Book Boards
Frontispiece
painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by W. Humphreys
Title Page
The Bijou;
or Annual of Literature and the Arts
compiled by William
Fraser
London: William Pickering,
1828
Dedication Page
[Page v] |
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The few observations which are necessary to be prefixed to this volume, will contain
little more than acknowledgements to the distinguished literary characters, and
eminent artists whose respective productions adorn its pages; as it is on those
productions the Publisher rests his hopes that it will be deemed entitled to an
elevated station among the Annual publications, not of this country only, but of
Europe. Far from wishing, however, to institute invidious comparisons, he only
assets for it an equal claim to the notice and patronage of the public; for whether
with respect to its graphic illustrations, or its literary merits, he feels assured
that it will not be found inferior to any, even if it does not excel most, of its
contemporaries.
To describe the Editor's obligations to this various friends in adequate terms would
require space infinitely beyond that to which a preface is necessarily limited; but
in briefly expressing his gratitude to the celebrated characters who have cheerfully
afforded him the assistance of their talents, he will not only perform a grateful
duty, but at the same time tacitly urge the pretensions which he considers "THE
BIJOU" to possess to public favor.
To sir Walter Scott the proprietors and himself
[Page vi] |
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are
indebted for the interesting letter explanatory of the picture of his family, with
an
engraving of which, through the liberality of its possessor Sir Adam Ferguson, and
the painter Mr. Wilkie, they have been able to enrich the Work. Nor is it too much
to expect that if every other recommendation were wanting, that plate, and still more
the description by which it is accompanied would prove irresistable attractions to
the world; for who can be indifferent to so pleasing a memorial of a writer to whose
merits England, Europe, nay, the whole civilized world, has offered its homage and
its praise. Conspicuous as that letter is among the literary beauties of these
sheets,—and to it may be attributed an interest as unfading as the reputation of its
writer—almost all the popular authors of the day have contributed one or more
scintillations of their genius; and it is with feelings of pride, admiration, and
gratitude, that the Editor and Proprietors offer their warmest acknowledgements to
John Gibson Lockhart, Esq.,1 Mrs. Hemans, Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart.; Sir Thomas
Elmsley Croft, Bart.; the Rev. Blanco White; Barry Cornwall; L. E. L.; Miss Mitford;
Mrs. Pickersgill;
[Page vii] |
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Miss Roberts; the writer of the
“Diary of an Ennuyée;” R. P. Gillies, Esq.;2 J. Montgomery, Esq.; the Rev.
W. Lisle Bowles; the author of “The Subaltern;” Delta; Horace Smith, Esq.; Charles
Lamb, Esq.; the Ettrick Shepherd; Allan Cunningham, Esq.; N. T. Carrington,Esq
[sic]; and to the other contributors.
In expressing the Editor's thanks in a separate paragraph to S. T. Coleridge, Esq.'
It must not be supposed that his obligations are the less important to those whose
names have just been mentioned; but where a favor has been conferred in a peculiar
manner, it at least demands that it should be peculiarly acknowledged. Mr.
Coleridge, in the most liberal manner, permitted the Editor to select what he pleased
from all his unpublished MSS., and it will be seen from the “Wanderings of Cain,”
though unfinished, and the other pieces bearing that Gentleman's name, that whenever
he may favour the world with a perfect collection of his writings he will adduce new
and powerful claims upon its respect.
In another, but no less important department of talent, the Proprietors have yet to
pay their debt of gratitude. From the invaluable favours he has conferred upon the
work, the first among those claimants is he, who is the first in professional
reputation, in liberality, and in all which characterises a Gentle-
[Page viii] |
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man, Sir Thomas Lawrence, the President of the Royal Academy,
who has bestowed on it three of his unrivalled productions; and which, it is needless
to say, are of themselves sufficient to place "THE BIJOU" in the foremost rank of
the
embellished publications of Europe.
To H. W. Pickersgill, Esq. R. A. the Proprietors are deeply indebted for the
gratuitous use of his beautiful picture “The Oriental Love-Letter,” in the Council
Room of the Royal Academy; and which derives considerable interest from the elegant
illustration by which it is accompanied from the pen of his accomplished wife. To
Mr. W. H. Worthington the Proprietors are grateful for the loan of his painting "The
Suitors Rejected."
In consequence of a resemblance between the principal incident in the Tale of
HALLORAN THE PEDLAR and the catastrophe described in a recent publication of deserved
popularity, both evidently referring to the same historical fact, it is necessary,
in
order to prevent the suspicion of plagiarism, to state that the Tale of Halloran was
written, and in the hands of the publisher, long previously to the appearance of the
Novel where a similar circumstance is related. Many most valuable papers, nearly
sufficient to form another volume, remain in the Editor's possession; for the obvious
reason of superabundance of matter, it was impossible to insert them in the present
work.
[Page ix] |
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Amidst other literary curiosities, two will be found which derive their chief
attraction from the illustrious rank and eminent virtues of their authors: these
are, a translation of the celebrated Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to M. T. Cicero,
by
his present Majesty; and of Cicero's Epistle to Servius Sulpicius, by the lamented
Duke of York, both written as exercises at a very early age.
The selection of Graphic Illustrations was made by Mr. Robert Balmanno, Secretary
of
the Artists' Fund, and the Publisher.
Whether THE BIJOU be worthy of its name, and how far the proprietors have redeemed
the claim pledged in their prospectus, must be left to the public to determine. It
has been their unceasing endeavour to concentrate specimens of the varied talent,
both in literature and art, for which this country is renowned; to allow the powers
of the pencil, and the connotations of the mind, mutually to relieve and and adorn
each other, where
"Each lends to each a double charm, |
Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm;" |
And as no trouble has been considered too laborious, no expense too great to
accomplish this object, they submit the result of their exertions with confidence
unalloyed by presumption, but not unmixed with hope.
W. F.
[Page [xi]] |
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[Page xii] |
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xii LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.
_______
[Page [xiii]] |
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PAGE
- The Child and Flowers. By Mrs. Hemans
........................ 1
- Ballad from the Norman French. By J.G. Lockhart, Esq... 4
- Sonnets. By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart.
......................... 11
- The City of the Dead. By L. E. L.
..................................13
- Night and Death. By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White
........16
- The Wanderings of Cain. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. .........
17
- Verses for an Album. By Charles Lamb, Esq.
................ 24
- Lines written in the Vale of Zoar
..................................... 25
- An aged Widow's own Words By James Hogg, the
Ettrick
Shepherd.................................................... 26
- From the Italian
.............................................................. 27
- Work without Hope. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.
............... 28
- The Poet-Warrior. By Allan Cunningham
....................... 29
- The Rose. By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.
....................... 31
- To my Child. By B. C.
.................................................. 32
- Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
................................. 33
- The Night before the Battle of Montiel. From the
Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba ............................... 39
- Jessy of Kibe's Farm. By Miss M. R. Mitford
............... 65
- Song. By T. K. Hervey, Esq.
........................................ 76
- Sans Souci. By. L. E. L.
............................................... 77
- A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry. By T. Hood,
Esq. Author of "Whims and Oddities" .................... 75
- The Purple Evening. By the author of 'Stray Leaves'
...... 80
- Scotland. By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laureat ..........
81
- To a Friend. By Lady Caroline Lambe
.......................... 89
- On his Majesty's Return to Windsor Castle. By the
Rev. W. Lisle Bowles ............................................ 91
- The Hellweathers. By N. T. Carrington, Esq. Author
of "Dartmoor" ....................................................... 92
- Imitation from the Persian. By Dr. Southey
................... 98
- The Suitors Rejected. By Miss Emma Roberts, Author
of "Memoirs of the Houses of York and Lancaster." 99
- Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral. By James Hogg, the
Ettrick Shepherd ................................................. 108
[Page xiv] |
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CONTENTS.
PAGE
- Anacreontic. By T. K. Hervey,
Esq............................... 112
- The Ritter Von Reichenstein
......................................... 114
- A familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence. By Barry
Cornwall .............................................................. 139
- Youth and Age. By S. T. Coleridge,
Esq........................144
- A Day Dream. By S. T. Coleridge,
Esq........................ .146
- Marie's Grave. By the Author of "The
Subaltern"............148
- The National Norwegian Song. By W. H. Leeds,
Esq.....173
- An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esq. By a
Tyro......................................................................176
- A Simile, on a Lady's Portrait. By James Montgo-
mery, Esq..............................................................181
- The Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to Marcus Tullius
Cicero. Translated by his Majesty..........................183
- The Epistle of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Servius Sul-
picius. Translated by his late Royal Highness
the Duke of York
..................................................188
- The Lover's Invocation. By Miss
Mitford....................... 191
- Inscription for a Grotto. By Horace Smith,
Esq...............193
- The Infant
Shakespeare..................................................195
- On a Little Girl. By W.
Fraser........................................ 198
- Canzonet. By John Bird,
Esq..........................................200
- The Two Founts. By S. T. Coleridge,
Esq.......................202
- Halloran the Pedlar. By the writer of the "Diary
of
an Ennuyée" ......................................................205
- Morning. By D. L. Richardson,
Esq................................240
- The Oriental Love-Letter. By Mrs. Pickersgill,
Author
of the "Tales of the Harem"
....................................241
- Mount Carmel. By H. Neele,
Esq.................................. 234
- Sketch from Life
............................................................242
- Beau Leverton
...............................................................261
- Essex and the Maid of Honour. By Horace Smith, Esq...
285
- Humble Love. By William
Fraser....................................312
- Haddon Hall. By H.
B....................................................315
- My [sic.] Native Land. By Delta, of Blackwood's
Magazine....319
- [Index of Embellishments]
- [Index of Authors]
- [Notes]
[Page 1] |
|
All good and guiltless thou art. |
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart, |
Griefs that along thy altered face |
Will breathe a more subduing grace, |
Than even those looks of joy that lie |
On the soft cheek of infancy. |
WILSON, To a Sleeping Child |
HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? |
1 |
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? |
2 |
With the hare through to copses and the dingles wild? |
3 |
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? |
4 |
Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet |
5 |
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; |
6 |
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, |
7 |
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. |
8 |
Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song |
9 |
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng; |
10 |
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, |
11 |
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim: |
12 |
[Page 2] |
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These are old words, that have made each grove |
13 |
A dreary haunt for romance and love; |
14 |
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie |
15 |
A place for the gushings of Poesy. |
16 |
Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore |
17 |
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; |
18 |
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep |
19 |
Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; |
20 |
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell |
21 |
Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; |
22 |
And the by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, |
23 |
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. |
24 |
Oh! Happy child in thy fawn-like glee! |
25 |
What is remembrance or thought to thee? |
26 |
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, |
27 |
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling; |
28 |
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon— |
29 |
What if to droop and to perish soon? |
30 |
Nature hath mines of such wealth—and thou |
31 |
Never wilt prize its delights as now! |
32 |
For a day is coming to quell the tone |
33 |
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! |
34 |
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care. |
35 |
Under the gloss of its clustering hair; |
36 |
[Page 3] |
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And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes |
37 |
Into the stillness of autumn skies; |
38 |
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, |
39 |
Midst the hidden things of each human heart! |
40 |
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this? |
41 |
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss! |
42 |
Such be thy portion!—the bliss to look |
43 |
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book; |
44 |
By fount, by forest, by river's line, |
45 |
To track the paths of a love divine; |
46 |
To read its deep meanings—to see and hear |
47 |
God in earth's garden—and not to fear. |
48 |
[Page 4] |
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Ballad from the Norman French
Here beginneth a song which made in the Wood of Bel-Regard by a Good
Companion,
|
who put himself there to eschew the horrible Creature of Justices
Trail-Baston.
|
IN rhyme I clothe derision, my fancy takes thereto |
1 |
So scorn I this provision, provided here of new; |
2 |
The thing whereof my geste I frame I wish 'twere yet to do, |
3 |
An guard not God and Holy Dame, 'tis war that must ensue. |
4 |
I mean the articles abhorred of this their Trail-baston; |
5 |
Except the king himself our lord, God send his malison |
6 |
On the devisers of the same: cursed be they everyone, |
7 |
For full they be of sinful blame, and reason have they none. |
8 |
[Page 5] |
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Sir, if my boy offended me now, and I my hand but lift |
9 |
To teach him by a cuff or two what's governance and thrift: |
10 |
This rascal vile his bill doth file, attaches me of wrong; |
11 |
Forsooth, find bail, or lie in gaol, and rot the rogues among. |
12 |
'Tis forty pennies that they ask, a ransom fine for me; |
13 |
And twenty more ('tis but a score) for my Lord Sheriff's fee: |
14 |
Else of his deepest dungeon the darkness I must dree; |
15 |
Is this of justice, masters?— Behold my case and see. |
16 |
Away, then, to the greenwood! to the pleasant shade away! |
17 |
There evil none of law doth wonne, nor harmful perjury. |
18 |
I'll to the wood of Bel-regard, where freely flies the jay, |
19 |
And without fail the nightingale is chaunting of her lay. |
20 |
But for that cursed dozen,God [sic] shew them small pitie! |
21 |
Among their lying voices, they have indicted me |
22 |
Of wicked thefts and robberies and other felonie, |
23 |
That I dare no more, as heretofore, among my friends to be. |
24 |
[Page 6] |
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In peace and war my service my lord the king hath ta'en, |
25 |
In Flanders, and in Scotland, and in Gascoyne his domain; |
26 |
But now I'll never, while I wis, be mounted man again, |
27 |
To pleasure such a man as this I've spent much time in vain. |
28 |
But if these cursed jurors do not amend them so |
29 |
That I to my own country may freely ride and go, |
30 |
The head that I can come at shall jump when I've my blow; |
31 |
Their menacings, and all such things, them to the winds I
throw. |
32 |
The Martin and the Neville are worthy folk indeed; |
33 |
Their prayers are sure, albeit we're poor— salvation be their
meed! |
34 |
But for Belflour and Spigurnel, they are a cruel seed; |
35 |
God send them in my keeping— ha! They should not soon be freed! |
36 |
I'd teach them well this noble game of Trail-baston to know; |
37 |
On every chine I'd stamp the same, and every nape also; |
38 |
[Page 7] |
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O'er every inch in all their frame I'd make my cudgel go; |
39 |
To lop their tongues I'd think no shame, nor yet their lips to
sew. |
40 |
The man that did begin it first, without redemption |
41 |
He is for evermore accurst— he never can atone: |
42 |
Great sin is his, I tell ye true, for many an honest man |
43 |
For fear hath joined the outlaw's crew, since these new laws
began. |
44 |
There's many a wildwood thief this hour was peaceful man
whil'ere, |
45 |
The fear of prison hath such power even guiltless breast to
scare: |
46 |
'Tis this which maketh many a one to sleep beneath the tree; |
47 |
And he that these new laws begun, the curse of God take he! |
48 |
Ye merchants and ye wandering freres, ye may well curse with
me, |
49 |
For ye are painful travellers, while laws like this shall be; |
50 |
The king's broad letter in your hand but little can bestead, |
51 |
For he perforce must bid men stand, that hath nor home nor
bread. |
52 |
[Page 8] |
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All ye who are indicted! I pray you come to me |
53 |
To the greenwood, the pleasant wood, where's niether suit nor
plea, |
54 |
But only the wild creatures and many a spreading tree |
55 |
For there's little in common law but doubt and misery. |
56 |
If at your need you've skill to read, you're summon'd ne'er the
less |
57 |
To shew your lore the Bench before, and great is your redress; |
58 |
Clerk the most clerkly though you be, expect the same penance: |
59 |
'Tis true a Bishop turns the key: God grant deliverance. |
60 |
In honesty I speak—for me, I'd rather sleep beneath |
61 |
The canopy of the green tree, yea, on the naked heath, |
62 |
Than lie even in a Bishop's vault for many a weary day; |
63 |
And he that 'twixt such choice would halt, he is a fool I say. |
64 |
I had a name that none could blame, but that is lost and gone, |
65 |
For lawyer-tricks have made me mix with people that have none. |
66 |
[Page 9] |
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I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin: |
67 |
The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich, may win. |
68 |
To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er repaid |
69 |
To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid; |
70 |
This is no question about gold that might be won again, |
71 |
If once they had me in their hold 'tis death they'd make my
pain. |
72 |
Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I lack; |
73 |
The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back; |
74 |
I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could
spill, |
75 |
But God, in all the devil's spite, can save me if he will. |
76 |
There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed Mary's
child, |
77 |
And I can broadly pray to him; my soul is undefiled: |
78 |
The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues undone. |
79 |
God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned upon! |
80 |
[Page 10] |
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If meeting a companion I shew my archerie, |
81 |
My neighbour will be saying, "He's of some companie, |
82 |
He goes to cage him in the wood, and worke his old foleye," |
83 |
Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life for me. |
84 |
But if I seem more cunning about the law than they, |
85 |
"Ha! ha! Some old conspirator well trained in tricks," they'll
say; |
86 |
O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well away:— |
87 |
Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I pray. |
88 |
I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer, |
89 |
That I in peace may once again to mine own land repair: |
90 |
I never was a homicide—not within my will—I swear, |
91 |
Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did
fare. |
92 |
This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree; |
93 |
There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers free: |
94 |
I wrote this skin, because within was much more sore memory, |
95 |
And here I lay it by the way—that found my rhyme may be. |
96 |
[Page 11] |
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By Sir Egerton Brydges,
Bart
I. |
1 |
WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame, |
2 |
And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise |
3 |
May issue the desponding sprite to raise: |
4 |
But weekly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame; |
5 |
Empty we deem the echo of a name: |
6 |
Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays; |
7 |
Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze; |
8 |
Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim! |
9 |
Thus strange is fate:— we meet the hollow cheer, |
10 |
When struck by age the cold insensate ear |
11 |
No more with trembling extasy can hear, |
12 |
But yet one thought a lasting a joy can give |
13 |
That we, as not for self alone we live, |
14 |
To others bore the boon, we would from them receive! |
15 |
[Page 12] |
|
II. |
16 |
TEXTURE of the mightiest splendor, force and art, |
17 |
Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain, |
18 |
The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain, |
19 |
If steeped not in the fountains of the heart! |
20 |
If those pure waves no added strength impart, |
21 |
If thence the web no new attraction gain, |
22 |
Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign |
23 |
Her inspiration on the work to dart! |
24 |
High intellect, magnific though thou be, |
25 |
Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow |
26 |
Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee |
27 |
Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw; |
28 |
Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray; |
29 |
And worthless shall thy splendour die away! |
30 |
[Page 13] |
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'Twas dark with cypresses and yews which cast |
1 |
Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers— |
2 |
Affections latest signs. * * * |
3 |
Dark portal of another world— the grave— |
4 |
I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks, |
5 |
If I may make my own heart oracle,— |
6 |
The many long to enter thee, for thou |
7 |
Alone canst reunite the loved and lost |
8 |
With those who pine for them. I fear thee not; |
9 |
I only fear mine own unworthiness, |
10 |
Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make |
11 |
Another parting in another world. |
12 |
************************************************************************* |
13 |
1. |
14 |
LAUREL! Oh fling thy green boughs on air, |
15 |
There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there? |
16 |
Thou art worn on the conquerors shield, |
17 |
When his country receives him from glory's red field; |
18 |
Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard, |
19 |
When the song of its sweetness has won its reward. |
20 |
Earth's changeless and sacred— thou proud laurel tree! |
21 |
The ears of the midnight, why hang they on thee? |
22 |
[Page 14] |
|
2. |
23 |
Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright, |
24 |
Thou whose whole life is noe breath of delight; |
25 |
Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind |
26 |
Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind. |
27 |
Fair tablet, still vowed to the thoughts of the lover, |
28 |
Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over; |
29 |
Fragrant as blooming— thou lovely rose tree! |
30 |
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee? |
31 |
3. |
32 |
Dark cypress I see thee— thou art my reply, |
33 |
Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie; |
34 |
That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave, |
35 |
Yet thy shadow lies black on the warriors grave. |
36 |
That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest, |
37 |
Yet thy sad branches sweep o'er the maiden's last rest: |
38 |
The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping, |
39 |
I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping. |
40 |
4. |
41 |
Yet sunbeam of heaven thou fall'st on the tomb— |
42 |
Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom? |
43 |
Before thee the grove and the garden are spread; |
44 |
Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead? |
45 |
[Page 15] |
|
Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere, |
46 |
Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here. |
47 |
Thou art as a herald of hope from above:— |
48 |
Weep mourner no more o'er thy grief and thy love; |
49 |
Still thy heart in its beating, be glad of such rest, |
50 |
Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best. |
51 |
Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie, |
52 |
Weep no more the the loved and the loving must die |
53 |
Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet, |
54 |
But gaze on yon starry world— there ye shall meet. |
55 |
5. |
56 |
O heart of mine! Is there not One dwelling there |
57 |
To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer? |
58 |
For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day, |
59 |
As a link in the fetters that keep me away; |
60 |
When I think of the glad and the beautiful home, |
61 |
Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come; |
62 |
That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest; |
63 |
That I may be with thee at home and at rest: |
64 |
When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore, |
65 |
I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more; |
66 |
While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save, |
67 |
Oh sumbeam of heaven thou mayest will light the grave. |
68 |
[Page 16] |
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By the Rev. Joseph
Blanco White
Dedicated to S.T. Coleridge, Esq. By his sincere friend, Joseph
Blanco White.
MYSTERIOUS night, when the first man but knew |
1 |
Thee by report, unseen, and heard they name, |
2 |
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, |
3 |
This glorious canopy of light and blue? |
4 |
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew |
5 |
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, |
6 |
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, |
7 |
And lo! creation widened on his view! |
8 |
Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed |
9 |
Within thy beams, oh Sun? Or who could find, |
10 |
Whil'st fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, |
11 |
That to such endless orbs thou mad'st us blind? |
12 |
Weak man! Why to shun death, this anxious strife? |
13 |
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not
life? |
14 |
[Page 17] |
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The Wanderings of Cain: A Fragment.
"A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little farther, and we shall come into the open
moonlight!" Their road was through a forest of fir- trees; at its entrance the trees
stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight, and
the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude.
But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled,
but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.
"It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path under our feet is mooth and soft,
and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so
deeply?"
"Lead on my child," said Cain, "guide me, little child." And the innocent little
child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he
guided his father. "The fir branches drip upon thee my son." — "Yea, pleasantly,
father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the
[Page 18] |
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cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are
that feed on these fir trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels
play round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my
father, that I might play with them, but they leapt away from the branches, even to
the slender twigs did they leap, and in amoment I beheld them on antoher tree. Why,
O
my fahter, would they not play with me? Is it because we are not so happy as they?
Is
it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest?" Then Cain stopped and stifling
his groans, he sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside
him; and Cain lifted up his voice, and cried bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that
persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like
the sand- blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air, O that I
might be utterly no more! I desire to die — yea, the things that never had life,
neither move they upon the earth — behold they seem precious to mine eyes. O that
a
man might live without the breath of his nostrils, so I might abide in darkness and
blackness, and an empty space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would
I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young
lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath
a
voice; and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the mighty one who is against
me
speaketh in
[Page 19] |
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the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence
I am dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, "Arise my father, arise, we are but
a
little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher;" and Cain said,
"How knowest thou?" and the child answered — "Behold, the bare rocks are a few of
they strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy
voice, I heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would
raise him, and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed
himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed the child. The
path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination when it turned
suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for
a
moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open air; and when
Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness the child was affrighted, for the mighty
limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was black, and matted into loathly
curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told in a strange and terrible
language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.
The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could reach, it was desolate; the
bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of their white sand.
You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the
rocks, and discover nothing that acknowledged the in-
[Page 20] |
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fluence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn, and the winter's
snow that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands.
Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often
hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings
imprisoned within the coilds of the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of
the
ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophecy
mutely of things that then were not; steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked
masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was
one
rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated
there perhaps by the terrible groan the earth gave when our first father fell. Before
you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its
point, and between its points and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was
here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father.
But ere they arrived there they beheld a human shape; his back was towards them, and
they were coming up unperceived when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud,
"Wo, is me! wo, is me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst
and
hunger."
The face of Cain turned pale; but Enos said, "Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O
my
father, that
[Page 21] |
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I heard that voice. Have not I often said
that I remembered a sweet voice. O my father! this is it;" and Cain trembled
exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that of
a
feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain himself from
weeping and lamentation. Enos crept softly round the base of the rock, and stood
before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned
round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother
Abel whom he had killed; and Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because
of the exceeding terribleness of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the
tumult of his agitation, the Shape fell at this feet, and embraced his knees, and
cried out with a bitter outcry, "Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother,
brought forth, cease to torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the
side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed
his eyes, and hid them with his hands — and again he opened his eyes, and looked
around him, and said to Enos "What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?"
"Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice,
full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the shape that was like Abel, and said,
"The creator of our father, who had
[Page 22] |
|
respect unto thee,
and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the Shape shrieked a
second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands
beneath their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face
upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate
beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three
under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself
up, and spake to the child; "I know where the cold , waters are, but I may not drink,
wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher?" but Cain said, "Didst thou not find
favour in the sight of the Lord thy god?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of
the
living only, the dead have another god." Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and
prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. "Wretched shall they be all the days
of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable
sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me,
for
I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who
didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered these words,
he
rose suddenly, and fled over the sands, and Cain said in his heart, "The curse of
the
lords is on me — but who is the God of the dead?" and he ran after the shape, and
the
Shape fled
[Page 23] |
|
shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose
like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was not like Abel
disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round,
and came again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood;
and the child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that theman had fallen
upon the ground; and Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into
the dark woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the
child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the
man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said — "Abel,
my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and
burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pastures,
and
by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who
is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are
acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed,
and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?" The
Shape arose and answered — "O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on
thee. Follow me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed
over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.
[Page 24] |
|
FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, |
1 |
A young probationer of light, |
2 |
Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright. |
3 |
A spotless leaf; but thought, and care — |
4 |
And friends and foes, in foul or fair, |
5 |
Have "written strange defeature" there. |
6 |
And time, with heaviest hand of all, |
7 |
Like that fierce writing on the wall, |
8 |
Hath stamp'd sad dates — he can't recall. |
9 |
And error, gilding worst designs — |
10 |
Like speckled snake that strays and shines — |
11 |
Betrays his path by crooked lines. |
12 |
And vice hath left his ugly blot — |
13 |
And good resolves, a moment hot, |
14 |
Fairly began — but finished not. |
15 |
A fruitless late remorse doth trace — |
16 |
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace — |
17 |
Her irrecoverable race. |
18 |
[Page 25] |
|
Disjointed numbers — sense unknit — |
19 |
Huge reams of folly — shreds of wit — |
20 |
Compose the mingled mass of it. |
21 |
My scalded eyes no longer brook, |
22 |
Upon this ink- blurr'd thing to look. |
23 |
Go — shut the leaves — and clasp the book! — |
24 |
Lines Written in the Vale of Zoar, Coast of Arabia
A SCENE of Araby! — but not the blest; — |
1 |
Behold a multitude of mountains wild |
2 |
And bare and cloudless to the skies up- piled |
3 |
In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest |
4 |
Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none; |
5 |
Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest, |
6 |
Burning and whitening in the ardent sun. |
7 |
Amid the crags — her undisputed reign — |
8 |
Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles, |
9 |
And half the horror of her state beguiles, |
10 |
To see her empire spreading to the plain; |
11 |
For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray, |
12 |
Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain, |
13 |
And haste, as from the vale of Death, away! |
14 |
[Page 26] |
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An Aged Widow's Own Words
By James Hogg, the
Ettrick Shepherd
O IS he gane my good auld man? |
1 |
And am I left forlorn? |
2 |
And is that manly heart at rest,, |
3 |
The kindest e'ver was born? |
4 |
We've sojourned here through hope and fear |
5 |
For fifty years and three, |
6 |
And ne'er in all that happy time, |
7 |
Said he harsh word to me. |
8 |
And mony a braw and boardly son |
9 |
And daughters in their prime, |
10 |
His tremling hand laid in the grave; |
11 |
Lang, lang afore the time. |
12 |
I dinna greet the day to see |
13 |
That he to them has gane, |
14 |
But O 'tis feafu' thus to be |
15 |
Left in a world alane. |
16 |
[Page 27] |
|
Wi' a poor worn and broken heart, |
17 |
Whose race of joy is run,. |
18 |
And scarce has little opening left, |
19 |
For aught aneath the sun. |
20 |
My life nor death I winna crave, |
21 |
Nor fret for yet despond, |
22 |
But a' my hope is in the grave |
23 |
And the dear hame beyond. |
24 |
MY LILLA gave me yester morn |
1 |
A rose methinks in Eden born, |
2 |
And as she gave it, little elf, |
3 |
Blushed like another rose herself |
4 |
Then said I, full of tenderness, |
5 |
"Since this sweet rose I owe to you, |
6 |
"Dear girl, why may I not possess |
7 |
"The lovelier rose that gave it too?" |
8 |
[Page 28] |
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Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February
ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — |
1 |
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — |
2 |
And WINTER slumbering in the open air, |
3 |
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! |
4 |
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, |
5 |
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. |
6 |
Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow, |
7 |
Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow. |
8 |
Bloom, O ye Amaranths! Bloom for whom ye may — |
9 |
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! |
10 |
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: |
11 |
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? |
12 |
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve, |
13 |
And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live. |
14 |
[Page 29] |
|
1. |
1 |
STAYED is the war- horse in his strength, |
2 |
Broke is the barbed arrow, |
3 |
The spell has conquered on Nithside, |
4 |
Which won of yore on Yarrow. |
5 |
O did he bear a charmed sword |
6 |
That for no mail would tarry, |
7 |
And on his youthful head a helm |
8 |
Was forged in land of fairy. |
9 |
Did Saxon shaft and war axe dint |
10 |
Fall on charm's mail and elfin flint? |
11 |
2. |
12 |
His spell was valour, and he came |
13 |
When warrior's hearts were coldest, |
14 |
And poured his fire through peasant's souls, |
15 |
And led and ruled the boldest. |
16 |
He with flushed brow, and flashing eyes, |
17 |
And right arm bare and gory, |
18 |
[Page 30] |
|
Rushed reeking o'er the lives of men, |
19 |
And turned our shame to glory. |
20 |
A hero's soul was his, and higher |
21 |
The minstrel's love, and poet's fire. |
22 |
3. |
23 |
Seek for a dark and down cast eye, |
24 |
A glance 'mongst men the mildest, |
25 |
Seek for a bearing haught and high |
26 |
Can daunt and awe the wildest. |
27 |
Seek one whose soul is tenderness |
28 |
Is steeped — who to the lyre |
29 |
Can pour out song as fast and bright |
30 |
As heaven can pour its fire. |
31 |
Seek him, and when thou find'st him, kneel, |
32 |
Though thou hadst gold spurs on thy heel. |
33 |
[Page 31] |
|
By Sir
Thomas E. Croft, Bart.
La rose que ta main chérie |
1 |
Hier a sauvé de la mort, |
2 |
Est aujourd'hui pâle et flétrie; — |
3 |
Tel est des fleurs le triste sort. |
4 |
Reconnaissante de ta peine, |
5 |
En mourant cette aimable fleur, |
6 |
Légue a tes joues sa rougeur, |
7 |
Son doux parfum à ton haleine. |
8 |
The rose, alas! Thy guardian hand |
9 |
Sav'd yesterday from dying, |
10 |
Pale, wan, and wither'd from its stem, |
11 |
Is now in ruins lying: |
12 |
But the fond flower, to shew she still |
13 |
Was grateful, e'en in death, |
14 |
Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed, |
15 |
Her perfume to thy breath. |
16 |
[Page 32] |
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By B.C. [pseud. for Bryan
Walker Procter]
CHILD of my heart! My sweet, belov'd first-bórn! |
1 |
Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours! |
2 |
Thou rainbow, who dost come when all the showers |
3 |
Are past, — or passing! Rose which hath no thorn, — |
4 |
No pain, no blemish, — pure and unforlorn, |
5 |
Untouched — untainted — O, my flower of flowers! |
6 |
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, — |
7 |
To seamen stranded life-assuring morn. |
8 |
Welcome! a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings |
9 |
Round all, seems loosening now her snake-like fold! |
10 |
New hope springs upwards, and the bright world seems |
11 |
Cast back into her youth of endless springs! — |
12 |
— Sweet mother, is it so? — or grow I old, |
13 |
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams? |
14 |
Figure 2: Sir Walter Scott and Family
painted by David Wilkie, Esq., engraved by W. H.
Worthington
[Page 33] |
|
Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
By Sir Walter Scott,
Bart.
LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A PICTURE PAINTED
AT ABBOTSFORD BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R. A., AND EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN
1818.
MY DEAR ADAM — The picture you mention has something in it of rather a domestic
character, as the personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being the
pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if you, the proprietor, incline
to have it engraved, I do not see that I am entitled to make any objection.
But Mr. * * * mentions besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and domestic
life, or, as he expresses himslef, a portrait of the author in his nightgown and
slippers; — and this form you, who, I dare say, could furnish some anecdotes of our
younger days which might now seem ludicrous enough. Even as to my night gown and
slippers, I believe the time has been when the articles of my wardrobe were as
familiar to your memory as Poins's
[Page 34] |
|
to Prince Henry, but
that period has been for some years past, and I cannot think it would be interesting
to the public to learn that I had changed my old robe-de-chambre for a handsome
douillette, when I was last at Paris.
The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be supposed delighted with the
species of gossip which, in the dearth of other news, recurs to such a quiet
individual as myself; and though, like a well-behaved lion of twenty years standing,
I am not inclined to vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not, in any case
in
which I can prevent it, be acessary to these follies. There is no man known at all
in
literature who may not have more to tell of his private life than I have: I have
surmounted no difficulties either of birth or education, nor have I been favored by
any particular advantages, and my life has been as void of incidents of importance,
as that of the "weary knife-grinder."
"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir."
The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the prejudices and
absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep them, as Beau Tibbs did his
prospect, for the amusement of my domestic friends. A mere enumeration of the persons
in the sketch is all which I can possible permit to be published respecting myself
and my
[Page 35] |
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family; and, as must be the lot of humanity when
we look back seven or eight years, even what follows cannot be drawn up without some
very painful recollections.
The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted ws to represent our family group in the
garb of south-country peasants, supposed to be concerting a merry-making, for which
some of the preparations are seen. The place is the terrace near Kayside, commanding
an extensive view toward the Eildon-hills. 1. The sitting figure, in the dress of
a
miller, I believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author of a few scores of volumes,
and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the County of Roxburgh. 2. In front, and presenting,
we may suppose, a country wag somewhat addicted to poaching, stands sir Adam
Ferguson, Knight, Keeper of the Regalia of Scotland. 3. In the background is a very
handsome old man, upwards of eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own
character of a shepherd. He also belonged to numerous clan of Scott. He used to claim
credit for three things unusual among the southland shepherds: first, that he had
never been fou in the course of his life; secondly, that he never had struck a man
in
anger; thirdly, that though entrusted with the the management of large sales of
stock, he had never lost a penny for his master by a bad debt. He died soon aterwards
at Abbotsford. 4, 5, 6. Of the three female figures
[Page 36] |
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the
elder is the late regretted mother of the family represented. 5. The young person
most forward in the group is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. John Gibson
Lockhart; and 6, her younger sister, Miss ann Scott. Both are represented as
ewe-milkers, with their leglins, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the shepherd,
the young man holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of Sir Walter, now Captain
in
King's Hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of the family, Charles Scott, now of
Brazen Nose College, Oxford. The two dogs were distinguished favorites of the family;
the large one was a stag-hound of the old Highland breed, called Maida, and one of
the hansomest dogs that could be found; it was a present to me from the chief of
Glengary, and was highly valued, both on account of his beauty, his fidelity, and
the
great rarity of the breed. The other is little Highland terrier, called
Ourisk (goblin), of a particualr kind, bred in Kintail. It was a
present from the honorable Mrs. Stuart Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of race
which is now also scarce. Maida, like Bran, Lerath, and other dogs of distinction,
slumbers "beneath his stone," distinguished by an epitaph, which to the honour of
Scottish scholarship be it spoken, has only one false quantity in two lines.
Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida |
Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis. |
[Page 37] |
|
Ourisk still survives, but like some other personages in the picture, with talents
and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what Dr. Rutty, the Quaker,
records himself in his journal as having sometimes been — sinfully dogged and
snappish.
If it should suit Mr. * * *'s purpose to adopt the above illustrations, he is
heartily welcome to them, but I make it my especial bargain that nothing more is said
upon such a meagre subject.
It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott, the shepherd,
which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend welcome to. Tom was, both
as a trusted servant, and as a rich fellow in his line, a person of considerable
importance among his class in the neighbourhood, and used to stickle a good deal to
keep his place in public opinion. Now, he suffered, in his own idea at least, from
the consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who, though neither so well reputed
for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet an advantage over him, from having
seen the late King, and used to take precedence upon all occasions when they chanced
to meet. Thomas suffered under this superiority. But after this sketch was finished,
and exhibited in London, the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had
condescended to take some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott
set out on a most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,
[Page 38] |
|
where his rival resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage
when he called out in his broad forest dialect — "Andro', man, did ye anes sey (see)
the King?" "In troth did I, Tam," answered Andro'; "sit down, and I'll tell ye a'
about it: — ye sey I was at Lonon, in a place they ca' the park, that is, no like
a
hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked parks in this country — " "Hout awa," said
Thomas, "I have heard a' that before: I only came ower the know now to tell you,
that, if you have seen the king, the king has seen mey" (me). And so he returned with
a jocund heart, assuring his friends "it had done him muckle gude to settle accounts
with Andro'."
Jocere haec — as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of Gowrie — farewell
my old, tried, and dear friend of forty long years. Our enjoyments must now be of
a
character less vivid than those we have shared together,
But still at our lot it were vain to repine, Youth cannot return, or the days of Lang
Syne.
Your's Affectionately,
Walter Scott.Abbotsford, 2d August, 1827.
[Page 39] |
|
The Night before the Battle of Montiel: , A Dramatic Sketch
From the Spanish of
Don Juan Algalaba
[The battle of Montiel was that which determined the fate of Pedro the Cruel. Just
ten years before it took place he and Edward the Black Prince had utterly defeated
at Nejara Henry (called of Transtamara) Pedro's natural brother, the competitor
for the throne of Castile: But in the interval Pedro's cruelties had alienated the
affection of his subjects, and the murder of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, sister
to the King of France, had stirred up an enemy whom, being deserted by the English
Prince, he had no longer any sufficient means to resist.
Pedro's famous mistress, Maria de Padilla, was in the castle of Montiel when the
battle was fought, and after her lover was slain received the body and was
permitted to bury it.
The French army was commanded by the illustrous Bertrand du Guesclin — in whose
memoirs the highly picturesque details of the conflict, the subsequent meeting of
the brothers, and the death of Pedro, may be found. Le Begue was the French knight
who stabbed Pedro.]
SCENE — The Camp of Henry.
ALAIN DE LA HOUSSAYE AND LE BEGUE.
HOUSSAYE.
I do remember even on such a sky |
1 |
Kind Pedro's banner flaunted, even so calm |
2 |
And heavy hung yon selfsame royal blazon |
3 |
Upon the air, as the slow sun went down |
4 |
The night before Nejara. |
5 |
[Page 40] |
|
LE BEGUE.
‘Twas in Paris, |
6 |
I heard the tidings of that filed; — I knew not |
7 |
That my old friend rode in Prince Henry's host |
8 |
Else had I not rejoiced. |
9 |
HOUSSAYE.
LE BEGUE.
Yes, Alain — — |
11 |
I had heard many things against Don Pedro, |
12 |
Yet, truth to speak, it seemed to me foul scorn, |
13 |
That one whose mother never had been married, |
14 |
Should put his hand forth — clutching at the crown. |
15 |
HOUSSAYE.
I hope we'll have no thoughts like these to-morrow. |
16 |
LE BEGUE.
Not I, the fleurdelys will be i'the van. |
17 |
HOUSSAYE.
My thoughts shall be upon the Lady Blanche. |
18 |
LE BEGUE.
Aye, well they may — |
19 |
That bloody Jewess — is it known if she |
20 |
Be still with Pedro? Follows she the camp? |
21 |
HOUSSAYE.
They say she doth — but see! Lord Onis comes, |
22 |
And he can tell us further. |
23 |
LE BEGUE.
The old lord |
24 |
Walks very solemnly methinks to-night, |
25 |
His pace is sober as a hooded priest. |
26 |
HOUSSAYE.
Aye, and I'll warrant ye his thoughts more sober, |
27 |
Than oft lie hid beneath the gown and cowl. |
28 |
LE BEGUE.
[Page 41] |
|
The chance is equal! be we French or Spaniard — |
30 |
But if the day go darkly, and Don Henry |
31 |
Find on Montiel the fortune of Nejara, — |
32 |
No ransom for a traitor. |
33 |
HOUSSAYE.
Look upon him! |
34 |
There sits no selfish fear on Onis' brow; |
35 |
He is a Spaniard, and we war in Spain. |
36 |
The rival chiefs are brothers — and the swords |
37 |
That glow even now in many a strenuous hand |
38 |
As they receive the polish and the point, |
39 |
Must gleam ere long before the eyes of kindred. |
40 |
Where'er may fall the chance of victory, |
41 |
Yon stream, amidst to-morrow's noontide brightness, |
42 |
Will be more purple with Castilian blood, |
43 |
Than now the broad sun sinking paints its face. |
44 |
LE BEGUE.
He passes on — he takes no note of us. |
45 |
HOUSSAYE.
We greet you well, Lord Onis! |
46 |
ONIS.
Ha! fair Sirs! |
47 |
I crave your pardon. Whither be ye bound? |
48 |
HOUSSAYE.
Du Guesclin's trumpet hath not sounded yet? |
49 |
ONIS.
They are together in the royal tent. |
50 |
Anon we shall be summoned. |
51 |
LE BEGUE.
Doth the prince, |
52 |
(I crave your grace, the king) doth he to-morrow |
53 |
Charge on the centre of his brother's battle? |
54 |
ONIS.
I would it were not so; but, if I know him, |
55 |
It would be heavy tiding for his ear, |
56 |
[Page 42] |
|
That any sword but his had found its sheath |
57 |
Within the breast of Pedro. |
58 |
HOUSSAYE.
Don Pedro's cuirass hath turned swords ere now — |
59 |
And wielded by as ready hands as Henry's. |
60 |
ONIS.
You speak the truth, Sir Alain de la Houssaye, |
61 |
LE BEGUE.
You look for stubborn work, my Lord of Onis. |
62 |
ONIS.
Sir Alain Houssaye has seen Pedro's plume |
63 |
Rising and falling like a falcon's wing, |
64 |
As far i'the front as e'er Plantagenet |
65 |
Shewed his black crest. |
66 |
LE BEGUE.
And yet the old adage |
67 |
Hangs cruelty and cowardice together. |
68 |
ONIS.
The man that coined the phrase had known no Pedro. |
69 |
The old ancestral sense of dignity |
70 |
Exalts our excellence if we be good, |
71 |
And even if we be vicious, that high pride |
72 |
Is not more inborn than inalienable; |
73 |
At least ‘tis so with Pedro. ‘Twas the same |
74 |
When Pedro stood no higher than his hilt, |
75 |
A most imperious boy. God he defies, |
76 |
And man he never feared. |
77 |
LE HOUSSAYE.
This nobleness |
78 |
Of kingly nature props e'en now a cause |
79 |
That, had he been in aught a vulgar villain |
80 |
[Page 43] |
|
Had been as bare of man's aid as of God's; — |
81 |
But hark! The trumpet. |
82 |
LE BEGUE.
[Exeunt Houssaye and Le Begue.
ONIS.
Beautiful Valley! What a golden light |
84 |
Is on thy bosom. Ha! the bells are ringing |
85 |
In the church towers along yon green hill side |
86 |
The vesper chaunt! Alas! What dreary knells |
87 |
Must shake, next sunset, their gray pinnacles! |
88 |
[Exit.
The Tent of Henry of Transtamara.
HENRY — DU GUESCLIN — BISHOP PEREZ — ONIS — HOUSSAYE — LE BEGUE.
HENRY.
Sit, gentlemen. Onis, we waited for thee. |
1 |
DU GUESCLIN.
There is no need we should be long together; |
2 |
We may do better service in our quarters: |
3 |
My humble mind it was, most certainly, |
4 |
That you, sir king, should take the right to-morrow, |
5 |
Where, if our scouts bring true intelligence, |
6 |
Don Pedro plants his Moors —- |
7 |
HENRY.
Noble Du Guesclin, |
8 |
We fight on Spanish ground, and I have here |
9 |
Three thousand true men of Castile and Leon |
10 |
Who serve me as their king — the which I am |
11 |
[Page 44] |
|
By the free choice of nobility |
12 |
In open Cortes, aiding right of blood, |
13 |
My brother having forfeited all title |
14 |
By bloody acts of murder and oppression |
15 |
Not to be counted — some of them ye know — |
16 |
The which dissolved all claim to our allegiance, |
17 |
And left us free (I mean the Lords of Spain) |
18 |
To choose another wearer for the crown |
19 |
Of old Pelayo; — of Pelayo's line |
20 |
Am I, and justly now I wear that crown, |
21 |
Though once there was a baton on my shield, |
22 |
That stain being erased and nullified |
23 |
By the decree I spake of —- Now their hearts |
24 |
Would scarcely brook to see the post of honour |
25 |
Filled by a stranger, howsoever noble |
26 |
In blood, and whatsoever pennon rearing, |
27 |
When I their king am present. Other reasons |
28 |
I have already to your private ear |
29 |
Sufficiently expounded. Is there need |
30 |
That I recount them also? |
31 |
DU GUESCLIN.
Since his highness |
32 |
Is so resolved in this, my Lord of Onis, |
33 |
I yield the matter — for myself I speak: |
34 |
What says La Houssaye? |
35 |
HOUSSAYE.
May it please the king, |
36 |
Although your courtesy, noble Du Guesclin, |
37 |
Hath brought me to the council, I am here |
38 |
Not to oppose my voice to voice of yours — |
39 |
[Page 45] |
|
But having learned your pleasure and my part, |
40 |
To tender, if need be, humble suggestion |
41 |
Touching what falls to me — and crave your guidance — |
42 |
Ride we then on the right? |
43 |
DU GUESCLIN.
You and Le Begue, |
44 |
Be there with Burgundy and Picardy, |
45 |
Ye'll have the Moors to deal withal. Myself |
46 |
Will set my light-limbed Bretons on the left; |
47 |
Perchance, while that King Henry from our centre |
48 |
Bears with his Spaniards on the bridge, the old ford |
49 |
May serve our need as well. I think ‘tis certain, |
50 |
Don Pedro, with his own Castilian spears, |
51 |
Will bide your highness' onset—Spain to Spain! |
52 |
HENRY.
BISHOP.
Now God protect King Henry! |
54 |
The Lord of Hosts will battle for the right. |
55 |
LE BEGUE.
We all shall do our best, my good Lord Bishop. |
56 |
ONIS.
[Aside to La Houssaye.]
'Twere vain you see for anyone to fight |
57 |
Against the king's determination. |
58 |
HOUSSAYE.
‘Tis a most wild one! Heaven defend the issue. |
59 |
HENRY.
What says La Houssaye? |
60 |
LE BEGUE.
He prays heaven, my lord, |
61 |
To send fair issue of to-morrow's field. |
62 |
[Page 46] |
|
HENRY.
'Tis well; and now brave gentlemen of France |
63 |
Good e'en be with you all. Let the dawn find us |
64 |
Each at his post. |
65 |
DU GUESCLIN.
My word shall be—QUEEN BLANCHE! |
66 |
HENRY.
DU GUESCLIN.
They'll do well together. |
68 |
[The lords rise from their seats; a Trumpet is heard.
HENRY.
What means this trumpet? thrice, too? |
69 |
[Enter a Castilian Herald in his tabard, attended by Officers
&c.
HERALD.
By my mouth |
70 |
Thus to King Sancho's baseborn son, Don Henry |
71 |
Of Transtamara, speaks his rightful liege |
72 |
The King, Don Pedro of Castille. Bold bastard, |
73 |
That darest, not remembering the black curse |
74 |
Which lies upon the memory of Count Julian, |
75 |
To ape his ancient treason, and become |
76 |
The guide of foreign spears into the heart |
77 |
Of the fair Spanish land — I, born thy prince, |
78 |
The lawful son and heir of thy dead father, |
79 |
Whose erring love begot thee of a slave, |
80 |
Bearded by thee within mine heritage, |
81 |
Thee and the Bourbon's vassals whom thou guidest, |
82 |
I full of scorn and wrath, as well I may be, |
83 |
Have pity on all of those their fair allegiance |
84 |
[Page 47] |
|
Due to the Majesty of France hath led |
85 |
Thus far within my realm — albeit their swords |
86 |
Are girded on their thighs to serve the cause |
87 |
Of my most sinful rebel; nor against |
88 |
Even those, my own born liegemen, whom thy cunning |
89 |
Hath led astray, so that forgetting oath |
90 |
And fealty and solemn plight of homage, |
91 |
They stand with thee against their sovereign's banner, |
92 |
Am I entirely steeled. Therefore, in presence |
93 |
Of brave Du Guesclin and his captains and |
94 |
The Spaniards that are with them, I make offer |
95 |
Of truce from this time till to-morrow's sunset, |
96 |
Within which space — at the cool dawn ‘twere best — |
97 |
Let lists be set upon the open field |
98 |
Between these camps; and let the Lord Du Guesclin, |
99 |
Upon the part of Henry Transtamara, |
100 |
And the most noble Castro upon mine, |
101 |
Be umpires of the day — and man to man, |
102 |
And horse to horse — with lance, sword, mace, and knife — |
103 |
Let two, whose hostile banners bear one sign, |
104 |
Appeal to the unseen eye of God for judgment |
105 |
On their conflicting titles; let the winner |
106 |
Be undisputed king; unfearing love |
107 |
Rest between him, whoever he may be, |
108 |
[Page 48] |
|
And all that are this day encamped here, |
109 |
Moor, Frenchman, Spaniard; and let him who loses |
110 |
Have death or exile; so shall knightly blood |
111 |
Keep knightly veins, and wives' and mothers' eyes |
112 |
On either side the rugged Pyrenees |
113 |
Retain their tears unwept; so France in honour, |
114 |
And Spain in peace, sweep from all memory |
115 |
The traces of this tumult. I, the king, |
116 |
Speak so: — Don Henry, called of Transtamara, |
117 |
[Flings down his gauntlet.
Liftest thou King Pedro's glove? |
118 |
ONIS.
Now heaven defend!— |
119 |
That voice! — |
120 |
HENRY.
[Stepping forward.]
DU GUESCLIN.
[rising, and laying his own hand on Henry's arm.]
Forbear, rash king! |
122 |
Herald! go back in safety as thou camest, |
123 |
And tell thy master that the King Don Henry |
124 |
Would willingly have lifted up the glove |
125 |
Thy had flung down — but that Du Guesclin stayed him. |
126 |
HENRY.
French Lord, I do command thee, let me pass. |
127 |
DU GUESCLIN.
Nay, nay King Henry — thou art not my king. |
128 |
HENRY.
Thou art the vassal of my brother of France, |
129 |
[Page 49] |
|
And thou art here because my quarrel's his. |
130 |
DU GUESCLIN.
Yes; but his quarrel is not thine, Lord King —— |
131 |
Nor, when he kissed my baton at the Louvre |
132 |
Did he command me to entrust the vengeance, |
133 |
For which dead Blanche's blood doth cry to heaven |
134 |
And him, the royal brother of her blood, |
135 |
To any Spanish hand — prince's or king's. |
136 |
We, De la Houssaye, and Le Begue, and I, |
137 |
And ten good score of noblemen besides, |
138 |
With all the spears that love or chivalry |
139 |
Has clustered at our backs — must we stand by |
140 |
And let the murderer of the Lady Blanche, |
141 |
The sister of our king, conquer or fall, |
142 |
According as one Spaniard or another |
143 |
Couches his lance the firmest, in our sight — |
144 |
Had Henry of Transtamara ne'er been crowned — |
145 |
Aye, had ne'er been born, thinkest thou my king |
146 |
Would have sat still upon his father's throne, |
147 |
And bid his priests sing masses for the soul |
148 |
Of unrevenged Blanche. |
149 |
I lift this glove; |
150 |
I place it in the front of this my basnet, |
151 |
Which here, for lack of worthier, represents |
152 |
The coronetted helmet of King Philip. |
153 |
Do as ye will, thou, and the Lord of Onis, |
154 |
This bishop, and as many Spaniards more |
155 |
As are encamped with us — I speak for France, |
156 |
[Page 50] |
|
And I will have a field, an open field, |
157 |
A bloody field for Blanche! |
158 |
HERALD.
A bloody field! |
159 |
So be it—I shall know my glove again. |
160 |
DU GUESCLIN.
HERALD.
King Pedro's glove. I speak for him. |
162 |
DU GUESCLIN.
Thou speakest in safety whatsoe'er thou speakest. |
163 |
HERALD.
[taking off his cap.]
I speak in safety since Du Guesclin says so, |
164 |
I am King Pedro! Doth Henry know me? Kneel slave! |
165 |
HENRY.
[starting back, and drawing his sword.]
Thou murderer! hast no sword? |
166 |
DU GUESCLIN.
If he had fifty none were drawn to-night. |
167 |
This sacred garb which God and man respect, |
168 |
And mine own words do save thee. Go in peace. |
169 |
PEDRO.
I came not hither to make speeches, nor |
170 |
See I fit judge to sit and hold the balance |
171 |
Between my breath and thine. Therefore, Du Guesclin, |
172 |
Farewell. We meet to-morrow. Ynigo Onis |
173 |
Thou hadst a playmate once. Ha! Father Joseph, |
174 |
Who drew that bare scalp from a monkery, |
175 |
And clapped a mitre on't? Sweet lords, good night. |
176 |
[Exit Pedro.
[Page 51] |
|
DU GUESCLIN.
Le Begue, attend the Herald to the barrier. |
177 |
[Exit Le Begue.
Bold, dark, and haughty soul. I knew him not. |
178 |
ONIS.
There was something in the voice — and yet |
179 |
I could not think but that I dreamed. —— |
180 |
HENRY.
Ten years |
181 |
Have changed my brother much. His brow is wrinkled, |
182 |
His hairs are grey. |
183 |
LA HOUSSAYE.
His fierce eye is the same. |
184 |
HENRY.
Once more, kind gentlemen, farewell. |
185 |
[Exeunt Du Guesclin, &c.] Lord Bishop. |
186 |
Do thou remain with some little space. |
187 |
[Aside.] I've seen my brother — something
whispers me |
188 |
That one more meeting, and no more shall be. |
189 |
The French Camp.
[Enter Pedro, Le Begue, & a crowd of soldiers.
FIRST SOLDIER.
I warrant ye lie has worn both plate and mail, |
1 |
His stuffed tabard sits like a shirt upon him. |
2 |
SECOND SOLDIER.
And fifty lances! |
3 |
I never heard of herald so attended. |
4 |
FIRST SOLDIER.
He is some noble gentleman, besure, |
5 |
[Page 52] |
|
The Lord Le Begue, you see, is squiring him. |
6 |
THIRD SOLDIER.
Faith! and I think he walks a-foot behind him. |
7 |
PEDRO.
Le Begue de Villaines? Ha! a noble name! |
8 |
A very noble race of Burgundy; |
9 |
I've heard of them ere now. My Lord Le Begue |
10 |
You've had a hasty march from Salamanca, |
11 |
Some fifteen days, I think. I have been near you, |
12 |
Almost as near as now within that time. |
13 |
LE BEGUE.
An' please your Highness, had we known thereof, |
14 |
We should, as now, have tendered ye our escort. |
15 |
PEDRO.
I doubt it not. You've chosen your quarters shrewdly. |
16 |
I know the spot of old. There is a well |
17 |
Beside yon oak that ye may slake your thirst in, |
18 |
If ye were thrice as many as I count ye. |
19 |
A very pleasant fountain, — |
20 |
LE BEGUE.
I have not drunk thereof. |
21 |
PEDRO.
A true Burgundian! — Well, Sir, blood flows out |
22 |
And wine flows in — such is the soldier's course. |
23 |
I wish I had ye in Montiel this night. — |
24 |
Your lads, I see, have lips of the same savour, |
25 |
By Jove they seem right merry underneath |
26 |
These old trees — there's no lack of skins among them. |
27 |
Well, drink to-night. If some of these red lips |
28 |
[Page 53] |
|
Be white enough, and dry withal ere long, |
29 |
The blood ye might have kept, and the good wine |
30 |
Ye might have drunk—I shall be blamed for neither. |
31 |
Captain, are these your soldiers? |
32 |
LE BEGUE.
PEDRO.
Yon tall black fellow, leaning on his spear, |
34 |
Is he not Spanish? |
35 |
LE BEGUE.
Is his leathern doublet? |
36 |
I know him not — his face is new to me. |
37 |
PEDRO.
But not to me — Rodrigo Perez! Look ye |
38 |
Sir knight, how the slave bends. His Spanish blood |
39 |
Is not all washed from out his veins. — |
40 |
LE BEGUE.
An' please you, Sir, |
41 |
I can permit no talk — the barrier's near, |
42 |
I'll see you safe among your followers. |
43 |
PEDRO.
What? stop a Herald's mouth! well well, pass on, |
44 |
[throwing money to the soldiers.]
Drink all men's friend, the Herald, when he's gone. |
45 |
[Exit Pedro.]
[Page 54] |
|
FIRST SOLDIER.
Thanks for the largess! Fill a cup to him. |
46 |
[drinks.]
SECOND SOLDIER.
Aye, sure; a noble generous gentleman. |
47 |
[drinks.]
OLD SPEARMAN.
Why do ye not pledge the toast? |
48 |
He is your countryman. —— |
49 |
RODRIGO PEREZ.
If ye knew his face |
50 |
As well as I, ye would not fill so cheerily. |
51 |
FIRST SOLDIER.
You've seen him heretofore? how runs his name? |
52 |
A don I'll warrant ye, and then some dozen |
53 |
Of fine high sounding long words after it. |
54 |
You've half an ell of names yourself, I'll swear. |
55 |
PEREZ.
A short one serves him. — |
56 |
FIRST SOLDIER.
PEREZ.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Old man you stare as if this lordly Herald |
59 |
Had been your father's ghost. Come, speak, who is he? |
60 |
He spoke to you; he called you by your name. |
61 |
SECOND SOLDIER.
By our Lady, |
62 |
It seems as if this Pedro's coat of arms |
63 |
Painted upon a fool's coat, were enough |
64 |
To frighten some that must expect to see |
65 |
His floating banner and his dancing crest, |
66 |
Ere long — if, as they say, we fight to-morrow. |
67 |
PEREZ.
Talk on, young men: to-morrow's not far off. |
68 |
THIRD SOLDIER.
No, and for that cause my most sober comrade, |
69 |
It is my mind that we should drink to-night, |
70 |
To-morrow we'll have neither shade nor wine. |
71 |
PEREZ.
Nor thirst it may be — |
72 |
[Exit.
FIRST SOLDIER.
[sings.]
To-morrow when the sun is high |
73 |
[Page 55] |
|
Up in the glowing burning sky, |
74 |
When trumpets sound, and pennons fly, |
75 |
And lances gleam. |
76 |
No resting on the spear |
77 |
To drain the wine cup clear: |
78 |
Of jollity and cheer |
79 |
I shall not dream. |
80 |
SECOND SOLDIER.
To-morrow when the sun is low, |
81 |
For some a jovial cup may flow, |
82 |
But who can tell, and who can know |
83 |
For me? — for whom? |
84 |
A cold earth bed perchance, |
85 |
Beside a broken lance, |
86 |
Far, far from merry France, |
87 |
May be my doom. |
88 |
THE TWO SOLDIERS.
To-night yon sun goes down in gold, |
89 |
His purple clouds around him rolled, |
90 |
What eyes his next descent behold, |
91 |
May none reveal. |
92 |
Fill, fill your goblets high, |
93 |
Bright as yon glorious sky, |
94 |
Wine will not make us die |
95 |
On hot Montiel. |
96 |
THIRD SOLDIER.
Pass round the cup — I think our dry old Spaniard |
97 |
Has moved himself. |
98 |
[Page 56] |
|
FOURTH SOLDIER.
Now saw ye e'er a man |
99 |
Look wilder when yon Herald as he passed |
100 |
Fixed his black eye, and named him? |
101 |
FOURTH SOLDIER.
Another part of the camp.
RODRIGO PEREZ.
[alone.]
It was but yesterday this King and Onis |
1 |
Stood by while I was digging here i the ditch, |
2 |
And looked upon me for some minutes' space, |
3 |
I did not work less lustitly because |
4 |
There eyes were on me — by my troth I watered |
5 |
The clay with my best sweat — but never a word — |
6 |
"Rodrigo Perez, hot work, old Rodrigo ——" |
7 |
To say so much had been no mighty matter, |
8 |
"The ditch will do." "The barrier will be good," |
9 |
Good! good! good barrier! nothing of good soldier. |
10 |
Well, ‘tis all one. |
11 |
Enter GIL FRASSO.
GIL.
Perez, comrade Perez, |
12 |
Hast heard this story? |
13 |
PEREZ.
Story! I've heard none — |
14 |
What is't? |
15 |
GIL.
I scarcely can believe 'tis true — |
16 |
The old king — black Don Pedro, man, — Yon Herald |
17 |
Whose trumpet we all heard — they say ‘twas he — |
18 |
[Page 57] |
|
'Twas he himself — and that he came disguised |
19 |
In those gay trappings to fling down his glove, |
20 |
And challenge Henry face to face to the combat — |
21 |
The single combat — but Du Guesclin barred it. |
22 |
PEREZ.
Where hast thou heard this news? |
23 |
GIL.
Why, but this moment |
24 |
I left a knot of our companions gathered |
25 |
Beneath the big oak, close beside the well, |
26 |
And this was all their talk. |
27 |
PEREZ.
The single combat! |
28 |
By Saint Iago, in my humble mind, |
29 |
Du Guesclin did Don Henry a good turn. |
30 |
GIL.
Hush! do not say so. Dost thou then believe it? |
31 |
PEREZ.
Why not, Gil Frasso? Pedro's worst of foes |
32 |
Will scarce deny that give them equal chance |
33 |
Of wind and sun, within a guarded ring, |
34 |
The old King mounted as we all have seen him, |
35 |
Might raise a clatter on the new King's helm |
36 |
In spite of the fair coronet that girds it. |
37 |
GIL.
Faith! Pedro always had a heavy hand. |
38 |
But can ye credit it that he came here? |
39 |
PEREZ.
Why that I scarce can doubt. I saw him Frasso, |
40 |
I saw him, man, with mine own eyes. |
41 |
GIL.
PEREZ.
Aye, Gil—what's stranger, may be, he knew me. |
43 |
[Page 58] |
|
GIL.
Nay, nay, old Perez, I can scarce go with you — |
44 |
But come let's hear the story. |
45 |
PEREZ.
Look'ye, Gil, |
46 |
It was down yonder, where those gay French sparks |
47 |
Are drinking and carousing in the shade; |
48 |
I stood beside them leaning on my spear, |
49 |
To see the Herald passing to the barrier; |
50 |
Well, up he came, the Lord Le Begue came with him, |
51 |
And as they passed us, suddenly the Herald |
52 |
(We had ta'en notice of his lordly step,) |
53 |
Halted, and said "are these your soldiers, Sir?" |
54 |
And then he pointed with his finger thus, |
55 |
"My Lord Le Begue," quoth he, "there stands a Spaniard," |
56 |
And then he loooked more sternly yet, and waved |
57 |
His hand, and named my name "Rodrigo Perez." |
58 |
These were his words — they're ringing in my ears. |
59 |
Rodrigo Perez! — Well, say what they will, |
60 |
It is no shame I think, even for a King, |
61 |
To know an old man that has shed his blood |
62 |
Beneath his banner. — 'Twill be just ten years |
63 |
Next Thursday (if we see it) since Nejara — |
64 |
GIL.
It was a noble day — a glorious day! |
65 |
RODRIGO.
Say that within the hearing of Lord Onis — |
66 |
GIL.
No 'faith — but yet it was a glorious field. |
67 |
RODRIGO.
Aye, and the morrow after, I remember |
68 |
[Page 59] |
|
I wakened stiff enough — this arm was bandaged, |
69 |
And this leg too — I woke and sat upright, |
70 |
And looked about me, in the crowded place |
71 |
All full of comrades shattered like myself, |
72 |
Some worse, some better, and there stood the King, |
73 |
Aye there he stood himself among the leeches |
74 |
And priests (they all were busy), and he said — |
75 |
It seems as if all had passed but yestereven, — |
76 |
"Lie down good fellow, rest a day or two, |
77 |
And ye'll be well again." |
78 |
GIL.
I would he had not slain the Lady Blanche. |
79 |
RODRIGO.
She was a pretty lady — so say all — |
80 |
But French — why seek they wives from France? — I love not |
81 |
The men — no nor the women of that land. |
82 |
GIL.
No more did Pedro. — He should have not killed her |
83 |
And for a Jewess too! |
84 |
RODRIGO.
We hear black tales: |
85 |
Who knows what may have been before she died? |
86 |
GIL.
In faith I know not, Perez. |
87 |
RODRIGO.
So we had at Nejara: There Don Henry |
88 |
Was beat — aye, man, like chaff, before black Wales |
89 |
[Page 60] |
|
And the old king. He wants those English spears, |
90 |
None better ever thrust, but as men speak, |
91 |
There are some thousands of the Moorish horse |
92 |
Within Montiel to-night. Our gay French comrades |
93 |
May find the scimitar's as good's the sword. |
94 |
And old De Castro is with Pedro still. |
95 |
GIL.
God knows the issue. Would the day were over. |
96 |
RODRIGO.
Aye, would it were. If riding in the front |
97 |
Among the Bishop's men it so fall out, |
98 |
That we come near the king — I mean King Pedro, — |
99 |
And I behold him charging on the French — |
100 |
I know not. — |
101 |
GIL.
RODRIGO.
He's but a bastard, |
103 |
We may get easily beyond the barrier — |
104 |
Down yon Green Lane — your hand: — The true old king |
105 |
Will let us in, I warrant him, right kindly. |
106 |
Why, Gil, I think it would have chilled our bloods, |
107 |
And made our arms like withs, if we had seen |
108 |
King Pedro's plume at work, and heard his voice |
109 |
High above all the meacute;leacute;e as of yore, |
110 |
And we old followers, Nejara-men, |
111 |
Been there against him. |
112 |
GIL.
That oath to the bishop |
113 |
Sticks in my gizzard. |
114 |
RODRIGO.
So, man, gulp it down |
115 |
[Page 61] |
|
While yet he was but plain old Father Joseph — |
116 |
And Henry — my Lord Bastard —- |
117 |
I had ta'en oaths enough to serve Don Pedro. |
118 |
Hark to yon Frenchmen how they boose and sing. |
119 |
GIL.
Come — we'll have cups of welcome from the king. |
120 |
Exeunt.
A chamber in the Castle of Montiel.
MARIA DE PADILLA, her SON, and SARAH, seated by a window.
MARIA.
Your father will come home anon, my love. |
1 |
SARAH.
The sun's gone down, and if it please my lady |
2 |
I'll see him to his chamber. |
3 |
BOY.
Let me stay |
4 |
Until my father be come home again, |
5 |
I will not sleep till he has said good night, |
6 |
And kissed me. |
7 |
MARIA.
Kiss me darling — |
8 |
So, — you shall stay and get the other too. |
9 |
Speak truly, Sarah — they're the king's own eyes. |
10 |
SARAH.
In part 'tis so; the long lids are the same — |
11 |
'Tis a sweet mixture — fair and gentle boy! |
12 |
MARIA.
Aye, fair and gentle now — gentle and fair! |
13 |
[Page 62] |
|
But look beneath the shadow of the oak, |
14 |
And see how delicate the nursling plant |
15 |
Fruit of some late chance-scattered acorn shews |
16 |
Its smooth slim stem, its tiny trembling shoots — |
17 |
Its little glossy leaves—one scarce could dream, |
18 |
That in the course of nature these must be |
19 |
Transformed into the rough wide girdled trunk |
20 |
Scornful of tempests, and the giant boughs, |
21 |
Whose massive umbrage darkens noon below them — |
22 |
And yet 'tis so — when the stout parent tree |
23 |
Has mouldered into age's dust, or yielded |
24 |
Perchance to the dread flash of heavenly fire — |
25 |
Aye, or been battered down before its day, |
26 |
By common woodman's axe — that little budling |
27 |
Shall be the pride of all the grove around. — |
28 |
One down — another rises — this smooth chin |
29 |
Will ere men think that many years have flown, |
30 |
Be rough and back enow — this ivory forehead |
31 |
Plaited with wrinkled lines, the legacy |
32 |
Of sorrows, it may be — most certainly |
33 |
Of cares — the wind, the sun, foul weather |
34 |
Will all have done their work to tan this cheek, |
35 |
And this white shoulder, (now it hath a dimple, |
36 |
The prettiest bride in all Castile might envy), |
37 |
Will be deep ploughed with trace of buckled mail, |
38 |
And clasped plate — Pedro will be a man — |
39 |
I hope a noble soldier like his father. |
40 |
SARAH.
Aye, and a prince as once his father was |
41 |
[Page 63] |
|
And in God's time a king as he is now. |
42 |
MARIA.
I hope my god will hear my nightly voice, |
43 |
And let me sleep in dust before that day — |
44 |
For my fair child — come Pedro to my knee — |
45 |
My sinless child, or ere thou close thine eyes |
46 |
This night, be sure thou kneel – alone — for I |
47 |
Must not be with thee then, and pray to God |
48 |
To send down victory on thy father's sword — |
49 |
Pray strongly for thy father: — simple child, |
50 |
See, Sarah, how he stares with his black eyes! |
51 |
SARAH.
Now, prithee, cease my lady, |
52 |
You'll send us all a weeping to our beds |
53 |
If you look thus. I met the Lord de Castro |
54 |
But now as I was coming through the court, |
55 |
He smiled upon me courteously and gaily: |
56 |
I'm sure he thinks 'twill all go well to-morrow. |
57 |
MARIA.
The old soldier will not let shis eye betray him. |
58 |
His counsel and his prudence are my hope |
59 |
Next to the strong arm of my fearless king. |
60 |
As for these Moors — |
61 |
I cannot trust them — Yon old crafty Zagal, |
62 |
Although his words be of the readiest |
63 |
I doubt he he'll pause before he sheds much blood |
64 |
Of faithful Mussulmen in this debate: — |
65 |
SARAH.
If you suspect him, speak it to the king. |
66 |
MARIA.
I would the king were here — he tarries long. |
67 |
[Page 64] |
|
SARAH.
He hath rode something further than he thought for |
68 |
In reconnaissance — he will soon be here; |
69 |
De Castro, Zagal, and the other lords |
70 |
Are but assembling in the hall as yet. |
71 |
MARIA.
Sleepy, my boy? Well, Sarah, carry him |
72 |
Up to his chamber: when the king returns |
73 |
We both will come together — soon I hope. |
74 |
SARAH.
Come, darling, you have watched too long already. |
75 |
[Exit with the boy.
MARIA.
And now 'tis dark all over — hot and dark — |
76 |
The heavens must be relieved from this oppression — |
77 |
We from this doubting which is worse than death. |
78 |
What matters it whether the thunder growl |
79 |
Once or a thousand times? If it light here — |
80 |
The spirit of one must be unclad — a king |
81 |
Or nothing —— I — what must I be? — no matter — |
82 |
At least if things go darkly I can share |
83 |
His gloomier destiny — have my full half |
84 |
Of all that brings — and be at least his equal |
85 |
As well as bedfellow within the grave. |
86 |
The grave! Dead Blanche I fear thee — |
87 |
And yet God gives to kings the arbitrement |
88 |
Of life and death — and Pedro is a king — |
89 |
She knew that I had lain on Pedro's breast, |
90 |
And yet she couched her curls there: — my sweet boy |
91 |
On thee she had no pity, nor thy mother — |
92 |
[Scene closes.
[Page 65] |
|
ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of
Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard,
have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be
said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm
about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his
wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts and heifers that run
in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a
widow in humble circumstances and her young family.
The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane,
which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with
pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens sufficiently to admit
a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of
tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy
[Page 66] |
|
frame. A little way farther on the lane again
widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream,
a
branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows;
then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself
into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amidst the rushes and the willows of
Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane,
which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on
the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.
Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable
ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing
jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite
the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. One side
extends the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose
trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit forest.
Behind the house is an ample kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the
exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles,
and his good wife Dinah, served in some sort as domestics.
Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her
[Page 67] |
|
husband had
been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the
Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate
girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished
woman, and at first, settled in great town, and endeavoured to improve her small
income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too
had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and
pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon
began to fancy that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance
and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled
with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for
a
few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently
for life.
We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs.
Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general
recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping
bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory
caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family
again under my observation.
The first time that I saw them was on a bright
[Page 68] |
|
summer
evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briar rose blossoming in
the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas,
still lovely and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively
up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy
bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about
like bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the
fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm; and now feeding
a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active
colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coming long before she called them at
their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and
bustling patience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling.
It
was a beautiful picture of youth, and health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice,
and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly,
and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her
unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not
been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different way.
It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty romp
of
the flower
[Page 69] |
|
garden, not unlike her in form and feature,
but totally distinct in colouring and expression.
She sate in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western
sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her
chesnut hair, brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of ther smooth
and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form
had a bending and statue-like grace, encreased by the adjustment of her splendid
hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot
— a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than
her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and
skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate
pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly
with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up
to
her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile —
such a smile! — spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers
in
her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then
resumed her seat and her work, imitating better than I have ever heard them imitated,
the various notes of a
[Page 70] |
|
nightingale who was singing in
the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.
The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold
—
for I then knew that Jessy was blind — a misfortune always so touching, especially
in
early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal character
of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign
auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to encrease
the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind
girl.
Never was any human being more gentle generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly
resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her character arose as
I
soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence,
arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from
coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed
to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well
as
ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands
in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to
be
sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing:
[Page 71] |
|
and
some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which
her dear brother William had written upon a groupe of wild flowers, which she had
begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the
subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good
to her, and so was Emma; but William — oh she wished that I knew William! No one
could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he
walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for
her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's meadow; he had put
the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger,
even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the
wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortable and evenly; could
write letters to him, and say her own self all that she felt of love and gratitude.
And that," she continued with a deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William
was gone, and they should never meet again — never alive — that she was sure of —
she
knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world:
there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. Old General Lucas, her
father's uncle, had sent for him abroad;
[Page 72] |
|
had given him
a commission in his regiment; and he would never come home — at least they should
never meet again — of that she was sure — she knew it."
This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that
far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had
arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word,
or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in
other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and
loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from her trembling
sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always
characterised the object of her love — a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but
too apt to overtask his body.
However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud
over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of
the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the fear that
is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away those sad thoughts,
trusting to time, to William's letters, and above all, to William's return to
eradicate the evil.
The letters came punctually and gaily; letters
[Page 73] |
|
that
might have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart
of
Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual
promotion, and expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices
the most gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The
regiment was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection
he had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to
Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy,
for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General Lucas
himself, which arrived by the same post, was still more explicit: it adduced the
son's admirable character and exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the
mother, and avowed his design of providing for each of his young relatives, and of
making William his heir.
For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy — till
the
peril of a Winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her imagination, and
checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected, another epistle arrived,
dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to that which conveyed their
previous dispatches, and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. The voyage was
past, safely past, and the weight seemed
[Page 74] |
|
now really
taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and smiled; yet still it was a
fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very
intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind; and the Loddon, the
beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had overflowed its boundaries, and
swelled the smaller streams which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed
Kibe's lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's
railing, and was still foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest
way; and if William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road
was round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and
William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he loved.
These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no postillion would
think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering
like a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.
All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and
stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with her
fearful calamity, and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation, and love,
she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of a carriage
rapidly advancing on the
[Page 75] |
|
other side of the stream. "It
is only the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a carriage, the horses,
the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the double purpose of
meeting William, and of warning the postillion of crossing the stream. Emma and her
mother followed, fast! fast! But what speed could vie with Jessy's, when the object
was William? They called, but she neither heard nor answered. Before they had to won
to the bend in the lane she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her
pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank,
and she was borne resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately procured;
men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a
poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavor to save Jessy Lucas; and William,
too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived her. William was there,
struggling with all the strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless
creature; but every effort — although he persevered until he too was taken out
senseless — every effort was vain. The fair corse was recovered, but life was
extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction was verified to the letter; and the brother and his
favourite sister never met again.
[Page 76] |
|
COME, touch the harp, my gentle one! |
1 |
And let the notes be sad and low, |
2 |
Such as may breathe, in every tone, |
3 |
The soul of long ago! |
4 |
That smile of thine is all too bright |
5 |
For aching hearts, and lovely years, |
6 |
And, dearly as I love its light, |
7 |
To- day I would have tears! |
8 |
Yet weep not thus, my gentle girl! |
9 |
No smile of thine has lost its spells; |
10 |
By heaven! I love thy lightest curl, |
11 |
Oh! more than fondly well! |
12 |
Then touch the lyre, and let it wile |
13 |
All thought of grief and gloom away, |
14 |
While thou art by, with harp and smile, |
15 |
I will not weep, to- day! |
16 |
painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr.
Brandard
[Page 77] |
|
COME ye forth to our revel by moonlight, |
1 |
With your lutes and your spirits in tune; |
2 |
The dew falls to- night like an odour, |
3 |
Stars weep o'er our last day in June. |
4 |
Come maids leave the loom and its purple, |
5 |
Though the robe of a monarch were there; |
6 |
Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest, |
7 |
And be it to- night your sole care. |
8 |
Braid ye your curls in their thousands, |
9 |
Whether dark as the raven's dark wing, |
10 |
Or bright as that clear summer colour, |
11 |
When sunshine lights every ring. |
12 |
On each snow ankle lace silken sandal, |
13 |
Don the robes like the neck they hide white; |
14 |
Then come forth like planets from darkness, |
15 |
Or like lilies at day- break's first light. |
16 |
[Page 78] |
|
Is there one who half regal in beauty, |
17 |
Would be regal in pearl and in gem; |
18 |
Let her wreath her a crown of red roses, |
19 |
No rubies are equal to them. |
20 |
Is there one who sits languid and lonely, |
21 |
With her fair face bowed down on her hand, |
22 |
With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash, |
23 |
And careless locks 'scaped from their band. |
24 |
For a lover not worth that eye's tear- drop, |
25 |
Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss, |
26 |
Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness; |
27 |
I know not the lover that is. |
28 |
Let her bind up her beautiful tresses; |
29 |
Call her wandering rose back again; |
30 |
And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage, |
31 |
A hundred shall carry her chain. |
32 |
Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful, |
33 |
With hearts like the light plumes ye wear; |
34 |
Eyes all but divine light our revel, |
35 |
Like the stars in whose beauty they share. |
36 |
Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling, |
37 |
Some clear as the morning's first light; |
38 |
Others touched with the evening's last crimson, |
39 |
Or the blush that may meet ye to night. |
40 |
[Page 79] |
|
There are plenty of sorrows to chill us, |
41 |
And troubles last on to the grave; |
42 |
But the coldest glacier has its rose- tint, |
43 |
And froth rides the stormiest wave. |
44 |
Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes, |
45 |
With plumage as bright as before; |
46 |
And pleasures like lamps in a palace, |
47 |
If extinct, you need only light more. |
48 |
When one vein of silver's exhausted, |
49 |
'Tis easy another to try; |
50 |
There are fountains enough in the desert, |
51 |
Though that by your palm- tree be dry: |
52 |
When an India of gems is around you, |
53 |
Why ask for the one you have not? |
54 |
Though the roc in your hall may be wanting, |
55 |
Be contented with what you have got. |
56 |
Come to- night, for the white blossomed myrtle |
57 |
Is flinging its love- sighs around; |
58 |
And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties, |
59 |
The violets peep from the ground. |
60 |
Seek ye for gold and for silver, |
61 |
There are both on these bright orange- trees; |
62 |
And never in Persia the moonlight |
63 |
Wept o'er roses more blushing than these. |
64 |
[Page 80] |
|
There are fireflies sparkling by myriads, |
65 |
The fountain wave dances in light; |
66 |
Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking, |
67 |
And soft steps break the sleeping of the night. |
68 |
Then come all the young and the graceful, |
69 |
Come gay as the lovely should be, |
70 |
'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble, |
71 |
To let one midnight pass Sans Souci. |
72 |
painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry
Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, |
1 |
All chivalrous romantic work, |
2 |
Is ended now and past! — |
3 |
That iron age — which some have thought |
4 |
Of mettle rather overwrought — |
5 |
Is now all over- cast! |
6 |
Aye, — where are those heroic knights |
7 |
Of old — those armadillos wights |
8 |
Who wore the plated vest, — |
9 |
Great Charlemagne, and all his peers |
10 |
Are cold — enjoying with their spears |
11 |
An everlasting rest! — |
12 |
The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound, |
13 |
So sleep his knights who gave that Round |
14 |
[Page 76] |
|
Old Table such eclat! |
15 |
Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow! |
16 |
And none engage at turneys now |
17 |
But those who go to law! |
18 |
No Percy branch now perserveres |
19 |
Like those of old in breaking spears — |
20 |
The name is now a lie! — |
21 |
Surgeons, alone, by any chance, |
22 |
Are all that ever couch a lance |
23 |
To couch a body's eye! |
24 |
Alas! for Lion- Hearted Dick, |
25 |
That cut the Moslems to the quick, |
26 |
His weapon lies in peace, — |
27 |
Oh, it would warm them in a trice, |
28 |
If they could only have a spice |
29 |
Of his old mace in Greece! |
30 |
The fam'd Rinaldo lies a- cold, |
31 |
And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold, |
32 |
[Page 77] |
|
That scal'd the holy wall! |
33 |
No Saracen meets Paladin, |
34 |
We hear of no great Saladin, |
35 |
But only grow the small! |
36 |
Our Cressy's too have dwindled since |
37 |
To penny things — at our Black Prince |
38 |
Historic pens would scoff — |
39 |
The only one we moderns had |
40 |
Was nothing but a Sandwich lad, |
41 |
And measles took him off! — |
42 |
Where are those old and feudal clans, |
43 |
Their pikes, and bills, and partizans |
44 |
Their hauberks — jerkins — buffs? |
45 |
A battle was a battle then, |
46 |
A breathing piece of work — but men |
47 |
Fight now — with powder puffs! |
48 |
The curtal- axe is out of date! |
49 |
The good old cross- bow bends — to Fate, |
50 |
'Tis gone — the archer's craft! |
51 |
No tough arm bends the springing yew, |
52 |
And jolly draymen ride, in lieu |
53 |
Of Death, upon the shaft. — |
54 |
The spear — the gallant tilter's pride |
55 |
The rusty spear is laid aside, |
56 |
[Page 78] |
|
Oh spits now domineer! — |
57 |
The coar of mail is left alone, — |
58 |
And where is chain- armour gone? |
59 |
Go ask at Brighton Pier. |
60 |
We fight in ropes and not in lists, |
61 |
Bestowing hand- cuffs with our fists, |
62 |
A low and vulgar art! — |
63 |
No man is overthrown — |
64 |
A tilt! — It is a thing unknown — |
65 |
Except upon a cart. |
66 |
The spear — the gallant tilter's pride |
67 |
The rusty spear is laid aside, |
68 |
Oh spits now domineer! — |
69 |
The coar of mail is left alone, — |
70 |
And where is chain- armour gone? |
71 |
Go ask at Brighton Pier. |
72 |
Mehtinks I see the bounding barb, |
73 |
Clad like his Chief in steely garb, |
74 |
For warding steel's appliance! — |
75 |
Methinks I hear the trumpet stir! |
76 |
'Tis but the guard to Exeter, |
77 |
That bugles the "Defiance!" |
78 |
In cavils when will cavaliers |
79 |
Set ringing helmets by the ears, |
80 |
And scatter plumes about? |
81 |
Or blood — if they are in the vein? |
82 |
That tap will never run again — |
83 |
Alas the Casque is out! |
84 |
No iron- crackling now is scor'd |
85 |
By dint of battle- axe or sword, |
86 |
[Page 79] |
|
To find a vital place — |
87 |
Though certain Doctors still pretend |
88 |
Awhile, before they kill a friend, |
89 |
To labout through his case. |
90 |
Farewell, then, ancient men of might! |
91 |
Crusader! errant squire, and knoght! |
92 |
Our coats and customs soften, — |
93 |
To rise would only make ye weep — |
94 |
Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep. |
95 |
As in a safety- coffin! |
96 |
[Page 80] |
|
The Purple Evening: , Imitated From the German
By the Author of "Stray
Leaves"
THOU lovely, smiling, evening ray, |
1 |
How calm thou sink'st in peace away! |
2 |
So martyrs smile amid the fire, |
3 |
So thus is extasy [sic] expire! |
4 |
How glow the hills, so softly bright! |
5 |
The woods reflect a dewy light; |
6 |
The day- star smiles on evening's grave — |
7 |
The swan glides o'er the purple wave. |
8 |
O Sun, fair image of our God! |
9 |
Far onwards, to our last abode, |
10 |
Thou lov'st to guide the wanderer's course |
11 |
Till rapt he greet thy goldern source, |
12 |
How brighter then, at thy departing, |
13 |
Than when o'er hill and valley starting! |
14 |
[Page 81] |
|
Scotland: , an Ode, Written after the King's Visit to that
Country
By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet
Laureat
1. |
1 |
AT length hath Scotland seen |
2 |
The presence long desired; |
3 |
The pomp of royalty |
4 |
Hath gladdened once again |
5 |
Her ancient palace, desolate how long! |
6 |
From all parts far and near, |
7 |
Highland and lowland, glen and fertile carse, |
8 |
The silent mountain lake, the busy port, |
9 |
Her populous cities and her pastoral hills, |
10 |
In generous joy convened |
11 |
By the free impulse of the loyal heart |
12 |
Her sons have gathered, and beheld their King. |
13 |
2. |
14 |
Land of the loyal, as in happy hour |
15 |
Revisited, so was thy regal seat |
16 |
In happy hour for thee |
17 |
Forsaken, under favouring stars, when James |
18 |
[Page 82] |
|
His valediction gave, |
19 |
And great Eliza's throne |
20 |
Received its rightful heir, |
21 |
The Peaceful and the Just. |
22 |
3. |
23 |
A more auspicious union never Earth |
24 |
From eldest days had seen, |
25 |
Than when, their mutual wrongs forgiven, |
26 |
And gallant enmity renounced |
27 |
With honour, as in honour fostered long, |
28 |
The ancient kingdoms formed |
29 |
Their everlasting league. |
30 |
4. |
31 |
Slowly by time matured |
32 |
A happier order then for Scotland rose; |
33 |
And where inhuman force, |
34 |
And rapine unrestrained |
35 |
Had lorded o'er the land, |
36 |
Peace came, and polity, |
37 |
And quiet industry, and frugal wealth; |
38 |
And there the household virtues fixed |
39 |
Their sojourn undisturbed. |
40 |
5. |
41 |
Such blessings for her dowry Scotland drew |
42 |
From that benignant union; nor less large |
43 |
The portion that she brought. |
44 |
[Page 83] |
|
She brought security and strength, |
45 |
True hearts, and strenuous hands, and noble minds. |
46 |
Say Ocean, from the shores of Camperdown, |
47 |
What Caledonia brought! Say thou, |
48 |
Egypt! Let India tell! |
49 |
And let tell Victory |
50 |
From her Brabantine field, |
51 |
The proudest field of fame! |
52 |
6. |
53 |
Speak ye too, works of peace; |
54 |
For ye too have a voice |
55 |
Which shall be heard by ages! The proud bridge, |
56 |
Through whose broad arches, worthy of their name |
57 |
And place, his rising and his refluent tide |
58 |
Majestic Thames, the royal river rolls! |
59 |
And that which high in air, |
60 |
A bending line suspended, shall o'erhang |
61 |
Menai's straits, as if |
62 |
By Merlin's mighty magic there sustain'd! |
63 |
And Pont-Cyssylte, not less wonderous work; |
64 |
Where on gigantic columns raised |
65 |
Aloft, a dizzying height, |
66 |
The laden barge pursues its even way, |
67 |
While o'er his rocky channel the dark Dee |
68 |
Hurries below, a raging stream, scarce heard! |
69 |
And that huge mole, whose deep foundations, firm |
70 |
As if by Nature laid, |
71 |
[Page 84] |
|
Repel the assailing billows, and protect |
72 |
The British fleet, securely riding there, |
73 |
Though southern storms possess the sea and sky, |
74 |
And from its depths commoved, |
75 |
Infuriate ocean raves. |
76 |
Ye stately monuments of Britain's power, |
77 |
Bear record ye what Scottish minds |
78 |
Have planned and perfected! |
79 |
With grateful wonder shall posterity |
80 |
See the stupendous works, and Rennie's name, |
81 |
And Telford's shall survive, till time |
82 |
Leave not a wreck of sublunary things.. |
83 |
7. |
84 |
Him too may I attest for Scotland's praise, |
85 |
Who seized and wielded first |
86 |
The mightiest element |
87 |
That lies within the scope of man's control; |
88 |
Of evil and of good, |
89 |
Prolific spring, and dimly yet discern'd |
90 |
The immeasurable results. |
91 |
The mariner no longer seeks |
92 |
Wings from the wind; creating now the power |
93 |
Wherewith he wins his way, |
94 |
Right on, across the ocean-flood, he steers |
95 |
Against opposing skies; |
96 |
And reaching now the inmost continent, |
97 |
Up rapid streams, innavigable else, |
98 |
Ascends with steady progress, self-propell'd. |
99 |
[Page 85] |
|
8. |
100 |
Nor hath the sister kingdon borne |
101 |
In science and in arms |
102 |
Alone, her noble part; |
103 |
There is an empire which survives |
104 |
The wreck of thrones, the overthrow of realms, |
105 |
The downfall, and decay, and death |
106 |
Of nations. Such an empire in the mind |
107 |
Of intellectual man |
108 |
Rome yet maintains, and elder Greece; and such |
109 |
By indefeasable right |
110 |
Hath Britain made her own. |
111 |
How fair a part doth Caledonia claim |
112 |
In that fair conquest! Whereso'er |
113 |
The British tongue may spread, |
114 |
(A goodly tree, whose leaf |
115 |
No winter e'er shall nip;) |
116 |
Earthly immortals, there, her sons of fame, |
117 |
Will have their heritage; |
118 |
In eastern and in occidental Ind; |
119 |
The new antarctic world, where sable swans |
120 |
Glide upon waters, call'd by British names, |
121 |
And plough'd by British keels; |
122 |
In vast America, through all its length |
123 |
And breadth, from Massachusett's populous coast |
124 |
To western Oregan; |
125 |
[Page 86] |
|
And from the southern gulph, |
126 |
Where the great river with his turbid flood |
127 |
Stains the green ocean, to the polar sea. |
128 |
9. |
129 |
There nations yet unborn shall trace |
130 |
In Hume's perspicuous page, |
131 |
How Britain rose, and through what storms attain'd |
132 |
Her eminence of power. |
133 |
In other climates, youths and maidens there |
134 |
Shall learn from Thomson's verse in what attire |
135 |
The various seasons, bringing in their change |
136 |
Variety of good, |
137 |
Revisit their beloved English ground. |
138 |
There Beattie! in thy sweet and soothing strain |
139 |
Shall youthful poets read |
140 |
Their own emotions. There too, old and young, |
141 |
Gentle and simple, by Sir Walter's tales |
142 |
Spell-bound, shall feel |
143 |
Imaginary hopes and fears |
144 |
Strong as realities, |
145 |
And waking from the dream, regret its close. |
146 |
10. |
147 |
These Scotland are thy glories; and thy praise |
148 |
Is England's, even as her power |
149 |
And opulence of fame are thine. |
150 |
[Page 87] |
|
So hath our happy union made |
151 |
Each in the other's weal participant, |
152 |
Enriching, strengthening, glorifying both. |
153 |
11. |
154 |
O House of Stuart, to thy memory still |
155 |
For this best Senefit |
156 |
Should British hearts in gratitude be bound! |
157 |
A deeper tragedy |
158 |
Than thine unhappy tale hath never fill'd |
159 |
The historic page, nor given |
160 |
Poet or moralist his mournful theme! |
161 |
O House severely tried, |
162 |
And in prosperity alone |
163 |
Found wanting, Time hath closed |
164 |
Thy tragic story now! |
165 |
Errors and virtues fatally betrayed, |
166 |
Magnanimous suffering, vice, |
167 |
Weakness, and head-strong zeal, sincere tho'blind, |
168 |
Wrongs, calumnies, heart-wounds, |
169 |
Religious resignation, earthly hopes |
170 |
Fears and affections, these have had their course, |
171 |
And over them in peace |
172 |
The all-engulphing stream of years hath closed. |
173 |
But this good work endures, |
174 |
'Stablish'd and perfected by length of days, |
175 |
The indissoluble union stands. |
176 |
[Page 88] |
|
12. |
177 |
Nor hath the sceptre from that line |
178 |
Departed, though the name hath lost |
179 |
Its regal honours. Trunk and root have failed: |
180 |
A scion from the stock |
181 |
Liveth and flourisheth. It is the Tree |
182 |
Beneath whose sacred shade, |
183 |
In majesty and peaceful power serene, |
184 |
The Island Queen of Ocean hath her seat; |
185 |
Whose branches far and near |
186 |
Extend their sure protection; whose strong roots |
187 |
Are with the isle's foundations interknit; |
188 |
Whose stately summit when the storm careers |
189 |
Below, abides unmoved, |
190 |
Safe in the sunshine and the peace of Heaven! |
191 |
[Page 89] |
|
To a Friend, , On Sending a Fancy Drawing, After Promising Her Own Picture
in the Character of a Gypsey
THE glowing tints beneath thy care |
1 |
Have traced a form divinely fair, |
2 |
Have given it charms and beauties rare, |
3 |
And shown the power of art; |
4 |
But in the ideal head I trace, |
5 |
No features of the gypsey's face, |
6 |
The living smile, the nameless grace, |
7 |
That nature doth impart. |
8 |
Here roving looks, and eyes of fire, |
9 |
Awake the soul of young desire; — |
10 |
The spells — which Beauty may inspire, |
11 |
By thee are well exprest. |
12 |
But soon the varying tints will fade, |
13 |
And time with leaden hand shall shade, |
14 |
The colours that once vivid played |
15 |
In thy bright eye and breast! |
16 |
[Page 90] |
|
So hope that paints our morning sky, |
17 |
When viewed with youth's unclouded eye; |
18 |
So pleasures airy dreams must fly |
19 |
O'erpowered with care and gloom. |
20 |
For life's a fearful passing dream, |
21 |
And those that gay and thoughtless seem, |
22 |
Alike sail down its swelling stream |
23 |
To meet the general doom. |
24 |
[Page 91] |
|
On His Majety's Return to Windsor Castle
By the Rev. W. Lisle
Bowles
NOT that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls |
1 |
The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls, |
2 |
The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights |
3 |
Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights; |
4 |
Not that young Surrey there beguil'd the hour |
5 |
With "eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;" |
6 |
Oh! not for these, the muse officious brings |
7 |
Her gratulations to the best of Kings; |
8 |
But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn, |
9 |
Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn — |
10 |
That here, among these grey primeval trees, |
11 |
He may inhale health's animating breeze — |
12 |
That these old oaks, which far their shadow cast, |
13 |
May sooth him, while they whisper of the past; |
14 |
And when from that proud Terrace he surveys |
15 |
Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze, |
16 |
(Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen |
17 |
Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green) |
18 |
[Page 92] |
|
May he reflect upon the waves that roll, |
19 |
Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole, |
20 |
And own (ambition's proudest boast above) |
21 |
A King's best glory is his country's Love. |
22 |
By N.T.
Carrington, Author of "Dartmoor"
[Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the Association, struck upon the
Gilstone, off Sicilly, with so much violence, that in about two minutes the vessel
went down, and every soul on board, but one, perished. This man saved himself on a
piece of timber, which floated to a rock called the Hellweathers, where he was
compelled to remain some days before he could receive any assistance. Besides the
Association, the Eagle, of 70, and the Romney, of 50 guns, perished, with all
their crews. The Firebrand, fireship, was also lost, but most of her men were
saved. Many persons of rank, and about 2000 seamen perished on this occasion. DREW'S HISTORY OF CORNWALL.]
THE blue wave roll'd away before the breeze |
1 |
Of evening, and that gallant fleet was seen |
2 |
Darting across the waters; ship on ship |
3 |
Following in eager rivalry, for home |
4 |
Lay on the welcome lee. The sun went down |
5 |
Amid a thousand glorious hues that liv'd |
6 |
But in his presence; and the giant clouds |
7 |
Mov'd on in beauty and in power before |
8 |
The day- god's burning throne. But soon was o'er |
9 |
The pomp celestial, and the gold-fring'd cloud |
10 |
[Page 93] |
|
Grew dark and darker, and the Elysian tints |
11 |
Evanish'd swift; the clear, bright azure chang'd |
12 |
To blackness, and with twilight came the shriek |
13 |
Of the pursuing winds. Anon on high, |
14 |
Seen dimly through the shadowy eve, the Chief |
15 |
Threw out the wary signal, and they paus'd |
16 |
Awhile upon the deep 3 . Again they gave |
17 |
Their sails to the fresh gale — again the surge |
18 |
Swept foaming by, and every daring prow |
19 |
Pointed to England; — England! that should greet |
20 |
With her green hills, and long- lost vales, their eyes |
21 |
On the sweet morrow. Beautiful is morn, |
22 |
But, oh, how beautiful the morn that breaks |
23 |
On the returning wanderer, doom'd no more |
24 |
To live on fancy's visions of that spot |
25 |
Beyond all others lov'd; — that very spot |
26 |
Now rising from the broad, blue waters, dear |
27 |
To him as Heav'n. |
28 |
With fatal speed they flew |
29 |
Through the wide- parting foam. Again the deck |
30 |
Slop'd to the billow, and the groaning mast |
31 |
Bent to the rising gale; yet on that night |
32 |
The voice of the loud ocean rose to them |
33 |
In music, for the winds that hurry'd by |
34 |
[Page 94] |
|
So fierce and swift, but heralded the way |
35 |
To the lov'd island- strand. The jaws of death |
36 |
Were round them, and they knew it not, until |
37 |
Chilling the life- blood of the bravest, burst |
38 |
The everlasting cry of waves and rocks |
39 |
From stern Cornubia's isles. Alas, to them — |
40 |
The lost, there blaz'd no friendly Pharos' fire, |
41 |
No star gleam'd from the heav'n. The sailor heard |
42 |
The roar of the huge cliff, and on his brow |
43 |
Fell the cold dew of horror. On they came — |
44 |
Those gallant barks, fate driv'n — on they came — |
45 |
Borne on the wings of the wild wind, to rush |
46 |
In darkness on the black and bellowing reef |
47 |
Where human help avails not. There they struck |
48 |
And sank; — the hopes, the fears, the wishes all |
49 |
Of myriads o'er, at once. Each fated ship |
50 |
One moment sat in all her pride, and pomp, |
51 |
And beauty, on the main; — the next, she plung'd |
52 |
Into the "hell" of waves, and from her deck |
53 |
Thrill'd the loud death scream — stifled as it rose |
54 |
By the dark sea; — one blow — one shriek — the grave! |
55 |
And all was silent — save the startling voice |
56 |
Of the Atlantic, rising from that shore |
57 |
In anger ever! Terribly its surge |
58 |
Clos'd o'er them, and they perish'd in that gulf |
59 |
Where the dead lie innumerous, and the depths |
60 |
Are rife with monstrous shapes, and rest is none |
61 |
[Page 95] |
|
Amid the infuriate war of waters hurl'd |
62 |
In endless, horrible commotion. Heard |
63 |
Alone, between the pausings of the gale, |
64 |
Was one faint, human wail. Where thousands sank |
65 |
One rode the vengeful wave, preserv'd to be, |
66 |
As seem'd, the sport of the mad billows: now |
67 |
Upflung upon the mountain ridges — now |
68 |
Swift sinking in abysses vast that yawn'd |
69 |
Almost to Ocean's bed. Yet life fled not, |
70 |
Nor hope, though in the tempest's giant coil |
71 |
He gasp'd for breath, and often writhed beneath |
72 |
The suffocating waters! |
73 |
Morning came |
74 |
In vain, though on the island rock the sea |
75 |
Had flung the hapless mariner. Around |
76 |
Howl'd the remorseless surge; — above, the cloud |
77 |
Swept, terror- wing'd; — the lightening o'er the day |
78 |
Shed an unnatural glare, and near him broke |
79 |
The thunder with its peal of doom. No aid |
80 |
Came through the long, long day, yet on the cliffs |
81 |
Floated the cheering signal; — from the strand |
82 |
Came voices animating; — men were there |
83 |
Impatient as the bounding greyhound held |
84 |
Within the straining leash — a gallant band |
85 |
Nurs'd in the western storm, familiar long |
86 |
With danger, and with — death, but might not brave |
87 |
The monster, now. And thus the victim hung |
88 |
Upon eternity's dread verge, and gaz'd |
89 |
[Page 96] |
|
Appall'd upon its gulf; — then backwards shrunk |
90 |
Convulsively to life, and hope renew'd |
91 |
Unfroze his blood, and o'er his features threw |
92 |
A light that could not last. For evening came, |
93 |
And the great sun descended to the main, |
94 |
While oft the beautiful, beloved orb |
95 |
The seaman watch'd, and sigh'd to see it sink |
96 |
Beneath the wave; but as the twilight grew |
97 |
Deeper and deeper, and the darkness clos'd |
98 |
Upon him, and the hungry, howling surge |
99 |
Was heard below, loud clamouring for its prey, |
100 |
He wept — the lone man wept! |
101 |
Again it came, |
102 |
The unchang'd, unchanging morning, rising wild |
103 |
Upon a joyless world; yet did his eye |
104 |
Glisten to see the dawn, though it awoke |
105 |
In tempest; and that day flew by, and night |
106 |
Once more fell on him, and another morn |
107 |
Broke, and the sufferer liv'd! The hand of death |
108 |
Was on him, yet delay'd the fatal grasp; |
109 |
And round the agonized victim look'd, |
110 |
But succour came not! On the rugged rock |
111 |
Crash'd the torn wreck in thunder, and the sea |
112 |
Disgorg'd the dead — within the black recoil |
113 |
Of waters dash'd the dead; and on the brave, |
114 |
The lov'd, he gaz'd, and at his Despair |
115 |
Now sat, and pointed on the abyss! |
116 |
*************** |
117 |
*************** |
118 |
[Page 97] |
|
A shout |
119 |
Comes from the cliffs — a shout of joy! Awake, |
120 |
Thou lonely one from death's fast- coming sleep! — |
121 |
Arise, the strand is thronging with brave men — |
122 |
A thousand eyes are on thee, and a bark |
123 |
Bursts o'er the breaching foam! The shifting cloud |
124 |
Flies westward, and away the storm, repell'd |
125 |
Relunctant sails: the winds have backward flung |
126 |
The billows of the Atlantic! See, — they come, — |
127 |
They come — a dauntless island- band — and now |
128 |
A cheer is heard— and hark the dash of oars |
129 |
Among the reefs! His eye with instant hope |
130 |
Brightens, and all the ebbing tides of life |
131 |
Rush with returning vigour! Now the spray |
132 |
Flies o'er the advancing pinnace, for the wave |
133 |
Though half subdued is mighty; yet her prow |
134 |
Victorious parts the surges, — nearer roll |
135 |
The cheers of that bold crew — the welcome sounds |
136 |
Thrill on his ear — the deep'ning plunge of oars |
137 |
Foams round the desert rock — 'tis won! 'tis won! |
138 |
And — he is sav'd! |
139 |
[Page 98] |
|
Imitation from the Persian
LORD! who art merciful as well as just, |
1 |
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust! |
2 |
Not what I would, O Lord! I offer thee, |
3 |
Alas! but what I can. |
4 |
Father Almighty, who hast made me man, |
5 |
And bade me look to Heaven, for thou art there, |
6 |
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer. |
7 |
Four things which are not in thy treasury, |
8 |
I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition: — |
9 |
My nothingness, my wants, |
10 |
My sins, and my contrition! |
11 |
Figure 5: Suitors Rejected
painted by Mr. W. H. Worthington, engraved by Mr. A. Wright
[Page 99] |
|
By Miss Emma Roberts, Author of
"The History of the Red and White Roses."
"UPON what knave's errand art thou sent, my dainty page thus early?" exclaimed
Leonora, "had I not been afoot with the lark to gather May- dew before the sun had
drank the moisture from these flowers, thou mightest have gone bootless home again,
for my lady the countess, and Victorine and Eugenie still press their pillows:
dreaming perchance of thy master and his gallant esquire; dost think boy, that
sallow-visaged melancholy baron, sighing after the wreck of the fortune which he
lacks the wit to mend, or the doughty hero, Roland, who would fain prompt him, if
his
dull brain could compass the matter, to some dexterous shift or stirring enterprise;
or those goodly trencher men, Dugarde and Montresor, are like to haunt a lady's
slumbers?"
"Faith, Leonora," replied the page, "it passes my poor judgment to decide what it
may
please the fancy of thy lady and her maids to dream about; the place is solitary thou
knowest — there are no other cavaliers of any mark or likelihood within a dozen
[Page 100] |
|
miles, they wear feathers in their caps and deck their
legs in silken hose, things which women wondrously affect to look upon, and perchance
in default of more ruffling gallants, they may be endured."
"Now out upon thee, for a saucy varlet," cried Leonora, "hie thee hence, sire page,
or thou shalt taste the discipline of the scullion's broom, and be sent roaring home
again."
"An' thou dost not bid me stay, fair mistress, I'll get me gone, and speedily, but
I'll carry that away which to possess thou wouldst give — aye, the lovelock Roland
begged so earnestly last night, which thou sworest should go with thee to thy grave
—
a secret, Leonora."
"A secret — nay, purse not up thy pretty mouth, thou paragon of pages, but tell it
quickly; come, thou art a sprightly lad, and wilt make a better knight than thy
master."
"And dost thou think to beguile me with sugared words; no, no, something better,
lady, or I'm gone."
"Thou shalt have an eyas, one that the master falconer engages shall prove a tarsel
gentle; I'll broider thee thy glove myself, and its jesses shall be of silver:
methinks thou only wantest a bird upon thy fist to brave it with the best."
"Wilt thou give me a kiss, Madonna?"
"Aye, manikin, twenty; dost think that I should blush to press the smooth lip of such
a beard-
[Page 101] |
|
less urchin? go to, I'll give thee something
better than a kiss, take this fair chain of gold, a metal wondrous scant at yonder
castle, if report speak true; every link will buy thee some rich gawd; thou shalt
have horse to ride, a good sword girded at thy side, and still wear half its length
about thy neck."
"Methinks I could carry a hawk as fair, and manage a steed, and wield a rapier as
well as the favourite page of King Charles himself, but though I prize a horse and
a
falcon, and thy massy chain, and thy sweet kisses, pretty Leonora, I'll not sell my
secret for aught a-kin to lucre; thou shalt have it without fee or guerdon, because
I
desire to merit the gilded spurs I mean to win, and I deem it to be rank cowardice
for men to set their wit against the weaker sex."
"Aye, marry, these are dainty scruples, malapert conceited minion, keep thy council
to aid thy master and his sapient friends, and leave us to countervail their plots.
This must needs be some device of Roland's, for the baron has thought of nothing
better than to sigh under the garden wall, while his trusty squire clears his hoarse
throat and trolls some dismal ditty; and Dugarde and Montresor being kept fasting,
groan in concert, and cast tender glances at Victorine and Eugenie, or at the shields
of brawn which the servitors carry into the buttery, it were hard to say which."
[Page 102] |
|
"Farewell, mistress Leonora, I meant to do thy lady a service; for not to speak it
disparagingly, her broad lands rather than her beauty have tempted my master, whose
revenues are, as thou sayest, somewhat slack, to play false to his plighted bride;
and thy glittering carkanets, Leonora, and the pearl studs, and the diamond bodkins
in which the silly hearts of thy fair companions so much delight, are the grand
attraction with his needy followers. I dare not hint that Roland is drawn hither by
any brighter object than thine eyes, but Montresor and Dugarde see butts of
malvoisin, haunches of the red deer, hawks, Damascus blades, and Barbary coursers
in
every gem."
"I guessed as much," exclaimed Leonora, "an' thy secret be upon a par with thy news,
'twere scarcely worth while to rise so early with it, but for once, though thou
deserv'st it not, I'll humour thee; I see thou art burning to tell this marvellous
tale, so out with it — from sheer compassion I'll lend thee mine ear."
"Take me then to thy bower, Leonora," replied the page, "for we have idled the time
until the morning solitude is broken, and stragglers haunt the glade."
"Willingly, my fair boy, and I'll break thy fast with a manchet of wheaten bread,
and
a platter of potted lampreys, cates I trow not common in the
[Page 103] |
|
baron's hall, and thou shalt wash down both with a cup of
sack."
The page and the lady passed into the fair chateau of the young Countess de
Normanville, laughing as they threw the dew-besprinkled flowers in sport at each
other, but the frolic mood of the maiden was changed, as after the lapse of an hour
she shewed the boy out of a little postern gate, and charged him to be faithful.
Flying round to the mew, where, as he was wont, Bertram de Lille was stationed
overlooking the falconers and whistling to the hawks, Leonora seized the youth by
the
arm, exclaiming, "To horse! to horse! sweet servant, away to the lady of Beaujeu,
there is mischief brewing, the thick skulls of the baron's followers have hatched
a
plot which will cost thee some hard riding, and me all the jewels in my casket to
defeat. Here are twenty broad pieces for the lacquey who keeps the door, and this
rich chain for the seneschal that you may have speech of the lady; and stay, here
is
a ruby ring as some small token of our mistress's affection for her royal kinswoman,
and these clasps and brooches are for her waiting gentlewomen, that they may speed
thy errand; and as I learn that money is not over plenty in the king's camp, for the
jewels of the Duchess of Savoy and the Marchioness of Montserrat, which he has
borrowed, lie in pawn for his necessities, stint not to say that so there be a fa-
[Page 104] |
|
vourable answer to this missive, plate to the value of
a thousand marks shall be dispatched to Lombardy. Now it is well, thou art mounted,
fly with the speed of the wind, and linger not in making those gambados — thy skill
in horsemanship has not been cast away on careless eyes."
De Lille obeyed the commands of the sprightly Leonora with so much zeal and diligence
that his foaming steed clattered into the court-yard an hour before even her
impatient spirit expected to see the dust which the charger's hoofs would raise upon
the adjacent hill; and exchanging his travel-soiled garments for the silken vest
which displayed his figure to the best advantage, he was ready to join the seneschal
in his attendance on the ladies in their evening walk through the parks and pleasure
ground. Passing down a broad flower-bespangled glade they encountered the baron, who
attired in black garments, and accompanied by his page, and his three trusty
esquires, advanced to pay his respects to the countess.
"Fair lady," he exclaimed, "attribute to this ardour of my passion my apparent
disrespect in approaching you clad in this dolorous habit."
"What is't, a penance?" interrupted Leonora; "and by the wing of Cupid for some heavy
offence, for it suits your complexion marvellously ill, and of that the malicious
priest was aware. A penance it
[Page 105] |
|
must be; the jovial
countenances of your merry men declare that no evil hap can betided in your
household."
"Alas, madam," replied the baron, "I wear this raven-tinted garb as a tribute of
respect to the memory of one whose death, in sooth, I lament not, since it promises
to remove one barrier to the suit I have so long and so hopelessly pressed, with the
lovely but too disdainful mistress of my soul. I am released from my betrothment with
the Lady Adela, by her decease."
"What, ho! Master Bertram," exclaimed Leonora, "thou mayest restore the baron to the
hues of the popinjay, in which he does so much execution in the hearts of simple
damsels. This gentleman, my lord, is fresh from the court of the lady of Beaujeu,
where he has seen and conversed with the Lady Adela, who morever has sent thee a
token that she liveth still to demand the fulfillment of an engagement made before
her broken fortune caused her to be slighted."
"And," said the Countess de Normanville, "I marvel that a gentleman and a knight
should shame his high lineage and chivalric oath by such a paltry device. Know, sir,
I am also acquainted with the base means with which you have tampered with the
avarice of my kinsman — an honorable bargain, forsooth — half the estate when you
lost all hope of
[Page 106] |
|
clutching the whole: but, beware sir,
neither fraud or force can avail you now; the Lady of Beaujeu, in behalf of my
sovereign King Charles, has taken my wardship into her own hand, and has alone the
power to dispose of me in marriage."
"And my lord," cried Bertram, "there is news from the camp of Charles; he marches
from triumph to triumph, and he has 'gaged the hands of his wards to the knights,
who
shall add the conquered states of Italy to the crown of France. What sayst thou? my
poor sword is at the service of my king; I post to the army to-morrow. Wilt thou quit
thy sylvan warfare in these woods to strive in martial exploits with the gallant
Lusignan, who it is rumoured wears the Countess de Normanville's glove upon his
basnet?"
"Peace, Bertram," cried the seneschal, "the baron loves to court far more dangerous
perils than the Lombard wars present, to tilt with ladies' eyes instead of
spears."
"Tarry for me, Master Bertram," exclaimed the page, "if it be but for the space of
a
single day, and thou shalt not ride alone an there be a broad sword and a steel
jerkin left in the armoury."
"Farewell, friend Roland," said Leonora, "thou, too, hast to win thy spurs, and line
thy purse with bezants; say, wilt thou take thy chance with an uncrested helm to gain
the land which calls me heir
[Page 107] |
|
in Bertram's absence? He
leaves me, thou seest, to combat as best I may against thy wit and valour; or wilt
thou, too, speed to these Lombard wars, and delegate to yon sad browed knight and
Messieurs Degarde and Montresor, who look wondrous wise, though unhandsomely chary
of
their words, the task of consoling me and my fellow damsels, when these vales shall
be deprived of the sunshine of thy presence."
"No, sweet mistress," returned Roland, "though thy sharp tongue and scornful eye
drive Master Bertram to the tented field, though thy humour were ten times more
petulant, and thy jests more keen, thou shalt not wear the willow branch for me, or
hang or drown for lack of one poor servant to bear with thy impertinencies: 'twere
pity to have them wasted on thy monkey or thy tire woman, send forth thy warrior
youth to gather laurels, we will pluck them from their brows when they return,
And thou shalt call him brave who bears away At once, the trophies of each toilsome
day."
[Page 108] |
|
Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral
By James Hogg, the
Ettrick Shephard
1. |
2 |
O MOOR- COCK, moor- cock, dinna craw |
3 |
Sae crouse on wing of mottled feather, |
4 |
Nor spread that boardly breast sae braw |
5 |
Upon thy height of Highland heather; |
6 |
For that's a brewing on the sea |
7 |
Will mar thy pride afore the even, |
8 |
And hap thy teemfu' mate and thee |
9 |
Deep frae the glowing light o' heaven. |
10 |
2. |
11 |
Thy voice gars a' the echos blair |
12 |
From viewless dens of rock and river; |
13 |
Like some wild spirit of the air |
14 |
Thou mak'st its billows quake and quiver, |
15 |
[Page 109] |
|
Proud of the mate thou lovest best; |
16 |
But o'er her hame nae mair thou'lt craw, |
17 |
Her grave maun be her lowly nest, |
18 |
Her winding- sheet the wreathe o' snaw. |
19 |
3. |
20 |
Thou lawless black- cock dinna spread |
21 |
That speckled fan so bright of hue, |
22 |
Why all that pride of evil deed |
23 |
Pruning thy wing of glossy blue, |
24 |
In wooing of a silly dame, |
25 |
Who knows full well thy love's a flam, |
26 |
And that for her 'tis much the same, |
27 |
As raven's for the sickly lamb? |
28 |
4. |
29 |
Begone thou heartless libertine, |
30 |
And locker in thy sheltered glade; |
31 |
For soon that motely love of thine, |
32 |
And thou shall both be lowly laid; |
33 |
Yet I will miss thee in the glen |
34 |
When August winds breathe o'er the fell, |
35 |
As mounting from thy braken den, |
36 |
Or skimmering o'er the heather bell. |
37 |
5. |
38 |
The laverock lilts within the lift, |
39 |
The mavis touts upon the tree; |
40 |
[Page 110] |
|
The blackbird hardly makes a shift |
41 |
To strain one note of melody; |
42 |
For ay he cowers his sooty wing |
43 |
An' points his yellow bill on high, |
44 |
And fears he has foreflown the spring |
45 |
Misled by winter's courtesy. |
46 |
6. |
47 |
For the sand- lark I needs must wail |
48 |
Sae ruefully he pours his pain, |
49 |
And as he sits and wags his tail, |
50 |
And whews upon his cauldrife stane; |
51 |
He sees the lapper on the stream, |
52 |
And Yarrow's banks sae sternly piled, |
53 |
That Sandy 5
thinks he's in a dream, |
54 |
Or landed in some polar wild. |
55 |
7. |
56 |
The curlew's neb's a weary length, |
57 |
The pease- weep's crest is like a tree, |
58 |
The chirping wagtail scarce has strength |
59 |
To turn his white cheek to the lee, |
60 |
Their necks are lang, their shanks are sma' |
61 |
Through perfect downright consternation, |
62 |
An' ay they cower by holt an' ha' |
63 |
Like thriftless weavers in starvation. |
64 |
[Page 111] |
|
8. |
65 |
The shilfu clars amang the firs, |
66 |
The yellow yorline in the thorn, |
67 |
But a' the simmer's harbingers |
68 |
Are buried ere the break of morn, |
69 |
The lambs lie smothered in the dean, |
70 |
The ewes stand bleating loud an' lang, |
71 |
While the poor shepherd dights his een, |
72 |
And thinks the world is a' gane wrang. |
73 |
Mount Benger, April 24th, 1827. |
74 |
[Page 112] |
|
THE moon is forth! — and while the cars |
1 |
Of night are out, we will not sleep, |
2 |
Send round the bowl, and shew the stars |
3 |
The vigils earthly spirits keep! — |
4 |
And if the vines, in yonder sky, |
5 |
Drop for their train such purple tears, |
6 |
The poet's tale should be no lie, |
7 |
Which paints them singing in their spheres! |
8 |
Shall we, because Hope's fount is dry, |
9 |
Shun every fount that soothes the soul? — |
10 |
The pang that blights the heart and eye |
11 |
Was never gathered from the bowl! |
12 |
If looks be dim, that once were bright, |
13 |
To weep will hardly make them brighter, |
14 |
And if our hearts be far from light, |
15 |
At least, we'll strive to make them lighter! |
16 |
[Page 113] |
|
Fill high the glass! — to- night, we'll try, |
17 |
For once, to make a truce with sorrow, |
18 |
And they who think it wise to sigh, |
19 |
May smile to- night — and sigh to- morrow; — |
20 |
But we, who love the better mood, |
21 |
To gather gladness where we may, |
22 |
Will hail, across this purple flood, |
23 |
The dawning of a brighter day. |
24 |
[Page 114] |
|
The Ritter von Reichenstein
The Ritter von Reichenstein6
THE great hall in the royal castle of Linz resounded with kettle-drums and trumpets,
while King Ferdinand and his Queen sat at the banquet table, rejoicing that the siege
was now raised, and Austria once more victorious. The banquet was given in honour
of
the young Baron von Reichenstein, who then, for the first time, appeared as the
King's guest. He had the good fortune to bring the welcome tidings that Solyman,
after beleaguering the city for many weeks, and being repulsed in every attack, had
at last suddenly desisted from his undertaking, and retreated by quick marches. Of
the distinction now conferred on Reichenstein his own noble conduct during the siege
rendered him eminently worthy, nor could the favour have been bestowed on any one
who
would have valued it more highly, for pride and ambition were indeed his leading
characteristics.
[Page 115] |
|
The lively monarch banished for the time all political cares, and gave himself up
to
the festivity of the moment, heightened by the consideration that the good news came
unexpectedly, as Vienna was then, in truth, but ill provided with the means of
defence, and the Sultan, at the head of three thousand men, had vowed never to return
till he had conquered both Hungary and Austria, where the Christian sway should be
terminated for ever. Merrily coursed the brimming goblets round the table, and in
the
joy of his heart the King proposed the health of his country's brave defender, the
heroic youth, Philip Palsgraf of the Rhine, and of the veteran warrior, Count
Nicholas of Salm, whose locks had now grown grey under arms. The mirth became louder,
and the applause more vehement, till the Queen commanded silence and attention, for
she too had prepared a little entertainment to celebrate the termination of that
campaign which had threatened so much misfortune; well knowing that on such occasions
her illustrious consort did not disdain to exchange the homage to Bacchus for a
sacrifice to the Muses. Of this Monarch, indeed, it is recorded that when a certain
Colonel of his Life Guards once ventured to hint that he bestowed too many favors
on
the learned, to the neglect of the ancient nobility, the Colonel next day received
a
great packet of old and important parchments, with an order that he
[Page 116] |
|
should read them through, and in a few hours return a written
abstract of their contents; the Colonel, of course, brought them back, declaring his
incapacity for the task. "Good friend," said the King, smiling ironically, "you will
for the future spare your animadversions on our patronage of the learned, for you
perceive that if noblemen and warriors only were to be raised to office, the duties
of the state would be fulfilled yet worse than heretofore."
On a signal from the queen a red silk curtain at the bottom of the hall was suddenly
drawn up, and revealed an altar from which a clear flame rose flickering, and
illuminated the arms of Austria wreathed with laurel and gorgeously emblazoned.
Before the altar sat a female form, beaming in such luxuriance of beauty, that she
might well indeed have been deemed one of the muses descended from Mount Olympus.
Her
long white robes though rich in folds could not conceal the exquisite symmetry of
her
form; round her waist she wore a gold embroidered girdle, while from her shoulders
waved a short mantle of blue velvet studded with golden stars. Her features were of
the noblest Grecian mould; round her temples was bound a laurel wreath, and her
glossy chesnut hair flowed in profuse curls round her blushing cheeks, down into her
snow-white neck and bosom. In her arms she supported a harp, and accompanying her
voice with powerful chords, sung
[Page 117] |
|
a fervent hymn in
praise of the brave men by whose courage the threatening danger had been averted,
and
the proud plans of the Pagan invader defeated. Impassioned eloquence or music alone
is enough to move irresistibly every feeling heart, — but how much is that effect
encreased , when the tones flow from lips so beautiful, when such eyes beam with the
sacred fire of inspiration! — A watchful silence prevailed in the hall that was
before so loud with voices; the guests had eyes and ears only for the seraphic
musician, who exercised her power like an enchantress even over the roughest veteran
warriors "albeit unused to the melting mood," for she recalled to them and presented
as if in a magic mirror the fairy dreams of their youth. How vivid then must have
been the impression on younger auditors! Involuntarily all hearts were attracted and
won by the lovely performer — every eye glistened with pleasure, and when she had
finished her triumphant song, every tongue was busy in her praise — even the proud
and haughty Baron Reichenstein was deeply moved. 'Till now, the attention which had
often been bestowed on the young warrior by susceptible beauties of the capital had
failed to excite any other sensation but that of gratified vanity. Now, however, when
the songstress in her chaunt alluded to him as the announcing messenger of that that
victory which he had assisted to gain, he could
[Page 118] |
|
no
longer look proudly around, as he had been wont to do. On the contrary a deep blush
came over his features; his proud heart beat anxiously, and his fiery eagle eyes were
humbly fixed on the ground.
So the festivities of the banquet were closed, and the evening of that happy day was
spent in dancing and games of chance. For neither of these amusements was Baron
Reichenstein disposed. Leaning against a pillar of the Gothic Hall, he followed with
watchful eyes every movement of the Demoiselle Appollonia von Santi, — for so the
beautiful songstress was named. Descended from a noble Greek house, and left in early
youth an orphan, she had been brought to the Court of King Ferdinand, and there
educated as one of the queen's maids of honour. Her beauty, — her eminent talents
for
music, and but still more the unpretending modesty of her demeanour excited universal
attention, and every one spoke with respect of the beautiful Lady Appollonia. No
sooner had she made her appearance in the ball-room than Reichenstein saw that the
young and old crowded around her, to express their thanks for the delight which her
music had afforded, and afterwards as she whirled past him in the walk, supported
by
some gay and brilliant courtier, he was racked by a feeling of the bitterest envy;
yet he who had before known fear scarcely by name, had
[Page 119] |
|
not the courage to approach her. With rapture he remarked, that even during the
dance, his eyes often encountered hers, and when she seated herself for refreshment
and rest, her looks again followed him as if she would say — "And you alone
determined not to share in the pleasures of these fleeting hours?" So at last he
mustered resolution, humbly approached the victorious enchantress, and in a
faultering half audible voice begged that he might have the honour of her hand for
the next dance. Appollonia blushed and courtesied her consent; the warlike hero made
an awkward bow, and retreated, not daring to say more, 'till the music recommencing
called them to their places. Reichenstein, who was usually a good waltzer could now
scarcely keep in time, while his lovely partner seemed to partake of his
embarrassment, yet this was but for a few minutes; her sparkling eyes and approving
smiles soon roused him to self-possession. Even the musicians seemed inspired; they
played louder, and with more precision. Envied by many a youth in the numerous
assemblage, he flew down the ranks, with the peerless Grecian on his arm, and all
allowed that there never was seen a more beautiful couple. On returning to their
seats, Appollonia challenged her partner to give her some account of the Blockade.
Reichenstein had now recovered from his awkward timidity, and contrived to tell his
story with un-
[Page 120] |
|
wonted eloquence, enlivened and rewarded
all the while by the approbation which he read unequivocally in the bright eyes of
his auditress. Appollonia's attention was indeed so absorbed that she forgot the
dance, and the presence of the court, so that the marshal was obliged to remind her
of her duty, for the queen had already proposed to break up the party.
Henceforward Reichenstein saw the young lady almost every day, and continued always
to discover new charms and fresh virtues, — and this at length drew from him a
confession of his love, and a request for her hand in marriage. Appollonia in answer
explained to him that her fate depended on the king, who had hitherto acted towards
her as a father, and who therefore possessed the full parental authority.
Reichenstein heard this with fear and trembling; for he suspected that Ferdinand
might have other views for his fair adopted daughter. He knew how much the king
delighted in Appollonia's talents, by which his mind was often exhilarated after the
cares of public business, and with which amusement it could not be supposed that he
would willingly dispense. It was necessary therefore to watch for some favourable
opportunity, when the king should appear in especial good humour, before the subject
could be broached, and ere long, such a fitting occasion presented itself to the
anxious lover.
[Page 121] |
|
The disaffected Bohemians, whom Ferdinand had a few years ago severely chastised,
happened to lose by an accidental fire great part of the national archives, and their
most important charters or deed of immunity. Conscience-stricken, and fearful that
advantage might be taken of this event, whereby they might be deprived of many
valuable privileges, they sent a deputation to Linz, in order to treat with their
monarch on the subject. Scarcely had Ferdinand heard their preamble, when he
exclaimed angrily — "Your charters may be destroyed, but our imperial promise, and
principles of integrity, are not destroyed along with them. All the rights and
privileges of which this fire has robbed you, we shall renew; and, where there is
doubt, rather than give you less, we shall make your advantages greater than before."
Of that scene Reichenstein was a witness. "No," said he to himself, "it is impossible
that a sovereign, who is thus so mild and equitable, should be harsh to me alone."
And no sooner had the ashamed representatives left the audience-hall, than he threw
himself at Ferdinand's feet, and stammered out his request. For a few moments he was,
indeed, kept in agonising suspense, while the king looked at him silently and with
a
very grave aspect. At length he made a sign for the supplicant to rise, and said,
"I
cannot conceal that I shall be very unwilling to part with Mademoiselle de Santi.
In
[Page 122] |
|
her delightful music I must lose one of the best
enjoyments of my life; — yet far be it from me to interfere on any selfish
principles, with her future prospects or yours; — take her then, and be happy."
What language could adequately describe the rapture of the lovers! Soon after, their
marriage was solemnized with princely magnificence, and Reichenstein took his young
bride to the family castle from which he derived his title, and which was situated
in
Upper Austria, in one of the most attractive districts of that beautiful country.
Then, from far and near, flocked visitors to pay their homage at the festal mansion,
more attracted, however, by the wondrous musical talents of the bride, than by the
hospitable manners of the castle's lord. The young noblemen of the neighbourhood,
especially, were numerous and unwearied in their attentions; and their admiration
of
the Lady von Reichenstein's improvisator songs was beyond measure fervent. The
baron's pride was at first flattered by such universal applause; but that feeling
soon yielded to another very different emotion. He began to fear that it was not
merely the delight they experienced from her music, but much more their admiration
of
Appollonia's personal charms, which shone in the eyes of these gay and idle youths,
so that by degrees jealously more and more deeply fixed her serpent stings into his
very
[Page 123] |
|
heart. Yet far too proud to confess that he had
become the prey of a passion so despicable, and sensible that her conduct was too
scrupulously correct to warrant his avowal of any suspicions, he concealed his
irritability as much as possible, though many times, by gloomy silence, or short
monosyllabic answers, did he betray his inward discontent. Appollonia, conscious of
her own innocence, was completely at a loss to fix on any cause for this change, and
enquired anxiously the reason of his distress, — whereupon the proud baron, instead
of imparting at once the source of his grief, and thus, for ever banishing the demon
that haunted his house, was either moodily silent as before, or ascribed his
depression to a transient attack of illness.
Love is sharp-sighted. Appollonia thought that she had at last found out the real
cause of his displeasure; and under the pretext that their present mode of life was
far too fatiguing, she begged him to dismiss their guests, in order that they might
henceforth live in retirement: but how could Reichenstein's haughty spirit submit
to
the idea of having appeared as a jealous husband? He insisted that the castle of his
ancestors must remain open to every guest; and when Appollonia, under various
pretences withdrew to the solitude of her own apartments, and the visitors with
regret commented on
[Page 124] |
|
the absence of their beautiful
hostess — but especially when ironical hints and conjectures were whispered round
the
festal board, regarding the reasons for her disappearance, his pride was more than
ever wounded. He therefore entreated Appollonia, nay, commanded her, to appear as
formerly at every banquet, and to enliven his guests by the exercise of her magic
art. Under these circumstances, concluding that her former suppositions had been
altogether erroneous, she obeyed him willingly, without disguising that the incense
of praise lavishly bestowed was welcome and acceptable to her female heart.
Reichenstein's gloomy discontent now increased visibly from day to day, and it was
only in the presence of strangers that his jealousy was overcome or concealed by the
determination to appear gay and unembarrassed. In vain did his affectionate wife
enquire into the cause of such inexplicable conduct. Two whole years thus passed
away, during which that abode of his ancestors, where the spirit of domestic
happiness should have woven for him the richest and brightest wreaths, was changed
by
his own imperious temper, and haughty and foolish reserve, into a cell of torment
and
ceaseless disquietude.
Meanwhile Solyman, in order to revenge himself for the loss and disgrace which he
had
encoun-
[Page 125] |
|
tered, prepared to renew the war more
formidably than ever, and made such an attack on Styria and Austria, that the Emperor
Charles, in person, at the head of a considerable army, came to the assistance of
the
king, his illustrious brother. Ferdinand at the same time hastened to collect around
him his faithful troops, and the rumour of these proceedings having reached the
secluded castle of Reichenstein, the baron determined that he would immediately
resume the duties of his station in the army. He had not yet been summoned; but alas!
in his home there was no longer any domestic happiness that could induce him to
remain there. In his wayward self-delusions he had cast it away; and in the tumult
of
the battle-field he best hoped to forget his vexations.
The news of this approaching separation struck fearfully on the already wounded heart
of Appollonia. When the dreadful hour of parting arrived, her anguish was indeed most
sincere and overpowering, yet her foolish husband imagined that her tears and
complaints were but a mask under which she concealed her joy at the prospect of being
able in future to follow her inclinations without restraint. Unmoved, therefore, and
sternly, he tore himself from her affectionate embraces, and galloped away, spurring
his foaming charger, even as the
[Page 126] |
|
demons of jealousy
and distrust goaded him on in his insane career.
Now the once gay castle of Reichenstein became silent as a hermitage; — and like a
widow mourning the death of a beloved husband, Appollonia withdrew from all society,
living only for the care of his property, and ceaseless prayers for his welfare and
preservation. Often at the midnight hour her attendants found her still at her
earnest devotions, or listened with respectful sympathy as she touched her harp, and
with tearful eyes expressed her grief, and even her prayers, in low faultering
melody.
Day after day, week after week dragged on, but no news arrived of Reichenstein,
though she had earnestly requested that he would write to her. At length she found
herself quite unable any longer to bear the racking pains of suspense, and dispatched
her Castellan, a man of years and experience, with orders that he should make his
way
to the royal army, and by no means to return without some intelligence of her beloved
husband. The interval of her messenger's absence she spent in continued prayer, and
in acts of charity and benevolence.
When the Castellan's return was announced, he was summoned immediately to her
presence, but alas! — his features wore an expression of deep grief
[Page 127] |
|
and disappointment. "Merciful God!" cried she, "my worst fears
are then realized — and I shall never see him more!" She fainted, and not without
great care and skill could her attendants restore her to self-possession — then it
seemed that by direful and heroic exertion she had resolved to conquer her emotion,
yet her bosom heaved convulsively, and her lips and eyelids quivered. "Speak on,"
said she in a hollow voic — "relate all that thou know'st." "Forgive me," noble lady,
said the messenger — "but I fear you are not well enough now to hear such tidings."
"I know already that which is most appalling," answered she, "thou canst not tell
me
aught that could wound more deeply — say then, how and where did he die?" "Die!"
exclaimed the Castellan — "God forbid that he should die — no, of this much be
assured, your noble husband lives." "Lives!" exclaimed Appollonia, in a voice like
that of the condemned victim on the scaffold, in whose ears for the first time sounds
the voice of pardon, and who fears he may yet be deluded. — "Lives — saidst thou —
lives?" "Aye indeed," said the Castellan, "but the Baron von Reichenstein is now a
Turkish prisoner." "Oh, heaven be praised!" cried the enraptured wife, "his life then
is yet spared;" and she fell on her knees, uplifting her clasped hands in fervent
gratitude to the Giver of all Good for his
[Page 128] |
|
mercy.
Thereafter she listened with calm attention to the Castellan's narrative.
Reichenstein had been placed with a corps which was destined to oppose that of
Michael Oglu, who was forcing his way with the van of the Turkish army over the
Sommering mountains. In the heat of battle the Baron had advanced too far; he was
quickly surrounded, and after a brave resistance, taken prisoner, and dragged away
by
the repulsed and fugitive Turks. Intelligence had been subsequently received by means
of deserters, that he had fallen into the power of the Bassa of Belgrade, who, in
consequence of his severe wounds, had obtained permission to return home, and had
taken with him to his own country all his prisoners. "So then he lives — he is at
Belgrade," cried Appollonia, "and there is hope that I may yet again call him mine!"
With these words her tears flowed more freely than ever, but they were now tears of
joy.
For the rest of that day she remained shut up in her chamber, she would not speak
with any one, nor accept of refreshment, but in the evening the castle chaplain was
summoned to her presence. To him she explained that some affairs of great urgency
and
importance obliged her to go forthwith to the Queen's Court at Linz, and as the
Castellan must attend her on the journey, the chaplain should, in their absence,
[Page 129] |
|
use every means in his power for the due guardianship
of the castle. The grey-headed priest not knowing the purpose of her journey, did
not
venture to remonstrate, and only implored that as her affectionate servants and
vassals would deeply grieve for her absence, she would not long defer her return.
With visible emotion she then took leave of her domestics, and at the earliest dawn
of the next day, followed by the old castellan, and the blessing of all the Baron's
vassals, she departed, taking with her only her harp, and wearing apparel.
Meanwhile, the Ritter von Reichenstein was obliged to fulfil menial drudgery as a
slave in the gardens of Ibrahim, Bassa of Belgrade. At that time it happened that
in
his Harem there prevailed great affliction; Fatima, the most beautiful and beloved
of
his wives, had been driven to distraction by the death of her first-born infant
child, and the violence of her sorrow had given way to an apathy and indifference
which amounted to insanity. The unhappy Ibrahim offered the largest rewards for
assistance, and tired every method to save his favourite from that untimely death
to
which the continuance of her malady would certainly lead. The most skilful physicians
had recourse to all expedients of their art, but in vain; so that with an almost
broken heart, Ibrahim saw that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.
[Page 130] |
|
One evening when he was under the dominion of these painful reflections, it was
announced that a Grecian youth had made his appearance at Belgrade as a harp player
and singer, with whose music every listener had been enraptured, and who had begged
permission to prove his talents before the Bassa. Ibrahim gladly availed himself of
the opportunity to obtain some diversion from his own gloomy thoughts; he desired
that the stranger should be admitted forthwith, and was so much delighted with the
youth's performance that as long as the music continued he quite forgot his usual
sufferings. Thereafter the question occurred to him whether that magic art which had
such influence over his emotions might not also alleviate the malady of his beloved
Fatima. He imparted this idea to the stranger, who encouraged his hopes, and assured
him that many instances were on record of insane persons being altogether restored
to
health by the power of music. "Should'st thou succeed in this attempt," cried the
rejoiced Bassa, "then demand what thou wilt — no reward is too great, when the
service performed is the preservation of my dearest Fatima."
The Greek youth was duly instructed in the cause and symptoms of the malady, and
undertook its cure. The attempt succeeded even beyond expectation. At first he was
concealed behind a veranda, and ventured only to sing the most melan-
[Page 131] |
|
choly lays in soft and long protracted notes, to which for some
time Fatima seemed, as usual, indifferent, but by degrees her attention was roused,
and she listened with visibly increasing interest. While the music continued, her
beautiful features were once more animated, a slight tinge of colour rose into her
cheeks, and a lambent fire shone in her eyes, but as the tones died away into silence
she declined again into her wonted mournful apathy. By degrees she began to watch
every word of the youth's songs, which like the music were plaintive and desponding,
till her bosom heaved, and she wept unconsciously. Thus the trial was repeated for
several successive days, and as often as the hour drew near which was appointed for
the musician's attendance, she expressed anxiety and impatience; nay, once when by
some accident he had been detained, she enquired if they intended to deprive her of
her only remaining consolation. These words were the first that she had been heard
to
utter for many weeks, and from henceforward the Greek, at her request, came earlier,
and remained longer. By degrees, too, he ventured to introduce songs that were less
mournful, and the listener seemed even more gratified than before, till at length
she
begged to see the wonderful musician by whom she had been thus delighted; and even
requested that he would give her instructions in his divine art. He obeyed
[Page 132] |
|
willingly, and Fatima had soon learned a few simple
ballads, which she practised passionately night and day, thus forgetting her
misfortunes, so that she was ere long restored to perfect health.
The Bassa, rejoiced beyond measure at this result, did not fail to send for the
musician. "Thou hast fulfilled thy promise," said he, "now demand thy reward, in
order that I also may behave honourably. Be not afraid to ask too much, for Allah
has
made me rich by his exceeding bounties, but for the preservation of my best and
dearest treasure I am indebted to thee." "Sir," answered the youth, "there is in the
gardens of your Harem a noble German soldier, the Ritter von Reichenstein, a captive
who now labours there as a slave. It so happens that I have been deeply indebted to
his house, and therefore if you are pleased to give up to me the liberty of this man,
I shall be amply and richly rewarded." "Take him hence then," said the Bassa, "and
along with him, if thou wilt, ten of his fellow soldiers, who have hitherto shared
his fate. Moreover, it shall not be said that the Bassa Ibrahim sent any man out into
the wide world to find his way home as a mendicant; he shall therefore be amply
provided for; and thou, too, modest youth, shalt not leave my palace unrewarded."
Hereupon Ibrahim summoned the overseer of his slaves, commanding him to lead the
Greek youth into the prison of the Christians, to
[Page 133] |
|
inform the Baron and his companions that they were free, and present to them the
noble Greek youth as their deliverer. In vain did the humble minstrel strive against
this — the Bassa's resolution was inexorable, "for it is no more than justice," said
he, "that these Christian dogs should learn to know their benefactor, and offer him
due thanks for his disinterested benevolence."
Miserable embarrassed, the young Greek followed the overseer, and entered a gloomy
prison, where the captives were seated on the damp ground, strewed with rushes. No
sooner had the overseer announced the purpose of his message than the overjoyed
exiles threw themselves at their deliverer's feet, even kissed the hem of his
garment, and wept in their excess of gratitude. "Be thankful to God," said the youth,
in a faultering, scarce audible tone, "and may Providence guide you on your homeward
journey!" "Stay, noble stranger," cried Reichenstein, as the minstrel would have
hastily retired — "if you will not listen to our humble protestations of gratitude,
yet at least accept from my hands this insignificant ring. Should you, or any of your
friends ever come to Germany, and pass near the castle of Reichenstein, this little
token will open for the traveller a new home, and make him an acknowledged inmate
of
a noble family, whose last remaining chief you
[Page 134] |
|
have
thus contributed to uphold." "We shall meet again," stammered the youth, with obvious
emotion, and taking the ring, rushed from the prison as though he dared not trust
himself in any farther colloquy.
The Bassa's promises were faithfully fulfilled. Enriched by valuable presents, and
attended by a secure escort, Reichenstein, along with his companions, left Belgrade.
They arrived in safety at the Christian camp, and were all most kindly received by
King Ferdinand, especially Reichenstein, who still expressed his wish and resolution
to remain with the army. "In the first place," answered the King, "it is our will
and
pleasure that you should appear before her Majesty at Linz. Should your inclinations
alter when there, which I hope may be the case, you shall have free leave of absence
from your military duties, for after the oppressions you have undergone, this
indulgence is but just and necessary. If however your determination should remain
unshaken, the presence of so brave a soldier as the Baron von Reichenstein will
always be welcome to our army."
In the royal palace of Linz, after an interval of three years, the baron once more
sat in the great hall at the banquet table, though now the party was less numerous,
consisting only of the queen, her maids of honour, and some old coutiers. He
[Page 135] |
|
again beheld the same golden framework of the folding
doors, and the same red curtain which had formerly risen at the queen's signal, and
afforded the first view of that peerless beauty, whom afterwards he was so fortunate
as to call his own. With bitter regret he thought of that happy day, and all the
fairy visions that had shone so brightly, and were now fled for ever. He sighed
deeply, and the queen observing his distress, interrupted his contemplations with
the
words — "If I interpret your looks aright, that curtain revives recollections of the
good fortune, which was here unexpectedly prepared for you, and I can well explain
that sigh with which your longing heart has reverted to home and a beloved wife."
A
cloud came over Reichenstein's expressive features, and a yet deeper sigh was his
only answer.
"Nay, then, perhaps you have received some disquieting letters," said the queen, "and
I doubt not that Appollonia's grief at your long absence — "
"Appollonia's grief, indeed!" interrupted the baron with bitter irony; "your majesty
must forgive me if I venture to doubt that any such cause — "
"Nay, nay," answered the queen, "we must hear no more of this. I shall not allow
myself to believe that unworthy suspicions could ever find harbour in your bosom.
For
the present, let us hear
[Page 136] |
|
minutely how you contrived to
escape from the Turkish prison?"
The Ritter went through his narrative accordingly.
"But your deliverer," observed the queen; "that noble-hearted Greek — have you then
never seen him since your meeting in prison?"
"Alas, no!" answered the baron; "and the manner in which he then took leave obliges
me to fear that I shall never in this world be so happy as to see my generous
benefactor again, in order to prove how deep and sincere is my gratitude."
"While there is life there is hope," said the queen; "could you have believed, three
years ago, that yonder curtain, which you no doubt looked on with contempt, concealed
the beautiful songstress, who was destined to be your loving wife? What should you
think, if its mystic folds should once more expand, and reveal the person of your
kind deliverer?"
"Your majesty is pleased to jest," said the baron with a melancholy smile.
"Let us try," said the queen, "whether it is impossible to convert his infidel;" and
at her signal the curtain was again drawn up. Again he saw the altar from which a
bright flame rose and illuminated, not the Austrian arms, but those of the noble
house
[Page 137] |
|
of Reichenstein; while beneath stood the Grecian
youth, his large hat slouched over his features, and leaning on his harp.
"Is it possible? my deliverer! my benefactor!" cried Reichenstein, and then rushed
up
to the apparition. At that moment the pilgrim's hat fell off; the grey-coloured dress
was thrown aside; and Appollonia smiling in all her wonted loveliness, while tears
of
joy shone in her eyes, presented to him the ring which he had given as a token to
the
wandering minstrel. He stood silent and confounded.
"Yes," said the queen in a solemn voice, "she it was — your affectionate and faithful
wife, whom not all the fatigues and dangers of so long a journey could deter from
her
undertaking, to redeem out of wretched thralldom that still beloved husband, who,
too
haughty to confess the injustice of which he had been guilty, had destroyed her
happiness and his own."
Reichenstein meanwhile throwing himself prostrate on the ground, and forgetting all
his wonted pride, had hidden his face in the folds of her garment. Appollonia would
have raised him up, but he exclaimed vehemently, though in a voice broken by his
emotion — "Never more dare I lift up mine eyes to her whom I have thus injured! No
penance no humiliation can atone for that guilt which now
[Page 138] |
|
cleaves to my conscience and of which the stain will never be
effaced."
"Nay," said Appollonia, "knowst thou not that of all duties in this world, there is
none more easy for true love than to forgive, — that the fond heart may indeed be
wounded and broken by faults, mistrust and injuries, yet will never thus be alienated
from its idol?"
So the happy couple rushed into each others embrace, forgetful of the spectators and
all the world — nor was there one individual present, who did not sympathize in their
emotion; even the queen herself burst into tears. Henceforward, Reichenstein
cherished no other pride but that founded on possession of the most beautiful and
faithful of wives. The Bassa of Belgrade's gifts might increase his worldly wealth,
but not his happiness, for in the tried attachment of Appollonia, he had secured the
richest of all earthly treasures; mutually placing unbounded confidences in each
other, their path of life was evermore cheered by sunshine and strown with
flowers.
Figure 6: The Boy and Dog
painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.,engraved by Mr. W. Humphreys
[Page 139] |
|
A Familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence
LAWRENCE! — although the Muse and I have parted, |
1 |
(She to her airy heights, and I to toil, |
2 |
Not discontent, nor wroth, nor gloomy-hearted, |
3 |
Because I now must till a rugged soil,) — |
4 |
Although self-banished from the peerless Muse, |
5 |
Banish'd from Art's gay groups and blending hues, |
6 |
I still gaze on thy lines, where Beauty reigns, |
7 |
With pleasure which rewards mine errant pains. |
8 |
Thus, though I con no more the common page, |
9 |
With learned Milton still and Shakespeare sage |
10 |
I commune, when the labouring day is over, |
11 |
Filled with a deep delight; like some true lover, |
12 |
Whom frowning fate may not entirely sever |
13 |
From her whose love, perhaps, is lost for ever! |
14 |
Even now thy potent art witches my sight. |
15 |
I see thee again, (with all my old delight,) — |
16 |
With rainbows o'er thy beaming figures flung, |
17 |
Still bright, and like Lyaeus, "ever young." |
18 |
For thou, as Raffaelle and Correggio smiled |
19 |
On beauty in the bud, and made the child |
20 |
Immortal as the man of thoughtful brow, |
21 |
By dint of their sweet power, — so dost thou. |
22 |
[Page 140] |
|
And who, whilst those fair matchless children7 are, |
23 |
Which, with thy radiant pencil, like a star, |
24 |
Thou broughtest into light and pictured grace, |
25 |
Shall dare assign to thee a second place? |
26 |
Yet,—thou so lov'st the art thou dost profess, |
27 |
(I know,) that thou would'st rather be deemed less |
28 |
Than thine own stature, so that they who first |
29 |
Gave art nobility, and burst |
30 |
Like dawn upon the world to shine and reign, |
31 |
Sole homage of mens' souls may still retain. |
32 |
— With whom dost thou now commune, — night by night, |
33 |
When Nature, lady thine, withdraws her light, |
34 |
And even thou must cease to charm all time? |
35 |
Is it with Michael and his stern-sublime? |
36 |
With Rembrandt's riddles dark, — a "mighty maze?" |
37 |
Caracci's learned lines? — or Rubens' blaze? |
38 |
With hoary Leonardo, great and wise? |
39 |
With Parma's painters and their angel eyes? |
40 |
Or Raffaelle sent us down from out the sunny skies? |
41 |
Or, leav'st thou these to their immortal rest, |
42 |
Turning unto some youthful artist guest? |
43 |
Or with some high mind or accomplished friend |
44 |
Dost thou delight the evening hours to spend |
45 |
By thine own fire, where proud shapes stand around, |
46 |
Deathless and eloquent, though without sound, — |
47 |
[Page 141] |
|
All in the poet's dreams and fancies born, |
48 |
But wrought by sculptor-poets like the morn? |
49 |
Dost thou with Ottley talk, a spirit learn'd, |
50 |
In whom so long the smother'd fire has burned, — |
51 |
Who should have been what many hope to be, |
52 |
A painter stamp'd with immortality? |
53 |
Speak! — or is't all enough that thou canst dream |
54 |
Of ages when thyself must be the theme |
55 |
Of praise unmixed, from rival envy free, |
56 |
(If rival envy ever aimed at thee — )? |
57 |
— Not that all those around thee (thou the sun) |
58 |
perish when their beauteous toil is done: |
59 |
For some there are whose works are wrought for time, |
60 |
For future wonder, and eternal rhyme; — |
61 |
Good Stothard, — old, but in his youth of fame; |
62 |
Who is, and must survive — a potent name! |
63 |
Chantrey, — and Flemish Wilkie, — Landseer young, |
64 |
(Whose skill hath given the very beast a tongue — |
65 |
Life — motion — till it chains the admiring eyes;) |
66 |
And Turner, famous for his Claudian skies; |
67 |
Hilton, Dewint, (rare brothers) formed to last; |
68 |
And Collins, with his landscapes unsurpassed; |
69 |
Callcott, whom river gods should all adore; |
70 |
Westall, — and Leslie, — perhaps many more, |
71 |
Who now expand their wings, and strive and hope to soar. |
72 |
— The Great live free from envy, free from hate, |
73 |
Born or self-raised beyond that puny state |
74 |
[Page 142] |
|
Where warfare frets the heart, and shrinks the soul, |
75 |
Which else all grandly might itself unroll |
76 |
Like morning in the east, when summer skies |
77 |
Grow bright with beauty as the darkness dies. |
78 |
Though near them wars and tempests shake the clime, |
79 |
They live unvanquished through the storms of Time, |
80 |
Like the centurion oak, whose tower of grey |
81 |
Endureth age, but scarcely owns decay! |
82 |
Thus free dost thou live, Lawrence! — and thus free |
83 |
From hate, from wrong, envy and calumny, |
84 |
Free from the pain thou giv'st not — may thy life |
85 |
Glide onwards without taint of care, or strife! |
86 |
Meantime, with every grace, and many a friend, |
87 |
Continue still thy evening time to spend, |
88 |
Feeding on lovely scenes and lofty shapes, — |
89 |
Pondering on thoughts, while not a charm escapes, — |
90 |
Sitting 'midst all the gods whom painters own, |
91 |
Each standing on his pale and sculptured throne; — |
92 |
Sitting and sharing all: — No miser thou, |
93 |
Who hoard'st the wealth which may be useful now, |
94 |
But to the artist young and yet unrefined, |
95 |
Unbaring thoughts of many a master mind, — |
96 |
Tracing the learned lines, — and sweetening all |
97 |
With graceful converse, never known to pall. |
98 |
Even I, deserter from the Muse's bowers, |
99 |
Have shared with thee some pleasant, pleasant hours! |
100 |
Since when — (those winter evenings fair and few!) |
101 |
I see the spells have raised sweet shadows new. |
102 |
[Page 143] |
|
— How long is't Lawrence, since this8 creature young, |
103 |
Out of thy sportive mood so bravely sprung |
104 |
Into bright life, and took his stand in joy |
105 |
With things that Time shall never dare destroy? — |
106 |
— What matter? — he is here, and here shall be, |
107 |
A shape to speak, in far futurity, |
108 |
Of thy rare merits to the Muse of Song, |
109 |
When I and all these rhymes have vanished long! |
110 |
[Page 144] |
|
VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, |
1 |
Where Hope clings feeding like a bee, |
2 |
Both were mine! Life went a maying |
3 |
With Nature Hope and Poesy. |
4 |
When I was young! |
5 |
When I was young? — Ah, woful when! |
6 |
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then! |
7 |
This house of clay not built with hands, |
8 |
This body that does me grievous wrong |
9 |
O'er hill and dale and sounding sands, |
10 |
How lightly then it flashed along: — |
11 |
Like those trim boats, unknown of yore, |
12 |
On winding lakes and rivers wide, |
13 |
That ask no aid of sail or oar, |
14 |
That fear no spite of wind or tide! |
15 |
Nought cared this body for wind or weather, |
16 |
When youth and I lived in't together. |
17 |
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like, |
18 |
Friendship is a sheltering tree; |
19 |
O the joys that come down shower like |
20 |
Of Beauty, Truth and Liberty. |
21 |
[Page 145] |
|
Ere I was old! |
22 |
Ere I was old? Ah woful ere, |
23 |
Which tells me youth's no longer here! |
24 |
O youth for years so merry and sweet, |
25 |
'Tis known that thou and I were one, |
26 |
I'll think it but a false conceit, |
27 |
It cannot be that thou art gone! |
28 |
Thy vesper bell hath not yet toll'd, |
29 |
And thou wert, aye a masker bold. |
30 |
What strange disguise hast now put on, |
31 |
To make believe that thou art gone? |
32 |
I see these locks in silvery slips, |
33 |
This dragging gait, this altered size; — |
34 |
But spring tide blossoms on thy lips, |
35 |
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! |
36 |
Life is but thought, so think I will |
37 |
That youth and I are house-mates still. |
38 |
[Page 146] |
|
MY eyes make pictures, when they are shut: — |
1 |
I see a fountain, large and fair, |
2 |
A willow and a ruined hut, |
3 |
And thee, and me and Mary there: — |
4 |
O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! |
5 |
Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! |
6 |
A wild- rose roofs the ruined shed, |
7 |
And that and summer will agree: |
8 |
And, lo! where Mary leans her head, |
9 |
Two dear names carved upon the tree! — |
10 |
And Mary's tears — they are not tears of sorrow, — |
11 |
Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow. |
12 |
'Twas day; but now few, large, and bright, |
13 |
The stars are round the crescent moon; — |
14 |
And now it is a dark warm night, |
15 |
The balmiest of the month of June! |
16 |
[Page 147] |
|
A glow-worm fall'n, and in the marge remounting |
17 |
Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. |
18 |
O ever — ever be thou blest! |
19 |
O Asra! dearly love I thee |
20 |
This brooding warmth across my breast; |
21 |
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me! |
22 |
Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, |
23 |
But in one quiet room we three are still together. |
24 |
The shadows dance upon the wall |
25 |
By the still dancing fire- flames made; |
26 |
And now they slumber moveless all! |
27 |
And now they make to me deep shade! |
28 |
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee, |
29 |
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! |
30 |
Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — |
31 |
'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! |
32 |
But let me check this tender lay |
33 |
Which none may hear but she and thou, |
34 |
Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, |
35 |
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women. |
36 |
Figure 7: A Village Festival (Head Piece)
painted by T. Stothard, Esq.,engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
Marie's Grave: A Tale of the Landes
By the author of "The Subaltern."
IT is hardly necessary to remind the reader that at the close of the Peninsular war
orders were issued for the formation of an encampment in the neighbourhood of
Bourdeaux, where the regiments which had been selected to reinforce Sir George
Prevost in Canada, as well as to carry on hostilities along the shores of the United
States, might assemble. It fell to the lot of the **** regiment of light infantry
to
form one of the corps appointed for the last-mentioned of these services. Having been
attached to the left column of Lord Wellington's army we were stationed, when the
above intelligence reached us, under the walls of Bayonne, at the distance of ten
long day's march from the point of rendezvous; but we welcomed the communication with
not less alacrity on that account, and
[Page 149] |
|
made ready, on
the 14th May, 1814, to act in accordance with its tenor.
Of the particulars of our journey I am not at present called upon to give any
account, farther than that in all its stages, and in every circumstance connected
with it, it was most delightful. The weather chanced to be peculiarly favorable. Not
a shower of rain, or a blast of wind, overtook us during the whole of our progress;
and though towards noon the heat usually became more oppressive than agreeable, we
managed by starting every day an hour or two before sun-rise, to escape most of the
inconveniences which might have otherwise affected us. Every thing moreover, animate
and inanimate which came in our way, had about it an air of exquisite novelty. The
costume and personal appearance of the people, the arrangement of their houses,
fields, vineyards and gardens, the order of their domestic life, were to us perfectly
new, and interesting. We struck into the Landes, on the morning of the third day,
and
if any of my readers have happened to visit that wild district, he will doubtless
attest that one more singular, or more prolific in extraordinary spectacles, has
seldom been pressed by the foot of a traveller [sic].
Amidst the huge forests of pine which overspread the whole face of this region, there
are scattered at wide intervals from one another, a few villages, or rather hamlets,
remarkable for their extreme beauty,
[Page 150] |
|
and for the air
of primitive simplicity and contentment which hangs over them. They consist, for the
most part, of from ten to twenty cottages, the walls of which are composed entirely
of wood, and the roofs uniformly covered with straw. Each stands apart in the centre
of its own neat garden and enclosure, whilst to the distance of perhaps a quarter
of
a mile in every direction, a circle of cultivated fields encompasses the whole. It
rarely happens that a stream of limpid and excellent water is wanting in the
vicinity, and a church, suited to the humble charactor [sic] of its simple
worshippers, was a conspicuous feature in every one of the hamlets that lay along
the
line of our march.
The quarter-master-general had so arranged our route that we were every day enabled,
after compassng [sic] a sufficient extent of ground, to encamp in the neighbourhood
of one or other of these delightful villages. The inhabitants proved in all
instances, as obliging, as their poverty and secluded course of existence authorised
us to expect; and if the women were not always remarkable for personal beauty they
were, at all events, invariably goodnatured [sic], and lively. It happened that on
one occasion I had my feelings wrought upon to a degree beyond my anticipations; and
as the affair appeared at the moment worthy of being noted down, perhaps even now
it
may be deemed not undeserving of mention.
[Page 151] |
|
The night of Saturday the 21st of May, having been spent in the village of St. Muret,
at two o'clock on Sunday morning, our tents were struck and we were in motion. Our
route lat, as usual during the preceding week over a deep sandy track, cut through
the heart of a dreary pine-wood, and our journey, on account of the absence of a
convenient spot for halting, proved to be particularly tedious and fatiguing. We had
traversed something more than six leagues; the hour of noon was past, and the heat
had become intense, when a sort of shout uttered at the head of the column gave
notice, that a resting place was in view. The shout did not deceive us. The leading
files had already emerged from the wood into the customary range of open country;
and
in little more than half an hour afterwards our camp was pitched in one [sic] the
loveliest situations which it had occupied since the commencement of our
progress.
Unlike its fellow-hamlets, La Barbp the village, beside which we now halted did not
stand in the midst of an extensive area of bare meadows, and low corn-fields. Meadows
and corn-fields there doubtless were but their surfaces were beautifully diversified
by the frequent interspersion of clumps of oaks and chesnuts [sic]; whilst numerous
undulations in the ground produced a species of tasteful irregularity, which gave
to
the little landscape the
[Page 152] |
|
appearance, rather of a
park, or gentleman's enclosure, than of lands portioned out into fourteen or fifteen
different farms. A rivulet of the purest water issued from the forest upon the right,
and flowing gently onwards, wound round the base of a green hill, upon which, about
a
stone's throw apart from the other buildings, was erected the village church. In the
village itself I saw nothing to distinguish it from the others. It consisted as usual
of wooden cottages, not one of which, in point of architecture or decorations could
claim a superiority over the others. And even the very cure or vicarage, if such it
deserved to be called, was nothing more than a cabin, clean and neat, indeed, but
presenting the lowliest aspect.
Every body [sic] knows, that Sunday is observed in a French village as a day, not
of
relaxation only, but of jubilee. We therefore found the villagers in their best
attire, assembled on the green or common, round which their cottages stood; and as
they came forward in a body to bid us welcome, they presented upon the whole, a very
striking and picturesque appearance. The men were conspicuous for their jackets of
coarse brown cloth, their grey or brown breeches, blue stockings and large wooden
shoes, but it was in the garb of the women that the distinction paid to Sunday might
be most readily
[Page 153] |
|
noted. The boddice [sic] laced up with
blue or scarlet ribbon; the bright scarlet petticoat, made so scanty as to display
the scarlet clock [sic] which ornamented the blue stocking, these, with the
handkerchief tied round the head with more than ordinary care and neatness, gave
intimation that the toilette for that day always occupied much time, and particular
attention. All, however, seemed to enjoy the same excellent flow of spirits, and not
a few of the younger had gladly availed themselves of our band, to continue the
dancing which our approach had interrupted.
As soon as the bustle of encamping came to a close, I directed my steps towards the
church, with the design of joining in the devotions of these simple people, or at
least, of offering up my own orisons, from within consecrated walls. In this,
however, I was disappointed; the priest, it appeared, officiated at another village
besides La Barbp, taking the one in the morning, and the other in the evening,
alternately; and as on this day, divine service had been performed here in the
morning, it would not be repeated. Though a little chagrined at this circumstance
I
nevertheless followed up my original design so far, as to take a hasty survey of the
interior of the pile; and then proceeded to indulge a favourite whim, by strolling
leisurely
[Page 154] |
|
through the humble cemetery by which it was
surrounded.
I found the churchyard moderately studded with green mounds, but wholly devoid of
head-stones or columns to tell the names of the persons who slept beneath. Wooden
crosses seemed to be the only species of monument erected by the people of La Barbp
to the memory of their deceased relatives, and of these, though they were almost as
numerous as the graves themselves, not one bore a word or letter of inscription. Even
the garlands, which throughout most parts of France it is customary for the survivors
to twine over the tombs of those whom they loved, were all, with a solitary
exception, wanting here. Upon one cross, and one only, hung a wreath of flowers; and
though the blackened hue of the wood told a tale of exposure to more than one summer
and winter, the garland was fresh and fragrant, as if gathered and arranged this very
morning. I was much struck with the contrast which the condition of this grave, as
compared with the others, presented, and, sitting down, was beginning to give free
vent to fancy, when the noise of approaching footsteps disturbed my reverie. I looked
round, and beheld, advancing towards me, a man in the common garb of the country.
His
age seemed to be about three or four and thirty; but in his general appearance there
[Page 155] |
|
was nothing at all remarkable except that an
upright carriage, one empty sleeve, and a pair of monstrous mustachios, indicated
that he had been a soldier, and had served in the memorable wars of his country. As
he drew nearer, however, I examined him more closely, and observed, or fancied so,
a
peculiarly mild and even melancholy expression in his eye. Whether or not I was
correct, little time was granted to consider, for he raised his hand to his hat and
coming forward at once, with the freedom and frankness of his country entered with
me
into conversation.
"I perceive, Monsieur," said he, "that the garland upon the cross which distinguishes
this grave from those around it, has attracted your attention." I assented to his
remark, and proceeded to inquire whether he could give me any information respecting
the individual who had suspended it there, and the person to whose memory it was
consecrated. "I can indeed, sir," answered he; "I can satisfy you fully on both these
heads; it was I that gathered it, it was I that wove it, and it was I that hung it
here; it is a task which I religiously perform on the return of every Sunday morning,
and she to whom I dedicate my weekly offerings, was the best, as she was the
loveliest maiden of the province. Perhaps you may desire to learn something of her
history. If you will allow me to take the privilege of a brother soldier I
[Page 156] |
|
can sit down beside you; and God help me, I shall
derive as much satisfaction, though it be a melancholy one from relating the brief
detail, as you can have from listening to it." I immediately, and with the utmost
readiness, accepted his proposal, upon which the villager seated himself by my side,
and began as follows:
"I am a native of this place, as from my address and dialect you have doubtless
already guessed. My name is Jean Baptiste, and my father, whose only child I am, is
accounted the wealthiest and most skillful cultivator in all the department. You may
perceive that bating the loss of this arm (and that occurred six years ago, ought
not
to tell against me), I am neither worse made, nor less personally attractive than
my
neighbours; whilst I can appeal to all that know me, whether my temper be not as
mild, and my disposition as amiable, as those of any lad in these parts."
I could not suppress a smile at this most characteristic display of French egotism.
"Why Jean," said, laughing, "I thought you were going to tell me a tale connected
with the fair tenant of this grave; but you seem more disposed to instruct me
concerning your own good qualities and fortunes." "Ah! Monsieur," replied he, "you
may smile if you please, and say on that point what you will; but
[Page 157] |
|
believe me I speak the truth. Yet what availed all these
advantages. Marie, the beautiful and gentle Marie, whom I loved with my whole heart,
and to promote whose happiness I could have willingly sacrificed my life, would not
listen to my suit. It is a fact, indeed it is, she slighted my accomplishments,
undervalued my wealth, and preferred to me a poor neighbour, who had nothing to
recommend him, that I, at least, could discover, except that he was of a less fair
complexion, and possessed a tolerable share of bodily strength and activity. Well,
well, I could not quarrel with the girl for that, nor yet forsake my friend because
he supplanted me, for Lewis Charmont was my friend, and dear to me as my own
soul.
"It is hardly necessary to inform you, that La Barbp has been inhabited by the
ancestors of those families which inhabit it now, since the day when the good saint
first planted these forests, and stayed the sands from moving. Under these
circumstances you will not be surprised to learn, that we are all accustomed to
regard one another as brothers and sisters, and that the poorest man amongst us is
not despised or treated as an inferior, by the richest. But though this be, and has
ever been the case, it is still only natural that even in our small community
particular friendships should bind individuals more closely to each other, than the
tie of common regard which
[Page 158] |
|
binds the same individuals
to the whole body. Such has long been the case with the Charmonts, the Clausels, and
the Baptistes. Our ancestors loved one another from the remotest period; no change
in
worldly circumstances ever interfered with their feelings; our parents were as if
they had descended from the same stock; and we *** I mean Lewis, Marie and myself
***
inherited their attachment.
"Lewis Charmont was by one year only, my junior; Marie Clausel was two years younger
than he. From the very cradle we were companions and playmates; nay were more, ***
Lewis was the brother of my adoption, and Marie was our sister. Ah! Monsieur, those
were blessed days, when each holding a hand, we led the sweet girl forth towards the
river, and seating her on the bank the one plied his rod and line, whilst the other
chased the butterfly which she admired, or wove a wreath of wild flowers for her fair
brow. But childhood passed away, and youth came, to make us acquainted with the true
state of our feelings, and to teach us that we were rivals. We both loved Marie,
loved her to absolute idolatry; yet we loved each other at the same time, and never,
no not for an instant did a pang of angry jealousy rankle in our hearts.
"As we approached to manhood, Lewis and I, differing widely in our propensities and
pursuits became by degrees not less truly friends, but less fre-
[Page 159] |
|
quently companions. Lewis was agile, daring and adventurous;
field sports, violent bodily exertions, especially where danger was to be surmounted
or difficulties overcome, carried him away from his home, and the operations of
agriculture; whereas my habits and tastes were all quiet and domestic. I cultivated
my father's fields, contentedly and cheerfully, and was never so happy, as when I
found leisure to dress Marie's garden, and stock it with the rarest and choicest
plants within my reach. Yet for all this, she rejected my addresses: she withdrew
not, indeed, from my society, but she refused to listen to my vows, and her refusal
was so mildly and so affectionately pronounced that I only loved her the more because
I felt my suit was hopeless. The truth is, Monsieur, that her affections were already
engaged. She preferred to me, (who was continually at her side,) him who bestowed
but
a small portion of his time or attention upon her; but spent whole days, and
sometimes nights in the woods, only that he might bring home and present to her the
head of a wolf or the skin of a bear.
"In this condition affairs continued for some time. We never dreamed of concealing
from each other how our affections were disposed of; on the contrary Lewis was all
along aware that I loved Marie tenderly, and I was equally aware that Lewis loved
her
also; yet that either was preferred by her to the
[Page 160] |
|
other we both continued ignorant, till an accident drew forth the secret.
"Early in the year 908, there arrived in our village a sub-officer's party of
Gendarmerie, bearing an order from the prefect of the department, to enrol [sic] four
young men from the division of La Barbp, for the service of the army. Such an order,
coming from such a quarter, could neither be disputed nor evaded; the names of all
the villagers capable of bearing arms, were put into a cap, and that of Lewis
Charmont came up. Lewis himself, naturally brave and enterprising, uttered no
complaint against his fortune, but rather rejoiced, in the prospect of honor and
advancement. Lewis continued as yet ignorant of the possession of Marie's affections,
for though repeatedly urged, she had hitherto refused to acknowledge it, though now,
however, concealment was at an end. A threatening separation effected that which
years of intimacy and familiar intercourse had failed to effect; and in the
bitterness of her agony she yielded a full confession. I was present when she assured
him, that she lived for him and him alone; that his departure would be to her a blow
which she could not survive; that she would not even desire to exist, did he abandon
her. What could I do. I saw indeed that my own hopes were blighted, and that Marie's
coldness sprang not from indifference, but from a positive predilec-
[Page 161] |
|
tion for another. But that other was my friend; Marie I still
loved as before; could I be contented to behold this misery! No, Monsieur, though
naturally averse to a life of bustle and contention I determined on the instant, to
volunteer in Lewis's room, I did so without so much as consulting him, and was
accepted.
"Not all the misery which in my quieter hours has followed up the reflection that
Marie was lost to me for ever [sic]; not all the grief which was my lot when I
committed her delicate form to the earth, have been able to efface the blessed
recollection of the moment when the flushed cheek, and glittering eye I told her that
her lover was free, and that they might thenceforth be happy together. Ah! Monsieur,
that was indeed a moment of rapture, of rapture such as I shall never again
experience when I heard her address me as her brother and preserver; when I felt her
arms around my neck, and her warm tears upon my cheek, and received the sweetest and
most rapturous kiss that the lip of woman ever bestowed! Oh! whole years of agony
could not suffice to blot out the recollection of those moments; a life of pain were
but a poor price to offer for their repossession! But they passed away; and I marched
off, if not happy, at all events, satisfied that I had done my duty, and that there
were two kind hearts which
[Page 162] |
|
beat in gratitude for me,
whose own was little better than a blank.
"My satisfaction was, however, but of short duration. I had sojourned but a few weeks
at the dépôt, when the arrival of Lewis, as one of a fresh batch of conscripts, gave
proof that the sacrifice which I had made had been to no purpose. A second call for
recruits, it appeared, produced a second ballot; and the name of Lewis, as if heaven
had decreed that he should not elude his destiny, was again among the number of the
drawn. You may well believe that my friend for some time after his enlistment was
melancholy enough, when I inform you that the very day was named which ought to have
made Marie his own; yet he recovered his spirits by degrees, applied steadily to his
drill and his duty, and bore himself as proudly, and was as much admired as any man
in the ranks, when the detachment began its march to join the army in Spain.
"Lewis and I were fortunate enough to be appointed to the same corps, and the same
company, indeed we were comrades. We were fortunate too in being commanded by a brave
and good officer; and to fill up our measure of good luck, were sent off to serve
under one of the ablest and most humane generals whom France has produced. We were
ordered to Catalonia, at that time the province of the gallant and
[Page 163] |
|
generous St. Cyr. This happy combination of events naturally
tended to make us look to the future with a less desponding gaze, and upon the past
with greater resignation; we acknowledged that our lot might have been far less
desirable, and we were contented.
"No particular events befel [sic] us on our journey towards the frontier. On the
whole, we were treated with sufficient consideration by the inhabitants, who bestowed
on us a thousand wishes for our success and safe return, and we came up with the army
just as it had taken its ground, and begun to make preparations for the siege of
Rosas. You are, doubtless, aware, that the defence made by the garrison of that
fortress was exceedingly obstinate and gallant. Though our trenches were gradually
drawn to the very crest of the glacis, and our saps penetrated the escarpment, the
governor refused to surrender; nothing therefore remained but to try the fortune of
an assault, and for this perilous service volunteers were invited to offer.
"The first man who presented himself on that occasion was Lewis Charmont. It was in
vain that I reminded him of Marie, and of the necessity under which he lay of
guarding his life, as far as circumstances would allow, for her sake. He only smiled
at my remonstrance, and squeezing my hand, replied, that if he fell, Marie would
honor his memory, and if he survived, he should be the more worthy of her, as
[Page 164] |
|
he would have acted like a brave man, and earned a
medal.
"The assault took place, and was successful. The carnage on both sides was terrible,
but the town fell, and Lewis escaped unhurt. That I rejoiced at his escape you will,
I am sure, believe; yet let me be candid, I did envy him, for the first and only time
in my life, when I beheld him next morning upon parade with the medal already
suspended from his button. Bitterly did I upbraid myself that I had not volunteered
also; and I resolved that he should never again earn a distinction to which I should
not be equally entitled; nor was I without hope that even Rosas might be to me, as
it
had been to him, a theatre of renown. The citadel still held out, principally, I
believe, through the exertions of your countryman, Lord Cochrane, and a few of his
sailors; and it continued for many days to withstand all our efforts. I was one of
those who thrice endeavoured to storm it, and were thrice repulsed; but the works
were demolished at last by cannon shot, the English were compelled to abandon them,
and we took possession of the ruins.
"Worn out with the labours of a tedious and harassing siege, we fondly looked
forward, now that the place had fallen, to the enjoyment of at least a few days of
repose, but we were disappointed. The critical situation of Barcelona, at that period
blockaded by the
[Page 165] |
|
enemy, called upon the general to
make every effort for its preservation. It was by far the most important of all our
possessions on that coast, for the loss of which hardly any success would have
compensated; so St. Cyr having determined that it should not change masters through
any negligence on his part, made ready, without a moment's delay, to succour it. On
the evening of the day which saw our flag hoisted upon the ramparts of Rosas, the
order to prepare was issued, and at an early hour next morning the whole army was
in
motion.
"The direct road from Rosas to Barcelona leads, you must know, under the very guns
of
Hostalrech, a fortified town, which was then held by a numerous Spanish garrison.
Conscious that any effort to force a passage must be attended by a heavy loss, and
unwilling to waste time by reducing the fort, St. Cyr resolved to penetrate, as he
best could, through the mountain; and having found a shepherd who professed to be
acquainted with the different tracks, he took him for his guide. The man was no
traitor. He conducted the column, by a difficult and circuitous route, round the hill
upon which Hostalrech is built, and brought it in safety, after a perilous and
fatiguing march, once more into the high road.
"On this occasion Lewis Charmont and myself were both attached to the rear-guard.
It
was not very efficient in point of numbers, though the general was
[Page 166] |
|
pleased to say that we were all brave men, on whom he could
perfectly depend; and it came not off so well as the column which it was appointed
to
protect. During the earlier part of the day, indeed, we, like those in front of us,
went on without beholding an enemy; but about four o'clock in the afternoon we
suddenly found ourselves watched by a very superior force; which, in spite of our
most strenuous efforts to prevent it, succeeded in throwing itself between us and
the
rear of the column. For and instant we fell back, as if uncertain what course to
pursue; the main body, we were well aware, would not, and could not halt to succour
us, they could not even spare reinforcements to bring us off, for the defile of
Trientepasos was before them, which must be passed that night or never; there was,
therefore, no help to be expected from that quarter. The idea of surrendering, whilst
we had arms in our hands, could not be borne for a moment; more especially as we were
not ignorant that he who became a prisoner to the Spaniards was less to be envied
than his comrade who fell in battle. Though they exceeded us in numbers by four to
one, we resolved to fight our way through them, and either to make good our passage,
or perish in the attempt.
"The Spaniards were advantageously posted on the brow of a wooded height, and galled
us dreadfully, as we rushed on, with their fire, but our charge
[Page 167] |
|
was decisive; for one instant they stood the shock, in the next
we had pierced them. And now all was hurry and confusion; it was our business to
escape, each man as he was best able, and we were not very scrupulous as to the
means. We ran as fast as weariness would permit, preserving, however, for a time an
irregular line, and stopping occasionally, as a convenient space offered, to check
the pursuit by our fire; but at last even our skirmishing order was lost, and we fled
and fought in files or singly, as chance or circumstances directed.
"In this manner the tiraillading continued till hardly light enough remained for us
to point our muskets, when Lewis, who throughout the whole affaire had kept by my
side, fell to the ground. You will wonder when I tell you, that notwithstanding the
situation in which we were placed, it never once occurred to me that my friend could
be wounded; I imagined that he had merely lost his footing, and I stooped down, in
the careless turn of mind which such a belief was calculated to create, in order to
assist him in rising. What then were my sensations when I found that he made no reply
to my inquiries, and on examining him more closely, discovered that a musket ball
had
struck him just where the shoulder joins the neck, and passed into his vitals. My
very brain swam round, yet I retained self-command sufficient to raise him in my
arms, and to entreat that he
[Page 168] |
|
would exert his utmost
strength, as the fire was fast slackening. He did so, and I led him to the rear; but
we had not proceeded a dozen paces before he exclaimed in a feeble voice, 'It is
useless, Baptiste, I cannot proceed farther. Go, go you, save yourself for poor
Marie, and leave me to die.' I could not act thus, Monsieur; it was not in my nature
to abandon any one, more especially the friend of my heart, under these
circumstances; so partly carrying, and partly dragging, I contrived to hurry him
along, till a cottage opportunely offering, I conveyed him into it. It was deserted
and in ruins; yet with a winter's night closing rapidly upon us, I was too thankful
even for such a shelter to pass it by.
"The firing had now ceased; our people having made good their retreat, and the enemy
fallen back to Hostalrech; but that was a matter about which I was perfectly
regardless. I thought only of my friend, for whom the plundered hut afforded no
comforts, and but a very partial shelter. I laid him upon the mud floor, and tearing
my handkerchief into shreds, attempted to staunch the blood which welled from his
broken limb; but all my efforts were fruitless, it flowed in spite of them. When I
looked at his countenance, too, that told me plainly enough that there was no hope;
the half-closed eye and fallen jaw, not less than the pale lit and livid cheek,
warned me that Lewis was departing. Wild with my own
[Page 169] |
|
fears, I called upon him in the name of Marie, and of all the tender associations
connected with his native village, to rally himself, and take courage; and at last,
finding that he paid no heed to my adjurations, I sat down beside him in despair,
buried my face in my hands, and wept aloud. The sound of my lamentation reached him
even in his last moments; he looked up, and in a tone scarcely audible, exclaimed,
'Do not weep, Baptiste, do not weep, it must be thus, we must all die. Tell Marie
that I fell as became me; and give her my medal, that she may occasionally look upon
it, and remember me when I am gone. Tell her, likewise, that with my last breath I
consigned her to you; you love her, Baptiste, that I know; and I need not add be kind
to her, for to whom was my friend ever unkind? May you be happy together, and the
thought that you are so *** .' He could not finish the sentence; no doubt he meant
to
say, that his spirit would look down upon our happiness with delight, but the word
died upon his lips, the lips themselves ceased to move, and he was a corpse.
"Ah, Monsieur, if you have ever known what it is to witness the dissolution of a
friend who was dear to you as the air which you breathed, then, and then only, will
you be able to imagine what my feelings were at this moment. Alas! I could not even
pay to him the last tribute of friendship; I could not lay him in a grave; but I did
what I could; I took his
[Page 170] |
|
medal from his breast, and
fetching a quantity of straw from an adjoining chamber, I spread it over him; I knelt
down, too, and breathed a fervent prayer for his soul's repose; and then with swollen
eyes, and a heavy heart, set out to overtake my regiment.
"I need not pursue the remainder of my story with any particular minuteness. I came
up with the corps at the farther mouth of the defile, for the Spaniards, contrary
to
all expectation, had permitted us to thread it unmolested; and I partook of the
bivouac which they had formed on the plain of Llenas. But our repose was of short
continuance; the dawn had just begun to break when a heavy column showed itself in
full march towards the pass; no doubt could exist as to the force which composed the
column; so the drums beat to arms, and in five minutes after the army was in
line.
"Of the action which ensued, and which ended in the total defeat of the Spaniards,
I
cannot pretend to give any account, for the cannonade had scarcely begun when a round
shot struck me in the left arm, and took it off. I was carried from the field along
with hundreds besides, and having suffered amputation, was removed to a crowded
hospital, where, during many weeks I endured all the misery attendant upon inadequate
accommodation, imperfect nursing, and scanty provisions. At last, however,
[Page 171] |
|
thanks to a naturally good constitution, I recovered;
and being no longer serviceable, I received my discharge, but no pension was allowed
me; I had not served long enough, it appeared, to merit one; indeed I was left to
make my way, as I best might, through the whole breadth of France, without receiving
any assistance than that which private benevolence afforded. Thus mutilated, and a
beggar, I reached my home exactly ten months from the day on which I quitted it.
"And now, Monsieur, it only remains for me to repeat the saddest portion of my story.
Poor Marie had received no account of her lover since he departed, and had pined and
languished after him, like a bird robbed of her young. Her health, naturally
delicate, was already impaired by suspense; how then could it be expected that she
would bear up against the terrible reality; she did not, Monsieur. I broke the matter
to her as delicately as I could, but even thus she was unable to bear it; the
intelligence that Lewis was no more came upon her like a thunderbolt upon a bruised
reed *** it crushed her. When I strove to cheer her by making mention of her lover's
valour, her tears only flowed the faster; and when I pulled out his medal, and gave
it to her as his last bequest, it seemed as if her heart would have broken. She took
it, laid it upon her bosom, and to her dying day kept it there; nay, it was not
removed from her even
[Page 172] |
|
in death, it is buried in her
grave. No, no, Monsieur, I could not speak to one, thus afflicted, of new ties; I
never told her that Lewis had bequeathed her to me. The poor stricken doe had no
pasture to fly to; she lingered on for a while, and died.
"Six years and a half have passed since we laid her in the dust; she had then barely
completed her twenty-first year, and the merciful God never took to himself a purer
or a chaster spirit. For me, it has ever since been my chief delight to deck her
grave, as you see it even now. Every Sunday I gather fresh garland for the purpose;
and as long as life remains, I will continue the practice."
Though there was something French in this poor fellow's story, I was, upon the whole,
a good deal affected by it; and deeming it not unworthy of a place in my scrap-book,
I noted it down.
[Page 173] |
|
The National Norwegian Song, , From S. P. Wolff
LAND of our fathers thou art fair, |
1 |
To us thy sea- zoned coast is dear; |
2 |
And dear thy rocks up- piled on high, |
3 |
Which storms and years alike defy! — |
4 |
Remains of a primeval land, |
5 |
That midst the raging tempests stand |
6 |
As mailed giants on whose brow |
7 |
Wide gleams the helmet's silver glow. |
8 |
When Thor first Norway's shores beheld, |
9 |
His throne he stationed there, and dwelled |
10 |
Amidst the spirits who delight |
11 |
With cloud and storm to wage the fight. |
12 |
As through the welkin rolled his car, |
13 |
He heard them chaunt his praise afar; |
14 |
With boding voice of awe they hailed |
15 |
The power that o'er thy foes prevailed. |
16 |
[Page 174] |
|
'Twas here that roamed the North's brave child, |
17 |
Undaunted through the troublous wild; |
18 |
Not death could e'er his soul appal, |
19 |
But beckoned him to Odin's hall, |
20 |
Like a fair maid with Freia's face, |
21 |
Full rushing to his fond embrace, |
22 |
Whilst in his life's last throb of pain |
23 |
His lips would breathe the victor strain. |
24 |
Dear to our hearts the legend lore |
25 |
Of which is thine so rich a store: |
26 |
When howls the storm the plain along, |
27 |
It seems some ancient warrior's song; |
28 |
When foams the dashing water fall, |
29 |
We hear a voice to battle call — |
30 |
The clang of arms — the glorious fray — |
31 |
The Skald's bold, courage stirring lay. |
32 |
Still in thy manly sons we trace |
33 |
Norway's former hero- race; |
34 |
The spirit flashes from their eye, |
35 |
While toil they brave, and death defy; |
36 |
And in thy maiden's eye of blue |
37 |
Beneath young Siofna's virgin hue, |
38 |
While Ydun's ever- youthful spring |
39 |
Doth o'er their cheek its rose- tints fling. |
40 |
[Page 175] |
|
Hail! thou our glorious father- land! |
41 |
With pride we view thy lofty strand — |
42 |
Its summer vales and winter woods, |
43 |
Its crystal lakes, and torrent- floods. |
44 |
Unshaken by the storms that rage |
45 |
Around, it stands from age to age; |
46 |
And rears its giant crest sublime, |
47 |
Unchanging to the end of time! |
48 |
[Page 176] |
|
An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire
BEFORE I yet assume the band, |
1 |
Or dare to tread on lawyer- land, |
2 |
(A rich champaign that's never bleak |
3 |
Nor bare to those who boldly speak; |
4 |
Where neither cold, nor rain, nor drought |
5 |
Can ever turn the crops to nought:) — |
6 |
Before I venture on a brief, — |
7 |
Before I hang a single theif, — |
8 |
Or plunge my goose- quill into ink, — |
9 |
Or purse my mouth and seem to think, |
10 |
While clients stare, and rustics wonder, |
11 |
Like young pigs when they shrink from thunder, — |
12 |
I'll call on thee, renowned wig! |
13 |
(In self- importance justly big) |
14 |
Beneath whose ample curls men sit, |
15 |
Disfigured by thy weight of wit: — |
16 |
(For thou still dost the lawyer fire, |
17 |
As Phoebus' rays bards' brains inspire; |
18 |
Making mere man thrice vast and learn'd, |
19 |
Like water into vapour turned.) — |
20 |
[Page 177] |
|
— Spirit of wisdom, cramped and curled! |
21 |
Type of the thoughts that fill the world! |
22 |
(Tortured to every quirk and shift |
23 |
That lawyers into fortune lift:) |
24 |
What garland, wrought of barren bays? — |
25 |
What "order," rich with martial rays? — |
26 |
What knightly cross, or riband red? |
27 |
What key,— — what collar ever shed |
28 |
Such honours on man's honoured head? |
29 |
Vittoria's splendours! — what are they |
30 |
To Eldon's powder waxing grey? |
31 |
What black King Charles's black peruke? |
32 |
What Villers' locks, 'though twice a duke'? |
33 |
What Malborough's waggon- load of hair? |
34 |
Or Lely's loves all frizz'd and fair? — |
35 |
And thou — Greatwig! — white — powdered — flowing |
36 |
O'er eyebrows knit and foreheads knowing, |
37 |
Upon what skull, on law intent, |
38 |
Did'st perch, — thou, King of wigs! — content, |
39 |
When wisest BELL, (so keen and kind) |
40 |
Left law but left no peer behind, — |
41 |
Not one so sage, and yet so meek, |
42 |
Of all the tribes that love to speak? |
43 |
Before what jaded judge, (who sits, |
44 |
And sighs, and nods, and yawns by fits,) |
45 |
Dost thou now shake thy Gorgon terrors, |
46 |
Doubling some damned defendant's errors? |
47 |
[Page 178] |
|
Or, — after P — 's judicial fury, |
48 |
Dost smooth some forty- shilling jury? |
49 |
Casting thy perfumes in their noses |
50 |
The more thy brother wig opposes? |
51 |
Or dost thou on the bench inhabit, |
52 |
Where L — looks smug and — says 'D — it?' |
53 |
From little snarling — — 's crown |
54 |
Fling'st thou thy odours half- way down |
55 |
His pigmy shape? — From Pr — st — n's head, |
56 |
Where deep black- lettered law was bred, |
57 |
And nursed through many a patient night |
58 |
Till Lincolns Inn was filled with light? |
59 |
Dwell'st thou with elder S — nd — rs, (well |
60 |
Mayst thou with him contented dwell, — |
61 |
A lawyer sound as ever saw |
62 |
When sense should sway the doubtful law)? |
63 |
Hang'st thou on L — nd — st's lordly cheek? |
64 |
Dost thou abide with W — lde, or P — ke, |
65 |
Both serjeants firm and fit to battle |
66 |
A cause through four old women's tattle? |
67 |
Or hidest thou S — t's pompous air? |
68 |
Or M — t's visage hard and square? |
69 |
Or A — t's look 'tween scowl and smile? |
70 |
Or — 's face all drenched in guile? |
71 |
Or H — ld's bold brow? or B — s — l's grace, |
72 |
Handsomest of the lawyer race?— |
73 |
Speak! — if thou still canst teach the tongue |
74 |
(That thing on golden hinges hung) |
75 |
[Page 179] |
|
To speak — I'll secret be — Declare, |
76 |
From all thy thousand mouths of hair |
77 |
If any barrister or bencher |
78 |
Still from thy bounty fills his trencher? |
79 |
If, on some huge block's head and shoulders, |
80 |
Thou hang'st, the laugh of all beholders, |
81 |
Forc'd, when thou canst inspire no more, |
82 |
To hear the trash thou scorn'dst before, |
83 |
Quick! leave the block (the head) — whose hum |
84 |
Comes out as from some empty drum, |
85 |
Which one who should be beaten beats, — |
86 |
Where noisy nonsense, nonsense meets, — |
87 |
Where blunders bump 'midst lawyer's quirks, — |
88 |
And not one ounce of wisdom lurks: |
89 |
Quick, leave the lackwit's skull all free, |
90 |
And send the rogue to — Coventry9 . |
91 |
Or, — are thou still, by human head, |
92 |
O peerless wig! untenanted? |
93 |
Hanging somewhere 'tween sea and sky, |
94 |
Like prophets' coffin lone and high? — |
95 |
If so, and there's a curl of hair, |
96 |
A bunch — a look — a lock to spare, |
97 |
Yield it to me, — to me, who left |
98 |
(Like widow of her son bereft) |
99 |
[Page 90] |
|
For aye, the sweet muse Poesy, |
100 |
And gave my life to law and thee! |
101 |
And must I see the poet's pages |
102 |
No more? — ne'er dream of bright bright-ages, |
103 |
When inspiration, like a sun, |
104 |
Came down and deathless deed were done? |
105 |
Farewell, then — (in Sir Blackstone's vein, |
106 |
I'll bid the muse farewell again) — |
107 |
Farewell, then, to the dangerous muse, |
108 |
Whom lawyers love yet aye abuse! |
109 |
Farewell unto the poets crowned! |
110 |
Farewell, where laurel leaves abound, — |
111 |
Thessalian Pindus! — Tempe's plains! — |
112 |
Parnassus, where Apollo reigns! |
113 |
And farewell O Castalian river! |
114 |
Upon whose fringed banks for ever |
115 |
Lie clustering still the dark-eyed daughters, |
116 |
Singing to all thy running waters |
117 |
Strange music like the Sybil's spell, — |
118 |
Farewell, — to all and each — Farewell! |
119 |
Figure 8: A Portrait of a Lady
painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by Mr. W. H.
Worthington
[Page 181] |
|
A Simile, on a Lady's Portrait
By James Montgomery,
Esq.
A FOUNTAIN issuing into light, |
1 |
Before a marble palace, threw |
2 |
To heaven its column, pure and bright, |
3 |
Returning thence in showers of dew;— |
4 |
But soon a humbler course it took, |
5 |
And glid away—a nameless brook. |
6 |
Flowers on its grassy margin sprang, |
7 |
Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd, |
8 |
Birds 'midst the waving branches sang, |
9 |
Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd; |
10 |
The weary there lay down to rest, |
11 |
And there the halcyon built her nest. |
12 |
'Twas beautiful—to stand and watch |
13 |
The fountain's crystal turn to gems, |
14 |
And such resplendent colours catch, |
15 |
As though 'twere raining diadems; |
16 |
Yet all was cold and curious art, |
17 |
That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart!— |
18 |
[Page 182] |
|
Dearer to me the little stream, |
19 |
Whose unimprison'd waters run, |
20 |
Wild as the changes of a dream, |
21 |
By rock and glen, through shade and sun; |
22 |
Its lovely links have power to bind, |
23 |
And whirl away my willing mind. |
24 |
So thought I, when I saw the face, |
25 |
By happy portraiture reveal'd, |
26 |
Of one, adorn'd with every grace; |
27 |
Her name and date from me conceal'd, |
28 |
But not her story;—she had been |
29 |
The pride of many a splendid scene. |
30 |
She cast her glory round a court, |
31 |
And frolick'd in the gayest ring, |
32 |
Where Fashion's high‐born minions sport, |
33 |
Like gilded insects on the wing; |
34 |
But thence, when love had touch'd her soul, |
35 |
To nature and to truth she stole. |
36 |
From din, and pageantry, and strife, |
37 |
'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, |
38 |
She treads the paths of lowly life, |
39 |
Yet in affection's bosom reigns; |
40 |
No fountain scattering diamond‐showers, |
41 |
But the sweet streamlet, edged with flowers! |
42 |
[Page 183] |
|
The Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to Marcus Tullius Cicero
Translated by HIS MAJESTY.
AS soon as I heard your daughter Tullia was dead, I confess I was extremely
concerned, as it became me to be, at a loss which I regarded as common to us both;
and if I had been with you, I should not have been wanting to you, but should have
openly testified the bitterness of my grief. 'Tis true this is but a poor and
miserable consolation, because those who ought to administer it, I mean our nearest
friends and relations, are almost equally affected with ourselves, nor can they
attempt it without shedding many a tear: so that they appear to be more in want of
comfort themselves than to perform that duty to others. I resolved, however, to set
down in a short letter to you such considerations as occurred to my mind, not because
they can have escaped you, but because I think that your grief has hindered your
attending to them. What reason is there why you should be transported by so
immoderate a grief: consider how fortune has
[Page 184] |
|
hitherto
dealt with us; consider that we have lost what ought to be dearer to us than our own
offspring, our country, our credit, dignity, and all our honours. This one misfortune
more, how can it increase our misery? Or what mind is there that has been subject
to
such distress, but must have now grown callous, and regard every thing else as of
little consequence? Is it for her sake that you grieve? But how often must you have
fallen into that train of thinking into which I often fall, which suggests to me that
those persons are not the most unfortunate at this time who are permitted to exchange
life for death? What is there now which could make her so much regret the loss of
life? What affairs? what [sic] hopes? what [sic] prospects of comfort? Was it that
she might pass her life with some Nobleman of high rank and qualification? And can
you really think that it was in your power, deservedly honored as you are, to choose
out of our present youth, a son-in-law, to whom you might safely commit a child so
dear to you? Or, was it that she might bear children from whose flourishing condition
she might have drawn much pleasure? Who might have enjoyed a large fortune,
transmitted to them from their parents? Who might have been candidates in turn for
the honors of the state; and who might have employed their liberty in the service
of
your friends! Alas! which of these blessings was not taken
[Page 185] |
|
away before she was in a condition to bestow them on others?
But it is a most shocking thing to lose one's children. True, if it were not much
more so to suffer and undergo what we now do. Give me leave to relate to you, what
on
a certain occasion afforded me some little comfort, and allow me to hope that it may
have the same effect upon you. Upon my return from Asia, as I sailed from Ægina to
Megara, on my right hand Piræus, on my left Corinth. These cities were at one time
flourishing beyond imagination, but are now desolate and in ruins. Thus I began to
ruminate with myself; alas! do we poor mortals resent it so much, if one of us dies,
or is killed, whose life is of so short a date, when we see in one spot the many
carcases [sic] of so great cities lying before us? Will you not, Servius, check your
grief by recollecting that you are born a man? Believe me I was not a little
comforted by that thought. If you please, therefore, try the power of it on yourself.
It was but lately we saw many famous men perish, a great empire declining and all
the
provinces in the utmost distress. And shall the death of one little woman so
grievously afflict you! Who if she had not died now, must in a few years have done
so; for she was born a mortal. Let me beg of you therefore, as much as is in your
power, to call off your
[Page 186] |
|
mind from brooding over these
subjects, and to turn it rather on such as are worthy of your character; consider,
that she lived as long as it was desirable for her to live; that her fate was joined
to that of her country, that she lived to see her father, Prætor, Consul, and Augur;
had been married to youths of the greatest distinction; had enjoyed all manner of
happiness: and fell at last with the republic. Upon what account can you or she
complain of fortune? Above all, do not forget that you are Cicero, one who is
accustomed to advise and direct others; and do not imitate bad physicians, who in
the
disorders of others profess that they are conversant in the art of physic, and are
not able to cure themselves; but rather follow what you recommend to others and keep
it constantly before your eyes. There is no grief which length of time will not
diminish and soften, it is beneath you to wait for that moment, and not to master
your grief, beforehand by your wisdom. But if there be any feeling in the dead, I
am
certain that she is very desirous that you should not wear yourself out with grief
for her sake, on account of her filial piety and affection for you. Grant this favor
to her, who is now dead and to the rest of your friends and relations, who sympathise
with you in your grief, grant it also to your country, that, if she be in want of
your assistance, she may be able to make use of your counsel and advice. And last
of
all, since we are fallen into such a situation, that we
[Page 187] |
|
must submit to the present state of things, do not put it in the power of any one
to say, that you grieve less for your daughter, than you do for the misfortunes of
the country and for the victories of her enemies. It does not become me to write to
you any more concerning this affair lest I should appear to distrust your prudence.
Wherefore, when I have mentioned this one piece of advice, I will conclude my letter.
We have seen you bear prosperity in a manner that became you, and acquire great glory
from it; now let us perceive that you can bear adversity with equal fortitude, and
that you are no more oppressed by it than you ought to be: lest this should appear
to
be the only virtue you want among so many. But as to what belongs to me, when I
understand that you are a little more composed, I will inform you concerning what
passes here and in what state this province is. Adieu.
[insert scanned image of signature: George P. 1779.]
[Page 188] |
|
The Epistle of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Servius Sulpicius
Translated by his late Royal Highness
THE DUKE OF YORK.
I WISH, indeed, Servius, as you write, that you had been here when this misfortune
befel [sic] me; for I easily understand from the quiet the reading of your letters
administered to me, how much if you had been present, you might have assisted in
consoling me, and almost equally sharing in my grief; for you have not only written
such things as have alleviated my grief, but have very kindly sympathized with me.
However you son Servius has testified by all those serviceswhich could be rendered
to
me, not only how much he esteems me, but how much he thinks you will be pleased with
his kindness towards me *** whose good offices, though often upon pleasanter
occasions, have never been more welcome to me than at this time. But it is not what
you say in your letter, and the share you take in my affliction, but your authority
also which has consoled me; for I think it unworthy of me not to bear my mis-
[Page 189] |
|
fortune, as you who are endowed with so much wisdom,
think I ought to do. But I am sometimes oppressed, and can hardly resist my grief;
because those comforts are wanting which were not wanting to these, whom I have
proposed to myself as patterns. For both Q. Maximus, who lost his son after he had
been consul, and rendered himself famous by great actions; and L. Paulus, who was
deprived of two sons in the compass of seven days, as well as your Gallus and Marcus;
Cato who left a son of the greatest genius and virtue, all these lived at a time when
their own dignity, which they had received at the hands of the republic, was alone
able to alleviate their grief. But after I had lost those ornaments which you have
mentioned, and which I had with much labour obtained, this was the only comfort left
me, which I am now deprived of.
My thoughts were not employed on the affairs of friends, or in the affairs of the
republic. It was irksome to me to do any thing in the Forum, and I could not even
bear the sight of the Senate House. I thought what was very true, that I had lost
all
the fruits of my industry and fortune. Yet when I reflected that these things were
common to me with you and many others; and when I was forcing myself to bear these
things tolerably, I had a person to whom I could fly, with whom I could be at east,
and in whose conversation and sweetness of manners I could lose all my cares and
vexations. But this has opened
[Page 190] |
|
again all my former
wounds, which appeared to be healing. For it is not now as it was then, when my
family relieved my concern for the affairs of the republic; neither can I fly for
consolation under my private misfortunes to the prosperity of the republic. Therefore
I absent myself as well from my own house as from the forum; because my own house
is
not able now to console me under the grief which I receive from the republic, nor
the
republic under the grief which I receive from my own private affairs. Wherefore I
anxiously wait for you, and am very desirous of seeing you. No greater pleasure can
I
now receive, than in your conversation and friendship; and I hope, and indeed have
heard, that your return will soon afford me this consolation. I am desirous in truth
of seeing you as soon as possible for many reasons, but particularly that we may
settle together our plan of life in this conjecture, which must be arranged according
to the will of one man, who is prudent and liberal, a great friend as I conceive of
yours, and no enemy of mine. Still it demands no small deliberation what measures
we
must take; I do not mean for acting, but for remaining quiet, with his permission
and
good will. Farewell.
[signature of Frederick.]
[Page 191] |
|
The Lover's Invocation: , Imitated from an Unpublished French Poem
COME night, and spread thy shadowy veil |
1 |
Across the still too glorious sky! |
2 |
Come night, dark, silent, misty, pale, — |
3 |
As best befits a lover's sigh! |
4 |
Suspend the course of yonder rill |
5 |
That murmurs o'er the mossy ground; |
6 |
My Julia comes — be still! be still! |
7 |
For love will fly the lightest sound. |
8 |
Come night, and wrap in heaviest sleep |
9 |
The guardian harsh who caused me to woe, |
10 |
His senses in sweet visions steep, |
11 |
And laughing lies around him throw! |
12 |
Oh! be he cradled in such dreams |
13 |
As poets view with waking eyes! |
14 |
Prolong the soul enchanting themes, |
15 |
And charm the doubt that never dies! |
16 |
[Page 192] |
|
Come night! — For see across the green, |
17 |
Hies with quick step the timid maid — |
18 |
Hush the soft breeze that lulled the scene, |
19 |
And bid the silvery moon- beam fade! |
20 |
For she, that timorous maid, would start |
21 |
E'en at thy stars' mild lustre, night! |
22 |
List trembling to her beating heart, |
23 |
And fly the glow- worm's emerald light. |
24 |
Figure 9: The Poet's Invocation
painted by T. Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
HITHER to my Grotto fly, |
1 |
To its cold and mossy seats, |
2 |
Ye who dread the summer sky, |
3 |
And the sun's meridian heats. |
4 |
Here's a fount that moistly breathes |
5 |
Freshness through the vaulted gloom, |
6 |
Eglantine whose hidden wreaths |
7 |
The dim cooling air perfume. |
8 |
Harboured from the care and noise |
9 |
Which have still your steps pursued, |
10 |
Here you taste the purer joys |
11 |
Of sweet soothing solitude. |
12 |
[Page 194] |
|
Here may maid with love untold, |
13 |
In echo's ear her tale effuse, |
14 |
Here may raptured poet hold |
15 |
Communion with the willing muse. |
16 |
Hither — hither — hither fly, |
17 |
To silence to serenity! — |
18 |
Figure 10: The Dreams of the Infant Shakespeare
painted by Richard Westall, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
[Page 195] |
|
BY the living waterspring, |
1 |
By the grass- green fairy ring, |
2 |
Pillowed on the rathe primrose, |
3 |
Lies a boy in rich repose. |
4 |
Yet, though honey- dews of sleep |
5 |
All his crimson beauty steep — |
6 |
Though like languid lily- bands, |
7 |
Fall on earth his infant hands; |
8 |
And the veiling eyelids win |
9 |
From us all the light within; |
10 |
And, but for a passing glow, |
11 |
Sculptured stone might seem his brow. |
12 |
Yet that marble brow beneath, |
13 |
Dreams are born too strong for death; |
14 |
Thoughts, as with the stroke of lightning, |
15 |
Soul- pervading, smiting, brightning. |
16 |
Mighty visions are awake, |
17 |
That shall yet the nations shake; |
18 |
[Page 196] |
|
In that sleeping form enshrined, |
19 |
Powers, and mysteries of mind; |
20 |
That shall utter more than spell |
21 |
Of a more than Oracle! |
22 |
Now, on his enchanted sleep, |
23 |
See the rich creations sweep; |
24 |
Mark the lifting of his hand, |
25 |
It has grasped a fancied wand; |
26 |
Spirits, to its waving bowed, |
27 |
Spring from earth, and fire and cloud. |
28 |
Now he smiles! a kingly pomp |
29 |
Comes with shout and silver tromp; |
30 |
Or along the burnished waters |
31 |
Float some fairy island's daughters |
32 |
Or, as day's empurpled smile, |
33 |
Fades on the cathedral pile; |
34 |
Incense- winged the evening prayer, |
35 |
Rises on the dewy air. |
36 |
See, the sudden writhing brow! |
37 |
See, the stealing tear below! |
38 |
From his lip has gone the word, |
39 |
Darkness from its depths is stirred; |
40 |
And on fiery blasts are born, |
41 |
Howling terrors, shapes forlorn. |
42 |
[Page 197] |
|
But again the laughing lip |
43 |
Quivers with the matchless quip; |
44 |
Wit, with diamond point and play, |
45 |
Bright for ever and for aye: |
46 |
Boy, to witch the world — arise! |
47 |
On that rose bank — SHAKSPEARE lies! |
48 |
[Page 198] |
|
THAT beautiful and starry brow, |
1 |
With youth and joy all splendent now — |
2 |
Can it be marred by years? |
3 |
That passionless and stainless breast, |
4 |
Where innocence hath raised her nest — |
5 |
Must it be racked by fears? |
6 |
That glowing cheek and sun- bright eye |
7 |
Whence laughter wings its archery — |
8 |
Will it be stained with tears? |
9 |
Such is, alas! the bitter doom |
10 |
That waits each tenant of the tomb; — |
11 |
And how canst thou, young bud of beauty be, |
12 |
Excluded from the pale of destiny! |
13 |
But years will pass nor leave behind |
14 |
One stain upon thy seraph mind — |
15 |
Then, come, thou fearful age! |
16 |
And fears that rack thy breast may prove |
17 |
The token sure of passionate love — |
18 |
Such is love's heritage! |
19 |
[Page 199] |
|
And tears from pity's fount will flow, |
20 |
And on the cheek full sunny glow, |
21 |
Of joy the fond presage! |
22 |
Thy days shall onward wing their way, |
23 |
Like the month of fragrance- breathing May; |
24 |
Or should Grief come thy beauties to enshroud |
25 |
It shall pass o'er thee like an April cloud. |
26 |
[Page 200] |
|
LOVE farewell! — |
1 |
Fickle as fair, |
2 |
Hope's fond spell |
3 |
Fades into air — |
4 |
Like pale leaves of autumn sighing, |
5 |
All our joys are drooping, — dying! — |
6 |
Love farewell! — |
7 |
Fickle as fair, |
8 |
Hope's fond spell |
9 |
Fades into air! |
10 |
Love farewell! — |
11 |
Moments are dear, |
12 |
When eyes tell |
13 |
Parting is near — |
14 |
Kindred heart to heart appealing — |
15 |
Kindred glances love- vows sealing! — |
16 |
Love farewell! — |
17 |
Moments are dear, |
18 |
When eyes tell |
19 |
Parting is near! — |
20 |
[Page 201] |
|
Love farewell! — |
21 |
After soft showers, |
22 |
Spring- buds swell, |
23 |
Into fair flowers — |
24 |
Bright o'er passing storm- clouds bending, |
25 |
Rainbow hues are richly blending! — |
26 |
Love farewell! |
27 |
After soft showers, |
28 |
Spring- buds swell, |
29 |
Into fair flowers. — |
30 |
[Page 202] |
|
Stanzas addressed to a lady on her recovery with unblemished
looks,
|
from a severe attack of pain. |
'TWAS my last waking thought, How can it be, |
1 |
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st |
2 |
endure? |
3 |
When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he |
4 |
Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. |
5 |
Methought he fronted me with peering look, |
6 |
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game, |
7 |
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book; |
8 |
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame. |
9 |
In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin, |
10 |
TWO FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER, |
11 |
That to let forth, and this to keep within! |
12 |
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, |
13 |
[Page 203] |
|
Of pleasure only will to all dispense, |
14 |
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress |
15 |
Choked or turn' inward; but still issue thence |
16 |
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness. |
17 |
As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, |
18 |
That gracious thing made up of tears and light, |
19 |
Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below, |
20 |
Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright: |
21 |
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, |
22 |
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, |
23 |
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, |
24 |
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. |
25 |
Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine, |
26 |
On that benignant face, whose look alone |
27 |
'The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine!) |
28 |
Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own. |
29 |
A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing |
30 |
But with a silent charm compels the stern, |
31 |
And fost'ring genius of the BITTER SPRING, |
32 |
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. |
33 |
Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found |
34 |
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the FOUNT OF PAIN, |
35 |
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, |
36 |
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain? |
37 |
[Page 204] |
|
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam, |
38 |
On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile, |
39 |
Had pass'd: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, |
40 |
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream. |
41 |
Till audibly at length I cried, as though |
42 |
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, |
43 |
O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so, |
44 |
I pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise! |
45 |
In every look a barbed arrow send, |
46 |
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! |
47 |
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend! |
48 |
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give! |
49 |
[Page 205] |
|
Halloran the Pedlar: An Irish Story
By the writer of the
"Diary of an Ennuyée." [Jameson, Mrs. (Anna)]
"IT grieves me," said an eminent poet once to me, "it grieves and humbles me to
reflect how much our moral nature is in the power of circumstances. Our best
faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves did not the influences of external
excitement call them forth like animalculæ, which lie torpid till wakened into life
by the transient sunbeam."
This is generally true. How many walk through the beaten paths of every day life,
who
but for the novelist's page would never weep or wonder; and who would know nothing
of
the passions but as they are represented in some tragedy or stage piece? not that
they are incapable of high resolve and energy; but because the finer qualities have
never been called forth by imperious circumstances; for while the wheels of existence
roll smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in her vehicle like a lazy
traveller.
[Page 206] |
|
But for the French revolution, how many
hundreds — thousandsthousands — whose courage, fortitude and devotedness
have sanctified their names, would have frittered away a frivolous, useless, or
vicious life in the saloons of Paris! We have heard of death in its most revolting
forms braved by delicate females, who would have screamed at the sight of the most
insignificant reptile or insect; and men cheerfully toiling at mechanic trades for
bread who had lounged away the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their
mistresses. We know not of what we are capable till the trial comes; — till it comes,
perhaps, in a form which makes the strong man quail, and turns the gentler woman into
a heroine.
The power of outward circumstances suddenly to awaken dormant faculties — the
extraordinary influence which the mere instinct of self-preservation can exert over
the mind, and the triumph of mind thus excited over physical weakness,
were never more truly exemplified than in the story of HALLORAN THE PEDLAR.
The real circumstances of this singular case, differing essentially from the garbled
and incorrect account which appeared in the newspapers some years ago, came to my
knowledge in the following simple manner. My cousin George C * * *, an Irish
barrister of some standing, lately succeeded to his family estates by the death of
a
near relative; and no sooner
[Page 207] |
|
did he find himself in
possession of independence than, abjuring the bar, where, after twenty years of hard
struggling, he was just beginning to make a figure, he set off on a tour through
Italy and Greece, to forget the wrangling of courts, the contumely of attornies, and
the impatience of clients. He left in my hands a mass of papers, to burn or not, as
I
might feel inclined: and truly the contents of his desk were no bad illustration of
the character and pursuits of its owner. Here I found abstracts of cases, and on
their backs copies of verses, sketches of scenery, and numerous caricatures of
judges, jurymen, witnesses, and his brethren of the bar — a bundle of old briefs,
and
the beginnings of two tragedies; with a long list of Lord N — — 's best jokes to
serve his purposes as occasion might best offer. Among these heterogeneous and
confused articles were a number of scraps carefully pinned together, containing notes
on a certain trial, the first in which he had been retained as counsel for the crown.
The intense interest with which I perused these documents, suggested the plan of
throwing the whole into a connected form, and here it is for the reader's
benefit..
In the south part of the country of Kilkenny lived a poor peasant named Michael, or,
as it was elegantly pronounced Mickle Reilly. He was a labourer renting a cabin and
a
little potatoe-ground; and
[Page 208] |
|
on the strength of these
possessions, a robust frame which feared no fatigue, and a sanguine mind which
dreaded no reverse, Reilly paid his addresses to Cathleen Bray, a young girl of his
own parish, and they were married. Reilly was able, skilful, and industrious;
Cathleen was the best spinner in the county, and had constant sale for her work at
Kilkenny: they wanted nothing; and for the first year, as Cathleen said, "There
wasn't upon the blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for Mick was the
best boy in the world, and hadn't a fault to spake of — barring he took
the drop now and then; an' why wouldn't he?" But as it happened, poor Reilly's love
of "the drop" was the beginning of all their misfortunes. In an evil
hour he went to the Fair of Kilkenny to sell a dozen hanks of yarn of his wife's
spinning, and a fat pig, the produce of which was to pay half a year's rent, and add
to their little comforts. Here he met with a jovial companion, who took him into a
booth, and treated him to sundry potations of whiskey; and while in his company, his
pocket was picked of the money he had just received, and something more; in short,
of
all he possessed in the world. At that luckless moment, while maddened by his loss
and heated with liquor, he fell into the company of a recruiting serjeant [sic]. The
many-colored and gaily fluttering cockade in the soldier's cap shone like a rainbow
of hope and promise before the
[Page 209] |
|
drunken eyes of Mickle
Reilly, and ere morning he was enlisted into a regiment under orders for embarkation,
and instantly sent off to Cork.
Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, and his wife (whom he loved a
thousand times better than himself) poor Reilly sent a friend to inform Cathleen of
his mischance, and to assure her that on a certain day, in a week from that time,
a
letter would await her at the Kilkenny post-office: the same friend was commissioned
to deliver her his silver watch, and a guinea out of his bounty-money. Poor Cathleen
turned from the gold with horror, as the price of her husband's blood, and vowed that
nothing on earth should induce her to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time
and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so long a time must elapse before
his letter arrived. On the appointed day she was too impatient to wait the arrival
of
the carrier, but set off to Kilkenny herself, a distance of ten miles: there, at the
post-office, she duly found the promised letter; but it was not till she had it in
her possession that she remembered she could not read: she had therefore to hasten
back to consult her friend Nancy, the schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar
in the village. Reilly's letter, on being deciphered with some difficulty even by
the
learned Nancy, was found to contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet more
[Page 210] |
|
of affection: he assured her that he was far better
off than he had expected or deserved; that the embarkation of the regiment to which
he belonged was delayed for three weeks, and entreated her, if she could forgive him,
to follow him to Cork without delay, that they might "part in love and kindness, and
then come what might, he would demane himself like a man, and die asy," which he
assured her he could not do without embracing her once more.
Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with clasped hands and drawn breath, but
quiet in her nature, she gave no other signs of emotion than a few large tears which
trickled slowly down her cheeks. "And will I see him again?" she exclaimed, "poor
fellow! poor boy! I knew the heart of him was sore for me! and who knows Nance dear,
but they'll let me go out with him to the foreign parts! Oh! sure they wouldn't be
so
hard-hearted as to part man and wife that way!"
After a hurried consultation with her neighbours, who sympathised with her as only
the poor sympathise with the poor, a letter was indited [sic] by Nancy and sent by
the Kilkenny carrier that night, to inform her husband that she purposed setting off
for Cork the next blessed morning, being Tuesday, and as the distance was about
forty-eight miles English, she reckoned on reaching that city by Wednesday afternoon;
for as she had walked to Kil-
[Page 211] |
|
kenny and back (about
twenty miles) that same day, without feeling fatigued at all, "to
signify," Cathleen thought there would be no doubt that she could walk to
Cork in less than two days. In this sanguine calculation she was however over-ruled
by her more experienced neighbours, and by their advice appointed Thursday as the
day
on which her husband was to expect her, "God willing."
Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making preparations for her journey: she set
her cabin in order, and made a small bundle of a few articles of clothing belonging
to herself and her husband. The watch and the guinea she wrapped up together and
crammed into the toe of an old shoe which she deposited in the said bundle, and the
next morning, at "sparrow chirp," she arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid
the
key in the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced her long journey.
It is worthy of remark that this poor woman who was called upon to play the heroine
in such a strange tragedy and under such appalling circumstances, had nothing heroic
in her exterior: nothing that in the slightest degree indicated strength of nerve
or
superiority of intellect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low stature,
and in her form rather delicate than robust: she was of ordinary appearance; her eyes
mild and dove-
[Page 212] |
|
like, and her whole countenance, though
not absolutely deficient in intelligence, was more particularly expressive of
simplicity, good temper and kindness of heart.
It was summer, about the end of June: the days were long, the weather fine, and some
gentle showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant. Cathleen walked on stoutly
towards Cork, and by the evening she had accomplished with occasional pauses of rest,
nearly twenty-one miles. She lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the
following day set forward again, but soon felt stiff with the travel of two previous
days: the sun became hotter, the ways dustier; and she could not with all her
endeavours get farther than Kathery, eighteen miles from Cork. The next day
unfortunately for poor Cathleen, proved hotter and more fatiguing than the preceding.
The cross road lay over a wild country, consisting of low bogs and bare hills. About
noon she turned aside to a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in the
shade, she bathed her swollen feet in the stream and overcome by heat, weakness, and
excessive weariness she put her little bundle under her head for a pillow and sunk
into a deep sleep.
On waking she perceived with dismay that the sun was declining: and on looking about,
her fears were increased by the discovery that her bundle was gone. Her first thought
was that the good people, (i.e.
[Page 213] |
|
the fairies) had been there and stolen it away; but on examining farther
she plainly perceived large foot-prints in the soft bank and was convinced it was
the
work of no unearthly marauder. Bitterly reproaching herself for her carelessness,
she
again set forward; and still hoping to reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on
with increasing difficulty and distress, till as the evening closed her spirits
failed, she became faint, foot-sore and hungry, not having tasted any thing since
the
morning but a cold potatoe and a draught of buttermilk. She then looked round her
in
hopes of discovering some habitation, but there was none in sight except a lofty
castle on a distant hill, which raising its proud turrets from amidst the plantation
which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through the gathering gloom, and held out no
temptation for the poor wanderer to turn in there and rest. In her despair she sat
down on a bank by the road side, and wept as she thought of her husband.
Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and four attended by servants, who took
no
farther notice of her than by a passing look; while they went on their way like the
priest and the Levite in the parable, poor Cathleen dropped her head despairingly
on
her bosom. A faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark cloud over her
senses, when the fast approaching sound of footsteps roused her attention, and
turning, she saw at her side a man
[Page 214] |
|
whose figure though
singular, she recognised immediately: it was Halloran the Pedlar.
Halloran had been known for thirty years past in all the towns and villages between
Waterford and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did not know his own age; he only
remembered that he was a "tall slip of a boy" when he was one of the — — regiment
of
foot, and fought in America in 1778. His dress was strange, it consisted of a woollen
cap, beneath which strayed a few white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military
cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace: a frieze great coat
with the sleeves dangling behind, was fastened at his throat, and served to protect
his box of wares which was slung at his back; and he always carried a thick oak stick
or kippeen in his hand. There was nothing of the infirmity of age in his
appearance: his cheek though wrinkled and weather-beaten was still ruddy: his step
still firm, his eyes still bright; his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest
in
every cottage, and his jokes, though not equal to my Lord Norbury's, were repeated
and applauded through the whole country. Halloran was lreturning [sic] from the fair
of Kilkenny, where apparently his commercial speculations had been attended with
success, as his pack was considerably diminished in size. Though he did not appear
to
recollect Cathleen, he addressed her in Irish, and asked her what
[Page 215] |
|
she did there: she related in a few words her miserable
situation.
"In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor woman," he replied, compassionately;
"and what will ye do?"
"An' what can I do?" replied Cathleen, disconsolately; "and how will I even find the
ford of Ahnamoe and get across to Cork, when I don't know where I am this blessed
moment?"
"Musha, then, its little ye'll get there this night," said the pedlar, shaking his
head.
"Then I'll lie down here and die," said Cathleen, bursting into fresh tears.
"Die! ye wouldn't!" he exclaimed, approaching nearer; "is it to me, Peter Halloran,
ye spake that word; and am I the man that would lave a faymale at this dark hour by
the way side, let alone one that has the face of a friend, though I cannot remember
me of your name either, for the soul of me. But what matter for that?"
"Sure, I'm Katty Reilly, of Castle Conn."
"Katty Reilly, sure enough! and so no more talk of dying; cheer up, and see, a mile
farther on, isn't there Biddy Hogan's? Was, I mane, if the house and all
isn't gone: and its there we'll get a bite and a sup, and a bed, too, please God.
So
lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, its strong enough yet."
[Page 216] |
|
So saying, the old man with an air of gallantry, half rustic, half military, assisted
her in rising; and upporting [sic] her on one arm, with the other he flourished his
kippeen over his head, and they trudged on together, he singing Cruiskeen lawn at
the
top of his voice, "just," as he said, "to put the heart into her."
After about half an hour's walking, they came to two crossways, diverging from the
high road: down one of these the Pedlar turned, and in a few minutes they came in
sight of a lonely house, situated at a little distance from the way-side. Above the
door was a long stick projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a truss
of straw, signifying that within there was entertainment (good or bad) for man and
beast. By this time it was nearly dark, and the pedlar going up to the door, lifted
the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand; but it was fastened within: he then
knocked and called, but there was no answer. The building which was many times larger
than an ordinary cabin had once been a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. One
end of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins; the other end bore signs of having been
at least recently inhabited. But such a dull hollow echo rung through the edifice
at
every knock, that it seemed the whole place was now deserted.
Cathleen began to be alarmed, and crossed her-
[Page 217] |
|
self,
ejaculating, "O God preserve us!" But the Pedlar, who appeared well acquainted with
the premises, led her round to the back part of the house, where there were some
ruined out-buildings, and another low entrance. Here, raising his stout stick, he
let
fall such a heavy thump on the door that it cracked again; and a shrill voice from
the other side demanded who was there? After a satisfactory answer, the door was
slowly and cautiously opened, and the figure of a wrinkled, half famished and half
naked beldam appeared, shading a rush candle with one hand. Halloran, who was of a
fiery and hasty temper, began angrily: "Why, then, in the name of the great devil
himself, didn't you open to us?" But he stopped suddenly, as if struck with surprise
at the miserable object before him.
"Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see!" he exclaimed, snatching the candle from her hand,
and throwing the light full on her face. A moment's scrutiny seemed enough, and too
much; for, giving it back hastily, he supported Cathleen into the kitchen, the old
woman leading the way, and placed her on an old settle, the first seat which
presented itself. When she was sufficiently recovered to look about her, Cathleen
could not help feeling some alarm at finding herself in so gloomy and dreary a place.
It had once been a large kitchen, or hall: at one
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|
end
was an ample chimney, such as are yet to be seen in some old country houses. The
rafters were black with smoke or rottenness: the walls had been wainscoted with oak,
but the greatest part had been torn down for firing. A table with three legs, a large
stool, a bench in the chimney propped up with turf sods, and the seat Cathleen
occupied, formed the only furniture. Every thing spoke of utter misery, filth, and
famine — the very "abomination of desolation."
"And what have ye in the house, Biddy, honey?" was the Pedlar's first question, as
the old woman set down the light.
"Little enough, I'm thinking."
"Little! Its nothing then."
"No, not so much as a midge would eat have I in the house this blessed night, and
nobody to send down to Balgowna."
"No need of that, as our good luck would have it," said Halloran, and pulling a
wallet from under his loose coat, he drew from it a bone of cold meat, a piece of
bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold potatoes. The old woman, roused by the sight
of
so much good cheer, began to blow up the dying embers on the hearth; put down among
them the few potatoes to warm, and busied herself in making some little preparations
to entertain her guests. Meantime the old Pedlar, casting from time to time an
anxious
[Page 219] |
|
glance towards Cathleen, and now and then an
encouraging word, sat down on the low stool, resting his arms on his knees.
"Times are sadly changed with ye, Biddy Hogan," said he at length, after a long
silence.
"Troth, ye may say so;" she replied with a sort of groan. "Bitter bad luck have we
had in this world, any how."
"And where's the man of the house? And where's the lad, Barny?"
"Where are they, is it? Where should they be? may be gone down to Ahnamoe."
"But what's come of Barny? The boy was a stout workman, and a good son, though a
devil-may-care fellow, too. I remember teaching him the soldier's exercise with this
very blessed stick now in my hand; and by the same token, him doubling his fist at
me
when he wasn't bigger than the turf-kish yonder; aye, and as long as Barney Hogan
could turn a sod of turf on my lord's land, I thought his father and mother would
never have wanted the bit and sup while the life was in him."
At the mention of her son, the old woman looked up a moment, but immediately hung
her
head again.
"Barny doesn't work for my lord now," said she.
"And what for, then?"
The old woman seemed reluctant to answer — she hesitated.
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|
"Ye didn't hear, then, how he got into trouble with my lord; and how — myself doesn't
know the rights of it — but Barny had always a bit of wild blood about him; and since
that day he's taken to bad ways, and the ould [sic] man's ruled by him quite
entirely; and the one's glum and fierce like — and t'other's bothered; and, oh!
bitter's the time I have twixt 'em both!"
While the old woman was uttering these broken complaints, she placed the eatables
on
the table; and Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hunger than subdued by fatigue,
was first helped by the good-natured Pedlar to the best of what was there: but, just
as she was about to taste the food set before her, she chanced to see the eyes of
the
old woman fixed upon the morsel in her hand with such an envious and famished look,
that from a sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she instantly held it out to her.
The woman started, drew back her extended hand, and gazed at her wildly.
"What is it then ails ye?" said Cathleen, looking at her with wonder; then to
herself, "hunger's turned the wits of her, poor soul! Take it — take it, mother,"
added she aloud: "eat, good mother; sure there's plenty for us all, and to spare,"
and she pressed it upon her with all the kindness of her nature. The old woman
eagerly seized it.
"God reward ye," said she, grasping Cathleen's
[Page 221] |
|
hand,
convulsively, and retiring to a corner, she devoured the food with almost wolfish
voracity.
While they were eating, the two Hogans, father and son, came in. They had been
setting snares for rabbits and game on the neighbouring hills; and evidently were
both startled and displeased to find the house occupied; which, since Barny Hogan's
disgrace with "my lord," had been entirely shunned by the people round about. The
old
man gave the pedlar a sulky welcome. The son, with a muttered curse, went and took
his seat in the chimney, where, turning his back, he set himself to chop a billet
of
wood. The father was a lean stooping figure, "bony, and gaunt, and grim:" he was
either deaf, or affected deafness. The son was a short, brawny, thickset man, with
features not naturally ugly, but rendered worse than ugly by an expression of louring
ferocity disgustingly blended with a sort of stupid drunken leer, the effect of
habitual intoxication.
Halloran stared at them awhile with visible astonishment and indignation, but pity
and sorrow for a change so lamentable, smothered the old man's wrath; and as the
eatables were by this time demolished, he took from his side pocket a tin flask of
whiskey, calling to the old woman to boil some water "screeching hot," that he might
make what he termed "a jug of stiff punch — enough to make a cat spake." He offered
to share it with his hosts, who did not decline drinking;
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|
and the noggin went round to all but Cathleen, who, feverish
with travelling, and, besides, disliking spirits, would not taste it. The old Pedlar,
reconciled to his old acquaintances by this shew of good fellowship, began to grow
merry under the influence of his whiskey-punch: he boasted of his late success in
trade, shewed with exultation his almost empty pack, and taking out the only two
handkerchiefs left in it, threw one to Cathleen, and the other to the old woman of
the house; then slapping his pocket in which a quantity of loose money was heard to
jingle, he swore he would treat Cathleen to a good breakfast next morning; and threw
a shilling on the table, desiring the old woman would provide "stirabout for a
dozen," and have it ready by the first light.
Cathleen listened to this rhodomontade in some alarm; she fancied to detect certain
suspicious glances between the father and son, and began to feel an indescribable
dread of her company. She arose from the table, urging the Pedlar good-humouredly
to
retire to rest, as they intended to be up and away so early next morning: then
concealing her apprehensions under an affectation of extreme fatigue and drowsiness,
she desired to be shewn where she would sleep. The old woman lighted a lanthorn, and
led the way up some broken steps into a sort of loft, where she shewed her two beds
standing close together; one of these
[Page 223] |
|
she intimated
was for the Pedlar, and the other for herself. Now Cathleen had been born and bred
in
an Irish cabin, where the inmates are usually lodged after a very promiscuous
fashion; our readers, therefore, will not wonder at the arrangement. Cathleen,
however, required that, if possible some kind of skreen [sic] should be placed
between the beds. The old hag at first replied to this request with the most
disgusting impudence; but Cathleen insisting, the beds were moved asunder, leaving
a
space of about two feet between them; and after a long search a piece of old frieze
was dragged out from among some rubbish, and hung up to the low rafters, so as to
form a curtain or partition half way across the room. Having completed this
arrangement, and wished her "a sweet sleep and a sound, and lucky dreams," the old
woman put the lanthorn on the floor, for there was neither chair nor table, and left
her guest to repose.
Catheleen said her prayers, only partly undressed herself, and lifting up the worn
out coverlet, lay down upon the bed. In a quarter of an hour afterwards the Pedlar
staggered into the room, and as he passed the foot of her bed, bid God bless her,
in
a low voice. He then threw himself down on his bed, and in a few minutes, as she
judged by his hard and equal breathing, the old man was in a deep sleep.
All was now still in the house, but Cathleen
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|
could not
sleep. She was feverish and restless: her limbs ached, her head throbbed and burned,
undefinable fears beset her fancy; and whenever she tried to compose herself to
slumber the faces of the two men she had left below flitted and glared before her
eyes. A sense of heat and suffocation, accompanied by a parching thirst, came over
her, caused, perhaps, by the unusual closeness of the room. This feeling of
oppression increased till the very walls and rafters seemed to approach nearer and
close upon her all around. Unable any longer to endure this intolerable smothering
sensation, she was just about to rise and open the door or window, when she heard
the
whispering of voices. She lay still and listened. The latch was raised cautiously,
—
the door opened, and the two Hogans entered: they trod so softly that, though she
saw
them move before her, she heard no foot-fall. They approached the bed of Halloran,
and presently she heard a dull heavy blow, and then sounds — appalling sickening
sounds — as of subdued struggles and smothered agony, which convinced her that they
were murdering the unfortunate Pedlar.
Cathleen listened, almost congealed with horror, but she did not swoon: her turn,
she
thought, must come next, though in the same instant she felt instinctively that her
only chance of preservation was to counterfeit profound sleep. The murderers,
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|
having done their work on the poor Pedlar, approached
her bed, and threw the gleam of their lanthorn full on her face; she lay quite still,
breathing calmly and regularly. They brought the light to her eye-lids, but they did
not wink or move; — there was a pause, a terrible pause, and then a whispering; —
and
presently Cathleen thought she could distinguish a third voice, as of expostulation,
but all in so very low a tone that though the voices were close to her she could not
hear a word that was uttered. After some moments, which appeared an age of agonising
suspense, the wretches withdrew, and Cathleen was left alone, and in darkness. Then,
indeed, she felt as one ready to die: to use her own affecting language, "the heart
within me," said she, "melted away like water, but I was resolute not to swoon, and
I
did not. I knew that if I would preserve my life, I must keep the
sense in me, and I did."
Now and then she fancied she heard the murdered man move, and creep about in his bed,
and this horrible conceit almost maddened her with terror: but she set herself to
listen fixedly, and convinced her reason that all was still — that all was over.
She then turned her thoughts to the possibility of escape. The window first suggested
itself: the faint moon-light was just struggling through the dirty and cob-webbed
panes: it was very small, and Cathleen reflected, that besides the difficulty, and,
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|
perhaps, impossibility of getting through, it must
be some height from the ground: neither could she tell on which side of the house
it
was situated, nor in what direction to turn, supposing she reached the ground; and,
above all, she was aware that the slightest noise, must cause her instant
destruction. She thus resolved upon remaining quiet.
It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this determination, for without the
slightest previous sound the door again opened, and in the faint light, to which her
eyes were now accustomed, she saw the head of the old woman bent forward in a
listening attitude: in a few minutes the door closed, and then followed a whispering
outside. She could not at first distinguish a word until the woman's sharper tones
broke out, though in a suppressed vehemence, with "If ye touch her life, Barny, a
mother's curse go with ye! enough's done."
"She'll live, then, to hang us all," said the miscreant son.
"Sooner than that, I'd draw this knife across her throat with my own hands; and I'd
do it again and again, sooner than they should touch your life, Barny, jewel: but
no
fear, the creature's asleep or dead already, with the fright of it."
The son then said something which Cathleen could not hear; the old woman replied,
"Hisht! I tell ye, no, — no; the ship's now in the
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|
Cove of Cork that's to carry her over the salt seas far enough out of the way: and
haven't we all she has in the world? and more, didn't she take the bit out of her
own
mouth to put into mine?"
The son again spoke inaudibly; and then the voices ceased, leaving Cathleen uncertain
as to her fate.
Shortly after the door opened, and the father and son again entered, and carried out
the body of the wretched Pedlar. They seemed to have the art of treading without
noise, for though Cathleen saw them move, she could not hear a sound of a footstep.
The old woman was all this time standing by her bed, and every now and then casting
the light full upon her eyes; but as she remained quiet still, and apparently in a
deep calm sleep, they left her undisturbed, and she neither saw nor heard any more
of
them that night.
It ended at length — that long, long night of horror. Cathleen lay quiet till she
thought the morning sufficiently advanced. She then rose, and went down into the
kitchen: the old woman was lifting a pot off the fire, and nearly let it fall as
Cathleen suddenly addressed her, and with an appearance of surprise and concern,
asked for her friend the Pedlar, saying she had just looked into his bed, supposing
he was still asleep, and to her great amazement had found it empty. The old woman
replied, that he had set out at
[Page 228] |
|
early day-light for
Mallow, having only just remembered that his business called him that way before he
went to Cork. Cathleen affected great wonder and perplexity, and reminded the woman
that he had promised to pay for her breakfast.
"An' so he did, sure enough," she replied, "and paid for it too; and by the same
token didn't I go down to Balgowna myself for the milk and the male
before the sun was over the tree tops; and here it is for ye, ma colleen [sic]:" so
saying, she placed a bowl of stirabout and some milk before Cathleen, and then sat
down on the stool opposite her, watching her intently.
Poor Cathleen! she had but little inclination to eat, and felt as if every bit would
choke her: yet she continued to force down her breakfast, and apparently with the
utmost ease and appetite, even to the last morsel set before her. While eating, she
enquired about the husband and son, and the old woman replied, that they had started
at the first burst of light to cut turn in a bog, about five miles distant.
When Cathleen had finished her breakfast, she returned the old woman many thanks for
her kind treatment, and then desired to know the nearest way to Cork. The woman Hogan
informed her that the distance was about seven miles, and though the usual road was
by the high way from which they had
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|
turned the
preceding evening, there was a much shorter way across some fields which she pointed
out: Cathleen listened attentively to her directions, and then bidding farewell with
many demonstrations of gratitude, she proceeded on her fearful journey. The cool
morning air, the cheerful song of the early birds, the dewy freshness of the turf,
were all unnoticed and unfelt: the sense of danger was paramount, while her faculties
were all alive and awake to meet it, for a feverish and unnatural strength seemed
to
animate her limbs. She stepped on, shortly debating with herself whether to follow
the directions given by the old woman. The high road appeared the safest; on the
other hand, she was aware that the slightest betrayal of mistrust would perhaps be
followed by her destruction; and thus rendered brave even by the excess of her fears,
she determined to take the cross path. Just as she had come to this resolution, she
reached the gate which she had been directed to pass through; and without the
slightest apparent hesitation, she turned in, and pursued the lonely way through the
fields. Often did she fancy she heard footsteps stealthily following her, and never
approached a hedge without expecting to see the murderers start up from behind it;
yet she never once turned her head, nor quickened nor slackened her pace;
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|
Like one that on a lonesome road |
Doth walk in fear and dread, |
Because he knows a frightful fiend |
Doth close behind him tread. |
She had proceeded in this manner about three quarters of a mile, and approached a
thick and dark grove of underwood, when she beheld seated upon the opposite stile
an
old woman in a red cloak. The sight of a human being made her heart throb more
quickly for a moment; but on approaching nearer, with all her faculties sharpened
by
the sense of danger, she perceived that it was no old woman, but the younger Hogan,
the murderer of Halloran, who was thus disguised. His face was partly concealed by
a
blue handkerchief tied round his head and under his chin, but she knew him by the
peculiar and hideous expression of his eyes: yet with amazing and almost incredible
self-possession, she continued to advance without manifesting the least alarm, or
sign of recognition; and walking up to the pretended old woman, said in a clear
voice, "The blessing of the morning on ye, good mother! a fine day for travelers like
you and me!"
"A fine day," he replied, coughing and mumbling in a feigned voice, "but ye see,
hugh, ugh! ye see I've walked this mornin' from the Cove of Cork, jewel, and troth
I'm almost spent, and I've a bad
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|
cowld, and a cough on
me, as you may her," and he coughed vehemently. Cathleen made a motion to pass the
stile, but the disguised old woman stretching out a great bony hand, seized her gown.
Still Cathleen did not quail. "Musha, then, have ye nothing to give a poor old
woman," said the monster, in a whining, snuffling tone. "Nothing have I in this wide
world," said Cathleen, quietly disengaging her gown, but without moving. "Sure its
only yesterday I was robbed of all I had but the little clothes on my back, and if
I
hadn't met with charity from others I'd have starved by the way side by this
time."
"Och! and is there no place hereby where they would give a potatoe and a cup of cowld
water to a poor old woman ready to drop on her road?"
Cathleen instantly pointed forward to the house she had just left, and recommended
her to apply there. "Sure they're good, honest people, though poor enough, God help
them," she continued, "and I wish ye mother, no worse luck than myself had, and
that's a good friend to treat ye to a supper, aye, and a breakfast too; there it is,
ye may just see the light smoke rising like a thread over the hill, just fornent ye;
and so God speed ye!"
Cathleen turned to descend the stile as she spoke expecting to be again seized with
a
strong and murderous grasp; but her enemy, secure in his disguise,
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|
and never doubting her perfect unconsciousness, suffered her to
pass unmolested.
Another half mile brought her to the top of a rising ground, within sight of the high
road; she could see crowds of people on horseback and on foot, with cars and
carriages passing along in one direction; for it was, though Cathleen did not then
know it, the first day of the Cork Assizes. As she gazed, she wished for the wings
of
a bird that she might in a moment flee over the space which intervened between her
and safety; for though she could clearly see the high road from the hill on which
she
stood, a valley of broken ground at its foot, and two wide fields still separated
her
from it; but with the same unfailing spirit, and at the same steady pace, she
proceeded onwards: and now she had reached the middle of the last field, and a thrill
of new born hope was beginning to flutter at her heart, when suddenly two men burst
through the fence at the farther side of the field, and advanced towards her. One
of
these she thought at the first glance resembled her husband, but that it was her
husband himself was an idea which never entered her mind. Her imagination was
possessed with the one supreme idea of danger and death by murderous hands; she
doubted not that these were the two Hogans in some new disguise, and silently
recommending herself to God,
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|
she steeled her heart to
meet this fresh trial of her fortitude; aware, that however it might end, it
must be the last. At this moment one of the men throwing up his arms,
ran forward, shouting her name, in a voice — a dear and well known voice, in which
she could not be deceived: — it was her husband!
The poor woman, who had hitherto supported her spirits and her self-possession, stood
as if rooted to the ground, weak, motionless, and gasping for breath. A cold dew
burst from every pore; her ears tingled, her heart fluttered as though it would burst
from her bosom. When she attempted to call out, and raise her hand in token of
recognition, the sounds died away, rattling in her throat; her arm dropped powerless
at her side; and when her husband came up, and she made a last effort to spring
towards him, she sank down at his feet in strong convulsions.
Reilly, much shocked at what he supposed the effect of sudden surprise, knelt down
and chafed his wife's temples; his comrade ran to a neighbouring spring for water,
which they sprinkled plentifully over her: when, however, she returned to life, her
intellects appeared to have fled for ever, and she uttered such wild shrieks and
exclamations, and talked so incoherently, that the men became exceedingly terrified,
and poor Reilly himself, almost as distracted as his wife. After vainly attempting
to
soothe and recover her, they at length forcibly carried her
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|
down to the inn at Balgowna, a hamlet about a mile farther on,
where she remained for several hours in a state of delirium, one fit succeeding
another with little intermission.
Towards evening she became more composed, and was able to give some account of the
horrible events of the preceding night. It happened, opportunely, that a gentleman
of
fortune in the neighbourhood, and a magistrate, was riding by late that evening on
his return from the Assizes at Cork, and stopped at the inn to refresh his horse.
Hearing that something unusual and frightful had occurred, he alighted, and examined
the woman himself, in the presence of one or two persons. Her tale appeared to him
so
strange and wild from the manner in which she told it, and her account of her own
courage and sufferings so exceedingly incredible, that he was at first inclined to
disbelieve the whole, and suspected the poor woman either of imposture or insanity.
He did not, however, think proper totally to neglect her testimony, but immediately
sent off information of the murder to Cork. Constables with a warrant were despatched
[sic] the same night to the house of the Hogans, which they found empty, and the
inmates already fled: but after a long search, the body of the wretched Halloran,
and
part of his property, were found concealed in a stack of old chimneys among the
ruins; and this proof of
[Page 235] |
|
guilt was decisive. The
country was instantly up; the most active search after the murderers was made by the
police, assisted by all the neighbouring peasantry; and before twelve o'clock the
following night, the three Hogans, father, mother, and son, had been apprehended in
different places of concealment, and placed in safe custody. Meantime the Coroner's
inquest having sat on the body, brought in a verdict of willful murder.
As the Judges were then at Cork, the trial came on immediately; and from its
extraordinary circumstances, excited the most intense and general interest. Among
the
property of poor Halloran discovered in the house, were a pair of shoes and a cap
which Cathleen at once identified as belonging to herself, and Reilly's silver watch
was found on the younger Hogan. When questioned how they came into his possession,
he
sullenly refused to answer. His mother eagerly, and as if to shield her son confessed
that she was the person who had robbed Cathleen in the former part of the day, that
she had gone out on the Carrick road to beg, having been left by her husband and son
for two days without the means of support; and finding Cathleen asleep, she had taken
away the bundle, supposing it to contain food; and did not recognise her as the same
person she had robbed, till Cathleen offered her part of her supper.
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|
The surgeon, who had been called to examine the body of Halloran, deposed to the
cause of his death; — that the old man had been first stunned by a heavy blow on the
temple, and then strangled. Other witnesses deposed to the finding of the body: the
previous character of the Hogans, and the circumstances attending their apprehension;
but the principal witness was Cathleen. She appeared, leaning on her husband, her
face was ashy pale, and her limbs too weak for support; yet she however, was
perfectly collected, and gave her testimony with that precision, simplicity, and
modesty, peculiar to her character. When she had occasion to allude to her own
feelings, it was with such natural and heart-felt eloquence that the whole court was
affected; and, when she described her recontre at the stile there was a general
pressure and a breathless suspense; and then a loud murmur of astonishment and
admiration fully participated by even the bench of magistrates. The evidence was
clear and conclusive; and the jury, without retiring, gave their verdict, guilty —
Death.
When the miserable wretches were asked, in the usual forms, if they had any thing
to
say why the awful sentence should not be passed upon them, the old man replied by
a
look of idiotic vacancy, and was mute — the younger Hogan answered sullenly,
"nothing:" the old woman staring wildly on her
[Page 237] |
|
son,
tried to speak; her lips moved, but without a sound — and she fell forward on the
bar
in strong fits.
At this moment Cathleen rushed from the arms of her husband, and throwing herself
on
her knees, with clasped hands, and cheeks streaming with tears, begged for mercy for
the old woman. "Mercy, my lord judge!" she exclaimed. "Gentlemen, your honours, have
mercy on her. She had mercy on me! She only did their bidding. As for the bundle and
all in it, I give it to her with all my soul, so it's no robbery. The grip of
hunger's hard to bear; and if she hadn't taken it then, where would I have been now?
Sure they would have killed me for the sake of the watch, and I would have been a
corpse before your honours this moment. O mercy! mercy for her! or never will I sleep
asy on this side of the grave!"
The judge, though much affected, was obliged to have her forcibly carried from the
court, and justice took its awful course. Sentence of death was pronounced on all
the
prisoners; but the woman was reprieved, and afterwards transported. The two men were
executed within forty-eight hours after their conviction, on the Gallows Green. They
made no public confession of their guilt, and met their fate with sullen
indifference. The awful ceremony was for a moment interrupted by an incident with
after-
[Page 238] |
|
wards furnished ample matter for wonder and
speculation among the superstitious populace. It was well known that the younger
Hogan had been long employed on the estate of a nobleman in the neighbourhood; but
having been concerned in the abduction of a young female, under circumstances of
peculiar atrocity, which for the want of legal evidence could not be brought home
to
him, he was dismissed; and, finding himself an object of general execration, he had
since been skulking about the country, associating with housebreakers and other
lawless and abandoned characters. At the moment the hangman was adjusting the rope
round his neck, a shrill voice screamed from the midst of the crowd, "Barny Hogan!
do
ye mind Grace Power, and the last words ever she spoke to ye?" there was a general
movement and confusion; no one could or would tell whence the voice proceeded. The
wretched man was seen to change countenance for the first time, and raising himself
on tiptoe, gazed wildly round upon the multitude: but he said nothing; and in a few
minutes he was no more.
The reader may wish to know what has become of Cathleen, our heroine, in
the true sense of the word. Her story, her sufferings, her extraordinary fortitude,
and pure simplicity of character made her an object of general curiosity and
interest: a subscription was raised for her, which soon amounted to a liberal sum;
they were enabled to procure Reilly's discharge from
[Page 239] |
|
the army, and with a part of the money, Cathleen, who, among her other perfections,
was exceedingly pious after the fashion of her creed and country, founded yearly
masses for the soul of the poor Pedlar; and vowed herself to make a pilgrimage of
thanksgiving to St. Gobnate's well. Mr. L. the magistrate who had first examined her
in the little inn at Balgowna, made her a munificent present; and anxious, perhaps,
to offer yet farther amends for his former doubts of her veracity, he invited Reilly
on very advantageous terms, to settle on his estate, where he rented a neat cabin,
and a handsome plot of potatoe ground. There Reilly and his Cathleen
were living ten years ago, with an increasing family, and in the enjoyment of much
humble happiness; and there, for aught I know to the contrary, they may be living
at
this day.
[Page 240] |
|
Behold glad Nature's triumph! Lo! the sun |
1 |
Hath burst the pall of night, and o'er the earth |
2 |
Reviving radiance scattered. Sleep hath done |
3 |
Her death- resembling reign — and thoughts have |
4 |
birth |
5 |
That fill the grateful heart with sacred mirth! |
6 |
For now the spells of waking bliss abound, |
7 |
And mortals own the glory and the worth |
8 |
Of that bright boon, existence — all around |
9 |
Unnumbered blessings rise in every sight and sound! |
10 |
The scene is steeped in beauty — and my soul |
11 |
No longer lingering in the shroud of a care, |
12 |
Doth greet creation's smile. The grey clouds roll |
13 |
E'en from the mountain's peaks, and melt in air. |
14 |
The landscape looks an Eden! who could wear |
15 |
The hues of sorrow now? This glorious hour |
16 |
Reveals the ruling God! The Heavens are bare, |
17 |
Each sunny stream, and blossom- mantled bower |
18 |
Breathes of pervading love, and shows the power |
19 |
That spoke him into life, hath blessed man's earthly |
20 |
dower. |
21 |
Figure 11: The Oriental Love-Letter
painted by H. W. Pickersgill, Esq., engraved by Mr. Edward
Finden
[Page 241] |
|
By Miss Pickersgill,
Authoress of Tales of the Harem
The Sun in parting splendor set |
1 |
On mosque, and dome, and minaret, |
2 |
And many a golden ruddy beam |
3 |
Lit up each pure and gushing stream; |
4 |
And leaves and flowers were gemm'd with dew, |
5 |
Lavished on buds of every hue, |
6 |
Which like a fair Sultana's zone, |
7 |
Or coronal of Peri shone. |
8 |
And in her own sequester'd bower, |
9 |
Within the Harem's still retreat, |
10 |
Sitara at that lovely hour; |
11 |
Of Eve had chos'n her lonely seat; |
12 |
For on embroidered couches lay'd, |
13 |
Reclin'd the pensive Moslem maid. |
14 |
In vain the beauteous woodbines wound, |
15 |
Like Love's light bonds the casement round, |
16 |
Wafting their tribute of perfume |
17 |
And laughing in their roseate bloom; |
18 |
For all neglected lay her lute |
19 |
Whose every moving strain was mute! |
20 |
[Page 342sic] |
|
No longer was her buoyant song |
21 |
Borne by the southern breeze along, |
22 |
Nor flowers, nor lute, nor sparkling stream, |
23 |
Could woo her from Love's witching dream. |
24 |
Though close within her Harem bower, |
25 |
They deem'd her safe from Love's fond power, |
26 |
Yet in what deep sequester'd cell |
27 |
Will not the winged urchin dwell: |
28 |
For e'en within a flow'ry wreath |
29 |
Young Love his first fond vows may breathe; |
30 |
And in bright emblem flowers declare, |
31 |
Joy —absence—thraldom —hope—despair!— |
32 |
Perchance amidst those flowers he dwells, |
33 |
Nestling beneath the myrtle bells, |
34 |
And on its fragrance wafts a sigh |
35 |
While sunned beneath her radiant eye. |
36 |
And e'en those buds of crimson hue |
37 |
Breathe vows of love both pure and true, |
38 |
While the bright golden flowret bears, |
39 |
His ever changing hopes and fears, |
40 |
And Beauty's type, the joyous rose, |
41 |
Unfolds the soft and flattering tale, |
42 |
That her young cheek with luster glows, |
43 |
Which makes his vaunted bloom seem pale. |
44 |
Then may not her young bosom well, |
45 |
Receive the vows those emblems tell; |
46 |
And her dark downcast eyes reveal |
47 |
Thoughts which her tongue might else conceal? — |
48 |
[Page 343sic] |
|
And why then from the garland's pride |
49 |
Does she those simple flowers divide, |
50 |
And place them pensively apart, |
51 |
As if some chord within her heart |
52 |
Vibrated? Know amidst their bloom |
53 |
Those purple buds of absence breathe, |
54 |
Which well might shed a passing gloom |
55 |
O'er her fair brow. Did not the wreath |
56 |
Of fairy hope from spring's bright bowers |
57 |
Shine in those tufts of snowy flowers, |
58 |
Which, joined with Memory's solace still, |
59 |
Shields Love's young buds from winter's chill. |
60 |
[Page 234] |
|
The Mount Carmel: , A Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History
The High Priest of Baal.
Elijah, the Prophet.
Reuben, an
Israelite.
Miriam, his sister.
Attendants on Elijah, Priests, Crowd,
&c.
SCENE — Mount Carmel. TIME — near Sunset.
REUB.
Nay, sister, do not doubt; |
1 |
Our God will manifest his pow'r, and shame |
2 |
Yon bold idolaters. |
3 |
MIR.
I hope — yet fear, |
4 |
For they are many, and are mighty, and —— |
5 |
REUB.
See, see, the High Priest doth approach |
6 |
the prophet. |
7 |
HIGH P.
Where is thy God? what eye bath ever gazed |
8 |
[Page 235] |
|
Upon his face, what ear hath heard his voice? |
9 |
If there be such an one, he loves to dwell |
10 |
In darkness and obscurity; he fears |
11 |
To meet the gaze of those who worship him, |
12 |
And in his proud invisibility |
13 |
Laughs at their lowly orisons. Not such |
14 |
Is he whom we adore. Behold him there! |
15 |
[Pointing to the Sun.
Baal, the great, the bright, the wonderful — |
16 |
See how he traverses the boundless heav'n, |
17 |
The azure palace of his sov'reignty; |
18 |
Answering our pray'rs with treasures of rich light, |
19 |
Bidding the world, on which we dwell, bring forth |
20 |
Herbs, fruits, and flowers, to gladden and support |
21 |
His worshippers. From morn to eve, his eye |
22 |
With an untiring love is fixed on us, |
23 |
And when our feeble senses seek repose |
24 |
Then doth he kindly veil his burning beams, |
25 |
And bid his silver regent bathe our lids |
26 |
In a pure flood of milder — gentler light, |
27 |
While sweet dreams glad our spirits, or deep sleep |
28 |
Rocks them to rest unbroken. |
29 |
MIR.
Look, my brother — |
30 |
Reuben, it is indeed a glorious orb! |
31 |
How like a God he walks the fields of heav'n, |
32 |
Brother, I fear that he whom we adore |
33 |
Is not so great as he. |
34 |
[Page 236] |
|
REUB.
Peace, doubting girl, |
35 |
The holy prophet speaks. |
36 |
ELIJAH.
Fond impious man |
37 |
My God is every where — is seen and heard |
38 |
In all created things. I see his pow'r |
39 |
And majesty in that resplendent orb |
40 |
The work of his own hand, which ye adore |
41 |
In ignorance and sin; on which I gaze |
42 |
With wonder and with humble thankfulness. |
43 |
I see his wrath and terror in the blind |
44 |
Cold unbelief which he permits to seal |
45 |
Your senses and your hearts; and I shall soon |
46 |
Behold his goodness and his love to those, |
47 |
Who keep their faith unspotted and unchanged, |
48 |
When, at my pray'r, his fire from heav'n shall kindle |
49 |
The off'ring which I place upon his shrine. |
50 |
But wherefore linger ye? Did ye not say |
51 |
That ye and I should each unto our Gods |
52 |
Raise altars and bring off'rings; and whose God |
53 |
Answer'd by fire and from heav'n, should be acknowledg'd |
54 |
The Lord above all Lords, and God indeed? |
55 |
Have you not call'd upon your God since noon |
56 |
And has he answer'd? Is not his bright orb |
57 |
Fast sinking in the west, and will he not |
58 |
Soon beam his last farewell? 'Tis now my turn |
59 |
To try the pow'r and goodness of the God |
60 |
Whom I adore. |
61 |
[Page 237] |
|
HIGH P.
Not yet, for Baal is angry, |
62 |
At our imperfect rites, and he requires |
63 |
To be again invok'd. |
64 |
CROWD.
Baal requires |
65 |
To be again invok'd. |
66 |
[Here the priests of Baal range themselves in a circle
round his altar, and chant the following incantation, dancing round the altar
at the end of each stanza, and cutting themselves with knives and lancets as
they chant the last.
From thy bright throne bow thine ear, |
67 |
Baal, Baal, hear us, hear! |
68 |
Thou who mak'st the rosy day, |
69 |
Thou who lend'st the lunar ray, |
70 |
Thou at whom the stars grow pale, |
71 |
Thou who gildest mount and vale, |
72 |
From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, |
73 |
Baal, Baal, hear us, hear! |
74 |
Thou to whom the highest heav'n |
75 |
For thy throne of pow'r is giv'n; |
76 |
Thou who mak'st the mighty sea, |
77 |
The mirror of thy brightness be; |
78 |
Thou who bidd'st th' else barren earth |
79 |
Give wealth, and food, and beauty birth; |
80 |
From they bright throne bow thine ear, |
81 |
Baal, Baal, hear us, hear! |
82 |
[Page 238] |
|
Now thy altar we array; |
83 |
Now the sacrifice we slay, |
84 |
Now his bleeding limbs recline, |
85 |
Offerings on thy hallow'd shrine; |
86 |
Now with lancet and with knife |
87 |
We ope our own warm tides of life; |
88 |
From they bright throne, bow thine ear, |
89 |
Baal, Baal, hear us, hear! |
90 |
[During this invocation, the sun gradually declines, and
sinks beneath the horizon.
HIGH P.
Woe! woe! woe! |
91 |
Leave us not, Baal, leave us not unanswered — |
92 |
Unanswered, and in darkness. |
93 |
CROWD.
Woe! woe! woe! |
94 |
Leave us not, Baal. |
95 |
ELIJAH.
Aye! howl on, howl on, |
96 |
The And call upon your God. Will he not answer? |
97 |
Sleeps he, or is he weary, or departed |
98 |
On some far journey that he hears you not? |
99 |
Are ye not here, four hundred priests of Baal, |
100 |
And yet your many voices cannot pierce |
101 |
His dull cold ear; — how therefore can I hope, |
102 |
Jehovah's one poor prophet, that with these |
103 |
My few attendants, I can make him bow |
104 |
His ear to my complaints. Yet I'll essay it. |
105 |
[Page 239] |
|
Now do ye [To his attendants] what I bid
perform, and answer |
106 |
The questions I propound. |
107 |
Let twelve stones, the numbers tell |
108 |
Of the tribes of Israel; |
109 |
Build with them an altar straight |
110 |
To our God, the good, the great; |
111 |
Quickly answer every one; |
112 |
Is it done? |
113 |
ATTEN.
'Tis done, 'tis done. |
114 |
ELIJAH.
Dig a trench the altar round; |
115 |
On the altar be there found |
116 |
Piles of wood; the bullock slay — |
117 |
And on the wood his carcase lay, |
118 |
In bleeding fragments, one by one; |
119 |
Is it done? |
120 |
ATTEN.
'Tis done, 'tis done. |
121 |
ELIJAH.
Fill four barrels from the rill |
122 |
That streams down Carmel's holy hill; |
123 |
Pour the water once, twice, thrice, |
124 |
On the wood and sacrifice, |
125 |
'Till the trenches overrun; |
126 |
Is it done? |
127 |
ATTEN.
'Tis done, 'tis done. |
128 |
ELIJAH.
Then now, most righteous God, what wait we for! |
129 |
In humbleness, and reverence have we set |
130 |
[Page 240] |
|
Our offerings on thy altar. Oh! send down |
131 |
Thy fire from heaven to kindle and accept them, |
132 |
So shall thy inward fire shine in the hearts |
133 |
Of Israel (gone astray, lost in the night |
134 |
Of dark idolatry), and they shall know |
135 |
That thou art Lord of Lords, the God of heaven. |
136 |
[The whole scene becomes suddenly illuminated, and a flame,
descending on the altar, consumes the sacrifice, and dries up the water in the
trenches.
MIR.
Wonderful — wonderful! Jehovah, thou |
137 |
Art God indeed: thou art the Lord of Lords! |
138 |
CROWD.
Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God; |
139 |
He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in heaven! |
140 |
REUB.
See, see, heaven opens, and the sacred fire |
141 |
Consumes the offering; it is as though |
142 |
God stretched his own right arm down to the earth |
143 |
To accept the service of his worshippers. |
144 |
ELIJAH.
The trenches are dried up. The fire returns |
145 |
Into its native heaven. That last read streak |
146 |
Just glimmers faintly in the west — and now |
147 |
'Tis gone — 'tis past — and hark! that fearful peal! |
148 |
[Thunder is heard.
It is Jehovah speaks, answer him. Say |
149 |
"Thou—thou—art Lord of Lords, the God of heaven." |
150 |
[Page 241] |
|
MIR.
Wonderful — wonderful! Jehovah thou |
151 |
Art God indeed: thou art the Lord of Lords! |
152 |
CROWD.
Sing, sing Jehovah's praise for he is God: |
153 |
He is the Lord of Lords who reigns in heaven! |
154 |
HIGH P.
Away! Away! The Evil One prevails, |
155 |
The foe of Baal. |
156 |
[Elijah and the crowd kneel before the altar. The Priests of Baal
rush out tumultuously. The scene closes.
[Page 242] |
|
Sketch from Life: a Sentimental Story
Qui que tu sois, voici ton maitre, |
Il l'est, le fut, ou le doit etre. |
"There is no faith in woman!" I exclaimed to myself the other morning, and I repeated
it thrice with increasing emphasis.
"There is no faith in woman. — And what woman has taught you to think so?" said a
soft voice near me.
I started, for I had most unconsciously been uttering my thoughts aloud, while
leaning on the back of my cousin Agatha's couch, with my eyes resting on the sheet
of
music paper which lay before her. I coloured as her glance met mine.
"Nay — is it not true?" said I.
"Nay," she repeated — "I will not be answered by a nay! — cousin Henry."
"But my dear cousin — my dear Agatha" — cried I, "you are a woman, and a beautiful
woman — you can be no judge."
[Page 243] |
|
"And supposing I admit it," said Agatha, smiling, "what has my beauty to do with
either my womanhood, or my judgment?"
"There you may answer it yourself — what woman can judge of her sex's failings! —
what beautiful woman can deal fairly by a sister beauty?"
"Is this all?" replied she, "Then you have learned to libel us merely from the cant
of the day!"
"It is the cant of ages," said I.
"Surely not! — the cant of the careless and the unmeaning — but not where there is
a
heart and head to think, and to feel — no, my dear cousin, do not repeat it. There
is
both trust and truth in woman."
"Agatha," said I, "why have you never married?"
"Harry," returned she, "why have you this ill opinion of our sex?"
"Pshaw! But with your beauty, and your wit, and your fortune and consequence" —
"Tell me — why do you quarrel with us?" — "Harry," continued my cousin, interrupting
me with more earnestness, "we must not let our own individual disappointments disgust
us with the world at large — search well, and we shall discover our injustice —
besides, let us be content though we meet but one faithful heart amidst a crowd of
treachery."
"And how shall we find it? Where shall we meet with this faithful heart in woman?
No,
Agatha,"
[Page 244] |
|
cried I, "you mistake the character of woman
— you do not know her — you cannot know her — you, who must always be every way above
the rest of your sex, and as different as inimitable!"
She was silent, she was even grave for a moment or two, and the shade of thought in
the expression of her bland and beautiful countenance seemed almost as if it grew
into sadness. She looked at me with a smile, "Cousin," said she, "tell me your
history? You have been unfortunate;" and she pointed with her small and snow white
hand to the vacant seat beside her on the sofa.
There was a gentleness, a delicacy, and a tenderness in my cousin Agatha's
disposition which gave a charm to her slightest action. It was a gracefulness of
character which seemed to have inspired the gracefulness of her person and her every
motion, her tone of feeling, both in gaiety and sorrow, irresistible. I seated myself
beside her on the sofa, and did as she had bid me. "I have been in love," said I,
"it
is my whole history."
"And what then?" she enquired, "was your mistress unfaithful?"
"I have told you all in one word — woman and infidelity go together!" I paused for
some minutes, and when I spoke again I had obtained more self-possession.
[Page 245] |
|
"When I first went abroad," said I, "I spent some time at Florence. The fashionable
lounge was the picture-gallery, and there was I a daily visitor but I went thither
really to gratify my passion for paintings, and not to gaze, and be gazed at by the
company. One morning while I was standing as usual before my favorite study, I was
startled by some one tapping me lightly on the shoulder, I suddenly turned round —
it
was a lady, and one of the most beautiful of earth's creatures; but her look and
attitude were even more striking than her countenance and figure. She was, in a
manner, stealing a glance into my face, with such a curiosity, and interest, and
earnestness, blended with such a fanciful coquetry and intelligence in her expression
as amazed me. She enjoyed my surprise and admiration for about half a second, and
then with the most natural negligence in the world, pointed gracefully with the hand
which still rested on my arm, to the ground. It was her handkerchief that had fallen
at my feet, and I instantly stooped, and raised it. She stretched out her hand to
receive it, before I had even time to present it to her, nodded her head half with
the air of a pleased child, half with the air of a woman of fashion, and then folding
her arms in her drapery round her, resumed her contemplation of the painting before
us, which this little accident seemed to have disturbed. I stood with my eyes
fastened on
[Page 246] |
|
her, wondering who this enthralling
creature could be. She had that decided air of fashion which there is no mistaking,
and a certain air much superior to it; but there was a something so whimsical in her
style of dress, and in her style of appearance altogether, to make me feel uncertain
what to think of her.
"Just as I was looking round to enquire her name of some bystander, she turned and
addressed me; I forget now what it was she said to me, something about my favourite
painting, or my general fondness for pictures; whatever it might be, I was so much
a
novice in fashion as to feel uncomfortable at her speaking to me. I remember,
however, that though her words were select, her manner struck me as common-place;
she, moreover, seemed to me a coquette, and I immediately concluded that she must
be
marked by all the silliness of her class. In appearance she might have been about
two
or three and twenty, but I suspect she was more, perhaps from my own inexperience,
for she struck me as being used to the ways of the world. It was evident that she
was
aware of the admiration which she had elicited, that she had expected it, and was
therefore pleased with it, and meant to excite a little more. No one but a boy,
probably no one but such a boy as I, would have been seized with these reflexions
at
the moment that she was soliciting my attention; but very young men, and young men
[Page 247] |
|
unaccustomed to general society, are naturally more
alive to what is real and what is affected in character than those of older and
better acquaintance with life, but whose very acquaintance has served to trammel them
into its manoeuvres and intricacies.
"She turned away after some minutes, and joined her party a few paces off. My eye
followed them as they moved up the gallery; she shone always conspicuous among the
throng of gentlemen who gathered as she went, around her, in clustering numbers;
while now pausing for a second in a picturesque attitude to examine a painting — now
breaking on my ear in tones of exaggerated feeling either of horror or of extasy —
now partaking with faint effort in the casual vivacity of her attending bevy, or
leading with startling violence a sudden laugh. I believe I had just then a rage for
simplicity, for even her charms disgusted me. She was an Englishwoman too, and I had
just been commenting, perhaps, with ungrateful sarcasm, on the freedom of Florentine
manners. At the upper end of the gallery I lost sight of her, and when I looked
around me I found that the crowd had followed her — there was not a creature near
me.
"Do you not know her?" said some one whom I had approached on purpose to question.
"It is the honourable Mrs. Beaufilliers, the celebrated Mrs. Beaufilliers, she was
the greatest beauty of the day
[Page 248] |
|
or of any day, and she
never comes here without making a sensation; by the way, she means to have you in
her
train I fancy, for I saw her cast her eyes on you the moment she entered the
room."
"It is incredible how even the turn of a phrase can affect us. These few last words
had realized all my own thoughts with regard to Mrs. Beauvilliers.
"What then," said I, "she's a coquette?"
"By no means," cried the other, "only a little addicted to Platonic love and
fashionable admirers. She has us all fast here, we all wear her colours. Though,
par parenthese, I thought her a little gone by this morning, these
beauties never know when to give up, unless we give them up."
"Come," said he, "I'll introduce you."
"Pardon me," answered I, "I know her perfectly already."
"I saw Mrs. Beauvilliers again, it was at a ball that very evening. She had just
withdrawn a little out of the circle of waltzers, and was leaning against a pillar
changing her white satin slippers. One gentleman stood beside her busied in receiving
the discarded pair; another proffered the fresh ones; and the third, her fortunate
partner, with one knee on the ground, supported her delicate feet by turns on the
other and fastened the sandals.
"How old is she?" asked I, "for I felt quite a curiosity to discover."
[Page 249] |
|
"Lord," answered the person next me, "I have known her culling hearts these fifty
years!"
'She could not be fifty, though she had certainly worn better than any person I know;
even when near I could not have supposed her past thirty.
"I can scarcely say how much I dislike this description of character. It revolted
against all my nations of feminine propriety; that sensitive dignity of woman's
peculiar nature! It offended all my most respectable feelings towards the sex, and
I
remember I stood aloof during the evening from Mrs. Beauvilliers, boyishly abashed
at
her frivolous familiarity of manners. I left Florence soon after, but I carried some
of her impressions along with me. She spoiled me for the next twelvemonth. I had
never before been vain of my personal qualifications, but it was not easy to forget
that they had not been absolutely unattractive. This was all that dwelt with me, and
some years of after life passed on the continent, though they may have habituated
me
to the looseness of its decorum, have never destroyed my esteem for all that is
beautiful in purity!"
I stopped for I felt that I was considerably agitated and my silence was of some
duration.
"You will proceed Harry?" said my cousin gently, "for your story is both interesting
and instructive."
"Yes," answered I, "but it is somewhat diffi-
[Page 250] |
|
cult!"
and I still hesitated. "You should have seen her," I exclaimed at length, abruptly.
"You should have known her, though she was scarcely handsome — I will only half name
her to you, Agatha, as I have named her to herself in the last days of our
acquaintance — Gabriella."
"It is just about three years since we first met; I remember it well, for even then
it was to me a circumstance of importance. I was introduced to her in a private
concert room just as her carriage was announced — she had been standing near the
doorway, and I was the last person she bowed to as she left the room. I remember it
was near the end of the season. She was the fashion in London, but I had never
admired her. I had heard her talked of as beautiful, but I had never thought her so.
She was striking, but it was an air of fashion more than either beauty or grace in
her appearance. I liked her reception of me; I had always allowed her to be a fine
woman, and I found something extremely agreeable in her countenance when she spoke,
and extreme good nature in her general manner. She rather interested me than
otherwise, though she had only just stayed to receive my bow, and observe to me "that
she was going," as she went out.
"She had quitted town for the country before I could see her again, and not long
after I followed her thither. I forget now who it was that invited me; I
[Page 251] |
|
think it was some connexion of the family, whose employment was
to furnish the table with guests, and the guests with society. Gabriella's husband
was of a rude description of men; he was seldom to be seen in the house but at
dinner, and at dinner he liked to have plenty of people to talk to, and to listen
to
him. If his cold be called society, at table they had his society, but otherwise
these general chance kind of guests were but little attended to. I should scarcely
have availed myself, however, of this manner of admittance to hospitality, had I not
been rather forced into calling on them on my accidentally meeting some of the party
in the neighbourhood.
"Agatha," cried I, "I scarcely know why I repeat these details, for it is uneasy for
me to recal the memory of our first acquaintance!
"If you had known her you would have pardoned the madness of my love — had you known
Gabriella you would have wept for the cruelty of her caprice! Her spirit of coquetry
was indeed untamed, untameable. She pursued me her victim with unwearied skill; flung
with captivating ingenuity her whole heart into his service; wound her graceful toils
around his existence, and urged on with irresistible persuasion the tortures of that
grief which she contemplated with remorseless and insatiable ambition. How I tried
to
leave her, how I tried to escape from the influence of her fascinations, it seems
of
little pur-
[Page 252] |
|
pose now to tell. I did not
leave her, and Gabriella's smiles returned. She could weep too, and at times I have
seen a starting tear bedew her cheek. But why should I instruct you in all the arts
and all the expedients of her most reprehensible coquetry; it was as restless as
extravagant. She had probably never loved her husband, and esteem was what she could
bestow on none. She was incapable of friendship; her heart had been framed to
sentiment, she had no steadiness in her nature to persevere in her affections. Her
husband was little calculated to excite either, and to Gabriella he was peculiarly
unsuited. They seldom met, but no appearance of unharmony subsisted between them.
I
have known her consult him on a matter of duty, and him leave to her the choice of
the inscriptions on his dog-collars. He never interfered with her, but he was
sometimes glad to have her look well when she sat at the head of his table.
"Her appearance had never been the lure which attracted me; and her appearance was
then, in my opinion, by much her least qualification. Yet she possessed a large share
of the essentials which constitute beauty: her outline of feature was good, and her
complexion must once have been brilliant. At times it was still beautiful, for
Gabriella was no longer quite what is called a very young woman when I knew her.
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"She had the address to turn this want of admiration to her person on my part, into
her most absolute attraction. Her charm consisted in her undeviating amiability of
manner; in her apparent forbearance of disposition; in her constant propriety of
temper; in her implicit obedience to the caprices of her admirer, and her seeming
readiness of obedience to any exertion of authority, from the man whom she had
received as a husband. I love to dwell on this part of her character; I would cling
to the thought that she might once have deserved better; that she was not all that
she appeared to me when we last met and parted — a heartless, practiced, unblushing
and unprincipled coquette!
"We have periods of feeling when it requires but a little to pen our eyes to the real
disposition of matters carried on around us; and once awakened, it is astonishing
how
quickly we grow in wisdom. It must be always impossible in these after moments to
trace the many, various, almost imperceptible accidents that may have occurred to
bring us acquainted with the delusions practiced on us — perhaps which we have
ourselves too readily indulged. To you, it will be difficult to comprehend from how
slight a circumstance my impressions of Gabriella's character were first startled
into a more sober reflexion on her behaviour.
"I had been staggered by a sentiment, and it seemed to me a profligate sentiment.
We
were talking on the freedom of Italian manners, more especially that of the women,
and she was expatiating on them with considerable eagerness. I remember she used the
words, "the luxury of their independence, their perfect want of all
control, all form — odious form!" And she threw her eyes up to Heaven as she spoke.
She had beautiful eyes, but this time their appeal
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seemed to me out of place. She threw them on me, but they did not move
me, and she yielded her opinion as she always did, only with less hesitation than
was
usual with her, for me to be as usual satisfied with my victory. I was peculiarly
sensitive on this one point — the delicacy of a woman's deportment; and Gabriella's
manner had sometimes disturbed me. I had sometimes wondered at her
self-possession too, only that to me she was never self-possessed. She had often
turned off an uncomfortable sentence with a gay laugh, which has covered me with
confusion and offence, and I have felt that I should yet have been more at ease had
she been less so.
"I was silent for some time after, and thoughtful, and Gabriella tried to woo me into
better company. She was seldom unsuccessful, and insensibly we grew into conversation
again. One or two of the rest of the company joined us, and we gathered into a little
circle round her sofa.
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"The discourse turned on manners, but this time it was on English manners. A
gentleman present, and who, by the way, was rather a celebrated traveler, just
rising, or risen into fame and fashion, observed that in no country in the world did
there exist such perfect domestic and conjugal happiness as in England — such an
entire confidence between husband and wife — such a perfect union both of heart and
mind —
"Gabriella assented cordially, and applauded the feeling with warmth. I had turned
away, and when I looked again I found that her eyes were bent on the traveler.
"Where — in what other country," pursued he, "do we find such an agreeable social
intercourse to prevail between an man and his wife. Even in the highest walks of life
there is visible such an exquisite and charming familiarity. To take a fanciful view
of the subject, for instance, that one little circumstance of calling each other by
the mere Christian name abbreviated, as we hear it too, in every possible way, by
people of the first fashion, speaks volumes."
"Poor Mama!" exclaimed Gabriella, "I remember Mama always called poor Papa,
Beau!"
"Who was your mother?" said I.
"Heavens!" cried she, "Don't you know? The beautiful Mrs. Beauvilliers. 'La bella
bellissima,'
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as she was called in Italy! I was in
mourning for her when I first saw you. Have you never seen the beautiful
miniature of Mama in my room?"
"I have seen the original," answered I, "in the picture gallery at Florence."
"Whether it was the tone of my voice, for I felt that it was altered, or the
expression of my countenance, for I was crimsoned to the temples, that struck
Gabriella, I know not — but she changed the conversation. For my part I had relapsed
into my silence, and I slunk away. Gabriella the daughter of Mrs. Beauvilliers!
"Why have you never told me that you had been at Florence?" said she next morning
when we were alone. "How odd! We must have been there together, and we were
strangers!"
"I knew your mother," said I.
"Poor Mama! Heavens! How beautiful she must have been. But did you absolutely know
her. I thought I had known the whole circle of Mama's admirers."
"But why need I go on. It was, perhaps, fortunate for me that I could never separate
the connexion between Mrs. Beauvilliers and Gabriella. The early impression of her
mother which had been left so strongly on my mind, could not be effaced by any
recurrence to the daughter. I could never think on Gabriella without recalling to
my
recollection Mrs.
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Beauvilliers in the picture gallery,
or in the ballroom at Florence. However disguised might be their manner, their
conduct was too similar to bear comparison. From the suddenness with which the veil
of my illusion fell from before my eyes almost from that very hour it would seem now
as if I had been influenced by prejudice. But no, it was Gabriella's self that cast
it from me. True, my knowledge of her mother's character had given me an insight into
the character of the daughter. It had made me think, and thought was destruction to
Gabriella. Her behaviour could not bear investigation — her character still less so.
It was not the shock of Mrs. Beauvilliers as a mother that had disturbed me, it was
the dread of Mrs. Beauvilliers as a model for too apt a representation; and what as
the folly of a foolish woman would have passed without other reproach, grew criminal
in the more gifted intellect of her daughter.
"Gabriella's defence was powerless. The dream which had wrapped my senses gave way
gradually but quickly, as the imperfect light that had first dawned on me broke into
open day. Her struggles to retain her victim became only the more reprehensible, her
real grief at his escape only the greater earnest of the selfish, frivolous vanity
which had induced his capture. Her powers of complete self-interest and indifference
to all beside were indeed
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wonderful! With a voice, a
look, a gesture, still pleading with well feigned motive for delay, she turned
without a moment lost to lament her failure, from the resolute departure of the one
lover, to play with unabated assiduity the same game over again with another.
"My last glimpse of her, as my chaise rolled rapidly away, showed her turning from
the entrance door into the little walk that leads to her flower-garden, leaning on
the arm of the traveller.
"But to the end, mistress of her art, she has left me without a doubt of her
unworthiness still to regret in bitter hopelessness the peace of mind that she has
broken for ever."
I rose as I concluded, and walked to the window, for it was a moment of weakness over
which I had no control. But the effort was not sufficient, and I buried my face in
my
hands.
I was roused by my cousin's gentle voice, and she laid her soft white hand upon my
arm. "Harry," said she, "if I may trust this moment's sorrow, your peace of mind —
it
is not broken for ever."
"Agatha," said I, "it is not to such as you that I should betray the secrets of a
weak and miserable passion. It is not with such as you that I should contemplate the
frailties of an erring sex; but I cannot forget that such a fair creation has been
created to so little good."
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"I regret it with you — but I have seen Gabriella," she continued, "I have known her
— she was unworthy of you — yet her troth was plighted to another, she could break
none with you."
"Good God! What other!"
"And do you then," said Agatha, gravely, "think so lightly of the duties of a wife.
Believe me it is the highest station which the heart, or the ambition of woman should
aspire to. She is charged with the dearest interests of one more responsible in life
than herself — his most tender dignity is confided to her care, and if she break her
trust, if she be wanting but in the smallest portion of this silent bond, she
violates the most solemn engagement of her life, and is forsworn before God and man
in the vows which she has taken upon her in the presence of both?" She stopped, and
coloured at her own eloquence. "Harry," said she, "What do you regret? your peace
of
mind? Let it return to you — let not the caprices of an ill-guided woman weigh upon
you. There are some thanks due for the return to a duty from which you should never
have wandered."
"I am grateful," said I, "as grateful as I can be. I feel that it is beneath me to
dwell thus on the memory of such a woman. But when you have loved, Agatha, you will
forgive a weakness, which, like an early deep-rooted disease, still continues to
sting me with poignancy, in utter defiance of the leech's
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utmost skill. Oh, Agatha — dear Agatha — you have never — never
loved — "
The expression of her countenance caught my attention just then, but she was
silent.
"Have you ever loved," cried I, forgetting at the moment all else but what was
belonging to my cousin Agatha. She smiled, but her smile was followed by a sigh.
A strange feeling came over me, and I caught her hand. I scarcely know what I said,
but it was not of Gabriella that I spoke or thought. There was a slight flutter
visible in her countenance when I began, but she listened to me with mildness; then
with a gentle shake of her head she extricated her hand, and glided from the
window.
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Beau Leverton, "Seeking the bubble Reputation."
WE once — (it is now some years ago) — enjoyed the pleasure of meeting the celebrated
"Beau Leverton." As every thing which relates to him "belongs" — as
writers say, "to history," we shall indulge ourselves with putting our recollections
upon record. We respect a beau of the first brilliancy; and wonder at his appearance,
as at that of an aloe. He is perhaps even a rarer marvel.
Here, however, let us caution the reader. We would not be understood as paying
implicit homage to the stuffed figures which move in procession down Bond and St.
James's Streets, kept upright solely by the aid of staymakers and tailors. On the
contrary, we hold them to be of precisely the same advantage in a commonwealth, that
those less ostentatious shapes are which keep watch in country gardens, as perpetual,
centinels over the peas and currants. But Leverton was not one of this small-witted
genus. He was originally intended for something even higher than what he became. Fate
however threw him into
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the sty of Circe, and he grew
like bottom, 'transformed.' — Nevertheless, let us still do him justice. He was a
man
of a shrewd turn of mind; too idle to emancipate himself from the thrall of fashion,
but laughing down with ineffable contempt the pretensions of the small fry around
him. He saw far into character, and sometimes made it subservient to his purposes.
He
had flashes (scintillations) of wit, which brightened and became more frequent in
melancholy hours, as the electric fluid is seen more clearly in a storm. He told a
story well, — laughed in the right place, — drew out the follies of his neighbours
with a fine, humorous, and sometimes unsparing, hand, — had a smattering of the
classics, and the lighter literature of England and France, — made champagne tea
delightfully, and scattered his multitudes of bon mots upon the crowd, as a peasant
does his arms-full of grapes and chestnuts upon the swine who are expecting them
beneath. Unluckily, Leverton's audiences in general did not comprehend a little of
the value of his donations. They laughed, however, at his jests, because it was the
fashion to laugh at them; and they related them to others, from time to time, in the
hope of, one day or other, discovering the meaning themselves.
When Leverton left Oxford, and threw himself upon the inattention of his father, he
found the foxhunter so entirely perplexed by his rural duties, that he had not a
moment of leisure to notice his
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heir. Harry was a
youth of spirit, and not insensible to neglect: So he determined to live as he could
during his father's life, on the small income which had devolved upon him on the
death of his mother. His proposal to this effect met with not the slightest objection
from Old Nimrod: and accordingly, (after seeing his sister safe under the protection
of an old maiden aunt at Bath), Leverton quitted without a sigh, his paternal acres;
quoted his last line of Horace at the cunning-eyed groom, who lashed his portmanteau
to the chaise, and came up to London, 'to make his — reputation!'
His success was eminent, but gradual; for he did not aim so much at eccentricity
(which is a cheap accomplishment) as at an air of high-breeding and careless
brilliancy. He possessed extreme ease, and considerable with; and the pungency of
the
one quality had an admirable effect upon the other, as salt is said to draw forth
an
exquisite flavor from things which would else be tasteless. One joke, which he threw
off in a happy moment, attracted the respect of a smart speaker in the House of
Commons. Another (which was better) reached the ear of an illustrious personage, who
said that it reminded him of George Selwyn. He enquired very particularly the name
of
the author, and the fame of our hero was complete!
We have not leisure at present to enter into a
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regular
biographical detail of the early life of Mr. Leverton, although (by the favor of a
friend) we are possessed of considerable materials for the purpose. But we must
content ourselves with passing over many of the accidents and humours of his career,
and introducing him to the reader as he appeared to us, in propria
persona, on the third day of July, 18 — .
At that time he had lodgings in Dover-street, and as eminent a list of creditors and
friends, 'of the first water,' as any gentleman who ever disowned the serious age
of
three and forty. In regard to his person, he had increased somewhat in bulk, though
it was said that stays, or some such unseen bonds, curtailed the encroachments of
idleness or gourmanderie. Yet, he still walked well; dressed inimitably; lost his
money (when he had it) gracefully; drawled out his sly witticisms with considerable
effect; and was in all respects a 'highly fashionable man.'
Leverton's importance in society was, in fact, exceedingly great; more so than his
mere talent could have commanded. His ease was admired — his manners and his dress
imitated — his flattery coveted — his patronage wooed. His satire was dreaded also;
for he possessed (as the bee does) both the honey and the sting, — the wish sometimes
to charm, and always the spirit to repel. The gay loved his jokes; the young sought
his intimacy; the women smiled on him; the (merely) rich dreaded him; and the
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wit admitted him to his level. Even the dignity of
birth relaxed from it superciliousness; and wise men rejoiced that for once they
might indulge their laughter, without any impeachment of their understanding.
This is a formidable estimate to do justice to; and indeed, we are not able to do
it
justice. For we have stated the aggregate of our hero's accomplishments;
whereas few of them appeared in any one single conversation. He was contented, often,
with very slight indications of his power; and, he sometimes, even betrayed scarcely
a glimpse of his really original character.
We once met him, as we have said. This was at Lord Trumpington's seat in Sussex, in
18 — ; and the following letter, from the Beau himself, to one of his intimates,
(which has been entrusted to us) will afford some explanation as to the company who
figure in the dialogue which occurred there. It is written in a vast running hand,
extending over three sheets of paper and is addressed
"To Thomas Blair MacDonald, Esq. at Long's Hotel, London."
"I cannot — I grieve to say it — be trans-atlantic with ye to-morrow evening, Tom.
You must smoke your cigars of peace without me. Do not, however, affront thyself and
thy brother Sachems, at my apparent desertion; but bury your tomahawks in
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the venison quietly, and forget so poor a man as Harry
Leverton.
"Shall I tell thee what ahs kept me thus amongst green corn and withered oak apples?
Shall I, turning philosophical, betray to thee how the loadstone — I have half a mind
to commit violence upon the three virgin sheets of paper which lie sleeping beside
me, and inscribe my adventures upon them, for thine especial benefit. It
shall be thus: so listen!
I was satisfied, as thou know'st, with London; although the dog-star reigned,
although the face of every (surviving) friend was baked, the ice-cellars empty, and
the month of July at hand. But my Lord Bridewell would be at once
peremptory and persuasive; and I had, I must confess to thee, reasons for not
despising his suit. He came to my domicile, as he threatened, on Tuesday last; armed
with spurs, and attended by tow gardes du corps, a traveling chariot and coach, four
postillions, and the warrant (to which was the sign manual) of Lady Cecil Dartley,
to
take the body of Henry Leverton, and him convey, etc. to her ladyship's court, which
is at present held at the Grange, in Sussex.
"I will spare thee the tediousness of our journey. It is enough to tell thee, that
we
survived almost fifty miles of English dust — passed in triumph over four pigs, who
made outrageous protestations against our proceedings — 'took' (as my lord called
it)
a
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post — missed children of all ages (one a succulent)
— refreshed at F — , and arrived without further mischief or matter at "The Grange."
The place is pretty enough: a little hill — a lawn — a shrubbery — a fish-pond or
two
(they have capital stewed carp) and a modern sort of antique cottage-villa, where
Vitruvius and Palladio, Greek, Goth, and Sir John Vanbrugh, flourish in united
absurdity. This is all well. But the utter demolition of my toilette-equipage is a
calamity for life: for some of the trifles were unique — and Burgess (my chamberlain)
has been unable to procure anything beyond the most alarming instruments at — I
forget its horrid name — the nearest market town. You know that I indulge in some
little niceties on these points. What wouldst thou think of my undergoing a course
of
brushes and shears of as rude a — Bah! I sent the former into the stable without
delay, and reserve the latter for sheep-shearing, whenever I shall arrive at my aunt
Slatter's pastures in Devon, which a villainous asthma (that provokes longevity) has
kept me out of for the last twenty and five years!
"Well, Tom, — The earl bowed, and looked grim and wise, and mumbled out his patrician
welcomes, (which were too ceremonious by half). The old countess, who paints as thick
as a door, laboured to be alluring, and Lady Cecil out-looked all the roses which
went scrambling about the drawing-room
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windows.
Bridewell was busy in the stable, and left me to make my way with his family as well
as I could. And, in truth, bashfulness is not my vice, as thou knowest, Tom.
Accordingly, after a brief refuge in my dressing-room, I descended, and found a mob
of indifferent appearance, all prepared to invade the regions where eating and
drinking are honoured. Some of our friends (is not that the word, Tom?) were there,
male and female, coupled together like pigeons. One fair hand was, however, reserved
for me (by the grace of the countess mother) — and it was that of the blooming
Cecil!
"But I see that thou art dying to know who are my agreeable cotemporaries; — and I
will tell thee.
"In the first place, then, behold our 'noble' family: — The earl, as dull as a drum,
and tedious beyond even the privilege of parliament; the countess, a fine old enamel,
as I have said, but a little cracked, and somewhat out of drawing: Cecil Dartley,
always couleur de rose; and her sister Selina, a languid plant; their brother
(Bridewell) the son and heir of all the Trumpingtons; and Colonel Dartley, a brother
also according to law, but, in other respects, a thing between pug and monkey, that
is hung round with blue and scarlet, and dances through 'the Lancers,' or to the tune
of 'Money in both Pockets,' till Fanny Dartley is ready to die with admiration.
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Then cometh Fanny herself, a cousin of the family; who,
a la Ture, staineth her fingers inch deep (with ink), and is a true specimen of that
little female indiscretion, and authoress. Thou wouldst expire, my good friend Tom,
if thou couldst behold her in her morning garments — they are so flowing, so
oriental, so scornful of all shape and fashion, and withal, so utterly covered with
dusky hieroglyphics, that one can scarcely distinguish between the sweep of her
stylus and the broader impress of her thumb. All is in learned confusion, like a
country library; but incomparably less cleanly. Yet, 'tis a good-natured chit, and
laughs and talks, (O Gad! Tom,) and invites the women to drink wine; and argues like
a syllogism; and is very odd, — and a little tedious. Next to her, was a Sir Somebody
Something, the county member, and his lady, trussed and tucked up like a Christmas
turkey, of the county also, and indigenous; their son, a spare thing, of six feet
high, whose person hath outrun his wit; while by his side sate, full of scorn and
languor, the Lady Selina Dartley. Then came Snapwell, the barrister; one of the young
Froths, a pretty thing, but as insipid as plain broth; old Moidore, the Ministerial
merchant, and (an inexpressible person!) his wife; descended from the tribe of Levi,
— but converted. Then followed a Squire Huggins, or Higgins, a proprietor of acres
in
these parts; then another Froth, not so pretty as the last, but with an exquisite
propriety of shape; then
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Lord Saint Stephens, the new
orator; and an odious fellow from the most northern part of the north, a Mr. John
Mac
Flip, an author, a critic, and a reporter, and a politician to boot; possessing
little, however, that need be mentioned beyond an incredible portion of assurance,
and an appetite that surmounts all fable. By him (well matched) sate a little black
female barbarian from Shetland, or the Orkneys; then came a 'Mac' of some endless
descent; then that immoderate simpleton Garnish, — Lady Di. Flarish, and her
detestable sister, — and finally, young Gabbleton, from Oxford who has travelled in
Greece, and what is worse, hath written his travels, and still talketh his travels,
till the fish (which he helpeth) is cold. These are nearly all, except our 'ancient'
Childers, the foxhunter — Jack Sitwell, (Bridewell's Newmarket chum,) — a physician,
and a Lord of the Admiralty, a burgess or two from the neighbouring Borough, and a
rubicund figure, somewhat like a pipe of wine, (called the Vicar of the village,)
which tolls out grace before dinner as regularly as the clock, (but louder) —
i'faith, and after dinner also, I believe, unless he chance to go to sleep over the
entremets.
"And now, farewell, Tom. If thou art but half as fatigued in reading this as I in
writing, (and I am not without hopes but that thou wilt be,) thou wilt
bid me henceforward discontinue sending thee any more of the adventures of thy most
faithful
HARRY LEVERTON."
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— Amongst the company, who were too unimportant for mention in Mr. Leverton's
letter, were ourselves (ourself) and a few others, with whose names we need not
trouble the reader. We will merely conduct him to the dinner room, and let him take
his chance for relishing or disliking the fare.
Every thing which opulence could purchase, or ostentation suggest, was spread upon
the patrician board of the Earl of Trumpington. He had hammered his brains for a
month: he had read Ude, and Rundell, and Beauvilliers, and dipped into the
eccentricities of Kitchiner, in order to arrive at correct opinions. He had been
closeted with his French cook; he had modelled and re-modelled, altered, doubted,
suggested, and tormented the impatience of his housekeeper with endless
consultations. They quarrelled, however, at last, over the shape of a custard
pudding, and Mrs. Dripwell was restored to her original quiet.
The result of all this thought and labour was now before the guests. Venison, and
soups, and fish, of every sort which the season justified, were there; innumerable
hues. From plain beef and mountain mutton, up to the mysterious compositions of the
French artists, no more to be developed than the riddles of the Sphinx, every thing
was there that the most accomplished epicurean could wish for. One
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thing alone was remarkable — namely, the many dishes which bore
the names of some regal or noble family. There were sauce royale, cotelets de Bourbon
and de Maintenon, Pates de Perigord, and — fifty others. For the Earl was such a
stickler for dignity, that he could not bear to be mistaken for a commoner, even in
his dishes.
Dr. Grampus ('the Viar') mumbled out a brief grace, and the company sate down to
table. For a short space all other sounds were lost in the rustling of silks, and
the
adjustment of table napkins. To these succeeded the clatter of china, the occasional
jarring of silver, the quick tread of the servants to and fro, and such like
indications of a dinner party. At last Mr. Gabbleton broke silence.
"Will not your Ladyship take soup?" enquired he, of Lady Di. Who sate opposite to
him? "nor fish? — what can I send you?"
"Nothing," replied the lady. "I shall wait for the removal of these trifles. I have
ordered a beef-steak."
The Earl (between whom and the lady certain hostilities existed,) blushed crimson
at
hearing of this "free and easy" proceeding on her part; while Leverton, after staring
a moment at her masculine appearance, proceeded to finish his white soup.
"Beef-steak! — I honour your ladyship's taste;" said Garnish, who could bear to hold
his tongue no
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longer. "I give you my word that I
generally dine on a beef-steak myself, when at home — I may say generally. Ah, ha!"
continued he, "after all, there's noting like eating and drinking . Don't you think
so, Leverton? By the way, Leverton, what doyou think of eating?"
"Sir," replied the beau, a little offended at the other's familiarity, "I consider
it
but a rude accomplishment."
"Rude?" said Gabbleton. "That's very doubtful. Both the Greeks and the Romans — "
He
was proceeding full tilt, when he met with a check.
"It is a common thing, Sir, nevertheless," interrupted Leverton. "The pigs partake
of
it with ourselves, and the dogs — they are absolute classics."
"How so? How so? — if I may presume," enquired Gabbleton, who resented the
comparison.
"Why, Sir," replied the other, "they lie down while they eat their suppers; — and
Cicero and Apicius did no more."
"Who's that speaking of Cicero?" cried out Lord St. Stephens. "Cicero was a
remarkable orator — a remarkable man!"
There was not a dissentient voice! —
— At this moment, John M 'Flip, who had been hitherto almost buried in plates of
soup and turbot, having now a moment's leisure to contemplate the fare before and
about him, espied something afar off,
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which was a
French composition, but which his patriotism converted into a national dish. "I'll
joost thank ye for a bit o' the haggis;" called he, nodding at the same time to
Leverton, who was opposite the mystery.
"A — the gentleman asks for something?" said Leverton, looking round for an
interpretation.
"Ees not the deesh anent ye a haggis?" said Mac Flip, pointing to the object he
required.
"Bring a plate," said Leverton to the servant; which being brought, he separated an
incredibly small piece from the main dish, and sent it in triumph to the hungry
Scot.
"Hoot awa;" said the other, half inclined openly to remonstrate (for he was new to
society) — but the plate was already on its road, and he was compelled to endure his
disappointment in silence.
The company were by this time fully occupied: but, as the most agreeable things will
have an end, so did the eaters and drinkers at Lord Trumpington's table submit, at
last, to a respite from their pleasant toil. After various monosyllables, which
gradually expanded into sentences, conversation arose — fluctuated — and at last
settled upon the question of legislation. Upon this subject it appeared that Leverton
and the Earl were opponents.
"Mr. Leverton appears to think very little of the wisdom of our ancestors," observed
Lord Trumpington, with a sneer.
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"Very little," replied the beau, "upon many subjects; and legislation is one."
"Mr. Leverton may rail in safety," retorted the Earl. "In old times — "
"Were they not young times, my Lord?" enquired Leverton. "Ours are the
old times, surely, and should be the wisest, if there be any thing in age."
"I was about to observe," said the Earl, somewhat nettled, "that our ancestors —
"
"My dear Lord," said Di. "do not disturb our ancestors."
The peer attempted to smile, (although excessively irritated at this second
interruption) and proceeded without noticing her Ladyship's remark, to make good his
case. But his opponent was not to be convinced without argument. The Earl 'asserted,'
and 'pledged his reputation,' and brought forward his 'experience,' and quoted some
indifferent sentences, which were not much to the purpose, without moving Leverton
a
jot.
"Almost all the good," said the latter, "which our present laws possess, has arisen
from the necessity of correcting the numberless mistakes of our ancestors. Our laws
are nearly all amendments. Why have we not a plain, brief, wholesome code, where ‘all
who run may read?"
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"It is a thing totally out of the question," replied the Earl, decisively.
"What would become of the Bar?" said one; "and of the Bench?" said another.
"What would become of our brothers?" observed a third; "and our younger sons?"
enquired a fourth, with a look of defiance.
"True," answered Leverton, at last; "I beg your pardon, my Lord: I see the difficulty
now."
Here, Garnish, who had looked anxiously towards the Earl, and had hitherto trembled
for his success, could contain his joy no longer, but laughed outright. The peer
acknowledged his partizan with a smile; and turning, with a look of infinite
condescension, towards Leverton, invited him to take wine.
"I wish my victory to sit as pleasantly as possible upon Mr. Leverton; and shall
therefore inflict nothing more upon him than a glass of hock."
"I shall be happy to attack the tun of Heidelburg with your Lordship," replied the
other; and the usual interchange of civilities passed.
"Who is this Mer. Lep — Lepperton?" enquired the county of Baronet of his neighbour,
the Earl, in a whisper.
"He is a person of no consideration," replied the other in the same tone, "the son
of
some yeoman — or grazier — or — plebeian, in the west, as I think."
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"What, a fellow who lived upon his own grass, like Nebuchadnezzar?" said the Baronet,
laughing.
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the Earl; "very good, Sir John, indeed — very good! Ha, ha, ha!"
continued he, "your simile is undeniable — but — but, my good Sir John, this person
—
this Leverton — is a favorite with my Lady Trumpington, and is — as I hear — a person
really in some — a — request in London."
"I don't like these nobodies coming amongst us my lord," observed the other, "and
—
."
"Nor I, Sir John, nor I, I assure you," replied the Earl, "give me a little good
blood, as I say with my horses, and I'll take my chance for the rest."
"What!" said Lady Di. (who heard something of this last sentence) "did you speak of
your horses, my Lord? I pledge my reputation that there has been a cross in your
O'Kelly colts. Their quarters are coarse, and they run too rough in their coats for
thorough-bred things. There's been a cross, and that you may depend on. Leverton,
didn't you ask me to drink wine?"
"I'll drink wine with you, Lady Di." said Fanny Dartley; and —
"I shall be happy to submit to any thing in your Ladyship's service," replied
Leverton, (whom the last speaker had not allowed time to answer,) "will you drink
white Hermitage? or Moselle? or — ?"
"I always drink port," said the lady.
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"Who's that drinking port?" enquired Lord Bridewell, "I'll join 'em. Garnish, my boy,
don't you like port?"
"Immensely, my Lord, immensely," replied the other. "I give you my word I generally
take port when I am alone — I may say generally," and he lifted the glass to his
lips. It was scarcely there, however, before a question from the Earl removed it.
He
was called upon for his acquiescence, as to the merits of the Reverend Mr. Smatter;
and never was assent more rapidly given.
"Oh! certainly, my Lord, certainly," said he, bowing, "I admire Mr. Smatter
prodigiously. He is a wonderful preacher, indeed; and then he is so sentimental —
so
melancholy — so Leverton, even you must allow that Mr. Smatter's melancholy sits most
interestingly upon him?"
"He mopes like a moulting chicken," said Lady Di. "I swear he always gives me the
vapours."
"He is, certainly, an infallible remedy for high spirits," said Leverton,
assentingly. "He would throw a damp upon a funeral."
"You will allow his style to be good, at least, Leverton?" persevered Garnish. "His
style is grand."
"It is superb!" said the Earl, with a tone that meant to put down all opposition.
"The rogue's style is well enough," said Lever-
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|
ton;
"if it were but his own; but he has pilfered from Hooker, and Jeremy Taylor, and
South, and half a dozen others, till his box of sermons is like a bazaar. I hear he
is so thorough a mimic that when he lived at Sunning Hill and Hampstead, his lines
all ran upwards to the right hand corner of the paper, and he never came down
completely to level writing till he took to his house in Essex."
"Dr. Rust thinks well of him, however," retorted Garnish, "and his
opinion will carry him through."
"Rust!" exclaimed the beau, and was proceeding to discuss the merits of the
antiquary; when the earl (who saw that Garnish would never be able to make head
against his antagonist) stepped in to his relief, with more chivalry than wisdom.
He
attempted a diversion.
"You have seen Dr. Rust's collection of valuable antiquities?"said he.
"I have seen them all," replied Leverton — (who thought that the question, which was
addressed to the baronet, was directed towards himself) — "I have seen them, one by
one, I believe, from first to last; and himself — the greatest wonder of all!"
"He has the strangest complexion," — lisped Lady Selina.
"Ah, madam!" said Leverton, "were he and his old monstrosities once thoroughly
scoured, you would know neither the one nor the other."
"His antiquities," observed the earl —
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|
"I hate antiquities," said Lady Di. — "but I beg pardon; I think you said that you
had seen them, Leverton?"
"I saw a mass of things," answered the beau, "but little distinctly, — broken
statues; dingy pictures; belts of wampum; rings for the nose; fish bones for the
ears; druids' clubs; absurdities of every kind, from the equator to the poles.
Nothing was wanting — that was useless. There were sixteen tons of Egyptian horrors
blocking up the approach to the house; and five and twenty hundred weight of cracked
marble, which I took for a cistern, but which turned out to be the coffin of Ptolemy
Psammeticus. Every corner of every room was put in requisition. The hall was full;
the staircase was fuller; the dining-room could not be carpeted for these monsters.
Heads, legs, arms, noses, hideous little wretches in bronze and china affronted you
at every turn. Even the cellar was blocked up by a shapeless person, which the doctor
called Alexander, or Demetrius, or — I forget what; and we had a tedious harangue
on
a foolish subject, instead of a bottle of Madeira with our sandwiches.
"Ha, ha, ha!" said the earl, at last.
"Ha, ha, ha!" responded Garnish.
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|
"Ha, ha, ha!" continued the earl, evidently much irritated — "ha, ha, ha! — the
original Theseus! I take upon myself — I say myself — to
commit my self — my opinion — that that is the original
marble. There is a copy (a much later work) in my Lord Elgin's collection."
"It is certainly by a different hand," said Leverton.
"Well — ?" said Lady Di.
"Well, madam," continued the beau, "there was an infinite deal of nothing, I assure
you. There was a head of Jupiter Stator, without a nose, receiving adoration from
a
couple of sphinxes; and a Cupid with one eye shooting at a damaged countess, by
Vandyke. There — "
"He would hold a living countess in contempt, I suppose," said Lady
Di.
"Assuredly, madam; he would behold her with supreme indifference," answered Leverton.
"Old Lady Stately (who measured six feet one, in her — shoes) was the only female
that ever attracted his admiration. After gazing at her for five minutes, with
evident symptoms of delight, he turned to his neighbour and
exclaimed"What a mummy she would make!"
"The old fool!" exclaimed Lady Di.
"Nevertheless, we must do the doctor justice," proceeded Leverton.
"Hehas his living pets, I
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|
assure you.
There is his parrot, which his aunt Ricketts bequeathed to him, and which, he says,
came over with Sir Francis Drake" —
"That is a solitary instance," observed somebody.
"Pardon me," replied Leverton, "he has a very pretty little colony of mice; and a
rat
from Java: two rattle snakes, and an alligator — but no, that is stuffed: however,
he
has an old friend — a tame duck, who was made a happy widow last Michaelmas; her
husband having been put into requisition (by mistake!) for giblet soup, after a hard
life of seventeen years, spent in the green pond at the back of the stable."
And so the dialogue ran on, (long after the ladies had retired), veering from
one thing to another, public and private. War — commerce — literature — art — the
manufacturing classes — the landed interest — their friends — their enemies — all
were separately and more than sufficiently discussed. Each attempted to take the lead
on some particular subject. The Earl was tedious and arrogant, beyond all measure,
on
general politics. Colonel Dartley chattered a vast quantity of nothing upon "the
service;" and the county baronet prosed on agriculture, till her fell asleep in his
chair.
Every man talked his worst, till is hearers were tired: one with the austere tone
of
a reasoner —
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|
another with the solemnity of a prophet.
This proved that right was wrong: that, that mankind and art were declining — a
third, that both were springing up and rallying afresh. Every one saw into the future
— many provided for its wants — no one was at a loss — no one was short-sighted —
no
one less than infallible. —
Oh! what a comical thing it is, reader — is it not? To hear (or read) the opinions
of
some of these positive sages; to scan their unassailable arguments, proving that so
and so can not be done by reason of the physical and moral force, etc.
[sic] -and then to see that this very impossibility is done! As if nations could not
be stirred out of their ordinary apathy by the descent of a sudden truth, or stung
to
the strength of madness by some great and intolerable wrong. In speculations,
especially, men never reckon upon their own fallibility; nor upon the
change which the great wheel of Time is eternally producing, as it
rolls onwards, — crumbling the puny frost-work of the politician's brains, and
scattering wonders of all sorts for the benefit of succeeding ages, and the
employment of every faculty of the mind of man!
On word in conclusion —
Courteous Reader, — Harry Leverton is no more! Although not an insubstantial phantasm
of the imagination, like the Eastern Horam, yet he has
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|
vanished, and left, like that sage, his valuable moral behind him; — somewhat of
this, indeed, springing from his example, (which was at once a model and a warning);
but some little also he bequeathed in the shape of precept. -After basking in
cloudless popularity, and having at his beck all the solid advantages of life, as
well as the courtesies which make those advantages delightful, he was obliged to
visit his estates in the West Indies; where — at the expiration of a tedious illness,
which wore the character rather of languor and ennui than of serious malady — he
died; disappearing like some of those volatile essences, which are so pungent and
pleasant while they last, but being transferred into a warm situation, vanish or
evaporate, from causes which the chemist or physician can alone detect.
September, 1824.
Figure 12: Queen Elizabeth, Essex, and Shakespeare
painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. W. Ensom
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Essex and the Maid of Honour
By Horace Smith, Esq. Author of
Brambletye House
THE palace of Nonsuch, near Ewell, in Surrey, was intended by Henry the Eighth, as
its proud title sufficiently attests, to afford an unrivalled specimen of his
magnificence and taste; but, while he was lavishing his treasures in this most
unnecessary addition to his royal residences, Death was sharpening the dart which
was
to tumble down the ostentatious tyrant, and consign him to his last narrow palace
—
the tomb.
Nonsuch was left unfinished, and unfulfilled promise of splendour, a gorgeous and
yet
melancholy evidence of the uncertainty of human grandeur; and Queen Mary, shrinking
from the cost of its completion, had it in contemplation to ull it down to save
farther charges; when the Earl of Arundel, "for the love and honour he bore to his
old master," purchased the place, and finished it according to the original design.
Not a vestige of it now remains; it has passed away with the other elaborate gewgaws
of
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|
mortal vanity, and the arrogant name which it has
left behind it, sounds in our ears like a mournful echo, mocking the presumption of
other times. And yet the proud structure was not deficient in solidity as well as
stateliness. "It was built round two courts," says the accomplished authoress of
Queen Elizabeth's Memoirs — "an outer and an inner one, both very spacious; and the
entrance to each was by a square gate-house highly ornamented, embattled, and having
turrets at the four corners. These gate-houses were of stone, as was the lower story
of the palace itself; but the upper one was of wood, "richly adorned, and set forth
and garnished with a variety of statues, pictures, and other antic forms of excellent
art and workmanship, and of no small cost;" all which ornaments, it seems, were made
of rye dough. In modern language the pictures would probably be called
basso-relievos. From the eastern and western angles of the inner court rose two
slender turrets, five stories high, with lanterns on the top, which were leaded and
surrounded with wooden balustrades. These towers of observation, from which the two
parks attached to the palace, and a wide expanse of champaign country beyond, might
be surveyed as in a map, were celebrated as the peculiar boast of Nonsuch.
It was the morning of Michaelmas Eve, the woodwork of the gaudy structure which was
painted and
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|
lacquered, glistered in the light of a
cloudless sun the numerous gilt vanes, fashioned in the shapes of the various animals
that figured in the armorial bearings of royalty, flashed form the top of every tower
and pinnacle; while the royal banners displayed from the summits of the two lofty
turrets, and flaunting proudly on the breeze, announced to all the circumjacent
country that they floated over Queen Elizabeth and her Court, who were then residing
in the palace. Although it was thus graced and honoured, the earliness of the hour,
and the heat of the morning, had prevented any great appearance of bustle around the
exterior of the building. A few halberdiers and yeomen of the guard, in their rich
liveries, were lounging in front of the outer gate-house; along the roads that
skirted the parks, horses and carriages, betraying their progress by the dust, were
seen to converge towards the same point; but in other respects, the landscape was
as
still as it was lovely. The herds of deer in the park, only distinguishable by their
horns, were crouching in the shade: the cows, that were usually pastured around the
gatehouse, had not yet returned from the farm, whither they had been driven to be
milked; and with the exception of a single stately stag which emerged from a thicket,
as if to reconnoiter, and snuff up the morning air, nothing appeared to move within
the wide chase that surrounded the mansion; while the absence of
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|
music, or any other sound of state or revelry from the walls,
gave reason to conclude that her majesty had not yet arisen from her slumbers.
Upon a terrace, however, which flanked the exterior of the inner court, and
communicated by a flight of stone steps with the park, was assembled a little party,
who had obeyed the first summons of Chanticleer, in the loyal and laudable hope of
affording good entertainment to their royal mistress, when it should please her to
begin the sports and pastimes of the day. Among these was old Yeovil, one of the
huntsmen, a withered weatherbeaten figure, but with a patch of red upon either
cheek-bone, that seemed to attest he might still be in at a good many deaths before
his own. He held three leash of greyhounds by leathern thongs, and was surrounded
by
several couple of staghounds, most of the latter being crouched at his feet, dosing
and winking at the sun; while the former with ears erect, and in various graceful
attitudes of alert attention, were imitating their master in watching the movements
of a motley group immediately opposite to them. It consisted of Master
Toby so called from his being at the head of the scullery, and who for the nonce had
constituted himself, moreover, a sort of deputy master of the revels; and a troop
of
extempore maskers, collected from among the inferior domestics, who had agreed to
get
up a little pageant among themselves, stuffed full of ful-
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|
some compliments to the queen, and according to the fashion of
the time, most fantastically allegorical. Shakspeare's ridicule, and the burlesque
of
Bottom the Weaver, had not been yet long enough before the public to banish the rage
for such emblematic foolery: nor would it under any circumstances have been likely
to
exert a beneficial influence upon Master Toby, who sometimes made furtive excursions
from the scullery into the regions of Parnassus, and whose taste had been exclusively
derived from the quaint devices of those symbolical banquets he had assisted in
cooking; and which, from their hieroglyphical character, had received the appropriate
name of Subtleties. At this self-appointed masque-master, who with a paper in one
hand, and a cane in the other, was strutting about, endeavouring to get up a
rehearsal as well among the amateur actors by whom he was surrounded, some of whom
were attired as allegorical females, the calm old huntsman gazed with a quiet
wonderment, that kept his face fixed in an intermediate expression between a simper
and a sneer. And, sooth to say, they must have exhibited a puzzling sort of
cross-reading to a straightforward man like him, who knew all the parties by sight,
but neither understood why they were thus strangely metamorphosed, nor comprehended
the purport of what they were instructed to utter.
The man who was to misrepresent Diana having
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|
thrown up
his legs on a bench, in defiance of petticoats and decorum, and all the
bienseances that should distinguish the "chaste huntress of the
silver bow;" swore "by cogs nouns, and snails," in answer to the summons of Master
Toby, that he would not come to book 'til he had finished his pipe; in confirmation
of which averment he spat upon the ground, and recommenced his whiffs with such
energy, that the half-moon in his head was only occasionally seen as it dimly emerged
from the cloud of tobacco-smoke in which it was enveloped.
"Come, then, Cupid, we will begin with you, have you got your speech quite perfect?"
said Master Toby, to a little boy, who had twisted his wings all awry in the
earnestness of a game of marbles with an urchin of his own age.
"Yes, sir, yes;" replied the son of Venus. "Fain dubs, Jemmy! fain tribbs! Knuckle
down, Jemmy! fain going through the ring a second time! Keep your yard's distance,
and no cheating!"
Pittikins! you young scapegrace! call you this saying the speech?" exclaimed Toby,
in
wrath. "Spout it, sirrah, spout it, or your shoulders shall be scored with my rattan
till they show like ribs of pork."
"Nay, now, forsooth, Master Toby, let us finish the game, there's a good fellow. Its
my go next, and there are only three in the ring. And look you
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|
her's lazy Barney Mumpford falling asleep in the sun for want
of something to do. Hallo, Barney! Barney!" continued the stripling, bawling in his
ear; "there's Master Toby waiting for you to begin."
The person thus aroused, whose close doublet and hose were thickly painted with
tongues to give him the semblance of Report of Fame, now got lazily up, and after
some very deliberate stretching and yawning begun his speech, which he spouted with
a
sort of drowsy pomposity. As it was intended to compliment the queen, not less upon
the wide diffusion of her glory than upon her extensive knowledge of languages or
tongues, it commenced after the following fashion:
"To the four quarters of the earth I've blown
Eliza's name; I need not add my own.
Useless to her would such a blazon be,
For she who knows all tongues must needs know me!" —
"By my fackins, though, Master Toby," cried the spokesman, breaking off in the very
exordium of his address, "if her grace should ask my name after all, I shall e'en
tell her that I'm Barney Mumpford, that I have been a groom seven years, and that
the
post-master of the great stables is vacant; for I may as well have it as another,
and
a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse."
With a look of profound alarm, the culinary stage-
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|
manager declared that such a departure from histrionic precedent would infallibly
bring them all into disgrace, and reminded his pupil that he ought to have announced
himself in the first instance by blowing his trumpet.
"Odso! And so I ought," cried Barney; "and I need not have forgotten it, for I found
that part easier to learn by heart than all the rest."
So saying her put the instrument to his mouth, and summoning all his breath to his
aid, gave birth to a discordant bray, which seemed to have had a groan and a roar
for
its respective parents. At this abortive effort, old Yeovil, who from childhood
upwards had been accustomed to wind every instrument of the sort from a penny trumpet
to a French horn, could no longer remain a passive spectator; but seizing the trumpet
and applying it to his mouth, he collected the breath into his hollow leathern
cheeks, and blew so loud and lusty a recheat, that the inner court echoed to the
sound, the dogs suddenly leaped up, baying and barking, and at the same moment, a
gentleman-usher, issuing form the offices, rebuked them angrily, as a set of
unmannerly grooms and brawling mummers, to keep such a coil ere the breakfast-bell
had warned in the great court, and when it was even uncertain whether her Highness
had quitted her bed-room.
"I would give a Harry groat," said Yeovil, "to
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know
whether her grace means to betake herself to the stand in the park to see the
coursing, or whether we are to uncouple the hounds, and drive up a fat buck for the
cross-bow, for the morning begins to wear, and the dew will be soon off the
grass."
"Body o' me!" ejaculated Master Toby, drawing himself up, and looking contemptuously
at the huntsman; "think you our noble and learned mistress will recreate herself with
brute beasts, when she might listen to the Orphean strains of poetry that I have
provided for her in this our most quaint, dainty, and delectable device? Now, good
man Report, pursue your speech — pursue your speech — 'accept, fair, peerless,
learned, virgin queen — "
"Grammercy! Master Toby," quoth Report — "four lines at a stretch is honest yeoman's
work, you must get some one else to accept the queen, for it is clean beyond me to
go
any further." Not less indignant as a poet than as a loyal subject at this
declaration, master Toby was about to pronounce a severe reprimand upon Goodman
Report, when he was forestalled by a loud laugh from the four quarters of the world,
who were standing in the shade playing at chuck-arthing with Saint Michael, which
latter personage had been dressed up to do honor to his own approaching eve. Africa
and the Saint, after wrangling for some time about a farthing, had betaken
themselves, like true Englishmen, to swearing, and
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|
then to mutual accusations of profaneness; when the Saint, pointing to is
adversary's visage, which was smeared over with a sooty pigment to give him the
better semblance of a negro, declared that he must needs have been the greatest
offender, since he had sworn till he was black in the face. This joke was received
with a huge and simultaneous burst of laughter by Europe, Asia, and America, although
they were repeatedly called to order, and were threatened with the tattan by the
wrathful master Toby. Finding his four refractory quarters to be indifferent to his
menaces, the latter now betook himself to father Thames, a venerable looking figure
with a crown of bulrushes, a long beard of sedge and water-flags, and wearing a loose
watchet robe, which having fallen back while he was emptying a pot of ale, disclosed
a pair of greasy buckskin hose, with riding boots and spurs. "Zooks, master Toby,
let
us finish the tankard — you know the Thames is apt to be dry at this season," cried
the river god, chuckling at his own wit. "Dry quotha! methinks you're always adry,"
replied Toby — "but beshrew me an I ever knew the Thames to be replenished with
humming ale, where's your urn?" "Here, master Toby, here," said father Thames,
thrusting a large pitcher under his left arm, and where's the tinsel stream that is
to come pouring out of it?" "I popp'd it inside to keep it dry, for there was an ugly
dew this morn-
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|
ing that would presently have washed off
all the glitter."
"By my fackins! that was well cared for: keep your water dry whatever you do: hold
your urn more sloping, and though that cannot spout, you many spout away
yourself."
Thus instructed and commended, the river god lifting up his voice, which was by no
means so clear and liquid as the character required, exclaimed,
"On my proud breast those floating castles ride,
That did subdue the great Armada's pride;
Behold illustrious Queen — "
when his progress was not less suddenly than unpleasantly interrupted by a freak of
the mischievous urchin, Cupid, who, having finished his game of marbles, and lighted
a piece of paper by the assistance of Diana's pipe, slily insinuated it into the
river god's left hand, as it hung dangling beneath his urn. Little expecting to be
thus surreptitiously set on fire, father Thames, uttering a cry of surprise and pain,
let fall the pitcher, which was smashed into a hundred pieces, and bounded forward
a
good clothier's yard at a single leap. No sooner, however, had he discovered the
little incendiary, who betrayed himself by a shriek of laughter, than with fury in
his looks he blustered out an oath, much too combustible for so aqueous a divinity,
and commenced an immediate
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|
pursuit for the purpose of
inflicting a summary vengeance. In less than a minute the offender had run twice
round Africa, crossed Europe, scudded behind the back of Asia, and swung round the
front of America; but Scamander when he pursued the runaway Achilles was not more
swift or unrelenting than father Thames in his chace of the unlucky Cupid, who having
thrown away his wings that he might fly the faster, at length bolted across the
terrace through a postern gate that led into the inner court, his pursuer followed
close upon his heels, and both were presently out of sight and hearing. Ere the
laughter occasioned by this incident had subsided among the rest of the party to whom
the fugitives belonged, their attention was arrested by a company of horsemen riding
towards the palace at full speed, and leaving a long cloud of dust behind them. As
they galloped past the end of the terrace, in order to wheel round towards the
gate-house, it was evident they had travelled far and fast, and through a different
tract of country from that which surrounded Nonsuch; for both horses and riders were
splashed with mud and mire, over which a white powdery dust had settled, until it
had
become impossible to distinguish the colour of either steed or garment, although it
was sufficiently evident from their accoutrements, feathers and bearing, that the
leading cavaliers were officers. At the head of the band, mounted on a fleet barb,
was
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|
a young gallant, who, as far as could be judged
from the great rapidity with which he passed, possessed singular beauty of form and
feature, and appeared to be a most graceful and accomplished horseman. Four others,
although they rode a little way behind him, seemed by their gestures to be his
friends and companions, and at a distance of ten or twenty yards was the rear of the
cavalcade, consisting of grooms and other attendants. Without relaxing his speed
until he reached the entrance of the great gatehouse, the leader of the troop threw
himself hastily from his horse, and hurried into the court with the air of one whose
rank and station authorized him to pass, even into the residence of royalty, without
let or question; although the yeomen of the guard looked somewhat anxiously at one
another, as if they ought to have demanded his purpose before they suffered him to
enter. At the portal which formed the entrance to the queen's dwelling apartments,
and through which the stranger would have speeded in the same unceremonious manner
as
before, the pages, gentlemen ushers, and others, who were clustered about the doors,
and who were startled at the appearance of such a soiled and bespattered figure,
forcing himself, as it were, into the private chambers, drew up and opposed his
progress, enquiring at the same time who he was, and what he wanted. "Gentlemen,"
said the stranger, impatiently waving his hand for them to
[Page 298] |
|
fall back, "my purpose brooks not delay, and I beseech you not
to parley with me but to give me free passage. What! am I so changed by a little mud
and dirt that ye know me not for the Earl of Essex, Master of the Horse, and of the
Ordnance, and the Lord Deputy?" So saying, and without giving them time to recover
from their surprise, he passed through the midst of them, and began to ascend the
stairs.
Labouring under heavy imputations for his misconduct in Ireland, from which country
he had suddenly returned, notonly without leave, but in positive disobedience to the
commands of his royal mistress; relying upon her well-known affection for his pardon,
and complete restoration to favor, if he could once gain access to her, and
apprehensive that if he failed in this object his enemies would ensure his disgrace
and ruin, the impetuous earl had ridden post both day and night, without
communicating his purpose to a single individual, except a few of his particular
adherents, and having thus far successfully triumphed over all obstacles, he was not
likely to be impeded by the pages and chamberlains whom he encountered in the private
apartments, as he hurried through them. Gazing in utter amazement at such a
bespattered figure, making the floors ring to his heavy riding boots as he stalked
onwards towards the queen's bedroom, some stood aloof, concluding that he had
explained his errand to the yeomen below;
[Page 299] |
|
while others
placed themselves in his way, and informed him that the Queen had not yet come forth:
but he either passed them, or put them aside, with the air of one who would not be
disobeyed, and thus traversed the presence chamber, and the waiting room of the maids
of honor, several of whom were not a little alarmed at the sight of such an
inexplicable apparition. Neither noticing their startled looks, nor heeding their
eager whispers, the adventurous Earl pursued his way, and never stopped till he came
to the Queen's bed-room, the door of which he undauntedly opened, walked in, and
closed it behind him.
Elizabeth was newly risen, and her locks were hanging in disorder about her face.
She
was incapable of fear, but her surprise was not without agitation at the first sight
of a heated and bemoiled stranger thus intruding into her bed-room, and she was on
the point of calling out for her chamberlain, when Essex rushed forward, threw
himself upon his knees, and humbly implored her pardon. The sound of his well-known
voice, the humility of his language, and, above all, the sight of one whom she still
loved, kneeling at her feet, and looking up to her with flushed and imploring
features, so won upon her unprepared heart, that she held out both her hands to him
to kiss, listened with a kind aspect to all his excuses, and gave him a more cordial
reception than even his fondest hopes had ventured to anticipate.
[Page 300] |
|
Weak as a woman, although great and illustrious as a sovereign,
she now suffered the former character to predominate, and Essex, who with all his
headstrong impetuosity was not deficient in the courtier's art, took good advantage
of the mood in which he found her. Attributing his unsanctioned return to the
impossibility of existing any longer out of the presence of a divinity, whose sight
was as vital to him as was the breath of heaven to his nostrils, he addressed her
in
terms of passionate, and even romantic gallantry, talked of her excellent beauties,
though she was now in her sixty-seventh year, compared her at once to Venus and
Minerva, to a nymph goddess, and angel, quoted Latin and Greek in confirmation of
his
assertions, and played his part so successfully, that leaving her after a conference
of some duration, he appeared in high spirits, and thanked God that though he had
suffered many storms abroad, he had found a sweet calm at home.
Having taken some refreshment, and attired himself in his most splendid suit, as some
atonement for the unseemly habiliments in which he had before presented himself,
Essex, who had been invited to repeat his visit to the palace, was sallying forth
for
that purpose, when he was accosted by a personage, who respectfully vailing his
beaver, and presenting a letter, would have explained its object had he not been
anticipated by the Earl's exclaiming — "Ha,
[Page 301] |
|
Will
Shakspeare! what makest thou at Nonsuch, when thou shouldst be playing the ghost to
the holiday folks in London, and easing them of their Michaelmas testers?"
The poet replied that he had come to Ewel with his friend Dick Burbage to solicit
of
the Queen a Licence for their theatre, and that his gracious patron, the Earl of
Southampton, who was now unfortunately under her Majesty's heavy displeasure, had
condescended to give him a letter to his special good friend the Lord Essex,
bespeaking his influence and kind offices as soon as he should return from Ireland.
Of this happy event the bard declared that he had entertained no immediate
expectation; but having learnt, within the last half hour, that his lordship had
actually arrived at Nonsuch, he had been emboldened to deliver the letter with which
he had been thus honored. "Grammercy! master Shakspeare!" cried the Earl after
hastily glancing over the paper, "I am myself but a newly pardoned criminal, and
therefore little warranted to become a suitor; but I feel too happy in her grace's
favor not to wish to extend it to others. There are few things in which I would not
venture to pleasure the Lord Southampton: and it would like me no less to serve the
merry varlet, or the soul-stirring bard, (which shall I call thee?) whose lofty lines
ever seem to me to o'ertop all praise, 'till they are clean eclipsed by his quaint
and comic fantasies.
[Page 302] |
|
So forward! with me to the
garden, and if I may speed your suit, it shall not lack a willing advocate."
The poet bowed his thanks, and followed at a short distance behind the Earl, who,
however, turned round and conversed familiarly with him till they entered the
gardens, which according to the prevailing taste were laid out in trim beds, formal
parterres, fountains, and successive terraces, communicating withone another by
flights of stone steps, and ornamented with vases, statues, and groupes of sculpture.
At the extremity of one of these terraces stood a little pavilion called the
Paradise, being decorated with representations of Adam and Eve, the Serpent and the
Tree of Knowledge; and having an arbour for its entrance engrailed with clustering
althaeas, jessamines, honeysuckles, roses, pomegranates, and other flowering shrubs,
all of which were in full bloom and fragrance. Within this odorous and shady bower,
the Queen, who had been observed to bestow an unusual attention that morning upon
her
toilet, was seated, holding a large feather fan, and surrounded by several maids of
honor, all standing. Behind them, within the pavilion, were seen other female
attendants employed in caul work: lutes and citharas, with cards and a richly
enamell'd chess board were lying upon a marble table by their side. Upon approaching
the august figure of royalty thus picturesquely enthroned, the Earl fell upon his
knees, an act of homage which
[Page 303] |
|
her Majesty always
exacted, even from her ministers in their audiences of business; and Shakspeare,
halting at some little distance, immediately imitated his example. Essex found a no
less gracious reception than he had experienced in the morning, for the remembrance
of his flattery had not yet passed away, and their conference had lasted for some
time when the Queen, looking towards Shakspeare, enquired whether his squire, who
seemed but young in years, had left his locks in the hands of the Irish rebels, that
he wore so bald a brow. "I much fear me that I am presumptuous and overbold," said
the Earl after having mentioned the name and object of his attendant. "I who am
myself but a petitioner for mercy and forgiveness, in thus becoming a suitor for
others; but since your majesty's condescension has so soon forgotten my offences,
I
may perhaps stand better excused now than at another time, for forgetting
myself."
"So, this is the dramatic chronicler," said the queen, who had felt much interest
in
his historical plays; "let him approach; we would have speech of him; and you, my
lord, may avail yourself of yonder seat, for after so long and so speedy a journey
you may well need a little rest."
Bowing as he accepted the permission thus given to him, Essex beckoned to the poet,
who approached, and concluding that he had been invited to imitate
[Page 304] |
|
his patron, seated himself upon a low garden stool, beside the
earl, and immediately opposite to the Queen. So unusually gracious was the present
mood of Elizabeth, that she smiled at a mistake which at another moment might have
excited her indignation, and waved her hand to her attendants as a signal that they
might retire into the pavilion, a notice which they instantly obeyed. Essex, catching
the expression of the Queen's face with the alacrity of a courtier, smiled also:
while Shakspeare, perfectly unconscious that he had committed any violation of court
etiquette, read his petition with a respectful propriety, that might well atone for
his little oversight.
"Look you, Master Playwright," graciously exclaimed her majesty when he had
concluded; "your writings like us well, but touching this licence for playing more
frequently, here is our head Bearward who has been lately complaining to us most
piteously that you have become his worst enemy, for that when the flag is flying at
your theatre of the Globe, his garden is so deserted by the people, that his best
bear will scarcely pay the baiting. How say you to this?"
"I dare not misprise his calling, since it has ever found a gracious patron in your
majesty," replied the bard; "but under favour I would venture to affirm that he who
withdraws his fellow subjects from such
[Page 305] |
|
pastimes, and
instructs them in their country's annals, and points out to their admiration the
glory of their monarchs, (than whom none have been more illustrious than your
majesty's immediate ancestors) can hardly fail to civilize and exalt the people,
though he may find it impossible to add to the renown of the sovereign."
"It is well, and wisely, and loyally urged," said the Queen, evidently pleased with
the speech; "and, by my troth! it may chance to speed the licence for which you are
our petitioner. And what led you to our musty chronicles, Sir Poet, when your
playwright's art might have found better range in the wider walks of fancy and
invention?"
"My grand-father fought with good approof in the battle of Bosworth Field," said
Shakespeare, not sorry to have an excuse for mentioning the circumstance, "and was
fortunate enough to find favour with your grace's ancestor, the valiant King Henry
the Seventh. From him and from my father I have inherited a love of loyalty and of
my
country's glory; and as I despaired of doing justice to such splendid deeds as the
defeat of the Armada, and the other exploits that have glorified your grace's reign,
I was driven to record the annals of your less illustrious predeccessors."
"Beshrew me," said the Queen, in an under voice to Essex, "if I have ever heard a
varlet speak
[Page 306] |
|
more honorably, or pithily to the
purpose. And yet," she continued, again addressing herself to Shakespeare, "if we
forget us not, thou hast somewhere ventured an allusion to our royal self. The
passage stays not with us, but we have forgiven it, though it coupled our name if
we
mistake not, with some idle flower."
Elizabeth perfectly remembered the lines, though she would not appear to attach so
much importance to them, as to have thought them worthy her recollection. Essex
however, who saw the real motives of her reserve, and knew that she would be pleased
with the quotation, exclaimed, "your Majesty may pardon both the poet and myself,
when we do but recall a Midsummer Night's Dream;" and then looking passionately at
the Queen he continued:
"That very time I saw (but thou couldst not) |
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, |
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took |
At a fair vestal throned by the West, |
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, |
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; |
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft |
Quench'd in the chste beams of the watery moon; |
And the imperial votaress passed on |
In maiden meditation, fancy free. |
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: |
It fell upon a little western flower, |
Before milk-white; now purpled with love's wound, |
And maidens call it, "Love in Idleness." |
[Page 307] |
|
"It ran even thus, but I took you not, my lord, for so shrewd a remembrancer," said
the queen.
"The lines might easily have passed from out my head," replied the Earl, "but they
related to my admired sovereign, and therefore were they treasured in my heart of
hearts." He laid his hand upon his breast as he spoke; Elizabeth looked pleased,
though she noticed not the speech, but turning to Shakspeare, resumed, "we have
already passed our pardon for this liberty of your pen, wherefore we rebuke it not;
and touching the licence that you seek, it shall be even as you wish, and our
secretary shall have order to prepare the patent."
"I shall be ever bound to pray for your gracious majesty," said the poet, bowing
profoundly. "God's pity! sir; they tell me that you playwrights be but scant sayers
of your prayers, and since they are henceforward to be put up for our own well and
welfare, you shall neither lack the means to proffer them, nor a memorial of her for
whom you pray." So saying, Elizabeth took a volume from a low table that stood beside
her chair, and graciously extended it to Shakspeare with these words: "The Queen
presents you her prayer-book: you may retire."10 Judging from the latter
command
[Page 308] |
|
that he was not expected to express his
gratitude, the poet kissed the volume with great reverence, pressed it to his heart,
and retired from the royal presence with repeated obeisances, not less delighted at
the success of his suit, than flattered by so signal a testimony of her Majesty's
favour and condescension.
After a prolonged conference, in which he had every reason to believe that he had
completely re-instated himself in the Queen's favour, Essex also withdrew, descending
the terraces, and crossing towards a postern gate of the park. In this route he most
unfortunately encountered the fair Mrs. Bridges, one of the maids of honor, with whom
he had long been suspected of being deeply in love, and who on his account had
already been exposed to the wrath, and even the blows of her royal mistress.
Imagining
[Page 309] |
|
himself to be screened from observation, the
enamoured Earl accosted her in such terms of fervent and high-flown gallantry as were
then in vogue among the courtiers, and placing a small collar of chrystals around
her
neck, which he declared that he had brought from Ireland expressly for her wearing,
he would have detained her still longer in dalliance, had not his Innamorata hurried
away, urging the necessity of resuming her attendance upon the Queen. Although her
Majesty had been so embowered in the arbour as not to be visible to Essex, she had
unluckily been following him with her eyes, through a treacherous loop-hole of the
leaves, and with a rage-envenomed heart had witnessed the whole transaction.
It was not without a considerable struggle that she could prevent an immediate
explosion of her fury and assume a forced composure of look and voice as she
exclaimed to the approaching offender, "So, mistress! you can find time to wait upon
us when you have finished your amorous foolery with the Lord Deputy. If there be
neither treason nor immodesty in the avowal, we would fain know what passages passed
between you."
[Page 310] |
|
"Ay, with such haste," interposed the Queen, "that you have left your partlet all
awry."
"Nothing would dissuade his lordship," resumed Mistress Bridges, blushing still
deeper, as she adjusted her ruff, "but he must needs place this Irish carcanet around
my neck."
At this confession Elizabeth could restrain herself no longer. Quick as lightning
she
bestowed upon her trembling rival a violent box on the ear, tore the collar from her
neck, dashed it to the ground, and exclaimed with a look, and voice that sufficiently
declared her to be the daughter of Henry the Eighth:
"God's death! thou hussy, thou wanton! thou gill-flirt! thou flaunting young
cockatrice! is our court and presence to be contaminated and insulted by such doings
as these? Begone! and let me never again see thy shameless face: what! did I send
this traitorous and temerarious youth to Ireland to collect carcanets for his
concubines, instead of putting chains around the rebel Tyrone. By the throne of
heaven! he shall dearly rue it. I am no Queen to be thus saucily entreated."
The terrified maid of honor shrunk away to conceal her disgrace; Elizabeth arose and
walked hastily towards the mansion, but having had a few minutes to collect herself,
and feeling probably that she had betrayed rather more violence than became her sex
and station, she turned towards her attendants, and
[Page 311] |
|
in
a tone of assumed moderation exclaimed, "For ourself, ladies, this matter touches
us
not; the disloyal minion and the frontless minx would have been forgotten in silent
scorn, but that we will neither suffer our public service to be neglected, nor the
decency of our court to be violated.
"For the latter, let the name of this flirting puppet be scratched from the list of
our maids; and touching this misproved and disobedient Lord Deputy, who has dared
to
desert his post, and return from Ireland in open defiance of our orders, we will see
that he be straightway humbled; where is our secretary? let him join us forthwith
in
the council room.
That same evening the Earl was committed a prisoner to his chamber, and after much
delay and numerous vacillations, occasioned by the miserable perplexity of the
Queen's mind, as she fluctuated between severity and returning tenderness, she at
length publicly disgraced him, and deprived him of all his great offices and
emoluments. Always haughty and ungovernable, and rendered alike desperate in fortune
and in mind by these indignities, the ill-fated Earl was driven to those frantic and
well known projects of rebellion which shortly afterwards conducted him to the
scaffold.
Figure 13: The Humble Lovers, (Head Piece)
painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
A valley green and interlaced with flowers, |
1 |
Bright with the vernal sun and April showers, |
2 |
Was consecrate to their fond youthful love; — |
3 |
And, while their gentle flocks around them fed, |
4 |
Their's was the talk of Love untutored;— |
5 |
And oft her beauty would he praise in song, |
6 |
In strains as soothing as the tender dove; — |
7 |
For sweeter measures never swept along |
8 |
Th'Ennean bright- enamelled plains, ere Dis |
9 |
Bore Ceres' offspring to his bower of bliss: — |
10 |
[Page 313] |
|
Oh!happy lovers — pure and undefiled — |
11 |
With hearts unsullied — thoughts to heaven allied; |
12 |
And bosoms like to some sweet scented stream, |
13 |
Around whose banks the roses fondly blooj, |
14 |
(Tho' for a season — such is Beauty's doom!) |
15 |
And bright shapes — such as youthful Poets dream, |
16 |
There gladly dance, and feed the waves with showers |
17 |
Of budding gems, and ordour-breathing flowers! — |
18 |
Oh! had your lot been, haply, cast among |
19 |
The gay tricked bevies ofthe city's throng, |
20 |
Ye might have followed, with bedazzled eyes, |
21 |
The lures outspread by Vice within her halls, |
22 |
Full teeming with low crouching votaries; |
23 |
Ye might have battened in the sensual stalls, |
24 |
Where vilde Indulgnce — all ashamedhg — hies. — |
25 |
Out on the erimes and sins of Capitals! |
26 |
For in their wilderness all silent stalks |
27 |
Gaunt wolfish care — and red- eyed Hatred walks |
28 |
And Anger burns, and fevered Envy toils |
29 |
To heap upon her overteeming fane |
30 |
Fresh fathered plunder, and the gory spoils |
31 |
Of white- robed Innocence, and Virtue slain; |
32 |
And crested Pride hath in loud mockery trod, |
33 |
Aping the semblance of a mighty God; |
34 |
And beautous Honor panic- stricken fled; |
35 |
While boldly followeth the minion Shame, |
36 |
Usurper base of Modesty long dead, |
37 |
And tromping forth its foul degraded name! |
38 |
[Page 314] |
|
But for my simple lover they are gone! — |
39 |
That valley now is mute — and desolate; |
40 |
No sound is heard of pipe by shepherd blown — |
41 |
No lightly carolled — joyous songs prevail — |
42 |
Save when the eve- consenting nightingale |
43 |
Gives a sweet requiem to their early fate! — |
44 |
Far in the shady dell there lies a mound |
45 |
Laved by a stream — and bright with flowers around |
46 |
And there the Rustics made their earlygrave! — |
47 |
Desease came o'er the youth — and his hot blood |
48 |
In fiery eddies boiled — until he stood |
49 |
A victim marked by Death's relentless hand — |
50 |
And then he fell — whom neither art could save |
51 |
Nor medicinal herb! — and she — the good — |
52 |
And beautiful, his loss could not withstand: — |
53 |
For what of joy could this dull world impart— |
54 |
Pale grew her cheek — and broke her tender heart! |
55 |
Peace to their slumbers — tho' no funeral stone — |
56 |
Pageant, nor gilded 'scutcheon deck their grave — |
57 |
Yet few among those hills have mourned — will mourn |
58 |
The bright, the beautiful, the young, the brave: — |
59 |
More precious tears — that love and virtue own — |
60 |
Than splendour's train, and pomp — and heart of |
61 |
stone! |
62 |
painted by R. R. Reinagle, Esq., engraved by Mr. R.
Wallis
[Page 315] |
|
Haddon within thy silent halls, |
1 |
Deserted courts, and turrets high, |
2 |
How mournfully on memory falls, |
3 |
Past scenes of antique pageantry. |
4 |
A holy spell pervades thy gloom, |
5 |
A silent charm breathes all around, |
6 |
And the dread stillness of the tomb |
7 |
Reigns o'er they hallow'd, haunted, ground. |
8 |
King of the Peak! thy hearth is lone, |
9 |
No sword- girt vassals gather there, |
10 |
No minstrel's harp pours forth its tone |
11 |
In praise of Maud or Margaret fair. |
12 |
Where are the high and stately dames |
13 |
Of princely Vernon's bannered hall? |
14 |
and where the knights, and what their names, |
15 |
Who led them forth to festival? |
16 |
[Page 316] |
|
They slumber low, and in the dust, |
17 |
Prostrate and fall'n the warrior lies; |
18 |
His faulchion's blade is dim with rust, — |
19 |
And quench'd the ray of beauty's eyes! |
20 |
Those arms which once blazed through the field |
21 |
Their brightness never shall resume, |
22 |
O'er spear and helm, and broken shield, |
23 |
Low droops the faded sullied plume. |
24 |
Arise ye! Might dead, arise! |
25 |
Can Vernon, Rutland, Stanley sleep? |
26 |
Whose gallant hearts and eagle eyes, |
27 |
Disdained alike to crouch or weep? |
28 |
And ye who owned the orbs of light, |
29 |
The golden trees — the pure fair brow — |
30 |
In the cold sleep of endless night, |
31 |
Say, do the Vernon's daughters bow? |
32 |
No, no, they wake! a seraph guard, |
33 |
To circle this their loved domain; |
34 |
Which Time has spared,nor man has marr'd |
35 |
With sacrilegious hand profane. |
36 |
Haddon! they chivalry are fled! |
37 |
The tilt and tourney's brave array, |
38 |
Where knights in steel, from heel to head, |
39 |
Bore love's or honor's prize away. |
40 |
[Page 317] |
|
No hunter's horn iis heard to sound, |
41 |
No dame with swan- like mein glides by, |
42 |
Accompanied by hawk and hound, |
43 |
On her fair plafrey joyously. |
44 |
Thy splendid sun has set innight- |
45 |
But gentle, holier, more subdued, |
46 |
Than earth's most brillian dazzling light, |
47 |
Thy moonlight garden's solitude. |
48 |
[Page 318] |
|
Moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos. |
2 |
The halo round the Seraph's head |
3 |
Too purified for thing of Earth, |
4 |
Is not more beautifully bright |
5 |
Than that celestial zone oflight, |
6 |
Which Nature's magic hand haath shed |
7 |
Around the land which gave us birth. |
8 |
Oh! — be that country beautified |
9 |
With woods that wave, and streams that glide, |
10 |
Where bounteous air and earth unfold |
11 |
The gales of health, and crops of gold; |
12 |
Let flowers and fields be ever fair; |
13 |
Let fragrance load the languid air; |
14 |
Be vines in every valley there; |
15 |
And olives on each mountain side; — |
16 |
Or — let it be a wilderness |
17 |
Where heaven and earth oppose in gloom; |
18 |
[Page 319] |
|
Where the low sun all faintly glows |
19 |
O'er regions of perennial snows; |
20 |
Still 'tis the country not the less |
21 |
Of him, who sows what ne'er may bless |
22 |
His labours with autumnal bloom! |
23 |
Yes! partial clans, in every clime, |
24 |
Since first commenced the march of Time, |
25 |
Where'er they rest — there'er they roam — |
26 |
All unforgot, |
27 |
Have still a spot |
28 |
Which Memory loves, and heart calls — home! |
29 |
From where Antarctic oceans roar |
30 |
Round Patadonia's mountain shore; |
31 |
To where grim Hecla's cone aspires, |
32 |
With sides of snow, and throat of fires! |
33 |
Printer's Mark
Index of Embellishments by Painter, Engraver
Brandard, Mr., engraver |
Sans Souci |
Ensom, W., engraver |
Queen Elizabeth, Essex, and Shakespeare |
Finden, Edward,, engraver |
The Oriental Love-Letter |
Fox, Augustus, engraver |
The Dreams of the Infant Shakespeare, The Humble Lovers, The Poet's Invocation, The Warriors, A Village Festival |
Humphreys, W., engraver |
The Boy and Dog, The Child and Flowers, The Vignette Title, Cupid in a Wreath |
Lawrence, Thomas, painter |
The Boy and Dog, The Child and Flowers, A Portrait of a Lady |
Pickersgill, H.W., painter |
The Oriental Love-Letter |
Reinagle, R.R., painter |
Haddon Hall |
Stothard, Thomas, painter |
The Humble Lovers, The Poet's Invocation, Queen Elizabeth, Essex, and Shakespeare, Sans Souci, The Vignette Title, Cupid in a Wreath, A Village Festival, The Warriors |
Wallis, R., engraver |
Haddon Hall |
Westall, Richard, painter |
The Dreams of the Infant Shakespeare |
Wilkie, David, painter |
Sir Walter Scott and Family |
Worthington, W. H. , engraver |
A Portrait of a Lady, Sir Walter Scott and Family, Suitors Rejected |
Wright, A.,, engraver |
Suitors Rejected |
Algalabra, Don Juan |
The Night Before the Battle of Montiel |
Anonymous (see also "Unknown"), Author of "Stray Leaves," |
The Purple Evening |
Anonymous (see also "Unknown"), "A Tyro," |
An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire |
B., H. ["H.B."] |
Haddon Hall |
Bird, John, Esq. |
Canzonet |
Bowles, Rev. William Lisle (1762-1850) |
On His Majesty's Return to Windsor Castle |
Brydges, Sir Egerton. |
Sonnets |
Carrington, N.T. |
The Hellweathers |
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834) |
A Day Dream, The Two Founts, The Wanderings of Cain, Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February, Youth and Age |
Cornwall, Barry (1787-1874) [pseud. for Bryan Procter] |
Beau Leverton, A Familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence, To My Child |
Croft, Sir Thomas E. |
The Rose |
Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842) |
The Poet Warrior |
Delta (see also Moir, David Macbeth) |
Our Native Land |
Fraser, William |
Humble Love, On a Little Girl, Preface |
Gleig, George Robert (1796-1888) "Anonymous, Author of 'The Subaltern,'"
|
Marie's Grave |
Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne (1793-1835) |
The Child and Flowers |
Hervey, Thomas Kibble (1799-1859) |
Anacreontic, Song |
Hogg, James (1770-1835) |
An Aged Widow's Own Words, Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral |
Hood, Thomas (1799-1845) |
A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry |
Jameson, Anna (Mrs.) (1794-1860), "Anonymous, Writer of the 'Diary of an
Ennuyée.'"
|
Halloran the Pedlar: An Irish Story |
Lamb, Caroline (1775-1834) |
To a Friend |
Lamb, Charles (1775-1834) |
Lines Written in the Vail of Zoar, Verses for an Album |
Landon, Letitia Elizabeth (902-1838) |
The City of the Dead, Sans Souci |
Leeds, W.H. |
From S.P. Wolff |
Lockhart, John Gibson (1794-1854) |
Ballad from the Norman French |
Mitford, Mary Russell (1787-1855) |
Jessy of Kibe's Farm, The Lover's Invocation |
Moir, David Macbeth ["Delta"] |
Our Native Land |
Montgomery, James (1771-1854) |
A Smile, On A Lady's Portraits |
Neele, Henry (1798-1828) |
Mount Carmel |
Pickersgill, Mrs. |
The Oriental Love-Letter |
Richardson, D.L. |
Morning |
Roberts, Emma. |
The Suitors Rejected |
Scott, Walter (1771-1832) |
Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart |
Smith, Horace (1770-1849) |
Essex and the Maid of Honour, Inscription for a Grotto |
Southey, Robert (1774-1843) |
Imitation from the Persian, Scotland |
"Unknown" (see also Anonymous) |
The Epistle of Servius to Marcus Tullius Cicero, The Epistle of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Servius Sulpicius, The Infant Shakespeare, From the Italian, The Ritter Von Reichenstein, Sketch from Life: A Sentimental Story |
White, Joseph Blanco. |
Night and Death: A Sonnet |
1. [Note to Preface:] A few stanzas of the Ballad by Mr. Lockhart
were printed in the “Janus” for 1826. It is so considerably improved and enlarged,
the translation being now complete, as to assume a new character. [Bijou Editor,
William Fraser.] Back
2. [Note to Preface:] Mr. Gillies
beautiful Poem called “The seventh Day,” is, for want of space, reserved for the
next volume. [Bijou Editor, William Fraser.] Back
3. [Note to "The Hellweathers":] A
few hours before the ships struck, Sir Cloudesley Shovel hove out the signal to
lie to, in order to ascertain the situation of the fleet. [Author, N.T.
Carrington.] Back
4. [Note to "Ane Waefu'
Scots Pastoral":] These verses were written on the evening of the 23rd of
April, 1827, about the time the great storm of snow was at the height. Next
morning many of the snow wreathes on the hills of Ettrick Forest were from
twelve to twenty feet deep, and many thousands of lambs, singing birds, and
moor game perished. All those of the latter that had begun incubation were
literally destroyed. [Author, James Hogg.] Back
5. [Note to "Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral":] SANDY or SANDY-LAVEROCK
is the local name in Ettrick for the sand piper. [Author, James Hogg.] Back
6. [Note to "The
Ritter Von Reichenstein":] This Austrian story has its foundation in fact. The
ruins of Reichenstein Castle are still visible in the district of Muhl, on the
river Ens; and in the chapel is the Baron's monument, finely executed by an
Italian master. [Fraser and/or Author.] Back
7. [Note to "A
Familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence":] The children of Mr. Calmeady.
[Fraser and/or Author] Back
8. [Note to "A Familiar
Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence":] See the accompanying
Engraving. [Bijou Editor, William Fraser] Back
9. [Note to "An
Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esq.":]Not the town, (which would be of
little service to a dunce) but a learned and ingenious conveyancer of that
name. [Fraser or Author.] Back
10. [Note to "Essex and the Maid of
Honour":] The book thus presented Shakespeare, we may suppose to be that beautiful
and rare volume, described by Dr. Dibdin in his Bibliographical Decameron, and
known among collectors as Queen Elizabeth's Prayer Book. Through the friendship of
Mr. Freeling (from a copy in his possession) the Proprietors are enabled to
present an admirable facsimile of one leaf. The extract, is part of a prayer by
the celebrated John Fox, author of the Book of Martyrs. Dr. Dibdin says, "I wish I
knew more of the private history of this elegant volume at all events if you feel
disposed to loosen your purse strings, purchase one of the earlier editions of it,
on account of the superior sharpness or truth of the outline." The Doctor adds
that the first edition is dated 1569, the second 1578, the third 1581, the fourth
1590, and the fifth 1608. [Author, Horace Smith.] Back
11. [Note to "Our Native Land":] A poem identical to this one appears in the 1852
Poetical Works by David Macbeth Moir. [Poetess Archive Editor.] Back