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diff --git a/10730-h/10730-h.htm b/10730-h/10730-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0636e62 --- /dev/null +++ b/10730-h/10730-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1793 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 12, Issue 344 (Supplementary Issue) +, by Various</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + + .note, .footnote + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + .figure + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em; margin: auto;} + .figure img + {border: none;} + .figure p + + .side { float:right; + font-size: 75%; + width: 25%; + padding-left:10px; + border-left: dashed thin; + margin-left: 10px; + text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + font-style: italic;} + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + --> +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10730 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and +Instruction, Vol. 12, Issue 344 (Supplementary Issue) +, by Various</h1> +***</p> + +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page369" name="page369"></a>[pg +369]</span> +<h1>THE MIRROR<br /> +OF<br /> +LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.</h1> +<hr class="full" /> +<table width="100%" summary="Vol., No., Date"> +<tr> +<td align="left"><b>Vol. XII. No. 344.</b></td> +<td align="center"><b>SUPPLEMENTARY NUMBER</b></td> +<td align="right"><b>[PRICE 2d.</b></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>Ehrenbreitstein on Rhine.</h2> +<div class="figure" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/344-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/344-1.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall,</p> +<p>Black with the miners' blast, upon her height,</p> +<p>Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball</p> +<p>Rebounding idly on her strength, did light;</p> +<p>A tower of victory! from whence the flight</p> +<p>Of baffled foes was watched along the plain:</p> +<p>But peace destroyed what war could never blight,</p> +<p>And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain,</p> +<p>On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Childe Harold.</i></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<h3>SPIRIT OF THE "ANNUALS."</h3> +<p>We have the pleasure of presenting to the readers of the MIRROR, +the completion of our notices of these very elegant publications; +and in pursuance of the plan of our former Supplement, we are +enabled to assemble within the present sheet the characteristics of +<i>eight works</i>, whilst our quotations include <i>fourteen</i> +prose tales and sketches, and poetical pieces, of great merit.</p> +<p>The above engraving and its pendant are copied from the +<i>Literary Souvenir</i>, specially noticed in our last Supplement. +The original is a drawing by J.M.W. Turner, R.A. and the plate in +the <i>Souvenir</i> is by J. Pye—both artists of high +excellence in their respective departments:—</p> +<p>The waters of the Rhine have long maintained their pre-eminence, +as forming one of the mightiest and loveliest among the highways of +Europe.</p> +<p>But among all its united trophies of art and nature, there is +not one more brightly endowed with picturesque beauty, or romantic +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page370" id="page370"></a>[pg +370]</span> association, than the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. When +the eye of our own Childe Harold rested upon its "shattered wall," +and when the pencil of Turner immortalized its season of +desolation, it had been smitten in the pride of its strength by the +iron glaive of war: and its blackened fragments and stupendous +ruins had their voice for the heart of the moralist, as well as +their charm for the inspired mind of genius. But now that military +art hath knit those granite ribs anew,—now that the beautiful +eminence rears once more its crested head, like a sculptured +Cybele, with a coronet of towers,—new feelings, and an +altered scale of admiration wait upon its glories. Once more it +uplifts its giant height beside the Rhine, repelling in Titan +majesty the ambition of France; once more, by its united gifts of +natural position and scientific aid, it appears prepared to +vindicate its noble appellation of "the broad stone of honour."</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Musical Souvenir.</h2> +<p>This is an elegant little collection of seven songs, a trio, +duet, and glee, set to music, or "as they are appointed to be said +or sung." As we have not our musical types in order, we can only +give our readers a specimen of its literary merits. The first piece +is Akenside's beautiful Invocation to Cheerfulness; this is +pleasingly contrasted with a Song to the Forget-me-not, by Mrs. +Opie. Then follow five pieces from recent volumes of Friendship's +Offering and the Amulet. The three remaining compositions +(expressly for the work) are a Song by T. Bradford, Esq.; a Scotch +Song, by Mr. Feist; and the following pathetic Lines, by the Rev. +Thomas Dale:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">Oft as the broad sun dips</p> +<p class="i4">Beneath the western sea,</p> +<p class="i2">A prayer is on my lips,</p> +<p class="i4">Dearest! a prayer for thee.</p> +<p>I know not where thou wand'rest now,</p> +<p>O'er ocean-wave, or mountain brow—</p> +<p class="i2">I only know that He,</p> +<p class="i4">Who hears the suppliant's prayer,</p> +<p class="i2">Where'er thou art, on land or sea,</p> +<p class="i4">Alone can shield thee there.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">Oft as the bright dawn breaks</p> +<p class="i4">Behind the eastern hill,</p> +<p class="i2">Mine eye from slumber wakes,</p> +<p class="i4">My heart is with the still—</p> +<p>For thee my latest vows were said,</p> +<p>For thee my earliest prayers are pray'd—</p> +<p class="i2">And O! when storms shall lour</p> +<p class="i4">Above the swelling sea,</p> +<p class="i2">Be it thy shield, in danger's hour,</p> +<p class="i4">That I have pray'd for thee.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Whether we consider the purity of its sentiments and the amiable +tone of feeling, or its merit as a musical work, we are induced to +recommend the present volume as an elegant present for a musical +friend, and it will doubtless become a favourite with thousands of +graceful pianists. Thanks to the Muses, our lyrical poetry is +rapidly rising in the literary scale, when such beautiful +compositions as those of Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon are no sooner +written than set to music.</p> +<p>The <i>Musical Souvenir</i> is embellished with two engravings +and a presentation plate, and bound in crimson silk—so that +it has all the attractions of the annual Christmas presents, except +<i>prose</i>.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Keepsake.</h2> +<h4><i>Edited by F.M. Reynolds, Esq.</i></h4> +<p>This is a magnificent affair, and is one of the proud triumphs +of the union of Painting, Engraving, and Literature—to which +we took occasion to allude in a recent number of THE MIRROR. Each +department is <i>unique</i>, and the lists are like the Morning +Post account of a drawing room, or Almack's—the princes of +the arts, and the peers of the pen. <i>Painters</i>—Lawrence, +Howard, Corbould, Westall, Turner, Landseer, Stephanoff, Chalon, +Stothard, &c. <i>Engravers</i>—C. Heath, Finden, +Engleheart, Portbury, Wallis, Rolls, Goodyear, &c. +<i>Contributors</i>—Scott, Mackintosh, Moore, the Lords +Normanby, Morpeth, Porchester, Holland, Gower, and Nugent; +Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Hook, Lockhart, Croker, +Mrs. Hemans, and Miss Landon; and the cost of the whole <i>eleven +thousand guineas!</i> Of course, such a book has not been the work +of a day, month, or, perhaps, a year; and its literature entitles +it to a permanent place in the library, where we hope to see it +stand <i>auro perennius</i>; were its fate to be otherwise, we +should condemn the public—for we hate ingratitude in every +shape—and write in the first page the epitaph—<i>For, +O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot</i>. A guinea to +twopence—Hyperion to a Satyr—how can we extend the fame +of <i>The Keepsake!</i></p> +<p>We cannot particularize the engravings; but they are all worthy +companions of the frontispiece—a lovely portrait of Mrs. +Peel, engraved by Heath, from Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture. In the +literary department—a very court of fiction—is, My Aunt +Margaret's Mirror, a tale of forty-four pages; and, The Tapestried +Chamber, by Sir Walter Scott; both much too long for extract, which +would indeed be almost unfair. Next comes an exquisite +gem—</p> +<h3>ON LOVE.</h3> +<h4><i>By Percy Bysshe Shelley</i>.</h4> +<p>What is Love? Ask him who lives <span class="pagenum"><a name= +"page371" id="page371"></a>[pg 371]</span> what is life; ask him +who adores what is God.</p> +<p>I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even of +thine whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes +they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have +thought to appeal to something in common, and unburden my inmost +soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a +distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded +me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, +and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been +withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to sustain such proof, +trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have every where +sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment.</p> +<p><i>Thou</i> demandest what is Love. It is that powerful +attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope, beyond +ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an +insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a +community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason we +would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children +of our brain were born anew within another's; if we feel, we would +that another's nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of +their eyes should kindle at once, and mix and melt into our own; +that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and +burning with the heart's best blood:—this is Love. This is +the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but +with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and +there is something within us, which, from the instant that we live, +more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in +correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the +bosom of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the +development of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual +nature, a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of +all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing +excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging +to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, +but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is +composed: a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity +and brightness: a soul within our own soul that describes a circle +around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not +overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that +they should resemble and correspond with it. The discovery of its +antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly +estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and +seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have +delighted to cherish and unfold in secret, with a frame, whose +nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the +accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations +of our own; and a combination of all these in such proportion as +the type within demands: this is the invisible and unattainable +point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the +powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the +possession of which, there is no rest or respite to the heart over +which it rules. Hence in solitude, or that deserted state when we +are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with +us; we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the +motion of the very leaves of Spring, in the blue air, there is then +found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in +the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the +rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable +relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to dances +of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to +the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of +one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a +desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is +dead, man becomes a living sepulchre of himself, and what yet +survives is the mere husk of what once he was.</p> +<hr /> +<p>This and a fragment, with a character of Mr. Canning, by Sir +James Mackintosh, are the <i>transcendentals</i> of the volume; as +are the tale—The Half-brothers, by Mr. Banim, with an +Ossian-like plate of the heroine; The Sisters of Albano, by Mrs. +Shelley—Death of the Laird's Jock, by the author of +Waverley—and Ferdinando Eboli, by Mrs. Shelley, with +Adelinda, a plate, by Heath, on which we could feast our eyes for a +full hour. Next, a sketch, by Theodore Hook, part of which will +serve to vary our sheet:—</p> +<h3>THE OLD GENTLEMAN.</h3> +<p>"To-morrow morning," said my friend, "when you awake, the power +will be your own; and so, sir, I wish you a very good +night."—"But, sir," said I, anxious to be better assured of +the speedy fulfilment of the <span class="pagenum"><a name= +"page372" id="page372"></a>[pg 372]</span> wish of my heart, (for +such indeed it was,) "may I have the honour of knowing your name +and address?"—"Ha, ha, ha!" said the old gentleman; +"<i>my</i> name and address; ha, ha, ha! my name is pretty familiar +to you, young gentleman; and as for my address, I dare say you will +find your way to me some day or another, and so, once more, good +night."—Saying which, he descended the stairs and quitted the +house, leaving me to surmise who my extraordinary visiter could be. +I never <i>knew</i>; but I recollect, that after he was gone, I +heard one of the old ladies scolding a servant-girl for wasting so +many matches in lighting the candles, and making such a terrible +smell of brimstone in the house. I was now all anxiety to get to +bed, not because I was sleepy, but because it seemed to me as if +going to bed would bring me nearer to the time of getting up, when +I should be master of the miraculous power which had been promised +me. I rang the bell; my servant was still out; it was unusual for +him to be absent at so late an hour. I waited until the clock +struck eleven, but he came not; and resolving to reprimand him in +the morning, I retired to rest. Contrary to my expectation, and, as +it seemed to me, to the ordinary course of nature, considering the +excitement under which I was labouring, I had scarcely laid my head +on my pillow before I dropped into a profound slumber, from which I +was only aroused by my servant's entrance to my room. The instant I +awoke, I sat up in bed, and began to reflect on what had passed, +and for a moment to doubt whether it had not been all a dream. +However, it was daylight; the period had arrived when the proof of +my newly acquired power might be made.—"Barton," said I to my +man, "why were you not at home last night?"—"I had to wait, +sir, nearly three hours," he replied, "for an answer to the letter +which you sent to Major Sheringham."—"That is not true," said +I; and, to my infinite surprise, I appeared to <i>recollect</i> a +series of occurrences, of which I never had previously heard, and +could have known nothing: "you went to see your sweetheart, Betsy +Collyer, at Camberwell, and took her to a tea-garden, and gave her +cakes and cider, and saw her home again: you mean to do exactly the +same thing on Sunday, and to-morrow you mean to ask me for your +quarter's wages, although not due till Monday, in order to buy her +a new shawl."—The man stood aghast: it was all true. I was +quite as much surprised as the man.—"Sir," said Barton, who +had served me for seven years without having once been found fault +with, "I see you think me unworthy your confidence; you could not +have known this, if you had not watched, and followed, and +overheard me and my sweetheart; my character will get me through +the world without being looked after. I can stay with you no +longer; you will please, sir, to provide yourself with another +servant."—"But Barton," said I, "I did not follow or watch +you; I—"—"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied; "it is +not for <i>me</i> to contradict; but you'll forgive me, sir, I +would rather go; I <i>must</i> go."</p> +<p>At this moment I was on the very point of easing his mind, and +retaining my faithful servant by a disclosure of my power; but it +was yet too new to be parted with; so I affected an anger I did not +feel, and told him he might go where he pleased. I had, however, +ascertained that the old gentleman had not deceived me in his +promises; and, elated with the possession of my extraordinary +faculty, I hurried the operation of dressing, and before I had +concluded it, my ardent friend Sheringham was announced; he was +waiting in the breakfast-room. At the same moment, a note from the +lovely Fanny Haywood was delivered to me—from the divine girl +who, in the midst of all my scientific abstraction, could "chain my +worldly feelings for a moment." "Sheringham, my dear fellow," said +I, as I advanced to welcome him, "what makes you so early a visiter +this morning?"—"An anxiety," replied Sheringham, "to tell you +that my uncle, whose interest I endeavoured to procure for you, in +regard to the appointment for which you expressed a desire, has +been compelled to recommend a relation of the marquess; this gives +me real pain, but I thought it would be best to put you out of +suspense as soon as possible."—"Major Sheringham," said I, +drawing myself up coldly, "if this matter concerns you so deeply as +you seem to imply that it does, might I ask why you so readily +agreed to your uncle's proposition or chimed in with his +suggestion, to bestow the appointment on this relation of the +marquess, in order that <i>you</i> might, in return for it, obtain +the promotion for which you are so anxious?"—"My dear +fellow," said Sheringham, evidently confused, +"I—I—never chimed in; my uncle certainly pointed out +the possibility to which you allude, but <i>that</i> was merely +contingent upon what he could not refuse to +do."—"Sheringham," said I, "your uncle has already secured +for you the promotion, and you will be gazetted for the +lieutenant-colonelcy of your regiment on Tuesday. I am not to be +told that you <span class="pagenum"><a name="page373" id= +"page373"></a>[pg 373]</span> called at the Horse-guards, in your +way to your uncle's yesterday, to ascertain the correctness of the +report of the vacancy which you had received from your friend +Macgregor; or that <i>you</i>, elated by the prospect before you, +were the person, in fact, to suggest the arrangement which has been +made, and promise your uncle 'to smooth me over' for the +present."—"Sir," said Sheringham, "where you picked up this +intelligence I know not; but I must say, that such mistrust, after +years of undivided intimacy, is not becoming, or consistent with +the character which I hitherto supposed you to possess. When by +sinister means the man we look upon as a friend descends to be a +spy upon our actions, confidence is at an end, and the sooner our +intercourse ceases, the better. Without some such conduct, how +could you become possessed of the details upon which you have +grounded your opinion of my conduct?"—"I—," and here +again was a temptation to confess and fall; but I had not the +courage to do it. "Suffice it, Major Sheringham, to say, I knew it; +and, moreover, I know, that when you leave me, your present +irritation will prompt you to go to your uncle and check the +disposition he feels at this moment to serve me."—"This is +too much, sir," said Sheringham; "this must be our last interview, +unless indeed your unguarded conduct towards me, and your +intemperate language concerning me, may render one more meeting +necessary; and so, sir, here ends our acquaintance."—Saying +which, Sheringham, whose friendship even to my enlightened eye was +nearly as sincere as any other man's, quitted my room, fully +convinced of my meanness and unworthiness; my heart sank within me +when I heard the door close upon him for the last time. I now +possessed the power I had so long desired, and in less than an hour +had lost a valued friend and a faithful servant. Nevertheless, +Barton <i>had</i> told me a falsehood, and Sheringham <i>was</i> +gazetted on the Tuesday night.</p> +<hr /> +<p>I went into the Water-colour Exhibition at Charing-cross; there +I heard two artists complimenting each other, while their hearts +were bursting with mutual envy. There, too, I found a mild, +modest-looking lady, listening to the bewitching nothings of her +husband's particular friend; and I knew, as I saw her frown and +abruptly turn away from him with every appearance of real +indignation, that she had at that very moment mentally resolved to +elope with him the following night. In Harding's shop I found +authors congregated "to laugh the sultry hours away," each watching +to catch his neighbour's weak point, and make it subject matter of +mirth in his evening's conversation. I saw a viscount help his +father out of his carriage with every mark of duty and veneration, +and knew that he was actually languishing for the earldom and +estates of the venerable parent of whose health he was apparently +taking so much care. At Howell and James's I saw more than I could +tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that I have; and I +concluded my tour by dropping in at the National Gallery, where the +ladies and gentlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were +actively employed in looking at the pictures, and thinking of +themselves. Oh! it was a strange time then, when every man's heart +was open to me, and I could sit, and see, and hear, all that was +going on, and know the workings of the inmost feelings of my +associates; however, I must not detain the reader with +reflections.</p> +<hr /> +<p>Clorinda, or the Necklace of Pearl, is an intensely interesting +tale by Lord Normanby, with a most effective illustration by +Heath.</p> +<p>But the prose of the "Keepsake" is decidedly superior to the +<i>poetry</i>, notwithstanding the high names in the latter list. +Mr. Moore's contribution is, however, only sixteen lines. The +poetical pieces consist chiefly of fragments or +"scraps"—among which those on Italy, by Lord Morpeth; and +three by Shelley, are very beautiful. Our specimen is—</p> +<h3>THE VICTIM BRIDE.</h3> +<h4><i>By W.H. Harrison.</i></h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I saw her in her summer bow'r, and oh! upon my sight</p> +<p>Methought there never beam'd a form more beautiful and +bright!</p> +<p>So young, so fair, she seem'd as one of those aerial things</p> +<p>That live but in the poet's high and wild imaginings;</p> +<p>Or like those forms we meet in dreams from which we wake, and +weep</p> +<p>That earth has no creation like the figments of our sleep.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Her parent—loved not he his child above all earthly +things!</p> +<p>As traders love the merchandize from which their profit +springs:</p> +<p>Old age came by, with tott'ring step, and, for the sordid +gold</p> +<p>With which the dotard urged his suit, the maiden's peace was +sold</p> +<p>And thus (for oh! her sire's stern heart was steel'd against her +pray'r)</p> +<p>The hand he ne'er had gain'd from love, he won from her +despair.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I saw them through the churchyard pass, but such a nuptial +train</p> +<p>I would not for the wealth of worlds should greet my sight +again.</p> +<p>The bridemaids, each as beautiful as Eve in Eden's bow'rs,</p> +<p>Shed bitter tears upon the path they should have strewn with +flow'rs.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page374" id="page374"></a>[pg +374]</span> +<p>Who had not deem'd that white rob'd band the funeral array,</p> +<p>Of one an early doom had call'd from life's gay scene away!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The priest beheld the bridal group before the altar stand,</p> +<p>And sigh'd as he drew forth his book with slow reluctant +hand:</p> +<p>He saw the bride's flow'r-wreathed hair, and mark'd her +streaming eyes,</p> +<p>And deem'd it less a Christian rite than a Pagan sacrifice;</p> +<p>And when he call'd on Abraham's God to bless the wedded +pair,</p> +<p>It seem'd a very mockery to breathe so vain a pray'r.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I saw the palsied bridegroom too, in youth's gay ensigns +drest;</p> +<p>A shroud were fitter garment far for him than bridal vest;</p> +<p>I mark'd him when the ring was claim'd, 'twas hard to loose his +hold,</p> +<p>He held it with a miser's clutch—it was his darling +gold.</p> +<p>His shrivell'd hand was wet with tears she pour'd, alas! in +vain,</p> +<p>And it trembled like an autumn leaf beneath the beating +rain.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I've seen her since that fatal morn—her golden fetters +rest</p> +<p>As e'en the weight of incubus, upon her aching breast.</p> +<p>And when the victor, Death, shall come to deal the welcome +blow,</p> +<p>He will not find one rose to swell the wreath that decks his +brow:</p> +<p>For oh! her cheek is blanch'd by grief which time may not +assuage,—</p> +<p>Thus early Beauty sheds her bloom on the wintry breast of +Age.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Our commendation of the "Keepsake" might be extended much +further, were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its +high character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of +talent as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its +success,</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We congratulate the proprietors on their prospects of +remuneration, for the attractions of their publication are +irresistible. It is altogether a splendid enterprise, and we doubt +not the reward will be more than proportionate to the expectation +it has raised—both in the proprietors and their +patrons—the public.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Anniversary,</h2> +<h4><i>Edited by Allan Cunningham.</i></h4> +<p>Perhaps we are getting too panegyrical, for panegyric savours of +the poppy; but we must not flinch from our duty.</p> +<p><i>Allan Cunningham</i>—there is poetry in the name, +written or sung—and high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every +production to which that name is attached—and among these +"The Anniversary for 1829." All the departments of this work too, +(as in the "Keepsake") are unique. Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor, is a +man of refined taste, his Editor and his contributors are men of +first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers are of the first +rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham's +Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a +combination of talent, and so it proves in the <i>Anniversary</i>. +As might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the +volume is superior in its poetical attractions—both in number +and quality.</p> +<p>By way of variety, we begin with the <i>poetry</i>. First is a +stirring little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a +humorous epistle from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in +which the laureat deals forth his ire on the "misresemblances and +villanous visages" which have been published as his portrait.<a id= +"footnotetag1" name="footnotetag1"></a><a href= +"#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a> Next is a gem of another water, +Edderline's Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed editor of +"Blackwood's Magazine." This is throughout a very beautiful +composition, but we must content ourselves with the following +extract:—</p> +<h3>EDDERLINE'S SLEEP.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night,</p> +<p>For the moon is swept from the starless heaven,</p> +<p>And the latest line of lowering light</p> +<p>That lingered on the stormy even,</p> +<p>A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,</p> +<p>Hath sunk into the weltering grave.</p> +<p>Castle-Oban is dark without and within,</p> +<p>And downwards to the fearful din,</p> +<p>Where Ocean with his thunder shocks</p> +<p>Stuns the green foundation rocks,</p> +<p>Through the green abyss that mocks his eye,</p> +<p>Oft hath the eerie watchman sent</p> +<p>A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,</p> +<p>From the edge of the howling battlement!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Therein is a lonesome room,</p> +<p>Undisturbed as some old tomb</p> +<p>That, built within a forest glen,</p> +<p>Far from feet of living men,</p> +<p>And sheltered by its black pine-trees</p> +<p>From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,</p> +<p>Flings back its arched gateway tall,</p> +<p>At times to some great funeral!</p> +<p>Noiseless as a central cell</p> +<p>In the bosom of a mountain</p> +<p>Where the fairy people dwell,</p> +<p>By the cold and sunless fountain!</p> +<p>Breathless as a holy shrine,</p> +<p>When the voice of psalms is shed!</p> +<p>And there upon her stately bed,</p> +<p>While her raven locks recline</p> +<p>O'er an arm more pure than snow,</p> +<p>Motionless beneath her head,—</p> +<p>And through her large fair eyelids shine</p> +<p>Shadowy dreams that come and go,</p> +<p>By too deep bliss disquieted,—</p> +<p>There sleeps in love and beauty's glow,</p> +<p>The high-born Lady Edderline.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light,</p> +<p>Glide,—gliding round the golden rim!</p> +<p>Restored to life, now glancing bright,</p> +<p>Now just expiring, faint and dim!</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page375" id="page375"></a>[pg +375]</span> +<p>"Like a spirit loath to die,</p> +<p>Contending with its destiny.</p> +<p>All dark! a momentary veil</p> +<p>Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale</p> +<p>Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,</p> +<p>And now the calm face of the saint</p> +<p>With every feature re-appears,</p> +<p>Celestial in unconscious tears!</p> +<p>Another gleam! how sweet the while,</p> +<p>Those pictured faces on the wall,</p> +<p>Through the midnight silence smile!</p> +<p>Shades of fair ones, in the aisle</p> +<p>Vaulted the castle cliffs below,</p> +<p>To nothing mouldered, one and all,</p> +<p>Ages long ago!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"From her pillow, as if driven</p> +<p>By an unseen demon's hand</p> +<p>Disturbing the repose of heaven,</p> +<p>Hath fallen her head! The long black hair</p> +<p>From the fillet's silken band</p> +<p>In dishevelled masses riven,</p> +<p>Is streaming downwards to the floor.</p> +<p>Is the last convulsion o'er?</p> +<p>And will that length of glorious tresses,</p> +<p>So laden with the soul's distresses.</p> +<p>By those fair hands in morning light,</p> +<p>Above those eyelids opening bright,</p> +<p>Be braided nevermore!</p> +<p>No, the lady is not dead,</p> +<p>Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed;</p> +<p>Like a wretched corse upon the shore,</p> +<p>That lies until the morning brings</p> +<p>Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;</p> +<p>Or, haply, to all eyes unknown,</p> +<p>Is borne away without a groan,</p> +<p>On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries</p> +<p>Of birds that pierce the sunny skies</p> +<p>With seaward dash, or in calm bands</p> +<p>Parading o'er the silvery sands,</p> +<p>Or mid the lovely flush of shells,</p> +<p>Pausing to burnish crest or wing.</p> +<p>No fading footmark see that tells</p> +<p>Of that poor unremembered thing!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"O dreadful is the world of dreams,</p> +<p>When all that world a chaos seems</p> +<p>Of thoughts so fixed before!</p> +<p>When heaven's own face is tinged with blood!</p> +<p>And friends cross o'er our solitude,</p> +<p>Now friends of our's no more!</p> +<p>Or dearer to our hearts than ever.</p> +<p>Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour,</p> +<p>Their pale and palsied hands,</p> +<p>To clasp us phantoms, as we go</p> +<p>Along the void like drifting snow.</p> +<p>To far-off nameless lands!</p> +<p>Yet all the while we know not why,</p> +<p>Nor where those dismal regions lie,</p> +<p>Half hoping that a curse to so deep</p> +<p>And wild can only be in sleep,</p> +<p>And that some overpowering scream</p> +<p>Will break the fetters of the dream,</p> +<p>And let us back to waking life,</p> +<p>Filled though it be with care and strife;</p> +<p>Since there at least the wretch can know</p> +<p>The meanings on the face of woe,</p> +<p>Assured that no mock shower is shed</p> +<p>Of tears upon the real dead,</p> +<p>Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss,</p> +<p>When bending o'er the death-like cheek</p> +<p>Of one who scarcely seems alive,</p> +<p>At every cold but breathing kiss.</p> +<p>He hears a saving angel speak—</p> +<p>'Thy love will yet revive!'"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then comes A Farewell to the year, one of Mr. Lockhart's elegant +translations from the Spanish; a pretty portrait of rustic +simplicity—the Little Gleaner, by the editor; and some +playful lines by M.A. Shee, accompanying an engraving from his own +picture of the Lost Ear-Rings. The Wedding Wake, by George Darley, +Esq. is an exquisite picture of saddened beauty. The Ettrick +Shepherd has the Carle of Invertine—a powerful composition, +and the Cameronian Preacher, a prose tale, of equal effect. In +addition to the pieces already mentioned, by the editor, is one of +extraordinary excellence—the Magic Bridle: his Lines to a Boy +plucking Blackberries, are a very pleasing picture of +innocence:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i8">There stay in joy,</p> +<p>Pluck, pluck, and eat thou happy boy;</p> +<p>Sad fate abides thee. Thou mayst grow</p> +<p>A man: for God may deem it so,</p> +<p>I wish thee no such harm, sweet child:</p> +<p>Go, whilst thou'rt innocent and mild:</p> +<p>Go, ere earth's passions, fierce and proud,</p> +<p>Rend thee as lightning rend the cloud:</p> +<p>Go, go, life's day is in the dawn:</p> +<p>Go, wait not, wish not to be man.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>One of his pieces we quote entire:—</p> +<h3>THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"I'll launch my gallant bark no more,</p> +<p class="i2">Nor smile to see how gay</p> +<p>Its pennon dances, as we bound</p> +<p class="i2">Along the watery way;</p> +<p>The wave I walk on's mine—the god</p> +<p class="i2">I worship is the breeze;</p> +<p>My rudder is my magic rod</p> +<p class="i2">Of rule, on isles and seas:</p> +<p>Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France,</p> +<p class="i2">Or shores of swarthy Spain:</p> +<p>Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord,</p> +<p class="i2">When monarch of the main.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"When last upon the surge I rode,</p> +<p class="i2">A strong wind on me shot,</p> +<p>And tossed me as I toss my plume,</p> +<p class="i2">In battle fierce and hot.</p> +<p>Three days and nights no sun I saw,</p> +<p class="i2">Nor gentle star nor moon;</p> +<p>Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks,</p> +<p class="i2">I sang to see it—soon</p> +<p>The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,</p> +<p class="i2">Broad dimpling smiled the brine;</p> +<p>I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made</p> +<p class="i2">Half of her riches mine.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"The wild hawk wets her yellow foot</p> +<p class="i2">In blood of serf and king:</p> +<p>Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,</p> +<p class="i2">And helm and cuirass ring;</p> +<p>The foam flies from the charger's flanks,</p> +<p class="i2">Like wreaths of winter's snow;</p> +<p>Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start</p> +<p class="i2">In thousands from the bow—</p> +<p>Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all</p> +<p class="i2">Use tongue and tuneful chord—</p> +<p>Be mute!—My music is the clang</p> +<p class="i2">Of cleaving axe and sword.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust</p> +<p class="i2">In mortar and in stone;</p> +<p>Who rears a wall, or builds a tower,</p> +<p class="i2">Or makes on earth his throne;</p> +<p>My monarch throne's the willing wave,</p> +<p class="i2">That bears me on the beach;</p> +<p>My sepulchre's the deep sea surge,</p> +<p class="i2">Where lead shall never reach;</p> +<p>My death-song is the howling wind,</p> +<p class="i2">That bends my quivering mast,—</p> +<p>Bid England's maidens join the song,</p> +<p class="i2">I there made orphans last.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me</p> +<p class="i2">Oft, oft, by frith and flood,</p> +<p>I called ye forth to feast on kings;</p> +<p class="i2">Who now shall give ye food?</p> +<p>Mourn, too, thou deep-devouring sea,</p> +<p class="i2">For of earth's proudest lords</p> +<p>We served thee oft a sumptuous feast</p> +<p class="i2">With our sharp shining swords;</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page376" id="page376"></a>[pg +376]</span> +<p>Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou'lt hear</p> +<p class="i2">Armed thousands shout my name.</p> +<p>Nor see me rushing, red wet shod,</p> +<p class="i2">Through cities doomed to flame.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"My race is run, my flight is flown;</p> +<p class="i2">And, like the eagle free,</p> +<p>That soars into the cloud and dies,</p> +<p class="i2">I leave my life on sea.</p> +<p>To man I yield not spear nor sword</p> +<p class="i2">Ne'er harmed me in their ire,</p> +<p>Vain on me Europe shower'd her shafts,</p> +<p class="i2">And Asia pour'd her fire.</p> +<p>Nor wound nor scar my body bears,</p> +<p class="i2">My lip made never moan,</p> +<p>And Odin bold, who gave me life,</p> +<p class="i2">Now comes and takes his own.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Light! light there! let me get one look,—</p> +<p class="i2">Yon is the golden sky,</p> +<p>With all its glorious lights, and there</p> +<p class="i2">My subject sea flows by;</p> +<p>Around me all my comrades stand,</p> +<p class="i2">Who oft have trod with me</p> +<p>On prince's necks, a joy that's flown,</p> +<p class="i2">And never more may be.</p> +<p>Now put my helmet on my head,</p> +<p class="i2">My bright sword in my hand,</p> +<p>That I may die as I have lived.</p> +<p class="i2">In arms and high command."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>In the prose department the most striking is the description of +Abbotsford, quoted in our 339th number. There is an affecting Tale +of the Times of the Martyrs, by the Rev. Edward Irving, which will +repay the reader's curiosity. The Honeycomb and Bitter Gourd is a +pleasing little story; and Paddy Kelleger and his Pig, is a fine +bit of humour, in Mr. Croker's best style. The brief Memoir of the +late Sir George Beaumont is a just tribute to the memory of that +liberal patron of the Fine Arts, and is an opportune introduction +into such a work as the present. The letter of Lord Byron, too, +from Genoa in 1823, will be interesting to the noble poet's +admirers.</p> +<p>Among the illustrations we can only notice the Lute, by C. +Rolls, after Bonnington; Morning, by E. Goodall, from Linton's +"joyful" picture; Sir W. Scott in his Study (qy. the forehead); a +little "Monkeyana," by Landseer; Chillon, by Wallis, from a drawing +by Clarkson Stanfield—a sublime picture; Fonthill, an +exquisite scene from one of Turner's drawings; Beatrice, from a +picture by Howard; the Lake View of Newstead, after Danby; the +Snuff-Box, from Stephanoff; and last, though not least, +Gainsborough's charming Young Cottagers, transferred to steel, by +J.H. Robinson—perhaps the most attractive print in the whole +series.</p> +<p>With this hasty notice we conclude, in the language of our +announcement of the present work, "wishing the publisher <i>many +Anniversaries</i>"</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>Friendship's Offering.</h2> +<h4><i>Edited by Thomas Pringle, Esq.</i></h4> +<p>The present volume will support, if not increase, the literary +reputation which this elegant work has enjoyed during previous +years. The editor, Mr. Pringle, is a poet of no mean celebrity, +and, as we are prepared to show, his contribution, independent of +his editorial judgment, will do much toward the Friendship's +Offering maintaining its ground among the Annuals for 1829.</p> +<p>There are twelve engravings and a presentation plate. Among the +most beautiful of these are Cupid and Psyche, painted by J. Wood, +and engraved by Finden; Campbell Castle, by E. Goodall, after G. +Arnald; the Parting, from Haydon's picture now exhibiting with his +Mock Election, "Chairing;" Hours of Innocence, from Landseer; La +Frescura, by Le Petit, from a painting by Bone; and the Cove of +Muscat, a spirited engraving by Jeavons, from the painting of +Witherington. All these are of first-rate excellence; but another +remains to be mentioned—Glen-Lynden, painted and engraved by +<i>Martin</i>, a fit accompaniment for Mr. Pringle's very polished +poem.</p> +<p>The first <i>prose</i> story is the Election, by Miss Mitford, +with the hero a downright John Bull who reads Cobbett. The next +which most attracts our attention is Contradiction, by the author +of an Essay on Housekeepers—but the present is not so +Shandean as the last-mentioned paper; it has, however, many good +points, and want of room alone prevents our transferring it. Then +comes the Covenanters, a Scottish traditionary tale of +<i>fixing</i> interest; the Publican's Dream, by Mr. Banim, told +also in the Winter's Wreath, and Gem:</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Thrice</i> the brindled cat hath mewed;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and Zalim Khan, a beautiful Peruvian tale of thirty pages, by +Mr. Fraser. The French story, La Fiancée de Marques, is a +novelty for an annual, but in good taste. Tropical Sun-sets, by Dr. +Philip, is just to our mind and measure:—</p> +<p>A setting sun between the tropics is certainly one of the finest +objects in nature.</p> +<p>From the 23rd degree north to the 27th degree south latitude, I +used to stand upon the deck of the Westmoreland an hour every +evening, gazing with admiration upon a scene which no effort either +of the pencil or the pen can describe, so as to convey any adequate +idea of it to the mind of one who has never been in the +neighbourhood of the equator. I merely attempt to give you a hasty +and imperfect outline.</p> +<p>The splendour of the scene generally commenced about twenty +minutes before sun-set, when the feathery, fantastic, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page377" id="page377"></a>[pg +377]</span> regularly crystallized clouds in the higher regions of +the atmosphere, became fully illumined by the sun's rays; and the +fine mackerel-shaped clouds, common in these regions, were seen +hanging in the concave of heaven like fleeces of burnished gold. +When the sun approached the verge of the horizon, he was frequently +seen encircled by a halo of splendour, which continued increasing +till it covered a large space of the heavens: it then began +apparently to shoot out from the body of the sun, in refulgent +pencils, or radii, each as large as a rainbow, exhibiting, +according to the rarity or density of the atmosphere, a display of +brilliant or delicate tints, and of ever changing lights and shades +of the most amazing beauty and variety. About twenty minutes after +sun-set these splendid shooting rays disappeared, and were +succeeded by a fine, rich glow in the heavens, in which you might +easily fancy that you saw land rising out of the ocean, stretching +itself before you and on every side in the most enchanting +perspective, and having the glowing lustre of a bar of iron when +newly withdrawn from the forge. On this brilliant ground the dense +clouds which lay nearest the bottom of the horizon, presenting +their dark sides to you, exhibited to the imagination all the +gorgeous and picturesque appearances of arches, obelisks, +mouldering towers, magnificent gardens, cities, forests, mountains, +and every fantastic configuration of living creatures, and of +imaginary beings; while the finely stratified clouds a little +higher in the atmosphere, might really be imagined so many glorious +islands of the blessed, swimming in an ocean of light.</p> +<p>The beauty and grandeur of the sunsets, thus imperfectly +described, surpass inconceivably any thing of a similar description +which I have ever witnessed, even amidst the most rich and romantic +scenery of our British lakes and mountains.</p> +<p>Were I to attempt to account for the exquisite enjoyment on +beholding the setting sun between the tropics, I should perhaps +say, that it arose from the warmth, the repose, the richness, the +novelty, the glory of the whole, filling the mind with the most +exalted, tranquillizing, and beautiful images.</p> +<hr /> +<p>There is likewise a tale, Going to Sea, and the Ship's Crew, by +Mrs. Bowdich, which equally merits commendation.</p> +<p>Powerful as may be the aid which the editor has received from +the <i>contributors</i> to the "Friendship's Offering," we are +bound to distinguish one of his own pieces—<i>Glen-Lynden, a +Tale of Teviot-dale</i>, as the sun of the volume. It is in +Spenserian verse, and a more graceful composition cannot be found +in either of the Annuals. It is too long for entire extract, but we +will attempt to string together a few of its beauties. The scenery +of the Glen is thus described:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A rustic home in Lynden's pastoral dell</p> +<p>With modest pride a verdant hillock crown'd:</p> +<p>Where the bold stream, like dragon from the fell,</p> +<p>Came glittering forth, and, gently gliding round</p> +<p>The broom-clad skirts of that fair spot of ground,</p> +<p>Danced down the vale, in wanton mazes bending;</p> +<p>Till finding, where it reached the meadow's bound,</p> +<p>Romantic Teviot on his bright course wending.</p> +<p>It joined the sounding streams—with his blue waters +blending.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Behind a lofty wood along the steep</p> +<p>Fenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen:</p> +<p>And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep,</p> +<p>Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen,</p> +<p>Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men,</p> +<p>At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voice</p> +<p>Of children nutting in the hazelly den,</p> +<p>Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise,</p> +<p>Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,</p> +<p>By time and outrage marked with many a scar,</p> +<p>Told of past days of feudal pomp and power</p> +<p>When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.</p> +<p>But that was long gone by: and waste and war,</p> +<p>And civil strife more ruthless still than they,</p> +<p>Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,</p> +<p>Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,</p> +<p>O'er this secluded spot,—sole remnant of their sway.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, +mild, husbandman," and his wife—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>She he loved in youth and loved alone,</p> +<p>Was his.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<hr /></div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm</p> +<p>Are all the world to him: he feels no sting</p> +<p>Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,</p> +<p>Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,</p> +<p>Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the +spring.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,</p> +<p>The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,</p> +<p>Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,</p> +<p>Met the fierce typhon-blast—and perished there:</p> +<p>But she was left the rustic home to share</p> +<p>Of those who her young mother's friends had been:</p> +<p>An old affection thus enhanced the care</p> +<p>With which those faithful guardians loved to screen</p> +<p>This sweet forsaken flower, in their wild arbours green.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<hr /></div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>But dark calamity comes aye too soon—</p> +<p>And why anticipate its evil day?</p> +<p>Ah, rather let us now in lovely June</p> +<p>O'erlook these happy children at their play:</p> +<p>Lo, where they gambol through the garden gay,</p> +<p>Or round the hoary hawthorn dance and sing,</p> +<p>Or, 'neath yon moss-grown cliff, grotesque and grey</p> +<p>Sit plaiting flowery wreaths in social ring,</p> +<p>And telling wondrous tales of the green Elfin King.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page378" id="page378"></a>[pg +378]</span></div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Ah! evil days have fallen upon the land;</p> +<p>A storm that brooded long has burst at last;</p> +<p>And friends, like forest trees that closely stand</p> +<p>With roots and branches interwoven fast,</p> +<p>May aid awhile each other in the blast;</p> +<p>But as when giant pines at length give way</p> +<p>The groves below must share the ruin vast,</p> +<p>So men who seemed aloof from Fortune's sway</p> +<p>Fall crushed beneath the shock of loftier than they.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Even so it fared. And dark round Lynden grew</p> +<p>Misfortune's troubles; and foreboding fears,</p> +<p>That rose like distant shadows nearer drew</p> +<p>O'ercasting the calm evening of his years;</p> +<p>Yet still amidst the gloom fair hope appears,</p> +<p>A rainbow in the cloud. And, for a space,</p> +<p>Till the horizon closes round of clears,</p> +<p>Returns our tale the enchanted path to trace</p> +<p>Where youth's fond visions rise with fair but fleeting +grace.</p> +<p>Far up the dale, where Lynden's ruined towers</p> +<p>O'erlooked the valley from the old oak wood,</p> +<p>A lake blue gleaming from deep forest bowers,</p> +<p>Spread its fair mirror to the landscape rude:</p> +<p>Oft by the margin of that quiet flood,</p> +<p>And through the groves and hoary ruins round,</p> +<p>Young Arthur loved to roam in lonely mood;</p> +<p>Or here, amid tradition's haunted ground,</p> +<p>Long silent hours to lie in mystic musings drowned.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<hr /></div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Here Arthur loved to roam—a dreaming boy—</p> +<p>Erewhile romantic reveries to frame,</p> +<p>Or read adventurous tales with thrilling joy.</p> +<p>Till his young breast throbbed high with thirst of fame;</p> +<p>But with fair manhood's dawn a softer flame</p> +<p>'Gan mingle with his martial musings high;</p> +<p>And trembling wishes—which he feared to name,</p> +<p>Yet oft betrayed in many a half-drawn sigh—</p> +<p>Told that the hidden shaft deep in his heart did lie.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And there were eyes that from long silken lashes</p> +<p>With stolen glance could spy his secret pain—</p> +<p>Sweet hazel eyes, whose dewy light out-flashes</p> +<p>Like joyous day-spring after summer rain;</p> +<p>And she, the enchantress, loved the youth again</p> +<p>With maiden's first affection, fond and true,</p> +<p>—Ah! youthful love is like the tranquil main,</p> +<p>Heaving 'neath smiling skies its bosom blue—</p> +<p>Beautiful as a spirit—calm, but fearful too!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source +of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as +these:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A gentle star lights up their solitude</p> +<p>And lends fair hues to all created things;</p> +<p>And dreams alone of beings pure and good</p> +<p>Hover around their hearts with angel wings—</p> +<p>Hearts, like sweet fountains sealed, where silent rapture +springs.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Here is a beautiful apostrophe—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh Nature! by impassioned hearts alone</p> +<p>Thy genuine charms are felt. The vulgar mind</p> +<p>Sees but the shadow of a power unknown;</p> +<p>Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind</p> +<p>And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned:</p> +<p>But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire</p> +<p>Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined</p> +<p>In that diviner fane where Love's pure fire</p> +<p>Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in +battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the +lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination +is with the following exquisite ballad:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Our native land, our native vale,</p> +<p class="i2">A long and last adieu!</p> +<p>Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,</p> +<p class="i2">And Cheviot mountains blue.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,</p> +<p class="i2">And streams renowned in song:</p> +<p>Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads</p> +<p class="i2">Our hearts have loved so long.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,</p> +<p class="i2">Where thyme and harebells grow;</p> +<p>Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,</p> +<p class="i2">O'erhung with birk and sloe.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The battle-mound, the border-tower,</p> +<p class="i2">That Scotia's annals tell:</p> +<p>Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower—</p> +<p class="i2">To each—to all—farewell!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Home of our hearts! our father's home!</p> +<p class="i2">Land of the brave and free!</p> +<p>The keel is flashing through the foam</p> +<p class="i2">That bears us far from thee.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>We seek a wild and distant shore</p> +<p class="i2">Beyond the Atlantic main:</p> +<p>We leave thee to return no more,</p> +<p class="i2">Nor view thy cliffs again.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>But may dishonour blight our fame,</p> +<p class="i2">And quench our household fires,</p> +<p>When we or ours forget thy name,</p> +<p class="i2">Green island of our sires.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Our native land—our native vale—</p> +<p class="i2">A long, a last adieu!</p> +<p>Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,</p> +<p class="i2">And Scotland's mountains blue!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We have only space to add that the poetical pieces are very +numerous, and those by Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd, +Delta, and William Kennedy, merit especial notice.</p> +<p>The elegant embossed binding is similar to that of last year, +which we mentioned to our readers, and which we think an +improvement on the silken array.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Bijou.</h2> +<p>Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the +<i>Bijou</i> will doubtless occupy a different place in public +favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in +literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second +title is an Annual of Literature and the <i>Fine Arts</i>, and from +the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the +painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have +Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence. +The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his +Family,—is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully +executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master, +whose pictures may be called the <i>mosaic</i> of painting. The +Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so +successful; although it should be considered that little space is +allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: <span class= +"pagenum"><a name="page379" id="page379"></a>[pg 379]</span> still +the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady +Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate +engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior +merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the +<i>scrappers</i>, this print will form a companion to the Mountain +Daisy, from the <i>Amulet</i> for the present year. There are, too, +some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and +of, no common interest at home—as Clisson, the retreat of +Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli—all of which +are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well +managed.</p> +<p>In the <i>prose</i> compositions we notice some of intense +interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of +Reinspadte—both of German origin. There is too, a faithful +historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of +the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar +attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. +Hemans and Miss Landon.</p> +<h3>THE SLEEPERS.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh! lightly, lightly tread!</p> +<p>A holy thing is sleep.</p> +<p>On the worn spirit shed,</p> +<p>And eyes that wake to weep:</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A holy thing from heaven,</p> +<p>A gracious dewy cloud,</p> +<p>A covering mantle, given</p> +<p>The weary to enshroud.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh! lightly, lightly tread!</p> +<p>Revere the pale still brow,</p> +<p>The meekly drooping head,</p> +<p>The long hair's willowy flow!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Ye know not what ye do,</p> +<p>That call the slumberer back,</p> +<p>From the world unseen by you,</p> +<p>Unto Life's dim faded track.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Her soul is far away,</p> +<p>In her childhood's land perchance,</p> +<p>Where her young sisters play,</p> +<p>Where shines her mother's glance.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Some old sweet native sound</p> +<p>Her spirit haply weaves;</p> +<p>A harmony profound</p> +<p>Of woods with all their leaves:</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A murmur of the sea,</p> +<p>A laughing tone of streams:—</p> +<p>Long may her sojourn be</p> +<p>In the music-land of dreams!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Each voice of love is there,</p> +<p>Each gleam of beauty fled.</p> +<p>Each lost one still more fair—</p> +<p>Oh! lightly, lightly tread!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Miss Landon has contributed more to the "Bijou" than to any +other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase +the value and variety of our columns.</p> +<h3>THE FEAST OF LIFE.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I bid thee to my mystic Feast,</p> +<p>Each one thou lovest is gathered there;</p> +<p>Yet put thou on a mourning robe,</p> +<p>And bind the cypress in thy hair.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;</p> +<p>The board with faded flowers is spread:</p> +<p>Shadows of beauty flit around,</p> +<p>But beauty from each bloom has fled;</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And music echoes from the walls,</p> +<p>But music with a dirge-like sound;</p> +<p>And pale and silent are the guests,</p> +<p>And every eye is on the ground.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem,</p> +<p>And drink to human hopes and fears;</p> +<p>'Tis from their native element</p> +<p>The cup is filled—it is of tears.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>What! turnest thou with averted brow?</p> +<p>Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;</p> +<p>And askest for a purple robe,</p> +<p>Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,</p> +<p>Or such these would have seemed to thee;</p> +<p>Before thee is the Feast of Life,</p> +<p>But life in its reality!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the +antique school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of +George Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, +this piece, and the admirable composition of the History of Sir +Thomas More and his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the +Bijou from all other publications of its class, and are +characteristic of the good taste of Mr. Pickering, the proprietor. +Altogether, the Bijou for 1829 is very superior to the last volume, +and, to our taste, it is one of the most attractive of the +Christmas presents.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Winter's Wreath.</h2> +<p>This is a <i>provincial</i>, but not a first appearance in +London; the present being the fourth "<i>Wreath</i>" that has been +entwined for the lovers of song and sentiment. It is culled from +Liverpool, (next to our own metropolis) the most literary city in +the empire; but many of its flowers have been gathered from our +metropolitan parterre. Thus, in addition to the respected names of +Roscoe, Currie, and Shepherd, (of Liverpool), we have among the +contributors those of Hemans, Bowring, Howitt, Opie, with Mitford, +Montgomery, and Wiffen. The editorship has passed into different +hands, and "the introduction of religious topics has been carefully +avoided" as unsuited to a work of elegant amusement.</p> +<p>The plates are twelve in number, among which are <i>Lady Blanche +and her Merlin</i>, after Northcote (rather too hard in the +features); an exquisite <i>View of the Thames near Windsor</i>, +after Havell; <i>Medora and the Corsair</i>, after Howard; the +<i>Sailor Boy</i>, by Lizars; and a beautiful <i>Wreath</i> +Title-page, after Vandyke. All these will bear comparison with any +engravings in similar works.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page380" id="page380"></a>[pg +380]</span> +<p>The Wreath contains 132 pieces or flowers, some of them +<i>perennials</i>—others of great, but less lasting +beauty—and but few that will fade in a day. Among those +entitled to special distinction, in the <i>prose</i> department, +are an Italian Story, of considerable interest; the Corsair, a +pleasing sketch; and Lough Neagh, a tale of the north of Ireland. +One of the <i>perennials</i> is a Journey up the Mississippi, by +Audubon, the American naturalist. Kester Hobson, a legendary tale +of the Yorkshire Wolds, which turns upon a lucky dream, will +probably set thousands dreaming—and we hope with the same +good effect—viz. half-a-bushel of gold. "A Vision," by the +late Dr. Currie, is a successful piece of writing; Le Contretems is +a pleasant tale enough, with a sprinkling of French dialogue. Next +is a well-told historiette of the eventful times of the Civil +Wars.—The Memoir of a young Sculptor can scarcely fail to +awaken the sympathy of the reader. The introduction of the paper on +Popular Education, in what the editor himself calls "a work of +elegant amusement like the present," is somewhat objectionable, and +the writer's sentiments will be very unpalatable to a certain +party. The Ridley Coach is a sketch in the style of Miss Mitford, +who has contributed only one article, and that in verse. Mrs. Opie +has a slight piece—The Old Trees and New Houses—but our +prose selection is, (somewhat abridged)—</p> +<h3>THE LADY ANNE CARR,</h3> +<h4><i>By the Author of "May you like it."</i></h4> +<p>Have you not sometimes seen, upon the bosom of dark, stagnant +waters, a pure, white water-lily lift up its head, breathing there +a fresh and delicate fragrance, and deriving its existence +thence—yet partaking in nothing of the loathsome nature of +the pool, nor ever sullied by its close contact with the foul +element beneath?</p> +<p>It is an honest simile to say that the gentle Anne Carr +resembled that sweet water-lily. Sprung from the guilty loves of +the favourite Somerset and his beautiful but infamous wife, she was +herself pure and untainted by the dark and criminal dispositions of +her parents. Not even a suspicion of their real character had ever +crossed her mind; she knew that they had met with some reverse of +fortune,—for she had heard her father regret, for her sake, +his altered estate. She knew this, but nothing more: her father's +enemies, who would gladly have added to his wretchedness, by making +his child look upon him with horror, could not find in their +hearts, when they gazed on her innocent face, to make one so +unoffending wretched. It is a lovely blindness in a child to have +no discernment of a parent's faultiness; and so it happened that +the Lady Anne saw nothing in her father's mien or manner, +betokening a sinful, worthless character.</p> +<p>Of her mother she had but few and faint recollections. Memory +pictured her pale and drooping, nay gradually sinking under the +cureless malady which brought her to her grave at last. She +remembered, however, the soft and beautiful smiles which had beamed +over that haggard countenance, when it was turned upon her only +child—smiles which she delighted to recognise in the lovely +portrait, from which her idea of her mother was chiefly formed. +This portrait adorned her own favourite apartment. It had been +painted when the original was as young and happy as herself; and +her filial love and fond imagination believed no grace had been +wanting to make all as beautiful and glorious within.</p> +<p>As the Lady Anne grew up to womanhood, the sweetness of her +disposition and manners began to be acknowledged by those, who had +seen without astonishment her extraordinary beauty; and many +persons of distinction, who would hold no kind of fellowship with +the Lord Somerset, sought the acquaintance of his innocent daughter +for her own sake.</p> +<p>The most beloved friend of the Lady Anne was the Lady Ellinor +G——, the eldest daughter of the Earl of +G——: and with her, Lady Anne often passed several +months in the year. A large party of young ladies were assembled at +G—— Castle; and it happened that a continual rain had +confined the fair companions within doors the whole summer +afternoon. They sat together over their embroidery and various +kinds of needlework, telling old tales of fearful +interest—the strange mishaps of benighted +travellers—stories of witchcraft, and of mysterious +murder.</p> +<p>The conversation turned at last to the legends belonging to a +certain family; and one circumstance was mentioned so nearly +resembling, in many particulars, the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, +that the Lady Ellinor, scarcely doubting that some slight suspicion +of her parents' crimes had reached the ears of the Lady Anne, +determined to change the subject at once. She proposed to her fair +friends that they should ramble together through the apartments of +the castle; and she called for the old housekeeper, who had lived +in the family from her childhood, to go along with them, and asked +her to describe <span class="pagenum"><a name="page381" id= +"page381"></a>[pg 381]</span> to them the person and manners of +Queen Elizabeth, when she had visited at the castle, and slept in +the state apartment; always since called, The Queen's +Bedchamber.</p> +<p>Led by their talkative guide, the careless, laughing party +wandered from one chamber to another, listening to her anecdotes, +and the descriptions she gave of persons and things in former days. +She had known many of the originals of the stately portraits in the +picture gallery; and she could tell the names, and the exploits of +those warriors in the family, whose coats of mail and glittering +weapons adorned the armoury. "And now," said the Lady Ellinor, +"what else is there to be seen? Not that I mean to trouble you any +longer with our questions, good Margaret, but give me this key, +this key so seldom used," pointing to a large, strangely shaped +key, that hung among a bunch at the old housekeeper's side. +"There!" she added, disengaging it herself from the ring, "I have +taken it, and will return it very safely. I assure you. This key," +she said, turning to her young companions, "unlocks a gallery at +the end of the eastern wing, which is always locked up, because the +room is full of curious and rare treasures, that were brought by my +father's brother from many foreign lands."</p> +<p>They enter.—"This may be a charming place," said one of +the youngest and liveliest of the party, "but see, the rain has +passed away, and the sun has at last burst out from the clouds. How +brightly he shines, even through these dull and dusty windows!" She +gave but a passing glance to the treasures around her, and hastened +to a half open door at the end of the gallery. Some of her +companions followed her to a broad landing place, at the top of a +flight of marble stairs. They were absent but a few minutes, and +they returned with smiles of delight, and glad, eager voices, +declaring that they had unbolted a door at the bottom of the +staircase, and found themselves in the most beautiful part of the +gardens. "Come!" said the young and sprightly girl, "do not loiter +here; leave these rare and beautiful things until it rains again, +and come forth at once with me into the sweet, fresh air."</p> +<p>The Lady Ellinor and her friend the Lady Anne were sitting side +by side, at the same table, and looking over the same +volume—a folio of Norman chronicles, embellished with many +quaint and coloured pictures. They both lifted up their faces from +the book, as their merry companions again addressed them. "Nay, do +not <i>look</i> up, but rise up!" said the laughing maiden, and +drawing away the volume from before them, she shut it up instantly, +and laid it on another table; throwing down a branch of jessamine +in its place.</p> +<p>"Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara," replied the Lady +Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, "we have been prisoners all +the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the +smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy. Come, come! my +sweet Anne, <i>you</i> are not wont to be the last," turning to her +friend, who lingered behind. "Oh!" cried Lady Anne, "I am coming, I +will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up +my troublesome hair." As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little +volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement. The wind +fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half +curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again. The +word <i>murder</i> caught her eye; her feelings were still in a +state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had +just been listening. Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned +over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of +the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions—of +all but the appalling story then before her.</p> +<p>But these feelings were soon lost in astonishment, and horror so +confounding, that for awhile she lost all power of moving, or even +of thinking. Still her eyes were fixed upon the words which had +pierced her heart:—she could not force them away. Again and +again, struck with shame and horror, she shrunk away;—again +and again, she found herself forced by doubt, by positive +disbelief, to search the terrible pages. At last she had read +enough—quite, quite enough to be assured, not that her +father—her mother, had been <i>suspected</i>, but that by the +law of the land they had been convicted, and condemned to death as +foul, adulterous murderers;—the murderers of Sir Thomas +Overbury!</p> +<p>The Lady Ellinor returned alone into the gallery, "You little +truant!" she cried, "why so long? you said you would soon be with +the foremost. I thought you must have escaped me, and have sought +you through half the garden, and you are here all the while!"</p> +<p>No voice replied: not a sound was heard; and the Lady Ellinor +had already returned to the door of the gallery to seek her friend +elsewhere, when something fell heavily to the ground.</p> +<p>She flew back; and in one of the receding <span class= +"pagenum"><a name="page382" id="page382"></a>[pg 382]</span> +windows, she found the Lady Anne lying senseless in a deep swoon. +Throwing herself on the ground beside her, she raised her tenderly +in her arms, and not without some difficulty, restored her to +herself. Then laying her head upon her bosom, she whispered kind +words. "You are ill, I fear, my own Anne, who has been here? What +have you seen? How so changed in this short time? I left you well +and smiling, and now—nay, my dear, dear friend, do not turn +from me, and look so utterly wretched. Do not you see me! What can +be the matter!" The Lady Anne looked up in her friend's face with +so piteous and desolate a look, that she began to fear her reason +was affected.</p> +<p>"Have I lost your confidence? Am I no longer loved?" said the +Lady Ellinor. "Can you sit heart-broken there, and will not allow +me to comfort you? Still no answer! Shall I go? Shall I leave you, +my love? Do you wish me absent?" continued she in a trembling +voice, the tears flowing over her face, as she rose up. Her motion +to depart aroused the Lady Anne. "Ellinor! my Ellinor!" she cried, +and throwing herself forward, she stretched forth her arms. In +another moment she was weeping on the bosom of her friend. She wept +for a long time without restraint, for the Lady Ellinor said +nothing, but drew her nearer and nearer to her bosom, and tenderly +pressed the hand that was clasped in hers.</p> +<p>"I ought not to be weeping here," at length she said, "I ought +to let you leave me, but I have not the courage, I cannot bear to +lose your friendship,—your affection, my Ellinor! Can you +love me? Have you loved me, knowing all the while, as every one +must? To-day—this very hour, since you left me, I +learned:—no I cannot tell you! Look on that page, Ellinor, +you will see why you find me thus. I am the most wretched, wretched +creature!"—here again she burst into an agony of +uncontrollable grief.</p> +<hr /> +<p>Who can describe the feelings of the Lady Anne—alone, in +her chamber, looking up at the portrait of her mother, upon which +she had so often gazed with delight and reverence! "Is it +possible?" said she to herself, "can this be she, of whom I have +read such dreadful things? Have all my young and happy days been +but a dream, from which I wake at last? Is not this dreadful +certainty still as a hideous dream to me?"</p> +<p>She had another cause of bitter grief. She loved the young and +noble-minded Lord Russell, the Earl of Bedford's eldest son; and +she had heard him vow affection and faithfulness to her. She now +perceived at once the reasons why the Earl of Bedford had objected +to their marriage: she almost wondered within herself that the Lord +Russel should have chosen her; and though she loved him more for +avowing his attachment, though her heart pleaded warmly for him, +she determined to renounce his plighted love. "It must be done," +she said, "and better now;—delay will but bring weakness. +<i>Now</i> I can write—I feel that I have strength." And the +Lady Anne wrote, and folded with a trembling hand the letter which +should give up her life's happiness; and fearing her resolution +might not hold, she despatched it by a messenger, as the Lord +Russel was then in the neighbourhood; and returned mournfully to +her own chamber. She opened an old volume which lay upon her +toilette—a volume to which she turned in time of trouble, to +seek that peace which the world cannot give.</p> +<p>Lady Ellinor soon aroused her by the tidings that a messenger +had arrived with a letter from her father, and she descended in +search of him.</p> +<p>"Oh, why is this? why am I here?" exclaimed the Lady Anne, as +trembling and almost sinking to the ground—her face +alternately pale and covered with crimson blushes, she found +herself alone with the Lord Russell. "You have received my letter, +might not this trial have been spared? my cup was already +sufficiently bitter—but I had drunk it. No!" she continued +gently withdrawing her hand which he had taken, "Do not make me +despise myself—the voice of duty separates us. Farewell! I +seek a messenger from my father." "I am the messenger you seek," +replied he, "I have seen the Lord Somerset, and bring this letter +to his daughter."</p> +<p>The letter from the Earl of Somerset informed his daughter that +he had seen the Earl of Bedford, and had obviated all obstacle to +her union with the Lord Russell; that he was going himself to +travel in foreign parts; and that he wished her to be married +during a visit to the Earl and Countess of Bedford, whose +invitation he had accepted for her.</p> +<p>"Does not your father say, that in this marriage his happiness +is at stake?" said the Lord Russell, gently pressing her hand. The +Lady Anne hung down her head, and wept in silence. "Are you still +silent, my dearest?" continued he, "then will I summon another +advocate to plead for me."</p> +<p>He quitted the apartment for a moment, but soon returned with +the Countess of <span class="pagenum"><a name="page383" id= +"page383"></a>[pg 383]</span> Bedford, who had accompanied him to +claim her future daughter-in-law. The Lady Anne had made many +resolutions, but they yielded before the sweet and eloquent +entreaties that urged her to do what, in fact, she was all too +willing to consent to.</p> +<p>They were married, the Lord Russell and the Lady Anne Carr; and +they lived long and happily together. It was always thought that +the Lord Russell had loved not only well, but wisely; for the Lady +Anne was ever a faithful wife, and a loving, tender mother. It was +not until some years after her marriage, that the Lady Russell +discovered how the consent of the earl of Bedford had been +obtained. Till then, she knew not that this consent had been +withheld, until the Earl of Somerset should give his daughter a +large sum as her marriage portion:—the Earl of Bedford +calculating upon the difficulty, nay almost impossibility, of his +ever raising this sum.</p> +<p>But he had not calculated upon the devotion of the wretched +father's love to his fair and innocent child: and he was astounded +when his terms were complied with, and the money paid at once into +his hands. He could no longer withhold his consent; nor could he +refuse some admiration of this proof of a father's love for his +child. The Lord Somerset had, in fact, sold his whole possessions, +and reduced himself to an estate not far removed from beggary, to +give his daughter the husband of her choice.</p> +<p>It was the Lady Anne Carr, of whom Vandyke painted an exquisite +and well-known portrait, when Countess of Bedford. She was the +mother of William Lord Russell; and died heart-broken in her old +age, when she heard of the execution of her noble and first-born +son.</p> +<p>This is, perhaps, one of Mr. Tayler's most successful pieces; it +has more breadth (if we may use such a term) than he is wont to +employ, the absence of which from his writing, we have more than +once had occasion to regret.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>Time's Telescope.</h2> +<p>Our old friend Time has this year illustrated his march, or +object-glass, with a host of <i>images</i> or +<i>spectra</i>—that is, woodcuts of head and tail +pieces—to suit all tastes—from the mouldering cloister +of other days to the last balloon ascent. The Notices of Saints' +Days and Holidays, Chronology and Biography, Astronomical and +Naturalist's Notices, are edited with more than usual industry; and +the poetry, original and selected, is for the most part very +pleasing.</p> +<p>As we have a running account with Time's Telescope, (who has +not?) and occasionally illustrate our pages with extracts during +the year, we content ourselves for the present with a quotation +from an original article, by "a correspondent from Alveston," +possessing much good feeling and a tone of reflection, to us very +pleasing:—</p> +<h3>THE INFLUENCE OF A FLOWER.</h3> +<p>Towards the close of a most lovely spring day—and such a +lovely one, to my fancy, has never beamed from the heavens +since—I carelessly plucked a cowslip from a copse side, and +gave it to <i>Constance</i>. 'Twas on that beautiful evening when +she told me all her heart! as, seated on a mossy bank, she +dissected, with downcast eyes, every part of the flower; chives, +pointal, and petal, all were displayed; though I am sure she never +even thought of the class. My destiny through life I considered as +fixed from that hour.—Shortly afterwards I was called, by the +death of a relative, to a distant part of England; upon my return, +<i>Constance</i> was no more. The army was not my original +destination; but my mind began to be enfeebled by hourly musing +upon one subject alone, without cessation or available termination; +yet reason enough remained to convince me, that, without change and +excitement, it would degenerate into fatuity.</p> +<p>The preparation and voyage to India, new companions, and +ever-changing scenes, hushed my feelings, and produced a calm that +might be called a state of blessedness—a condition in which +the ignoble and inferior ingredients of our nature were subdued by +the divinity of mind. Years rolled on in almost constant service; +nor do I remember many of the events of that time, even with +interest or regret. In one advance of the army to which I was +attached, we had some skirmishing with the irregulars of our foe; +the pursuit was rapid, and I fell behind my detachment, wounded and +weary, in ascending a ghaut, resting in the jungle, with languid +eyes fixed on the ground, without any particular feeling but that +of fatigue, and the smarting of my shoulder. A <i>cowslip</i> +caught my sight! my blood rushed to my heart—and, shuddering, +I started on my feet, felt no fatigue, knew of no wound, and joined +my party. I had not seen this flower for ten years! but it probably +saved my life—an European officer, wounded and alone, might +have tempted the avarice of some of the numerous and savage +followers of an Indian army. In the cooler and calmer hours of +reflection since, I have often thought that this appearance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page384" id="page384"></a>[pg +384]</span> was a mere phantom, an illusion—the offspring of +weakness: I saw it but for a moment, and too imperfectly to be +assured of reality; and whatever I believed at the time seems now +to have been a painting on the mind rather than an object of +vision; but how that image started up. I conjecture not—the +effect was immediate and preservative. This flower was again seen +in Spain: I had the command of an advance party, and in one of the +recesses of the Pyrenees, of the romantic, beautiful Pyrenees, upon +a secluded bank, surrounded by a shrubbery so lovely as to be +noticed by many—was a <i>cowslip</i>. It was now nearly +twenty years since I had seen it in Mysore: I did not start; but a +cold and melancholy chill came over me; yet I might possibly have +gazed long on this humble little flower, and recalled many dormant +thoughts, had not a sense of duty (for we momentarily expected an +attack) summoned my attentions to the realities of life: so, +drawing the back of my hand across my eyes, I cheered my party +with, "Forward, lads," and pursued my route, and saw it no more, +until England and all her flowery meadows met my view; but many +days and service had wasted life, and worn the fine edge of +sensibility away; they were now before me in endless profusion, +almost unheeded, and without excitement; I viewed not the cowslip, +when fifty, as I had done with the eyes of nineteen.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>The Christmas Box.</h2> +<p>This is the happiest <i>title</i> in the whole list of annuals. +There is nothing sentimental or lachrymose in it; but it is warm +and seasonable, and done up in a holly-green binding, it is all +over old Christmas.</p> +<p>The first story in the volume is Old Christmas; one of the gems +or sweets is Garry Owen, or the Snow-Woman, by Miss Edgeworth, for +it abounds with good sentiment, just such as we should wish in the +hearts and mouths of our own children, as a spice for their +prattle.</p> +<p>We pass over <i>L'Egotiste Corrigée</i>, par Madame de +Labourt—pretty enough—and the Ambitious Primrose, by +Miss Dagley. Then a Song, by Miss Mitford; and a Story of Old +Times, by Mrs. Hofland; and the Tragical History of Major Brown, a +capital piece of fun; and Pretty Bobby, one of Miss Mitford's +delightful sketches. The Visit to the Zoological Gardens is not +just what we expected; still it is attractive. Major Beamish has +accommodated military tactics to the nursery in a pleasant little +sketch; and the proverb of Much Coin Much Care, by Mrs. R.S. +Jameson is a little farce for the same stage.</p> +<p>But the Cuts—the pictures—of which it would have +been more <i>juvenile</i> to have spoken first. These are from the +pencil of our "right trustye" friend and excellent artist, Mr. W.H. +Brooke, whose horses, coaches, and dogs excite so much mirth among +the young friends of the MIRROR—for, in truth, Mr. Brooke is +an A.M.—an <i>associate</i> of the MIRROR, and enables us to +jump from Whitehall to Constantine's Arch at Rome, shake +<i>hands</i> with the Bears of the Zoological Society, and Peg in +the Ring at Abury.</p> +<p>The <i>Christmas Box cuts</i> are all fun and frolic—the +tail-piece of the preface, a bricklayer on a ladder, "spilling" a +hod of bricks—the Lord of Misrule, with his polichinel +army—the Boar's Head—a little squat Cook and a steaming +Plum-Pudding—the Bee and Honeysuckle—Major Brown with a +Munchausen face—the Bear Pit, Monkeys' Houses, and Horned +Owl, in the Zoological Gardens—and the Parliament of Animals, +with the Elephant as Chancellor, the Tortoise for "the table," and +Monkeys for Counsel—the groups of Toy Soldiers—and the +head pieces of the Cobbler and his Wife—all excellent. Then +the Cricket and Friar, and a pair of Dancing Crickets—worth +all the fairy figures of the Smirkes, and a hundred others into the +bargain. These are the little quips of the pencil that curl up our +eye-lashes and dimple our faces more than all the Vatican gallery. +They are trifles—aye, "trifles light as air"—but their +influence convinces us that trifling is part of the great business +of life.</p> +<p>Now we are trifling our readers' time; so to recommend the +<i>Christmas Box</i> for 1829, as one of the prettiest presents, +and as much better suited to children than was its +predecessor—and—pass we off.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>Here our motley-minded sheet finishes, and we leave our readers +in possession of its sweet fancies. Its little compartments of +poetry and prose remind us of mosaic work, and its sentimentalities +have all the varieties of the kaleidoscope. To gladden the eye, +study the taste, and improve the heart, of each reader has been our +aim—feelings which we hope pervade this and every other +Number of the MIRROR.</p> +<hr /> +<p>Number 340 of the MIRROR contains the Notices of the Literary +Souvenir, Forget-Me-Not, Gem, and Amulet, and with the present +Number forms the Spirit of the Annuals for 1829.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<blockquote class="footnote"><a id="footnote1" name= +"footnote1"></a><b>Footnote 1:</b><a href= +"#footnotetag1">(return)</a> +<p>An artist of celebrity is now engaged on a portrait of Mr. +Southey, <i>cum privilegio</i>, we suppose, Mr. Southey is not the +only public man, whose lineaments have been traduced by engravers. +Only look at some of the patriotic gentlemen who figure at public +meetings, and in <i>outline</i> on cards, &c. But Houbraken is +now known to have been no more honest than his successors in +portrait engraving: although physiognomy and craniology ought to +help the moderns out in these matters.</p> +</blockquote> +<hr class="full" /> +<p><i>Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near +Somerset-House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, +Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers.</i></p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10730 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |