  morn  have  been  cleared 
away,  and  the  sun  shines  forth  in  his  strength,  that  this  illusion  is  dispelled. 

The  highest  mountains  of  the  Himalayah  chain  are  the  Chumularee  and  the 
Dhawala-gliri,  or  White  Mountain ;  and  both  of  these  being  between  twenty-eight  and 
twenty-nine  thousand  feet  in  height,  they  are  behoved  to  be  the  highest  mountains 
on  the  globe.  The  summit  of  neither  of  them  has,  as  yet,  been  reached.  The  Jum- 
noutri  and  the  Guugoutri,  where  the  Jumna  and  the  Ganges  take  their  rise,  are  con- 
sidered to  be  the  next  in  point  of  altitude,  both  of  them  exceeding  twenty-four  thousand 
feet.  The  Gungoutri  is  the  most  highly  honoured  by  the  poor  natives,  who  afiirm  that 
on  its  summit  their  god  Mahadeo  has  estabhshed  his  throne. 

Villages  are  to  be  found  among  the  Himalayah  mountains  at  the  elevation  of  four- 
teen thousand  feet ;  but  a  site  of  this  altitude  is  not  healthy,  and  the  inhabitants  of 
places  so  situated  have  a  wretched  appearance.  Cultivation  has  been  carried,  in  some 
instances,  five  hundred  feet  higher,  and  vegetation  does  not  totally  cease,  tiU  aiTested, 
at  an  elevation  of  sixteen  thousand  feet,  by  that  eternal  barrier  of  snow  which  forbids 
all  human  access  to  the  subUme  wastes  which  lie  beyond  it.  From  some  points  in  the 
vicinity  of  Landour  the  eye  can  trace,  amid  the  alps  on  alps  which  here  arise  around, 
the  impetuous  course  of  the  sacred  river,*  now  fretting  along  a  comparatively  narrow 
channel,  worn  by  itself  in  the  rocks, — now  leaping  in  its  own  flashing  light  from  height  to 
height,  as  if  exulting  in  its  increasing  strength, — and  at  length  emerging  into  the  level 
country,  and  winding  peacefully  along,  tiU  its  silvery  thread  is  lost  in  the  dim  distance. 

The  valleys  of  the  Himalayahs  are  thickly  clothed  with  wood ;  the  pine  and  the  fir 
here  attaining  their  noblest  growth,  and  charming  the  eye  with  the  rich  purples  and 
browns,  or,  as  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it,  the  yet  more  brilHant  tints  of  their  luxuriant 

•  The  Ganges,  worshipped  by  the  natives  as  a  diviuity. 


MORNING  PRAYER.  67 

folijige.  The  rocks  also  are  oftea  covered  by  splendid  orchideous  plants  of  the  most 
gorgeous  colours,  and  of  ever-variegated  forms.  The  birds  and  insects,  too,  exhibit  a 
splendom-  of  colouring  utterly  unknown  in  northern  climes. 

Alas  !  that  a  land  so  rich  in  nature's  most  beauteous  gifts,  should  still  be,  iu  a  great 
measure,  spiritually  dark.  Surely,  as  it  respects  our  Eastern  possessions,  we  may  say, 
with  one  who  devoted  his  best  energies  to  the  cause  of  Christianity  in  India — 

"  From  many  an  ancient  river, 
From  many  a  balmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain  1" 


MORNING      PRAYER. 

Calm  fell  the  golden  sunbeam's  early  ray 

Upon  the  yet  unclouded  springtide  morn ; 

And  primrose  flowers  smiled  on  the  bright  young  day, 

Their  pale  meek  petals,  still  unstained  by  storm ; 

And  childhood's  merry  smiles  were  chasten'd  now, 

While  thoughts  of  heaven  were  breathed  o'er  things  below  ; 

And  sweetly  rose  the  matin  hymn  of  praise. 
From  silvery  tones  of  children  clustering  there ; 
Sweet  as  the  bird's  clear  warbling  midst  the  haze, 
Were  the  soft  hymn-notes  of  the  matron  fair ; 
And  the  deep  voice  that  led  that  loving  throng, 
Through  the  rich  melody  of  sacred  song. 

Hush'd  were  the  tuneful  chords  ! — Too  soon  must  cease 

Our  earthly  anthems  sung  beneath  the  sky  j 

Too  soon  must  fade  the  hours  of  holy  peace 

That  cheer  the  path  of  frail  mortality. 

Yet  but  a  little  while — the  song  no  more 

Shall  die  away  on  yonder  blissful  shore. 

And  then  was  spread  the  blessed  sacred  Book — 
While  the  loved  accents  of  a  father's  voice. 
With  brow  serene  and  reverential  look. 
Told  of  the  truths  that  bade  his  heart  rejoice. 
While  o'er  the  hallow'd  page  his  head  was  bent. 
As  there  he  traced  the  words  divinely  sent. 


68  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

"  Love  one  another" — "  love  in  deed  and  truth," 
So  solemnly  he  said — then  paused  awhile, 
As  if  sweet  Charity,  of  heavenly  growth. 
Came  near  to  bless  them  with  angelic  smile ; 
And  the  young  children  sat  with  earnest  gaze. 
To  hear  of  wisdom's  peaceful,  happy  ways. 

The  volume  closed — they  meekly  bent  the  knee. 
The  while  the  voice  of  prayer  ascended  high. 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  of  eternity 
Dispelled  the  dreams  of  ought  below  the  sky. 
To  the  One  Lord  of  earth,  and  King  of  Heaven, 
Their  grateful  praises  fervently  were  given, 

For  the  rich  blessings  of  the  dark  still  night. 

For  thousand  mercies  in  the  years  gone  by. 

For  the  bright  dawning  of  returning  light — 

Emblem  of  rising  to  Eternal  joy — 

For  strength  renewed  and  given  hour  by  hour. 

And  worlds  to  come  where  clouds  shall  never  lower. 

For  balm  in  sorrow — for  the  might  to  cope 
With  all  the  fears  and  trials  round  them  cast. 
For  all  this  green  earth's  bounties,  and  the  hope 
Of  endless  bliss  when  mortal  life  is  past — 
Praise  to  the  "  Father  of  all  mercies"  rose. 
That  Father  from  whose  love  "  all  blessing  flows." 

And  then — strong  supplication  for  the  power 
To  meet  the  struggles  of  the  coming  day, 
For  strength  to  look  above,  when  tempests  lower 
With  trusting  faith  to  hope,  and  meekly  pray ; 
Such  holy  words  were  breathed  in  that  still  room. 
Where  shone  child's  innocence  and  woman's  bloom. 

Blest  hours  of  purest  and  unearthly  joy  ! 

When  mortal  cares  are  banish'd  from  the  breast. 

With  scarce  a  thought  of  this  cold  world's  alloy 

To  mar  that  foretaste  of  eternal  rest ; 

When  beams  of  beav'n  seem  mingling  with  the  bright 

And  dazzling  hues  of  rosy  orient  light. 


V 


J 


^ 


■I 


v^ 

^ 


ITINERANT  DOCTOR  AT  TIEN-SING. 

And  blest  the  bond  that  binds  those  loving  hearts, 
As  round  their  household-altar  calm  they  kneel, 
A  sacred  holy  tie,  that  never  parts, 
That  clasps  their  trusting  souls  for  woe  and  weal ; 
It  comes  not  from  a  world  where  fade  and  die 
All  loveliest  hopes — but  from  Eternity  1 


AN   ITINERANT  DOCTOR   AT  TIEN-SING. 

He  boasted  of  a  magic  rare, 

A  far-spread  fame  beyond  compare, 

A  talent  and  an  inclination. 

To  cure  all  evils  of  the  nation. 

Nor  could  he  only  cure — his  skill 

Could  drive  away  the  coming  ill; 

And  if  men  took  his  wondrous  potions. 

And  daily  used  his  healing  lotions, 

They  might  be  sure,  in  spite  of  fears. 

Their  lives  would  reach  two  hundred  years. 

But  chiefly  poisons  claim'd  his  care  ; 

And  though  his  countrymen  might  stare. 

He  told  them  how  vast  power  was  given, — 

It  matter'd  not  from  hell  or  heaven, — 

To  him  who  stood  before  them  now. 

Heady  at  their  command  to  bow ; 

To  do  their  will,  and  instant  show 

His  power  to  charm  the  snakes,  and  how. 

The  audience  gazed  with  eager  eyes. 

Now  upward,  to  fair  Pekin's  skies  ; 

Now  temples  hung  with  bells,  they  trace  ; 

Now  fix  upon  the  Doctor's  face. 

Their  pig-tails  hung  behind  them,  flat, 

All  nicely  oil'd  in  twist  and  plait ; 

They  spake  no  word,  scarce  drew  their  breath. 

The  while  the  quack  gave  laws  to  Deatli. 

His  page,  as  previously  taught, 

A  cobra  di  capella  brought : 

Its  eyes  were  bright,  its  skin  was  sleek  ; 

Surely  those  eyes  must  mischief  seek  ! 

S.  S. — VOL.  1.  s 


THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Dread  hoiTor  thrill'd  the  trembling  crowd, 
Despite  the  charmer's  boasting  proud. 
Suppose  his  charm  should  not  be  true — 
What  could  they  then  for  safety  do  ? 
For  snakes  to  spring  and  bite  are  able ; 
That  one  might  leap  from  off  the  table. 
But  now  their  fears  the  quack  dispell'd  ; 
Some  cabalistic  words  he  spell'd, 
Some  wondrous  drugs  he  sprinkled  round, 
Mutt'ring  the  while  some  mystic  sound, 
And,  straight,  the  snake  lay  dull  and  still. 
As  if  his  words  had  power  to  kill. 
The  Doctor  and  his  slave  stood  forth, 
That  all  might  see  the  might  and  wortli 
Of  his  strong  spells  and  matchless  charms, 
To  guard  mankind  from  serpents'  harms. 

The  cobra  di  capella  hung 
Round  the  slave's  neck,  like  necklace  strung; 
Then  coil'd,  like  bracelet,  round  his  arm. 
Then  danced  upon  his  open  palm ; 
And  soon  the  crowd  became  so  bold, 
They  grasp'd  the  snake,  and  gave  their  gold, 
Tliat  they  might  share  such  potent  power, 
Nor  fear, — should  vipers  round  them  shower. 
The  Doctor  gravely  rubb'd  each  hand. 
Then  cross'd  it  with  a  mystic  band. 
And  pour'd  his  incantations  round. 
And  strew'd  his  drugs  upon  the  ground. 
Then  vow'd  that  each  might  safely  take. 
In  his  charm'd  hand,  the  deadly  snake. 
The  gaping  multitude  beheld 
The  cobra,  as  it  proudly  swell'd. 
Erect  its  crest,  and  fork'd  its  tongue. 
Nor  hurt  the  hand  on  which  it  hung  j 
They  shouted,  and  with  loud  acclaim, 
Proclaim'd  the  Doctor's  skill  and  fame. 

Just  then,  with  sage  and  steady  face. 
An  old  Chinese,  with  solemn  pace, 
"Walk'd  to  the  table  of  the  quack. 
And  begg'd  to  have  the  serpent  back. 


ITINERANT  DOCTOR  AT  TIEN-SING.  71 

Just  for  a  moment — ^just  once  more, 
To  try  this  vaunted  magic  power. 
He  was  a  man  for  wisdom  famed — 
Of  roj'al  race,  he  had  not  shamed — 
Straiglitway  he  turn'd  the  reptile  o'er, 
And  found  its  fangs  all  gone  before ; 
Then  roundly  all  the  people  told, 
How  they  had  thrown  away  their  gold : 
Extracted  was  each  poisonous  tooth — 
What  fools  they  all  had  been,  forsooth  1 
The  Doctor  and  his  page  turn'd  pale. 
He  could  not  mock  the  sage's  tale ; 
For  "  facts  are  stubborn  things,"  'tis  said, 
And  sure  he  thought,  "e'en  from  the  dead, 
Confucius  must  be  risen  now  ; 
None  else  could  be  so  wise,  I  trow." 
He  turn'd  to  fly — but  aU  too  late; 
The  bastinado  was  his  fate  : 
The  angry  men  of  Pekin  came. 
And  jeer'd  him  in  his  grief  and  shame: 
But  then  the  sage  stepp'd  forth  again, 
To  save  th'  impostor  from  his  pain ; 
And  rescued  from  his  suffering  state. 
He  limp'd  towards  the  city  gate. 
And  then  the  wise  man  bade  beware 
Of  words  so  seeming  true  and  fair ; 
Addressing  thus  the  listening  crowd, 
"Whose  wrath  again  was  waxing  loud  ; 
"  Let  none  despise  the  Doctor's  skill. 
Because  this  cheat  hath  done  us  ill ; 
True  genius  ever  must  command 
Praises  and  thanks  on  every  hand  ; 
True  science  must  for  ever  shine, 
And  all  pay  homage  at  her  shrine. 
But,  evermore,  beware  of  those, 
Who  boast  of  curing  all  our  woes, 
Without  the  wisdom  only  given 
To  studious  men,  who  aye  have  striven. 
To  heal  the  sorrows  of  mankind, 
And  balm  for  human  griefs  to  find. 
Thus,  while  all  juggling  ye  despise, 
Yet  GENUINE  TALENT  ever  prize." 


73 


MARINO   FALIERO,  DOGE   OF  VENICE. 

While  we  read  the  spirit-stirring  history  of  the  Doges  of  Venice,  our  thoughts,  per- 
haps, very  rarely  revert  to  that  conquering  barbarian,  who,  although  he  was  accustomed, 
iu  his  ferocious  pride,  to  boast,  "that  the  grass  never  grew  on  the  spot  where  his  horse 
had  trodden,"  did  nevertheless,  though  undesignedly,  lay  the  foundations  of  the  cele- 
brated Venetian  republic.  The  name  of  Venice,  or  Venetia,  formerly  belonged  to  a 
large  and  fertile  province  of  Ital}',  reaching  from  the  confines  of  Pannonia  to  the  river 
Addna,  and  from  the  Po  to  the  Julian  Alps.  Before  the  irruption  of  the  barbarians 
under  Attila,  fifty  Venetian  cities  flourished  within  this  district,  in  peace  and  prosperity. 
Aquileia  occupied  the  most  conspicuous  station,  and  Padua,  in  consequence  of  its  agri- 
culture and  its  manufactures,  was  the  richest  among  these  cities ;  and  from  these,  as  from 
the  adjacent  towns,  many  families  fled  from  the  sword  of  the  Huns,  and  found  a  safe, 
though  an  obscure  refuge,  in  the  neighbouring  islands.  At  the  extremity  of  the  Gulf 
of  Venice,  where  the  waters  of  the  Hadriatic  feebly  imitate  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
nearly  a  hundred  small  islands  are  separated  by  shallow  water  from  the  neighbouring 
continent.  Till  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century,  these  sequestered  spots  had  remained 
without  cultivation  ;  but  at  that  period  the  Venetian  fugitives  carried  thither  their  arts 
and  their  government ;  their  manners  they  gradually  adapted  to  their  new  situation ; 
and  their  condition,  as  it  existed  about  seventy  years  later,  may  be  considered  as 
exhibiting  the  primitive  form  of  their  subsequently  famous  republic.  Having — to 
adopt  the  quaint  style  of  an  ancient  writer — "  fixed  their  nests  like  wild-fowls  on  the 
bosom  of  the  waves,"  these  fugitive  Venetian  families,  free,  indigent,  laborious,  and 
almost  inaccessible,  gradually  coalesced  into  a  republic,  the  first  foundations  of  which 
were  laid  in  the  Island  of  Rialto,  and  the  government  of  which  was  ultimately  vested 
in  a  Duke,  or  Doge. 

Among  these  Doges,  there  were  some,  in  subsequent  times,  whose  history  is  fraught 
with  great  and  varied  interest ;  and  among  these,  Marino  Faliero  may  claim  especial 
notice 

The  celebrated  Marino  Faliero  was  a  man  of  lofty  mind  and  cultivated  intellect, 
who,  having  raised  himself  to  the  highest  dignity  of  the  state,  fell  suddenly  from  his 
pride  of  place,  and  nearly  destroyed  the  Venetian  government  itself,  by  his  fall.  After 
a  career  of  brilliant  successes,  as  well  in  war  as  in  diplomacy,  and  after  having  con- 
solidated his  extensive  conquests,  he  was  presented  in  the  year  13.54  with  the  ducal 
coronet ;  and  in  addition  to  the  numerous  dignities  which  he  already  enjoyed,  received 
the  title  of  "  Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Venice ;"  an  honour  which  was  the  more 
marked,  inasmuch  as  it  was  conferred  upon  him  during  his  absence  from  Venice,  as 
ambassador  to  the  court  of  the  Roman  Pontiff",  Clement  VI. ;  and  communicated  to 
him  while  on  his  return  homeward  from  Rome,  by  a  deputation  of  twelve   persons 


PETER  JACKSON,  LONEC 


MARINO  FALIERO.  73 

of  eminence,  who  ■were  sent  to  congratulate  him  in  his  country's  name.  On  his  arrival 
at  Venice,  he  was  received  with  all  those  demonstrations  of  honour  which  were  deemed 
to  be  the  fitting  reward  of  a  man  who  had  extended  the  power  of  his  country  beyond 
the  pillars  of  Hercules,  established  various  colonics,  and  planted  the  Venetian  Lion — 
the  banner  of  the  republic — in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  One  individual,  however, 
above  all  others,  rejoiced  in  the  return  of  the  noble  Doge,  and  in  the  honours  which 
were  paid  to  him.  This  was  Angiolina,  his  youthful  and  beauteous  bride.  She,  the 
orphan  daughter  of  his  dearest  friend,  had  preferred  the  great  Faliero,  bending  though 
he  was  under  the  weight  of  twelve  lustres,  to  any  among  the  gay  and  the  youthful  of 
the  nobles  of  the  land,  who  had  vied  with  each  other  in  offering  to  her  the  incense  of 
love  and  admiration.  In  short,  Marino  Faliero  stood  on  tlie  very  topmost  pinnacle 
of  earthly  power  and  happiness.  By  destroying  her  most  formidable  enemies,  he  had 
bound  his  country  in  the  golden  fetters  of  willing  gratitude  and  affection ;  and  never, 
perhaps,  did  power  and  greatness,  achieved  by  a  career  of  arduous  and  active  service ; 
fame,  the  reward  of  noble  and  perilous  deeds ;  and  woman's  love,  the  myrtle  crown  of 
manhood,  combine  to  give  brighter  and  more  hopeful  assurance,  that  a  calm  and  deli- 
cious evening  of  hfe  would  succeed  to  the  burden  and  heat  of  a  day  of  honourable 
toil,  and  well-merited  success. 

We  may  well  imagine,  that  as  Faliero  approached  the  shores  of  the  Queen  of  the 
Sea,  a  sensation  of  rapture  swelled  his  bosom  when  he  reflected,  that  having  devoted  to 
his  country's  service  his  youth  and  manhood,  an  old  age  of  peace, 

"  With  all  that  should  accompany  old  age — 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends," 

now  lay  before  him.  Doubtless,  too,  he  anticipated  with  fond  delight,  his  re-union  with 
her,  who  had  bestowed  upon  him  the  treasure  of  her  young  afi'ections,  and  in  whose 
sweet  companionship  he  expected  to  find  the  solace  of  his  declining  years.  It  is  not, 
however,  for  man  to  "boast  of  to-morrow."  Even  in  this  moment  of  delightful  retro- 
spection and  brilliant  anticipation,  it  was  appointed,  thivt  the  sun  of  Faliero's  prosperity 
should  set  for  ever  ! 

When,  on  the  5th  of  October,  1354,  the  newly-created  doge,  attended  by  a  magnifi- 
cent retinue,  was  about  to  land  at  Venice  on  his  return  from  his  Roman  embassy,  there 
came  on  a  fog  so  dense,  that  it  utterly  baffled  the  skill  of  the  mariners ;  and  it  was 
subsequently  considered  as  a  very  disastrous  omen,  that  they  were  ultimately  compelled  to 
land  at  the  Place  of  St.  Mark,  and  precisely  on  the  spot  on  which  malefactors  were 
accustomed  to  be  executed.  It  is  easy  to  prophesy  evil,  when  the  fortunes  of  a  great 
man  are  manifestly  and  sensibly  on  the  wane;  and  accordingly,  when  soon  afterwards 
the  downfall  of  the  Doge  was  obviously  at  hand,  this  ill-omened  landing  began  to  be 
spoken  of,  as  betokening  the  fulfilment  of  a  prediction  which,  in  a  moment  of  anger,  had 
been  uttered  many  years  before,  respecting  the  Doge,  by  the  Bishop  of  Treviso ;  to  the 
effect  that,  "  Heaven,  in  its  due  time,  would  deprive  Marino  Faliero  of  his  right  senses, 
in  order  to  bring  him  to  an  ignominious  death." 

S.  S. — VOL.  I.  T 


74  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  circumstances  which  led  to  the  downfall  and  death  of  the  Doge  Faliero,  were 
briefly  these : 

At  a  splendid  festival,  which  was  given  by  Faliero  in  commemoration  of  his  accession 
to  the  ducal  dignity,  a  poor,  but  daring  patiician,  by  name  Michele  Steno,  gave  offence 
to  the  Duchess  Angiolina,  by  his  demeanour  towards  one  of  her  ladies.  The  Doge 
instantly  gave  orders  that  the  offender  should  be  forcibly  removed  from  the  apartment; 
and  these  orders  were  carried  into  effect  before  the  whole  splendid  assembly.  This 
indignity,  as  he  considered  it,  sank  deep  into  the  revengeful  breast  of  Steno ;  who,  in 
consequence,  watched  his  opportunity,  and,  stealing  unperceived  into  the  audience- 
chamber,  traced  upon  the  ducal  chair  certain  words  implying  a  false  and  wicked  asper- 
sion on  the  Duchess.  The  atrocious  calumny  met  the  eye  of  the  Duke,  and  aroused  in 
his  breast  feelings  of  the  sternest  indignation.  Angiolina  was  summoned,  and  on 
becoming  aware  of  the  character  of  the  charge,  flung  herself,  in  an  agony  of  distress, 
into  the  arms  of  her  husband ;  who,  on  his  part,  as  if  inspired  with  all  the  energy  of 
youth,  raised  his  clenched  hand,  and  while  he  supported  the  almost  fainting  form  of  his 
wife,  invoked,  with  frightful  vehemence,  the  vengeance  of  heaven  upon  the  perpetrator 
of  so  vile  a  deed.* 

In  vain  did  Angiolina  endeavour  to  mitigate  the  uncontrolled  passion  of  the  Doge. 
The  afi'air  was  brought  before  the  senate ;  a  reward  was  offered  for  the  discovery  of  the 
culprit ;  and  Michele  was  soon  arrested,  and  confessed  his  guilt.  The  council,  however, 
took  a  lenient  view  of  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and  condemned  the  offender  to  no 
punishment  more  severe  than  two  months  imprisonment,  and  subsequent  banishment 
from  Venice,  during  the  term  of  one  year.  In  this  merciful  sentence,  which  the  Doge 
— who  had  desired  and  expected  the  execution,  or,  at  least,  the  life-long  banishment  of 
the  culprit — regarded  as  a  mark  of  gross  contempt  of  the  ducal  dignity,  the  subsequent 
deplorable  events  had  their  rise.  Incidents,  too,  occurred,  which  stirred  up  the  deadly 
resentment  which  Faliero  guiltily  harboui'ed  in  his  breast.  An  admiral  was  insulted, 
and  applied  to  the  Doge  for  redress.  "  What  would  you  have  me  do?"  replied  the 
incensed  magistrate;  "I  have  mj'self  been  shamefully  calumniated;  yet  how  did  they 
punish  Steno?  You  see  how  the  Forty  respect  the  head  of  the  state!"  Angry  and 
imprudent  words,  and,  in  their  consequences,  most  fatal !  The  admiral  was  not  slow  to 
offer  himself  as  the  instrument  of  the  Doge's  revenge.  A  conspiracy  was  formed,  which 
by  the  combined  influence  of  the  baneful  passions  of  revenge,  pride,  and  ambition, 
Faliero  was  induced  to  join ;  laying  to  his  soul  the  flattering  unction,  that  in  this  way 
he  should  both  avenge  his  own  honour,  and  free  his  country  from  au  intolerable  yoke. 
Perhaps  also,  he  expected,  that  by  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  the  revolution,  the 
object  of  which  was  to  restore  the  ancient  democracy,  he  should  be  .ible  so  to  direct 
its  movements,  as  to  preserve  whatever  might  be  really  valuable  in  the  condition  of 
the  state. 

The  day  fixed  upon  for  the  great  revolutionary  explosion  was  the  15th  of  April, 
1355 ;  and  the  guilty  secret  having  been  kept  with  marvellous  fidelity,  a  horrible  scene 

•  See  the  accompanying  plate. 


THE  PRINCESS  ADELAIDE.  75 

of  bloodshed  would,  in  all  probability,  have  ensued,  had  not  one  of  the  conspirators,  on 
the  14th  day  of  the  month,  moved  by  compassion  for  a  friend,  entreated  him  not 
to  attend  the  grand  council  on  the  following  day.  This  circumstance,  Hke  a  similar 
circumstance  on  the  occasion  of  the  English  Gunpowder  Plot,  gave  rise  to  suspicion, 
and  the  conspiracy  was  discovered. 

The  rest  is  soon  told.  The  Doge  was  brought  to  trial ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  entreaties 
of  Angiolina,  who,  in  an  agony  of  despair,  solicited  for  him  the  mercy  which  he  himself 
scorned  to  ask,  was  condemned  to  death.  The  ducal  star,  with  the  other  decorations 
which  he  wore,  being  removed  from  his  apparel,  he  was  led,  like  the  meanest  malefactor, 
to  the  scaffold ;  and  the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest  warriors  and  statesmen  whom 
Venice  had  ever  produced — a  head  grown  gray  in  the  service  of  the  Venetian  state — 
was  rolled  in  the  dust. 

How  is  it  to  be  regretted  that  one  emphatic  declaration  of  Holy  Writ  is  so  Uttle 
regarded  by  mankind  :  "Behold,  vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 


HER  SERENE  HIGHNESS 
THE  PRINCESS  ADELAIDE  OF  HOHENLOHE-LANGENBOURG. 

Sweet  child  of  a  right  royal  race,  thy  brow  is  clear  and  calm; 
No  shadow  of  life's  toil  and  care,  no  throbbings  of  alarm. 
Have  crossed  its  infant  purity,  or  dimm'd  the  budding  rose, 
That,  mantling  on  thy  dimpled  cheek,  in  childhood's  beauty  glows  1 

What  art  thou,  little  lovely  one  ?    A  merry,  merry  child. 
Along  whose  bright  and  gleesome  path,  the  sun  hath  ever  smiled ; 
Thou  dwellest  in  thy  father's  halls,  in  thy  fair  mother's  bower. 
With  the  summer  blooms  around  thee,  thyself  the  fairest  flower  1 

The  mountain-stream  that  boundeth  through  the  forest,  wild  and  free, 
Goeth  not,  than  thou,  along  its  way  with  more  of  blithesome  glee ; 
The  music  of  the  warbling  birds  is  sweet  among  the  trees. 
But  not  so  sweet  as  thy  young  voice,  borne  on  the  gentle  breeze. 

To  ears  that  love  to  listen  to  thy  childish  tones  of  glee, 

To  hearts  of  love  that  constantly  and  truly  beat  for  thee. 

Not  flashing  diamonds  from  the  mine,  not  pearls,  nor  opal  stone. 

So  precious  are,  as  thou  to  those,  who  claim  thee  for  their  own. 


76  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OP  ENGRAVINGS. 

Long  may  the  flowerets  round  thee  bud,  the  roses  round  thee  bloom, 
The  waxen  lilies  haunt  thy  path,  with  all  their  rich  perfume ; 
The  little  birds  sing  merrily  their  woodland  songs  for  thee, 
The  -winds  and  gushing  waters  make  thee  sweetest  melody  ! 

What  wilt  thou  be  ?   We  cannot  tell ;  'twere  better  not  to  know ; 
'Twere  sad  to  picture  shade  of  care  upon  that  brow  of  snow  ; 
'Twere  sad  to  see  those  laughing  eyes,  so  innocently  bright. 
Lose  all  their  brilliant  lustre,  in  the  tears  of  sorrow's  blight. 

'Twere  sad  to  watch  thy  blooming  hope,  thy  trusting  faith,  decay ; 
To  see  thee  weep  for  dreams  of  bliss,  that,  dreamlike,  melt  away ; 
To  mark  the  rose-tint  fading  from  that  ruby  lip  and  cheek. 
The  smile  depart,  thou  wearest  now,  from  woe  thou  can'st  not  speak. 

•    God  bless  thee  !  little  one,  and  keep  such  sorrows  from  thy  way  ! 
He  hath  guarded  thee  through  infancy.  He  guards  thee  at  this  day ; 
May  His  shield  still  protect  thee,  babe  !  through  all  thy  coming  years, 
His  Father-smile  still  chase  away  thy  future  doubts  and  fears. 

And  though  thine  earthly  trust  depart,  gaze  upward  to  the  sky  ! 
There  may  thy  steadfast  faith  be  fix'd,  throughout  eternity ; 
The  joyous  laugh,  that  ringeth  now,  so  wild  and  sweet,  may  cease. 
But,  oh !  not  so  may  pass  away  heaven's  own  endui'ing  peace. 

All  blessings  of  the  earth  below,  and  of  the  glorious  heaven. 

All  love,  and  hope,  and  trusting  faith,  to  thy  young  heart  be  given  ! 

May  peace  for  ever  rest  upon  that  brow  so  clear  and  mild, 

God  keep  thee,  bless  thee,  strengthen  thee  !  thou  fair  and  royal  child. 


LADY  OP  THE  COURT  OF  LOUIS  XV. 

THE    MESSAGE. 
BY    MISS    REYNETT. 

When  thou,  dear  Bird,  art  privileged  to  stand 
On  the  white  fingers  of  that  fairy  hand, 
Forget  not  then,  thy  master's  fond  behest. 
Who  pines  far  off,  and  knows  nor  joy,  nor  rest. 


.^,^ 


^m/m 


'/^  ^^^  ^^%^z^_J^W/ ^//f^ 


THE  QUARREL.  ^^ 

Say,  that  I  trust  her,  who  was  borne  away 

By  nearer  friends,  to  shine  in  conquest's  ray  ; 

Say,  though  the  tinsel  chain  of  Fashion  bind 

Her  outward  form,  I  know  her  heart  and  mind ; 

Say,  that  I  love  lier,  though  we  meet  no  more ; 

Say,  that  I  prize  her,  though  hope's  dream  is  o'er ; 

Say,  that  I  think  of  her,  where'er  I  go ; 

Say,  that  I  sigh  for  her,  in  joy  or  woe ; 

Say,  when  I  stand  amid  the  gayest  tlu'ong. 

Say,  when  I  listen  to  the  sweetest  song. 

Say,  when  I  feel  soft  music's  magic  tone, 

I  hear  her,  see  her,  think  of  her  alone ; 

Say,  (though  I  dare  not  breathe  my  thoughts  aloud, 

A  solitary  soul,  amid  the  crowd,) 

That  her  loved  form,  which  fills  at  once  my  heart. 

Holds  me  for  ever,  from  that  crowd  apart ; 

My  guardian  Angel,  breaks  all  eai-thly  spells, 

And  purifies  the  temple  where  she  dwells  ! 


THE     aUARREL. 

The  lady  at  her  table  sate 

And  scowl'd  upon  her  loving  mate. 

He  scornful  look'd,  but  sullen  too. 

Like  clouds  when  storms  begin  to  brew  ; 

That  beauteous  brow,  which  once  he  thought 

With  gentlest  winning  sweetness  fraught. 

Was  furrow'd  now  by  many  a  frown ; 

The  fair  one's  loveliness  had  flown. 

However,  with  impatient  face. 

He  took  liis  place,  and  mutter'd  grace ; 

Then  glanced,  contemptuous,  at  the  dish. 

Whereon  reposed  a  goodly  fish  ; 

One  yex'd  and  angry  gaze  he  took. 

Then  gave  his  better  half  a  look. 

Which  seem'd  to  say,  that  when  alone. 

For  all  her  sins  she  should  atone. 

"  That  turbot,  it  was  much  too  small. 

Why  did  she  not  in  person  call 

.  S. — VOL.  I.  U 


78  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

And  tell  the  aegligent  fishmonger, 
To  send  a  fish  much  plumper,  longer  ? 
Such  chickens  too  !  so  tough  and  lean, 
In  Noah's  ark  they  must  have  been  ! 
And  what  a  ham  !  'twould  better  look. 
If  cured  and  dress'd  by  Jewish  cook  ! 
Nor  could  a  pagan  worse  have  spoil'd 
The  butter  !  'twas  completely  oil'd  ! 
Puddings  and  tarts  !   it  made  him  mad. 
They  were  so  infamously  bad  I" 
And  glancing  sideways  at  his  wife, 
Orlando  vow'd,  in  all  his  life 
He'd  never  eaten  such  a  dinner, 
Too  bad  to  palm  on  any  sinner ! 

Now  Gertrude  was  no  gentle  dame,   . 
Except,  indeed,  in  birth,  and  name ; 
True  meekness  is  a  Christian  grace 
Whose  source  she  never  tried  to  trace. 
Orlando  sought  her  lily  hand 
For  sake  of  all  her  broad,  rich  land ; 
Besides — her  face  was  verij  fair. 
Few  with  her  beauty  could  compare  ; 
And  she  could  talk,  and  dance,  and  sing. 
In  style  and  tone  most  ravishing  ! 
He,  too,  was  form'd  to  please  and  shine. 
And  all  he  said  seem'd  very  fine  ; 
In  vain  the  mother  shook  her  head, 
And  fear'd  Orlando's  temper  bad ; 
In  vain  the  father  said  "  Beware, 
All  is  not  gold  that  seems  so  rare ;" 
Fair  Gertrude  pouted,  laugh'd  in  scorn, 
"  'Twas  twenty  years  since  she  was  born. 
And  surely  she  had  learn'd  to  know 
Whether  a  man  spoke  truth,  or  no ;" 
So  deeming  him  a  priceless  treasure. 
She  married,  to  repent  at  leisure. 

But  to  return  to  our  sad  lay — 
Poor  Gertrude  was  no  longer  gay ; 
For  now  her  lord  and  master's  smile 
But  for  his  guests  came  on  awhile  ; 


r^/y  .   ^ 


c^^ayZ^i. 


■i<^f 


-KSOW,  LOKDOTtfci'Ait 


THE  QUARREL.  79 

And  all  things  going  sadly  wrong. 

The  proud  young  matron's  soul  was  stung; 

'Tis  true  she'd  heard  full  many  a  day, 

"  Soft  answer  turneth  wrath  away ;" 

And  she  had  promised  when  a  bride. 

Whatever  might  her  path  betide. 

To  love,  and  honour,  and  obey. 

And  never  from  her  duty  stray ; 

But  that  was  all  forgotten  now  ; 

And  dark  and  darker  wax'd  her  brow; 

She  vow'd  it  would  a  saint  provoke. 

To  hear  that  everlasting  croak  ; 

Nor  once  she  tried  the  good  old  plan 

To  tame  "  the  old  usurper,  man." 

One  word  of  kindness  might  have  turn'd 

Her  husband's  heart,  where  choler  burn'd. 

To  gentleness ;  and  love  and  peace 

Might  then  have  bade  their  jarring  cease; 

But  'twas  not  so.     The  lady  said, 

"  In  truth.  Sir,  when  we  two  were  wed, 

I  little  thought  how  soon  my  life 

Would  be  one  scene  of  angry  strife; 

I  little  dream'd  tliat  I  should  be 

Thus  doom'd  to  downright  tyranny. 

I  am  your  wife,  Sir,  not  your  slave. 

And  henceforth,  I  must  humbly  crave — 

As  coolly  as  you  sip  your  wine — 

That  you'll  take  your  way — I'll  take  mine." 

Orlando  push'd  aback  his  chair. 

And  calmly  peel'd  a  Windsor  pear ; 

"  So  be  it,  Ma'am,"  he  coolly  said ; 

"  But,  meantime,  seeing  we  are  wed, 

And  can't  undo  that  which  is  done. 

We  need  not  publish  to  the  sun 

How  very  much  we  love  each  other ; 

'Twere  better  discontents  to  smother. 

I  have  no  wish  to  interfere 

In  your  concerns ;  therefore,  my  dear, 

Henceforth,  we'll  manage  as  you  say 

And  each  pursue  our  separate  way." 


80  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Some  friends  came  in,  look'd  sadly  on. 
Much  wonderiug  what  had  best  be  done ; 
In  high  disdain  fair  Gertrude  sate 
And  nought  avail'd  her  rage  t'  abate  j 
And  almost  back  to  back  the  pair 
Were  seated,  while  the  friends  did  stare. 
Each  of  them  vainly  sought  and  strove, 
With  words  of  reprimand  or  love, 
To  reconcile  the  two,  and  win 
One  or  the  other  to  give  in. 
'Twas  useless  all — of  no  avail — 
So  finding  all  their  efforts  fail, 
They  bade  adieu,  with  grief  and  pain. 
And  left  them  to  themselves  again. 

Messieurs  1   your  choice  ne'er  rashly  make 
Nor  choose  a  bride  for  beauty's  sake ; 
Lest  loveliness  perchance  you  find 
All  in  the  face,  none  in  the  mind ; 
Seek  virtue  more  than  beauty's  grace ; 
Virtue  will  flourish  when  no  trace 
Is  left  to  teU  how  once  the  brow 
Was  smooth,  and  whiter  than  the  snow. 
Ladies  !    when  parents  say  "  Beware, 
All  is  not  gold  that  seems  so  rare," 
Deliberate  well  before  you  choose 
A  path  which  many  a  fair  one  rues. 
Both,  bear  and  forbear ;  then  each  day. 
Though  thorns  be  scatter'd  in  your  way. 
Domestic  bUss,  that  sweetest  flower, 
Shall  alway  twine  your  homestead  bower ; 
Unkindness  breathe  no  cruel  word. 
Nor  quaerel's  hateful  sound  be  heard. 


Si 


^^ 


Si- 


81 


EVENING     PRAYER. 


The  burning  sun  is  sinking  in  the  West, 
The  young  flowers  sleep  upon  theii-  tender  stems, 
The  fading  liglit  proclaims  the  hour  of  rest, 
And  Night  will  soon  unfold  her  starry  gems  j 
The  dark  blue  wave  is  rippling  on  the  sand. 
And  loveliness  reigns  calm  o'er  sea  and  land. 

Yes  !  'tis  the  hour  of  rest — the  hour  of  prayer ! 
Ere  yet  the  crimson  clouds  have  pass'd  away. 
Eschewing  worldly  thoughts  and  earthly  care, 
Oh  !  raise  the  heart,  and  bow  the  knee  in  prayer  I 
And  though  ye  tread  no  minster's  haUow'd  aisle. 
All  homes  are  sacred,  bless'd  by  God's  own  smile. 

List !  how  the  hymn  ascends  to  yonder  sky  ! 
A  full,  rich  chorus  of  harmonious  song ; — 
Perchance  pure  spirits,  from  their  homes  on  high, 
,  With  their  bright  wings  around  that  altar  throng, 
Where  offerings  meet  of  mingled  prayer  and  praise, 
From  humble  hearts  their  precious  incense  raise. 

Sweet  vesper-hymn  !  no  songs  of  earth  can  be 

So  calm  ;  none  breathe  such  soothing,  heavenly  peace  ; 

Yon  Evening  star,  that  shines  so  lustrously. 

Beams  brighter  ere  the  blended  voices  cease  ; 

And  the  soft,  summer-moonlight's  silvery  ray 

Seems  meekly  blessing  the  departing  day. 

The  day  is  o'er — its  cares  and  trials  past ; 
Thei'e  have  been  mourners  'neath  its  golden  sun  : 
Time's  waves  speed  on — ere  long  must  come  the  last, 
And  then,  how  sweet  1  to  find  the  haven  won  !  — 
But  yonder  kneeling  group  in  that  still  room. 
Have  felt  no  grief,  have  known  no  shade  of  gloom. 

6.  S. VOL.  I.  X 


82  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OP  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  day  is  o'er — All  nature  speaks  repose : 
There  have  beeu  those  beneath  yon  cloudless  skies, 
From  whose  pale  cheek  hath  fled  the  fading  rose, 
And  Death  hath  closed  their  sparkling,  sunny  eyes  : 
But  they  who  worship  here  in  health's  bright  glow, 
Have  mouru'd  no  ripe  fruit's  fall,  no  bud  laid  low. 

And  now  the  patriarch's  solemn  gaze  is  bent 

Upon  the  Book  of  books  before  him  spread  ; 

And  while  the  last  faint  rays  by  daylight  lent 

Fall  calmly  on  his  venerable  head. 

His  still  deep  voice,  is  telling  of  the  land 

Where  Grief  and  Death  may  stretch  no  spoiling  hand. 

He  reads  of  Canaan's  everlasting  home, 

That  world  where  "never-withering  flowers"  are  found; 

Where  pass'd  is  every  cloud,  each  sweeping  storm. 

Where  tears  are  wiped  away,  nor  sin  can  come ; 

And  as  he  reads,  he  marks  each  cherish'd  face, 

And  hopes  on  each  Heaven's  signet  seal  to  trace. 

And  now  he  prays — for  all  who  sleep  in  sin. 
For  all  who  fall  beneath  the  tempter's  power, 
For  all  who  strive  the  glorious  crown  to  win. 
And  all  round  whom  the  gathering  tempests  lower ; 
Then,  for  his  own ;  "  our  path  in  this  world  trod. 
Then  take  us  to  thyself.  Oh !  Lord,  our  God  !" 

"  A  little  while,  and  we  no  more  shall  kneel 
Before  Thee,  thus,  a  Christian  family; 
But  few  more  twilights  dim  may  o'er  us  steal. 
Ere  Death  shall  set  our  prison'd  spirits  free ; 
Oh !  guide  us  so,  that  Death's  dread  portal  past. 
In  endless  Life  we  dwell  wath  Thee  at  last !" 

Those  holy  tones  are  hush'd. — Now  to  thy  nest 
Betake  thee,  little  merry-hearted  one;* 
Matron,  son,  daughters,  all,  now  calmly  rest 
Prepared  to  meet  your  life's  last  setting  sun  : 
"  Where  two  or  three  are  met,  I  will  be  there," 
Says  He  who  heard  and  blest  your  Evening  Prayer. 

•  See  the  accompanying  plate. 


83 


THE     EARTHaUAKE. 

On  the  morning  of  All  Saints'  Day,  November  1st,  1755,  a  fearful  earthquake  swept 
in  its  wild  fury  over  the  beautiful  city  of  Lisbon.  The  morning  of  that  day  dawned, 
and  the  metropohs  of  Portugal  lay,  in  aU  her  splendour,  beneath  the  rising  sun— a  few 
hours  elapsed,  and  that  sun  shed  its  departing  rays  over  a  heap  of  scattered  ruins  1 
An  English  traveller,  at  that  time  resident  in  Lisbon,  gives  the  following  vivid  but 
terrible  picture  of  the  horror  and  desolation  which  then  overspread  the  banks  of  the 

Tagus : — 

"  Early  in  the  morning,  the  air  was  calm  and  serene  ;  the  atmosphere  was  warm, 
like  a  July  day  in  an  EngUsh  summer,  and  a  dense  fog  obscured  the  air,  until  the 
rising  sun  caused  its  dissipation.  The  surface  of  the  sea  was  perfectly  unruffled ;  smooth 
as  an  inland  lake  in  the  quiet  tranquillity  of  a  breezeless  summer  evening.     No  warn- 
ing came  to  that  devoted  city,  with  her  thousands  of  busy  inhabitants ;  not  one  of  that 
multitude  dreamed  of  the  horrors  which  even  then  were  preparing  to  overwhelm  them. 
About  nine  a.m.,  a  rumbling  noise  was  heard,  but  of  so  doubtful  a  nature  as  to  leave 
it  uncertain  whether  the  sound  proceeded  from  thunder,  or  from  a  discharge  of  artillery. 
At  twenty-five   minutes  before  ten,   while  the   more  wealthy   inhabitants  were    still 
lounging  over  their  morning  meal,  and  the  merchant,  the  tradesman,  and  the  artisan, 
were  eagerly  pressing  to  their  respective  scenes  of  action,  a  mighty  earthquake  shook 
the  city,  and  many  of  her  proudest  buildings  fell  to  the  ground.     A  pause  ensued— 
a  pause  of  a  few  seconds'  duration,  but  one  during  which  all  nature  seemed  mute  with 
terror ;  and  then  came  that  awful  convulsion  which  tossed  to  and  fro,  hke  ships  on  a 
stormy  sea,  the  quaking  palaces,  the  trembling  churches,  and  the  long  and  tottering 
colonnades.     A  more  terrific  scene  cannot  be  imagined.     Many  persons,  totally  over- 
come by  terror,  ceased  to  make  any  efi"orts  for  safety,  and  remained  motionless  amidst 
the  rocking  walls  and  towers  which  each  moment  menaced  and  accomplished  destruc- 
tion.    Everywhere  might  be  seen  the  dead  bodies  of  those  whom  the  falling  buildings 
had  deprived  of  life  ;  and  over  their  Hfeless  remains  hung  the  survivors  in  all  the  first 
and  bitter  agony  of  bereavement.     Hundreds  fled  for  safety  to  the  great  marble  quay, 
which  was  newly  built;  but  sea  and  land  alike  conspired  against  the  hves  of  these 
devoted  beings.     Suddenly  the  waters  retreated,  so  as  to  leave  the  bed  of  the  Tagus 
quite  dry,  and  then  they  wildly  returned    in    one    mighty  wave,   sweeping  into  its 
unfathomable  bosom  the  quay,  and  all  the  human  beings  who  knelt  upon  it,  with 
uplifted  eyes  and  hands,  as  if  imploring  help  and  protection  from  Heaven.     No  tongue 
can  describe  the  scene  of  devastation  which  the  doomed  city  presented.     All  consider- 
ations of  rank  and  sex  were  forgotten.     One  high-born  female  was  seen  clinging  with 
frantic  energy  to  the  column  of  a  ruined  church;  she  was  remarkably  beautiful,  and 
her  raven  hair  floated  in  wild  disorder  as  her  attendants  vainly  strove  to  remove  her 


84  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

to  a  safer  place.  But  tlie  cup  of  horror  which  the  devoted  city  was  doomed  to  drink 
was  not  yet  drained  to  the  dregs.  The  day  being  the  festival  of  All  Saints,  the  altars 
of  the  different  churches  were  illuminated  by  many  tapers,  which,  coming  into  contact 
with  the  falling  curtains  and  draperies,  caused  conflagrations  in  various  quarters  of 
Lisbon,  threatening  to  complete  the  destruction  of  all  that  the  earthquake  had 
spared." 

This  memorable  earthquake  is  said  to  have  extended  over  a  space  nearly  equal  to 
four  millions  of  square  miles  ;  but  the  city  of  Lisbon  appears  to  have  been  the  centre 
of  its  fury.  That  city  has  since  been  rebuilt,  and  now  presents  a  most  beautiful  appear- 
ance, especially  when  approached  from  the  mouth  of  the  Tagus ;  and  its  busy  inhabit- 
ants have  forgotten  the  fearful  calamity  of  1755,  except  as  a  thrilling  tale  of  the  past. 

While  we  tremble  at  the  bare  recital  of  the  calamities  occasioned  by  the  various 
earthquakes  which,  from  time  to  time,  have  devastated  South  America,  Spain,  Portugal, 
Calabria,  and  the  Isles  of  the  Mediterranean,  our  hearts  must  surely  rise  in  gratitude 
to  that  "  glorious  God  who  maketh  the  thunder,"  and  who,  in  His  infinite  mercy,  has 
hitherto  spared  our  own  highly-favoured  land  from  similar  calamities. 


MEDORA  WATCHING  THE  RETURN  OE  CONRAD. 

Alone  she  sat  upon  the  "  tower-crown'd  hill ;" 

Around  her  lay  the  night ;  not  calm  and  still. 

With  moonlight  sleeping  on  the  placid  deep, 

And  silvery  waters  laving  rocky  steep ; 

She  gazed  above  upon  no  star-lit  sky. 

Calm  as  her  own  bright-flashing  azure  eye ; 

No  gentle  breezes  fann'd  her  marble  brow — 

A  brow  as  pure  and  fair  as  unstain'd  snow — 

But  while  above,  around,  the  rushing  storm 

Swept  wildly  o'er  her  fair  and  fragile  form. 

Unmoved  she  sat,  all  mute  and  lonely  there. 

The  while  the  night-wind  caught  her  long,  bright  hair. 

The  salt  spray  dash'd  on  rock  or  shelly  strandj 

And  moan'd  the  tempest  over  sea  and  land ; 

Waves,  sullen  as  the  sable  pall  above, 

Boom'd  with  their  briny  waters  in  the  cove 

Where  oft,  in  brighter  days  at  eventide, 

Medora  sat  with  Conrad  by  her  side. 

Why  strains  she  those  dark  eyes  across  the  sea, 

Tlu-ough  the  black  darkness  gazing  hopelessly  ? 


'Uiy<ii/r' 


MEDORA  WATCHING  THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD.  85 

Alas  !  she  waits  for  one  beloved  form. 

And  scarcely  feels  or  hears  the  sweeping  storm. 

In  vain  she  waits,  in  vain  prolongs  her  stay ; 

Although  he  left  her  side  but  yesterday, 

A  captive  doom'd  and  chain' d,  on  distant  shore, 

He  may  not  hear  her  loving  accents  more. 

His  lawless  band  return  to  Conrad's  home. 

While  o'er  the  beach  Medora's  footsteps  roam  ; 

Their  tale  is  told  with  burning  cheek  and  heart. 

For  though  they  dread  to  speak  it,  yet  no  part 

They  dare  withhold  from  that  calm,  piercing  eye — 

Calm  mid  the  heart's  own  speechless  agony  ! 

She  spake  no  word ;  no  shriek  of  anguish  broke 

From  those  pale  lips  beneath  that  fearful  stroke  ; 

A  smile  that  like  the  lightning  o'er  the  wave 

But  shows  the  drowning  wretch  his  watery  grave, 

Came  o'er  that  marble  face,  the  while  she  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love,  there's  nought  to  dread." 


The  morn  arose  in  aU  its  dazzling  light, 

Glisten'd  the  sunbeams  on  the  waters  bright ; 

The  raven-winged  storm  had  pass'd  away, 

In  other  lands  to  cloud  the  noon  of  day ; 

And  she — Medora — could  she  gladly  gaze 

On  that  sweet  morning's  fast  receding  haze? 

She  gazed — but  saw  not  the  blue  sky  above, 

Nor  yet  Anselmo's  bark  within  the  cove  : 

What  reck'd  it  that  the  homebound  wind  had  sprung. 

When  o'er  her  soul  more  than  night's  veil  was  flung  ? 

What  reck'd  it,  that  her  flowery  isle  was  fair? 

Her  world  was  Conrad's  self;  and  he  was — where? 

With  each  long  hour  her  life-springs  ebb'd  away. 

And  pass'd  her  spirit  ere  the  sunset-ray. 

At  length — the  story  tells — He  came  again  1 

A  woman's  hand  had  loosed  his  captive  chain ; 

But,  oh  !  the  flower  he  loved  was  wither'd  now. 

Grief's  passionate  wild  storm  had  laid  her  low. 

He  loved  but  her  on  earth  ;  and  she  was  gone ! 

Reckless,  he  wish'd  his  own  wild  life  were  done : 

He  went  his  way  ;  but  whither,  when,  or  how, 

A  careless  world  knew  not,  will  never  know. 

S.  S. VOL.  I.  Y 


86  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

But  many  a  tear  was  shed  o'er  that  sad  tale, 
And  many  a  young  and  rosy  cheek  grew  pale. 
The  while  the  Poet  sang  his  mournful  part 
Of  poor  Medora's  loving,  broken  heart. 

And  now  the  tempest  beats  along  that  beach, 
Wild,  dashing,  mingling  with  the  sea-bird's  screech. 
But  no  red,  lurid  flame  from  rock  or  tower. 
Is  struggling  on  :  nor  from  Medora's  bower 
The  faint  light  of  her  fragrant  lamp  is  seen ; 
Nought  lives  to  tell  the  traveller  what  has  been . 
The  eyes  that  watch'd  tlu-oughout  that  fatal  night 
Have  closed  their  lashes  o'er  their  sapphire  light ; 
No  greeting  voice  may  sound  along  that  shore. 
Nor  ever  burn  that  lonely  beacon  more  ! 


THE     CHAMPS     E  L  Y  S  E  E  S. 

The  gay  and  animated  scene  vrhich  the  accompanying  plate  represents  needs  very  little 
description.  In  these  days  of  railroads  and  steamboats,  tliere  are,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, but  few  English  families  in  the  higher  and  middling  ranks  of  life,  who  have  not 
visited  the  neighbouring  continent;  and  still  fewer  who  have  not  listened  to  or  read 
circumstantial  and  graphic  accounts  of  its  principal  places  of  resort,  as  related  by  eye- 
witnesses. It  will  therefore  be  sufficient  to  state,  that  the  Champs  Elysees  were  planned 
by  Louis  XIV.,  and  indeed  planted  by  the  same  "  Grand  Monarque."  They  were, 
hovvever,  replanted,  and  considerably  improved,  towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

The  promenade  of  the  Champs  Elysees  is  in  fact  but  a  continuation  of  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuilleries,  so  that  the  whole  may  be  said  to  form  one  splendid  parterre.  The 
walks  ai-e  well  arranged,  and  in  all  directions  myrtle,  orange,  and  lemon-trees,  spread 
their  grateful  shade,  and  diffuse  their  delicious  fragrance  over  the  long,  broad  terraces 
and  grassy  paths  of  these  modern  Elysian  Fields.  With  the  English  it  may,  perhaps, 
be  matter  of  doubt,  whether  this  place  of  public  resort  really  deserve  its  somewhat 
hyperbolical  title ;  but  certainly  many  a  Parisian  belle,  many  a  joHe  grisette,  looks 
forward  to  her  evening  promenade  in  the  Champs  Elysees  as  to  that  which  is  to  com- 
pensate all  the  petty  vexations  of  the  day ;  by  such  visitors  these  fields  are  regarded 
as  nothing  less  than  fairy-land. 

During  the  terrible  Revolution  of  1793— that  Revolution  which  desolated  the  fair 
kingdom   called  by  her  children  "  La  Belle  France,"  the   Champs   Elysees   and  the 


J^ 


\ 

"N,. 


'^ 


i 
y 


^ 


THE  CHAMPS  ELYSftES.  87 

Gardens  of  the  Tuilleries  became  a  scene  of  horror  and  bloodshed.  It  was  from  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuilleries  that  the  hapless  Louis  XVI.  beheld  the  gatherinsi  of  that  storm 
which  issued  in  rebellion  and  auarcliy,  which  overturned  the  thi'one,  annihilated  in 
France  the  royal  power,  and  hurried  the  monarch  to  a  violent  and  ignominious  death. 
There,  too,  within  those  walls,  sat  the  lovely,  the  unfortunate,  the  misguided  Marie 
Antoinette,  her  personal  danger  and  her  royal  dignity  alike  forgotten  in  the  anguish 
and  terror  of  tlie  wife  and  the  mother. 

In  the  Champs  Elysecs  the  Revolutionists  daily  exercised  their  military  forces,  and 
there  also  were  celebrated  the  festivities  which  took  place  upon  the  temporary  recon- 
ciliation of  Louis  XVI.  mth  his  infuriated  and  not  less  infatuated  subjects.  After 
sunset  on  this  occasion,  a  brilliant  display  of  fireworks  took  place  in  the  Champs 
Elysees.  The  gardens  were  lighted  up,  and  wreaths  of  fii-e  seemed  to  twine  from  tree 
to  tree.  From  the  Porte  de  I'Etoile  to  the  entrance  of  the  Tuilleries,  all  was  one  blaze 
of  light;  one  long,  sparkling,  starry  avenue,  crowded  by  the  population  of  Paris,  and 
resounding  with  bui'sts  of  joyous  music.  But,  alas  !  these  demonstrations  of  joy  were 
as  evanescent  as  the  morning  dew.  Ere  long  the  capricious  multitude  again  gathered 
themselves  together,  and  once  more  the  Champs  Elysees  and  the  Gardens  of  the  Tuill- 
eries were  thronged  by  furies  rather  than  by  men.  The  roar  of  catmon  now  mingled 
with  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  multitude,  while  in  an  inner  apartment  within  the  palace 
walls,  the  royal  circle,  pale  and  silent,  indeed,  but  calm  and  composed,  awaited  their 
destiny.  On  the  evening  of  that  fearful  day  the  corpses  of  four  thousand  Swiss  and 
Marsellalse,  who  had  shared  in  the  combat  of  the  morning,  were  carried  from  the 
blood-stained  Champs  Elysees. 

The  history  and  issue  of  this  tragical  revolution  is  too  well  known  to  need  recapi- 
tulation in  these  pages.  The  storm  ceased  at  last ;  the  roar  of  the  tempest  waxed 
fainter  and  fainter ;  peace  and  plenty  again  visited  France ;  the  beautiful  gardens 
were  restored  to  their  ancient  splendour ;  and  the  thousands  who  trod  their  precincts 
occasionally,  perhaps,  bestowed  a  passing  thought  on  the  terrific  past.  Years,  however, 
sped  on,  and  "  the  reign  of  terror"  was  remembered  only  as  a  dreadful  dream,  of  whicli 
the  recollection  causes  a  cold  shuddering. 

Very  recently  the  same  spots  have  again  witnessed  acts  of  lawless  violence.  Again 
revolutionary  changes  have  despoiled  the  Tuilleries;  and  what  may  be  the  issue  of  all 
that  is  now  enacting  in  France  no  mortal  may  determine.  Now  to  stand  on  the  ter- 
races of  those  pleasant  gardens,  is  to  stand  and  gaze  on  scenes  of  fearful  interest.  The 
mind  reverts  to  their  despotic  designer,  Louis  XIV. ;  to  the  horrible  fate  of  his  unfor- 
tunate descendant ;  to  the  wild  storm  which  is  not  yet  allayed ;  and  then,  to  the 
FUTURE.  What  that  future  may  bring  forth,  we  know  not ;  what  national  incidents 
the  Champs  Elysees  may  again  witness,  we  cannot  tell.  Events  belong  to  God — to  the 
God  of  nations,  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth;  to  Him  who  alone  knoweth  the  issues  of  all 
things,  and  who  alone  can  so  order  the  unruly  wills  and  affections  of  men,  as  to  preserve 
peace  and  good-will  among  the  kingdoms  of  this  world. 


88 


THE     LAST     REQUEST. 


BY    L.  E.  L. 

"  Tlie  solemnities  of  a  dyin^  chamber  arc  some  of  the  most  raelancluily  scenes  imaginable.  There  lies  the 
afifectionate  husband,  the  indulgent  parent,  the  faithful  friend,  or  the  generous  master.  He  lies  in  the  last  extre- 
mity, and  on  the  very  point  of  dissolution.  Art  has  done  its  all.  The  raging  disease  mocks  the  power  of  medi- 
cine. It  hastens,  with  resistless  impetuosity,  to  execute  its  dreadful  errand  ;  to  rend  asunder  the  silver  cord  of  life 
and  the  more  delicate  tie  of  social  attachment,  or  conjugal  aifection," — Hervey. 

Sinking  on  his  couch  he  lies, 
Pale  his  lips,  and  dim  his  eyes; 
Yet  he  hath  a  little  breath, 
Love  is  stronger  still  than  death. 

Yet  his  faltering  accents  seek 
Of  the  heart  within  to  speak ; 
Of  a  love  that  cannot  die. 
Of  a  hope  beyond  the  sky. 

Near  him  stands  his  youngest  one. 
Fearing  what  he  looks  not  on; 
Fearing,  though  he  knows  not  why, 
With  a  strange  and  downcast  eye. 

But  his  sister,  on  the  bed, 
Bendeth  her  despairing  head; 
Must  her  father  be  resign'd. 
He,  so  careful,  and  so  kind  ? 

Never  more  with  eager  feet. 
Will  she  haste  that  sire  to  meet, 
Laden  with  the  early  flowers 
Which  he  loved,  of  April  hours. 

But  the  wife  beside  his  bed. 
Calmly  holds  his  dying  head  ; 
Full  her  heart  of  tears  may  be; 
They  are  not  for  him  to  see. 


1 


V 


>^ 


le^y'/r/y  ^^ 


^= 


DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

For  the  sake  of  gone-by  years, 
Fill'd  with  mutual  hopes  and  fears. 
For  the  sake  of  that  loved  brow, 
She  is  calm  as  he  is  now. 

Angel-wings  in  glory  sweep 
O'er  the  coming  of  that  sleep ; 
Let  him  close  his  weary  eyes. 
They  will  open  in  the  skies. 


A    DREAM     OF    LIFE. 

A  DREAM  of  life  !  Once  hers  was  all  of  flowers. 

And  sunny  glens,  or  solemn  forest-shade  ; 

At  twilight  hour  she  sat  alone  and  smiled. 

The  while  the  crimson  hues  would  melt  and  fade ; 

And  then,  her  early  dreams  were  calmly  fair. 

All  passionless,  and  born  of  perfect  peace  ; 

No  fear  of  earthly  storms  had  cross'd  her  path  ; 

Alas  !  that  childhood's  blissful  dreams  must  cease  ! 

Then,  higher  hopes  and  thoughts  were  mingled  there ; 
And  she  would  gaze  upon  the  star-lit  skies, 
And  long  to  rend  away  the  veil  that  hides 
That  blessed  land,  which  far  beyond  them  lies. 
And  wandering  night-wind's  echoing,  sweeping  blast, 
And  ocean,  with  its  ever-ceaseless  moan. 
And  tempest,  with  the  lightning's  lurid  gleam. 
Breathed  o'er  her  soul  their  own  deep,  mystic  tone. 

Then,  the  lone  hour  of  fading  eventide, 
lu  summer  sunset's  still  and  placid  time. 
Brought,  with  its  gentle,  jasmine-scented  breeze. 
Dreams  of  Italia's  distant,  golden  clime ; 
And  myrtle  leaves  and  fragrant  orange-bloom 
Told  of  the  ancient,  blue,  Morean  shore. 
Sweet  Tempo's  classic  vale,  and  Helle's  stream. 
Fair  as  they  were  in  Grecia's  days  of  yore. 

S.  S. VOL.   I.  z 


90  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OP  ENGRAVINGS. 

And  then,  her  dream  of  life  was  all  of  love  ; 
A  pure,  calm,  stainless  love,  that  could  not  dwell 
With  aught  hut  womanhood's  unsullied  spring. 
Within  her  fervent  heart's  deep,  secret  cell ; 
A  love  that  knew  no  startling  pang  of  doubt, 
Where  broken  faith  was  yet  unfear'd,  unknown ; 
And  all  her  gentle  tears  were  meekly  shed 
For  others'  griefs,  but  never  for  her  own. 

Years  have  pass'd  on  since  those  bright  halcyon  days. 
When  every  eve  the  sun  would  set  too  soon ; 
When  vows  of  deathless,  changeless  love,  were  sworn 
In  leafy  groves,  beneath  the  summer  moon. 
And  now  those  transient  dreams  of  perfect  bliss. 
Like  dazzling  rainbow-tints,  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  hopes,  like  sunbeams  dancing  on  the  wave. 
That  sparkled  bright,  have  vanish'd,  fled,  for  aye. 

And  yet,  her  Dream  of  Life  is  passing  sweet. 
Yet  are  its  motley  fantasies  most  fair ; 
Though  shaded  now  that  once  unruffled  brow. 
Though  mix'd  with  silvery  threads  that  sunny  hair. 
Her  childhood's  blessed  dreams  are  past  and  gone, 
And  all  her  young  life's  cloudless  visions  flown  j 
But  riper  years  have  brought  a  dearer  charm, 
A  pure  and  sacred  pleasure,  all  their  own. 

What  though  a  thousand  anxious  cares  he  hers. 
She  bears  a  mother's  happy,  holy  name  ; 
To  nurture  those  sweet,  tender,  clinging  buds. 
For  brighter  climes,  is  now  her  hallow'd  aim ; 
A  wife's  deep  love  !  a  mother's  hopes  and  fears  1 
Their  mighty  spell  ^ound  her  way  have  cast ; 
Sorrows  she  has ;  but  every  passing  year 
Seems,  if  less  bright,  still  happier  than  the  last. 

Fair  Matron  !  'tis  a  changing  scene  we  tread ; 
Bright  musings  gladden  all  our  childhood's  day. 
And  nearer,  brighter  still,  youth's  visions  glow  ; 
But  GOLDEN  DREAMS  like  thcsc  may  never  stay; 


FELICIA  HEMANS.  91 

Sunslilue  and  shade  must  haunt  the  path  we  go, 
And  smiles  and  tears,  alternate,  mark  the  brow ; 
And  clear,  culm  skies,  and  tempests'  hollow  moan, 
Must  chequer  all  realities  below. 

A  little  while,  and  those  dear  ones  of  thine, 
And  he  to  whom  thy  earliest  love  was  given, 
Shall  bow  no  more  beneath  the  storms  of  life  ; 
No  thorns  may  mar  the  fadeless  flowers  of  heaven. 
Press  onward,  then,  in  hope,  to  that  blest  home, 
Where  anxious  thoughts  and  sorrows  cease  at  last, 
Where  clouds  no  longer  dim  tlie  glorious  noon, 
And  all  the  Dkeams  of  Life  at  length  are  past ! 


F  E  I    I   C   I   A      HEMANS. 


Among  the  sons  and  daughters  of  genius,  a  high  place  must  be  assigned  to  Felicia 
Dorothea  Hemans.  This  gifted  lady  was  born  in  Liverpool  in  the  year  1794.  Her 
father,  George  Browne,  Esq.,  a  merchant  of  that  town,  was  a  native  of  Ireland ;  her 
mother,  a  German  lady,  descended,  as  it  is  understood,  from  an  ancient  Venetian 
family.  These  circumstances  deserve  notice,  because  the  character  and  mental 
temperament  of  Felicia  appear  to  have  been  in  some  degree  moulded  by  her  mixed 
descent.  From  her  father  she  would  seem  to  have  inherited  the  vivacity  and  ardour 
which  mark  the  Irish  character ;  from  her  mother,  a  deep  love  of  the  beautiful,  toge- 
tiier  with  a  strong  tinge  of  romance,  which  told  of  German  and  Italian  parentage. 
Other  circumstances  there  were  which  exercised  a  powerful  influence  over  the  character 
of  her  mind,  and  which  combined  to  give  a  colour  to  her  habits  of  thought,  and  by 
consequence,  to  her  writings.  Her  first  youth  was  passed  among  the  mountains  and 
valleys  of  North  Wales,  the  house  in  which  she  lived  being  a  spacious  mansion  on  the 
sea-shore  of  Denbighshire.  Scenery  so  rich  in  grandeur  and  beauty  as  that  which 
characterizes  this  "  land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood,"  was  a  fit  cradle  for  the  genius 
with  which  Felicia  was  endowed,  and  doubtless  tended  strongly  to  the  developing  of  the 
poetical  turn  of  her  mind.  In  the  wild  solitudes  which  surrounded  her  habitation,  she 
was  accustomed,  even  while  still  a  child,  to  spend  hours  and  days  with  a  volume  of 
Shakspere  in  her  hand,  now  gazing  on  the  restless  ocean,  now  chmbing  the  mountain- 
steeps,  or  wandering  amid  the  sylvan  scenes  which  these  rocky  barriers  enclosed.  Under 


92  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

such  influences  her  first  compositions  were  produced  ;  and  by  an  earnest  and  constant 
study  of  the  bard — 

"  Upon  whose  forehead  climb 

The  crowns  o'the  world  !  whose  eyes  sublime 

Have  tears  and  laughter  for  all  time," 

she  acquired — all  that  she  could  acquire  from  human  teaching — the  ability  to  clothe  her 
exquisite  thoughts  in  suitable  words.  Moreover,  as  a  circumstance  affecting  the  com- 
plexion of  the  future  character  of  Felicia  Browne,  it  should  be  mentioned,  that  she  was 
in  her  early  years  "  a  child  of  beauty  rare."  That  beauty,  indeed,  soon  faded  under 
the  influence  of  sorrow  and  disappointment ;  but  in  the  dawn  of  her  youth,  her  features, 
though  not  regular,  were  singularly  expressive ;  her  complexion  was  rich,  though  fair ; 
her  hair,  golden,  and  soft  as  silk,  curled  luxuriantly  over  her  neck  and  shoulders ;  her 
form  was  remarkable  for  its  grace ;  and,  above  all,  her  countenance,  while  exquisitely 
feminine,  was  as  full  of  intelligence  as  her  disposition  was  amiable  and  attractive.  That 
a  creature  so  lovely,  and  so  highly  gifted,  should  have  been  loved  with  a  love  too  nearly 
approaching  to  idolatry,  will  excite  no  surprise,  but  may  well  be  lamented,  as  a  circum- 
stance but  too  certain  to  exercise  a  very  injurious  influence  upon  the  after-character  of 
the  object  of  such  injudicious  fondness.  Happily,  however,  for  Felicia,  she  was  blessed 
with  a  mother  possessing  sound  sense,  and  a  penetrating  judgment;  and  being  herself 
docile,  and  apt  to  receive  and  retain  good  impressions,  she  passed,  with  much  less  of 
permanent  harm  than  might  have  been  reasonably  apprehended,  through  the  dangers 
which  beset  her  path.  To  her  mother,  the  young  poetess,  who  was  publicly  known  as 
an  author  before  she  had  completed  her  twelfth  year,  was  accustomed  to  lay  open  every 
feeling  of  her  heart ;  every  thought  as  it  arose  in  her  mind.  The  value  of  motherly 
counsel  and  guidance,  under  cu'cumstances  so  unusual,  and  so  perilous,  is  sufficiently 
obvious  ;  and  was  deeply  felt  by  Aer  who  was  its  immediate  object.  It  comprehended 
not,  indeed,  so  far  as  appears,  the  inculcation  of  those  religious  principles,  with  which, 
as  it  may  well  be  hoped,  the  highly  gifted  Felicia  became,  at  a  later  period  of  her  life, 
practically  acquainted,  and,  in  the  absence  of  which,  the  rarest  mental  endowments,  com- 
bined with  the  warmest  affections,  and  the  most  amiable  of  natural  dispositions  fail  to 
secure  for  their  possessor  that  happiness  which  the  human  heart  constantly  craves ;  but 
it  was  a  safeguard  against  many  dangers,  and  a  shield  amid  many  temptations. 

In  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age  the  subject  of  this  memoir  became  a  wife,  and 
in  due  time,  the  mother  of  five  sons.  Over  recollections  of  this  portion  of  her  chequered 
life,  wc  will  not  linger.  That  an  under-current  of  sadness  runs  through  the  whole  Oi 
her  writings,  published  after  her  marriage,  is  painfully  obvious ;  but  into  the  cause  or 
causes  of  poor  Felicia's  domestic  wretchedness,  we  need  not  too  curiously  inquire. 
She  had  been  idolized  from  her  birth ;  and  without  supposing  anything  like  neglect 
to  he  her  portion  in  after-life,  the  chances  of  married  happiness  are  fearfully  lessened 
in  the  case  of  her,  whose  misfortune  it  is  to  be,  in  childhood  and  youth,  the  object  of 
injudicious  and  extravagant  fondness. 


FELICIA  HEMANS.  93 

Soon  after  the  birth  of  her  fifth  son,  Mrs.  Heraans  parted  from  her  husband,  to 
meet  him  no  more  in  this  world.  A  separation  took  place,  by  mutual  consent ;  and 
the  health  of  Captain  Ilcmans  requiring  that  he  should  betake  himself  to  a  more 
southern  climate,  he  soon  afterwards  sailed  for  Italy ;  whence  he  never  returned. 

Thus  left  alone,  Felicia  Hemaus,  with  her  children,  took  up  her  abode  at  the 
village  of  Bromwylfa,  near  St.  Asaph ;  to  which  village  her  mother  and  sister  had 
previously  retired.  And  now  the  sterling  excellence  of  her  character  appeared  in  all 
its  strength.  The  bright  prospects  which  had  gilded  the  morning  of  her  youth  had 
faded.  As  a  poet,  indeed,  she  had  already  begun  to  acquire  that  reputation  which 
has  now  received  the  stamp  of  perpetuity;  but  as  a  woman,  her  dearest  hopes  had 
been  disappointed.  A  weaker  mind  might  have  resigned  itself  to  the  indulgence  of 
sorrow,  or  might  have  endeavoured  to  find  solace  iu  complaint.  Felicia  Hemans  did 
better  and  more  wisely.  She  devoted  herself  to  the  duties  of  a  mother.  Her  own 
education  had  been  somewhat  desultory  and  superficial.  For  her  children's  sake, 
therefore,  she  addressed  herself  in  earnest  to  the  work  of  self-improvement.  In  early 
childhood  she  had  learned  something  of  Latin  ;  she  now  resumed  her  study  of  that 
tongue;  augmented  her  knowledge  of  French;  and  made  herself  familiar,  not  only 
with  the  languages,  but  with  the  literature  of  Italy,  Germany,  Spain,  and  Portugal. 
To  her  excellence  as  a  linguist  her  numerous  and  spirited  translations  from  Horace, 
Goethe,  Camoens,  &c.,  bear  abundant  testimony ;  while  her  philosophical  and  dis- 
criminating appreciation  of  the  works  of  the  most  distinguished  European  writers  is 
proved  by  a  series  of  papers  written  not  long  after  her  separation  from  her  husband, 
and  published  in  the  year  1819. 

During  the  succeeding  four  or  five  years,  namely,  from  1819  to  1824,  or  1825, 
a  succession  of  poems,  each  more  brilliant  or  more  toucliing  than  the  last,  secured 
for  Felicia  Hemans  a  high  rank  among  modern  poets.  We  need  but  mention  "The 
Restoration  of  the  Works  of  Art  in  Italy  ;"  "  Tales  and  Historic  Scenes  ;"  "  Modern 
Greece;"  "Wallace;"  "  Dartmoor;"  "  The  Siege  of  Valencia;"  &c.  &c.,  all  which, 
besides  various  shorter  efi'usions  of  extreme  beauty,  appeared  during  this  period,  and 
gained  for  their  author  the  applause  of  some  of  the  great  poets  then  living,  who  have 
now  taken  their  places  in  the  "  Temple  of  Fame,"  and  whose  names  will  continue  to 
be  as  "household  words"  among  us.  In  1827  Mrs.  Hemans  published  her  "  Forest 
Sanctuary;"  and  in  the  early  part  of  the  ensuing  year,  her  enduring  "Records  of 
Woman."  ^ 

Our  limits  admonish  us  to  relate  briefly  what  remains  to  be  told  concerning  this 
distinguished  lady.  On  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  her  mother  in  1829,  she  quitted 
her  retirement  in  Wales,  and,  with  her  children,  took  up  her  abode  at  the  village  of 
Wavertree,  near  Liverpool.  This  event  made  a  considerable  change  in  her  manner 
of  life.  Hitherto  she  had  lived  in  a  seclusion  almost  absolute ;  like  the  nightingale, 
she  had  been  "  heard,  not  seen ;"  and  widely  known  as  were  her  name  and  fame,  she 
had  had  httle  personal  intercourse  with  society.  She  continued,  however,  notwith- 
standing her  increasing  maternal  and  domestic  cares,  and  her  greatly  multiplied  social 

S.  S. VOL.  I.  2  A 


94  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

engagements,  to  follow  tlie  bent  of  her  genius  by  occupying  her  leisure  hours  in 
poetical  composition;  and  produced  various  minor  poems  which  the  world  will  not 
"  willingly  let  die." 

In  the  summer  of  1829,  Mrs.  Hemans,  urged  by  numerous  solicitations,  accom- 
plished iu  Scotland  a  round  of  visits,  which — such  was  the  celebrity  which  her  name 
had  acquired — almost  assumed  the  character  of  a  triumphal  progTess.  She  now 
visited  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Abbotsford ;  a  place  which — to  say  nothing  of  her  appre- 
ciation of  the  character  and  genius  of  her  host — aroused  to  the  utmost,  by  its  collection 
of  armour  and  other  treasures,  her  chivalric  sympathies. 

In  the  spring  of  1830  appeared  her  "  Songs  of  the  Affections ;"  many  of  which^ 
however,  were  abeady  familiar  to  the  readers  of  Blackwood' s  Magazine ;  and  during 
the  summer  of  the  same  year,  she  visited  the  Cumberland  and  "Westmoreland  Lakes, 
and  made  acquaintance  with  the  great  poet  of  Rydal  Mount.  Another  visit  to  Scotland 
followed;  and  iu  the  spring  of  1831,  partly  for  the  sake  of  medical  advice  respecting 
a  disease  of  the  heart  which  now  began  seriously  to  alarm  both  herself  and  her  friends, 
and  partly  with  a  view  to  the  advantage  of  her  sons,  Mrs.  Hemans  finally  quitted 
England,  aud  took  up  her  abode  in  the  Irish  capital. 

The  health  of  this  gifted  lady  now  declined  rapidly  ;  but  her  mind  retained  aU  its 
energy  and  activity,  and  her  affections  all  their  warmth.  She  continued  to  write 
poetry;  and  in  1833  and  1834  prepared  for  the  press  three  separate  works:  "Hymns 
for  Childhood  ;"  "  National  Lyrics  ;"  and  "  Scenes  and  Hymns  of  Life ;"  in  which  last 
work  her  genius  perhaps  shone  forth  as  brightly  as  in  any  former  production.  She 
was  now,  however,  evidently  approaching  that  better  land  of  which  she  sang  so 
touchingly.  On  the  16th  of  May,  1835,  she  expired  peacefully,  expressing  her  humble 
trust  in  the  mercy  of  God  through  the  merits  of  the  Redeemer. 

The  poetry  of  Felicia  Hemans  is  full  of  imagery;  and  that  imagery  bears  witness 
no  less  to  the  justness  of  her  taste,  than  to  the  power  of  her  genius  and  the  extent  of 
her  mental  resources.  The  beautiful,  in  character,  iu  history,  and,  above  all,  iu 
external  nature,  formed  the  main  theme  of  her  song : — 

The  world  of  loveliness  -was  all  her  own  ; 

To  her  the  rushing  streamlet  had  a  tone 

The  gay  and  careless  crowd  could  never  hear ; 

She  heard  its  woi-ds — its  music  wild  and  clear, 

And  answer'd  too,  in  sound  of  rhyme  and  song 

That  o'er  the  hills  of  Caledonia  rang, 

And  eclio'd  round  green  Erin's  wave-bound  shore. 

And  mingled  with  old  Ocean's  dashing  roar. 

Dear  sainted  Spiiit !    Now  thy  harp  is  mute, 

Hush'd,  now,  the  thrilling  chords  of  thy  sweet  lute, 

Which  flung  its  glorious  melody  afar, 

As  brightly  beams  a  pure,  celestial  star. 

And  thou  hast  pass'd  away,  as  beauty  must. 

With  all  its  loveliness  to  silent  dust. 

Sweet  was  thy  death-song,  when  the  bonds  of  clay 

Were  well  nigh  bursting  on  that  sabbath  day — 


THE  INVOCATION  OF  DEATH.  95 

That  day  of  rest,  which,  dawning,  found  thee  here. 

And  closing,  saw  thee  free  fi-om  grief  or  tear. 

Calm  was  thy  dying  brow  ;  that  "  better  land," 

With  all  its  seraph-forms,  its  "  happy  band," 

Shone  clear  before  tliy  gently-closing  eyes 

That  never  more  might  gaze  on  sunset  sliies. 

Sharp,  piercing  thorns  had  mingled  with  life's  flowers, 

And  sorrow  oft,  had  dimm'd  thy  brightest  hours  ; 

But  now,  the  strife  is  o'er,  the  conflict  past, 

Tliy  soul  hath  found  her  home  of  rest,  at  last : 

■What  though  tliy  earthly  lyre  be  all-unstrung, 

A  golden  harp,  for  ever  tuned  and  strung, 

E'en  from  eternity,  for  thee,  is  thine, 

While  round  thy  brow  immortal  flow'rets  twine ; 

Thy  voice  on  earth  is  hush'd  ;  yet  lives  thy  strain  ; 

We  would  not — could  not  wish  thee  here  again. 


THE     INYOCATION     OF     DEATH. 

Oh  come  !  oli  come  !  I  have  call'd  thee  long, 

I  have  pined  for  thee  in  the  festal  throng, 

Not  the  rapture  of  music,  nor  rosy  flowers, 

Nor  the  pure  white  blooms  of  these  myrtle  bowers, 

Nor  the  singing  birds  in  the  sunlit  vales. 

Nor  the  solemn  songs  of  the  nightingales, — 

Not  all  that  is  bright  on  this  changing  earth, 

Not  all  that  is  lovely  of  mortal  birth. 

May  tempt  me  to  linger  below,  again ; 

Shatter'd  and  snapt  is  life's  golden  chain. 

Death  !  death  !  I  have  watch'd  the  morning  sky. 

And  the  pale  stars  fading  silently. 

The  sun  drink  the  dew  from  the  lily  leaves. 

And  light  the  dim  shades  where  the  lone  dove  grieves. 

And  I've  press'd  my  hot  brow  on  the  cool  green  grass. 

While  I  long'd  for  thy  bhghting  form  to  pass. 

And  when  the  deep,  silent  noontide  slept 

On  the  gushing  founts,  where  so  calmly  wept 

The  crystal  drops  from  the  rock's  cool  shade. 

Where  the  lotus-cups  wove  a  pearly  braid. 

And  bent  o'er  the  sparkling  wavelets  there. 

Like  a  chasten'd  mourner,  meek  and  fair. 

Oh  !  sweet  was  that  noontide,  sweet  and  bright. 

And  rich  were  the  rays  of  emerald  light 


90  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

That  burst  through  the  waving  forest-boughs, 

And  dauced  where  the  purple  violet  grows  ; 

But  what  is  this  glorious  world  to  me, 

With  its  gay-plumed  birds,  and  their  minstrelsy. 

And  the  rustling  olive,  the  cedar's  moan, — 

What  is  tlieir  music  to  one  alone  ? 

The  golden  sun-beams  !  I  saw  them  die. 

And  the  rose-hue  melt  in  the  evening  sky ; 

The  crimson  leaves  on  the  tm-f  were  laid, 

As  I  watch'd  the  young  buds  of  summer  fade ; 

And  I  gazed  on  the  streams,  as  dazzling  and  free, 

Onward  tbey  sped  to  the  pathless  sea; — 

All  things  can  find  thee.  Oh  !  Death  !  but  I 

Cannot  rend  the  frail  bonds  of  mortality  ! 

Oh  !  fair  Thyatira  !  the  glistening  beam 

That  falls  on  thy  towers  with  its  fitful  gleam. 

Had  it  power  to  cast  on  this  tear-laved  tomb 

One  ray  of  gladness  amid  the  gloom. 

Oh  !  then,  I  might  even  grieve  to  roam 

From  the  hill-girt  city,  my  childhood's  home ; 

But,  no  !  the  light  of  my  life  hath  pass'd  ; 

Of  affection's  deep  tones  I  have  heard  the  last ; 

I  saw  the  smile  that  I  treasured  part, 

And  the  throbbing  cease  of  that  noble  heart. 

Whose  last  faint  thrill  was  of  love  for  me. 

Ere  he  pass'd  away  to  eternity. 

And  here,  while  the  graves  around  me  lie, 

Wliile  the  red  lights  fade  in  the  evening  sky. 

While  the  night-bird's  flapping  wing  is  near. 

And  the  burning  stars  glimmer  forth — stiU  here 

I  linger  amid  the  silent  dead, 

Wliile  he  slumbers  on  in  his  lonely  bed. 

Oh  !  come  to  me.  Death  !  let  this  pallid  brow 

Be  white  as  the  far-off  Alpine  snow  ; 

Oh  !  bear  me  away  to  the  spirit-land. 

Far,  far,  from  this  rosy  Syrian  strand ; 

Now  come  to  me.  Death  !  bear  me  hence  away, 

Let  me  struggle  no  longer  with  mortal  clay. 

All  that  I  love  from  this  bright  world  is  gone. 

Only  this  tomb  hath  a  voiceless  tone. 

Which  breathes  to  my  desolate,  fainting  heart, 

"  Depart !  from  the  sunlight  of  heaven  depart ! " 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON.  97 

Yet  hush  !  hush  this  murmuring  note  of  grief; 

Hush  !  for  tlie  steps  of  my  journey  brief 

May  end  ere  yon  sun's  departing  ray 

Shall  melt  into  darkness  at  close  of  day. 

Oh  !  Father  of  heaven  !  look  down  in  thy  love, 

From  thy  starry  throne  in  the  world  above. 

And  pardon  thy  wandering,  wayward  child, 

Who  fain  would  return  to  Thee,  undefiled  ! 

Take  her,  weary  in  heart,  to  that  peaceful  home, 

Where  storms  may  not  wither — Death  maj'  not  come. 

Hark  !  the  deep  tone  of  a  distant  bell ! 
'Tis  tolling  my  solemn  passing-knell ! 
Hark  !  the  low  wind  through  the  cedar-boughs 
Sweeps  sadly  adown  from  the  mountain  brows. 
And  a  requiem  chant  on  the  evening  gale 
Comes  floating  along  from  the  cypress  vale  ; 
Fair  shores  of  Natolia,  fare  ye  well ! 
In  a  lovelier  climate  I  hasten  to  dwell ; 
I  have  gazed  my  last  on  the  shining  sun, — 
The  conflict  is  over — the  strife  is  done  : 
Through  the  shado^vy  trees  thy  form  I  trace — 
Welcome,  oh  Death  !  is  thy  cold  embrace  ! 


THE   FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON. 

It  will  be  remembered,  that  in  the  year  1840,  M.  Guizot,  at  tliat  time  the  French 
Ambassador  at  the  British  Court,  waited  upon  Lord  Palmerston,  with  a  request  that 
the  body  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte  should  be  resigned  to  the  French  nation,  in  order 
that  the  ashes  of  the  deceased  Emperor  should  at  last  repose  in  the  soil  of  France,  the 
country  over  which  he  had  once  held  absolute  sway.  This  matter  being  arranged, 
the  French  proceeded  to  determine  the  place  of  sepulture,  and  after  some  debate,  it  was 
settled  that  the  remains  of  the  illustrious  departed  should  find  their  final  resting-place 
beneath  the  vast  dome  of  the  Eglise  des  Invalides. 

On  the  1st  of  July,  in  the  year  already  mentioned,-  La  Favorite,  corvette,  and 
La  Belle  Poule,  frigate,  quitted  the  harbour  of  Toulon,  and  arrived,  on  the  8th  of  the 
following  October,  in  that  of  James  Town,  St.  Helena.  The  15th  of  the  same  month 
was  fixed  on  as  the  day  of  exhumation,  that  being  the  day  on  which,  a  quarter  of 
a  century  before,  Napoleon  had  first  set  foot  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena. 
S.  S. VOL.  I.  2  b 


98  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Operations  commenced  at  the  hour  of  midnight ;  the  Enghsh  Commissioner, 
together  with  Bertrand,  Gourgaud,  and  Las  Cases,  three  intimate  friends  of  the  late 
Emperor,  being  present  at  the  disinterment.  After  the  recital  by  a  French  Abbe  of 
certain  prayers,  the  coffin,  which  contained  all  that  was  mortal  of  Napoleon  Buona- 
parte, was  carefully  removed,  and,  with  all  possible  tokens  of  respect,  was  carried  by 
a  detachment  of  soldiers  into  a  tent  previously  prepared  for  its  reception,  where,  after 
tlie  due  performance  of  the  religious  ceremonies  prescribed  by  the  Romish  Church,  the 
receptacle  to  which  had  been  committed  the  remains  of  one  for  whom  "  the  world  had 
been  too  small,"  was  opened. 

It  was  a  moment  of  intense  interest.  Friends,  who  had  regarded  Buonaparte  with 
affection,  and  who  had  shed  bitter  tears  over  his  lonely  exile,  now  stood  to  gaze  on  all 
that  remained  of  the  illustrious  dead.  The  features  of  the  face  were  somewhat  changed, 
but  were  perfectly  recognizable.  A  sorrowful  sternness  seemed  to  shadow  the  brow, 
though  the  eye,  the  once  keen,  speaking  eye,  no  longer  told  of  the  mighty  workings 
of  the  spirit  within. 

On  Sunday,  the  18th  of  October,  the  Belle  Poule,  with  her  precious  deposit,  left 
St.  Helena,  and  arrived  at  Cherbourg  on  the  30th  of  the  following  month ;  the  grand 
entry  into  Paris  being  fixed  for  the  15th  of  December. 

Great  indeed  were  the  changes  which  had  taken  place  since  Napoleon  Buonaparte 
had  looked  his  last  on  that  proud  city  !  Many  who  then  stood  around  him  had  passed 
away  from  this  mutable  world.  Poor  Josephine — his  deserted,  but  devoted  wife — she 
could  not  rejoice  in  the  honours  paid  to  his  memory  by  the  land  she  loved  so  well,  for 
she  too  had  departed  to  "  that  bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns."  There  was  a  grand 
procession — and  that  was  all ! 

At  daybreak  guns  were  fired  at  NeuiUy,  and  the  body  was  transferred  to  the  car 
destined  to  convey  it  to  its  last  resting-place.  The  coffin,  covered  with  violet  crape, 
was  surmounted  by  the  imperial  crown,  and  the  horses,  superbly  accoutred,  were  led 
by  attendants  clad  in  the  livery  of  the  deceased  Emperor.  At  the  head  of  the  proces- 
sion came  the  Gendannerie  of  the  Seine,  then  the  Municipal  Guard,  with  various 
military  squadrons  and  battalions ;  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  and  the  five  hundred  sailors 
of  the  Belle  Poule,  marching  in  double  file  on  each  side  of  the  chariot  of  death. 

The  funeral  cortege  passed  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
finally  halted  at  the  Eglise  des  Invalides.  The  windows  of  the  Church  were  closely 
curtained,  and  ten  thousand  tapers  shed  their  light  on  the  gloomy  drapery,  the  gorgeous 
insignia  of  departed  royalty,  the  dun  banners  of  other  days,  the  whole  of  the  stately 
aud  solemn  catafalque,  spread  forth  beneath  the  towering  dome. 

The  service  for  the  dead  ^&s,  performed ;  Napoleon  was  laid  to  his  rest,  to  be  aroused 
by  the  archangel's  trumpet ;  the  long  aisles  of  the  crowded  church  were  again  deserted, 
and  the  parting  gleams  of  the  wintry  sun  alone  ^dsited  the  solitude  were  reposed  the 
dust  of  one  who,  but  a  few  brief  years  before,  had  been — 

"  The  foremost  mau  of  all  this  world." 


I  • 

I: 


f 


i 


^ 


! 


LORD  FORDWICH.  99 

The  career  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  the  rise  of  his  fortunes,  his  renown,  his 
ambition,  his  fall,  his  years  of  exile,  his  lonely  island -grave,  and  finally,  the  vain 
honours  which  were  paid  to  his  mouldering  remains,  form  a  story  of  wonders  which 
will  be  as  imperishable  as  history  itself  While  ambition  and  the  lust  of  power  led 
him  to  form  projects  and  pursue  ends  subversive  of  the  well-being  of  his  fellow-men, 
he  was  doubtless  an  instrument  iu  the  hands  of  Him  who  "  sitteth  above  the  water- 
floods;"  "in  whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  life;"  and  who,  when  it  pleased  him,  could 
say  to  the  haughty  and  unsparing  conqueror,  "  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  but  no 
further !" 


LORD    FORDWICH, 

Eldest  son  of  Eail  Cowper  and  the  Lady  Anne  Robinson,  daughter  of  Earl  and  Countess  de  Grey. 

Fair  is  thy  youthful  face,  and  well  combines 
The  different  beauty  of  two  lovely  lines ; 
Earnest  the  light  that  fills  thy  Poet-eyes, 
Thoughtfully  turn'd  toward  the  distant  skies  : 
In  a  rose-path  of  life  thy  fate  hath  found  thee. 
Beauty,  and  rank,  and  wealth,  and  love  surround  thee : 
But  what  the  destiny  of  riper  years. 
He  knows,  who  mocks  our  hopes,  abates  our  fears ; 
Frustrates  the  expectations  of  the  crowd, 
,  Lifts  up  the  lowly,  and  casts  down  the  proud. 
And  early  thou  hast  cast  thy  anchor  where 
No  storm  can  reach,  nor  touch  of  trivial  care ; 
So  shalt  thou  yet  thy  hopeful  trust  retain ; 
So  shalt  thou  be  successful,  and  not  vain  ; 
So  shalt  thou  sufi'er,  and  yet  not  despond  ; 
This  world  may  fail  thee — not  the  world  beyond  ! 

And  though  in  after-days  it  should  be  told 
Of  thee — as  of  the  lovely  Knight  of  old — 
Thou  wert  the  fairest  of  the  courtly  throng; 
The  gracefullest  that  led  the  dance  along ; 
The  bravest  man  that  ever  drew  a  sword ; 
The  stateliest  vision  of  a  belted  lord  ; 
The  warmest  heart  that  ever  sued  for  love ; 
The  kindliest,  when  Pity  sought  to  move; 


10.0  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OE  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  frankest  friend  that  ever  clasp'd  a  hand  ; 

The  openest  giver  owning  breadth  of  land ; 

The  sternest  champion  of  thy  country's  laws ; 

The  gentlest  listener  to  the  poor  man's  cause  ; 

Still  would  remain  the  greater,  holier  praise, 

la  the  first  blessing  of  thy  younger  days, 

Ere  yet  these  proud  distinctions  round  thee  smiled. 

And  thou  wast  but  a  simple,  pious  child  ; 

That  from  the  dawning  of  thy  tempted  day, 

To  the  last  setting  of  its  mellow'd  ray. 

Thou  wert  the  truest  Christian — so  to  speak 

Of  one  by  nature  sinful  made,  and  weak — 

That  ever  in  this  world  of  storms  unblest. 

The  self-denying,  peaceful  creed  profess'd  ! 


THE     MASQUERADE. 

'TwAS  a  bright  and  festal  throng. 

Earth's  fairest  flowers  were  there  ; 
And  ringlets  waved  in  the  dazzling  light, 

O'er  brows  how  purely  fair  ! 
And  starry  eyes  were  flashing. 

And  gold  and  radiant  gems 
Were  bowing  graceful,  fragile  forms, 

Like  flow'rets  on  their  stems. 

But  the  burning  ruby's  ray. 

With  its  crimson  flashing  beam, 
Glow'd  not  like  many  a  cheek's  soft  rose, 

When  the  young,  bright  face  was  seen ; 
Nor  the  music  in  those  halls. 

With  its  rich  deep-sounding  chords. 
Came  not  so  sweet  in  that  hour  of  glee 

As  the  gentle,  breathing  words. 

And  costly  robes  were  there. 
The  raiment  of  distant  lands ; 

The  ermine  and  purple's  heavy  folds 
Half  shading  the  jewell'd  hands  j 


!^^ti^    P^^<«^-/-^-V^ 


t-^/ 


^-^    Q  y^'6aM^/r^'ma(r/:' 


THE  MASQUERADE.  101 

And  some,  like  lone  sea-iiymplis, 

Were  clad  in  pallid  green. 
And  wore  sea-flowers,  as  if  to  the  caves 

Of  old  ocean  they  had  been. 

And  some  young,  lovely  girls 

Seem'd  tenants  of  homes  tliat  stood, 
O'erhung  with  tlie  jasmine  and  citron's  glow 

In  the  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood  : 
And  some  seem'd  Italian  brides, 

Whose  eyes  from  the  bridal  veil, 
Smiled  out  with  a  pensive  fitful  light, 

'Mid  the  orange-blossoms  pale. 

And  Queens  from  the  coral  isles, 

And  Naiads  from  sounding  seas, 
And  Fauns  from  the  forest  and  sylvan  shades, 

With  wreaths  from  the  old  oak  trees ; 
And  a  Priestess  of  Druid  race, 

With  the  mystic  chaplet  bound — 
All  gracefully  moved  through  the  gliding  dance. 

O'er  those  halls' enchanted  ground. 

'Twas  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

Earth's  beauties  mingling  there  ; 
The  rich,  bright  curls,  and  the  ^'littering  gems 

That  gleam'd  in  the  shining  hair  ! 
No  murmur  of  grief  or  woe 

Was  heard  'mid  the  music's  tone. 
Oh!   could  it  be  that  aiuidst  thar  tluoug 

There  was  no  sad  soul  alone ! 

There  maij  be  sorrow  and  grief. 

Though  smooth  be  the  snowy  I) row  ; 
There  may  on  the  lips  be  a  proud.,  biigiit  smile, 

With  a  bursting  heurt  below  ; 
Such  grief  may  e'en  be  yours, 

Oh  ye  of  the  laughing  eyes ! 
But  oh  !  that  this  masking  scene  were  all, 

Ye  may  know  of  life's  disguise  ! 

S.  S. VOL.   I.  "  ^ 


102 


CROSSING  BY  A  SANGHA,  NEAR  JUMNOOTREE. 

THE     MOUNTAIN-BRIDGE. 
BY  L.  E.  L. 

The  most  common  contrivance  in  this  hill-district,  where  the  stream  is  sufficiently  naiTow  to  admit  of  its 
use,  is  the  Sangha  ;  a  bridge  of  the  rudest  description.  No  one  being  at  the  trouble  of  repairing  such  bridges, 
they  are  generally  found  by  the  traveller  in  the  most  crazy  and  precarious  condition  imaginable.  So  long, 
indeed,  as  the  wayfarer  can  keep  in  the  centre  of  the  Sangha,  he  is  tolerably  safe;  but  if  he  venture  to  plant 
his  foot  either  to  the  right,  or  the  left,  he  is  in  danger  of  being  precipitated  into  the  torrent.  The  safest  plan 
is,  not  to  look  for  a  moment  upon  the  impetuous  current  below,  but  to  keep  the  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  some 
object  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream,  and  thus  to  pass  firmly  and  decidedly  onwards  ;  for  there  being 
neither  parapet  nor  guiding  rail,  the  frail  bridge  is  often,  in  a  high  wind,  so  fearfully  swayed  to  and  fro,  that 
even  the  mountaineers  themselves  refuse  to  cross  it. 

Wake  not  yet,  thou  mountain-breeze, 
Slumbering  'mid  the  leafy  trees ; 
Sound  not  yet  thy  stormy  blast. 
Till  the  mountain-stream  is  past. 

See  !  they  stir ;  The  topmost  bough. 
Of  yon  pine  is  waving  now ; 
Hark  !  it  comes  with  bellowing  roar. 
Speed  thee,  traveller,  speed  thee  o'er  ! 

Dream  not  now  of  safe  retm'n ; 
Thought  of  doubt  and  danger  spurn ; 
Plant  thy  foot,  and  fix  thine  eye ; 
Like  an  arrow,  forward  fly. 

Look  not  down  : — that  foaming  tide 
Shakes  the  mountain's  echoing  side ; 
Cleaves  the  granite's  hoary  brow — 
Fearful  traveller,  look  not  thou. 

Look  not  where  the  feathery  spray 
Dances  upward  to  the  day, 
"White  as  snow,  and  pure  as  white — 
Trust  not  to  that  treacherous  sight. 


HOTEL  DE  VILLE. 

Look  not  where  tlie  waves  are  clear^ 

Swift,  but  silent,  glancing  near; 

Till  at  once,  with  giant  curl, 

Down  the  thundering  depths  they  whii-1. 

Fiercer  waters  roaring  loud, 
Toss  on  high  their  foamy  cloud; 
Darker  billows  raging  still. 
There,  the  mighty  caldron  fill. 

Rushing  wind,  and  furious  flood. 
Trembling  bridge  of  shapeless  wood  j 
Heed  not,  traveller,  speed  thee  on — 
Now  the  rock  of  safety's  won ! 


THE      HOTEL     DE     VILLE,    PARIS. 

The  Hotel  de  Ville,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  public  buildings  in  Paris,  owes  its 
celebrity  less  to  the  singular  style  of  its  architecture,  and  to  its  regular  and  liarmoniuns 
proportions,  than  to  the  various  stirring  political  events  of  which  it  has  been  the 
theatre. 

Having  traversed  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  and  the  Pont  au  Change,  and  proceeded  for 
some  few  hundred  yards  along  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  the  traveller  arrives  at  the 
famous  Place  de  Greve,  at  the  northern  extremity  of  which  stands  the  Hotel  de 
Ville. 

The  first  stone  of  this  magnificent  Town-Hall,  which  stands  on  the  site  pre\'iously 
occupied  by  the  Hospital  and  Church  Du  Saint  Esprit,  was  kid  during  the  reign  of 
Francis  I. — an  era  very  memorable  in  the  history  of  the  religious  world  ;  for  during 
the  reign  of  this  prince,  the  glorious  Reformation  not  only  shone  forth  with  bright 
effulgence  in  Germany,  and  beamed  upon  our  own  country,  but  also  penetrated  into 
many  parts  of  France.  The  structure,  however,  of  which,  on  the  fifteenth  of  July,  1.533, 
Pierre  de  Violle  laid  the  first  stone,  forms  but  a  small  portion  of  the  present  splendid 
edifice.  During  several  subsequent  years  the  progress  of  the  building  was  suspended ; 
but  in  the  year  1549,  Henry  II.,  charmed  by  the  beauty  of  the  jilans  siibmittcd  to 
him  by  Dominico  Boccadoro,  surnamcd  Cortona,  directed  that  the  structure  should  be 
completed  according  to  the  design  of  that  artist.  Still,  however,  the  work  proceeded 
slowly;  and  was  not  perfectly  finished  until  fifty  years  afterwiu-ds,  (a.  n.  1605.) 
Henry  IV.  completed  it  with  much  magnificence  ;  and  caused  a  bas-relief,  representing 
himself  on  horseback,  and  executed  in  bronze,  to  be  placed  over  the  principal  entrance. 


104  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  history  of  this  bas-relief  has  been  singularly  eventful.  It  was  destroyed  during 
the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  when  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  generally,  sustained  serious  damage ; 
it  was  subsequently  restored  by  the  son  of  the  celebrated  Biard,  the  original  sculptor ; 
and  having  been  again  demolished  by  the  infuriated  revolutionists  of  the  time  of 
Louis  XVL,  and  again  replaced  on  the  restoration  of  the  Bom-bon  line  of  princes, 
it  was  once  more  damaged  in  the  revolutionary  tumults  of  1830,  and  once  more 
replaced  in  its  original  position  by  the  late  monarch,  Louis  Philippe.  Whether 
during  the  fearful  commotions  which  within  the  last  few  months  have  overturned  the 
throne  of  France,  it  have  been  again  defaced  or  destroyed,  we  know  not ;  but  it  is  not 
improbable  that  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Henry  the  Great,  may,  during  the 
late  furious  outbreak  of  republicanism,  have  suffered  from  the  effects  of  the  lawless 
spirit  which  has  hurled  the  ex-king  from  his  throne. 

The  principal  entrance  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  in  the  Place  de  Greve ;  a  noble 
flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  the  portal.  The  clock  which  belongs  to  this  building  is 
justly  regarded  as  one  of  the  cui-iosities  of  Paris.  It  was  made,  at  an  immense  cost,  by 
the  celebrated  Lepante,  and  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  clocks  in  Europe.  It  was 
originally  surrounded  by  several  statues ;  but  all  of  these,  excepting  one  which  repre- 
sents the  city  of  Paris  distributing  crowns,  are  so  much  mutilated,  that  the  intention 
of  the  sculptor  can  no  longer  be  discovered.  The  face  of  this  clock  is  beautifully 
enamelled ;  and,  at  night,  very  much  to  the  advantage  of  the  citizens  of  Paris,  it  is 
illuminated  by  means  of  a  reflector ;  so  that  the  hour  may  be  constantly  discerned. 

Beyond  the  vestibule  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  a  coui-t,  siuTounded  by  porticoes, 
which  support  the  building.  Upon  the  frieze  there  were  formerly  marble  tablets, 
bearing,  in  golden  letters,  inscriptions,  marking  the  principal  events  in  the  life  of 
Lonis  XIV.,  beginning  with  his  marriage  in  1659.  There  were  also  inscriptions 
referring  to  the  principal  events  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV. 

The  Prefect  of  the  Seine,  who  is  the  chief  officer  of  the  municipality,  and  who  may 
be  said  to  unite  the  functions  of  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county  and  mayor  of  the  city, 
holds  his  court,  if  such  it  may  be  called,  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

It  will  be  remembered,  that  during  the  terrible  revolution  which  took  place  towards 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  the  National  Assembly  agreed  upon  a  constitution,  which 
the  unhappy  Louis  XVI.  declared  himself  ready  to  accept.  He  appeared  before  the 
Assembly,  and  was  received  simply  as  its  President ;  all  present  remaining  in  their 
places,  instead  of  testifying  their  respect  for  the  sovereign  by  the  usual  courtesy  of 
rising  from  their  seats.  The  unfortunate  monarch,  however,  professed  his  cordial 
acceptance  of  the  constitution,  and  attached  to  it  his  signatui'e.  No  sooner,  however, 
had  he  retired  from  the  public  gaze,  than  he  gave  utterance  to  very  diflerent  senti- 
ments, passionately  declai-ing  to  the  queen,  in  private,  that  he  had  acted  by  compulsion, 
not  by  choice. 

The  constitution,  however,  was  solemnly  proclaimed  by  the  civic  authorities  before 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  also  in  the  Champ  de  INIars,  and  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  On  the 
9th  of  August,  1793,  it  was  determined  by  the  Revolutionists  that  a  debate  should  take 


t 


1 


i 


^ 


HOTEL  DE  VILLE.  105 

place  on  the  expediency  of  suspending  the  kingly  office.  On  the  evening  of  that  memor- 
able day,  a  second  attack  was  directed  against  the  Tuilleries,  and  the  royal  family  were 
compelled  to  seek  refuge  in  the  National  Assembly.  Soon  after  midnight,  two  hundred 
persons  forcibly  entered  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  the  Commune  was  then  sitting,  and 
expelled  all  the  members,  with  the  exception  of  Danton  and  two  others.  The  new 
council  then  took  possession  of  the  vacant  seats,  and,  self-elected,  began  forthwith  to 
exercise  their  merciless  functions. 

From  the  central  window  of  the  principal  apartment  of  the  Hotel  do  Ville  it  was, 
that  poor  Louis  XVI.  addressed  his  infuriated  people,  with  the  red  cap  of  liberty  on 
his  head.  "  Do  not  fear,  Louis,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  more  humane  among  the  mob. 
"  Feel  if  I  do,"  answered  the  king,  placing  the  man's  hand  on  his  heart. 

Another  voice  was  heard  in  the  crowd — "  Why,"  said  a  young  man  who  was 
a  spectator  of  the  indignities  offered  to  the  monarch,  addressing  a  companion,  "  Why 
do  they  not  cut  down  some  hundreds  of  these  wretches  with  grape-shot  ?  the  remainder 
would  speedily  take  to  flight."     The  speaker  was  Napoleon  Buonaparte  1 

At  the  commencement  of  this  Revolution  it  was,  that  the  National  Guard  took  its 
rise.  The  electors  demanded  and  obtained  from  the  civic  authorities  the  great  hall 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  for  a  place  of  meeting,  and  for  many  days  it  was  besieged  by  the 
populace,  vociferating  for  arms. 

It  should  be  mentioned,  that  above  a  century  before  these  scenes  of  violence  deso- 
lated Paris,  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  then  in  an  unfinished  state,  was  rendered  remarkable 
as  being  the  scene  of  some  of  the  incidents  connected  with  the  destruction  of  the 
Protestants  in  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Two  venerable  Protestant  gentlemen, 
of  the  most  unblemished  character,  were  there  condemned  to  death  on  the  charge  of 
having  been  concerned  in  the  treason  which  was  attributed  to  the  excellent  Admiral 
de  Coligny,  and  for  which  he  most  unjustly  suffered  death.  It  is  needless  to  say,  that 
the  pretended  plot,  of  which  Coligny  was  the  first  victim,  was  an  invention  of  the 
Medici,  in  order  to  justify  that  atrocious  massacre  of  the  French  Protestants  which 
took  place  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day. 

On  the  ever-memorable  Eve  of  St.  Bartholomew,  in  the  year  1572,  Charles  IX.  and 
his  infamous  mother  partook  of  a  sumptuous  banquet  at  the  Hotel  de  VUle,  the 
windows  of  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  place  of  the  execution  of  Coligny  and  his 
fellow-sufferers,  namely,  the  Place  de  Greve.  The  performance  of  the  fatal  tragedy 
was  deferred  till  ten  p.m.,  the  innocent  and  grey-haired  victims  being  exposed  during 
several  hours  to  all  the  outrages  which  could  be  heaped  upon  them  by  a  crowd  of 
almost  insane  fanatics.  When  the  appointed  hour  arrived,  the  windows  of  the  Hall 
were  thrown  open,  and  Charles  IX.,  with  his  mother  and  his  two  brothers,  came 
forward,  amid  a  blaze  of  torches,  and  with  fixed  attention  contemplated  the  horrid 
scene. 

The  breaking  of  the  lamps  around  the  Hotel  de  Ville  was  one  of  the  first  signals 
of  revolt  on  occasion  of  the  three  days'  revolution  of  1830 ;  and  on  the  top  of  the 
central  tower  of  that  edifice  it  was,  that  the  tri-coloured  flag,  decorated  by  a  piece  of 
S.  S. — VOL.  I.  3d 


106  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

black  crape,  was  hoisted  as  tlie  national  standard.  A  battalion  of  guards  being 
despatched  by  the  roj'al  party  to  occupy  and  defend  the  building,  a  terrible  contest 
ensued,  both  on  the  Pont  Notre  Dame  and  also  in  the  Place  de  Greve ;  indeed,  this 
latter  spot  was  continually  in  a  state  of  commotion.  Here  the  severest  struggles  of 
the  day  occurred,  and  after  a  most  obstinate  resistance,  and  the  loss  of  many  lives,  the 
royal  troops  succeeded  in  taking  possession  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  which  was  not  reco- 
vered by  the  people  during  that  day's  fight.  At  length  Charles  X.,  finding  himself 
utterly  helpless,  convened  his  last  council,  and  made  many  concessions,  which,  had 
they  been  made  sooner,  might  perhaps  have  saved  the  hereditary  monarchy.  As  it 
was,  the  existing  government  was  totally  overthrown,  and  a  municipal  commission  was 
instituted,  composed  of  Messieurs  Lafitte,  Casimir  Perrier,  &c.  Charles  X.  took  refuge 
in  England  j  peace  was  restored ;  Hberty  and  order  were  once  more  united ;  and  the 
banner  that  floated  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  afforded  the  first  pubhc  signal  of  the 
success  of  that  revolution  which  had  placed  Louis  Philippe  on  the  French  throne. 

Noiv,  the  throne  of  France  exists  no  more ;  it  has  been  literally  burned  by  a  furious 
mob.  Louis  Philippe  is  a  second  time  an  esUe  from  the  land  of  his  fathers,  and 
a  second  time  has  found  in  England,  as  Count  de  Neuilly,  the  refuge  of  which  he 
stood  in  need. 

It  may  well  be  matter  of  grateful  exultation,  that  our  country  should  thus  be  able 
and  willing  to  extend  her  generous  hospitality  to  fallen  princes  ;  but  while  we  rejoice 
on  this  account,  it  becomes  us,  as  loyal  sons  and  daughters  of  England,  to  guard  well 
those  civil  and  religious  public  institutions,  and  to  foster  those  private  Christian  virtues, 
which,  while  other  thrones  have  "  tottered  to  their  fall,"  have  hitherto  proved  the  safe- 
guard of  that  of  our  beloved  Queen  Victoria. 


CHRIST    AND     THE     LEPER. 

BY  THE  HON.  EDMUND  PHIPPS. 

Loathsome,  an  outcast,  doom'd  to  solitude — 

Or,  worse  than  solitude,  to  share  his  fate 
With  loathsome  outcasts,  like  himself — he  stood 

A  Leper,  all  alone,  Avithout  the  gate ; 

When,  lo,  the  Master  comes.     Where  all  of  late 
Had  been  despair  and  hopeless  misery, 

Beam'd  a  bright  ray  upon  his  darken'd  state  : 
At  once  he  felt  a  great  High  Priest  was  nigh — 

A  priest  who  could  be  touch'd  with  his  infirmity. 


l'E'i'^;B.   JACK: 


LADY  CLEMENTINA  VILLIERS.  107 

Approach  he  dare  not. — "  Thou  canst  make  me  clean, 

Lord,  if  thou  wilt  I"    This  was  his  only  plea  : 
"  I  will !"  tlie  griicious  answer — nought  between 

That  promise  and  th'  omnipotent  decree 

Of  "  Be  thou  clean  I"    Spotless  at  once,  and  free 
Prom  taint,  his  weary  heart  he  could  divest 

Of  its  whole  burden  :  in  society, 
Free  fi-om  thenceforth  to  mingle,  or  to  rest 

Mid  beings — long  unseen — whom  he  had  loved  the  best. 

Fancy  would  vainly  strive  to  paint  his  grief 

When  suffering — his  earnestness  of  prayer 
For  help — or  the  glad  joy  of  his  relief; 

But  may  we  fcnoiu  and/ee/  it ;  may  we  share 

Each  of  these  varying  moods — this  deep  despair — 
This  earnest  longing  to  be  heal'd — this  joy 

When  made  the  subjects  of  His  heavenly  care  ! 
Who  is  there,  gracious  Lord,  that  might  not  cry, 

"  Such  leprosy  is  mine — such  need  of  thee  have  I ; 

"  Behold  me  with  the  leprosy  of  sin, 

"  Tainted  like  him  ;  condemned  to  herd  with  those 
"  Who,  with  fair  outside,  are  more  foul  within 

"  Than  he  whom  thou  didst  heal ;  to  seek  repose, 

"  And  seek  it  all  in  vain,  as  one  who  knows 
"  He  must  be  exiled  from  the  blessed  scene 

"  Of  saints  made  perfect ;  such  my  weight  of  woes  ! 
"  My  wants,  my  hope,  my  faith,  by  Thee  are  seen  : 

"  Look  on  me ;  if  thou  wilt.  Lord,  thou  canst  make  me  clean !" 


TO  THE  LADY  CLEMENTINA  VILLIERS. 

Sweet  lady,  while  I  gaze  on  thee. 
And  view,  in  its  calm  radiancy, 
Thine  eye  that  'neath  the  summer  sky. 
Reflects  the  tender  blue  on  high. 
And  see  thy  young,  unclouded  face 
Deck'd  in  simplicity's  sweet  grace, 
I  almost  long,  that  o'er  thy  way, 
No  shade  may  dim  the  sunshine's  ray. 


108  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

It  cannot  be — it  were  not  well, 

That  fadeless  earthly  joy  should  dwell, 

Within  a  frail  and  mortal  heart ; 

"Tis  well,  that  this  ivorld's  peace  must  part 

Sometimes  from  breasts  of  earthly  mould; 

Sometimes  e'en  love  of  friends  grow  cold. 

I  would  not  then,  thy  path  should  be 

All  flowers,  all  bright  prosperity  ; 

Nor  yet,  that  those  sweet  eyes  of  thine 

Should  always  with  such  lustre  shine. 

Gems  from  the  wave  may  Avreathe  thy  brow. 

Fair  Ondine  !    as  thou  seemest  now ; 

Rubies  may  flash  amid  thine  hair. 

And  summer-roses  fresh  and  fair 

Crown  thee,  and  bloom  around  thy  feet ; 

Dear  ones  with  smiles  of  love  may  greet, 

And  music's  loveliest  lays  be  sung. 

And  yet,  deep  gloom  be  round  thee  flung. 

Though  all  seem  bright,  the  deathless  mind, 

The  immortal  soul  no  rest  may  find ; 

In  love  and  bliss  of  earth  alone, 

There  lingereth  in  the  tenderest  tone 

A  shade  of  sadness  and  of  grief. 

That  all  below  m^^st  be  so  brief. 

May  woman's  highest  lot  be  thine  ! 

Not  'mid  the  thoughtless  crowd  to  shine. 

But  to  cast  gladness  on  the  way 

Of  those  who  droop  in  sorrow's  day; 

To  watch  beside  the  painful  bed. 

And  raise  the  weary,  aching  head. 

To  wipe  with  gentle  hand  the  tear, 

And  calm  and  chase  the  lingering  fear. 

Surely  !  so  lovely  as  thou  art. 

Thou  wouldst  not  make  this  world  thy  part ; 

Surely,  thy  hopes  will  soar  above. 

Be  centred  there,  thy  joys,  thy  love. 

Dreams  of  this  mortal  life  will  fly ; 

Thine  be  the  love  that  cannot  die ; 

The  hopes  that  never  pass  away, 

The  light  that  leads  to  endless  day. 

May  He,  thy  Guide  through  all  the  past. 

Shed  peace  around  thee  to  the  last  1 


109 


PILGrvIMS  RESTING  ON  THEIR  ROUTE  TO  MECCA. 

The  interior  of  the  Turkish  empire  is  constantly  traversed  by  large  bodies  of  men,  who  proceed  together,  fw' 
protection ;  their  object  being  either  commerce  or  devotion.  With  respect  to  this  last-mentioned  object  it  may 
be  noticed,  that  in  tlie  sixteenth  year  of  Mohammed's  mission,  he  ordained,  that  every  believer  should  engage  in 
a  pilgrimage  to  visit  the  place  of  the  Caaba,  or  sacred  house  of  Abraham.  The  Caaba  itself,  as  it  was  believed, 
had  been  taken  up  to  heaven  at  the  flood,  but  its  model  remained  for  the  benefit  of  true  believers  at  Mecca.  This 
ordinance  was  rigidly  observed  by  his  followers.  The  caliphs  set  the  example  ;  and  all  Mussulmans  hold  this 
Pilgrimage  to  be  an  indispensable  obligation  at  this  day,  when  it  is  possible  for  them  to  perform  it.  Even  women 
are  not  exempted  from  this  duty ;  if  they  have  no  husband  or  brother,  under  whose  protection  they  can  leave  the 
harem,  they  are  bound  to  marry,  for  the  express  purpose  of  obtaining  a  protector.  The  only  person  in  the  empire 
exempt  is  the  Sultan  ;  and  he,  only  because  the  pilgrimage  would  occupy  a  longer  period  than  he  could  be  legally 
absent  from  the  capital.  He  is  bound,  however,  to  send  a  substitute,  called  Surre  Emmini,  who  always  accompanies 
the  caravan  of  pilgi-ims,  and  represents  the  sovereign.  Thus  it  is,  that  eveiy  year  above  one  hundred  thousand 
persons,  of  all  ages  and  conditions,  set  out  from  various  points,  and  traverse  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  to  fulfil  this 
indispensable  duty. 

The  great  European  caravan  assembles  at  Constantinople  in  the  month  of  Regib,  which,  according  to  the 
Turkish  calendar,  falls  at  every  season  of  the  year.  The  Pilgrims  cross  the  Bosphorus,  and  unite  on  the  great 
plain  of  Scutari,  from  whence  they  take  their  departure  in  company.  They  exhibit  a  strange  display  of  folly  and 
fanaticism.  Among  the  various  groups  are  seen,  at  one  place,  jugglers  and  buffoons  exhibiting  their  light  and  often 
indecent  mummery  ;  in  another,  molhas  and  dervishes  exhorting  to  piety,  and  tearing  their  limbs  with  disgusting 
lacerations  :  but  the  most  conspicuous  object  is  the  sacred  camel.  This  camel  carries  the  mahhfil,  or  seat  from 
which  the  Prophet  preached  and  di.spensed  justice  in  his  journeys.  The  race  is  religiously  kept  up  in  the  stables 
of  the  seraglio  ;  and  some  believe  the  camel  of  the  mahhfil,  at  this  day,  to  be  the  actual  animal  on  which  the 
Prophet  rode,  and  to  be  kept  alive  by  a  miracle,  to  perform  this  annual  journey  to  his  holy  city. 

The  accompanying  illustration  re]n-ese.nts  a  group  of  a  caravan  of  the  faithful,  proceeding  from  the  northern 
to  the  southern  extremity  of  the  empire,  to  perform  this  pilgrimage.  The  venerable  Moslem,  who  is  ambitious  oi 
becoming  a  hadgee,  is  attended  by  his  guards,  who  are  distinguished  by  their  fantastic  dress ;  their  glittering 
golden-hafted  hanjars,  stuck  in  their  shawl-girdles,  beside  their  silver  -  mounted  pistols;  and  by  the  substi- 
tution of  the  many-tasselled  cap  for  the  grave  turban.  Their  accommodation  is  the  stable  of  a  khan,  which 
their  camel  equally  shares ;  and  their  refreshment  is  cofi'ee,  black  and  bitter,  served  by  the  khangee  in  small 
characteristic  cups. 

What  seek  ye  on  your  toilsome  way, 

Pilgrims  of  Eastern  land  ? 
"Why  turn  ye  from  your  own  bright  shores. 

Your  own  fair  sea-girt  strand  ? 
Seek  ye  a  glorious  sunny  land 

"Where  hidden  treasures  lie  ? 
And  magic  powei-s  of  by-gone  years 

Sleep  'neath  the  golden  sky  ? 

Ye  seek  not  at  your  journey's  close 

To  win  an  earthly  crown ; 
Why  bow  the  knee  iu  reverence  meek. 

When  the  glad  sun  goes  down  ? 

S,  S. VOL.  I.  2  K 


110  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLEM  OF  irNGRAVINGS. 

Percliance  ye  seek  the  buried  lore 

Of  sages  of  tlie  past, 
Wending  your  way  to  break  the  spell 

O'er  aucient  genius  cast. 

Or  is  it,  that  ye  long  have  heard 

Of  Araby's  bkie  sky  ? 
Or  that  ye  seek  fair  India's  clime 

Where  pearls  and  coral  lie  ? 
Or  haply,  ye  may  seek  a  home 

Far  in  some  sun-lit  vale 
Wliere  laurels  spread  their  shining  leaves. 

And  perfumes  scent  the  gale. 

Not  so  !  not  so  !  for  naught  of  earth 

Ye  tread  your  dreary  road. 
Turning  from  all  ye  prize  so  well, 

Leaving  each  loved  abode  ! 
Ye  go  to  seek  your  Prophet's  shrine, 

To  kneel  before  his  tomb  ; 
To  press  the  sacred  marble  there 

From  morn  to  evening's  gloom. 

Oh  !  that  ye  sought  a  purer  faith, 

A  higher,  holier  shrine  ! 
Would  that  your  prayers  indeed  were  laid 

Before  the  throne  divine  ! 
Ye  press  with  firm,  calm  patience  on. 

Nor  heed  the  scorching  sun. 
Nor  the  wild  desert's  stormy  blast. 

So  tliat  your  work  be  done. 

And  we,  who  walk  in  clearer  light, 

To  whom  the  truth  is  given, 
Would  that  we  trod  our  earthly  path, 

With  heart  so  fix'd  on  heaven! 
Ye  think  not  when  ye  reach  the  goal 

Of  your  long  journey  past ; 
So  may  we  smile  at  life's  drear  waste. 

Our  haven  gain'd  at  last ! 


=  ^ 


59 


^ 


:l 


^ 


6= 


Ill 


THE  COAST  OF  ASIA  MINOR,  NEAR  ANAMOUR. 

Anamour,  (the  ancient  Anamurium,)  is  a  deserted  mass  of  ruins  crowning  one  of  the  bold  headlands  on  the 
coast  of  Asia  Minor.  Tliis  part  of  tlie  sliore  is  described  by  travellers  as  being  wild  and  savage  in  the  extreme. 
The  rugged  masses  of  rock  which  skirt  the  land  abound  with  yawning  caverns,  from  whose  gloomy  recesses  the 
waves  send  forth  a  hollow,  ceaseless  moan,  like  voices  from  the  tomb.  Anamour  is  emphatically  a  city  of  ruins. 
The  remains  of  its  ancient  castle,  with  its  fortifications ;  the  aqueducts  which  supplied  it  witli  water  ;  vestiges  of 
the  theatres  which  once  rang  with  the  sounds  of  music  and  the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  still  resist  the  force 
of  the  winds  which  sweep  its  desolate  heights.  Outside  the  walls,  Anamour  presents,  at  first  sight,  the  appear- 
ance of  a  deserted  city.  It  is,  indeed,  a  city;  but  not  of  the  living;  it  is  a  city  of  the  dead — a  true  Necropolis. 
The  care  and  skill  exercised  by  the  ancients,  in  order  to  render  durable  the  abodes  of  the  dead,  is  here  strongly 
impressed  upon  the  mind.  Not  a  vestige  appears  of  the  dwellings  of  the  once  flourishing  city  of  Anamurium  ;  but 
its  silent  tombs,  which  bear  no  record  or  inscription,  will  endure  to  the  end  of  time. 

Such  is  Anamour  !  No  shepherd  feeds  his  fiock  amidst  its  fallen  temples,  or  its  enduring  monuments  of 
departed  generations !  No  fisherman  spreads  bis  nets  on  the  gloomy  rocks  against  which  the  waves  dash  with 
wild  fury.  Total  desolation  and  wild  and  majestic  grandeur  are  the  characteristics  of  the  scene  ;  and  Anamour, 
ouce  teeming  with  an  active  population,  and  gladdened  by  the  voices  of  children,  is  now  peopled  only  by  the 
dust  of  departed  generations.  Its  romantic  magnificence  must  ever  chann  the  eye  of  the  traveller;  yet  he  wlio 
gazes  upon  it  will  rejoice  that  his  lot  is  not  cast  in  a  region  so  dreary  and  desolate  as  this  City  op  the  Dead. 

Oh  !  sad  forsaken  city, 

We  tread  thy  noiseless  streets, 
And  no  glad  voice  of  melody 

The  stranger's  coming  greets  ; 
Only  the  foaming  billows, 

With  hollow,  ceaseless  moan. 
Send  forth  from  caverns  of  the  deep 

Their  changeless,  mournful  tone. 

The  wild  sea-birds  are  shrieking 

Along  the  lonely  sliore. 
The  storm-blast,  madly  sweeping 

Thy  fallen  temples  o'er ; 
We  gaze  upon  thy  ruins. 

Where  once  the  dance  was  led. 
And  song  pour'd  forUi — now,  all  is  still. 

Thou  city  of  the  Dead  ! 

What  bright  forms  ouce  were  glancing 

Through  thy  forsaken  bowers  ! 
How  proudly  waved  the  banners 

From  thy  once  frowning  towers  ! 


112  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

The  music  swell' d  out  gladly 

From  many  a  festal  hall, 
With  laughter  from  the  gay  young  heart — 

"Where  are  those  voices  all  ? 


Wliere  are  they  ?  lost  and  vanish'd 

With  ancient  glory  gone  ; 
Gone,  like  the  golden  clouds  of  eve 

When  the  shining  sun  goes  down. 
Oh  !  shade  of  pomp  and  grandeur. 

Where  is  thy  regal  power  ? 
What  now  is  left — what  hast  thou  still 

Of  thy  once  queenly  dower? 

Thou  hast  the  booming  waters. 

The  salt  waves'  sparkling  foam ; 
The  long  departed,  silent  Dead 

Have  found  with  thee  a  home ; 
Around  thy  walls  lie  scatter'd 

The  graves  of  other  years. 
Sad  mounds  !  where  spring  sweet  flow'rets  wild. 

But  never  wash'd  by  tears  ! 

They  who  once  trod  thy  palaces. 

Now  in  their  dreamless  sleej), 
Hear  not  the  mighty  ocean's  roai*. 

Dashing  thy  rocky  steep  : 
They  weep  not,  though  their  temples 

Have  fallen  to  decay. 
What  recks  it  that  their  fanes  have  fall'n 

To  cold  and  lifeless  clay  ? 

Ye  heed  no  tempest's  thunder, 

Ye  dwellers  in  the  tomb  j 
Ye  list  not  to  the  wild  bird's  scream. 

Piercing  the  lonely  gloom; 
Ye  cannot  gaze  up  j-onder, 

To  sullen,  storm-clad  skies. 
Ages  have  roll'd  since  ye  lay  down — 

But  soon  ve  must  arise  ! 


ES  GRAVED  BY  J 


f^.   .L>  A    :^l    ,fi^  ILl       AV  IL  IL  IE  Ji^  o 


AKOtiuisuoi*  or  >t>:cni.iN . 


CARDINAL  ALLEN.'  US 

A  little  longer  tarry, 

The  trumpet-note  shall  sound 
And  shake  those  hoary  time-worn  tombs ; 

And  from  that  desert-ground 
The  sleepers  all  shall  waken, 

Each  from  his  rocky  bed. 
And  thy  long,  quiet  rest  be  o'er, 

Thou  City  of  the  Dead  ! 


CARDINAL      ALLEN. 

Dr.  William  Allen,  Cardinal  of  England  and  Archbishop  of  Mechhn,  was  bom 
in  1532,  and  was  entered,  in  his  fifteenth  year,  at  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  under  the 
tutelage  of  the  celebrated  Morgan  Phillips,  one  of  the  first  logicians  and  disputants 
of  his  day.  Allen's  rise  to  the  great  eminence  which  he  attained  in  the  Romish 
church  is  chiefly  to  be  attributed  to  his  close  and  successful  application  to  the  study 
of  logic  and  philosophy.  He  passed  through  several  collegiate  degrees,  with  great 
reputation  as  a  man  of  extensive  learning  and  eloquence;  and,  in  1556,  being  then 
only  twenty-four  years  of  age,  he  became  principal  of  St.  IMary  Hall,  and  officiated  as 
proctor  in  the  following  year.  In  1558  he  was  made  canon  of  York;  but,  refusing 
the  oaths  on  the  accession  of  Ehzabeth,  he  forfeited  his  fellowship,  and,  in  1560, 
retired  to  the  Roman  Catholic  College  of  Louvaine,  where  he  wrote  his  first  work 
in  answer  to  Bishop  Jewel,  entitled  "A  Defence  of  the  Doctrine  of  Catholics  con- 
cerning Purgatory  and  Prayers  for  the  Dead."  Antwerp,  1565,  8vo.  This  production 
excited  great  attention,  both  at  home  and  abroad ;  and  induced  the  English  Roman 
Catholics  to  confide  to  its  author  the  tuition  of  Sir  Christopher  Blount.  In  the  same 
year,  Allen,  with  considerable  danger,  ventured  to  return  to  England,  and  \isited 
the  place  of  his  birth,  and  other  parts  of  the  country;  everywhere  labouring  by 
literary  exertions  to  advance  the  cause  of  the  deposed  religion.  Having  spent  three 
years  in  England,  he  was  compelled,  by  accumulating  dangers,  to  retire,  in  1568,  first 
to  Flanders ;  then  to  Mechlin ;  and  afterwards  to  Douay,  where  he  took  his  doctor's 
degree,  and  established  a  seminary  for  English  scholars ;  being  supported  by  a  pension 
from  the  pope.  TVhile  employed  in  this  institution,  he  was  nominated  to  a  canonry  of 
Cambray ;  and  on  an  application  from  the  English  councU  to  the  governor  of  the 
Spanish  Netherlands  to  dissolve  the  college  at  Douay,  Dr.  Allen  and  other  fugitives 
were  offered  protection  by  the  princes  of  the  house  of  Guise.  Having  received  the 
a])pointment  of  canon  of  Rheiras,  Dr.  Allen  established  a  seminary  in  that  city,  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine.  From  this  time  he  was  considered  abroad, 
as  the  chief  of  his  party,  and  at  home,  very  justly,  as  an  enemy  to  his  country ;  for 

S.  S. VOL.   I.  2  P 


114  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

in  liis  Defence  of  the  "  Twelve  Martyrs  in  one  Year,"  lie  promulgated  a  doctrine  nvlueh 
justified  the  suspension  of  all  domestic  and  civil  obligations  upon  the  score  of  religious 
opinions.  He  was  even  accused  of  having,  by  advice  of  Parsons,  the  Jesuit,  united  with 
the  English  Roman  Catholic  nobility  resident  in  Flanders,  in  persuading  Philip  II.  of 
Spain  to  undertake  the  conquest  of  their  native  country,  and  the  restoration  of  the 
papal  authority.  The  result  of  this  advice  was  happily  less  disastrous  than  the  Jesuit 
doubtless  hoped  that  it  would  prove.  Dr.  Allen  afterwards  wrote  a  defence  of  Sir 
"William  Stanley  and  Sir  Rowland  York,  who  had  joined  the  papal  party.  In  1587 
Allen  received  the  title  of  Cardinal  of  St.  Martin  in  Montibus,  with  a  rich  abbey  in 
Naples ;  and  in  1588  he  published  the  "  Declaration  of  the  Sentence  of  Sixtus  the 
Fifth ;"  and,  by  this  publication,  which  pronounced  the  Queen's  government  to  be 
impious  and  unjust,  and  herself  an  usurper,  obstinate  and  impenitent,  and  therefore 
to  be  deprived,  he  rendered  himself  famous  abroad,  and  infamous  at  home.  The 
Declaration  was  accompanied  by  a  second  part,  entitled  an  "  Admonition  to  the 
Nobility  and  People  of  England  and  Ireland ;"  in  which,  among  other  accusations,  he 
declares  the  Queen  to  be  a  bastard  daughter  of  Henry  VIII.,  by  incest  with  Anne 
Boleyn.  Though  the  attack  upon  England  did  not  succeed,  no  part  of  its  failure  was 
attributed  to  the  cardinal,  who,  according  to  promise,  was  promoted  by  the  King  of 
Spain  to  the  Archbishopric  of  Mechlin.  Sixtus  V.,  however,  would  not  sufler  him  to 
quit  Rome,  where  he  passed  his  remaining  years  in  great  splendour  and  reputation. 
Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  he  is  said  to  have  materially  altered  his  opinions,  and 
to  have  lamented  the  part  which  he  had  taken  respecting  the  intended  invasion  of 
England.  This  change  of  sentiment,  so  far,  at  least,  as  regards  politics,  has  received 
confirmation  from  a  letter  found  among  the  Burleigh  Papers,  and  addressed  from  the 
Cardinal  at  Rome,  August  14,  1593,  to  Richard  Hopkins,  in  England.  Cardinal  Allen 
died  October  6,  1594,  in  the  63rd  year  of  his  age,  and  was  interred  with  great  pomp 
in  the  chapel  of  the  English  Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  at  Rome,  where  a  monument, 
with  a  Latin  inscription,  was  erected  to  his  memory. 


THE      DUENNA. 

It  was  in  the  year  1750,  that  a  Spanish  noble,  by  name  Don  Manuel  Francis  Alvnra, 
married  Inesilla,  the  only  child  and  heiress  of  an  extremely  wealthy  merchant  of 
Valencia.  Don  Manuel  was  proud  and  daring;  his  person  was  handsome;  his  dark 
eyes  flashed  with  all  the  determination  and  haughtiness  of  an  untamed  spirit ;  and 
though  he  seldom  expressed  his  thoughts  on  the  subject,  it  was  well  known  that  he 
prided  himself  in  no  small  degree  on  his  lofty  descent,  hitherto  untainted  by  plebeian 
alliances.  Great  therefore  was  the  marvel  when  the  last  of  the  Alvai-a  race  united 
himself  in  holy  wedlock  to  the  daughter  of  a  citizen ;  and  one,  too,  who  could  not 


THE  DUENNA.  115 

boast  of  more  than  ordinary  personal  attractions.  An  immense  dower,  it  was  supposed, 
led  to  this  extraordinary  match ;  though  many,  nevertheless,  wondered,  that  any 
amount  of  wealth  could  tempt  the  proud  Alvara  to  marry  one  whose  low  origin  he 
could  not  do  otherwise  than  despise. 

For  many  years  the  fortunes  of  the  Alvara  family  had  been  on  the  decline.  The 
stately  ancestral  castle,  once  a  princely  palace,  was  falling  to  decay;  while  death  and 
the  chances  of  war  seemed  to  unite  to  complete  the  desolation  and  final  extinction 
of  the  Alvaras.  Don  Manuel  was  about  nineteen  years  of  age  when  he  encountered 
a  very  lovely  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  Castilian  grandee.  The  rank  of  Theresa 
equalled  his  own  ;  as  the  haughtiness  of  her  sire  equalled  that  of  Don  Manuel ;  and 
finally,  like  Don  Manuel,  Theresa  was  portionless ;  a  ruined  moss-grown  ancient  castle, 
the  family  inheritance,  being  her  all. 

Theresa,  who  had  scarcely  attained  the  age  of  seventeen,  possessed  the  most  radiant 
beauty,  united  to  that  grace  and  fascination  so  peculiar  to  the  females  of  the  Spanish 
aristocracy.  She  met  Don  Manncl  while  he  was  travelling  in  Castile,  and  after  a  brief 
acquaintance  and  attachment,  solemn  vows  of  love  and  fidelity  were  exchanged  between 
the  youthful  pair.  The  father  of  Theresa  rejoiced  in  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  his 
gifted  daughter,  and  he  had  early  determined  to  bestow  her  in  marriage  on  one  of  the 
richest  nobles  of  the  land.  Great  therefore  was  his  annoyance  and  anger,  when  Alvara, 
in  all  the  ardour  and  impetuosity  of  a  first  passion,  declared  his  affection  for  the 
beautiful  Theresa ;  he  forbade  the  lovers  to  meet  again,  even  to  take  a  last  farewell ; 
and  the  father  of  Don  Manuel  having  heard  that  the  fortune  of  his  son's  intended  bride 
consisted  merely  in  her  personal  attractions,  sent  a  messenger  to  recal  him  to  the 
paternal  roof.  Alvara  obeyed,  and  left  Castile  with  an  aching  heart.  No  sooner  had 
he  joined  his  father,  than  he  was  importuned  to  retrieve  the  shattered  fortunes  of  his 
family  by  marrying  Inesilla,  whose  immense  wealth  had  already  attracted  numerous 
suitors.  Alvara  steadily  refused  ;  pleading  his  attachment  to  Theresa  ;  and  his  father, 
finding  persuasion  and  threats  equally  unavailing,  had  recourse  to  artifice.  He  caused 
a  report  to  be  propagated  to  the  effect,  that  Theresa  was  on  the  point  of  mamage  with 
an  illustrious  prince  of  Sardinia ;  and  so  dexterously  was  the  plot  conducted,  that  the 
unhappy  Manuel  firmly  believed  in  the  reality  of  the  approaching  nuptials.  At  length, 
he  heard  that  Theresa  was  actually  married ;  and,  almost  frantic  with  despair  and 
resentment,  he  rushed  into  the  presence  of  Inesilla,  and  offered  her  his  hand.  It  was 
readily  accepted.  The  Valencian  merchant  was  willing  to  exchange  wealth  for  rank  ; 
and,  oljserving,  that  since  the  young  Alvara  stood  in  need  of  money,  and  his  daughter 
required  a  noble  husband,  nothing  could  have  happened  more  au.spiciously,  he  gave  his 
immediate  consent,  and  proclaimed  to  the  citizens  of  Valencia,  that  Don  Mauuel  de 
Alvara  was  the  accepted  suitor  of  Inesilla. 

The  fiither  of  Theresa  had  employed  a  like  stratagem,  but  not  with  similar  success. 
The  noble  maiden  was  told  of  Manuel's  marriage ;  and  that  day  she  left  her  home, 
accompanied  by  her  female  attendant.  No  one  knew  whither  she  had  gone,  and  all 
search  proved  unavailing.     Luise,  the  waiting-woman,  or  Duenna,  who  had  attended 


IIG  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Theresa  from  her  childhood,  heheld  with  feelings  of  the  deepest  indignation  the 
apparent  shght  offered  to  her  beloved  young  mistress.  One  virtue  alone  characterized 
this  ■woman  ;  devotion  to  the  family  whom  she  served.  On  the  day  on  which  the  news 
arrived  of  Alvara's  marriage,  Theresa,  in  her  agony  of  mind,  fled  into  the  forest  adjoining 
her  father's  domain.  Luise  followed  her — and  unknown  to  her  young  lady,  she  planned 
a  scheme  of  deadly  vengeance.  They  agreed  to  fly  to  some  distant  town,  where  Luise 
was  to  undertake  another  service.  The  Duenna  returned  to  the  house,  secretly 
conveyed  from  thence  her  mistress's  jewels,  her  little  stock  of  money,  and  some 
changes  of  raiment ;  and  then  they  travelled  to  the  small  sea-coast  town  of  Denia, 
in  the  province  of  Valencia.  Here,  under  an  assumed  name,  Theresa  inhabited  a  small 
retired  cottage,  and  Luise,  who  had  discovered  that  Alvara  had  brought  his  bride  to 
a  marine  villa  about  three  miles  distant,  offered  herself  to  InesiOa  as  her  principal 
personal  attendant.  Don  Manuel  believing,  that  in  consequence  of  Theresa's  marriage, 
the  waiting-woman  had  lost  a  home,  desired  his  bride  to  accept  Luise's  services.  It 
might  be,  that  she  reminded  him  of  the  happy  days  of  joy  and  love  spent  in  Castile, 
for  he  certainly  welcomed  the  addition  of  Luise  to  his  household.  When  a  little  time 
had  elapsed,  the  new  waiting-woman  commenced  her  operations.  She  contrived  to 
make  known  to  a  certain  young  gallant,  that  the  lady  of  Alvara  regarded  him  with 
affection.  A  corresponding  tale  she  told  to  the  vain  Inesilla ;  and  for  some  time 
messages  were  carried  between  the  unprincipled  pair  by  Luise.  From  the  gentleman 
came  importunate  requests  of  assignations,  if  it  were  only  for  a  few  moments,  and  if 
the  lady  came  attended  by  her  waiting-woman — on  the  part  of  Inesilla,  coquettish 
denials  and  procrastinations.  At  length  the  long-besought  interview  was  granted,  and 
Luise  promised  to  throw  a  half-opened  rose-bud  upon  the  terrace  of  the  garden,  as 
a  signal  that  the  visit  might  be  paid  in  safety.  Meanwhile,  the  treacherous  Duenna 
had  managed  to  convey  to  Don  Manuel  suspicions  of  his  wife's  fidelity.  When  all  was 
ripe  for  the  execution  of  her  plot,  she  caused  a  letter  to  be  sent  to  Alvara,  telling  him 
of  the  rose,  the  appointed  signal  of  meeting.  Alvara  came  in  a  muffled  disguise,  saw  the 
rose,  and  secreted  himself,  until  his  rival,  attired  in  like  manner,  entered  the  house ;  he 
then  rushed  into  the  apartment,  and  aimed  at  his  guilty  partner  a  blow  with  a  dagger, 
which  would  have  launched  her  into  eternity,  had  not  a  young  waiting-woman,  who 
professed  herself  of  African  race,  stept  forward,  and  received  the  blow  on  her  own 
bosom.  Manuel  rushed  in  horror  to  her  succour,  while  Inesilla  and  her  lover  escaped. 
He  raised  the  unfortunate  girl,  and  in  endeavouring  to  unfasten  her  dress,  he  discovered 
that  her  dark  complexion  -nas  artificial — the  features  were  familiar — the  small,  exqui- 
sitely formed  hand  was  not  to  be  mistaken ;  it  was  Theresa  !  Luise  had  introduced  her 
to  the  house  in  order  to  witness  the  triumph  over  her  rivalj  but  the  unhappy  girl,  seeing 
the  murderous  weapon  descending  upon  Inesilla,  rushed  forward.  There  was  something 
of  generosity  in  the  movement;  somethiug  of  joy  at  the  idea  of  dying  by  the  hand  she 
loved.  To  describe  the  horror  and  grief  of  Alvara  would  be  impossible ;  he  learned  from 
Luise  that  his  beloved  Theresa  had  never  been  unfaithful,  and  there  she  lay  before  him, 
slain  by  his  own  hand  !    But  when  Luise  the  Duenna,  discovered  that  Don  Manuel  had 


C:  CArrr.if-'ioi. 


^//^-       _////'//////' 


THE  PIRATE'S  DAUGHTER.  117 

also  been  deceived,  and  that  he  had  never  sought  the  hand  of  Inesilla  until  after  the 
report  of  Theresa's  marriage  had  reached  him,  her  malignant  fury  and  grief  changed 
to  the  bitterest  remorse.  Alvara  left  his  home,  and  wandered  in  distant  lands  till  his 
death,  which  happened  early.  Inesilla,  deserted  by  her  lover,  died  in  misery ;  and  Luise, 
bowed  down  by  the  sense  of  her  own  guilt,  retired  to  a  convent,  where,  after  practising 
for  a  few  months  all  the  austerities  of  a  most  severe  order,  she  also  died.  On  her  tomb 
was  simply  inscribed  her  name,  and  these  words — "  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay, 
saith  the  Lord."  In  after  years  the  nuns  left  the  convent;  the  building  and  the 
cemetery  fell  to  decay ;  but  when  a  stranger  wandered  over  the  gray  and  weed-clad 
walls  of  the  deserted  convent,  he  was  always  shown  the  Tomb  of  the  Duenna. 


THE     PIRATE'S     DAUGHTER. 

Night  broods  o'er  the  blue  Arabian  sea 

Dim  shade  hangs  over  the  laurel  tree  j 

Fountains,  whose  murmurs  by  daylight  sleep. 

In  the  shadowy  hour  have  waked  to  weep ; 

And  the  long  bright  leaves  that  bend  o'er  the  wave. 

Droop  sadly  down  from  the  misty  cave ; 

And  the  shining  stars  o'er  the  ocean  lone. 

Seem  musing  of  glory  and  sunbeams  gone. 

Hark  !    I  hear  the  sound  of  that  solemn  roar. 

As  the  billows  break  on  the  rocky  shore. 

Dashing  along  over  stone  and  shell, 

From  the  inmost  depths  of  the  pale  pearl's  cell. 

Yes  !  so  have  I  heard  it  in  days  of  glee. 

When  the  waves  made  music  right  merrily ; 

So  have  I  heard  it  at  even-tide. 

When  my  bark  on  its  tranquil  breast  would  glide. 

And  ONE  at  my  side — he  sleepeth  now. 

Beneath  those  blue  waters'  ceaseless  flow  ; 

Deep  down,  where  the  wrecks  of  all  rich  things  lie. 

In  his  manly  beauty,  he  sank  to  die  ! 

Who  laid  him  there  in  his  couch  so  low 

'Mid  the  coral  isles  ?  My  father  !  'twas  thou 

Didst  take  in  thy  fury  his  young  bright  life; 

Thy  hand  smote  fiercely  in  battle-strife. 

And  the  pulse  of  life,  and  the  flashing  eye, 

Were  smitten  when  none  save  the  foe  was  by. 

S.  S.^VOL.  I.  3  G 


118  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Would  /  had  been  there,  in  that  hour  of  death. 

To  catch  the  last  sigh  of  his  mortal  breath ! 

His  last  faint  whisperings  I  might  have  heard. 

And  breathed  in  his  ear  one  parting  word. 

My  father !  look  not  on  thy  dying  child 

With  a  brow  so  stern,  and  a  glance  so  wild ; 

We  loved  !    Was  it  crime  to  love  so  well  ? 

Was  there  crime  in  that  lingering,  fond  farewell, 

When  we  parted  in  grief  on  that  sunny  day. 

As  he  launch'd  his  boat  o'er  the  deep,  away  ? 

My  father  !  I  knew  not,  that  long  ago. 

Thou  and  his  sire  met  as  foe  to  foe ; 

Oh !    I  knew  it  not  till  that  fearful  night. 

When  the  red  blaze  broke  o'er  the  waters  bright. 

And  they  told  me,  that  there,  in  the  moonlit  bay, 

A  Corsair  frigate  had  been  thy  prey ; 

They  told  me,  how  on  the  decks  had  lain 

The  clay-cold  forms  of  the  gallant  slain. 

And  my  woman's  pity  burst  forth  in  grief, 

That  the  life  of  the  brave  must  be  so  brief. 

There  was  woe  in  my  heart ;  but  I  little  dream'd 

Whose  life-blood  forth  on  those  decks  had  stream' d. 

Till  I  heard  thee  tell,  with  a  smile  of  pride, 

JVho  by  thy  red-stain'd  hand  had  died ; 

Till,  'midst  the  long  boast  of  thy  pirate-fame. 

Coldly  and  proudly  thou  namedst  His  name. 

'Twas  enough — one  word — and  the  work  was  done ; 

In  the  noon  of  my  life,  it  was  set-of-sun. 

Can  the  blossom  live  on  when  its  root  is  dead  ? 

Can  the  hills  look  green  when  the  light  has  fled  ? 

So  the  heart  that  has  loved,  knows  nought  of  mirth 

When  its  treasure  is  gone  from  this  sin-struck  earth. 

Since  then,  the  springs  of  my  life  have  fail'd. 

And  the  rich  rose-bloom  on  my  cheek  hath  paled. 

And  when  by  the  cold,  dark  waves  I  have  stood. 

Watching  their  foam  on  the  mighty  flood, 

I  have  gazed  and  gazed  on  that  liquid  plain. 

Till  my  fever'd  fancyings  saw  again 

His  white  sail  specking  the  bright  blue  sky. 

With  his  blood-red  flag  from  the  mast  on  high  ! 

It  was  but  a  dream — there  was  nothing  there. 

Save  the  rocks,  and  the  sea,  and  the  cloudless  air. 


THE  PIRATE'S  DAUGHTER.  119 

Yet  there  came  no  tears,  like  the  fresh  spring-rain ; 

There  woke  in  my  heart  no  sorrowful  strain. 

Could  I  have  wept,  or  have  breathed  my  woe, 

I  still  might  have  linger'd  here  below  ; 

But  hke  to  a  bud  on  whose  petals'  bloom 

The  canker  hath  been,  so  a  spirit  of  gloom 

Hath  shadow'd  my  path  on  my  own  fair  shore  — 

My  father !  I  tread  its  old  cliffs  no  more. 

Speak  to  me  gently — I  thee  have  forgiven. 

Though  the  cords  of  my  mortal  life  are  riven ; 

Though  the  shade  of  the  tomb  o'er  my  way  be  flung, 

And  the  mosque-bell  of  evening  prayer  be  rungj 

Yet  call  not  me  forth  at  the  sunset  hour. 

When  the  twilight  mists  on  the  mountains  lower. 

Yet  I  forgive  thee ;  Oh !  father  mine, 

I  am  thine  own  child — for  ever  thine. 

If  I  loved  not  wisely,  what  recketh  it  now. 

When  the  chill  death-damps  are  upon  my  brow  ? 

I  have  known  deep  sorrow,  but  not  disgrace ; 

Hold  me  once  more  in  one  long  embrace. 

My  mother  sleeps  well  'neath  the  cypress  shade. 

In  the  far-off  city  to  rest  she  is  laid. 

My  fair  young  sister,  whose  fragile  form, 

Like  mine,  was  crush'd  by  the  first  wild  storm ; 

But  lay  me  not  there,  by  my  sister's  side. 

Not  there ;  where  she  moulders — a  widow'd  bride  j 

Nor  yet  where  the  purple  violets  fling 

O'er  my  mother's  grave  their  breath  in  spring ; 

No !  let  me  lie  down  'mid  the  corals  below. 

Where  the  gushing  waves  o'er  bright  gems  flow ; 

Calm  shall  I  rest  in  that  quiet  bed. 

Till  the  sea  shall  restore  her  countless  dead. 

I  loved  her  blue  waters  in  childhood's  days. 

When  they  burn'd  with  the  crimson  of  sun-set  rays. 

Or  as  since,  I  have  seen  them  when  tempests  rave. 

But  I  love  them  now,  because  there  his  grave 

Is  hidden  to  all  save  one  piercing  eye. 

So  gently  the  waves  on  his  bosom  lie  ! 

Now  the  light  glimmers,  the  lamp  grows  dim. 

And  a  low  sweet  sound  like  some  choral  hymn. 

Floats  through  the  caves  of  our  lonely  home. 

Softly  commingling  with  ocean's  moan. 


120  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Hush  !  'tis  a  holy,  unearthly  strain, 
'Tis  bidding  me  pass  from  this  world  of  pain. 
It  comes  to  my  soul  like  a  heavenly  spell, — 
The  struggle  is  over — farewell — farewell ! 

She  spake  no  more ;  and  the  lingering  flush 

Fled  from  her  lips ;  and  the  passing  blush 

That  had  tinged  for  a  moment  her  wasted  cheek, 

Left  it  coldly  pale,  as  a  lily  meek  j 

And  the  raven-ringlets  all  free  and  tmbound. 

Fell  hke  a  cloud,  to  the  rocky  ground. 

Her  spirit  was  freed ;  she  no  longer  could  stay 

From  the  glory  and  light  of  eternity's  day. 

And  the  Pirate  gazed  on  that  brow  so  mild, 

And  the  pale,  still  lips  of  his  last  fair  child. 

He  had  laid  her  in  deathly  silence  drear. 

And  he  turn'd  away  in  his  mute  despair. 

He  gazed  on  the  cave  and  the  mountain-chain. 

And  the  motionless  face  of  his  child  again  ; 

Then  he  departed — he  spread  his  sail. 

And  his  boat  bounded  on  through  the  stormy  gale, 

O'er  the  wild,  dark  waters — but  never  more 

Came  his  Pirate-bark  to  that  silent  shore. 


A     FRENCH     MARRIAGE. 

It  was  once  my  lot,  while  traveUing  on  the  Continent  with  some  friends,  and  spending 
some  time  at  Paris,  to  witness  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  ceremonies ;  viz.,  a  French 
Marriage.  Rambling  about  the  city  with  no  very  definite  purpose,  it  chanced,  that 
we  entered  the  noble  church  of  St.  Roch ;  and  there  saw,  arranged  before  the  decorated 
altar — the  sacred  building  being  filled  with  incense  and  harmony — a  bridal  couple  with 
their  attendants  and  friends. 

The  bridegroom  was  a  noble-looking  youth ;  but  the  bride  was  exquisitely  beautiful. 
As  she  stood  there  with  the  long  lashes  sweeping  her  clear  cheek,  and  the  ebon  hair 
parted  simply  back  from  her  queenly  brow,  she  seemed  a  creature  all  radiant  with  life 
and  lovehuess.  She  wore  a  robe  of  spotless  white,  and  a  wreath  of  orange-flowers  and 
myrtle  intermingled  with  lilies-of-the-valley  and  white  rose-buds ;  while  her  graceful 
form  was  shaded  by  a  long  floating  vail  of  the  finest  lace.  She  was  rather  above  the 
middle  size ;    dark-eyed  and  dark-haired ;    singulai'ly  fair,  for  a  Frenchwoman ;  and 


t 


V 

.1 


A  FRENCH  MARRIAGE.  121 

showing  on  her  cheek  a  rosy  glow  wliich  alternately  flushed  and  faded  as  she  repeated 
the  various  formulae  required  by  the  Romish  Church  as  a  part  of  the  matrimonial 
service.  Four  young  bride-maids  stood  around,  looking,  each  and  all,  with  their  white 
muslin,  their  white  roses,  and  their  bright  smiles  and  blushes,  exceedingly  interesting 
and  peculiarly  well  fitted  to  discharge,  with  elegance  and  simplicity,  the  graceful  duties 
which  belonged  to  their  maidenly  office. 

The  church  was  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  spread  with  carpets  for  the  accom- 
modation of  the  high-born  throng.  Numerous  priests,  in  their  richly-embroidered 
and  flowing  robes,  were  in  attendance ;  he  who  performed  the  principal  part  of  the 
ceremony  being  an  old  man  of  striking  appearance.  Before  him  stood  two  boys,  at 
some  distance  from  each  other,  holding  over  the  kneeling  pair  who  were  mutually 
exchanging  the  irrevocable  vow,  the  embroidered  drapery  which  forms  a  singular 
feature  in  the  French  marriage  ceremonial ;  while  the  prayers  were  intermingled  with 
the  harmonious  chants  and  anthems  of  the  choir. 

At  length  the  ceremony  was  concluded;  the  officiating  priest  had  blessed  the 
newly-married  pair ;  the  sacrament  of  the  Eucharist  had  been  administered  to  them ; 
tlie  organ  burst  forth  in  a  magnificent  jubilate  ;  the  bridal  train  passed  down  the  long 
aisles  of  the  ancient  church  ;   and  all  was  still. 

An  acolyte  being  now  engaged  in  restoring  all  things  to  their  accustomed  order, 
I  ventured  to  ask  of  him  the  name  of  the  beautiful  bride.  He  answered,  that  the  lady 
was  Mademoiselle  Virginie  St.  Eugene ;  and  upon  being  further  questioned,  he  entered, 
nothing  loth,  upon  the  personal  history  of  the  fair  Virginie  and  her  lover.  His  narrative, 
or  rather  his  mode  of  communicating  it,  was  somewhat  tedious;  for  he  spoke  slowly; 
used  much  circumlocution ;  and  fi-equently  digressed  into  irrelevant  matter.  His  tale, 
however,  possessed  strong  points  of  interest ;  and  was,  in  substance,  as  follows  : — 

Virginie  St.  Eugene  was  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  small  fortune,  but  of  good 
family  and  high  character.  Near  to  her  father's  habitation  was  situated  the  Chateau 
de  Breuillet,  at  that  time  inhabited  by  the  young  count,  who  had  lately  succeeded  to 
his  uncle's  title  and  vast  possessions.  This  noble  youth  became  attached  to  Virginie ; 
and  with  the  full  consent  of  M.  St.  Eugene,  the  young  people  were  betrothed  to  each 
other ;  and  Virginie  promised  to  become  the  bride  of  the  Count  de  Breuillet,  so  soon  as 
she  should  have  attained  her  twentieth  year.     At  this  time  she  was  scarcely  eighteen. 

A  few  months  had  passed  away,  when  a  new  claimant  of  the  title  and  vast  estates 
of  Breuillet  made  his  appearance.  A  lawsuit  was  commenced ;  and  after  a  protracted 
and  carefully-conducted  investigation,  justice  was  compelled  to  decide  against  the 
youth  who  had  hitherto  borne  the  title  of  Count  de  Breuillet.  Without  rank  or 
riches,  Henri  de  Breuillet  went  forth  into  the  worid  to  acquire  for  himself  a  name  and 
the  means  of  subsistence.  He  off'ered  to  liberate  Virginie  from  her  engagement ;  but 
the  noble-minded  maiden  replied,  "  I  am  betrothed  to  Henri  de  BreuUlet,  not  to  the 
count ;  and  I  will  never  wed  another." 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  months  Henri  obtained  a  government-situation  sufficiently 
lucrative  to  enable  him  to  live  in  comfort,  but  not  afl"ording  any  of  the  luxuries  of 
s.  s. — VOL.  I.  2  n 


122  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

■wealth.  By  this  time  Virginie  had  completed  her  twentieth  year.  She  had  been 
separated  from  her  lover  for  more  than  thirteen  months,  during  which  time  her 
father  had  carried  her  to  Paris ;  where  she  had  been  the  flower  and  the  star  of  every 
assembly  which  she  graced  by  her  presence.  Noble  and  wealthy  suitors  knelt  at 
her  feet,  but  in  vain ;  and  her  father,  though  inwardly  annoyed  at  her  rejection  of  so 
many  desirable  alliances,  could  not  but  admire  the  firmness  of  her  unvarying  constancy 
to  her  ruiued  lover. 

At  length,  Henri  de  Breuillet  wrote  to  inquire  of  Virginie  whether  her  affection  for 
him  remained  unchanged ;  and,  if  so,  whether  her  father  would  yield  his  consent  to 
their  marriage.  M.  St.  Eugene,  though  disappointed  in  his  aspiring  views  for  his 
dauo-hter,  was  too  honourable  to  retract  his  promise ;  and  the  nuptial  day  was  fixed. 
The  preparations  made  by  Virginie  were  simple  in  the  extreme ;  and  when  some  of  her 
youu"  companions  remonstrated  with  her  on  the  score  of  the  utter  absence  of  the 
splendour  which,  in  their  opinion,  ought  to  have  attended  the  auspicious  event, 
she  smiled  so  brightly,  that  even  her  lovely  face  became  yet  lovelier ;  and  her  bride- 
maids  were  constrained  to  allow  that  there  might,  perhaps,  be  a  ha[  py  marriage,  without 
jewels ;  or  magnificent  equipages ;  or  troops  of  fashionable  friends. 

The  wedding  morning  came ;  but  an  liour  before  that  which  was  appointed  for  the 
celebration  of  the  marriage,  Henri  was  summoned  away  on  urgent  business.  The 
person  who  had  justly  claimed  his  titles  and  estates,  had  just  died,  suddenly  and  child- 
less ;  and,  once  more  Count  de  Breuillet,  Henri  returned  to  lay  his  re-acquired  wealth 
and  honours  at  the  feet  of  his  constant  Virginie.  The  marriage  was  deferred  for  a  short 
time ;  and  then  M.  St.  Eugene  had  the  satisfaction  of  bestowing,  amid  a  concourse  of 
sympathizing  friends,  the  hand  of  his  beautiful  and  high-minded  daughter,  on  the 
wealthy  and  happy  Count  de  Breuillet. 


LOVE. 


'Tis  eve ;  and  the  arch  of  the  sunset  skies 
Is  bathed  in  rich  light  of  a  thousand  dies  ; 
All  nature  is  still ;  for  the  languishing  breeze. 
Laden  with  fragrance,  scarce  stirreth  the  trees  j 
And  flowers  of  all  hues  shed  their  beauty  there, 
Breathing  their  scents  to  the  calm  summer-air ; 
And  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  bee's  heavy  hum 
Has  ceased  with  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun. 

'Tis  an  hour  which  a  maiden's  heart  may  move 
Softly  to  muse  on  her  absent  love; 


l^^y^ 


LOVE.  123 

And  now  while  the  beams  of  the  fading  day. 

Are  dissolving  in  roseate  light  away, 

See  Jessica  stealing  in  beauty  rare, 

While  the  moonbeams  disport  in  her  silken  hair. 

With  a  step  so  light,  that  the  daisy's  head 

Scarce  bends  to  the  weight  of  her  gentle  tread. 

She  hies  to  the  grove  where  the  nightingale's  song 

Re-echoes  her  lonely  haunts  among ; 

And  while  Philomel  pours  on  her  heedless  ear, 

Floods  of  sound  it  might  witch  the  world  to  hear, 

She  thinks  but  of  him,  who  in  regions  afar. 

Is  the  light  of  her  eyes,  her  guiding  star. 

Of  him,  for  whose  vows  pledged  in  by-gone  time. 

She  devotes  her  young  heart,  and  her  hfe's  sweet  prime. 

And  what  doth  she  draw  from  her  bosom's  fold  ? 

And  what  doth  she  grasp  with  a  loving  hold  ? 

'Tis  the  image  of  him,  whose  long-plighted  truth 

Is  the  hope  of  her  age,  the  joy  of  her  youth ; 

Of  him,  who  hath  sworn  to  return  yet  again, 

And  herself  for  his  peerless  bride  to  claim ; 

Of  him  by  whose  side  she  believes  it  is  given, 

That  her  path  shall  be  trodden  from  earth  to  heaven. 

And  she  talks  to  her  sisters,  a  beauteous  train, 

Of  her  deep-cherish'd  hopes,  again  and  again ; 

For  she  dreams  not,  that  man's  is  a  less  constant  love 

Than  that  which  her  own  maiden-bosom  doth  prove, 

And  she  recks  not  of  doubt ;  for  hath  he  not  sworn. 

In  love's  own  persuasive  and  tenderest  tone. 

That,  come  weal,  or  come  woe,  he  will  make  her  liis  bride. 

Nor  ever  waste  thought  on  a  maiden  beside  ? 

Alas !  gentle  Jessica !  sad  is  thy  lot ! 

Lord  William  forgets  thee ;  nay,  long  hath  forgot ; 

But  mourn  not ;  the  false  one  deserves  not  thy  sighs. 

Deserves  not  the  tear-drops  that  dim  tby  meek  eyes. 

Forget  him,  sweet  Jessica ;  pass  on  thy  way. 

Through  storm  and  through  sunshine  in  this  mortal  day; 

Content  if  thou  reach  that  blest  haven  above. 

Where  all  is  sweet  peace,  and  unchangeable  love. 


124 


MRS.      P  I  E  T   C   H  E  R. 
(formerly  miss  jewsbxjry.) 

This  gifted  lady  was  born  in  Warwickshire,  in  the  year  1800.  During  her  early 
youth,  her  family  settled  themselves  at  Manchester ;  and  there  Miss  Jewsbury  lived 
till  her  marriage  with  the  Rev.  Kew  Fletcher,  an  event  which  took  place  on  the 
2nd  of  August,  1832. 

Although  the  personal  history  of  this  lady  affords,  comparatively,  but  few  incidents 
which  the  biographer  will  deem  worthy  of  being  recorded,  the  contemplation  of  her 
character  and  literary  career  cannot  fail  to  supply  food  for  profitable  meditation. 
That  so  bright  a  star  should  have  set  so  early,  may  seem  to  be  matter  of  unmingled 
regret.  In  her  case,  however,  the  poet's  admonition  would  appear  to  be  singularly 
applicable : 

"  ^VeeJ1  not  for  her,  in  her  spring-time  she  flew 
To  the  land  where  the  wings  of  the  soul  are  unfurl'd." 

Slie  left  the  world  before  her  genius  was  fully  revealed;  and  before  the  Christian 
character,  of  which  she  bore  decisive  marks,  would  seem  to  have  reached  its  fuU 
maturity.  While  we  cannot  but  grieve  over  the  premature  grave  of  one  whom  we 
might  deem  singularly  well  qualified  to  delight  and  improve  all  who  might  come  within 
the  sphere  of  her  example,  or  her  writings ;  we  should  remember  that  He,  at  whose 
"  bidding  thousands  speed,"  needs  not  the  instrumentality  even  of  the  most  gifted  of 
his  creatures  in  the  working  out  of  his  own  purposes;  and  that  the  tenant  of  the 
early  grave  over  which  men  weep,  is  often  taken,  in  mercy,  "  from  the  evil  to  come." 
These  considerations  may  serve  to  check  those  "  natural  tears"  which  might  otherwise 
be  called  forth  by  the  removal  from  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow,  of  a  woman  of 
genius  and  piety, 

"  Ere  life's  early  lustre  had  time  to  grow  pale, 
And  the  garland  of  love  was  yet  fresh  on  her  brow." 

It  is  further  to  be  considered,  that  genius,  especially  genius  like  that  which 
distinguished  Miss  Jewsbury,  is  often  a  highly  dangerous  gift.  The  author  of  "  The 
Enthusiast,"  has,  in  that  remarkable  production,  given  to  the  world  a  striking  and 
very  touching  picture  of  the  restlessness,  the  insatiable  thirst  after  that  which  is  here 
unattainable,  and  the  misery  too  often  attendant  upon  superior  intellect,  when  that 
intellect  is  associated  with  feminine  weakness  and  ill-regulated  susceptibility  of  heart. 
The  character  of  Julia,  with  more  justice  than  is  usually  practised  in  such  cases,  has 
been  identified  with  that  of  the  author  herself;  but  though,  by  her  own  confession, 
the  childhood,  the  opening  years,  and  many  of  the  after- opinions  of  her  heroine, 
are  drawn  from  her  own  personal  history  and  experience,  the  listless  dissatisfaction 


/^  y-^^^^^A/y 


MRS.  FLETCHER.  1-2.-) 

and  dreary  wretcheilncss  which  are  described  as  the  lot  of  the  ideal  Julia,  form  an 
uudeniable  and  stiiking  contrast  with  the  iudefatigalilc  industry,  the  practical  useful- 
ness, and  the  cheerful  piety,  which,  "Enthusiast"  though  she  were,  marked  the  later 
years  of  the  lamented  subject  of  this  memoir. 

The  mental  constitution  of  Miss  Jewsbury  was  such  as  especially  qualified  her 
to  shine  in  society.  Her  keen  talent  for  observation,  although  dashed  by  a  proneness 
to  satire,  was  united  with  a  playful  temper,  and  an  amiable  and  aflectionate  disposition. 
She  had  also  a  rich  imagination ;  and  when  her  own  feelings  were  strongly  excited, 
she  exercised,  over  the  minds  of  others,  a  power  which  was  increased  by  a  ccitain 
shade  of  pensive  melancholj',  observable  even  during  the  hours  of  her  most  tiium- 
phant  success,  and  having  its  origin  in  habitual  thoughts  of  death,  and  of  the  world 
unseen.  This  singular  union  of  gaiety  and  solemnity  rendered  intellectual  comrauiiioii 
with  Miss  Jewsbury  a  thing  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  impression  made  by  social 
intercourse  with  her,  remained  for  ever,  a  bright  spot  in  the  memory,  nucffaced  arid 
unefFaceable  by  any  subsequent  companionship  on  earth. 

Ordinary  minds  can  perhaps  scarcely  appreciate  the  temptations  which  must  have 
beset  a  woman  thus  gifted.  That  JNIiss  Jewsbury's  feelings  should,  in  many  particulai's, 
have  borne  too  close  a  resemblance  to  those  which  she  has  described  as  belonging  to  her 
"  Enthusiast,"  can  be  no  matter  of  wonder.  The  wonder  rather  is,  that,  richly  endowed  as 
she  was,  she  should  have  devoted  herself,  as  she  did,  to  domestic  duties  in  the  family  of 
her  widowed  father.  In  this  feature  of  her  character,  she  gave  evidence  of  a  solidity 
of  principle  and  a  soundness  of  judgment  not  always  found  in  conjunction  with  high 
intellectual  endowments ;  and  in  this  particular  her  conduct  is  peculiarly  to  be 
recommended  to  the  attention  and  imitation  of  women  who  may  be,  in  any  degree, 
similarly  endowed.  From  lack  of  attention  to  her  duties  as  a  woman,  sprang,  as  there 
seems  good  reason  to  believe,  much  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  gifted  friend 
of  Miss  Jewsbury,  Felicia  Hemans.  The  characters  of  both  these  daughters  of  genius 
may  be  advantageously  studied,  especially  by  the  younger  among  their  admiring 
countrywomen ;  the  one  as  a  warning,  the  other  as  an  example. 

Never  did  Miss  Jewsbury's  character  display  itself  iu  a  fairer  light  than  on  her 
recovery,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  from  an  illness  which  had  rendered  it  necessary  tiiat 
she  should  relinquish  her  accustomed  domestic  occupations.  At  this  period  she  wrote 
lier  beautiful  "Letters  to  the  Young;"  many  of  which  letters  were  personally 
addressed  to  young  friends  of  her  own;  and  all  of  which  enforce  the  necessity 
of  that  entire  devotedness  of  heart  to  God,  without  which  outward  duties  have  no 
value  in  his  sight. 

One  rule  of  conduct  which  this  lady,  on  the  re-establishment  of  her  health, 
laid  down  for  herself,  ought  to  be  mentioned  to  her  honour.  So  fearful  was  she, 
having  the  sole  charge  of  a  large  family,  and  knowing  the  bent  of  her  own  tastes, 
of  being  seduced  from  the  discharge  of  the  duties  to  which  it  had  pleased  God 
to  call  her,  that  she  made  it  a  point  of  conscience  never  to  take  up  a  book  till  all 
the   young   ptoiile   under   her   care   had    retired    for   tiie  night.     Then,    indeed,    she 


126  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

drank  from  the  well  of  knowledge  with  an  avidity  which  only  kindred  minds  can 
conceive. 

There  is,  however,  good  reason  to  believe,  that  Miss  Jewshury's  ardent  desire  of 
literary  distinction  was  soon  superseded  by  nobler  principles  and  incentives.  She  was 
but  nine  years  old,  when  the  thirst  after  earthly  fame,  "  the  ambition  of  writing  a  book, 
being  praised  publicly,  and  associating  with  authors,"  seized  her  "  as  a  vapid  longing." 
The  desire  of  her  heart  was  afterwards  granted  ;  and  what  was  the  result  ?  even  such 
as  it  ever  must  be  when  the  heart  is  set  on  earthly  objects — ^keen  regret,  disappoint- 
ment and  dissatisfaction,  even  in  the  attainment  of  the  desired  good !  "  Vanity  of 
vanities;  vanity  of  vanities!"  was  the  bitter  experience  of  her  soul. 

"  I  have  done  nothing  to  live,"  such  is  the  tenor  of  her  reflections ;  "  and  what 
I  have  done  must  pass  away  with  a  thousand  other  blossoms,  the  growth,  the  beauty, 
the  oblivion  of  a  day." 

"  I  feel  the  long  grass  growing  o'er  my  heart.  In  the  best  of  everything  I  have 
done,  you  will  find  one  leading  idea — death.  All  thoughts,  all  images,  all  contrasts 
of  thoughts  and  images,  are  derived  from  living  much  in  the  valley  of  that  shadow." 

As  a  writer.  Miss  Jewsbury  is  well  known  to  the  world.  Her  poetry,  perhaps  wants 
somewhat  of  melody  and  ease ;  but  this  defect  is  abundantly  compensated  by  the  full 
recognition,  in  many  of  her  poetical  compositions,  of  those  religious  principles  on  which 
all  moral  excellence  depends. 

There  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  strongly  expressed  in  the  writings  of  Miss  Jews- 
bury,  than  her  own  deep  sense  of  the  unsatisfactory  nature  and  utter  insufficiency  of 
all  earthly  enjoyments.  Even  human  sympathy,  she  felt  to  be  a  frail  and  evanescent 
thing.  What  then  remained  for  one  who  had  sought  after,  and  obtained  everything 
which,  to  her  ambition  or  her  intellectual  tastes,  had  appeared  desirable,  and  had 
learned  by  experience,  even  in  the  prime  of  life,  that  all  was  "  vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit  ?"  What,  but  to  seek,  in  dependence  upon  the  Saviour,  through  whom  alone  it 
can  be  obtained,  that  "  better  part,"  that  heavenly  treasure,  which  alone  can  satisfy 
the  immortal  soul  of  man  ?    She  sought  it ;  and  obtained  rest  to  her  soul. 

Among  other  points  of  character,  Miss  Jewsbury  was  distinguished  by  the  strength 
and  warmth  of  her  benevolent  affections. 

The  following  stanzas,  addressed,  after  meeting  her  for  the  first  time,  to  the  highly 
gifted  and  most  unhappy  Letitia  E.  Landon  (L.  E.  L.)  may  illustrate  the  truth  of  this 
observation  : — 

"  Good  night !    I  have  no  jewels, 
As  parting  gifts  to  bring ; 
But  here's  a  frank  and  kind  farewell, 
Thou  gay  and  gifted  thing. 

In  the  lonely  hours  of  night, 

When  the  face  puts  oif  its  mask ; 
When  the  fever'd  day  is  o'er, 

And  the  heart  hath  done  its  task  ; 


MRS.  FLETCHER.  127 

Then,  then,  I'll  think  of  thee,  my  friend, 

With  soft,  sad,  earnest  thought, 
As  of  a  child  from  fairy-land 

Into  the  desert  brought. 

As  of  a  rose  at  noon-tide 

Waving  proudly  to  the  view ; 
Yet  wanting  in  its  crimson  depth, 

The  early  drop  of  dew. 

As  of  a  tree  in  autumn. 

With  its  green  leaves  tum'd  to  gold, 
But  having  on  the  healthy  bough 

A  faint  decaying  hold. 

As  of  rills  that  run  in  summer. 

With  bright  and  cai'eless  glee  ; 
Wilt  thou  blame  me,  my  too  careless  friend. 

If  thus  I  think  of  thee? 

I  would  my  home  were  lovely, 

A3  some  which  thou  hast  sung  ; 
And  would  there  were  around  it 

All  lavish  beauty  flung. 

I  would  bear  thee  to  its  bosom ; 

Thou  should'st  dwell  with  nature  free ; 
And  the  dew  of  early  truthfulness 

Would  soon  come  back  to  thee. 

Thou  should'st  dwell  in  some  fair  valley, 

Amid  the  true  and  kind  ; 
And  mom  should  make  each  motmtain 

A  Memnon  to  thy  mind. 

Alas !  alas !  my  dwelling 

Is  amid  a  way-worn  world ; 
And  my  vision,  like  a  banner. 

But  open'd  to  be  furl'd. 

And  yet  my  thoughts  turn  to  thee, 

They  kind  and  anxious  turn ; 
I  foresee  for  thee  a  future, 

■Which  will  have  much  to  learn. 

Thy  life  is  false  and  feverish  ; 

It  is  like  a  masque  to  thee  ; 
When  the  task  and  glare  are  over. 

And  thou  grievest— come  to  me." 


These  verses  are  doubly  touching,  when  we  caU  to  mind  the  clouds  and  darkness 
amid  which  the  sun  of  poor  L.E.L.  went  down  ! 

In  1832  the  gifted  lady  of  whom  we  write,  proceeded  with  her  husband,  the  Rev. 
Kew  Fletcher,  to  India.      Here  she  was  called  upon  to  drink  yet  deeper  draughts 


128  THE  PEOPLE'S  GALLERY  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

of  that  cup  of  tribulation  which  is  presented  to  all  whose  "  names  are  written  in 
heaven,"  and  her  Christian  virtues  wore  consequently  matured  and  brought  into 
eificient  exercise. 

Her  husband  was  attacked  by  dangerous  illuess ;  the  cholera  was  raging  around 
her;  and  her  abode  was  thronged  by  native  women  and  children,  whose  hearts  she  won 
bv  commiserating,  and  as  far  as  possible  relieving,  their  sufferings  :  thus  con\'incing 
them,  that  the  Christian  religion  is  indeed  a  religion  which  iuduct^s  those  who  receive 
it  to  be  kind  and  tender-hearted ;  and  to  weep  with  those  that  weep ;  and  preparing 
tliem  to  listen  favourably  to  those  essential  doctrines  of  the  gospel  which  it  was  her 
niiiin  object  to  instil  into  their  minds. 

The  term  of  her  usefulness  was,  however,  now  near  its  close.  She  died  of  Asiatic 
cholera,  on  the  3rd  of  October,  1833. 

Her  friend  and  sister  in  genius,  Felicia  Hemans,  thus  expi-essed  her  feelings  on 
receiving  the  tidings  of  Mrs.  Fletcher's  decease.  "  It  hung  the  more  heavily  upon  my 
spirits,  because  the  subject  of  death,  and  the  mighty  futuie,  had  been  so  many  times 
that  of  our  confideutial  communion.  How  much  deeper  power  seemed  to  lie  coiled  up, 
as  it  were,  in  the  recesses  of  her  mind,  than  was  ever  manifested  to  the  world  in  her 
writings  !  Strange  and  sad  does  it  seem,  that  only  the  broken  music  of  such  a  spirit  has 
been  given  to  the  earth ;  the  full  and  finished  harmony,  never  drawn  forth." 

Noiv,  that  harmony  is  fully  drawn  forth,  to  cease  no  more  for  ever ;  for  now,  as 
we  may  venture  earnestly  to  believe,  her  ransomed  spirit  has  joined  that  great  multitude 
"  whose  number  is  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  and  thousands  of  thousands,"  in 
the  "new  song"  which  they  will  sing  eternally  before  the  throne  of  God  and  of  the 
Lamb — "  Thou  wast  slain,  and  hast  redeemed  us  to  God  by  thy  blood." 


i^' 


'% 


:^.?-'V' 


^- 


R 


r 


.^^"K     > 


smi' 


i^* 


tn     '^ 

^B 

mj 

?e 

i 

i 

^i^' 


'^ 


'-■^K