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 AAUPL/ART3 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY aUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 BY THE HON. MKS. NORTON. 
 
 A TAiR face, and a fragile arm, 
 
 lu England's present hour, 
 
 Assume the Sceptre and the Crown, 
 
 Emblems of Royal Power. 
 
 And he who deems a woman's hand 
 
 Should scarce have strength to sway. 
 
 Let him but gaze on that fair face, 
 
 And it shalVsay him nay. 
 
 Bold resolution, — frankest truth. 
 
 Courage to dare, or die. 
 
 Live in that snowy brow's expanse. 
 
 That blue imperial eye : 
 
 And England treasures glorious days, 
 
 Liuk'd with a woman's reign : 
 
 The Past hath given the Future pledge, 
 
 Such trust need not be vain ! 
 
 Pirm planted, like our native Oak, 
 
 (To flourish evermore,) 
 
 Religion rose in Majesty, 
 
 The storms of faction o'er. 
 
 And flung her holy ample shade. 
 
 Along the quiet land, 
 
 When England's destinies were sway'd 
 
 By Woman's Royal hand : 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. B
 
 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 While one by one, like circling stars, 
 
 That dawn upon the night. 
 
 Name after name its glory threw 
 
 Around the Sovereign's might. 
 
 Sage, Warrior, Poet, Statesman, claim'd 
 
 Their place in History's page, — 
 
 And stamp'd that term of Woman's rule, 
 
 As Britain's " Golden Age." 
 
 With many a glorious motive more. 
 
 And many an error less. 
 
 Than made the Rainbow and the Cloud, 
 
 In days of " good Queen Bess :" — • 
 
 Without th' intolerance which blurr'd 
 
 That yet unsettled time ; 
 
 (Gross cruelties, — which shall not mar 
 
 This light triumphant rhyme !) 
 
 Without the vanity which gave 
 
 The chrysolite its flaw, — 
 
 And bade the Courtier-Lovers watch 
 
 Her will's despotic law : — 
 
 Without the loneliness which brought. 
 
 No Heir to England's throne, 
 
 (But vapid boast of that deep loss. 
 
 No lovely child to own:) — 
 
 Blest with the sunshine of dear love, — 
 
 And Motherhood's proud joy, — 
 
 Her own and England's hopes renew'd, 
 
 In many a stately boy : — 
 
 All holy ties of Life complete, 
 
 A Woman, — though a Queen, 
 
 So may Victoria's reign surpass, 
 
 The glories that have been ! 
 
 May Justice hold with equal hand, 
 
 The balance of the scale ; 
 
 Nor Favour, nor Oppression, bid 
 
 The undue side prevail ; 
 
 May none be held so proud, that they 
 
 May impudently dare; 
 
 May none be thought too low and mean, 
 
 A subject's right to share ;
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 But over all, — since Heaven first gave 
 
 A kiugdom, for a dower, — 
 
 May Heaven's clear justice still appear, 
 
 Protection, joined with Power. 
 
 And God prolong the happy days, 
 
 To distant lines of light, — 
 
 And guard that fair anointed head, 
 
 In every sacred right ! 
 
 THE i3 U L L-F I G II T. 
 
 The land of romance and enchantment art thou, oh! sunny Spain; so bright with thy 
 
 citron groves and olive bowers, thy fair myrtle flowers half shaded by dark foliage, thy 
 
 shining oranges like 
 
 " golden lamps liid in a night of green," 
 
 and thy richly-laden vines with their purple clusters, glowing in the warm sunlight. 
 And the sunbeams fall on thy ruined towers and castles, the glorious remnants of 
 antiquity. There are the proud halls where the Cid held his banquet of state ; once 
 they were filled with all the pomp and splendour of earthly grandeur — they are silent 
 now; but even their very desolation is beauty itself; the grass grows within the festal 
 hall ; and wild flowers wreathe themselves around the polished marble columns of the 
 regal palaces of a generation long since past away. It is recorded, that the last 
 Moorish monarch who sat upon the Spanish throne, when compelled to abdicate his 
 kingly authority, wept as he took a farewell gaze of the luxuriant valleys and bold 
 rocky heights of his beloved Spain ; and well might he lament, to quit thus ignomini-> 
 ously, the country -which his ancestors had claimed for their own by might and by 
 strength — a country, too, in which they had lived as kings and conquerors of the 
 earth, and surrounded by all the pomp and splendour wliicli a long line of voluptuous 
 princes had heaped together from the spoils of surrounding nations. Yes 1 Spain is 
 a beautiful country; and so far as external loveliness is concerned, the fair daughters 
 of Iberia hold a first position in the ranks of grace aud beauty. But, alas 1 how 
 can we gaze with admiration on the glowing cheek ; the ruby lip ; the dark earnest 
 eye, with its drooping lid, and long silken fiinge-like lashes; the rich raven tresses; 
 and the queen-like figure so gracefully enshrouded in the folds of the mantilla; if that 
 "glorious creation" be gladdening her woman's heart with scenes of cruelty and 
 bloodshed ? The Roman matrons of old bent their unwomanly gaze on the fierce 
 gladiator, as he struggled in mortal agony ■with his relent.css foe, and the very soul 
 sickens at the remembrance of their cruel delight. And with equal horror we must 
 turn away from the lovely young Spaniard who adorns her graceful form with rich
 
 8 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 robes and glittering jewels, and sets forth all tlie cliarms of her resplendent beauty 
 to mingle ivith^ — what? with the festive dance, or the thrilling song? No, to mix 
 with a multitude who, like herself, young and fair, are met, with the brave and bold 
 of the sterner sex, to gaze on all the sickly horrors of a bull-fight. 
 
 The hour of the spectacle is arrived ; the areua is cleared ; in the surrounding 
 galleries are bright eyes and flowing tresses; and light and trifling conversation is 
 passing between the gay young donna and her gallant companion. Soon a silence 
 ensues; the noble animal is driven to the scene of combat; his cruel opponent is 
 ready, mounted on a fiery steed, with spear or lance in hand, to attack his defenceless 
 victim. The unfortunate creature endeavours to retreat, but in vain. The shouts of 
 the spectators and the anguish of his wounds goad him to madness, and he rushes with 
 redoubled rage against his remorseless enemv, who seizes the opportunity to inflict fresh 
 torture; till, at length, from loss of blood, or from some well-directed mortal thrust, 
 the miserable bull expires, and his mangled carcase is dragged forth, to give place to 
 another noble animal, who must, in like manner, suffer, struggle, and die ! And this 
 is done iu a Christian country ! — a country which professes a religion whose first moral 
 principles are love, gentleness, and mercy ! Happily this barbarous amusement is now 
 excluded from British shores; but though never so prevalent here as it is in Spain, 
 yet it was once sufficiently practised among us to cause Englishmen to blush for their 
 country. Let us hope, that the day will arrive when the sufferings of any living crea- 
 ture shall cease to give pleasure to beings possessing rational and immortal minds. 
 This, however, can only be when Christian principle shall influence all hearts. If 
 mothers would see their children generous and humane, let them, in the days of eai'ly 
 childhood, sow those seeds of piety, which, as it may be hoped, will spring up and 
 bring forth abundantly the fair fruits of love, justice, and mercy. 
 
 ENGLAND'S HOPE. 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS. 
 
 Say not that England's glorious days 
 Were those that live in poets' lays. 
 With tales of arm'd or conquering host. 
 Of battle won or banner lost ; 
 When scarce a mountain, field, or glen, 
 Was free from bands of lawless men ; 
 Nor sturdy hand could guard the soil 
 From tyrant's grasp, or rufiian's spoil.
 
 
 ^^
 
 ENGLAND'S HOPE. 9 
 
 When laws were feeble, rights were few; 
 Great then the name of Champion grew j 
 And he who donn'd him for the fight, 
 With plumed helm, and armour bright, 
 Or he who came, his glittering shield 
 And polish'd lance, with grace to wield, 
 Dash'd on the ground a warrior's glove. 
 And murder'd man for woman's love — 
 These were the hero-champions then. 
 The flower of knighthood— glorious men I 
 
 But England needs no Champion now I 
 No helm to bind her patriot's brow, 
 No polish'd lance, or glittering shield. 
 Or tramp of war-horse in the field. 
 Hush'd is the trumpet's brazen call ; 
 And echo from the castle wall 
 No longer tells of gathering bands. 
 Of burning homes, and wasted lauds. 
 
 Yes ! England owns a wiser creed ; 
 Her fattening flocks now safely feed j 
 Her fertile vales, with plenteous grain. 
 Pour forth their produce not in vain. 
 But chiefly where her thousands meet. 
 With ready hand and busy feet, 
 With earnest care of actual things. 
 Behold ! a present glory springs ; 
 And pride, which boasted feats of war. 
 Now tells where richer trophies are ; 
 Points to the teeming human hive. 
 Where thousands meet to toil and strive. 
 Not with that combat, fierce and bold, 
 Which stain'd the battle-plains of old, 
 But with the mastery of skill ; 
 The power of well-directed will ; 
 The strength of numbers, when combined 
 To work with harmony of mind. 
 
 So let it be. But is this all ? 
 Shall never more the glorious call 
 e. s. — VOL. I. C
 
 10 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 To loftier thouglits and nobler deeds 
 
 Ring through our country's verdant meads ? 
 
 Shall never more the pulse of life 
 
 Beat higher than with sordid strife ? 
 
 Nor purer hond, nor holier tie, 
 
 Than interest, bind our destiny? 
 
 Forbid it, honour — virtue — truth ! 
 
 Forbid it, ye, whose generous youth 
 
 Gives promise fair of wider scope, 
 
 And loftier range for England's Hope. 
 
 We would not hold one active hand. 
 
 Nor bid one vast machine to stand ; 
 
 But something we would ask of you. 
 
 Young British Champions, bold and true. 
 
 Now that no more the lance and shield. 
 
 Or warrior's sword, ye need to wield ; 
 
 Now that a nation's trusting eye 
 
 Looks to the throned majesty 
 
 Of Her who reigns, all fears above. 
 
 So safely in her people's love. 
 
 We ask, that from the greedy throng. 
 
 Where love of gold leads hosts along. 
 
 Ye stand apart — a separate band. 
 
 With manly heart and generous hand. 
 
 To guard the feeble from the strong. 
 
 And stay the oppressor's guilty wrong. 
 
 Bold British youths, we look to you ! 
 
 Your hearts are warm, your lips are true. 
 
 Awake ! arise ! Look forth and see 
 
 The Soul hath need of liberty ! 
 
 Look forth ! Man's labour is not all — 
 
 His skill may paint the princely hall. 
 
 And looms may weave, and workmen frame. 
 
 What brings a richly-purchased fame ; 
 
 But higher yet ! ye British youth ! 
 
 This is not greatness, virtue, truth ; 
 
 For lives there one of meanest birth 
 
 Whose soul is satisfied with earth ? 
 
 \M)0 never, at the close of day, 
 
 Has bent his bruised knee to pray
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 11 
 
 " Tliy kingdom come," witli inward trust. 
 That come that kingdom would, aud must? 
 Then stand ye forth, brave youths, nor try 
 To still this bold, this onward cry ; 
 This natural impulse, kindly given 
 To help naan's upward course to heaven ; 
 To teach liim not to fail, or pause, 
 "When Champion in a righteous cause. 
 Onward 1 for youth beams on your brow, 
 And hfe's quick pulse is beating now ; 
 And age will come and steal away 
 The freshening impulse of to-day. 
 Laugh ye ! for your's was meant to be 
 The season bright of hope and glee j 
 But let your frolic and your fun 
 These sober facts be stamp'd upon, 
 That seldom follow words of truth 
 From lips that have been false in youth ; 
 That England's Hope can only rest 
 With safety, in a generous breast ; 
 Let youth its high behest obey — 
 As virtue's Champion, guard, and stay ! 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 BY MKS. ELLIS. 
 
 A PEASANT girl stood by the stream, 
 
 Lost in the mazes of a dream. 
 
 With thoughtful brow, and beaming smile. 
 
 The rippling brook she heard the while ; 
 
 Its voice was one of early days, 
 
 Which told of childhood's flowery ways; 
 
 Pamiliar every word she caught. 
 
 And every tone its music brought. 
 
 As household language to her ear. 
 
 So full of meaning, soft, and clear. 
 
 And still she listened, still she smiled, 
 
 Till answering thus, the peasant child
 
 12 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Betray'd the beatings of a breast, 
 No mouutaia-stream could lull to rest. 
 
 " Sweet mountain-stream, where hast thou been. 
 Ere nursed witliin these banks of green ? 
 Perchance amid yon crags so high, 
 "Whose summits touch the azure sky? 
 There did -it thou leap from rock to rock. 
 Now dash'd upon the granite block, 
 Now softly sinking, calm, and deep. 
 Within thy marble bed to sleep. 
 Ah, mountain-stream, I envy thee 
 Thy wild, wild life of liberty. 
 For I am tired of toil and care, 
 Of humble roof, and mountain fare ; 
 Sweet mountain-stream, and I would be 
 A thing of bounding life like thee ; 
 Away, away, to glide and go. 
 No hard restraint, no fear to know. 
 But ever onward — onward still — 
 To feel no impulse but my wiU." 
 
 " Ah ! peasant maid," the stream replied, 
 In gentle murmurs by her side; 
 
 " Thou little know'st what fate is mine, 
 Or scarcely would thy young heart pine 
 To lead a life of liberty. 
 Mid yon far mountain-heights with me. 
 'Tis true I feel the morning light 
 Reflected iu my bosom bright; 
 'Tis true I bask at noon of day 
 Beneath the sun's unshadow'd ray ; 
 'Tis true I sparlde, dance, and smile, 
 And hurrying onward many a mile. 
 My bright and silvery course I wind ; 
 But home like thine I never find. 
 The peaceful roof that shelters thee, 
 Nor shade, nor comfort yields to me ,: 
 And when thou seek'st thy nightly rest. 
 Perchance the storm beats on my breast. 
 No, gentle maid, thou knowest not 
 The pains, the perils of my lot;
 
 ,... ... ^-^ 
 
 oil DON Jc PARIS.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 13 
 
 How much of what tliou deemest play, 
 Is strife with things that block my way, 
 The stubborn crag, the granite rock, 
 The precipice, and thunder-shock, 
 The downward plunge in hope to gain 
 Some place of rest — Oh ! think again. 
 Young peasant maid, nor wish to be 
 A wandering, homeless thing like me." 
 
 " Sweet stream," again the maid began. 
 Then o'er her cheek her fingers ran — 
 To hide the burning blush that came. 
 Yet scarce could be a blush of shame. 
 So pure its tint, so soft its hue. 
 To woman's bounding heart so true. 
 
 " Sweet stream," she said, " perchance 'tis not 
 That I would share thy mountain-lot. 
 Enough of sterile crags I see. 
 Of granite rocks, enough for me ; 
 But tell me, for I fain would know. 
 Sweet mountain-stream, where dost thou go ? 
 Say, dost thou, wandering through the vale, 
 List sometimes to the nightingale. 
 Mid shadowy groves, and leafy bowers. 
 And gardens gay with scented flowers ? 
 Say, dost thou kiss the palace walls. 
 Or lave the steps of courtly halls ; 
 Or hear the stir of trampling feet. 
 Where busy thousands mix and meet ? 
 'Tis there, sweet stream, that I would go, 
 Down to those plains, where softly flow 
 Thy waters ever pure, and bright. 
 Reflecting to the wondering sight. 
 The rainbow hues, the pomp, the pride. 
 The courtly pageants, here denied, 
 The waving plume, the bearing high, 
 The gems, the robes of richest dye. 
 Fair forms adorn'd in silken sheen, — 
 Where those are worn, where these are seen, 
 'Tis there that I would go, sweet stream j 
 Nay, murmur not, nor chide my dream — 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. D
 
 14 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS,. 
 
 'Tis there that I would go, and be, 
 
 Sweet mountaiu-stream, still pure like thee." 
 
 " Ah gentle maid," the stream replied, 
 Wliile deeper swell'd its mournful tide ; 
 
 " Thou little know'st what fate must fall, 
 Mid those gay scenes, on me — on all. 
 Gaze on my crystal waters now. 
 Say could'st thou bind a regal brow 
 With purer gems of brighter hue. 
 To cloudless suns and skies more true ? 
 See how thy brother's hand may play 
 Unsullied by their touch all day ; 
 How quench his thirst, his pitcher fill. 
 With health from out my sparkling rill. 
 Such hast thou ever found me here. 
 The same sweet fountain, pure, and clear ; 
 But meet me on yon peopled plain, 
 Scarce wouldst thou know thy friend again. 
 Or where the city's heaving tide 
 Swells with the pomp of human pride, 
 'Tis there the deepest stains of all, 
 The darkest shadows, o'er me fall ; 
 'Tis there, a low polluted thing, 
 Scarce fit to bathe the wild bird's wing, 
 I drag my weary length, and feel 
 No ruby lip my waters steal. 
 Nor step of childhood wandering near ; 
 My wave, no longer cool and clear. 
 Invites no village maid to stray 
 Along my banks at close of day. 
 Ah, couldst thou meet me rolling then 
 Among the busy walks of men. 
 Their wealth upon my bosom laid, 
 A weary burden, gentle maid ; 
 Scarce wouldst thou breathe a pitying sigh 
 For stream so dark, so stained, as I. 
 
 " Then, peasant-maid, contented be, 
 High 'mid these mountain-wilds with me. 
 The world looks fair when gazing down 
 On peopled plain, and busy town,
 
 ^,1 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 1^
 
 CANUTE'S EEPROOF OF HIS COURTIERS. 15 
 
 And many a charm attracts tliiue eye; 
 
 But seek tliem not, nor fondly try 
 
 To keep within thy gentle breast 
 
 The same pure thoughts, the same sweet rest, 
 
 As dance around thy gentle brow, 
 
 And meet thee in thy cottage now. 
 
 If once thy steps should wander there. 
 
 Remember me ; and, oh ! beware !" 
 
 The peasant-girl stood still, and sighed ; 
 Perchance it touched her maiden pride 
 To hear the sermon of a stream, 
 Dispelling every golden dream. 
 But soon her better thoughts came back : 
 And soon again her homeward track 
 With cheerful tread she liasten'd o'er. 
 Content to reach her cottage door ; 
 Content to feel, that high and low. 
 All wide extremes their perils know; 
 That safety, peace, and comfort, lie 
 Half way between the low and high. 
 
 A VISIT TO THE SCENE OP CANUTE'S REPROOE OF HIS COURTIERS. 
 
 The evening was far advanced when I reached the celebrated spot where Canute the 
 Dane is said to have given his memorable lesson to the flattering and servile courtiers 
 of his train. There was the shingly shore ; there were the bright waters of the 
 English Channel; there was the many-coloured sea-weed floating ashore, as the 
 advancing tide swelled higher and higher ; and there were the wild sea-birds, scream- 
 ing and flitting over the little channels of salt water, which intersected the beach — 
 all nature remained as it was in the time of the Dane. The wind too had risen, and 
 the proud waves were rushing onward, each one displaying its silvery crest as it dashed 
 over rock and sand ; and while the western horizon was glowing with all gorgeous 
 tints, and reflecting its crimson and golden hues on the rippling waters beneath, 
 dark, stormy-looking clouds were rising in the opposite quarter, and lending to the 
 scene a magnificent beauty, as they slowly rose, assuming each moment a more leaden 
 tinge, and contrasting finely with the glorious sunset-dyes in the west. On such an 
 evening it might be, that Canute sat to watch the gathering clouds and the rising
 
 16 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 tide ; and a fanciful mind might easily forget the intervening centuries, and see in 
 imagination the crowd of servile flatterers gathered round their royal master, the 
 smile of derision and wonder curling their lying lips as they gazed upon him who 
 apparently gave credence to their absurd assurances. And the noble Canute — it were 
 easy to picture him, rising from his wave-encircled seat, and boldly bearing witness 
 to the omnipotent power of Him who alone can stay the raging of the ocean, and 
 say to its mighty billows, " Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further ; and here shall 
 thy proud waves be stayed." How great is the contrast between the Danish monarch 
 and the vaunting, fui'ious Xerxes. Surely it was the softening power of Christianity 
 which caused this marvellous difference ; for man naturally is high-minded and 
 vain-glorious, and loves to command all things and all people. 
 
 A few days after my visit to this spot, I stood in the Cathedral of Winchester, 
 its solemn aisles and deserted chapels re-echoing my footsteps as I passed along, sur- 
 rounded by the tombs of the great ones of the earth — and there, beneath the carved 
 roof, and the blazoned heraldries of ancient days, reposed the ashes of the illustrious 
 Dane. Many of his valiant actions are forgotten ; the memory of them has perished ; 
 but that one speech on the sandy shore of the English Channel is still fresh as ever, 
 and registered in the minds of all. The mighty waves of the sea are still breaking 
 on the weed-bound rocks ; the sunset sky still glows with all the rich hues of gems 
 and flowers ; but Canute and his lordly train are passed away. A heap of ashes alone 
 remains of that regal form, and even the last resting-places of his followers are for- 
 gotten. " So fades the glory of this world," is written in eternal characters, on every 
 marble sepulchre, and on every scene of departed grandeur. 
 
 POLAND. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 After the Night — the Day ! 
 
 After the Darkness — Dawn ! 
 Trust to thy Star's bright ray, 
 
 Tho' its light be awhile withdrawn. 
 
 Though Ruin and Death are round. 
 And the best of the brave he slain j 
 
 Again shall the war-cry sound, 
 And the standard be rear'd again.
 
 I E.aB; ^; ;-^'n. 
 
 ;:.T. PAPJRI?
 
 POLAND. 17 
 
 Not all the red current is dry, 
 
 Thougli blood hath been freely shed ; 
 
 Not all of the lineage high, 
 
 Lie heap'd with the slaughter'd Dead. 
 
 The dyke of the river is cut, — 
 
 The branches are lopp'd from the tree, — 
 
 But the gap shall be mended and shut. 
 The green bough wave freshly and free ! 
 
 Slain Fathers have left to their Sons, 
 No store but the blood in their veins : 
 
 Proud, brave, and indignant it runs. 
 And it may not be fetter'd by chains. 
 
 Then smile, — little orphan, — and sleep ! 
 
 Though the Mother that rocks thee to rest. 
 Thro' the long nights does nothing but weep. 
 
 As she lulls thee, in pain, on her breast. 
 
 Oh ! smile, till thine arm is grown strong. 
 For the sword, with its gleaming stroke ; 
 
 Till thy heart comprehends the wrong, 
 Of the mighty oppressor's yoke ; 
 
 Till the tale of thy Father's death. 
 And thy Mother's lingering woe. 
 
 Shall quicken thy heaving breath, 
 And thy flush'd cheek's fever'd glow. 
 
 Oh, sleep ! till the dream shall break, 
 
 Which wrapp'd thy calm childhood round ; 
 
 Till thy conscious spirit shall wake. 
 As it were, to a trumpet's sound ; 
 
 Till thou hearest thy Mother tell. 
 In her low, heart-broken tones, 
 
 Of the battle's thundering yell. 
 And thy Father's dying groans. 
 
 Then, slumber and rest no more ! 
 Be the task of thy life begun ; 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. ^
 
 18 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Stand ready, the blood to pour, 
 Which that Father bequeathed his son. . 
 
 Like the goal, that is set afar, 
 For the swift in the race to win ; 
 
 Like the beacon-light's changeless star. 
 Which guides the worn mariner in : 
 
 Let the love of thy country gleam, 
 
 Sole aim and sole end of all j 
 Thy very existence seem. 
 
 But a chance to break her thrall. 
 
 Tho' like one whom a shipwreck hath cast. 
 On a restless, wandering lot, — 
 
 In exile thy life be past. 
 
 In a land where thy Dead are not : 
 
 Thy Poland for aye untrod, — 
 
 And the hymns of her worship sung. 
 
 To thy God, and thy Father's God, 
 In an alien and foreign tongue : — 
 
 Forget not the land of thy birth ! 
 
 Abjure not those memories dear : 
 The blood that was soak'd in her earth. 
 
 Do thou in thy heart revere. 
 
 Let the mournful and terrible truth, 
 Still present, thy thoughts engage ; 
 
 A cloud to encompass thy youth. 
 With the soberer visions of Age. 
 
 For prison and exile may be, 
 
 The lot of the true and the brave : 
 
 But to smUe, — as if glad and free, — 
 Is the part of a willing Slave. 
 
 " In patience possess thou thy soul," 
 Tho' thy hope may seem faint and far ! 
 
 How near is the unseen goal ? 
 How near is the beacon-star ?
 
 THE TEACHER. 19 
 
 Yet both may be reacted at last, 
 
 By the steady in heart and eye : 
 Time enough, when all hope is past. 
 
 For the sake of the cause, to die. 
 
 But, after the Night— the Day ! 
 
 After the Darkness — Dawn ! 
 Trust to thy star's bright ray. 
 
 Though its light be awhile withdrawn. 
 
 THE TEACHER. 
 
 BY LADY DTJFFERIN. 
 
 The long day's done ! and she sits still. 
 
 And quiet, iji the gathering gloom : 
 
 What are the images that fill 
 
 Those absent eyes — that silent room ? 
 
 Soft winds the latticed casement stir : 
 
 The hard green rose-buds tap the pane. 
 
 Like merry playmates, beckoning her 
 
 To join them at their sports again ; 
 
 And from the hill, a pleasant chime 
 
 Of bells, comes down upon the ear, 
 
 That seems to sing — "The evening time 
 
 Is passing sweet ! come forth ! — come here !" 
 
 But she sits still, and heedeth not 
 
 The sweet bell, nor the fading light ; 
 
 Time, space, earth, heaven, are all forgot. 
 
 In one dear dream of past delight. 
 
 Oh, letter ! old, and crush'd, and worn ; 
 
 Yet fresh, in those love-blinded eyes. 
 
 As on that first delightful morn. 
 
 That gave thee to her patient sighs ; 
 
 How hoped for — dreamed of — dear, thou art ! 
 
 What earnest of like joys to come ! 
 
 How treasured near her simple heart, 
 
 That first fond letter, from her Home !
 
 20 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Poor cliild ! so early com'st thou forth. 
 Like Ruth, to gleau in alien fields ? 
 Cold welcome greets thee, on this earth. 
 And poor the harvest that it yields ! 
 No wonder that thy young heart burns. 
 And, with such aching sense of love. 
 To that dear sheltering ark returns, 
 That sent thee forth — poor wandering Dove ! 
 The hour will come — tho' far it seems — 
 When school'd by pain, and taught by time. 
 Thou 'It lose no more, in idle dreams, 
 The good hours of thy golden prime : 
 Each day, with its appointed care. 
 Shall bring its calm and comfort too ; 
 The power to act, the strength to bear. 
 What Duty bids thee bear, or do : 
 And when the eve's repose shall come. 
 Thy tranquil thoughts shall then be given — 
 Not back to that lost earthly home — 
 But forwards — to thy home in Heaven ! 
 
 WAKING DREAMS. 
 
 One morn a country maiden gay. 
 To market blithely tripp'd her waj'. 
 With store of eggs ; and as she walk'd, 
 'Twas thus the village-beauty talk'd. 
 
 " These eggs I cannot fail to sell. 
 And what they '11 bring I scarce can tell ; 
 But sure enough to buy a hen ; 
 My future chickens will I then, 
 With their plump breasts and plumage white, 
 Guard from all prowling foxes' bite. 
 My chickens sold, I'll buy a dress ! 
 Two flounces — fifteen yards — no less — 
 Ah ! there's a dream of happiness I
 
 Sir 7". : :v-'^;.P. A 
 
 .^,>%/ 
 
 'ly// 
 
 /A- 
 
 y)v/^
 
 PRINCE ALBERT. 21 
 
 Green suits me best ; and many a swain 
 
 I'll captivate ; but I'll not deign 
 
 To cast on one a pitying glance. 
 
 For coldness will my charms enhance." 
 
 Thus musing in her virgin pride, 
 Her basket standing by her side. 
 On mossy bank the maid reclined, 
 And future triumphs fill'd her mind ; 
 The hour was sultry, and a doze 
 Soon perfected her soft repose, 
 While in her sleeping features beam'd 
 The brightness of the dreams she dream'd. 
 At length she opes her sparkling eyes, 
 And moves as if about to rise ; 
 Alas ! that movement overturns 
 The precious basket ; and she learns, 
 Her eggs being gone, her hopes are o'er, 
 And WAKING DREAMS are hers no morej 
 Tarewell to all her visions bright, 
 Alas ! delusive was their light ! 
 
 Where is the youth or maiden fair. 
 
 Who ne'er hath "castles" built "in air?" 
 
 The wisest have their waking dreams. 
 
 Where hope with flattering radiance beams ; 
 
 Our fable but an emblem is 
 
 Of all such visionary bliss. 
 
 PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 O'er the broad ocean-wave, Albert, thou camest ; 
 
 Leaving for this fair Isle thy Father-land, 
 
 Where gloomy hills, like solemn altars, rise 
 
 E'en to the sunset clouds ; where the deep rivers 
 
 Lave, with their clear blue streams, the old gray stones 
 
 Of castle-fortresses of ancient times ; 
 
 Where the lone dells and forest-wilds are ridi 
 
 With antique songs, and legendary lore ; 
 
 Where the black pine-woods frown in darkest awe, 
 
 S. — VOL. I. F
 
 22 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Beneath the mighty mountain's misty brow ; 
 
 "Where ancient battlements, moss-clad, and ivy-wreathed, 
 
 Still stand in undecaying grandeur stern, 
 
 Yet glowing, as of old, at eventide. 
 
 Bathed in the crimson light of parting day ; 
 
 The old, broad Rhine ; the glorious forest trees ; 
 
 The ancient halls Avhere once the voice of song 
 
 Flung forth its melody ; or trumpet-note 
 
 Of battle floated on the stilly breeze ; 
 
 The lone, drear rocks ; the mouldering towers 
 
 Of by-gone years, have deep tones all their own. 
 
 Telling of deathless deeds of valoui" wrought, 
 
 By heroes who have long since slept in dust. 
 
 Though all unperish'd is the fame they won. 
 
 And fresh those laurel wreaths that ne'er can fade 
 
 While the proud mountains stand within their land ! 
 
 Such was thy childhood's home, thy native clime. 
 
 Thine early hopes, thine early fears were breathed 
 
 Amid these ancient relics of old time. 
 
 It was thy country, thine own Father-land, 
 
 And England's children love it for thy sake ; 
 
 And well may bless it ! for from lonely cell 
 
 Of cloister'd Erfurt, sprang that star of truth 
 
 Whose beams pierced through the depths of error's night 
 
 Blessings be on thee, Albert ! All the joy 
 
 That fills a tender fathei-'s heart be thine ! 
 
 Of princely lineage art thou ; and the sire 
 
 Of Britain's royal line ; 'Tis thine to claim 
 
 E'en for thine own, the queen of these proud isles. 
 
 Oh yes, we bless thee 1 and we pray that years 
 
 To come may be as cloudless as the past ; 
 
 I'liat the dark storms which linger in the sky 
 
 May fade away; and that the warm, glad light 
 
 Of summer-sunshine may illume thy path 
 
 Throughout this transitory world. And when 
 
 The word shall come to summon thee from earth. 
 
 Oh ! may it bid thee home 1 home to a land 
 
 Where kingdoms never pass away ; and where 
 
 Unfading crowns encircle deathless brows ! 
 
 May love and peace be thine, and all that Heaven 
 
 Or earth can give, gladden thy mortal life. 
 
 Until a brighter world shall dawn for thee. 
 
 Where thou may'st dwell throughout eternity 1
 
 23 
 
 CORIOLANUS AND HIS MOTHER. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 Dissensions having arisen between the Patricians and the people of Rome, Coriolanus took part with the 
 former, and was eventually sentenced to perpetual banishment. Detennined on reventje, he joined the enemies of 
 his country, took various towns, and encamped within five miles of the city itself. A deputation was sent out 
 to treat with liim, but was received with haughtiness, and thrice returned, without the slightest hopes of a recon- 
 ciliation. At length his mother, wife, and children, came out, and pleaded their country's cause. To their entrea- 
 ties he could no longer refuse assent. Raising his venerable parent from the ground, he exclaimed, " You have 
 saved Rome, my mother, but you have destroyed your son." He retired to his tent, and took immediate measures 
 for a retreat. 
 
 All, — the Soldier's heart withstood, 
 With a hero's dauntless mood ; 
 Till that ONE voice smote his ear, 
 (Choked with agony and fear,) 
 Which from childhood's hour had proved 
 Most revered, and best beloved ! 
 Deem it rather praise, than blame, 
 If that man of mighty fame. 
 Yielded to the suppliant tongue 
 Wliich Ms cradle-hymn had sung, 
 Leaving, link'd with all his glory, 
 That most sweet and touching story. 
 How the Warrior's heart could melt. 
 When the Son so deeply felt ! 
 
 Proud one, ruler of the earth, 
 Scorn not her who gave thee birth 1 
 Scorn her not : although the day 
 Long hath waned and pass'd away, 
 When her patient lullaby 
 Hush'd thy peevish wailing cry ; 
 When the rocking on her breast 
 LuU'd thee to tliy helpless rest ; 
 When, if danger threaten'd near, 
 Tliou didst fly, in guileless fear, 
 Doubting not the safety tried 
 By her loved familiar side ;
 
 24 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS 
 
 Doubting not, her circling arm 
 Could protect from every harm. 
 Let this thought thy bosom stir, — 
 She is, what thou wert to her; 
 Guard her, keep her from all pain, 
 As she sought to guard thee then ! 
 
 Now return the patient care. 
 When her curls of glossy hair 
 Bending down with IMothei-'s love 
 Shadowed thy young brow above ! 
 Noiv return the watches kept 
 When thy cradled childhood slept, 
 And her smooth and glowing cheek 
 (Rosy as the apple-streak) 
 Scarcely show'd a tinge less bright 
 In the Morning's coming light. 
 So full she was of youthful strength,— 
 So brief appear'd the wan night's length, - 
 When full of love, and hope, and joy. 
 She rock'd to rest her slumberiug boy ! 
 
 And if — (for it may well be so, 
 Since nothing perfect dwells below,) 
 Thy understanding, grown mature, 
 Perceives defect which must endure, — 
 Now return indulgence given, 
 (Meek and merciful as Heaven,) 
 When thy faults her patience tried. 
 Dullness, stubbornness, or pride. 
 Thou, — with all thy strength and lore. 
 Art the child she nursed before, — 
 Also, an imperfect creature. 
 Faulty by thy very nature : 
 If a hard or peevish word 
 From her lips, thou now hast heard, — 
 Bear it — she hath borne with thee 
 When thou hadst not sense to see 
 Her endurance well might prove 
 Patience hath its root in Lovu.
 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 I
 
 THE DOGE FOSCARI. 25 
 
 Love her therefore ! shame not thou, 
 
 Like the hero, to avow 
 
 That thy Mother's voice hath power 
 
 In thy fate's decisive hour. 
 
 All the love that thou canst give, 
 
 All the days ye both shall li\e, — 
 
 Warm altho' the pulse it stirs, 
 
 Trust me, will fall short of Hers ! 
 
 THE DOGE EOSCARI. 
 
 The fearful tragedy to which this plate has reference occurred during the fifteenth 
 century. A murder had been committed ; and Giacopo, the only surviving son of 
 Francesco Foscari, a youth who had already given mortal offence to a rival Venetian 
 family, was most unjustly charged with the crime. Torture having failed to wring 
 from the unhappy Giacopo the confession of a crime which he had not committed, the 
 youth was condemned to banishment. This banishment he endured with memorable 
 fortitude, during a period of six years. At the expiration of that time he was seized 
 by an irresistible longing to see once more his native country, and to embrace his 
 kindred. He adopted the desperate resource of addressing a letter to the Duke of 
 Milan, imploring his intercession with the Republic. This unfortunate step led to his 
 being brought back as a malefactor ; and on his return, the old scene of horror was 
 re-enacted. Thirty times, even in the presence of his father, Giacopo was stretched 
 upon the torturing cord, and finally doomed to perpetual banishment. He was per- 
 mitted one last interview with his family — the interview represented in the accompany- 
 ing plate — and the final parting, as related by different historians, was fuU of heart- 
 stirring pathos. 
 
 The Doge was now extremely aged and decrepit ; he could not walk without the 
 assistance of a crutch ; yet when he came into the sick chamber, to pronounce the 
 last sentence upon his ill-fated son, still suffering from his receat torture, and sur- 
 rounded by his weeping wife and child, he spoke to Giacopo in a firm tone, so that 
 a spectator would have thought that it was not his son whom he was thus addressing — 
 though it was indeed his son, and his only surviving son. "When solicited by the sor- 
 rowing exile to ask mercy once more from his relentless tyrants, so that he might 
 be permitted to reside in Venice, " Go, Giacopo 1" was the old man's reply, " Go, my 
 son; submit yourself to the will of your country, and seek nothing further." 
 
 The strong restraint which the aged father thus put upon his feehngs, was more 
 than his exhausted frame could support ; and on retiring, he fainted in the arms of his 
 attendants. 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. G
 
 2G THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Giacopo, thus deprived of the sole last hope that had supported him through inex- 
 pressible torments, both of miud aud body — the hope of dying in the bosom of his 
 family and of his country — only lived to reach his Caudian prison, where he soon 
 afterwards breathed liis last. His afflicted father continued to live during a few 
 wretched days, but buried himself in the seclusion of his chamber, and never more 
 attended the sittings of the Councils. 
 
 Lord Byron's drama, entitled "The Two Foscari," is famihar to multitudes 
 of readers : — 
 
 " .... In his passionate words 
 Tlie wild lament for Venice — lovely Venice — 
 Breathed by those dying and exhausted lipa 
 From the deep well-springs of a broken heart, 
 Must live for ever ! Let no meaner hand 
 Sweep the strong chords of that now silent harp ; 
 Its echo yet hath power to thrill the air, 
 So that all sound seems discord, which attempts 
 A variation of its melody !" 
 
 P L ¥ E R S. 
 
 Sweet flowers ! how fair your silken petals seem, 
 
 Beneath the bright glad sunlight's golden beam j 
 
 How fresh ye are ! when bathed in sparkling dews, 
 
 The crystal drops shine o'er your rainbow hues. 
 
 Gently, the young buds fold them on their stems 
 
 When glitter forth night's starry diadems, 
 
 And in the summer twilight's solemn hours 
 
 The faint breeze wafts the breath of summer flowers. 
 
 Ye weave a wreath of beauty through the year. 
 
 Ye lovely ones ! Pure snowdrops — telhng here 
 
 Of the cold Alpine mounts so far away — 
 
 Gleam forth like childhood's hopes amidst decay ; 
 
 Then violets with purple leaves half closed. 
 
 Sleeping within their shady, grassy shroud, 
 
 Shed their sweet perfume through the spring-tide hours, 
 
 And smile by primrose tufts, midst April showers ; 
 
 And flowers of rosy broom, or pearly thorn. 
 
 White lilies in the pathless valleys born. 
 
 Waxen azaleas, with their glossy leaves. 
 
 Unfold their buds, where the lone wood-bird grieves,
 
 ( O ::^^yyW//i. 
 
 FISHEP... 
 
 NDOM &PAK[:
 
 FLOWERS. 27 
 
 Anemones that droop by murmuring streams 
 O'er whose cool waters chasteu'd sunlight gleams, 
 Graceful laburnums waving iu the breeze 
 Their golden chains, with bloom of cassia trees. 
 And pure syringa-stars their fragrance spread 
 O'er the soft greensward that we love to tread ; 
 And glowdng roses ! fairest of earth's gems. 
 How queenlike are they on their mossy stems ! 
 In the wild thickets where the woodbines meet 
 How do they scatter forth their odours sweet ! 
 Those pale pink petals, tinged like sea-wave shells. 
 They fling their beauty o'er the silent dells ; 
 They linger through the long bright summer day. 
 Then fade and droop — still lovely in decay j 
 And the rich clustering I'oses in the home 
 Of care and culture, where no wild flowers come, 
 How gloriously they shine, when sunsets burn. 
 And to the crimson west their leaflets turn ! 
 Their fair white sisters, bending o'er the tomb 
 Of loved, and early lost ones — through the gloom 
 As silent watch they keep — sweet fragrance shed 
 Over the dreamless slumbers of the dead; 
 Carnation's glowing tints, pure red and white. 
 Blue salvias dazzling with their sapphire light. 
 Geranium, with its scarlet bloom so deep, 
 Gum-cistus, bom to beauty frail and brief; 
 Meek harebells, lifting to their kindred sky 
 One pensive glance ere yet they fade and die ; 
 Pale autumn stars* with sad and solemn smile, 
 That, though the soft winds go, yet rest awhile ; 
 And with the crimson fuchsia's drooping bell 
 Linger around us, with their flowery spell — 
 Oh lovely are ye ! E'en in deatii so bright, 
 Ye might be heralds from yon world of light I 
 But ere the blast sweeps o'er the leafless trees, 
 Ere yet we hear the moaning wintry breeze. 
 Those children of the summer-days are o'er, 
 Their glories meet om' longing eyes no more. 
 Yet still, fair roses blossom, buds unfold. 
 And still their soft pink cups the night-dews hold ; 
 
 * China-asters.
 
 28 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 When all our floral treasures pass away 
 
 Our garden-queen smiles on through drear decay. 
 
 Pair flowers ! ye are too lovely for this earth. 
 
 Was this, our sin-cursed soil, your place of birth ? 
 
 It cannot be ! from Eden's bowers ye came 
 
 Wliere first ye blossom'd, ere the hour of shame ; 
 
 And — types of mercy — ye were left to show 
 
 How God yet loved this rebel world below ! 
 
 Ye share niortahty — ye too must die. 
 
 Surely there is some home beyond the sky 
 
 Where garlands wither not, nor roses fade ; 
 
 Where never leaves upon the turf are laid. 
 
 Oh lovely flowers ! ye unto us were given 
 
 To raise our drooping hearts from earth to heaven. 
 
 CHARLES THE FIRST AND HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 He sat within his palace walls. 
 
 In that dark solemn hour; 
 He bow'd his head in bitter woe, 
 
 A stately, stricken flower 1 
 And tears gush'd forth ; his hands were closed 
 
 In such a fervent clasp. 
 As if the griefs that crush'd his soul 
 
 Could perish in his grasp. 
 
 Once he had sat upon a throne, 
 
 And worn a kingly crown ; 
 Once thousands press'd to win his smile. 
 
 Or crouch'd beneath his frown. 
 And now, of all that dazzling throng, 
 
 How few true hearts were left ! 
 But not for this those tears burst forth, 
 
 'Twas not for this he wept. 
 
 Once he had borne in battle-field 
 Aloft his glittering sword j
 
 ^' 
 
 
 1 
 
 «^ 
 
 ^ 
 J
 
 CHARLES THE FIRST AND HIS CHILDREN. 29 
 
 Where were they now? those faithful ones 
 
 Who own'd him for their lord ? 
 Of regal state and royal power. 
 
 Of kingly wealth bereft, 
 A captive in his own fair realm — 
 
 Yet not for this he wept. 
 
 He stood before his rebel judge. 
 
 With brow unmoved and calm ; 
 No eyelid flutter'd, no faint pulse 
 
 Gave token of alarm. 
 He knew that he was doom'd to die 
 
 A traitor's shameful death ; 
 He did not fear to meet that hour. 
 
 To yield his mortal breath. 
 
 But one deep chord yet linger'd there 
 
 Within that aching breast ; 
 The yearning of a father's heart 
 
 That could not be repress'd ! 
 'Twas nought to him, to gaze no more 
 
 On star and golden sun ; 
 'Twas sweet to think the strife was o'er. 
 
 The prize so nearly won 1 
 
 . But his young children near him stood — 
 
 And love, that to the last 
 Bums in the soul of mortal clay, 
 
 Its chains around him cast. 
 'Twas bitterest grief that he no more 
 
 Might clasp those fragile forms — 
 That all unshelter'd they must brook 
 
 The wildest earthly storms. 
 
 The struggle pass'd — again he raised 
 
 His heart in trusting prayer ; 
 The fair girl marvel'd at the cahn 
 
 Her parent's brow could wear ; 
 Once more he held within his arms 
 
 His lovely infant boy. 
 And swept the rich curls from his face 
 
 With all a father's joy. 
 
 S. S. VOL. I H
 
 30 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OP ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 One last embrace, one long farewell, 
 
 One clasp of tliose small hands ; 
 One sad, sweet gaze — one lingering thought 
 
 Of those in other lands, — 
 And he — the martyr-king — return'd 
 
 To dreams of earth no more ; 
 The bitterness of death was past, 
 
 Its griefs and pains were o'er. 
 
 The morrow's sun went down at eve 
 
 On England's blushing guilt ; 
 The pale, meek king had bow'd his head. 
 
 His royal blood was spilt. 
 'Twas meet that wearied frame should lie 
 
 In peaceful slumber down ; 
 He lost earth's diadem, to wear 
 
 An everlasting crown. 
 
 THE LADY BLANCHE EGERTON, 
 
 Daughter of Lord Francis Egerton, (brother of the Duke of Sutherland,) lately created Earl of EUesmere, and 
 Harriet-Catherine, daughter of Charles Fulke Greville, Esq. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 A LIFE-LIKE pencil, his, who thus could trace 
 Thy speaking looks, — fair child of a fair race ! 
 As there thou standest, listening with surprise 
 And rapt attention in thine earnest eyes, 
 While thy quaint favourite mocks thy silver tone. 
 And gives thy words a harshness all his own. 
 
 Sure a Child's Picture, is a touching thing I 
 
 For who can tell what after-years may bring ? ^ 
 
 What storm, slow gatheiing in the mists of Time, « 
 
 May cloud the moments of untarnish'd prime? 
 
 What dark event may make the portrait seem m 
 
 A tearful vision, and a mocking dream 1
 
 LADY BLANCHE EGERTON. 31 
 
 I know a picture, — hanging far away, — 
 
 Where, beautiful as Spring, and fresh as May, 
 
 A young, slight, radiant, happy creature stands ; 
 
 Poised for the dance, with white uplifted hands. 
 
 The arch smile playing round her coral lips ; 
 
 Bending, (with grace that none shall e'er echpse,) 
 
 And looking down, with softly mirthful eye, 
 
 On a young band of brothers, seated nigh. 
 
 Friends have bemoan'd Her, in a liNdng death : 
 
 Forsaken sobs have choked her heaving breath : 
 
 But still that sketch the credulous heart beguiles, 
 
 There, still she dances, — and there still she smiles ; 
 
 There, through the long dim course of changeful years. 
 
 While eyes have gazed upon her, blind with tears. 
 
 She hath look'd forth — all radiant and serene, — 
 
 Glad, — youthful, — innocent, — and beauty's queen : 
 
 Oh I Bud, — thou art not yet a Flower complete, — 
 
 Who knows what canker to thy heart may eat? 
 
 Who knows what grief may wake the fount of woe 
 
 Which, once unseal'd, so seldom stops its flow ? 
 
 Who knows what Fate may send, when thou shalt roam 
 
 From the safe portal of thy shelter'd home ? 
 
 A woman's lot, is banishment, — at best. 
 
 Forth from her Paradise of earlier rest : 
 
 Love, — in the Son, — engrafts the newer claim, 
 
 On the old home ; with simple change of name : 
 
 Love, — in the Daughter, — sends the exiled wife 
 
 Into an untried world, with sorrow rife. 
 
 Like a transplanted flower, her chance to prove ; 
 
 To blossom proudly in the glow of love. 
 
 Or lost to blooming hope, and joyful frxiit, 
 
 Sink withering down, upon a perish'd root ! 
 
 Ah 1 may'st thou never, in the strange years' flight. 
 
 Pine for the blessed time, when day and night 
 
 Brought the familiar greetings to thine eai'. 
 
 Of Friends to Childhood's first impressions dear 1 
 
 May'st THOU ne'er deem the Mother's gentle breast 
 
 A place of refuge, — not a home of rest : — 
 
 May'st THOU ne'er hold the Father's love and might 
 
 A strong protection, — not a dear delight : — 
 
 May'st thou, — with weary heart, that made in vain 
 
 Its long sharp struggle with opposing pain, —
 
 32 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Ne'er, — like the Dove, whose weak and storm-beat wing 
 
 Left far behind the long-sought hope of Spring, — 
 
 Turn to the home which first true shelter gave, 
 
 Whose Ark yet floats upon the sullen wave ! 
 
 May he, to whom the future lot is given 
 
 To tread, with thee, the path through earth to Heaven, 
 
 By thee, with stedfast love, endure to stand. 
 
 And calmly journey to the Promised Land ! 
 
 Still, as the long companionship endears 
 
 The constant sharer of his joys and fears. 
 
 Be Memory's course enrich'd with sands of gold 
 
 Wliere Life's quick stream of daily 'nothings' roll'd; 
 
 Bright Pactolus ! supplying links which bind 
 
 Heart closer yet to heart, — and mind to mind ! 
 
 Still may he deem no gladder light can shine 
 
 Than thy dear smile, to cheer his Life's decline, — 
 
 With cordial love, and willing help repay 
 
 The devious windings of the lengthy way, — 
 
 And, when the allotted time is well nigh o'er, 
 
 When the hark slackens sail, and nears the shore, 
 
 Still greet thee fondly, at thy journey's end. 
 
 As "Guide, Companion, Monitress, and Friend !" 
 
 RICHARD COBDEN, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 This distinguished man affords a very remarkable instance of the power which great 
 natural talent accompanied by indomitable perseverance seldom fails to command, even 
 though the individual thus eminently gifted may lack the prestige which attends 
 aristocratic birth. 
 
 Mr. Cobden is the son of a respectable farmer of Susses. In his youth he applied 
 himself with industry and success to commercial pursuits, and eventually settled as 
 a calico-printer in the town of Manchester ; where his commanding talents and singular 
 energy, together with the honour and integrity of his character, soon gained for him 
 the respect and esteem of his fellow-townsmen; in concert with a few of whom he 
 formed the plan for the establishment of the Anti-Corn-Law League — that most 
 gigantic association of modern times; an association which (however widely people 
 may differ respecting the expediency of its object) has perhaps never been equalled 
 in the harmony and perfection of its vast ramifications ; and which, after a severe and
 
 K I (' 11 A U 1) C O B D E N , ESQ: MP
 
 THE ANGLERS. 33 
 
 protracted struggle of several years' duration, has finally accomplished the overthrow 
 
 of the Corn-Laws. 
 
 Wliile Mr. Cobden was labouring in this cause, the borough of Stockport returned 
 
 him to parhament; where, by the strength, brilliancy, and logical arrangement of his 
 
 speeches, as well as by the undaunted firmness of his character, he proved a formidable 
 
 antagonist of those who opposed his views. 
 
 His fame could now be no longer confined within the limits of the "United Kingdom 
 
 of Great Britain and Ireland, but became rapidly celebrated among all the nations of 
 Europe, as well as throughout tlie Western Continent, and everywhere his name was 
 hailed as that of the " Apostle of Free-Trade." 
 
 The vast mental and physical exertions consequent upon his management of the 
 afi'airs of the League j his constant attendance at the meetings of that body, and his 
 parliamentary duties, proved, at length, too much even for Mr. Cobden's almost super- 
 human strength ; and it became necessary, that in order to promote the restoration of 
 his health, he should, for a short time, leave the scene of his indefatigable labours. 
 With this view he travelled over the Continent ; visiting nearly every part of it ; and 
 everywhere he was received with the greatest enthusiasm and the most generous 
 hospitality; the aristocracy, and even the sovereigns of Europe, vying with each other 
 in paying honours to the calico-printer of Manchester. 
 
 While Mr. Cobden was on this tour, the general election of 1847 took place ; and he 
 had then the honour not only of being re-elected by the borough of Stockport, but also of 
 being unanimously chosen to represent the largest constituency in the kingdom— that 
 of the West Riding of Yorkshire. As member for the West Riding he took his seat 
 in the House of Commons ; and that great constituency he now represents. 
 
 This is a brief account of the most prominent featui-es of Mr. Cobden's eventful 
 
 career. 
 
 May not the honours and rewards which he has reaped be regarded as affording a 
 fresh assurance, that in this land of freedom and impartiality, all obstacles may be over- 
 come by genius and perseverance ? It is, and, as it may be hoped, will ever be, the glory 
 of Britain, that she values her sons, not by rank or wealth, but by talent and merit. 
 
 THE ANGLERS. 
 
 'TwAs in the smiling month of May, 
 The flowers were waving fair and gay. 
 The morning sun shone bright on dews 
 That sparkled with all brilliant hues. 
 The birds were singing in the trees 
 Whose green leaves rustled in the breeze, 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. I
 
 34 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 When lovelier tliati the dews and flowers. 
 
 And all tlie buds that twined the bowers. 
 
 Came forth a maiden — passing fair^ 
 
 With bright blue eyes, and golden hair. 
 
 Roses were blooming on her cheek, 
 
 The lute would hush to hear her speak ; 
 
 And to the river's Ijrink she sped, 
 
 Nor pluck'd the blossoms round her spread — 
 
 But stay'd not, till she reach'd the stream 
 
 That glitter'd in the sun's glad beam. 
 
 And on the banks there stood a youth, 
 
 A noble goodly one, in truth. 
 
 He came to fish ; ('twas so he said. 
 
 By some 'twould not be credited ;) 
 
 And some might say he angled there 
 
 For something very sweet and fair. 
 
 However, be that as it may. 
 
 He left his couch at dawn of day. 
 
 And hurried to the river's brink. 
 
 Ere yet the flowers the dew could drink ; 
 
 The hours pass'd on, the sun was high 
 
 In the calm, cloudless, deep blue sky. 
 
 And there the pair were sitting yet 
 
 Though no fine trout were in the net. 
 
 The maiden learn'd to angle too. 
 
 And in the stream her rod she threw ; 
 
 And there it stay'd, as, side by side. 
 
 She and the youth gazed on the tide. 
 
 He was of noble birth, I trow. 
 
 The castle on yon green hill's brow 
 
 Own'd him for heir ; and he would be 
 
 One day, a baron bold and free. 
 
 For sport he woo'd the village maid, 
 
 Who never in her life had stray'd 
 
 Ten miles from that dear cottage home 
 
 From which she'd never wish'd to roam. 
 
 But now she heard of courtly halls. 
 
 Of ladies' bowers — where fountain-falls. 
 
 And flowerets of another land. 
 
 And gems from far-off Indian strand. 
 
 And perfumes of an Eastern clime. 
 
 And costly relics of old time.
 
 THE ANGLERS. 35 
 
 Were gather'd e'en for her deliglit 
 
 Whose eyes outshone tlie jewels bright. 
 Her bosom swell'd, her heart beat high 
 At thought of such proud destiny. 
 She heard him telling of the day, 
 When, deck'd with gems and rich array. 
 She should before the altar stand. 
 The fairest, loveliest of the land ! 
 And oft in silent hours of night. 
 She mused with joy, and deep delight. 
 On all the pleasures she should know 
 That wealth and grandeur can bestow. 
 When she should be, in beauteous pride. 
 Lord Walter's loved and loving bride. 
 Poor simple maid ! as by the stream 
 Day after day in that sweet dream, 
 She sat, and listen'd to his tale 
 Of hopes — and vows that could not fail. 
 She ceased to love all else but him. 
 Her cheek grew pale — her blue eye, dim. 
 At thought of parting for a week j 
 How could she then the streamlet seek ? 
 And missing each dear cherish'd tone 
 Feel yet more bitterly alone ? 
 
 The glorious summer pass'd away. 
 The anglers came from day to day. 
 Till parting came — that mournful hour 
 When sunbeams fade, and dark clouds lower. 
 He swore that he would come again. 
 His peerless love, and bride to claim, 
 For aye together they should dwell ; 
 So kiss'd her cheek, and bade farewell. 
 
 The winter and the spring had past. 
 And floweiy May came back at last. 
 The maiden angled in the flood 
 But no fond lover near her stood ; 
 From day to day she gazed in vain, 
 Along the green and shady lane ; 
 He came no more — and soon 'twas said 
 A titled fair one he had wed.
 
 36 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The maiden wept for many a day, 
 
 ■"Twas sad to see her fade away. 
 
 Like a young openiag rose that sheds 
 
 Its beauty, ere its flower unspreads. 
 
 But time stole on, and once again 
 
 She smiled and danced, nor thought of pain. 
 
 Time heal'd her grief — and she was gay. 
 
 And look'd again as bright as day. 
 
 Once more, she was the village belle. 
 
 But gravely oft her tale would tell, 
 
 And bid young maidens all beware 
 
 Of oaths and vows though seeming fair. 
 
 She bade them not believe soft words. 
 
 Though whisper'd sweetly by proud lords ; 
 
 Nor trust to love's young summer dreams. 
 
 When angling in the meadow streams. 
 
 ALFRED DIVIDING HIS LAST LOAP WITH THE BEGGAR. 
 
 Wliile Alfred and Elswitha were living in that seclusion wliich surrounding dangers rendered prudent, a sear- 
 city of provisions occurred in his household, and his followers were despatched in search of any species of food 
 that could be procured. During their absence, a pilgi'im knocked at the gate, and in the name of God begged 
 a morsel of bread. As there was but one loaf in the house, the queen brought it first to her husband, and repre- 
 sented the consequences of giving it to the supplicant, should the foragers return with empty pouches. " Give the 
 hungry man one half of the loaf," said Alfred ; " He that could feed five thousand with five loaves and two fishes, 
 could, if it so pleased him, cause the remaining half to suffice for our necessities." 
 
 In no proud hall, or festive bower 
 
 The Saxon monarch stood ; 
 But mighty thoughts o'er his sad soul 
 
 Came sweeping like a flood 
 Hosts of his followers on the turf 
 
 Like autumn-leaves were strown. 
 And some, like summer singing birds, 
 
 Had, with the sunshine, flown. 
 
 A little faitliful band were left 
 
 To gather round their king ; 
 And still bright hopes of victory 
 
 Around their dreams would cling.
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 J 
 
 ^
 
 ALFRED AND THE BEGGAR. 87 
 
 They were a proud and gallant throng, 
 
 Royal — or nobly born ; 
 Right trusty hearts, that waver'd not, 
 
 Nor fled before the storm. 
 
 The chilling wintry blast had swept 
 
 Over the snow-clad world ; 
 While England's monarch grieved to see 
 
 The flag of war unfurl'd : 
 For mighty towers had kiss'd the dust 
 
 And forest-glades were red. 
 Not with rich crimson'd leaves or flowers. 
 
 But blood in battle shed. 
 
 The Saxon king, in that sad hour 
 
 Sat silent and alone : 
 Even to seek their daily food 
 
 His faithful band were gone. 
 No sound in that deserted bower 
 
 Awakened echo's voice, 
 No gleam of earthly light shone forth 
 
 To bid his heart rejoice. 
 
 An aged pilgrim, wayworn, sad. 
 
 With care upon his brow. 
 His white hair floating on the wind. 
 
 Came to that threshold low. 
 His pale lips quiver'd, and his cheek 
 
 Was wan and deadly pale. 
 As humbly, and in faltering tones. 
 
 He told his mournful tale. 
 
 A shade pass'd o'er the monarch's brow, 
 
 His clear blue eye grew dim ; 
 And his deep fervent prayer went up 
 
 For faith to trust in Him 
 Who heareth the young ravens' cry, 
 
 And giveth them their food ; 
 Who shieldeth the young tender lambs 
 
 From east winds chill and rude. 
 
 He turn'd to his fair Queen, and bade 
 
 Her bring her little store: 
 " Fear not," he cried ; " The God we ferj 
 
 Will surely give us more, 
 
 S S. — VOL. I. K
 
 38 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 For he who fed the multitude 
 
 In the wild desert, lone. 
 Can make our bread and water sure ; 
 
 He will protect his own." 
 
 A blessing from the pilgrim's lips 
 
 Came on that royal head ; 
 A prayer, that God on high would peace 
 
 And comfort round him shed. 
 And, oh ! those words were sweeter far 
 
 Than breath of spring's sweet flowers. 
 Than all the smiles of courtly friends, 
 
 In summer-sunshine hours. 
 
 The day sped on ; the wintry sun 
 
 In crystal skies went down ; 
 The night-wind woke its whispering tones. 
 
 The hour of rest di-ew on. 
 But ere had faded quite in gloom 
 
 The hues where sunset burn'd. 
 All laden with the forest spoil. 
 
 The gallant band return'd. 
 
 And when, once more, the royal crown 
 
 Press'd on that trusting brow. 
 His kingly heart rose up in praise 
 
 To Him who quell'd the foe ; 
 And oft he gazed with memory's eye 
 
 Along the stream of time, 
 And bless'd that Power who sent the gloom. 
 
 And then bright sunlight's prime. 
 
 Oh, Faith ! How beautiful thou art ! 
 
 Aud when in earthly breast 
 Thou plantest hopes that soar above. 
 
 How dear, how bright a guest ! 
 Through this cold world of doubt and fear. 
 
 Gilding the gloom with light. 
 The trusting pilgrim thou canst guide, 
 
 Till thou art lost in sight.
 
 
 Z", T. rAFLRIS.
 
 39 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 When the stormy wind is strong. 
 
 And the tempestj loud and long, 
 
 Strews the young leaves on the turf. 
 
 And crests with foam the silvery surf,— 
 
 When the tender ilowrets die, 
 
 While the whirlwind waxeth high, 
 
 Till the veil of darkening clouds, 
 
 That the clear blue heaven shrouds. 
 
 Parts away — and sunbeam's smile 
 
 Mingles with the rain awhile, — 
 
 Then the glorious bow is bent, 
 
 Like a lovely herald sent ; 
 
 And in rose and violet shade. 
 
 Ere the glowing arch can fade. 
 
 We may read the Hope of flowers, 
 
 That shall blush in summer bowers ; 
 
 When the sunbeams melt the snow. 
 
 Mantling all the mountain's brow. 
 
 When the crystal waters gush 
 
 From their homes of reed and rush. 
 
 Then we hope ere long to hear 
 
 Streamlets' music far and near ; 
 
 Winter may not always stay, 
 
 Earth shall smile in Spring's glad ray j 
 
 Hope ! bright Hope, is nature's voice. 
 
 Bidding care-worn hearts rejoice. 
 
 Summer will be here again, 
 
 Flowers shall bloom o'er all the plain. 
 
 Birds shall sing their carols sweet. 
 
 Pearly hawthorn's birth to greet ; 
 
 Hope ! sweet Hope, with rosy wreath. 
 
 Thou canst promise more than this j 
 
 Sorrow may not ever last. 
 
 Storms will soon be over-past. 
 
 What though death should close thy grief. 
 
 Weep not ! for the journey brief
 
 40 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Ends before the golden gate, 
 Where the dazzling angels wait ; 
 And to yonder glorious land, 
 Hope may point with stedfast hand. 
 Like a star in rayless night, 
 Lovely Grace ! thou smilest bright, 
 And the mourner's throbbing breast 
 Looks to Thee for calm and rest ; 
 Hopes of earth are sweet and fair. 
 But the canker eateth there ; 
 Earthly hope may prove in vain, 
 Dearest smiles may end in pain ; 
 But the hope enthroned on high 
 Wears a bloom that cannot die ; 
 Smiles on ever 'mid the gloom, 
 Hovers o'er the darksome tomb. 
 Lives till faith be lost in sight, 
 Hope, itself, in full delight. 
 Heavenly spirit ! with me stay, 
 All throughout my pilgrim-way; 
 When I bend beneath the storm. 
 May I meet thy seraph form ! 
 Amaranthine wreaths are thine, 
 Let such blossomings be mine ! 
 Rest Avith me tiU life be past. 
 And the haven gain'd at last ! 
 
 VICTORIA, PRINCESS ROYAL. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 Thou wert the IMorning Star of Hope, fair child ! 
 Shining, all lonely, in thy Royal home : 
 On thee a youthful IMother fondly smiled. 
 And glad the expectant nation saw thee come. 
 
 But now— a constellation of bright lights, 
 As nascent blessings to thy home are given : 
 And thick as silver stars on summer nights. 
 With a clear glory stud that peaceful heaven 1
 
 THE HEIRESS. 41 
 
 Now — to one Princely planet, eager hnii 
 The loyal eyes that welcomed thee before ; 
 And stars that with a lesser radiance burn, 
 Count as companion-satellites ; — no more ! 
 
 But to the Parent's heart, no after-days 
 
 Of richer glory can decrease the love, 
 
 Felt, oh ! thou gentle light, when fifst tliy rays 
 
 Shone with a tender radiance from above. 
 
 Still shall this halo circle thee through life ; 
 Thou wert the First-Born, of the welcoming heart ; 
 The dearest joy, when hope and joy were rife, 
 Grirt with sweet thoughts that never can depart. 
 
 Thou wert the first, whose soft and feeble cries 
 Smote on the Mother's thrill'd and listening ear: 
 Thou wert the first, whose closed, unconscious eyes. 
 Her kiss proclaim'd unutterably dear ! 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS. 
 
 'Twas on a bright May morning, when the birds did gaily sing. 
 And the waving woods were vocal with the melody of spring. 
 There stood a youthful maiden before her father's door. 
 All rich in wealth and beauty — what could she wish for more ? 
 
 Say, little child of penury, what think yoii did she wish ? — 
 
 For the earth to yield her silver dew, the ocean, golden fish? 
 
 For brighter gems around her brow, where health its garland wreathed? 
 
 Or food for thee, thou famish'd one — was that the wish she breathed? 
 
 Oh listen, gentle gales of spring; and listen, sweet May flowers ! 
 There are many kinds of suffering in this fair world of ours; 
 And she who stands in ermine robes beside the rich man's door. 
 Is sighing to the passing gale — " I wish that I were poor !" 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. L
 
 43 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 " The lady gay with jewels deck'd — the rich and noble lord, 
 Who come with all theii" retinue, and throng ray father's boarH, 
 They tell me of their constant wish, to serve me raore and more. 
 Oh should I not be happy then, if only I were poor ? 
 
 "Yes, I would be a peasant girl, so pretty, and so poor; 
 It would be such a pleasant life, to stray from door to door. 
 The only treasure I would keep, should be my gentle dove. 
 And that because I have not learu'd, to do without its love. 
 
 " Oh ! I would be a peasant girl, so simple and so neat ; 
 I should only have to tell the rich, I had no bread to eat ; 
 And all the gifts they promise now, would soon, be pour'd on me." 
 Say, little child of penury, how are they pour'd on thee ? 
 
 Nay, weep not ; there are many tears shed on the rich man's floor 
 And she who stands iu ermine robe, is wishing she were poor ; 
 She is tired of all the luxury, the fashion, and the form. 
 That make her father's hearth so cold, while thine is often warm • 
 
 She is tired of all the empty words that fall upon her ear. 
 And fail to make her truly feel to one fond bosom dear. 
 There is a joy she cannot taste, within her haUs of pride, 
 A love which want and misery, have sorely proved and tried. 
 
 Oh ! little child of penury, droop nol thy lowly head. 
 Thou hast a thousand, thousand gifts, in rich abundance spread j 
 Thou hast the warmth of nature's heart, wherever thou may'st go 
 And more — thine own, to sympathize in every human wo. 
 
 Thou hast the song of summer birds, the wild flowers on the lea. 
 The music of the mountain-rill — these all are gifts to thee ; 
 Thou hast along thy lonely path, a Heavenly Father's love. 
 His everlasting arms beneath — his canopy above.
 
 .o^ y/?-/,.-/, 
 
 PISHEE, SON &C? LONDOM V.?/UHS.
 
 43 
 
 ROME. 
 
 Oh ! mighty Rome ! proud city of the past I 
 
 I gaze upon thy battlements at last ; 
 
 I see thy glorious domes in bright aiTay, 
 
 All glittering in the setting sunbeam's ray : 
 
 I see thy castle-fortress, gray and stern, 
 
 Thy turrets, where the twilight-gleams yet burn. 
 
 From northern shores and colder climes I come. 
 
 To dwell within thy palaces. Old Rome ! 
 
 'Tis eventide, and all is calm and still, 
 
 Save voice of song, that swells from hill to hill : 
 
 Thine ancient temples rise against the skies. 
 
 Radiant with rosy hues and golden dyes ; 
 
 And round thy time-worn walls are marble tombs 
 
 Clad with bright verdure, and a thousand blooms : 
 
 And fallen columns, and old terrace walls 
 
 Are mingling with thy proudest princely halls j 
 
 And the rich clusters of thy purpling vines. 
 
 Trailing acanthus, and wild eglantines. 
 
 All glowing in the crimson light of eve, 
 
 Their garlands round thy solemn cloisters weave ; 
 
 Along thy ruin'd aisles and lonely bowers 
 
 The mournful ivy creeps, and star-like flowers 
 
 Are mantling round the moss-grown sculptured leaves 
 
 Of arch and column gray ; and rosy wreaths 
 
 Are gilding all with their rich summer glow. 
 
 Though solemn, drear decay, is round thee now ! 
 
 And is this Rome? The Rome of ancient time, 
 
 The Rome that ruled in every realm and clime ? 
 
 Where are her heroes, with their laurel crowns? 
 
 Where are her sceptres, now, her dazzling thrones? 
 
 Where are her sages ? where, her diadems, 
 
 All burning with red gold, and sparkling gems? 
 
 All have departed — all have pass'd away. 
 
 Their last, faint traces moulder in decay. 
 
 On ancient Tibur* now the moonlight falls — 
 
 Gaze on those voiceless piles, those moss-clad walls; 
 
 The emperor Auielian preseuted his captive Zeuobia ^\itli a villa at Tibur, or Tivoli.
 
 44 THE PEOPLE'S GALLEP.Y OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Zenobia's name still lingers in each gust 
 That sweeps her palace-ruins' mouldering dust ; 
 And whispering yet of Ciceronian clays, 
 Stands forth that solemn grove of laurel bays. 
 Oh ! ancient city ! calm and slow decay 
 Hath stolen all thy glorious pomp away ! 
 Proud Rome ! 'Tis sad to gaze upon thee now, 
 So lovely ! but with death upon thy brow ! 
 Thou art like beauty meeten'd for tlie grave. 
 Or some fair vessel sinking in the wave, 
 When storms are past, and sunset calmly shines 
 Along the distant mountain's purple lines. 
 Oh ! can it be, that thou wilt ever stand. 
 Like bright Palmyra, 'midst the desert sand ! 
 That on thy stones the golden sun may beam. 
 Or moonlight glisten on old Tiber's stream, 
 And not a sound fall on the silent night. 
 Save the cold gushing waters' rippling light ? 
 Now, while I stand within thy temples' sliade, 
 Where mitred brows in death's last sleep are laid, 
 Thy gorgeous altars, bright with pearls and gold, 
 And dusky banners rich with crimson fold. 
 All gemm'd with stars like thine own azure sky. 
 Still rest beneath that glorious canopy ; 
 But, Rome ! thy day of majesty is past. 
 And o'er thy towers a shade of gloom is cast ; 
 Thy stately pride is gone — on thy seven hills 
 No more the song of triumph proudly swells ; 
 Yet art tliou glorious even in decay. 
 And never shall thy memory fade away ! 
 
 The annexed plate presents a vie^v of the Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo, the Palace of the Vatican, and 
 the Church of St. Peter. The bridge crosses the Tiber opposite to the Mutes Hadiiani, to which it was designed 
 as an avenue. The piers and arclies are ancient; but having gi\eu way with a vast crowd of people duiing the 
 jubilee in 1450, the bridge was renewed by Nicholas V., and again by Clement IX., who erected the balustrade. 
 The Castle of 8t. Angelo, the fortress and state prison of Rome, is constructed from the remains of the cele- 
 brated Motes Hadiiani, or mausoleum, erected by Hadrian. It was converted into a fortress during the siege of 
 Rome by the Goths in 537, wljen the besieged cast down from its walls the statues and other ornaments of the 
 place upon the assailants. ' It is a circular building, two Imudred and ninety feet in diameter. But, like the 
 celebrated Church of St. Peter, this remarkable edifice has been too often described at length, in the works both 
 of early and modern tourists, to call for more than a reference here.

 
 45 
 
 BEAUTY AND DRESS. 
 
 BY THE HON. EDMUND PHIPPS. 
 
 Spare not, fair maid, each glittering gaud to seek, 
 
 Grudge not tlie wasted hour ; 
 Tinge with a borrow'd rose thy tender cheek. 
 
 Heightening thy beauty's power ; 
 Summon more maidens for the mystic rites. 
 
 To aid thee at thy call ; 
 Arrange the mirrors, and dispose more lights. 
 
 Then deck thee for the Ball. 
 
 It was not always thus. In days gone by. 
 
 Simplicity, not art. 
 Was thy first charm ; not to attract the eye, 
 
 But to subdue the heart. 
 Thoughtless of admiration, how could men 
 
 Not worship such as thou ? 
 Success was certain to attend thee, then, 
 
 As sure, as failure, now. 
 
 A modest blush supplied the frequent rose, 
 
 Flowers deck'd thy flowing hair ; 
 No laboured arts delay'd the toilet's close ; 
 
 No foreign aid was there : 
 Then thou wert simple, innocent, and free ; 
 
 Would thou wert so again ! 
 Free — for the world had not then trammel'd thee. 
 
 With self-accepted chain. 
 
 Now let thy flowing flounces' ample round 
 
 Thy empty pride convey ; 
 And thy fair locks, where ornaments abound, 
 
 A faulty taste display ; 
 Let the imprisoning whalebone aptly show 
 
 Thy intellect confined. 
 The feather, with its restless, dancing flow, 
 
 Present thy fickle mind. 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. M 
 
 b^-
 
 46 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The softest satin of the loom shall e'en 
 
 Thy polish'd skin outvie ; 
 And diamonds of Golconda, with their sheen, 
 
 Outsparkle thy bright eye ; 
 Thus deck'd, thou wilt attract each passing look. 
 
 But not one heart retain : 
 The gaudiest bait that floats, without a hook. 
 
 Would, floating, float in vain. 
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 
 I GAZED upon a sunny field. 
 
 Where golden grain was waving fair. 
 And cloudless skies shone soft and calm. 
 
 On the bright poppies glowing there ; 
 Blue corn-flowers smiled like summer heaven. 
 
 And scarlet weeds, in gorgeous bloom, 
 Laugh'd in the sunlight's burning raj'. 
 
 Unconscious of their coming doom. 
 
 Th' ethereal arch of glorious blue 
 
 Cloudless and stainless stretch'd above, 
 No speck upon its bright expanse. 
 
 Save silvery wing of flitting dove ; 
 While through the wood-paths' leafy shade 
 
 A thousand birds their music flung. 
 And o'er the banks of flowery thyme 
 
 Hover'd the wild bee's thrilling hum. 
 
 And many stricken flowers were there. 
 
 Where'er the reaper's hand had been, 
 And ears that graceful waved at morn. 
 
 Were scatter'd ere the noon-tide beam ; 
 The joyous sound of "harvest-home'' 
 
 Came on the balmy summer-breeze. 
 While rosy children sported on. 
 
 Beneath the spreading hawthorn trees. 
 
 But one fair girl sat lone, and stUl ; 
 Her silken curls with untaught grace.
 
 THE GLEANER. *'' 
 
 Mantling upon her earnest brow, 
 
 And shading her sweet, gentle face. 
 No dream of care, no thought of grief, 
 
 Had dimm'd her sunny, meek, blue eyes. 
 That through their silken fringes beam'd. 
 
 As soft and clear as sapphire skies. 
 
 Her golden tresses like a veil, 
 
 Hung o'er her graceful child-like form ; 
 Sure, form so fair could ne'er have bent 
 
 Beneath earth's grief, or sorrow's storm j 
 The rose-leaf tinge upon her cheek 
 
 Had never paled at touch of woe, 
 And peace shone foi'th in that sweet smile. 
 
 And joy in that soft warbling low. 
 
 Bright, lovely child 1 All things are fair 
 
 That meet thy innocent young gaze ! 
 The stream that bathes the willow-leaves. 
 
 The hills, half hid in purple haze ; 
 The forest-trees' rich emerald hue, 
 
 The moss whereon the rock-springs fall ; 
 All, all, are calm and beautiful. 
 
 But Thou, the fairest of them all. 
 
 Young Gleaner 1 surely thy sweet face 
 
 Tells not of rude or rustic bower ; 
 No peasant race is thine, fair child, 
 
 Thou, surely, art a cultured flower. 
 It may be, that thy parents' hopes 
 
 Have all been blighted, save of thee ; 
 And in this lonely, woodland vale, 
 
 They dwell in toil and poverty. 
 
 Oh ! be to them a sunbeam bright. 
 
 Though all things else have pass'd away ; 
 Thy gentle love, and low, sweet voice 
 
 Can cheer, though wealth no longer stay. 
 Cling to thy Mother, Lovely one ! 
 
 Hide not from her one passing thought; 
 In doubt or sorrow, shelter there — 
 
 Her heart with tenderness is fraught.
 
 4« THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS 
 
 Go homeward now, young Gleaner, home, 
 
 To thine own rose-wreathed, humble cot ; 
 Thou earnest like a lovely dream. 
 
 Unknown ahke, thy name and lot. 
 Go ; gather up thy treasured store. 
 
 Part back the ringlets from thy brow ; 
 The sun is sinking in the West ; 
 
 Calm twilight steals around thee, now. 
 
 Lift up thy young unburden'd heart. 
 
 In this calm hour of dewy eve; 
 No longer chant thy merry song. 
 
 Cease, now, the corn-flower buds to weave. 
 Look upwards now ; far, far beyond 
 
 That glowing crimson in the West ; 
 Raise thy young voice in prayer and praise 
 
 To Him who gives the hour of rest. 
 
 Farewell ! Oh ! may'st thou ever glean 
 
 Hope, truth, and joy through all thy way. 
 As freely, fully, as thou hast 
 
 Nature's rich gifts, this sunny day ! 
 And though I gaze on thee no more. 
 
 Yet thy young face will ever dwell 
 'Mid the bright visions of the past : 
 
 Farewell, sweet Gleaner ; Fare thee well. 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. HENRY, VISCOUNT HARDINGE, G.C.B. 
 
 LATE GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF INDIA. 
 
 Could we take a review of the career of those, who, in this country, have risen, 
 by their own merit, to high and responsible ofBces of state, it would, perhaps, be 
 found, that by no class of men have such oflSces been more honourably or more 
 effectively filled, than by soldiers of high character, and acknowledged ability in their 
 own profession. The personal history of the eminent subject of this memoir, affords 
 an illustration of this observation. 
 
 The present Loan Hardinge is the grandson of Nicholas Hardinge, Esq., long 
 known and respected as chief clerk of the House of Commons; and the third son of 
 the Rev. Henry Hardinge, rector of Stanhope, in the county of Durham. He was
 
 y/. 
 
 '//. %■
 
 LORD HARDINGE. 49 
 
 born on the 30th of Miircli, 1783 ; and being, from bis cbiklbood designed for the 
 profession of arms, be devoted less time than is usually given by men of bis degree, 
 to the study of classical literature. At the age of sixteen be obtained a commission 
 in the army, and thenceforward gave liimself up, with singular ardour, to the duties 
 of the military profession. 
 
 Having been placed by Sir John Moore on bis staff, C;iptain Hardinge accom- 
 panied that lamented general throughout his Spanish campaign, and shared bis 
 disastrous retreat to Corunna ; and into his arms, it was, that Sir John Moore fell 
 when struck by the shot wliicb caused his death. 
 
 Under the Duke of Wellington, then Sir Arthur Wellesley, the subject of this 
 memoir served throughout the campaigns of Spain and Portugal, being present at the 
 battles of Busaco, and Albuera ; at tlie ever-memorable storming of Badajos ; and at 
 the battles of Salamanca, Vittoria, the Pyrenees, Nivelle, Nive, and Orthes. His 
 gallant services on these occasions secured for him a high mibtary reputation, together 
 with the honourable title of K.C.B.; and various orders, both British and foreign. 
 In company with Wellington, be terminated his career of active service on the field 
 of Waterloo ; and in the action which there secured the liberties of Europe, lost his 
 right arm. 
 
 In November, 1821, Sir Henry Hardinge married the Lady Emily, daughter of 
 Robert, first Marquis of Londonderry ; and about the same time entered into political 
 life. In 1823, be was appointed clerk of the ordnance ; which office be filled till, in 
 the year 1828, he was made Secretary at War. In the mean time he had entered 
 parbament as member for Durham ; and be subsequently sat for the Cornish boroughs 
 of Newport, and St. Germain ; and for the town of Launceston. In 1830, Sir Henry 
 Hardinge was appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, but, of course, lost office on the 
 breaking up, in that year, of his friend the Duke of Wellington's ministry. In 1834, he 
 was again appointed Secretary for Ireland, but resigned that high office in April, 1835. 
 
 The great talents which he bad displayed in these various situations led to the 
 selection of this eminent man as the fittest person to whom to entrust the government 
 of our Eastern possessions ; and on the recall of Lord Ellenborougb in 1844, Sir Henry 
 Hardinge was appointed to succeed that nobleman as Governor-General of India. He 
 was sworn into bis high office early in May, 1844, and, within about three weeks, was 
 on his way, overland, to the seat of his government. 
 
 Our space forbids us to enlarge upon the peculiar difficulties and dangers which 
 awaited the new Governor-General, on bis arrival <it Calcutta, or to do more than touch 
 upon the main points of bis subsequent career. It may suffice to observe, in general, 
 that a more critical period than that during which he presided over British India, has 
 not occurred in the history of that country since the days of Warren Hastings. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that when Sir Henry Hardinge reached the seat of bis govern- 
 ment, an apparent but delusive tranquillity had succeeded to the recent troubles which 
 had disturbed the north-eastern frontiers of our Indian Empire. The disasters of the 
 Affghan campaign had been redeemed ; Scinde, our most recent acquisition, appeared 
 
 S. a. VOL. I. N
 
 50 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 to be a secure possession ; and the distracted condition of the court of Lahore seemed 
 to preclude the probability of any outbreak on the part of the Sikhs. The keen eye, 
 however, of the newly-arrived Governor-General discerned the clouds of war which 
 were gathering beyond the Sutlej. The Punjab, from the time of Alexander the 
 Great, had been the scene of a series of fierce wars and bloody revolutions; the 
 immense army of the Sikhs, recently organized and disciplined by the late Runjeet, 
 presented a body of vast power; and the fact, that the protected Sikhs on the British 
 side of the Sutlej had become disaffected — a fact well known to Sir Henry Hardinge — 
 convinced him that the danger was more imminent and extensive than might pre- 
 viously have been imagined. 
 
 The occurrences which ensued, bore witness to the soundness of the Governor- 
 General's judgment, as well as to his valour and military skill. 
 
 The principal events of the war of the Punjab ; the names of Moodkee — indis- 
 solubly connected with the memory of Sale, the hero of Jallalabad — and of Feroze- 
 SHAH, are in the recollection of every reader; nor need we dwell upon the generosity 
 of the Goveruor-Geueral, in proposing to serve as second in command to the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief, Sir Hugh Gough ; nor upon the frank and manly spirit in which 
 that proposal was received. Honour be to both those noble soldiers ! for well have 
 they earned their coronets. 
 
 The terrific fight of Ferozeshah began on the evening of the 21st of December, 1845. 
 The Sikhs outnumbered the English more than four-fold ; and the issue was doubtful, 
 when darkness suspended the combat. The night was spent by Generals Hardinge 
 and Gough in making preparation for the tremendous struggle of the morrow, and 
 in encouraging their forces; and when the signal victory was won, and the Sikhs and 
 their country lay at the mercy of the conquerors, these Christian commanders, remem- 
 bering, amid the triumph of their great achievement, the only source whence all 
 strength and all glory are derived, invited the survivors from the fight to assemble 
 near the Governor-General's tent, and unite with him in returning thanks to the Lord 
 of Hosts fur the success with which He had crowned their arms. 
 
 Lord Hardinge, who, in common with his gallant coadjutor. Sir Hugh Gough, 
 has most deservedly been raised to the peerage, used his great victory so as to pro- 
 mote the happiness of the vanquished. He organized for the Sikhs the best native 
 government of which circumstances admitted ; and having successfully applied himself 
 to the development of the agricultural and commercial resources of the Punjab, he 
 resigned the government of an empire, to which, under Providence, he had given 
 security and stability. Lord Dalhousie, the present Governor-General, having reached 
 Calcutta, and having been installed in his high office. Lord Hardinge quitted India 
 on the 18th of January, 1848, esteemed and applauded by all classes of the community. 
 The Crown and the East India Company have vied with each other to do him honour ; 
 and his name — linked with that of his brave companion in arms — will be gratefully 
 remembered so long as valour, patriotism, and devotion to the calls of duty, shall 
 be esteemed among men.
 
 51 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 Oh, glorious Genius ! what might was thine ! 
 
 Proudly thy Poet-name shall ever shine ! 
 
 How didst thou soar away in realms of song, 
 
 As if some wondrous spell were o'er thee flung, 
 
 Embalming in thy verse old Grecia's shore. 
 
 Where Beauty lingers yet — though never more 
 
 Shall glory scatter laurels on her plain, 
 
 Nor wake again that long-forgotten strain 
 
 That rang from JNIarathoti, or Leuctra's field. 
 
 With voice of trumpet, clang of sword and shield ! 
 
 Sad was thy dirge-like music, o'er the tomb 
 
 Of that which once had boasted matchless bloom ; 
 
 And like the sound of song o'er waters cast. 
 
 Thy sweet bewailings of the cherish'd past ! 
 
 Oft, too, in Alpine glens, beneath the shade 
 
 Of some dark, wither'd pine, thy footsteps stray'd ; 
 
 Thou heardst the Avanlanche's sulleu roar, 
 
 Then, death-like silence reign'd the glaciers o'er. 
 
 'Mid mighty mountains with their solemn brows 
 
 Shrouded in dazzling, deep, eternal snows. 
 
 And awful in their grandeur, hast thou stood, 
 
 Gazing in solitude on Leman's flood. 
 
 And there was Venice ! " city of the sea !" 
 
 Amid her halls of ancient revelry, 
 
 Thou linger'dst long ; watching the wax and wane 
 
 Of many moons upon her azure main ; 
 
 Loving that wave, in wild and starless nights, 
 
 When the fair Island-city's thousand lights 
 
 Flash'd on its murky waters, for a brief 
 
 And sudden space, like passing smile on grief. 
 
 Thou trod'st llavenna's dreary solitude. 
 
 Thou miiigledst with the stormy southern feud. 
 
 Echoing the cry for Liberty, that rang 
 
 Along Etruria's shores, with martial clang. 
 
 Italia's cause thine own, bold hast thou stood, 
 
 Conqueror or victim ; while the threatening flood. 
 
 That in the distance lifted up its voice 
 
 All stern and hoarse, bade thy worn heart rejoice.
 
 53 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Proud Genoa, too, and Pisa's letter'd walls 
 Welcomed tliee gladly to their stately halls ; 
 But oft, at sunset-hour thou lovedst to roam 
 'Mid desolate ruins, moss and ivy-grown ; 
 Or when the last rich rays of day were gone. 
 To sit upon some fragment of huge stone, 
 And there to gaze upon the placid sea, 
 Its low faint murmur mingling tranquilly 
 With the pale light of eve, and western breeze. 
 That scarce could fan the fragrant orange trees. 
 
 But now, again, Greece claim'd thee for her guest, 
 Oh! little recking, that'neath her green breast. 
 The exiled King of Song would sleep in death ! 
 Oh ! little dreaming that his pilgrim breath 
 Should breathe its last sweet dying swan-notes there. 
 His eagle-eyes close on that land so fair ! 
 
 Yet was it so. — On Grecian shores he stood. 
 
 And midst the roaring of old Ocean's flood. 
 
 Demanded Freedom for that classic ground. 
 
 And all Ionia's isles gave back the sound. 
 
 With dying breath, for Liberty he cried ; 
 
 The Exile wept for Greece enslaved — and died. 
 
 He died ! departed ! — Would that Hope had shed 
 
 A clearer radiance round that solemn bed ! 
 
 'Tis sad to know not, that he look'd on high. 
 
 To worlds beyond the blue Morean sky ! 
 
 Not like a star, but as of meteor birth. 
 
 He dazzled, for a while, this lower earth ; 
 
 To Earth alone, his genius was given ; 
 
 Unlike the stars, it lent no light to Heaven. 
 
 And yet no scornful voice shall mock thy doom ; 
 
 Great Poet ! none may trifle near thy tomb ; 
 
 Who would not grieve to see the minster aisle. 
 
 Once proudly glorious, stand a ruin'd pile ? 
 
 Who would not mourn to see within the grave 
 
 All that had once been beautiful and brave ? 
 
 And such wert Thou. — A genius rare was thine ; 
 
 Thy mighty thoughts, like jewels from the mine. 
 
 Shone forth, and charm'd the wondering souls of men. 
 
 Whose meed of praise was thy bright diadem.
 
 SIR ROBEllT SALE. 53 
 
 Thy love, alas ! was fixed on things below, 
 No flowers celestial twined thy laurcl'd brow ; 
 But now thy race is mn ; we will not chide 
 The ashes that beneath the marble hide : 
 Deep, deep regret must cast a shade of gloom — 
 But be thy failings buried in thy tomb. 
 
 SIR ROBERT SALE. 
 
 Major-General Sir Robert Henry Sale, G.C.B., late Quarter-Master-General 
 of the British Forces in India, was the second son of the late Colonel Sale, many years 
 an active officer in the East India Company's service. His mother was the daughter 
 of Henry Brine, Esq., of Buckden, Huntingdonshire. He was born in the year 1782 ; 
 and, having early discovered an inclination towards the profession of arms, he entered 
 the army as an Ensign in the 36th regiment of foot, in 179.5, having at that time but 
 just completed his thirteenth year. His education had, of course, been in some measure 
 professional ; yet, early as was his entrance upon the active life of a soldier, he had 
 attained no small proficiency in literary pursuits. India was from first to last the 
 scene of his services. There he entered upon his military career ; and there, after 
 half-a-ceutury's active service, and after having taken part in not less than twenty 
 important actions, he ultimately fell in battle, in the hour of victory. 
 
 In the year 1799, and at the early age of seventeen years, the late Sir Robert 
 Sale first drew his sword, during the wars against Tippoo Sultan, at the siege and 
 storming of Seringapatam, and received a silver medal for his gallant conduct on that 
 occasion. He served throughout the campaigns in the "Wynaud country in 1801 ; and 
 after a series of less imposing but not less important services, he took part, in 1809, 
 in the storming of the lines at Travancore. He was an active agent in the capture 
 of the Isle of France in 1810; and served, with distinguished honour, throughout the 
 Burmese war, in the years 1824, 1825, and 1826. He was present at the capture 
 of Rangoon ; and while in command of his regiment there, drove the enemy from 
 the vicinity of the place, stormed the stockades near Kemundine, and also those near 
 Kumaroot and Pagoda Point, receiving, during the latter service, a severe wound in 
 the head. He next commanded a brigade employed in the redaction of Bassein, which 
 service, together with subsequent operations, occupied the months of February, March, 
 April, and May, in the year 1825. In the December of that year this heroic soldier 
 repulsed the Shaans and Burmese at Prome ; on the following day he reduced the 
 neighbouring heights; and in January, 1826, stormed the lines at Melloon, in which 
 last gallant action he received a second severe wound. At the close of the Burmese 
 war, he was admitted to the Companionship of the Bath. 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. o
 
 54 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 At the opening of the Affghanistan campaign, the gallant Sale, being one of our 
 most experienced officers in Indiiiu warfare, was appointed to the command of the first 
 Bengal Brigade of the armv of the Indus, which brigade took the lead throughout the 
 whole of that memorable campaign. To his bold and experienced guidance was entrusted 
 the command of the detachment of 2,500 men, seut to Girishk in May, 1839; and 
 on the 23d of the following July, he commanded the storming p.irty at Ghuznee, on 
 which occasion he received a sabre-cut on the face, and various other wounds. In 
 September, 1840, he took charge of the force sent to subdue the Kohistan country; 
 and, by a series of most brilliant operations, attacked and took the town and forts 
 of Tootumdurrah, as well as tliose of Jhoolghur, Baboo Koosh Giiur, and Kardurrah; 
 drove tlie enemy, under the command of Dost Mohammed Khan, from the strongholds 
 of Perwan, and compelled that commander himself to surrender to Sir William 
 Macnaghten. 
 
 A success so decisive might have been expected to put an end to the war; but the 
 warlike tribes of the Affghans had mountain-fastnesses to which they could resort. 
 Sir Robert Sale, however, triumphing alike over natural as over artificial obstacles, 
 stormed the Khoord Cabool Pass, drove the eueuiy from the heights of Tezeen, reduced 
 the fort of Mamoo-Khail, and finally intrenched himself at Jellalabad — a place, the 
 name of which his heroic gallantry has immortalized. 
 
 Jellalabad was invested by the wild and savage Affghans from the beginning of 
 November, 1841, to the beginning of April, 1842 : Lady Sale was, during this period, 
 a prisoner ; and was given to understand, that she and her companions in captivity 
 would be released, on C(mdition that she should induce her husband to abandon his 
 post. The heroic lady knew her dutj^ better. She conjured Sir Robert to defend 
 Jellalabad to the last extremity; declaring that she would rather die than be the 
 means of tempting him to the slightest departure from the path of honour and duty. 
 
 On the destruction of General Elphinstone's army, the ^vild Affghans rushed, with 
 fresh furj^, to the attack of Jellalabad. Till April, 1842, as we have said, the brave 
 Sir Robert Sale remained on the defensive, satisfied to repulse the assaults of the 
 fierce enemy. On the seventh of that month, however, being aware that General 
 Pollock was advancing to his relief, he resolved to make a sortie, and to attack 
 Akbar Khan in his camp. He did so, and completely routing the adverse forces, 
 captured their guns, bui'nefl their camp, and drove them fi'om every point of their 
 position. The English captives were subsequently released, and Sir Robert Sale and 
 his heroic wife were reunited.* 
 
 After the conclusion of this memorable war, Sii" Robert Sale and his Lady returned 
 to England, where they were welcomed by the applause of the nation at large, and 
 by the warm congratulations of their personal friends.. In the midst, however, of 
 his enjoyment of the approbation and gratitude of his country, he was recalled to 
 India, to join the army on the Sutlej ; and on the 19th of December, 1845, at the 
 age of sixty-three, he closed his honourable and arduous career, on the hard-fought 
 
 • Vide Lady Sale's " Journal of the Disasters in Afghanistan."
 
 ■n^/ 
 
 // .^^// 
 
 ■yj^/. 
 
 PETER JACKSOH LOKDONfcPARlS
 
 EARLY LESSONS. 55 
 
 field of Moodkee. The joy of the victory of that day was damped by the loss of 
 many a gallant soldier ; but of none, perhaps, more worthy of his country's gratitude 
 than was Sir Robert Sale. 
 
 " Ilis courage and his worth were truly shown 
 In pages WTitten by a woman's hand ; 
 Meet helpmate for a soldier ! . . 
 , . ,. . . All is over now ! 
 He lieth cold, where it shall little reck 
 That English voices sound no longer near, 
 In the far Indian land ! . . . 
 But they that lose him, heavy though their loss, 
 May feel too proud for gi'ief " 
 
 EARLY LESSONS. 
 
 Sweet shade of thought on that young brow ! 
 
 Sweet lisping tones so meek and low ! 
 
 Sweet mother, with thy deep blue eyes. 
 
 Clear as those crystal sappliire skies ; 
 
 How lovely are ye, in this shade. 
 
 Where through the leaves the sunbeams fade ! 
 
 Sweet, too, the thought that mother's love 
 
 In tones as gentle as the dove. 
 
 Should sow fair wisdom's earliest seeds. 
 
 Before have sprung the noxious weeds. 
 
 A thousand flowers are round thy feet. 
 
 Fair matron — and their bloom is sweet. 
 
 But none so lovely is to thee, 
 
 As the young bud upon thy knee ! 
 
 Now, mother ! lay aside the book, 
 
 And point to yonder rippling brook, 
 
 And to that calm blue heaven on high. 
 
 Or primrose tufts that round thee lie. 
 
 Tlie warbling birds, the honey-bee. 
 
 The wild wnd rushing far and free. 
 
 The gentle, balmy, western breeze. 
 
 Scarce fanning trembling aspen trees. 
 
 Rich coronals of roses flung 
 
 "Where the wood-strawberries are strung.
 
 56 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The clustering hyacinth's perfume, 
 Mingled with snowy hawthorn-bloom, 
 The fountains where the faint lights fall — 
 And say " Our Father made them all." 
 And thou, sweet baby ! listen now, 
 Nor heed the flowers that round thee blow ; 
 Treasure those words of earnest love ; 
 It may be thine, sometime, to prove 
 The hollow guise of brightest smiles. 
 Of this cold world's false, honied wiles ; 
 And broken faith mai/ cast a gloom 
 Around thee, dreary as the tomb ; 
 And tears may pale that rose-leaved cheek, 
 And dim those blue eyes' radiance meek ; 
 And those rich ringlets, care and grief 
 With silvery threads may, one day, streak. 
 Oh ! then, through years of shade and light. 
 Look back upon thy childhood bright ; 
 And though, like woodland buds, have flown 
 True-seeming friends, and round are strown 
 The blossomings of life's green spring ; 
 And day by day some silvery string 
 Is snapp'd asunder, till the mind 
 On earth no hope of rest may find ; 
 Then glance adown the stream of time, 
 To this calm morn of summer's prime. 
 Remember all these gentle words. 
 That voice, like music's richest chords. 
 That tells thee of a Father's love, 
 Who dwelleth in the world above ; 
 A tender Father, reconciled. 
 Who claims thee for His favour'd child ; 
 And light across the gloom shall beam, 
 To cheer thy spirit with its beam ; 
 And faith shall spring within thy breast, 
 Though earth be not thy place of rest. 
 That yet thy Father throned on high. 
 Still looks on thee with watchful eye ; 
 And though thy weary footsteps roam. 
 Erelong, will surely call thee home. 
 Then, listen, child of lofty race. 
 Gaze on thy mother's gentle face ;
 
 ////■//^y ' ya/y/-/} . '
 
 ELIZABETH-JANE SOilERYILLE. 57 
 
 No teachings can be lialf so meet. 
 For none are with such love replete j 
 .And what to thee may e'er betide, 
 Though joy or grief with thee abide, 
 Through all the mazy paths of life 
 Still shalt thou bless, through peace or strife. 
 These holy early lessons given 
 Beneath the azure vault of heaven. 
 
 ELIZABETH -JANE, 
 
 DVUGIITF.R OF SIR WILLIAM AND LADY MARIA SOMERVILLE. 
 BY LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 Sweet Elf! with fingers soft and round. 
 Wild wandering o'er the shifting keys, — 
 With gay eyes glistening at the sound. 
 As conscious of thy power to please : 
 The gracious forms that Love will take, 
 How well this " graven image" shows ; 
 The fond idolatry — can make 
 E'en discord sweet, — for thy sweet sake, — 
 And yet no miracle disclose ! 
 
 Thy smiles, and playful gestures, tell 
 
 Glad tales of a most happy lot ; 
 
 And pleasant Home ; wherein there dwell 
 
 Good angels, — though thou seest them not ! 
 
 That Patience, Zeal, and watchful Love, 
 
 Are ever near thee, — night and day, — 
 
 A thousand nameless virtues prove : 
 
 The grace with which those small hands move,— 
 
 Those eyes at once so good and gay 1 
 
 God grant, dear child ! thy smile may long 
 Adorn and bless that happy home j 
 And to those lips — so form'd for song — 
 May nought but mirth and music come. 
 
 S. S. VOL. I, p
 
 58 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERX- OF ENGRAAaNGS. 
 
 No wonder that the painter took 
 
 Thy fair, round face, thus turn'd, this way — 
 
 (Unconscious of the music hook !) 
 
 Such harmony is in thy look, 
 
 We would not hear but see thee play ! 
 
 And when, perhaps, in after-days, 
 Grown learned in thy lovely art. 
 Thy graceful skill shall challenge praise 
 More smooth in word, less warm in heart ; 
 Still value most the fond applause 
 That greets thy infant efforts now, — 
 For now thy skill is not the cause 
 That tears of fond affection draws ! 
 Thy music charms us not, — but thou ! 
 
 THE CITY OF N A II U ^\ 
 
 Nahtjn is one of the principal towns of Sirinagur, or Sirmoor, a province of India, 
 bounded on the north and north-east by the mountain-chains of Thibet and Himalaya ; 
 on the south by Delhi, and on the north-west by Lahore. Though comparatively a 
 small place, Nahun is considered to be, in point of situation, and style of architecture, 
 one of the finest cities' of Northern India. Nothing can be more magnificent thau 
 the scenery in this part of Asia. Nahun, in particular, occupying the summit of 
 a rock, and being approached by a picturesque, well-watered, and richly-wooded valley, 
 commands on all sides extentiive prospects of the most surpassing beauty. The 
 immediately surrounding country is intersected by numerous valleys and ravines, 
 clothed in all the luxuriance of oriental vegetation, and irrigated by the picturesque 
 waters of the Deyrah Dhoon, a stream subsidiary to the great Ganges, which noble 
 river enters the province of Delhi, a little below Nahun ; while iu the distance, low 
 belts of hills give to the landscape all the variety and beauty of mountain scenery. 
 The road leading to Nahun is exceedingly steep and narrow, and forms a most incon- 
 venient and precipitous ascent, up which, however, eleph;ints, even when heavily laden, 
 contrive to climb. The streets of the city present somewliat of the appearance of 
 stairs ; so numerous are the steps, which the height and irregularity of the rock on 
 which the town stands have rendered necessary. Ill-adapted as streets so constructed 
 would seem to be to the exercise of riding on horseback or elephant-back, the principal 
 inhabitants of Nahun, with the ordinary Eastern disdain of difficulties of such a 
 nature, are accustomed to the use of horses and elephants, and appear perfectly at
 
 ifimftiiif^^u 
 
 S 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^j.
 
 CITY OF NAHUN. 59 
 
 their ease when thus mounted. This circumstance is peculiarly striking to European 
 observers. 
 
 The Rajah of Sirmoor, who is indebted to British aid for the security of his domi- 
 nions, is exceedingly assiduous in his attentions to Europeans generally, and to English 
 travellers in particular, who may pass through his territories. His district being 
 mountainous and thinly populated, his revenues are not large ; but notwithstanding 
 their scantiness, he contrives to keep up such an appearance as may be likely to 
 impress European visitors with an idea of his dignity and importance. 
 
 Few things are more apt to provoke a smile than the formal interviews which 
 occasionally take place between native Indian potentates and the European travellers, 
 civil or military, who may chance to pass through some remote principality. The 
 English visitor is perhaps in the last stage of dishabille; a long journey, too, has 
 deplorably deteriorated the appearance of his equipage and his attendants ; and most 
 willingly would he avoid the honours that are thrust upon him. The rajah, on the 
 other hand, is most anxious to exhibit himself as a person of importance, and havin" 
 first given due notice of his approach, he pays his respects to the representative of 
 Great Britain, with all the pomp and circumstance which he can command. The 
 native cavalcades on these occasions are often exceedingly picturesque; affording an 
 imposing display of elephants handsomely caparisoned; of oruamentcd litters; gaudily 
 dressed troopers ; and crowds of men on foot, brandishing swords, and silver maces ; 
 while the deep roll of the drums, and the shrill blasts of the trumpets, come upon 
 the ear in wild and wariike music. The European dignitary, on the coutrarj-, having 
 none of these " appliances and means to boot," and being, moreover, conscious of 
 many awkward circumstances, in the shape of ragged attendants, and perhaps even 
 of a personal costume unsuited to occasions of state, finds it difficult, yet most 
 necessary, to preserve a steady countenance ; since laughter would be deemed unseemly; 
 and would, certainly, be attributed to a wrong cause. Tlie Eajah of Nahun is rather 
 proud of his fortress, and never fails to invite Europeans to visit it, and to inspect 
 his troops, which, however, are neither numerous, nor in a high state of discipline. 
 
 Within view of the city of Nahun is the hill-fortress of Attock, which stands four 
 thousand eight hundred and fifty-four feet above the level of the sea, and which is 
 memorable as having cost the lives of four British officers on the occasion of its capture 
 during the Ghoorka war. The fall of these brave men is commemorated by a lofty 
 obelisk which stands in the very centre of the town of Nahun, and marks their- graves. 
 It is superfluous to say, that this obelisk is an object of great, though melancholy 
 interest to Englishmen, who, in their foreign wanderings, find themselves thus suddenly 
 reminded of the services and death of those brave fellow-countrymen who have here 
 their remote place of rest. 
 
 Nahun is at no great distance from the residence of an English agent ; and on the 
 intervening road there are convenient bungalows for the accommodation of travellers. 
 The city is considered to be healthy; but notwithstanding its elevated position — 
 upwards of three thousand feet above the level of the sea— Europeans suffer there
 
 60 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 from tlie lieat of the atmosphere. It is also exposed to unwholesome hot vrinds ; and 
 during one season of the year, the jungles in its neighbourhood are productive of 
 malaria, and the consequent diseases. 
 
 The accompanying plate presents an admirable view of Nahun and its vicinity. 
 While we regret tliat a country externally so lovely should be subject to the natural 
 evils above mentioned, how much more should we lament the spiritual darkness which 
 still, to a great extent, continues to overshadow that fair portion of " this beautiful 
 visible world." 
 
 THE HON. ANTHONY ASHLEY, 
 
 Eldest son of Lord Ashley ( son of the Earl of Shaftesbury ) and Lady Emily Cowper, ( daughter of the 
 Countess Cowper, now Viscountess Palmerston. ) 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 If every effort for the right 
 
 ^Made by the sire, coidd nerve thy youth 
 
 To battle in Temptation's hour. 
 
 For holy Righteousness and Truth : 
 
 If every prayer which humble lips 
 Have breathed with simplest eloquence. 
 For HIM, (whose heart was with the Poor,) 
 Could be THY shield and thy defence : 
 
 If every self-denying act. 
 And solemn thought, his spirit gave 
 Througli dazzling, careless, flatter'd years, 
 Could make thee wise, and keep thee brave : 
 
 Safe, through a world of many storms. 
 And amply guarded, thou might'st tread ; 
 While delegated blessings made 
 A halo round thy noble head. 
 
 So let it be ! A lovely life 
 Is his, who from the earliest dawn, 
 Ne'er found the averted face of God, 
 Like sunlight from his course withdrawn ;
 
 r,i,„t.,i I; .:■!, ji\-Sms JtA 
 
 r ^'/A . '////,■ /-///a
 
 ^Z/y/- -^f/'/ir 
 
 w
 
 THE LOVE LETTER. 61 
 
 Ne'er felt a late repentance sting, 
 And mused, while gazing sadly back, 
 Which were the old delightful paths ; * 
 Which was the true, the glorious track : 
 
 Ne'er gave to Sin his noonday strength, 
 And turn'd, with feeble, wayworn feet, 
 And downcast eyes, that weeping prayed. 
 At Eventide his God to meet : 
 
 But from the first with cheerful heart, 
 
 Uprose, the tasks of Life to do : 
 
 Keeping the steadfast hope of Heaven, 
 
 Through cloud and shine — through weal and woe : 
 
 Deject, nor dazzled, overmuch : 
 Consulting only God's high will, — 
 As mariners, through changeful daya 
 Watch the abiding compass stiU ! 
 
 THE LOVE LETTER. 
 
 Paler she grew from day to day, 
 
 As, fading from her cheek away. 
 
 The rose-tinge left her gentle brow 
 
 All fairer than the mouatain-snow. 
 
 The glossy ringlets once so bright, 
 
 So dazzling in their golden light. 
 
 Were parted back from that sweet face. 
 
 Where blossom'd beauty's every grace. 
 
 As if no more they cared to stray 
 
 Around a brow no longer gay. 
 
 Each morn the Lady Christabel 
 
 Gazed over wood, and stream, and fell ; 
 
 She sat alone within her bower — 
 
 Its casement wreathed with bud and flower — 
 
 And watch'd the golden sun arise. 
 
 Painting with rosy hues, the skies, 
 
 • " TLus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is tha good way, and 
 walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls." Jeremiah yi. 16. 
 
 8. S. — VOL. I. Q
 
 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 While dewdrops, scatter'd by the breeze, 
 
 Like showers of pearls fell from the trees ; 
 
 She watch'd the river's glassy stream, 
 
 The wavelets dancing in tlie beam, 
 
 That quiver'd 'mid the depths below. 
 
 Where iris-flags, and lilies grow. 
 
 And noon-tide came ; bright, sunny noon ! 
 
 Its glories fading all too soon 
 
 For hearts that know no care or grief. 
 
 Or only mourn for joy too brief. 
 
 And still the Lady Christabel 
 
 Within her turret-bower would dwell, 
 
 And still her anxious gaze would stray 
 
 Along the wood-path's shady way ; 
 
 She watch'd the setting sun go down ; 
 
 The forest trees ; and distant town. 
 
 Bathed in the crimson light of eve ; 
 
 While garlands that the roses weave 
 
 Were radiant in the western light. 
 
 Ere yet they slept at fall of night : 
 
 And then the Lady sadly turn'd 
 
 From where the ruby rays yet burn'd. 
 
 And while the moonbeams dimly fell 
 
 O'er donjon tower, and mossy dell. 
 
 She sigh'd and wept the night away. 
 
 And loathed the cheerful morning-ray. 
 
 For months before, her virgin heart 
 
 Had learn'd what sorrow 'tis to part 
 
 With those we love — and scarcely know 
 
 If e'er to meet again below. 
 
 Her lover fought in distant land. 
 
 The leader of a gallant band ; 
 
 And when he left his Ghristabel, 
 
 With earnest vows he promised well 
 
 To send her tidings of his fate. 
 
 Living or dying, soon or late. 
 
 But days and weeks were ghding on. 
 
 And the ninth moon was almost gone ; 
 
 Nor messenger nor letter came ; 
 
 And fiU'd with grief, and doubt, and shame, 
 
 Sweet Christabel was drooping fast. 
 
 And deem'd those summer days her last I
 
 THE LOVE LETTER. 68 
 
 The Lady sat alone — dismay'd, 
 
 Nor page nor maiden near her staid ; 
 
 She felt her faintest hopes were o'er, 
 
 And dream'd of happiness no more j 
 
 When smiling, and with joyous mien. 
 
 Her tiring-woman's face was seen, 
 
 A thrice seal'd packet in her hand. 
 
 And safely bound with silken band. 
 
 The Lady scarcely drew her breath — 
 
 Perchance it told her of his death ; 
 
 With frantic hand she burst the fetter. 
 
 And gazed upon her first love letter ! 
 
 " He loves me yet ;" she murmur'd low ; 
 
 " Oh yes ! I cannot doubt it now ; 
 
 Ere long, whatever may betide, 
 
 He'll claim me for his own loved bride." 
 
 And long she sat, with crimson'd cheek. 
 
 Her violet eyes, so soft and meek, 
 
 Fix'd on those dearly valued lines ; 
 
 And though the sunbeam round her shines, 
 
 And flowers perfume the balmy breeze. 
 
 And birds are warbling in the trees, 
 
 AH — all her world is center'd there. 
 
 In words that love's own impress bear. 
 
 Her tiring-woman stood behind. 
 
 And sadly wish'd, and long'd, and pined 
 
 To know the news the letter brought ; 
 
 But unavailingly she sought 
 
 To rouse the Lady from her dream 
 
 Of bliss, an ever-flowing stream ; 
 
 And then she gazed again once more. 
 
 As Christabel was bending o'er 
 
 The precious missive in her hand. 
 
 The token from a far-off land. 
 
 And gently stepp'd behind her chair, — 
 
 The characters were clear and fair — 
 
 A little nearer ! that is better — 
 
 The waiting-woman read the letter. 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" she deeply sigh'd, 
 
 " 'Tis sad that I should be denied 
 
 A suitor who might send to me, 
 
 A biUet penn'd so lovingly.
 
 64 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OP ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 So fairly written, and so well ; 
 I would that I were Christabel !" 
 
 Again the Lady's face was gay, 
 
 And swiftly fled each happy day ; 
 
 She tuned her lute, and twined her flowers 
 
 Throughout the long bright summer hours, 
 
 Till, faithful to his plighted word. 
 
 And girded with his trusty sword. 
 
 Her gallant lover hasten'd home. 
 
 No more from Christabel to roam. 
 
 And when, a graceful matron, she. 
 
 With fair-hair'd children on her knee, 
 
 Turn'd to her lord, who by her side 
 
 Loved the wife better than the bride, 
 
 She told him how she mourn'd and wept, 
 
 When day by day so sadly crept. 
 
 While he was journeying far away ; 
 
 When though sweet summer round her lay. 
 
 Nought e'er could calm her anxious breast. 
 
 Nought give her sickening spirit rest. 
 
 Till that long-wished-for letter came. 
 
 Which all her doubtings overcame ; 
 
 " But then," she whisper'd in his ear, 
 
 " 'Tis sweeter far to have thee here j 
 
 To listen to thy voice is better 
 
 Than e'en that first and last love letter." 
 
 SNOWY RANGE FROM LANDOUR. 
 
 Central Asia has been well described as being one vast platform of irregular shape, 
 raised to a considerable height above the surrounding country, and bounded by a 
 stupendous mountain-wall, the peaks of which are covered by perpetual snow. Of the 
 table-land thus shut in by " cloud-capp'd" hills, the great range of the Himalayah, 
 or Snowy Mountains,* one of which towers higher than any other mountain in the 
 world, is the southern boundary. The Himalayah ridge, which is extended from Cabul 
 across the whole of Hindostan, eastward, forms a chain of nearly a thousand miles 
 in length, and of about one hundred and fifty miles in breadth. This mountain-range 
 
 • The word Himalayah is derived from the Sanscrit, and signifies snowy.
 
 m
 
 SNOWY RANGE FROM LA.NDOUR. 65 
 
 consists, in many parts, of bare and rugged rocks, towering aloft into the clear sky, 
 and divided by dark chasms, or by wild ravines, which are in some cases richly wooded, 
 but in others, altogether void of vegetation, and bearing the appearance of having been 
 worn by water-courses, or reft asunder by some great convulsion of nature. " Here," 
 says a powerful writer, speaking of the Himalayan range, "is concentrated all that 
 is sublime in the scenery of nature. On every side rise snowy summits of stupendous 
 height aud various forms, mingled with conical volcanic peaks, regularly rounded hills, 
 and rugged and frightful precipices." 
 
 In some parts of this stupendous mountain-wall, " the traveller has to scale the 
 most terrific heights, by a path which is so narrow as not to admit two abreast, and 
 which winds along the mountain, and often along bare and perpendicular precipices, 
 by a narrow and irregular flight of steps, or by natural irregularities on the face of the 
 polished marble rock, and sometimes by a projecting ledge not more than a foot broad." 
 The steps, at certain prominent points, where the rock is perpendicular, wind in zigzag 
 lines, at angles so sharp, that, in a length of twenty-four feet, the actual height gained 
 is not more than ten feet ; these steps, too, are placed at most inconvenient distances ; 
 a circumstance which greatly increases the tourist's danger and difficulty. 
 
 In some parts of this magnificent mountain-ridge, European travellers can only 
 make their way by the help of the natives, who carry them on their backs, seated in 
 wooden chairs. Sufficiently fearful must be even this comparatively easy mode 
 of travelling across mountain-passes, skirting precipices perhaps of sis or seven hundred 
 feet in depth, and in a region where, to use the words of Bishop Heber, " the horizon 
 is terminated by a vast range of ice and snow, extending its battalion of white and 
 shining spears from east to west, as far as the eye can follow it ; the principal hills 
 rising like towers in a glittering rampart." 
 
 In the neighbourhood, however, of Landour, from whence is taken the accompanying 
 view of the Snowy Range of the Himalayah, there has been cut, at an elevation of 
 seven thousand feet above the level of the sea, a road, by means of which the inhabit- 
 ants of the district may make excursions, either on horseback or on foot, to the 
 extent of more than four miles, and through a country rich, almost beyond comparison, 
 in objects of beauty and interest. The oak, the pine, the holly, the walnut, and the 
 cherry, are here mingled with the standard apricot, which grows in great abundance 
 upon these heaven-kissing hills ; raspberries, strawberries, and blackberries, spring 
 around in rich luxuriance ; the wild rose scatters its glowing leaves in crimson showers, 
 and daisies, primroses, and violets, while they "broider the ground" in this garden 
 of nature, forcibly remind the English traveller of the dear land which he has left. 
 It may seem perhaps extraordinary, that objects comparatively so humble, should arrest 
 the attention of the wayfarer in the midst of scenery so magnificent as that which in 
 these regions continually meets the eye of the observer. Such, however, is the bene- 
 ficent arrangement of Providence, that " the meanest flower that scents the gale," has 
 a beauty and a glory peculiarly its own; and bears, equally with the monarch of the 
 forest, the impress of the creative power of an Almighty hand. It would appear, too, 
 
 S. S. — VOL. 1. B
 
 66 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 that the more minute beauties of the vegetable world never strike us more forcibly 
 than when we view them in connection with the luxuriant and gigantic productions 
 of a tropical climate. 
 
 From no place can the Snowy Mountains of theHimalayah be seen to greater advantage 
 than from the western side of Landour. Their distance from this place is about thirty 
 miles ; and viewed at this distance they produce a completeness of effect, and are marked 
 by a character of sublimity and repose, which is lost when the eye of the spectator, 
 by a nearer approach, becomes as it were perplexed by the number and various outline 
 of the peaks which form this mighty mountain-barrier. It should be observed, also, 
 that in consequence of the extreme clearness of the atmosphere in this " cUme of the 
 sun," this range of mountains, when viewed at the distance above-mentioned, is seen, 
 especially at sunrise, with a distinctness scarcely conceivable by those who have had 
 experience of none but our own comparatively sombre skies. When the Snowy Range 
 is contemplated under such circumstances of time and distance, the country which 
 intervenes between it and the spectator is veiled in a lake-like mist, and the snowy 
 eminences, apparently rising on its opposite margin, seem, when illuminated by the 
 slanting rays of the sim, and tinged with all the glories of heaven, as if their rose-tinted 
 summits could be easily gained ; nor is it until the mists of early morn have been cleared 
 away, and the sun shines forth in his strength, that this illusion is dispelled. 
 
 The highest mountains of the Himalayah chain are the Chumularee and the 
 Dhawala-gliri, or White Mountain ; and both of these being between twenty-eight and 
 twenty-nine thousand feet in height, they are behoved to be the highest mountains 
 on the globe. The summit of neither of them has, as yet, been reached. The Jum- 
 noutri and the Guugoutri, where the Jumna and the Ganges take their rise, are con- 
 sidered to be the next in point of altitude, both of them exceeding twenty-four thousand 
 feet. The Gungoutri is the most highly honoured by the poor natives, who afiirm that 
 on its summit their god Mahadeo has estabhshed his throne. 
 
 Villages are to be found among the Himalayah mountains at the elevation of four- 
 teen thousand feet ; but a site of this altitude is not healthy, and the inhabitants of 
 places so situated have a wretched appearance. Cultivation has been carried, in some 
 instances, five hundred feet higher, and vegetation does not totally cease, tiU aiTested, 
 at an elevation of sixteen thousand feet, by that eternal barrier of snow which forbids 
 all human access to the subUme wastes which lie beyond it. From some points in the 
 vicinity of Landour the eye can trace, amid the alps on alps which here arise around, 
 the impetuous course of the sacred river,* now fretting along a comparatively narrow 
 channel, worn by itself in the rocks, — now leaping in its own flashing light from height to 
 height, as if exulting in its increasing strength, — and at length emerging into the level 
 country, and winding peacefully along, tiU its silvery thread is lost in the dim distance. 
 
 The valleys of the Himalayahs are thickly clothed with wood ; the pine and the fir 
 here attaining their noblest growth, and charming the eye with the rich purples and 
 browns, or, as the sun may shine upon it, the yet more brilHant tints of their luxuriant 
 
 • The Ganges, worshipped by the natives as a diviuity.
 
 MORNING PRAYER. 67 
 
 folijige. The rocks also are oftea covered by splendid orchideous plants of the most 
 gorgeous colours, and of ever-variegated forms. The birds and insects, too, exhibit a 
 splendom- of colouring utterly unknown in northern climes. 
 
 Alas ! that a land so rich in nature's most beauteous gifts, should still be, iu a great 
 measure, spiritually dark. Surely, as it respects our Eastern possessions, we may say, 
 with one who devoted his best energies to the cause of Christianity in India — 
 
 " From many an ancient river, 
 From many a balmy plain, 
 They call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from error's chain 1" 
 
 MORNING PRAYER. 
 
 Calm fell the golden sunbeam's early ray 
 
 Upon the yet unclouded springtide morn ; 
 
 And primrose flowers smiled on the bright young day, 
 
 Their pale meek petals, still unstained by storm ; 
 
 And childhood's merry smiles were chasten'd now, 
 
 While thoughts of heaven were breathed o'er things below ; 
 
 And sweetly rose the matin hymn of praise. 
 From silvery tones of children clustering there ; 
 Sweet as the bird's clear warbling midst the haze, 
 Were the soft hymn-notes of the matron fair ; 
 And the deep voice that led that loving throng, 
 Through the rich melody of sacred song. 
 
 Hush'd were the tuneful chords ! — Too soon must cease 
 
 Our earthly anthems sung beneath the sky j 
 
 Too soon must fade the hours of holy peace 
 
 That cheer the path of frail mortality. 
 
 Yet but a little while — the song no more 
 
 Shall die away on yonder blissful shore. 
 
 And then was spread the blessed sacred Book — 
 While the loved accents of a father's voice. 
 With brow serene and reverential look. 
 Told of the truths that bade his heart rejoice. 
 While o'er the hallow'd page his head was bent. 
 As there he traced the words divinely sent.
 
 68 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 " Love one another" — " love in deed and truth," 
 So solemnly he said — then paused awhile, 
 As if sweet Charity, of heavenly growth. 
 Came near to bless them with angelic smile ; 
 And the young children sat with earnest gaze. 
 To hear of wisdom's peaceful, happy ways. 
 
 The volume closed — they meekly bent the knee. 
 The while the voice of prayer ascended high. 
 And thoughts and feelings of eternity 
 Dispelled the dreams of ought below the sky. 
 To the One Lord of earth, and King of Heaven, 
 Their grateful praises fervently were given, 
 
 For the rich blessings of the dark still night. 
 
 For thousand mercies in the years gone by. 
 
 For the bright dawning of returning light — 
 
 Emblem of rising to Eternal joy — 
 
 For strength renewed and given hour by hour. 
 
 And worlds to come where clouds shall never lower. 
 
 For balm in sorrow — for the might to cope 
 With all the fears and trials round them cast. 
 For all this green earth's bounties, and the hope 
 Of endless bliss when mortal life is past — 
 Praise to the " Father of all mercies" rose. 
 That Father from whose love " all blessing flows." 
 
 And then — strong supplication for the power 
 To meet the struggles of the coming day, 
 For strength to look above, when tempests lower 
 With trusting faith to hope, and meekly pray ; 
 Such holy words were breathed in that still room. 
 Where shone child's innocence and woman's bloom. 
 
 Blest hours of purest and unearthly joy ! 
 
 When mortal cares are banish'd from the breast. 
 
 With scarce a thought of this cold world's alloy 
 
 To mar that foretaste of eternal rest ; 
 
 When beams of beav'n seem mingling with the bright 
 
 And dazzling hues of rosy orient light.
 
 V
 
 J 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■I 
 
 v^ 
 
 ^
 
 ITINERANT DOCTOR AT TIEN-SING. 
 
 And blest the bond that binds those loving hearts, 
 As round their household-altar calm they kneel, 
 A sacred holy tie, that never parts, 
 That clasps their trusting souls for woe and weal ; 
 It comes not from a world where fade and die 
 All loveliest hopes — but from Eternity 1 
 
 AN ITINERANT DOCTOR AT TIEN-SING. 
 
 He boasted of a magic rare, 
 
 A far-spread fame beyond compare, 
 
 A talent and an inclination. 
 
 To cure all evils of the nation. 
 
 Nor could he only cure — his skill 
 
 Could drive away the coming ill; 
 
 And if men took his wondrous potions. 
 
 And daily used his healing lotions, 
 
 They might be sure, in spite of fears. 
 
 Their lives would reach two hundred years. 
 
 But chiefly poisons claim'd his care ; 
 
 And though his countrymen might stare. 
 
 He told them how vast power was given, — 
 
 It matter'd not from hell or heaven, — 
 
 To him who stood before them now. 
 
 Heady at their command to bow ; 
 
 To do their will, and instant show 
 
 His power to charm the snakes, and how. 
 
 The audience gazed with eager eyes. 
 
 Now upward, to fair Pekin's skies ; 
 
 Now temples hung with bells, they trace ; 
 
 Now fix upon the Doctor's face. 
 
 Their pig-tails hung behind them, flat, 
 
 All nicely oil'd in twist and plait ; 
 
 They spake no word, scarce drew their breath. 
 
 The while the quack gave laws to Deatli. 
 
 His page, as previously taught, 
 
 A cobra di capella brought : 
 
 Its eyes were bright, its skin was sleek ; 
 
 Surely those eyes must mischief seek ! 
 
 S. S. — VOL. 1. s
 
 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Dread hoiTor thrill'd the trembling crowd, 
 Despite the charmer's boasting proud. 
 Suppose his charm should not be true — 
 What could they then for safety do ? 
 For snakes to spring and bite are able ; 
 That one might leap from off the table. 
 But now their fears the quack dispell'd ; 
 Some cabalistic words he spell'd, 
 Some wondrous drugs he sprinkled round, 
 Mutt'ring the while some mystic sound, 
 And, straight, the snake lay dull and still. 
 As if his words had power to kill. 
 The Doctor and his slave stood forth, 
 That all might see the might and wortli 
 Of his strong spells and matchless charms, 
 To guard mankind from serpents' harms. 
 
 The cobra di capella hung 
 Round the slave's neck, like necklace strung; 
 Then coil'd, like bracelet, round his arm. 
 Then danced upon his open palm ; 
 And soon the crowd became so bold, 
 They grasp'd the snake, and gave their gold, 
 Tliat they might share such potent power, 
 Nor fear, — should vipers round them shower. 
 The Doctor gravely rubb'd each hand. 
 Then cross'd it with a mystic band. 
 And pour'd his incantations round. 
 And strew'd his drugs upon the ground. 
 Then vow'd that each might safely take. 
 In his charm'd hand, the deadly snake. 
 The gaping multitude beheld 
 The cobra, as it proudly swell'd. 
 Erect its crest, and fork'd its tongue. 
 Nor hurt the hand on which it hung j 
 They shouted, and with loud acclaim, 
 Proclaim'd the Doctor's skill and fame. 
 
 Just then, with sage and steady face. 
 An old Chinese, with solemn pace, 
 "Walk'd to the table of the quack. 
 And begg'd to have the serpent back.
 
 ITINERANT DOCTOR AT TIEN-SING. 71 
 
 Just for a moment — ^just once more, 
 To try this vaunted magic power. 
 He was a man for wisdom famed — 
 Of roj'al race, he had not shamed — 
 Straiglitway he turn'd the reptile o'er, 
 And found its fangs all gone before ; 
 Then roundly all the people told, 
 How they had thrown away their gold : 
 Extracted was each poisonous tooth — 
 What fools they all had been, forsooth 1 
 The Doctor and his page turn'd pale. 
 He could not mock the sage's tale ; 
 For " facts are stubborn things," 'tis said, 
 And sure he thought, "e'en from the dead, 
 Confucius must be risen now ; 
 None else could be so wise, I trow." 
 He turn'd to fly — but aU too late; 
 The bastinado was his fate : 
 The angry men of Pekin came. 
 And jeer'd him in his grief and shame: 
 But then the sage stepp'd forth again, 
 To save th' impostor from his pain ; 
 And rescued from his suffering state. 
 He limp'd towards the city gate. 
 And then the wise man bade beware 
 Of words so seeming true and fair ; 
 Addressing thus the listening crowd, 
 "Whose wrath again was waxing loud ; 
 " Let none despise the Doctor's skill. 
 Because this cheat hath done us ill ; 
 True genius ever must command 
 Praises and thanks on every hand ; 
 True science must for ever shine, 
 And all pay homage at her shrine. 
 But, evermore, beware of those, 
 Who boast of curing all our woes, 
 Without the wisdom only given 
 To studious men, who aye have striven. 
 To heal the sorrows of mankind, 
 And balm for human griefs to find. 
 Thus, while all juggling ye despise, 
 Yet GENUINE TALENT ever prize."
 
 73 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 While we read the spirit-stirring history of the Doges of Venice, our thoughts, per- 
 haps, very rarely revert to that conquering barbarian, who, although he was accustomed, 
 iu his ferocious pride, to boast, "that the grass never grew on the spot where his horse 
 had trodden," did nevertheless, though undesignedly, lay the foundations of the cele- 
 brated Venetian republic. The name of Venice, or Venetia, formerly belonged to a 
 large and fertile province of Ital}', reaching from the confines of Pannonia to the river 
 Addna, and from the Po to the Julian Alps. Before the irruption of the barbarians 
 under Attila, fifty Venetian cities flourished within this district, in peace and prosperity. 
 Aquileia occupied the most conspicuous station, and Padua, in consequence of its agri- 
 culture and its manufactures, was the richest among these cities ; and from these, as from 
 the adjacent towns, many families fled from the sword of the Huns, and found a safe, 
 though an obscure refuge, in the neighbouring islands. At the extremity of the Gulf 
 of Venice, where the waters of the Hadriatic feebly imitate the tides of the ocean, 
 nearly a hundred small islands are separated by shallow water from the neighbouring 
 continent. Till the middle of the fifth century, these sequestered spots had remained 
 without cultivation ; but at that period the Venetian fugitives carried thither their arts 
 and their government ; their manners they gradually adapted to their new situation ; 
 and their condition, as it existed about seventy years later, may be considered as 
 exhibiting the primitive form of their subsequently famous republic. Having — to 
 adopt the quaint style of an ancient writer — " fixed their nests like wild-fowls on the 
 bosom of the waves," these fugitive Venetian families, free, indigent, laborious, and 
 almost inaccessible, gradually coalesced into a republic, the first foundations of which 
 were laid in the Island of Rialto, and the government of which was ultimately vested 
 in a Duke, or Doge. 
 
 Among these Doges, there were some, in subsequent times, whose history is fraught 
 with great and varied interest ; and among these, Marino Faliero may claim especial 
 notice 
 
 The celebrated Marino Faliero was a man of lofty mind and cultivated intellect, 
 who, having raised himself to the highest dignity of the state, fell suddenly from his 
 pride of place, and nearly destroyed the Venetian government itself, by his fall. After 
 a career of brilliant successes, as well in war as in diplomacy, and after having con- 
 solidated his extensive conquests, he was presented in the year 13.54 with the ducal 
 coronet ; and in addition to the numerous dignities which he already enjoyed, received 
 the title of " Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice ;" an honour which was the more 
 marked, inasmuch as it was conferred upon him during his absence from Venice, as 
 ambassador to the court of the Roman Pontiff", Clement VI. ; and communicated to 
 him while on his return homeward from Rome, by a deputation of twelve persons
 
 PETER JACKSON, LONEC
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 73 
 
 of eminence, who ■were sent to congratulate him in his country's name. On his arrival 
 at Venice, he was received with all those demonstrations of honour which were deemed 
 to be the fitting reward of a man who had extended the power of his country beyond 
 the pillars of Hercules, established various colonics, and planted the Venetian Lion — 
 the banner of the republic — in every quarter of the globe. One individual, however, 
 above all others, rejoiced in the return of the noble Doge, and in the honours which 
 were paid to him. This was Angiolina, his youthful and beauteous bride. She, the 
 orphan daughter of his dearest friend, had preferred the great Faliero, bending though 
 he was under the weight of twelve lustres, to any among the gay and the youthful of 
 the nobles of the land, who had vied with each other in offering to her the incense of 
 love and admiration. In short, Marino Faliero stood on tlie very topmost pinnacle 
 of earthly power and happiness. By destroying her most formidable enemies, he had 
 bound his country in the golden fetters of willing gratitude and affection ; and never, 
 perhaps, did power and greatness, achieved by a career of arduous and active service ; 
 fame, the reward of noble and perilous deeds ; and woman's love, the myrtle crown of 
 manhood, combine to give brighter and more hopeful assurance, that a calm and deli- 
 cious evening of hfe would succeed to the burden and heat of a day of honourable 
 toil, and well-merited success. 
 
 We may well imagine, that as Faliero approached the shores of the Queen of the 
 Sea, a sensation of rapture swelled his bosom when he reflected, that having devoted to 
 his country's service his youth and manhood, an old age of peace, 
 
 " With all that should accompany old age — 
 As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends," 
 
 now lay before him. Doubtless, too, he anticipated with fond delight, his re-union with 
 her, who had bestowed upon him the treasure of her young afi'ections, and in whose 
 sweet companionship he expected to find the solace of his declining years. It is not, 
 however, for man to "boast of to-morrow." Even in this moment of delightful retro- 
 spection and brilliant anticipation, it was appointed, thivt the sun of Faliero's prosperity 
 should set for ever ! 
 
 When, on the 5th of October, 1354, the newly-created doge, attended by a magnifi- 
 cent retinue, was about to land at Venice on his return from his Roman embassy, there 
 came on a fog so dense, that it utterly baffled the skill of the mariners ; and it was 
 subsequently considered as a very disastrous omen, that they were ultimately compelled to 
 land at the Place of St. Mark, and precisely on the spot on which malefactors were 
 accustomed to be executed. It is easy to prophesy evil, when the fortunes of a great 
 man are manifestly and sensibly on the wane; and accordingly, when soon afterwards 
 the downfall of the Doge was obviously at hand, this ill-omened landing began to be 
 spoken of, as betokening the fulfilment of a prediction which, in a moment of anger, had 
 been uttered many years before, respecting the Doge, by the Bishop of Treviso ; to the 
 effect that, " Heaven, in its due time, would deprive Marino Faliero of his right senses, 
 in order to bring him to an ignominious death." 
 
 S. S. — VOL. I. T
 
 74 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The circumstances which led to the downfall and death of the Doge Faliero, were 
 briefly these : 
 
 At a splendid festival, which was given by Faliero in commemoration of his accession 
 to the ducal dignity, a poor, but daring patiician, by name Michele Steno, gave offence 
 to the Duchess Angiolina, by his demeanour towards one of her ladies. The Doge 
 instantly gave orders that the offender should be forcibly removed from the apartment; 
 and these orders were carried into effect before the whole splendid assembly. This 
 indignity, as he considered it, sank deep into the revengeful breast of Steno ; who, in 
 consequence, watched his opportunity, and, stealing unperceived into the audience- 
 chamber, traced upon the ducal chair certain words implying a false and wicked asper- 
 sion on the Duchess. The atrocious calumny met the eye of the Duke, and aroused in 
 his breast feelings of the sternest indignation. Angiolina was summoned, and on 
 becoming aware of the character of the charge, flung herself, in an agony of distress, 
 into the arms of her husband ; who, on his part, as if inspired with all the energy of 
 youth, raised his clenched hand, and while he supported the almost fainting form of his 
 wife, invoked, with frightful vehemence, the vengeance of heaven upon the perpetrator 
 of so vile a deed.* 
 
 In vain did Angiolina endeavour to mitigate the uncontrolled passion of the Doge. 
 The afi'air was brought before the senate ; a reward was offered for the discovery of the 
 culprit ; and Michele was soon arrested, and confessed his guilt. The council, however, 
 took a lenient view of the circumstances of the case, and condemned the offender to no 
 punishment more severe than two months imprisonment, and subsequent banishment 
 from Venice, during the term of one year. In this merciful sentence, which the Doge 
 — who had desired and expected the execution, or, at least, the life-long banishment of 
 the culprit — regarded as a mark of gross contempt of the ducal dignity, the subsequent 
 deplorable events had their rise. Incidents, too, occurred, which stirred up the deadly 
 resentment which Faliero guiltily harboui'ed in his breast. An admiral was insulted, 
 and applied to the Doge for redress. " What would you have me do?" replied the 
 incensed magistrate; "I have mj'self been shamefully calumniated; yet how did they 
 punish Steno? You see how the Forty respect the head of the state!" Angry and 
 imprudent words, and, in their consequences, most fatal ! The admiral was not slow to 
 offer himself as the instrument of the Doge's revenge. A conspiracy was formed, which 
 by the combined influence of the baneful passions of revenge, pride, and ambition, 
 Faliero was induced to join ; laying to his soul the flattering unction, that in this way 
 he should both avenge his own honour, and free his country from au intolerable yoke. 
 Perhaps also, he expected, that by placing himself at the head of the revolution, the 
 object of which was to restore the ancient democracy, he should be .ible so to direct 
 its movements, as to preserve whatever might be really valuable in the condition of 
 the state. 
 
 The day fixed upon for the great revolutionary explosion was the 15th of April, 
 1355 ; and the guilty secret having been kept with marvellous fidelity, a horrible scene 
 
 • See the accompanying plate.
 
 THE PRINCESS ADELAIDE. 75 
 
 of bloodshed would, in all probability, have ensued, had not one of the conspirators, on 
 the 14th day of the month, moved by compassion for a friend, entreated him not 
 to attend the grand council on the following day. This circumstance, Hke a similar 
 circumstance on the occasion of the English Gunpowder Plot, gave rise to suspicion, 
 and the conspiracy was discovered. 
 
 The rest is soon told. The Doge was brought to trial ; and, in spite of the entreaties 
 of Angiolina, who, in an agony of despair, solicited for him the mercy which he himself 
 scorned to ask, was condemned to death. The ducal star, with the other decorations 
 which he wore, being removed from his apparel, he was led, like the meanest malefactor, 
 to the scaffold ; and the head of one of the greatest warriors and statesmen whom 
 Venice had ever produced — a head grown gray in the service of the Venetian state — 
 was rolled in the dust. 
 
 How is it to be regretted that one emphatic declaration of Holy Writ is so Uttle 
 regarded by mankind : "Behold, vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." 
 
 HER SERENE HIGHNESS 
 THE PRINCESS ADELAIDE OF HOHENLOHE-LANGENBOURG. 
 
 Sweet child of a right royal race, thy brow is clear and calm; 
 No shadow of life's toil and care, no throbbings of alarm. 
 Have crossed its infant purity, or dimm'd the budding rose, 
 That, mantling on thy dimpled cheek, in childhood's beauty glows 1 
 
 What art thou, little lovely one ? A merry, merry child. 
 Along whose bright and gleesome path, the sun hath ever smiled ; 
 Thou dwellest in thy father's halls, in thy fair mother's bower. 
 With the summer blooms around thee, thyself the fairest flower 1 
 
 The mountain-stream that boundeth through the forest, wild and free, 
 Goeth not, than thou, along its way with more of blithesome glee ; 
 The music of the warbling birds is sweet among the trees. 
 But not so sweet as thy young voice, borne on the gentle breeze. 
 
 To ears that love to listen to thy childish tones of glee, 
 
 To hearts of love that constantly and truly beat for thee. 
 
 Not flashing diamonds from the mine, not pearls, nor opal stone. 
 
 So precious are, as thou to those, who claim thee for their own.
 
 76 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OP ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Long may the flowerets round thee bud, the roses round thee bloom, 
 The waxen lilies haunt thy path, with all their rich perfume ; 
 The little birds sing merrily their woodland songs for thee, 
 The -winds and gushing waters make thee sweetest melody ! 
 
 What wilt thou be ? We cannot tell ; 'twere better not to know ; 
 'Twere sad to picture shade of care upon that brow of snow ; 
 'Twere sad to see those laughing eyes, so innocently bright. 
 Lose all their brilliant lustre, in the tears of sorrow's blight. 
 
 'Twere sad to watch thy blooming hope, thy trusting faith, decay ; 
 To see thee weep for dreams of bliss, that, dreamlike, melt away ; 
 To mark the rose-tint fading from that ruby lip and cheek. 
 The smile depart, thou wearest now, from woe thou can'st not speak. 
 
 • God bless thee ! little one, and keep such sorrows from thy way ! 
 He hath guarded thee through infancy. He guards thee at this day ; 
 May His shield still protect thee, babe ! through all thy coming years, 
 His Father-smile still chase away thy future doubts and fears. 
 
 And though thine earthly trust depart, gaze upward to the sky ! 
 There may thy steadfast faith be fix'd, throughout eternity ; 
 The joyous laugh, that ringeth now, so wild and sweet, may cease. 
 But, oh ! not so may pass away heaven's own endui'ing peace. 
 
 All blessings of the earth below, and of the glorious heaven. 
 
 All love, and hope, and trusting faith, to thy young heart be given ! 
 
 May peace for ever rest upon that brow so clear and mild, 
 
 God keep thee, bless thee, strengthen thee ! thou fair and royal child. 
 
 LADY OP THE COURT OF LOUIS XV. 
 
 THE MESSAGE. 
 BY MISS REYNETT. 
 
 When thou, dear Bird, art privileged to stand 
 On the white fingers of that fairy hand, 
 Forget not then, thy master's fond behest. 
 Who pines far off, and knows nor joy, nor rest.
 
 .^,^ 
 
 
 ^m/m 
 
 '/^ ^^^ ^^%^z^_J^W/ ^//f^
 
 THE QUARREL. ^^ 
 
 Say, that I trust her, who was borne away 
 
 By nearer friends, to shine in conquest's ray ; 
 
 Say, though the tinsel chain of Fashion bind 
 
 Her outward form, I know her heart and mind ; 
 
 Say, that I love lier, though we meet no more ; 
 
 Say, that I prize her, though hope's dream is o'er ; 
 
 Say, that I think of her, where'er I go ; 
 
 Say, that I sigh for her, in joy or woe ; 
 
 Say, when I stand amid the gayest tlu'ong. 
 
 Say, when I listen to the sweetest song. 
 
 Say, when I feel soft music's magic tone, 
 
 I hear her, see her, think of her alone ; 
 
 Say, (though I dare not breathe my thoughts aloud, 
 
 A solitary soul, amid the crowd,) 
 
 That her loved form, which fills at once my heart. 
 
 Holds me for ever, from that crowd apart ; 
 
 My guardian Angel, breaks all eai-thly spells, 
 
 And purifies the temple where she dwells ! 
 
 THE aUARREL. 
 
 The lady at her table sate 
 
 And scowl'd upon her loving mate. 
 
 He scornful look'd, but sullen too. 
 
 Like clouds when storms begin to brew ; 
 
 That beauteous brow, which once he thought 
 
 With gentlest winning sweetness fraught. 
 
 Was furrow'd now by many a frown ; 
 
 The fair one's loveliness had flown. 
 
 However, with impatient face. 
 
 He took liis place, and mutter'd grace ; 
 
 Then glanced, contemptuous, at the dish. 
 
 Whereon reposed a goodly fish ; 
 
 One yex'd and angry gaze he took. 
 
 Then gave his better half a look. 
 
 Which seem'd to say, that when alone. 
 
 For all her sins she should atone. 
 
 " That turbot, it was much too small. 
 
 Why did she not in person call 
 
 . S. — VOL. I. U
 
 78 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 And tell the aegligent fishmonger, 
 To send a fish much plumper, longer ? 
 Such chickens too ! so tough and lean, 
 In Noah's ark they must have been ! 
 And what a ham ! 'twould better look. 
 If cured and dress'd by Jewish cook ! 
 Nor could a pagan worse have spoil'd 
 The butter ! 'twas completely oil'd ! 
 Puddings and tarts ! it made him mad. 
 They were so infamously bad I" 
 And glancing sideways at his wife, 
 Orlando vow'd, in all his life 
 He'd never eaten such a dinner, 
 Too bad to palm on any sinner ! 
 
 Now Gertrude was no gentle dame, . 
 Except, indeed, in birth, and name ; 
 True meekness is a Christian grace 
 Whose source she never tried to trace. 
 Orlando sought her lily hand 
 For sake of all her broad, rich land ; 
 Besides — her face was verij fair. 
 Few with her beauty could compare ; 
 And she could talk, and dance, and sing. 
 In style and tone most ravishing ! 
 He, too, was form'd to please and shine. 
 And all he said seem'd very fine ; 
 In vain the mother shook her head, 
 And fear'd Orlando's temper bad ; 
 In vain the father said " Beware, 
 All is not gold that seems so rare ;" 
 Fair Gertrude pouted, laugh'd in scorn, 
 " 'Twas twenty years since she was born. 
 And surely she had learn'd to know 
 Whether a man spoke truth, or no ;" 
 So deeming him a priceless treasure. 
 She married, to repent at leisure. 
 
 But to return to our sad lay — 
 Poor Gertrude was no longer gay ; 
 For now her lord and master's smile 
 But for his guests came on awhile ;
 
 r^/y . ^ 
 
 c^^ayZ^i. 
 
 ■i<^f 
 
 -KSOW, LOKDOTtfci'Ait
 
 THE QUARREL. 79 
 
 And all things going sadly wrong. 
 
 The proud young matron's soul was stung; 
 
 'Tis true she'd heard full many a day, 
 
 " Soft answer turneth wrath away ;" 
 
 And she had promised when a bride. 
 
 Whatever might her path betide. 
 
 To love, and honour, and obey. 
 
 And never from her duty stray ; 
 
 But that was all forgotten now ; 
 
 And dark and darker wax'd her brow; 
 
 She vow'd it would a saint provoke. 
 
 To hear that everlasting croak ; 
 
 Nor once she tried the good old plan 
 
 To tame " the old usurper, man." 
 
 One word of kindness might have turn'd 
 
 Her husband's heart, where choler burn'd. 
 
 To gentleness ; and love and peace 
 
 Might then have bade their jarring cease; 
 
 But 'twas not so. The lady said, 
 
 " In truth. Sir, when we two were wed, 
 
 I little thought how soon my life 
 
 Would be one scene of angry strife; 
 
 I little dream'd tliat I should be 
 
 Thus doom'd to downright tyranny. 
 
 I am your wife, Sir, not your slave. 
 
 And henceforth, I must humbly crave — 
 
 As coolly as you sip your wine — 
 
 That you'll take your way — I'll take mine." 
 
 Orlando push'd aback his chair. 
 
 And calmly peel'd a Windsor pear ; 
 
 " So be it, Ma'am," he coolly said ; 
 
 " But, meantime, seeing we are wed, 
 
 And can't undo that which is done. 
 
 We need not publish to the sun 
 
 How very much we love each other ; 
 
 'Twere better discontents to smother. 
 
 I have no wish to interfere 
 
 In your concerns ; therefore, my dear, 
 
 Henceforth, we'll manage as you say 
 
 And each pursue our separate way."
 
 80 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Some friends came in, look'd sadly on. 
 Much wonderiug what had best be done ; 
 In high disdain fair Gertrude sate 
 And nought avail'd her rage t' abate j 
 And almost back to back the pair 
 Were seated, while the friends did stare. 
 Each of them vainly sought and strove, 
 With words of reprimand or love, 
 To reconcile the two, and win 
 One or the other to give in. 
 'Twas useless all — of no avail — 
 So finding all their efforts fail, 
 They bade adieu, with grief and pain. 
 And left them to themselves again. 
 
 Messieurs 1 your choice ne'er rashly make 
 Nor choose a bride for beauty's sake ; 
 Lest loveliness perchance you find 
 All in the face, none in the mind ; 
 Seek virtue more than beauty's grace ; 
 Virtue will flourish when no trace 
 Is left to teU how once the brow 
 Was smooth, and whiter than the snow. 
 Ladies ! when parents say " Beware, 
 All is not gold that seems so rare," 
 Deliberate well before you choose 
 A path which many a fair one rues. 
 Both, bear and forbear ; then each day. 
 Though thorns be scatter'd in your way. 
 Domestic bUss, that sweetest flower, 
 Shall alway twine your homestead bower ; 
 Unkindness breathe no cruel word. 
 Nor quaerel's hateful sound be heard.
 
 Si 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Si-
 
 81 
 
 EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 The burning sun is sinking in the West, 
 The young flowers sleep upon theii- tender stems, 
 The fading liglit proclaims the hour of rest, 
 And Night will soon unfold her starry gems j 
 The dark blue wave is rippling on the sand. 
 And loveliness reigns calm o'er sea and land. 
 
 Yes ! 'tis the hour of rest — the hour of prayer ! 
 Ere yet the crimson clouds have pass'd away. 
 Eschewing worldly thoughts and earthly care, 
 Oh ! raise the heart, and bow the knee in prayer I 
 And though ye tread no minster's haUow'd aisle. 
 All homes are sacred, bless'd by God's own smile. 
 
 List ! how the hymn ascends to yonder sky ! 
 A full, rich chorus of harmonious song ; — 
 Perchance pure spirits, from their homes on high, 
 , With their bright wings around that altar throng, 
 Where offerings meet of mingled prayer and praise, 
 From humble hearts their precious incense raise. 
 
 Sweet vesper-hymn ! no songs of earth can be 
 
 So calm ; none breathe such soothing, heavenly peace ; 
 
 Yon Evening star, that shines so lustrously. 
 
 Beams brighter ere the blended voices cease ; 
 
 And the soft, summer-moonlight's silvery ray 
 
 Seems meekly blessing the departing day. 
 
 The day is o'er — its cares and trials past ; 
 Thei'e have been mourners 'neath its golden sun : 
 Time's waves speed on — ere long must come the last, 
 And then, how sweet 1 to find the haven won ! — 
 But yonder kneeling group in that still room. 
 Have felt no grief, have known no shade of gloom. 
 
 6. S. VOL. I. X
 
 82 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OP ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The day is o'er — All nature speaks repose : 
 There have beeu those beneath yon cloudless skies, 
 From whose pale cheek hath fled the fading rose, 
 And Death hath closed their sparkling, sunny eyes : 
 But they who worship here in health's bright glow, 
 Have mouru'd no ripe fruit's fall, no bud laid low. 
 
 And now the patriarch's solemn gaze is bent 
 
 Upon the Book of books before him spread ; 
 
 And while the last faint rays by daylight lent 
 
 Fall calmly on his venerable head. 
 
 His still deep voice, is telling of the land 
 
 Where Grief and Death may stretch no spoiling hand. 
 
 He reads of Canaan's everlasting home, 
 
 That world where "never-withering flowers" are found; 
 
 Where pass'd is every cloud, each sweeping storm. 
 
 Where tears are wiped away, nor sin can come ; 
 
 And as he reads, he marks each cherish'd face, 
 
 And hopes on each Heaven's signet seal to trace. 
 
 And now he prays — for all who sleep in sin. 
 For all who fall beneath the tempter's power, 
 For all who strive the glorious crown to win. 
 And all round whom the gathering tempests lower ; 
 Then, for his own ; " our path in this world trod. 
 Then take us to thyself. Oh ! Lord, our God !" 
 
 " A little while, and we no more shall kneel 
 Before Thee, thus, a Christian family; 
 But few more twilights dim may o'er us steal. 
 Ere Death shall set our prison'd spirits free ; 
 Oh ! guide us so, that Death's dread portal past. 
 In endless Life we dwell wath Thee at last !" 
 
 Those holy tones are hush'd. — Now to thy nest 
 Betake thee, little merry-hearted one;* 
 Matron, son, daughters, all, now calmly rest 
 Prepared to meet your life's last setting sun : 
 " Where two or three are met, I will be there," 
 Says He who heard and blest your Evening Prayer. 
 
 • See the accompanying plate.

 
 83 
 
 THE EARTHaUAKE. 
 
 On the morning of All Saints' Day, November 1st, 1755, a fearful earthquake swept 
 in its wild fury over the beautiful city of Lisbon. The morning of that day dawned, 
 and the metropohs of Portugal lay, in aU her splendour, beneath the rising sun— a few 
 hours elapsed, and that sun shed its departing rays over a heap of scattered ruins 1 
 An English traveller, at that time resident in Lisbon, gives the following vivid but 
 terrible picture of the horror and desolation which then overspread the banks of the 
 
 Tagus : — 
 
 " Early in the morning, the air was calm and serene ; the atmosphere was warm, 
 like a July day in an EngUsh summer, and a dense fog obscured the air, until the 
 rising sun caused its dissipation. The surface of the sea was perfectly unruffled ; smooth 
 as an inland lake in the quiet tranquillity of a breezeless summer evening. No warn- 
 ing came to that devoted city, with her thousands of busy inhabitants ; not one of that 
 multitude dreamed of the horrors which even then were preparing to overwhelm them. 
 About nine a.m., a rumbling noise was heard, but of so doubtful a nature as to leave 
 it uncertain whether the sound proceeded from thunder, or from a discharge of artillery. 
 At twenty-five minutes before ten, while the more wealthy inhabitants were still 
 lounging over their morning meal, and the merchant, the tradesman, and the artisan, 
 were eagerly pressing to their respective scenes of action, a mighty earthquake shook 
 the city, and many of her proudest buildings fell to the ground. A pause ensued— 
 a pause of a few seconds' duration, but one during which all nature seemed mute with 
 terror ; and then came that awful convulsion which tossed to and fro, hke ships on a 
 stormy sea, the quaking palaces, the trembling churches, and the long and tottering 
 colonnades. A more terrific scene cannot be imagined. Many persons, totally over- 
 come by terror, ceased to make any efi"orts for safety, and remained motionless amidst 
 the rocking walls and towers which each moment menaced and accomplished destruc- 
 tion. Everywhere might be seen the dead bodies of those whom the falling buildings 
 had deprived of life ; and over their Hfeless remains hung the survivors in all the first 
 and bitter agony of bereavement. Hundreds fled for safety to the great marble quay, 
 which was newly built; but sea and land alike conspired against the hves of these 
 devoted beings. Suddenly the waters retreated, so as to leave the bed of the Tagus 
 quite dry, and then they wildly returned in one mighty wave, sweeping into its 
 unfathomable bosom the quay, and all the human beings who knelt upon it, with 
 uplifted eyes and hands, as if imploring help and protection from Heaven. No tongue 
 can describe the scene of devastation which the doomed city presented. All consider- 
 ations of rank and sex were forgotten. One high-born female was seen clinging with 
 frantic energy to the column of a ruined church; she was remarkably beautiful, and 
 her raven hair floated in wild disorder as her attendants vainly strove to remove her
 
 84 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 to a safer place. But tlie cup of horror which the devoted city was doomed to drink 
 was not yet drained to the dregs. The day being the festival of All Saints, the altars 
 of the different churches were illuminated by many tapers, which, coming into contact 
 with the falling curtains and draperies, caused conflagrations in various quarters of 
 Lisbon, threatening to complete the destruction of all that the earthquake had 
 spared." 
 
 This memorable earthquake is said to have extended over a space nearly equal to 
 four millions of square miles ; but the city of Lisbon appears to have been the centre 
 of its fury. That city has since been rebuilt, and now presents a most beautiful appear- 
 ance, especially when approached from the mouth of the Tagus ; and its busy inhabit- 
 ants have forgotten the fearful calamity of 1755, except as a thrilling tale of the past. 
 
 While we tremble at the bare recital of the calamities occasioned by the various 
 earthquakes which, from time to time, have devastated South America, Spain, Portugal, 
 Calabria, and the Isles of the Mediterranean, our hearts must surely rise in gratitude 
 to that " glorious God who maketh the thunder," and who, in His infinite mercy, has 
 hitherto spared our own highly-favoured land from similar calamities. 
 
 MEDORA WATCHING THE RETURN OE CONRAD. 
 
 Alone she sat upon the " tower-crown'd hill ;" 
 
 Around her lay the night ; not calm and still. 
 
 With moonlight sleeping on the placid deep, 
 
 And silvery waters laving rocky steep ; 
 
 She gazed above upon no star-lit sky. 
 
 Calm as her own bright-flashing azure eye ; 
 
 No gentle breezes fann'd her marble brow — 
 
 A brow as pure and fair as unstain'd snow — 
 
 But while above, around, the rushing storm 
 
 Swept wildly o'er her fair and fragile form. 
 
 Unmoved she sat, all mute and lonely there. 
 
 The while the night-wind caught her long, bright hair. 
 
 The salt spray dash'd on rock or shelly strandj 
 
 And moan'd the tempest over sea and land ; 
 
 Waves, sullen as the sable pall above, 
 
 Boom'd with their briny waters in the cove 
 
 Where oft, in brighter days at eventide, 
 
 Medora sat with Conrad by her side. 
 
 Why strains she those dark eyes across the sea, 
 
 Tlu-ough the black darkness gazing hopelessly ?
 
 'Uiy<ii/r'
 
 MEDORA WATCHING THE RETURN OF CONRAD. 85 
 
 Alas ! she waits for one beloved form. 
 
 And scarcely feels or hears the sweeping storm. 
 
 In vain she waits, in vain prolongs her stay ; 
 
 Although he left her side but yesterday, 
 
 A captive doom'd and chain' d, on distant shore, 
 
 He may not hear her loving accents more. 
 
 His lawless band return to Conrad's home. 
 
 While o'er the beach Medora's footsteps roam ; 
 
 Their tale is told with burning cheek and heart. 
 
 For though they dread to speak it, yet no part 
 
 They dare withhold from that calm, piercing eye — 
 
 Calm mid the heart's own speechless agony ! 
 
 She spake no word ; no shriek of anguish broke 
 
 From those pale lips beneath that fearful stroke ; 
 
 A smile that like the lightning o'er the wave 
 
 But shows the drowning wretch his watery grave, 
 
 Came o'er that marble face, the while she said, 
 
 " With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread." 
 
 The morn arose in aU its dazzling light, 
 
 Glisten'd the sunbeams on the waters bright ; 
 
 The raven-winged storm had pass'd away, 
 
 In other lands to cloud the noon of day ; 
 
 And she — Medora — could she gladly gaze 
 
 On that sweet morning's fast receding haze? 
 
 She gazed — but saw not the blue sky above, 
 
 Nor yet Anselmo's bark within the cove : 
 
 What reck'd it that the homebound wind had sprung. 
 
 When o'er her soul more than night's veil was flung ? 
 
 What reck'd it, that her flowery isle was fair? 
 
 Her world was Conrad's self; and he was — where? 
 
 With each long hour her life-springs ebb'd away. 
 
 And pass'd her spirit ere the sunset-ray. 
 
 At length — the story tells — He came again 1 
 
 A woman's hand had loosed his captive chain ; 
 
 But, oh ! the flower he loved was wither'd now. 
 
 Grief's passionate wild storm had laid her low. 
 
 He loved but her on earth ; and she was gone ! 
 
 Reckless, he wish'd his own wild life were done : 
 
 He went his way ; but whither, when, or how, 
 
 A careless world knew not, will never know. 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. Y
 
 86 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 But many a tear was shed o'er that sad tale, 
 And many a young and rosy cheek grew pale. 
 The while the Poet sang his mournful part 
 Of poor Medora's loving, broken heart. 
 
 And now the tempest beats along that beach, 
 Wild, dashing, mingling with the sea-bird's screech. 
 But no red, lurid flame from rock or tower. 
 Is struggling on : nor from Medora's bower 
 The faint light of her fragrant lamp is seen ; 
 Nought lives to tell the traveller what has been . 
 The eyes that watch'd tlu-oughout that fatal night 
 Have closed their lashes o'er their sapphire light ; 
 No greeting voice may sound along that shore. 
 Nor ever burn that lonely beacon more ! 
 
 THE CHAMPS E L Y S E E S. 
 
 The gay and animated scene vrhich the accompanying plate represents needs very little 
 description. In these days of railroads and steamboats, tliere are, comparatively speak- 
 ing, but few English families in the higher and middling ranks of life, who have not 
 visited the neighbouring continent; and still fewer who have not listened to or read 
 circumstantial and graphic accounts of its principal places of resort, as related by eye- 
 witnesses. It will therefore be sufficient to state, that the Champs Elysees were planned 
 by Louis XIV., and indeed planted by the same " Grand Monarque." They were, 
 hovvever, replanted, and considerably improved, towards the end of the eighteenth 
 century. 
 
 The promenade of the Champs Elysees is in fact but a continuation of the gardens 
 of the Tuilleries, so that the whole may be said to form one splendid parterre. The 
 walks ai-e well arranged, and in all directions myrtle, orange, and lemon-trees, spread 
 their grateful shade, and diffuse their delicious fragrance over the long, broad terraces 
 and grassy paths of these modern Elysian Fields. With the English it may, perhaps, 
 be matter of doubt, whether this place of public resort really deserve its somewhat 
 hyperbolical title ; but certainly many a Parisian belle, many a joHe grisette, looks 
 forward to her evening promenade in the Champs Elysees as to that which is to com- 
 pensate all the petty vexations of the day ; by such visitors these fields are regarded 
 as nothing less than fairy-land. 
 
 During the terrible Revolution of 1793— that Revolution which desolated the fair 
 kingdom called by her children " La Belle France," the Champs Elysees and the
 
 J^ 
 
 \ 
 
 "N,. 
 
 '^ 
 
 
 
 i 
 y 
 
 
 ^
 
 THE CHAMPS ELYSftES. 87 
 
 Gardens of the Tuilleries became a scene of horror and bloodshed. It was from the 
 Palace of the Tuilleries that the hapless Louis XVI. beheld the gatherinsi of that storm 
 which issued in rebellion and auarcliy, which overturned the thi'one, annihilated in 
 France the royal power, and hurried the monarch to a violent and ignominious death. 
 There, too, within those walls, sat the lovely, the unfortunate, the misguided Marie 
 Antoinette, her personal danger and her royal dignity alike forgotten in the anguish 
 and terror of tlie wife and the mother. 
 
 In the Champs Elysecs the Revolutionists daily exercised their military forces, and 
 there also were celebrated the festivities which took place upon the temporary recon- 
 ciliation of Louis XVI. mth his infuriated and not less infatuated subjects. After 
 sunset on this occasion, a brilliant display of fireworks took place in the Champs 
 Elysees. The gardens were lighted up, and wreaths of fii-e seemed to twine from tree 
 to tree. From the Porte de I'Etoile to the entrance of the Tuilleries, all was one blaze 
 of light; one long, sparkling, starry avenue, crowded by the population of Paris, and 
 resounding with bui'sts of joyous music. But, alas ! these demonstrations of joy were 
 as evanescent as the morning dew. Ere long the capricious multitude again gathered 
 themselves together, and once more the Champs Elysees and the Gardens of the Tuill- 
 eries were thronged by furies rather than by men. The roar of catmon now mingled 
 with the hoarse cries of the multitude, while in an inner apartment within the palace 
 walls, the royal circle, pale and silent, indeed, but calm and composed, awaited their 
 destiny. On the evening of that fearful day the corpses of four thousand Swiss and 
 Marsellalse, who had shared in the combat of the morning, were carried from the 
 blood-stained Champs Elysees. 
 
 The history and issue of this tragical revolution is too well known to need recapi- 
 tulation in these pages. The storm ceased at last ; the roar of the tempest waxed 
 fainter and fainter ; peace and plenty again visited France ; the beautiful gardens 
 were restored to their ancient splendour ; and the thousands who trod their precincts 
 occasionally, perhaps, bestowed a passing thought on the terrific past. Years, however, 
 sped on, and " the reign of terror" was remembered only as a dreadful dream, of whicli 
 the recollection causes a cold shuddering. 
 
 Very recently the same spots have again witnessed acts of lawless violence. Again 
 revolutionary changes have despoiled the Tuilleries; and what may be the issue of all 
 that is now enacting in France no mortal may determine. Now to stand on the ter- 
 races of those pleasant gardens, is to stand and gaze on scenes of fearful interest. The 
 mind reverts to their despotic designer, Louis XIV. ; to the horrible fate of his unfor- 
 tunate descendant ; to the wild storm which is not yet allayed ; and then, to the 
 FUTURE. What that future may bring forth, we know not ; what national incidents 
 the Champs Elysees may again witness, we cannot tell. Events belong to God — to the 
 God of nations, the Lord of all the earth; to Him who alone knoweth the issues of all 
 things, and who alone can so order the unruly wills and affections of men, as to preserve 
 peace and good-will among the kingdoms of this world.
 
 88 
 
 THE LAST REQUEST. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 " Tlie solemnities of a dyin^ chamber arc some of the most raelancluily scenes imaginable. There lies the 
 afifectionate husband, the indulgent parent, the faithful friend, or the generous master. He lies in the last extre- 
 mity, and on the very point of dissolution. Art has done its all. The raging disease mocks the power of medi- 
 cine. It hastens, with resistless impetuosity, to execute its dreadful errand ; to rend asunder the silver cord of life 
 and the more delicate tie of social attachment, or conjugal aifection," — Hervey. 
 
 Sinking on his couch he lies, 
 Pale his lips, and dim his eyes; 
 Yet he hath a little breath, 
 Love is stronger still than death. 
 
 Yet his faltering accents seek 
 Of the heart within to speak ; 
 Of a love that cannot die. 
 Of a hope beyond the sky. 
 
 Near him stands his youngest one. 
 Fearing what he looks not on; 
 Fearing, though he knows not why, 
 With a strange and downcast eye. 
 
 But his sister, on the bed, 
 Bendeth her despairing head; 
 Must her father be resign'd. 
 He, so careful, and so kind ? 
 
 Never more with eager feet. 
 Will she haste that sire to meet, 
 Laden with the early flowers 
 Which he loved, of April hours. 
 
 But the wife beside his bed. 
 Calmly holds his dying head ; 
 Full her heart of tears may be; 
 They are not for him to see.
 
 1 
 
 V 
 
 >^
 
 le^y'/r/y ^^ 
 
 ^=
 
 DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 For the sake of gone-by years, 
 Fill'd with mutual hopes and fears. 
 For the sake of that loved brow, 
 She is calm as he is now. 
 
 Angel-wings in glory sweep 
 O'er the coming of that sleep ; 
 Let him close his weary eyes. 
 They will open in the skies. 
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 A DREAM of life ! Once hers was all of flowers. 
 
 And sunny glens, or solemn forest-shade ; 
 
 At twilight hour she sat alone and smiled. 
 
 The while the crimson hues would melt and fade ; 
 
 And then, her early dreams were calmly fair. 
 
 All passionless, and born of perfect peace ; 
 
 No fear of earthly storms had cross'd her path ; 
 
 Alas ! that childhood's blissful dreams must cease ! 
 
 Then, higher hopes and thoughts were mingled there ; 
 And she would gaze upon the star-lit skies, 
 And long to rend away the veil that hides 
 That blessed land, which far beyond them lies. 
 And wandering night-wind's echoing, sweeping blast, 
 And ocean, with its ever-ceaseless moan. 
 And tempest, with the lightning's lurid gleam. 
 Breathed o'er her soul their own deep, mystic tone. 
 
 Then, the lone hour of fading eventide, 
 lu summer sunset's still and placid time. 
 Brought, with its gentle, jasmine-scented breeze. 
 Dreams of Italia's distant, golden clime ; 
 And myrtle leaves and fragrant orange-bloom 
 Told of the ancient, blue, Morean shore. 
 Sweet Tempo's classic vale, and Helle's stream. 
 Fair as they were in Grecia's days of yore. 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. z
 
 90 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OP ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 And then, her dream of life was all of love ; 
 A pure, calm, stainless love, that could not dwell 
 With aught hut womanhood's unsullied spring. 
 Within her fervent heart's deep, secret cell ; 
 A love that knew no startling pang of doubt, 
 Where broken faith was yet unfear'd, unknown ; 
 And all her gentle tears were meekly shed 
 For others' griefs, but never for her own. 
 
 Years have pass'd on since those bright halcyon days. 
 When every eve the sun would set too soon ; 
 When vows of deathless, changeless love, were sworn 
 In leafy groves, beneath the summer moon. 
 And now those transient dreams of perfect bliss. 
 Like dazzling rainbow-tints, have pass'd away ; 
 And hopes, like sunbeams dancing on the wave. 
 That sparkled bright, have vanish'd, fled, for aye. 
 
 And yet, her Dream of Life is passing sweet. 
 Yet are its motley fantasies most fair ; 
 Though shaded now that once unruffled brow. 
 Though mix'd with silvery threads that sunny hair. 
 Her childhood's blessed dreams are past and gone, 
 And all her young life's cloudless visions flown j 
 But riper years have brought a dearer charm, 
 A pure and sacred pleasure, all their own. 
 
 What though a thousand anxious cares he hers. 
 She bears a mother's happy, holy name ; 
 To nurture those sweet, tender, clinging buds. 
 For brighter climes, is now her hallow'd aim ; 
 A wife's deep love ! a mother's hopes and fears 1 
 Their mighty spell ^ound her way have cast ; 
 Sorrows she has ; but every passing year 
 Seems, if less bright, still happier than the last. 
 
 Fair Matron ! 'tis a changing scene we tread ; 
 Bright musings gladden all our childhood's day. 
 And nearer, brighter still, youth's visions glow ; 
 But GOLDEN DREAMS like thcsc may never stay;
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 91 
 
 Sunslilue and shade must haunt the path we go, 
 And smiles and tears, alternate, mark the brow ; 
 And clear, culm skies, and tempests' hollow moan, 
 Must chequer all realities below. 
 
 A little while, and those dear ones of thine, 
 And he to whom thy earliest love was given, 
 Shall bow no more beneath the storms of life ; 
 No thorns may mar the fadeless flowers of heaven. 
 Press onward, then, in hope, to that blest home, 
 Where anxious thoughts and sorrows cease at last, 
 Where clouds no longer dim tlie glorious noon, 
 And all the Dkeams of Life at length are past ! 
 
 F E I I C I A HEMANS. 
 
 Among the sons and daughters of genius, a high place must be assigned to Felicia 
 Dorothea Hemans. This gifted lady was born in Liverpool in the year 1794. Her 
 father, George Browne, Esq., a merchant of that town, was a native of Ireland ; her 
 mother, a German lady, descended, as it is understood, from an ancient Venetian 
 family. These circumstances deserve notice, because the character and mental 
 temperament of Felicia appear to have been in some degree moulded by her mixed 
 descent. From her father she would seem to have inherited the vivacity and ardour 
 which mark the Irish character ; from her mother, a deep love of the beautiful, toge- 
 tiier with a strong tinge of romance, which told of German and Italian parentage. 
 Other circumstances there were which exercised a powerful influence over the character 
 of her mind, and which combined to give a colour to her habits of thought, and by 
 consequence, to her writings. Her first youth was passed among the mountains and 
 valleys of North Wales, the house in which she lived being a spacious mansion on the 
 sea-shore of Denbighshire. Scenery so rich in grandeur and beauty as that which 
 characterizes this " land of the mountain and the flood," was a fit cradle for the genius 
 with which Felicia was endowed, and doubtless tended strongly to the developing of the 
 poetical turn of her mind. In the wild solitudes which surrounded her habitation, she 
 was accustomed, even while still a child, to spend hours and days with a volume of 
 Shakspere in her hand, now gazing on the restless ocean, now chmbing the mountain- 
 steeps, or wandering amid the sylvan scenes which these rocky barriers enclosed. Under
 
 92 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 such influences her first compositions were produced ; and by an earnest and constant 
 study of the bard — 
 
 " Upon whose forehead climb 
 
 The crowns o'the world ! whose eyes sublime 
 
 Have tears and laughter for all time," 
 
 she acquired — all that she could acquire from human teaching — the ability to clothe her 
 exquisite thoughts in suitable words. Moreover, as a circumstance affecting the com- 
 plexion of the future character of Felicia Browne, it should be mentioned, that she was 
 in her early years " a child of beauty rare." That beauty, indeed, soon faded under 
 the influence of sorrow and disappointment ; but in the dawn of her youth, her features, 
 though not regular, were singularly expressive ; her complexion was rich, though fair ; 
 her hair, golden, and soft as silk, curled luxuriantly over her neck and shoulders ; her 
 form was remarkable for its grace ; and, above all, her countenance, while exquisitely 
 feminine, was as full of intelligence as her disposition was amiable and attractive. That 
 a creature so lovely, and so highly gifted, should have been loved with a love too nearly 
 approaching to idolatry, will excite no surprise, but may well be lamented, as a circum- 
 stance but too certain to exercise a very injurious influence upon the after-character of 
 the object of such injudicious fondness. Happily, however, for Felicia, she was blessed 
 with a mother possessing sound sense, and a penetrating judgment; and being herself 
 docile, and apt to receive and retain good impressions, she passed, with much less of 
 permanent harm than might have been reasonably apprehended, through the dangers 
 which beset her path. To her mother, the young poetess, who was publicly known as 
 an author before she had completed her twelfth year, was accustomed to lay open every 
 feeling of her heart ; every thought as it arose in her mind. The value of motherly 
 counsel and guidance, under cu'cumstances so unusual, and so perilous, is sufficiently 
 obvious ; and was deeply felt by Aer who was its immediate object. It comprehended 
 not, indeed, so far as appears, the inculcation of those religious principles, with which, 
 as it may well be hoped, the highly gifted Felicia became, at a later period of her life, 
 practically acquainted, and, in the absence of which, the rarest mental endowments, com- 
 bined with the warmest affections, and the most amiable of natural dispositions fail to 
 secure for their possessor that happiness which the human heart constantly craves ; but 
 it was a safeguard against many dangers, and a shield amid many temptations. 
 
 In the seventeenth year of her age the subject of this memoir became a wife, and 
 in due time, the mother of five sons. Over recollections of this portion of her chequered 
 life, wc will not linger. That an under-current of sadness runs through the whole Oi 
 her writings, published after her marriage, is painfully obvious ; but into the cause or 
 causes of poor Felicia's domestic wretchedness, we need not too curiously inquire. 
 She had been idolized from her birth ; and without supposing anything like neglect 
 to he her portion in after-life, the chances of married happiness are fearfully lessened 
 in the case of her, whose misfortune it is to be, in childhood and youth, the object of 
 injudicious and extravagant fondness.
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 93 
 
 Soon after the birth of her fifth son, Mrs. Heraans parted from her husband, to 
 meet him no more in this world. A separation took place, by mutual consent ; and 
 the health of Captain Ilcmans requiring that he should betake himself to a more 
 southern climate, he soon afterwards sailed for Italy ; whence he never returned. 
 
 Thus left alone, Felicia Hemaus, with her children, took up her abode at the 
 village of Bromwylfa, near St. Asaph ; to which village her mother and sister had 
 previously retired. And now the sterling excellence of her character appeared in all 
 its strength. The bright prospects which had gilded the morning of her youth had 
 faded. As a poet, indeed, she had already begun to acquire that reputation which 
 has now received the stamp of perpetuity; but as a woman, her dearest hopes had 
 been disappointed. A weaker mind might have resigned itself to the indulgence of 
 sorrow, or might have endeavoured to find solace iu complaint. Felicia Hemans did 
 better and more wisely. She devoted herself to the duties of a mother. Her own 
 education had been somewhat desultory and superficial. For her children's sake, 
 therefore, she addressed herself in earnest to the work of self-improvement. In early 
 childhood she had learned something of Latin ; she now resumed her study of that 
 tongue; augmented her knowledge of French; and made herself familiar, not only 
 with the languages, but with the literature of Italy, Germany, Spain, and Portugal. 
 To her excellence as a linguist her numerous and spirited translations from Horace, 
 Goethe, Camoens, &c., bear abundant testimony ; while her philosophical and dis- 
 criminating appreciation of the works of the most distinguished European writers is 
 proved by a series of papers written not long after her separation from her husband, 
 and published in the year 1819. 
 
 During the succeeding four or five years, namely, from 1819 to 1824, or 1825, 
 a succession of poems, each more brilliant or more toucliing than the last, secured 
 for Felicia Hemans a high rank among modern poets. We need but mention "The 
 Restoration of the Works of Art in Italy ;" " Tales and Historic Scenes ;" " Modern 
 Greece;" "Wallace;" " Dartmoor;" " The Siege of Valencia;" &c. &c., all which, 
 besides various shorter efi'usions of extreme beauty, appeared during this period, and 
 gained for their author the applause of some of the great poets then living, who have 
 now taken their places in the " Temple of Fame," and whose names will continue to 
 be as "household words" among us. In 1827 Mrs. Hemans published her " Forest 
 Sanctuary;" and in the early part of the ensuing year, her enduring "Records of 
 Woman." ^ 
 
 Our limits admonish us to relate briefly what remains to be told concerning this 
 distinguished lady. On the occasion of the death of her mother in 1829, she quitted 
 her retirement in Wales, and, with her children, took up her abode at the village of 
 Wavertree, near Liverpool. This event made a considerable change in her manner 
 of life. Hitherto she had lived in a seclusion almost absolute ; like the nightingale, 
 she had been " heard, not seen ;" and widely known as were her name and fame, she 
 had had httle personal intercourse with society. She continued, however, notwith- 
 standing her increasing maternal and domestic cares, and her greatly multiplied social 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. 2 A
 
 94 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 engagements, to follow tlie bent of her genius by occupying her leisure hours in 
 poetical composition; and produced various minor poems which the world will not 
 " willingly let die." 
 
 In the summer of 1829, Mrs. Hemans, urged by numerous solicitations, accom- 
 plished iu Scotland a round of visits, which — such was the celebrity which her name 
 had acquired — almost assumed the character of a triumphal progTess. She now 
 visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford ; a place which — to say nothing of her appre- 
 ciation of the character and genius of her host — aroused to the utmost, by its collection 
 of armour and other treasures, her chivalric sympathies. 
 
 In the spring of 1830 appeared her " Songs of the Affections ;" many of which^ 
 however, were abeady familiar to the readers of Blackwood' s Magazine ; and during 
 the summer of the same year, she visited the Cumberland and "Westmoreland Lakes, 
 and made acquaintance with the great poet of Rydal Mount. Another visit to Scotland 
 followed; and iu the spring of 1831, partly for the sake of medical advice respecting 
 a disease of the heart which now began seriously to alarm both herself and her friends, 
 and partly with a view to the advantage of her sons, Mrs. Hemans finally quitted 
 England, aud took up her abode in the Irish capital. 
 
 The health of this gifted lady now declined rapidly ; but her mind retained aU its 
 energy and activity, and her affections all their warmth. She continued to write 
 poetry; and in 1833 and 1834 prepared for the press three separate works: "Hymns 
 for Childhood ;" " National Lyrics ;" and " Scenes and Hymns of Life ;" in which last 
 work her genius perhaps shone forth as brightly as in any former production. She 
 was now, however, evidently approaching that better land of which she sang so 
 touchingly. On the 16th of May, 1835, she expired peacefully, expressing her humble 
 trust in the mercy of God through the merits of the Redeemer. 
 
 The poetry of Felicia Hemans is full of imagery; and that imagery bears witness 
 no less to the justness of her taste, than to the power of her genius and the extent of 
 her mental resources. The beautiful, in character, iu history, and, above all, iu 
 external nature, formed the main theme of her song : — 
 
 The world of loveliness -was all her own ; 
 
 To her the rushing streamlet had a tone 
 
 The gay and careless crowd could never hear ; 
 
 She heard its woi-ds — its music wild and clear, 
 
 And answer'd too, in sound of rhyme and song 
 
 That o'er the hills of Caledonia rang, 
 
 And eclio'd round green Erin's wave-bound shore. 
 
 And mingled with old Ocean's dashing roar. 
 
 Dear sainted Spiiit ! Now thy harp is mute, 
 
 Hush'd, now, the thrilling chords of thy sweet lute, 
 
 Which flung its glorious melody afar, 
 
 As brightly beams a pure, celestial star. 
 
 And thou hast pass'd away, as beauty must. 
 
 With all its loveliness to silent dust. 
 
 Sweet was thy death-song, when the bonds of clay 
 
 Were well nigh bursting on that sabbath day —
 
 THE INVOCATION OF DEATH. 95 
 
 That day of rest, which, dawning, found thee here. 
 
 And closing, saw thee free fi-om grief or tear. 
 
 Calm was thy dying brow ; that " better land," 
 
 With all its seraph-forms, its " happy band," 
 
 Shone clear before tliy gently-closing eyes 
 
 That never more might gaze on sunset sliies. 
 
 Sharp, piercing thorns had mingled with life's flowers, 
 
 And sorrow oft, had dimm'd thy brightest hours ; 
 
 But now, the strife is o'er, the conflict past, 
 
 Tliy soul hath found her home of rest, at last : 
 
 ■What though tliy earthly lyre be all-unstrung, 
 
 A golden harp, for ever tuned and strung, 
 
 E'en from eternity, for thee, is thine, 
 
 While round thy brow immortal flow'rets twine ; 
 
 Thy voice on earth is hush'd ; yet lives thy strain ; 
 
 We would not — could not wish thee here again. 
 
 THE INYOCATION OF DEATH. 
 
 Oh come ! oli come ! I have call'd thee long, 
 
 I have pined for thee in the festal throng, 
 
 Not the rapture of music, nor rosy flowers, 
 
 Nor the pure white blooms of these myrtle bowers, 
 
 Nor the singing birds in the sunlit vales. 
 
 Nor the solemn songs of the nightingales, — 
 
 Not all that is bright on this changing earth, 
 
 Not all that is lovely of mortal birth. 
 
 May tempt me to linger below, again ; 
 
 Shatter'd and snapt is life's golden chain. 
 
 Death ! death ! I have watch'd the morning sky. 
 
 And the pale stars fading silently. 
 
 The sun drink the dew from the lily leaves. 
 
 And light the dim shades where the lone dove grieves. 
 
 And I've press'd my hot brow on the cool green grass. 
 
 While I long'd for thy bhghting form to pass. 
 
 And when the deep, silent noontide slept 
 
 On the gushing founts, where so calmly wept 
 
 The crystal drops from the rock's cool shade. 
 
 Where the lotus-cups wove a pearly braid. 
 
 And bent o'er the sparkling wavelets there. 
 
 Like a chasten'd mourner, meek and fair. 
 
 Oh ! sweet was that noontide, sweet and bright. 
 
 And rich were the rays of emerald light
 
 90 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 That burst through the waving forest-boughs, 
 
 And dauced where the purple violet grows ; 
 
 But what is this glorious world to me, 
 
 With its gay-plumed birds, and their minstrelsy. 
 
 And the rustling olive, the cedar's moan, — 
 
 What is tlieir music to one alone ? 
 
 The golden sun-beams ! I saw them die. 
 
 And the rose-hue melt in the evening sky ; 
 
 The crimson leaves on the tm-f were laid, 
 
 As I watch'd the young buds of summer fade ; 
 
 And I gazed on the streams, as dazzling and free, 
 
 Onward tbey sped to the pathless sea; — 
 
 All things can find thee. Oh ! Death ! but I 
 
 Cannot rend the frail bonds of mortality ! 
 
 Oh ! fair Thyatira ! the glistening beam 
 
 That falls on thy towers with its fitful gleam. 
 
 Had it power to cast on this tear-laved tomb 
 
 One ray of gladness amid the gloom. 
 
 Oh ! then, I might even grieve to roam 
 
 From the hill-girt city, my childhood's home ; 
 
 But, no ! the light of my life hath pass'd ; 
 
 Of affection's deep tones I have heard the last ; 
 
 I saw the smile that I treasured part, 
 
 And the throbbing cease of that noble heart. 
 
 Whose last faint thrill was of love for me. 
 
 Ere he pass'd away to eternity. 
 
 And here, while the graves around me lie, 
 
 Wliile the red lights fade in the evening sky. 
 
 While the night-bird's flapping wing is near. 
 
 And the burning stars glimmer forth — stiU here 
 
 I linger amid the silent dead, 
 
 Wliile he slumbers on in his lonely bed. 
 
 Oh ! come to me. Death ! let this pallid brow 
 
 Be white as the far-off Alpine snow ; 
 
 Oh ! bear me away to the spirit-land. 
 
 Far, far, from this rosy Syrian strand ; 
 
 Now come to me. Death ! bear me hence away, 
 
 Let me struggle no longer with mortal clay. 
 
 All that I love from this bright world is gone. 
 
 Only this tomb hath a voiceless tone. 
 
 Which breathes to my desolate, fainting heart, 
 
 " Depart ! from the sunlight of heaven depart ! "
 
 THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 97 
 
 Yet hush ! hush this murmuring note of grief; 
 
 Hush ! for tlie steps of my journey brief 
 
 May end ere yon sun's departing ray 
 
 Shall melt into darkness at close of day. 
 
 Oh ! Father of heaven ! look down in thy love, 
 
 From thy starry throne in the world above. 
 
 And pardon thy wandering, wayward child, 
 
 Who fain would return to Thee, undefiled ! 
 
 Take her, weary in heart, to that peaceful home, 
 
 Where storms may not wither — Death maj' not come. 
 
 Hark ! the deep tone of a distant bell ! 
 'Tis tolling my solemn passing-knell ! 
 Hark ! the low wind through the cedar-boughs 
 Sweeps sadly adown from the mountain brows. 
 And a requiem chant on the evening gale 
 Comes floating along from the cypress vale ; 
 Fair shores of Natolia, fare ye well ! 
 In a lovelier climate I hasten to dwell ; 
 I have gazed my last on the shining sun, — 
 The conflict is over — the strife is done : 
 Through the shado^vy trees thy form I trace — 
 Welcome, oh Death ! is thy cold embrace ! 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 It will be remembered, that in the year 1840, M. Guizot, at tliat time the French 
 Ambassador at the British Court, waited upon Lord Palmerston, with a request that 
 the body of Napoleon Buonaparte should be resigned to the French nation, in order 
 that the ashes of the deceased Emperor should at last repose in the soil of France, the 
 country over which he had once held absolute sway. This matter being arranged, 
 the French proceeded to determine the place of sepulture, and after some debate, it was 
 settled that the remains of the illustrious departed should find their final resting-place 
 beneath the vast dome of the Eglise des Invalides. 
 
 On the 1st of July, in the year already mentioned,- La Favorite, corvette, and 
 La Belle Poule, frigate, quitted the harbour of Toulon, and arrived, on the 8th of the 
 following October, in that of James Town, St. Helena. The 15th of the same month 
 was fixed on as the day of exhumation, that being the day on which, a quarter of 
 a century before, Napoleon had first set foot on the island of St. Helena. 
 S. S. VOL. I. 2 b
 
 98 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Operations commenced at the hour of midnight ; the Enghsh Commissioner, 
 together with Bertrand, Gourgaud, and Las Cases, three intimate friends of the late 
 Emperor, being present at the disinterment. After the recital by a French Abbe of 
 certain prayers, the coffin, which contained all that was mortal of Napoleon Buona- 
 parte, was carefully removed, and, with all possible tokens of respect, was carried by 
 a detachment of soldiers into a tent previously prepared for its reception, where, after 
 tlie due performance of the religious ceremonies prescribed by the Romish Church, the 
 receptacle to which had been committed the remains of one for whom " the world had 
 been too small," was opened. 
 
 It was a moment of intense interest. Friends, who had regarded Buonaparte with 
 affection, and who had shed bitter tears over his lonely exile, now stood to gaze on all 
 that remained of the illustrious dead. The features of the face were somewhat changed, 
 but were perfectly recognizable. A sorrowful sternness seemed to shadow the brow, 
 though the eye, the once keen, speaking eye, no longer told of the mighty workings 
 of the spirit within. 
 
 On Sunday, the 18th of October, the Belle Poule, with her precious deposit, left 
 St. Helena, and arrived at Cherbourg on the 30th of the following month ; the grand 
 entry into Paris being fixed for the 15th of December. 
 
 Great indeed were the changes which had taken place since Napoleon Buonaparte 
 had looked his last on that proud city ! Many who then stood around him had passed 
 away from this mutable world. Poor Josephine — his deserted, but devoted wife — she 
 could not rejoice in the honours paid to his memory by the land she loved so well, for 
 she too had departed to " that bourne whence no traveller returns." There was a grand 
 procession — and that was all ! 
 
 At daybreak guns were fired at NeuiUy, and the body was transferred to the car 
 destined to convey it to its last resting-place. The coffin, covered with violet crape, 
 was surmounted by the imperial crown, and the horses, superbly accoutred, were led 
 by attendants clad in the livery of the deceased Emperor. At the head of the proces- 
 sion came the Gendannerie of the Seine, then the Municipal Guard, with various 
 military squadrons and battalions ; the Prince de Joinville, and the five hundred sailors 
 of the Belle Poule, marching in double file on each side of the chariot of death. 
 
 The funeral cortege passed the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees, and 
 finally halted at the Eglise des Invalides. The windows of the Church were closely 
 curtained, and ten thousand tapers shed their light on the gloomy drapery, the gorgeous 
 insignia of departed royalty, the dun banners of other days, the whole of the stately 
 aud solemn catafalque, spread forth beneath the towering dome. 
 
 The service for the dead ^&s, performed ; Napoleon was laid to his rest, to be aroused 
 by the archangel's trumpet ; the long aisles of the crowded church were again deserted, 
 and the parting gleams of the wintry sun alone ^dsited the solitude were reposed the 
 dust of one who, but a few brief years before, had been — 
 
 " The foremost mau of all this world."
 
 I • 
 
 I: 
 
 f 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 
 
 !
 
 LORD FORDWICH. 99 
 
 The career of Napoleon Buonaparte, the rise of his fortunes, his renown, his 
 ambition, his fall, his years of exile, his lonely island -grave, and finally, the vain 
 honours which were paid to his mouldering remains, form a story of wonders which 
 will be as imperishable as history itself While ambition and the lust of power led 
 him to form projects and pursue ends subversive of the well-being of his fellow-men, 
 he was doubtless an instrument iu the hands of Him who " sitteth above the water- 
 floods;" "in whose hands are the issues of life;" and who, when it pleased him, could 
 say to the haughty and unsparing conqueror, " Hitherto shalt thou come, but no 
 further !" 
 
 LORD FORDWICH, 
 
 Eldest son of Eail Cowper and the Lady Anne Robinson, daughter of Earl and Countess de Grey. 
 
 Fair is thy youthful face, and well combines 
 The different beauty of two lovely lines ; 
 Earnest the light that fills thy Poet-eyes, 
 Thoughtfully turn'd toward the distant skies : 
 In a rose-path of life thy fate hath found thee. 
 Beauty, and rank, and wealth, and love surround thee : 
 But what the destiny of riper years. 
 He knows, who mocks our hopes, abates our fears ; 
 Frustrates the expectations of the crowd, 
 , Lifts up the lowly, and casts down the proud. 
 And early thou hast cast thy anchor where 
 No storm can reach, nor touch of trivial care ; 
 So shalt thou yet thy hopeful trust retain ; 
 So shalt thou be successful, and not vain ; 
 So shalt thou sufi'er, and yet not despond ; 
 This world may fail thee — not the world beyond ! 
 
 And though in after-days it should be told 
 Of thee — as of the lovely Knight of old — 
 Thou wert the fairest of the courtly throng; 
 The gracefullest that led the dance along ; 
 The bravest man that ever drew a sword ; 
 The stateliest vision of a belted lord ; 
 The warmest heart that ever sued for love ; 
 The kindliest, when Pity sought to move;
 
 10.0 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OE ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The frankest friend that ever clasp'd a hand ; 
 
 The openest giver owning breadth of land ; 
 
 The sternest champion of thy country's laws ; 
 
 The gentlest listener to the poor man's cause ; 
 
 Still would remain the greater, holier praise, 
 
 la the first blessing of thy younger days, 
 
 Ere yet these proud distinctions round thee smiled. 
 
 And thou wast but a simple, pious child ; 
 
 That from the dawning of thy tempted day, 
 
 To the last setting of its mellow'd ray. 
 
 Thou wert the truest Christian — so to speak 
 
 Of one by nature sinful made, and weak — 
 
 That ever in this world of storms unblest. 
 
 The self-denying, peaceful creed profess'd ! 
 
 THE MASQUERADE. 
 
 'TwAS a bright and festal throng. 
 
 Earth's fairest flowers were there ; 
 And ringlets waved in the dazzling light, 
 
 O'er brows how purely fair ! 
 And starry eyes were flashing. 
 
 And gold and radiant gems 
 Were bowing graceful, fragile forms, 
 
 Like flow'rets on their stems. 
 
 But the burning ruby's ray. 
 
 With its crimson flashing beam, 
 Glow'd not like many a cheek's soft rose, 
 
 When the young, bright face was seen ; 
 Nor the music in those halls. 
 
 With its rich deep-sounding chords. 
 Came not so sweet in that hour of glee 
 
 As the gentle, breathing words. 
 
 And costly robes were there. 
 The raiment of distant lands ; 
 
 The ermine and purple's heavy folds 
 Half shading the jewell'd hands j
 
 !^^ti^ P^^<«^-/-^-V^ 
 
 t-^/
 
 ^-^ Q y^'6aM^/r^'ma(r/:'
 
 THE MASQUERADE. 101 
 
 And some, like lone sea-iiymplis, 
 
 Were clad in pallid green. 
 And wore sea-flowers, as if to the caves 
 
 Of old ocean they had been. 
 
 And some young, lovely girls 
 
 Seem'd tenants of homes tliat stood, 
 O'erhung with tlie jasmine and citron's glow 
 
 In the depths of a Grecian wood : 
 And some seem'd Italian brides, 
 
 Whose eyes from the bridal veil, 
 Smiled out with a pensive fitful light, 
 
 'Mid the orange-blossoms pale. 
 
 And Queens from the coral isles, 
 
 And Naiads from sounding seas, 
 And Fauns from the forest and sylvan shades, 
 
 With wreaths from the old oak trees ; 
 And a Priestess of Druid race, 
 
 With the mystic chaplet bound — 
 All gracefully moved through the gliding dance. 
 
 O'er those halls' enchanted ground. 
 
 'Twas a lovely sight to see 
 
 Earth's beauties mingling there ; 
 The rich, bright curls, and the ^'littering gems 
 
 That gleam'd in the shining hair ! 
 No murmur of grief or woe 
 
 Was heard 'mid the music's tone. 
 Oh! could it be that aiuidst thar tluoug 
 
 There was no sad soul alone ! 
 
 There maij be sorrow and grief. 
 
 Though smooth be the snowy I) row ; 
 There may on the lips be a proud., biigiit smile, 
 
 With a bursting heurt below ; 
 Such grief may e'en be yours, 
 
 Oh ye of the laughing eyes ! 
 But oh ! that this masking scene were all, 
 
 Ye may know of life's disguise ! 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. " ^
 
 102 
 
 CROSSING BY A SANGHA, NEAR JUMNOOTREE. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-BRIDGE. 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 The most common contrivance in this hill-district, where the stream is sufficiently naiTow to admit of its 
 use, is the Sangha ; a bridge of the rudest description. No one being at the trouble of repairing such bridges, 
 they are generally found by the traveller in the most crazy and precarious condition imaginable. So long, 
 indeed, as the wayfarer can keep in the centre of the Sangha, he is tolerably safe; but if he venture to plant 
 his foot either to the right, or the left, he is in danger of being precipitated into the torrent. The safest plan 
 is, not to look for a moment upon the impetuous current below, but to keep the eyes steadily fixed on some 
 object on the opposite side of the stream, and thus to pass firmly and decidedly onwards ; for there being 
 neither parapet nor guiding rail, the frail bridge is often, in a high wind, so fearfully swayed to and fro, that 
 even the mountaineers themselves refuse to cross it. 
 
 Wake not yet, thou mountain-breeze, 
 Slumbering 'mid the leafy trees ; 
 Sound not yet thy stormy blast. 
 Till the mountain-stream is past. 
 
 See ! they stir ; The topmost bough. 
 Of yon pine is waving now ; 
 Hark ! it comes with bellowing roar. 
 Speed thee, traveller, speed thee o'er ! 
 
 Dream not now of safe retm'n ; 
 Thought of doubt and danger spurn ; 
 Plant thy foot, and fix thine eye ; 
 Like an arrow, forward fly. 
 
 Look not down : — that foaming tide 
 Shakes the mountain's echoing side ; 
 Cleaves the granite's hoary brow — 
 Fearful traveller, look not thou. 
 
 Look not where the feathery spray 
 Dances upward to the day, 
 "White as snow, and pure as white — 
 Trust not to that treacherous sight.
 
 HOTEL DE VILLE. 
 
 Look not where tlie waves are clear^ 
 
 Swift, but silent, glancing near; 
 
 Till at once, with giant curl, 
 
 Down the thundering depths they whii-1. 
 
 Fiercer waters roaring loud, 
 Toss on high their foamy cloud; 
 Darker billows raging still. 
 There, the mighty caldron fill. 
 
 Rushing wind, and furious flood. 
 Trembling bridge of shapeless wood j 
 Heed not, traveller, speed thee on — 
 Now the rock of safety's won ! 
 
 THE HOTEL DE VILLE, PARIS. 
 
 The Hotel de Ville, one of the most remarkable public buildings in Paris, owes its 
 celebrity less to the singular style of its architecture, and to its regular and liarmoniuns 
 proportions, than to the various stirring political events of which it has been the 
 theatre. 
 
 Having traversed the Rue St. Denis, and the Pont au Change, and proceeded for 
 some few hundred yards along the bank of the Seine, the traveller arrives at the 
 famous Place de Greve, at the northern extremity of which stands the Hotel de 
 Ville. 
 
 The first stone of this magnificent Town-Hall, which stands on the site pre\'iously 
 occupied by the Hospital and Church Du Saint Esprit, was kid during the reign of 
 Francis I. — an era very memorable in the history of the religious world ; for during 
 the reign of this prince, the glorious Reformation not only shone forth with bright 
 effulgence in Germany, and beamed upon our own country, but also penetrated into 
 many parts of France. The structure, however, of which, on the fifteenth of July, 1.533, 
 Pierre de Violle laid the first stone, forms but a small portion of the present splendid 
 edifice. During several subsequent years the progress of the building was suspended ; 
 but in the year 1549, Henry II., charmed by the beauty of the jilans siibmittcd to 
 him by Dominico Boccadoro, surnamcd Cortona, directed that the structure should be 
 completed according to the design of that artist. Still, however, the work proceeded 
 slowly; and was not perfectly finished until fifty years afterwiu-ds, (a. n. 1605.) 
 Henry IV. completed it with much magnificence ; and caused a bas-relief, representing 
 himself on horseback, and executed in bronze, to be placed over the principal entrance.
 
 104 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The history of this bas-relief has been singularly eventful. It was destroyed during 
 the wars of the Fronde, when the Hotel de Ville, generally, sustained serious damage ; 
 it was subsequently restored by the son of the celebrated Biard, the original sculptor ; 
 and having been again demolished by the infuriated revolutionists of the time of 
 Louis XVL, and again replaced on the restoration of the Bom-bon line of princes, 
 it was once more damaged in the revolutionary tumults of 1830, and once more 
 replaced in its original position by the late monarch, Louis Philippe. Whether 
 during the fearful commotions which within the last few months have overturned the 
 throne of France, it have been again defaced or destroyed, we know not ; but it is not 
 improbable that a monument to the memory of Henry the Great, may, during the 
 late furious outbreak of republicanism, have suffered from the effects of the lawless 
 spirit which has hurled the ex-king from his throne. 
 
 The principal entrance to the Hotel de Ville is in the Place de Greve ; a noble 
 flight of steps leading up to the portal. The clock which belongs to this building is 
 justly regarded as one of the cui-iosities of Paris. It was made, at an immense cost, by 
 the celebrated Lepante, and is said to be one of the best clocks in Europe. It was 
 originally surrounded by several statues ; but all of these, excepting one which repre- 
 sents the city of Paris distributing crowns, are so much mutilated, that the intention 
 of the sculptor can no longer be discovered. The face of this clock is beautifully 
 enamelled ; and, at night, very much to the advantage of the citizens of Paris, it is 
 illuminated by means of a reflector ; so that the hour may be constantly discerned. 
 
 Beyond the vestibule of the Hotel de Ville is a coui-t, siuTounded by porticoes, 
 which support the building. Upon the frieze there were formerly marble tablets, 
 bearing, in golden letters, inscriptions, marking the principal events in the life of 
 Lonis XIV., beginning with his marriage in 1659. There were also inscriptions 
 referring to the principal events in the reign of Louis XV. 
 
 The Prefect of the Seine, who is the chief officer of the municipality, and who may 
 be said to unite the functions of lord-lieutenant of the county and mayor of the city, 
 holds his court, if such it may be called, at the Hotel de Ville. 
 
 It will be remembered, that during the terrible revolution which took place towards 
 the close of the last century, the National Assembly agreed upon a constitution, which 
 the unhappy Louis XVI. declared himself ready to accept. He appeared before the 
 Assembly, and was received simply as its President ; all present remaining in their 
 places, instead of testifying their respect for the sovereign by the usual courtesy of 
 rising from their seats. The unfortunate monarch, however, professed his cordial 
 acceptance of the constitution, and attached to it his signatui'e. No sooner, however, 
 had he retired from the public gaze, than he gave utterance to very diflerent senti- 
 ments, passionately declai-ing to the queen, in private, that he had acted by compulsion, 
 not by choice. 
 
 The constitution, however, was solemnly proclaimed by the civic authorities before 
 the Hotel de Ville, and also in the Champ de INIars, and in the Rue St. Honore. On the 
 9th of August, 1793, it was determined by the Revolutionists that a debate should take
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 ^
 
 HOTEL DE VILLE. 105 
 
 place on the expediency of suspending the kingly office. On the evening of that memor- 
 able day, a second attack was directed against the Tuilleries, and the royal family were 
 compelled to seek refuge in the National Assembly. Soon after midnight, two hundred 
 persons forcibly entered the Hotel de Ville, where the Commune was then sitting, and 
 expelled all the members, with the exception of Danton and two others. The new 
 council then took possession of the vacant seats, and, self-elected, began forthwith to 
 exercise their merciless functions. 
 
 From the central window of the principal apartment of the Hotel do Ville it was, 
 that poor Louis XVI. addressed his infuriated people, with the red cap of liberty on 
 his head. " Do not fear, Louis," exclaimed one of the more humane among the mob. 
 " Feel if I do," answered the king, placing the man's hand on his heart. 
 
 Another voice was heard in the crowd — " Why," said a young man who was 
 a spectator of the indignities offered to the monarch, addressing a companion, " Why 
 do they not cut down some hundreds of these wretches with grape-shot ? the remainder 
 would speedily take to flight." The speaker was Napoleon Buonaparte 1 
 
 At the commencement of this Revolution it was, that the National Guard took its 
 rise. The electors demanded and obtained from the civic authorities the great hall 
 of the Hotel de Ville for a place of meeting, and for many days it was besieged by the 
 populace, vociferating for arms. 
 
 It should be mentioned, that above a century before these scenes of violence deso- 
 lated Paris, the Hotel de Ville, then in an unfinished state, was rendered remarkable 
 as being the scene of some of the incidents connected with the destruction of the 
 Protestants in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Two venerable Protestant gentlemen, 
 of the most unblemished character, were there condemned to death on the charge of 
 having been concerned in the treason which was attributed to the excellent Admiral 
 de Coligny, and for which he most unjustly suffered death. It is needless to say, that 
 the pretended plot, of which Coligny was the first victim, was an invention of the 
 Medici, in order to justify that atrocious massacre of the French Protestants which 
 took place on St. Bartholomew's Day. 
 
 On the ever-memorable Eve of St. Bartholomew, in the year 1572, Charles IX. and 
 his infamous mother partook of a sumptuous banquet at the Hotel de VUle, the 
 windows of which commanded a view of the place of the execution of Coligny and his 
 fellow-sufferers, namely, the Place de Greve. The performance of the fatal tragedy 
 was deferred till ten p.m., the innocent and grey-haired victims being exposed during 
 several hours to all the outrages which could be heaped upon them by a crowd of 
 almost insane fanatics. When the appointed hour arrived, the windows of the Hall 
 were thrown open, and Charles IX., with his mother and his two brothers, came 
 forward, amid a blaze of torches, and with fixed attention contemplated the horrid 
 scene. 
 
 The breaking of the lamps around the Hotel de Ville was one of the first signals 
 of revolt on occasion of the three days' revolution of 1830 ; and on the top of the 
 central tower of that edifice it was, that the tri-coloured flag, decorated by a piece of 
 S. S. — VOL. I. 3d
 
 106 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 black crape, was hoisted as tlie national standard. A battalion of guards being 
 despatched by the roj'al party to occupy and defend the building, a terrible contest 
 ensued, both on the Pont Notre Dame and also in the Place de Greve ; indeed, this 
 latter spot was continually in a state of commotion. Here the severest struggles of 
 the day occurred, and after a most obstinate resistance, and the loss of many lives, the 
 royal troops succeeded in taking possession of the Hotel de Ville, which was not reco- 
 vered by the people during that day's fight. At length Charles X., finding himself 
 utterly helpless, convened his last council, and made many concessions, which, had 
 they been made sooner, might perhaps have saved the hereditary monarchy. As it 
 was, the existing government was totally overthrown, and a municipal commission was 
 instituted, composed of Messieurs Lafitte, Casimir Perrier, &c. Charles X. took refuge 
 in England j peace was restored ; Hberty and order were once more united ; and the 
 banner that floated from the Hotel de Ville afforded the first pubhc signal of the 
 success of that revolution which had placed Louis Philippe on the French throne. 
 
 Noiv, the throne of France exists no more ; it has been literally burned by a furious 
 mob. Louis Philippe is a second time an esUe from the land of his fathers, and 
 a second time has found in England, as Count de Neuilly, the refuge of which he 
 stood in need. 
 
 It may well be matter of grateful exultation, that our country should thus be able 
 and willing to extend her generous hospitality to fallen princes ; but while we rejoice 
 on this account, it becomes us, as loyal sons and daughters of England, to guard well 
 those civil and religious public institutions, and to foster those private Christian virtues, 
 which, while other thrones have " tottered to their fall," have hitherto proved the safe- 
 guard of that of our beloved Queen Victoria. 
 
 CHRIST AND THE LEPER. 
 
 BY THE HON. EDMUND PHIPPS. 
 
 Loathsome, an outcast, doom'd to solitude — 
 
 Or, worse than solitude, to share his fate 
 With loathsome outcasts, like himself — he stood 
 
 A Leper, all alone, Avithout the gate ; 
 
 When, lo, the Master comes. Where all of late 
 Had been despair and hopeless misery, 
 
 Beam'd a bright ray upon his darken'd state : 
 At once he felt a great High Priest was nigh — 
 
 A priest who could be touch'd with his infirmity.
 
 l'E'i'^;B. JACK:
 
 LADY CLEMENTINA VILLIERS. 107 
 
 Approach he dare not. — " Thou canst make me clean, 
 
 Lord, if thou wilt I" This was his only plea : 
 " I will !" tlie griicious answer — nought between 
 
 That promise and th' omnipotent decree 
 
 Of " Be thou clean I" Spotless at once, and free 
 Prom taint, his weary heart he could divest 
 
 Of its whole burden : in society, 
 Free fi-om thenceforth to mingle, or to rest 
 
 Mid beings — long unseen — whom he had loved the best. 
 
 Fancy would vainly strive to paint his grief 
 
 When suffering — his earnestness of prayer 
 For help — or the glad joy of his relief; 
 
 But may we fcnoiu and/ee/ it ; may we share 
 
 Each of these varying moods — this deep despair — 
 This earnest longing to be heal'd — this joy 
 
 When made the subjects of His heavenly care ! 
 Who is there, gracious Lord, that might not cry, 
 
 " Such leprosy is mine — such need of thee have I ; 
 
 " Behold me with the leprosy of sin, 
 
 " Tainted like him ; condemned to herd with those 
 " Who, with fair outside, are more foul within 
 
 " Than he whom thou didst heal ; to seek repose, 
 
 " And seek it all in vain, as one who knows 
 " He must be exiled from the blessed scene 
 
 " Of saints made perfect ; such my weight of woes ! 
 " My wants, my hope, my faith, by Thee are seen : 
 
 " Look on me ; if thou wilt. Lord, thou canst make me clean !" 
 
 TO THE LADY CLEMENTINA VILLIERS. 
 
 Sweet lady, while I gaze on thee. 
 And view, in its calm radiancy, 
 Thine eye that 'neath the summer sky. 
 Reflects the tender blue on high. 
 And see thy young, unclouded face 
 Deck'd in simplicity's sweet grace, 
 I almost long, that o'er thy way, 
 No shade may dim the sunshine's ray.
 
 108 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 It cannot be — it were not well, 
 
 That fadeless earthly joy should dwell, 
 
 Within a frail and mortal heart ; 
 
 "Tis well, that this ivorld's peace must part 
 
 Sometimes from breasts of earthly mould; 
 
 Sometimes e'en love of friends grow cold. 
 
 I would not then, thy path should be 
 
 All flowers, all bright prosperity ; 
 
 Nor yet, that those sweet eyes of thine 
 
 Should always with such lustre shine. 
 
 Gems from the wave may Avreathe thy brow. 
 
 Fair Ondine ! as thou seemest now ; 
 
 Rubies may flash amid thine hair. 
 
 And summer-roses fresh and fair 
 
 Crown thee, and bloom around thy feet ; 
 
 Dear ones with smiles of love may greet, 
 
 And music's loveliest lays be sung. 
 
 And yet, deep gloom be round thee flung. 
 
 Though all seem bright, the deathless mind, 
 
 The immortal soul no rest may find ; 
 
 In love and bliss of earth alone, 
 
 There lingereth in the tenderest tone 
 
 A shade of sadness and of grief. 
 
 That all below m^^st be so brief. 
 
 May woman's highest lot be thine ! 
 
 Not 'mid the thoughtless crowd to shine. 
 
 But to cast gladness on the way 
 
 Of those who droop in sorrow's day; 
 
 To watch beside the painful bed. 
 
 And raise the weary, aching head. 
 
 To wipe with gentle hand the tear, 
 
 And calm and chase the lingering fear. 
 
 Surely ! so lovely as thou art. 
 
 Thou wouldst not make this world thy part ; 
 
 Surely, thy hopes will soar above. 
 
 Be centred there, thy joys, thy love. 
 
 Dreams of this mortal life will fly ; 
 
 Thine be the love that cannot die ; 
 
 The hopes that never pass away, 
 
 The light that leads to endless day. 
 
 May He, thy Guide through all the past. 
 
 Shed peace around thee to the last 1
 
 109 
 
 PILGrvIMS RESTING ON THEIR ROUTE TO MECCA. 
 
 The interior of the Turkish empire is constantly traversed by large bodies of men, who proceed together, fw' 
 protection ; their object being either commerce or devotion. With respect to this last-mentioned object it may 
 be noticed, that in tlie sixteenth year of Mohammed's mission, he ordained, that every believer should engage in 
 a pilgrimage to visit the place of the Caaba, or sacred house of Abraham. The Caaba itself, as it was believed, 
 had been taken up to heaven at the flood, but its model remained for the benefit of true believers at Mecca. This 
 ordinance was rigidly observed by his followers. The caliphs set the example ; and all Mussulmans hold this 
 Pilgrimage to be an indispensable obligation at this day, when it is possible for them to perform it. Even women 
 are not exempted from this duty ; if they have no husband or brother, under whose protection they can leave the 
 harem, they are bound to marry, for the express purpose of obtaining a protector. The only person in the empire 
 exempt is the Sultan ; and he, only because the pilgrimage would occupy a longer period than he could be legally 
 absent from the capital. He is bound, however, to send a substitute, called Surre Emmini, who always accompanies 
 the caravan of pilgi-ims, and represents the sovereign. Thus it is, that eveiy year above one hundred thousand 
 persons, of all ages and conditions, set out from various points, and traverse Europe, Asia, and Africa, to fulfil this 
 indispensable duty. 
 
 The great European caravan assembles at Constantinople in the month of Regib, which, according to the 
 Turkish calendar, falls at every season of the year. The Pilgrims cross the Bosphorus, and unite on the great 
 plain of Scutari, from whence they take their departure in company. They exhibit a strange display of folly and 
 fanaticism. Among the various groups are seen, at one place, jugglers and buffoons exhibiting their light and often 
 indecent mummery ; in another, molhas and dervishes exhorting to piety, and tearing their limbs with disgusting 
 lacerations : but the most conspicuous object is the sacred camel. This camel carries the mahhfil, or seat from 
 which the Prophet preached and di.spensed justice in his journeys. The race is religiously kept up in the stables 
 of the seraglio ; and some believe the camel of the mahhfil, at this day, to be the actual animal on which the 
 Prophet rode, and to be kept alive by a miracle, to perform this annual journey to his holy city. 
 
 The accompanying illustration re]n-ese.nts a group of a caravan of the faithful, proceeding from the northern 
 to the southern extremity of the empire, to perform this pilgrimage. The venerable Moslem, who is ambitious oi 
 becoming a hadgee, is attended by his guards, who are distinguished by their fantastic dress ; their glittering 
 golden-hafted hanjars, stuck in their shawl-girdles, beside their silver - mounted pistols; and by the substi- 
 tution of the many-tasselled cap for the grave turban. Their accommodation is the stable of a khan, which 
 their camel equally shares ; and their refreshment is cofi'ee, black and bitter, served by the khangee in small 
 characteristic cups. 
 
 What seek ye on your toilsome way, 
 
 Pilgrims of Eastern land ? 
 "Why turn ye from your own bright shores. 
 
 Your own fair sea-girt strand ? 
 Seek ye a glorious sunny land 
 
 "Where hidden treasures lie ? 
 And magic powei-s of by-gone years 
 
 Sleep 'neath the golden sky ? 
 
 Ye seek not at your journey's close 
 
 To win an earthly crown ; 
 Why bow the knee iu reverence meek. 
 
 When the glad sun goes down ? 
 
 S, S. VOL. I. 2 K
 
 110 THE PEOPLE'S GALLEM OF irNGRAVINGS. 
 
 Percliance ye seek the buried lore 
 
 Of sages of tlie past, 
 Wending your way to break the spell 
 
 O'er aucient genius cast. 
 
 Or is it, that ye long have heard 
 
 Of Araby's bkie sky ? 
 Or that ye seek fair India's clime 
 
 Where pearls and coral lie ? 
 Or haply, ye may seek a home 
 
 Far in some sun-lit vale 
 Wliere laurels spread their shining leaves. 
 
 And perfumes scent the gale. 
 
 Not so ! not so ! for naught of earth 
 
 Ye tread your dreary road. 
 Turning from all ye prize so well, 
 
 Leaving each loved abode ! 
 Ye go to seek your Prophet's shrine, 
 
 To kneel before his tomb ; 
 To press the sacred marble there 
 
 From morn to evening's gloom. 
 
 Oh ! that ye sought a purer faith, 
 
 A higher, holier shrine ! 
 Would that your prayers indeed were laid 
 
 Before the throne divine ! 
 Ye press with firm, calm patience on. 
 
 Nor heed the scorching sun. 
 Nor the wild desert's stormy blast. 
 
 So tliat your work be done. 
 
 And we, who walk in clearer light, 
 
 To whom the truth is given, 
 Would that we trod our earthly path, 
 
 With heart so fix'd on heaven! 
 Ye think not when ye reach the goal 
 
 Of your long journey past ; 
 So may we smile at life's drear waste. 
 
 Our haven gain'd at last !
 
 = ^ 
 
 59 
 
 ^ 
 
 :l 
 
 ^ 
 
 6=
 
 Ill 
 
 THE COAST OF ASIA MINOR, NEAR ANAMOUR. 
 
 Anamour, (the ancient Anamurium,) is a deserted mass of ruins crowning one of the bold headlands on the 
 coast of Asia Minor. Tliis part of tlie sliore is described by travellers as being wild and savage in the extreme. 
 The rugged masses of rock which skirt the land abound with yawning caverns, from whose gloomy recesses the 
 waves send forth a hollow, ceaseless moan, like voices from the tomb. Anamour is emphatically a city of ruins. 
 The remains of its ancient castle, with its fortifications ; the aqueducts which supplied it witli water ; vestiges of 
 the theatres which once rang with the sounds of music and the shouts of the multitude, still resist the force 
 of the winds which sweep its desolate heights. Outside the walls, Anamour presents, at first sight, the appear- 
 ance of a deserted city. It is, indeed, a city; but not of the living; it is a city of the dead — a true Necropolis. 
 The care and skill exercised by the ancients, in order to render durable the abodes of the dead, is here strongly 
 impressed upon the mind. Not a vestige appears of the dwellings of the once flourishing city of Anamurium ; but 
 its silent tombs, which bear no record or inscription, will endure to the end of time. 
 
 Such is Anamour ! No shepherd feeds his fiock amidst its fallen temples, or its enduring monuments of 
 departed generations ! No fisherman spreads bis nets on the gloomy rocks against which the waves dash with 
 wild fury. Total desolation and wild and majestic grandeur are the characteristics of the scene ; and Anamour, 
 ouce teeming with an active population, and gladdened by the voices of children, is now peopled only by the 
 dust of departed generations. Its romantic magnificence must ever chann the eye of the traveller; yet he wlio 
 gazes upon it will rejoice that his lot is not cast in a region so dreary and desolate as this City op the Dead. 
 
 Oh ! sad forsaken city, 
 
 We tread thy noiseless streets, 
 And no glad voice of melody 
 
 The stranger's coming greets ; 
 Only the foaming billows, 
 
 With hollow, ceaseless moan. 
 Send forth from caverns of the deep 
 
 Their changeless, mournful tone. 
 
 The wild sea-birds are shrieking 
 
 Along the lonely sliore. 
 The storm-blast, madly sweeping 
 
 Thy fallen temples o'er ; 
 We gaze upon thy ruins. 
 
 Where once the dance was led. 
 And song pour'd forUi — now, all is still. 
 
 Thou city of the Dead ! 
 
 What bright forms ouce were glancing 
 
 Through thy forsaken bowers ! 
 How proudly waved the banners 
 
 From thy once frowning towers !
 
 112 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 The music swell' d out gladly 
 
 From many a festal hall, 
 With laughter from the gay young heart — 
 
 "Where are those voices all ? 
 
 Wliere are they ? lost and vanish'd 
 
 With ancient glory gone ; 
 Gone, like the golden clouds of eve 
 
 When the shining sun goes down. 
 Oh ! shade of pomp and grandeur. 
 
 Where is thy regal power ? 
 What now is left — what hast thou still 
 
 Of thy once queenly dower? 
 
 Thou hast the booming waters. 
 
 The salt waves' sparkling foam ; 
 The long departed, silent Dead 
 
 Have found with thee a home ; 
 Around thy walls lie scatter'd 
 
 The graves of other years. 
 Sad mounds ! where spring sweet flow'rets wild. 
 
 But never wash'd by tears ! 
 
 They who once trod thy palaces. 
 
 Now in their dreamless sleej), 
 Hear not the mighty ocean's roai*. 
 
 Dashing thy rocky steep : 
 They weep not, though their temples 
 
 Have fallen to decay. 
 What recks it that their fanes have fall'n 
 
 To cold and lifeless clay ? 
 
 Ye heed no tempest's thunder, 
 
 Ye dwellers in the tomb j 
 Ye list not to the wild bird's scream. 
 
 Piercing the lonely gloom; 
 Ye cannot gaze up j-onder, 
 
 To sullen, storm-clad skies. 
 Ages have roll'd since ye lay down — 
 
 But soon ve must arise !
 
 ES GRAVED BY J 
 
 f^. .L> A :^l ,fi^ ILl AV IL IL IE Ji^ o 
 
 AKOtiuisuoi* or >t>:cni.iN .
 
 CARDINAL ALLEN.' US 
 
 A little longer tarry, 
 
 The trumpet-note shall sound 
 And shake those hoary time-worn tombs ; 
 
 And from that desert-ground 
 The sleepers all shall waken, 
 
 Each from his rocky bed. 
 And thy long, quiet rest be o'er, 
 
 Thou City of the Dead ! 
 
 CARDINAL ALLEN. 
 
 Dr. William Allen, Cardinal of England and Archbishop of Mechhn, was bom 
 in 1532, and was entered, in his fifteenth year, at Oriel College, Oxford, under the 
 tutelage of the celebrated Morgan Phillips, one of the first logicians and disputants 
 of his day. Allen's rise to the great eminence which he attained in the Romish 
 church is chiefly to be attributed to his close and successful application to the study 
 of logic and philosophy. He passed through several collegiate degrees, with great 
 reputation as a man of extensive learning and eloquence; and, in 1556, being then 
 only twenty-four years of age, he became principal of St. IMary Hall, and officiated as 
 proctor in the following year. In 1558 he was made canon of York; but, refusing 
 the oaths on the accession of Ehzabeth, he forfeited his fellowship, and, in 1560, 
 retired to the Roman Catholic College of Louvaine, where he wrote his first work 
 in answer to Bishop Jewel, entitled "A Defence of the Doctrine of Catholics con- 
 cerning Purgatory and Prayers for the Dead." Antwerp, 1565, 8vo. This production 
 excited great attention, both at home and abroad ; and induced the English Roman 
 Catholics to confide to its author the tuition of Sir Christopher Blount. In the same 
 year, Allen, with considerable danger, ventured to return to England, and \isited 
 the place of his birth, and other parts of the country; everywhere labouring by 
 literary exertions to advance the cause of the deposed religion. Having spent three 
 years in England, he was compelled, by accumulating dangers, to retire, in 1568, first 
 to Flanders ; then to Mechlin ; and afterwards to Douay, where he took his doctor's 
 degree, and established a seminary for English scholars ; being supported by a pension 
 from the pope. TVhile employed in this institution, he was nominated to a canonry of 
 Cambray ; and on an application from the English councU to the governor of the 
 Spanish Netherlands to dissolve the college at Douay, Dr. Allen and other fugitives 
 were offered protection by the princes of the house of Guise. Having received the 
 a])pointment of canon of Rheiras, Dr. Allen established a seminary in that city, under 
 the patronage of the Cardinal of Lorraine. From this time he was considered abroad, 
 as the chief of his party, and at home, very justly, as an enemy to his country ; for 
 
 S. S. VOL. I. 2 P
 
 114 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 in liis Defence of the " Twelve Martyrs in one Year," lie promulgated a doctrine nvlueh 
 justified the suspension of all domestic and civil obligations upon the score of religious 
 opinions. He was even accused of having, by advice of Parsons, the Jesuit, united with 
 the English Roman Catholic nobility resident in Flanders, in persuading Philip II. of 
 Spain to undertake the conquest of their native country, and the restoration of the 
 papal authority. The result of this advice was happily less disastrous than the Jesuit 
 doubtless hoped that it would prove. Dr. Allen afterwards wrote a defence of Sir 
 "William Stanley and Sir Rowland York, who had joined the papal party. In 1587 
 Allen received the title of Cardinal of St. Martin in Montibus, with a rich abbey in 
 Naples ; and in 1588 he published the " Declaration of the Sentence of Sixtus the 
 Fifth ;" and, by this publication, which pronounced the Queen's government to be 
 impious and unjust, and herself an usurper, obstinate and impenitent, and therefore 
 to be deprived, he rendered himself famous abroad, and infamous at home. The 
 Declaration was accompanied by a second part, entitled an " Admonition to the 
 Nobility and People of England and Ireland ;" in which, among other accusations, he 
 declares the Queen to be a bastard daughter of Henry VIII., by incest with Anne 
 Boleyn. Though the attack upon England did not succeed, no part of its failure was 
 attributed to the cardinal, who, according to promise, was promoted by the King of 
 Spain to the Archbishopric of Mechlin. Sixtus V., however, would not sufler him to 
 quit Rome, where he passed his remaining years in great splendour and reputation. 
 Towards the close of his life, he is said to have materially altered his opinions, and 
 to have lamented the part which he had taken respecting the intended invasion of 
 England. This change of sentiment, so far, at least, as regards politics, has received 
 confirmation from a letter found among the Burleigh Papers, and addressed from the 
 Cardinal at Rome, August 14, 1593, to Richard Hopkins, in England. Cardinal Allen 
 died October 6, 1594, in the 63rd year of his age, and was interred with great pomp 
 in the chapel of the English Church of the Holy Trinity, at Rome, where a monument, 
 with a Latin inscription, was erected to his memory. 
 
 THE DUENNA. 
 
 It was in the year 1750, that a Spanish noble, by name Don Manuel Francis Alvnra, 
 married Inesilla, the only child and heiress of an extremely wealthy merchant of 
 Valencia. Don Manuel was proud and daring; his person was handsome; his dark 
 eyes flashed with all the determination and haughtiness of an untamed spirit ; and 
 though he seldom expressed his thoughts on the subject, it was well known that he 
 prided himself in no small degree on his lofty descent, hitherto untainted by plebeian 
 alliances. Great therefore was the marvel when the last of the Alvai-a race united 
 himself in holy wedlock to the daughter of a citizen ; and one, too, who could not
 
 THE DUENNA. 115 
 
 boast of more than ordinary personal attractions. An immense dower, it was supposed, 
 led to this extraordinary match ; though many, nevertheless, wondered, that any 
 amount of wealth could tempt the proud Alvara to marry one whose low origin he 
 could not do otherwise than despise. 
 
 For many years the fortunes of the Alvara family had been on the decline. The 
 stately ancestral castle, once a princely palace, was falling to decay; while death and 
 the chances of war seemed to unite to complete the desolation and final extinction 
 of the Alvaras. Don Manuel was about nineteen years of age when he encountered 
 a very lovely young lady, the daughter of a Castilian grandee. The rank of Theresa 
 equalled his own ; as the haughtiness of her sire equalled that of Don Manuel ; and 
 finally, like Don Manuel, Theresa was portionless ; a ruined moss-grown ancient castle, 
 the family inheritance, being her all. 
 
 Theresa, who had scarcely attained the age of seventeen, possessed the most radiant 
 beauty, united to that grace and fascination so peculiar to the females of the Spanish 
 aristocracy. She met Don Manncl while he was travelling in Castile, and after a brief 
 acquaintance and attachment, solemn vows of love and fidelity were exchanged between 
 the youthful pair. The father of Theresa rejoiced in the exquisite loveliness of his 
 gifted daughter, and he had early determined to bestow her in marriage on one of the 
 richest nobles of the land. Great therefore was his annoyance and anger, when Alvara, 
 in all the ardour and impetuosity of a first passion, declared his affection for the 
 beautiful Theresa ; he forbade the lovers to meet again, even to take a last farewell ; 
 and the father of Don Manuel having heard that the fortune of his son's intended bride 
 consisted merely in her personal attractions, sent a messenger to recal him to the 
 paternal roof. Alvara obeyed, and left Castile with an aching heart. No sooner had 
 he joined his father, than he was importuned to retrieve the shattered fortunes of his 
 family by marrying Inesilla, whose immense wealth had already attracted numerous 
 suitors. Alvara steadily refused ; pleading his attachment to Theresa ; and his father, 
 finding persuasion and threats equally unavailing, had recourse to artifice. He caused 
 a report to be propagated to the effect, that Theresa was on the point of mamage with 
 an illustrious prince of Sardinia ; and so dexterously was the plot conducted, that the 
 unhappy Manuel firmly believed in the reality of the approaching nuptials. At length, 
 he heard that Theresa was actually married ; and, almost frantic with despair and 
 resentment, he rushed into the presence of Inesilla, and offered her his hand. It was 
 readily accepted. The Valencian merchant was willing to exchange wealth for rank ; 
 and, oljserving, that since the young Alvara stood in need of money, and his daughter 
 required a noble husband, nothing could have happened more au.spiciously, he gave his 
 immediate consent, and proclaimed to the citizens of Valencia, that Don Mauuel de 
 Alvara was the accepted suitor of Inesilla. 
 
 The fiither of Theresa had employed a like stratagem, but not with similar success. 
 The noble maiden was told of Manuel's marriage ; and that day she left her home, 
 accompanied by her female attendant. No one knew whither she had gone, and all 
 search proved unavailing. Luise, the waiting-woman, or Duenna, who had attended
 
 IIG THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Theresa from her childhood, heheld with feelings of the deepest indignation the 
 apparent shght offered to her beloved young mistress. One virtue alone characterized 
 this ■woman ; devotion to the family whom she served. On the day on which the news 
 arrived of Alvara's marriage, Theresa, in her agony of mind, fled into the forest adjoining 
 her father's domain. Luise followed her — and unknown to her young lady, she planned 
 a scheme of deadly vengeance. They agreed to fly to some distant town, where Luise 
 was to undertake another service. The Duenna returned to the house, secretly 
 conveyed from thence her mistress's jewels, her little stock of money, and some 
 changes of raiment ; and then they travelled to the small sea-coast town of Denia, 
 in the province of Valencia. Here, under an assumed name, Theresa inhabited a small 
 retired cottage, and Luise, who had discovered that Alvara had brought his bride to 
 a marine villa about three miles distant, offered herself to InesiOa as her principal 
 personal attendant. Don Manuel believing, that in consequence of Theresa's marriage, 
 the waiting-woman had lost a home, desired his bride to accept Luise's services. It 
 might be, that she reminded him of the happy days of joy and love spent in Castile, 
 for he certainly welcomed the addition of Luise to his household. When a little time 
 had elapsed, the new waiting-woman commenced her operations. She contrived to 
 make known to a certain young gallant, that the lady of Alvara regarded him with 
 affection. A corresponding tale she told to the vain Inesilla ; and for some time 
 messages were carried between the unprincipled pair by Luise. From the gentleman 
 came importunate requests of assignations, if it were only for a few moments, and if 
 the lady came attended by her waiting-woman — on the part of Inesilla, coquettish 
 denials and procrastinations. At length the long-besought interview was granted, and 
 Luise promised to throw a half-opened rose-bud upon the terrace of the garden, as 
 a signal that the visit might be paid in safety. Meanwhile, the treacherous Duenna 
 had managed to convey to Don Manuel suspicions of his wife's fidelity. When all was 
 ripe for the execution of her plot, she caused a letter to be sent to Alvara, telling him 
 of the rose, the appointed signal of meeting. Alvara came in a muffled disguise, saw the 
 rose, and secreted himself, until his rival, attired in like manner, entered the house ; he 
 then rushed into the apartment, and aimed at his guilty partner a blow with a dagger, 
 which would have launched her into eternity, had not a young waiting-woman, who 
 professed herself of African race, stept forward, and received the blow on her own 
 bosom. Manuel rushed in horror to her succour, while Inesilla and her lover escaped. 
 He raised the unfortunate girl, and in endeavouring to unfasten her dress, he discovered 
 that her dark complexion -nas artificial — the features were familiar — the small, exqui- 
 sitely formed hand was not to be mistaken ; it was Theresa ! Luise had introduced her 
 to the house in order to witness the triumph over her rivalj but the unhappy girl, seeing 
 the murderous weapon descending upon Inesilla, rushed forward. There was something 
 of generosity in the movement; somethiug of joy at the idea of dying by the hand she 
 loved. To describe the horror and grief of Alvara would be impossible ; he learned from 
 Luise that his beloved Theresa had never been unfaithful, and there she lay before him, 
 slain by his own hand ! But when Luise the Duenna, discovered that Don Manuel had
 
 C: CArrr.if-'ioi. 
 
 ^//^- _////'//////'
 
 THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 also been deceived, and that he had never sought the hand of Inesilla until after the 
 report of Theresa's marriage had reached him, her malignant fury and grief changed 
 to the bitterest remorse. Alvara left his home, and wandered in distant lands till his 
 death, which happened early. Inesilla, deserted by her lover, died in misery ; and Luise, 
 bowed down by the sense of her own guilt, retired to a convent, where, after practising 
 for a few months all the austerities of a most severe order, she also died. On her tomb 
 was simply inscribed her name, and these words — " Vengeance is mine, I will repay, 
 saith the Lord." In after years the nuns left the convent; the building and the 
 cemetery fell to decay ; but when a stranger wandered over the gray and weed-clad 
 walls of the deserted convent, he was always shown the Tomb of the Duenna. 
 
 THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Night broods o'er the blue Arabian sea 
 
 Dim shade hangs over the laurel tree j 
 
 Fountains, whose murmurs by daylight sleep. 
 
 In the shadowy hour have waked to weep ; 
 
 And the long bright leaves that bend o'er the wave. 
 
 Droop sadly down from the misty cave ; 
 
 And the shining stars o'er the ocean lone. 
 
 Seem musing of glory and sunbeams gone. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the sound of that solemn roar. 
 
 As the billows break on the rocky shore. 
 
 Dashing along over stone and shell, 
 
 From the inmost depths of the pale pearl's cell. 
 
 Yes ! so have I heard it in days of glee. 
 
 When the waves made music right merrily ; 
 
 So have I heard it at even-tide. 
 
 When my bark on its tranquil breast would glide. 
 
 And ONE at my side — he sleepeth now. 
 
 Beneath those blue waters' ceaseless flow ; 
 
 Deep down, where the wrecks of all rich things lie. 
 
 In his manly beauty, he sank to die ! 
 
 Who laid him there in his couch so low 
 
 'Mid the coral isles ? My father ! 'twas thou 
 
 Didst take in thy fury his young bright life; 
 
 Thy hand smote fiercely in battle-strife. 
 
 And the pulse of life, and the flashing eye, 
 
 Were smitten when none save the foe was by. 
 
 S. S.^VOL. I. 3 G
 
 118 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Would / had been there, in that hour of death. 
 
 To catch the last sigh of his mortal breath ! 
 
 His last faint whisperings I might have heard. 
 
 And breathed in his ear one parting word. 
 
 My father ! look not on thy dying child 
 
 With a brow so stern, and a glance so wild ; 
 
 We loved ! Was it crime to love so well ? 
 
 Was there crime in that lingering, fond farewell, 
 
 When we parted in grief on that sunny day. 
 
 As he launch'd his boat o'er the deep, away ? 
 
 My father ! I knew not, that long ago. 
 
 Thou and his sire met as foe to foe ; 
 
 Oh ! I knew it not till that fearful night. 
 
 When the red blaze broke o'er the waters bright. 
 
 And they told me, that there, in the moonlit bay, 
 
 A Corsair frigate had been thy prey ; 
 
 They told me, how on the decks had lain 
 
 The clay-cold forms of the gallant slain. 
 
 And my woman's pity burst forth in grief, 
 
 That the life of the brave must be so brief. 
 
 There was woe in my heart ; but I little dream'd 
 
 Whose life-blood forth on those decks had stream' d. 
 
 Till I heard thee tell, with a smile of pride, 
 
 JVho by thy red-stain'd hand had died ; 
 
 Till, 'midst the long boast of thy pirate-fame. 
 
 Coldly and proudly thou namedst His name. 
 
 'Twas enough — one word — and the work was done ; 
 
 In the noon of my life, it was set-of-sun. 
 
 Can the blossom live on when its root is dead ? 
 
 Can the hills look green when the light has fled ? 
 
 So the heart that has loved, knows nought of mirth 
 
 When its treasure is gone from this sin-struck earth. 
 
 Since then, the springs of my life have fail'd. 
 
 And the rich rose-bloom on my cheek hath paled. 
 
 And when by the cold, dark waves I have stood. 
 
 Watching their foam on the mighty flood, 
 
 I have gazed and gazed on that liquid plain. 
 
 Till my fever'd fancyings saw again 
 
 His white sail specking the bright blue sky. 
 
 With his blood-red flag from the mast on high ! 
 
 It was but a dream — there was nothing there. 
 
 Save the rocks, and the sea, and the cloudless air.
 
 THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 Yet there came no tears, like the fresh spring-rain ; 
 
 There woke in my heart no sorrowful strain. 
 
 Could I have wept, or have breathed my woe, 
 
 I still might have linger'd here below ; 
 
 But hke to a bud on whose petals' bloom 
 
 The canker hath been, so a spirit of gloom 
 
 Hath shadow'd my path on my own fair shore — 
 
 My father ! I tread its old cliffs no more. 
 
 Speak to me gently — I thee have forgiven. 
 
 Though the cords of my mortal life are riven ; 
 
 Though the shade of the tomb o'er my way be flung, 
 
 And the mosque-bell of evening prayer be rungj 
 
 Yet call not me forth at the sunset hour. 
 
 When the twilight mists on the mountains lower. 
 
 Yet I forgive thee ; Oh ! father mine, 
 
 I am thine own child — for ever thine. 
 
 If I loved not wisely, what recketh it now. 
 
 When the chill death-damps are upon my brow ? 
 
 I have known deep sorrow, but not disgrace ; 
 
 Hold me once more in one long embrace. 
 
 My mother sleeps well 'neath the cypress shade. 
 
 In the far-off city to rest she is laid. 
 
 My fair young sister, whose fragile form, 
 
 Like mine, was crush'd by the first wild storm ; 
 
 But lay me not there, by my sister's side. 
 
 Not there ; where she moulders — a widow'd bride j 
 
 Nor yet where the purple violets fling 
 
 O'er my mother's grave their breath in spring ; 
 
 No ! let me lie down 'mid the corals below. 
 
 Where the gushing waves o'er bright gems flow ; 
 
 Calm shall I rest in that quiet bed. 
 
 Till the sea shall restore her countless dead. 
 
 I loved her blue waters in childhood's days. 
 
 When they burn'd with the crimson of sun-set rays. 
 
 Or as since, I have seen them when tempests rave. 
 
 But I love them now, because there his grave 
 
 Is hidden to all save one piercing eye. 
 
 So gently the waves on his bosom lie ! 
 
 Now the light glimmers, the lamp grows dim. 
 
 And a low sweet sound like some choral hymn. 
 
 Floats through the caves of our lonely home. 
 
 Softly commingling with ocean's moan.
 
 120 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Hush ! 'tis a holy, unearthly strain, 
 'Tis bidding me pass from this world of pain. 
 It comes to my soul like a heavenly spell, — 
 The struggle is over — farewell — farewell ! 
 
 She spake no more ; and the lingering flush 
 
 Fled from her lips ; and the passing blush 
 
 That had tinged for a moment her wasted cheek, 
 
 Left it coldly pale, as a lily meek j 
 
 And the raven-ringlets all free and tmbound. 
 
 Fell hke a cloud, to the rocky ground. 
 
 Her spirit was freed ; she no longer could stay 
 
 From the glory and light of eternity's day. 
 
 And the Pirate gazed on that brow so mild, 
 
 And the pale, still lips of his last fair child. 
 
 He had laid her in deathly silence drear. 
 
 And he turn'd away in his mute despair. 
 
 He gazed on the cave and the mountain-chain. 
 
 And the motionless face of his child again ; 
 
 Then he departed — he spread his sail. 
 
 And his boat bounded on through the stormy gale, 
 
 O'er the wild, dark waters — but never more 
 
 Came his Pirate-bark to that silent shore. 
 
 A FRENCH MARRIAGE. 
 
 It was once my lot, while traveUing on the Continent with some friends, and spending 
 some time at Paris, to witness one of the most interesting of ceremonies ; viz., a French 
 Marriage. Rambling about the city with no very definite purpose, it chanced, that 
 we entered the noble church of St. Roch ; and there saw, arranged before the decorated 
 altar — the sacred building being filled with incense and harmony — a bridal couple with 
 their attendants and friends. 
 
 The bridegroom was a noble-looking youth ; but the bride was exquisitely beautiful. 
 As she stood there with the long lashes sweeping her clear cheek, and the ebon hair 
 parted simply back from her queenly brow, she seemed a creature all radiant with life 
 and lovehuess. She wore a robe of spotless white, and a wreath of orange-flowers and 
 myrtle intermingled with lilies-of-the-valley and white rose-buds ; while her graceful 
 form was shaded by a long floating vail of the finest lace. She was rather above the 
 middle size ; dark-eyed and dark-haired ; singulai'ly fair, for a Frenchwoman ; and
 
 t 
 
 
 V 
 
 .1
 
 A FRENCH MARRIAGE. 121 
 
 showing on her cheek a rosy glow wliich alternately flushed and faded as she repeated 
 the various formulae required by the Romish Church as a part of the matrimonial 
 service. Four young bride-maids stood around, looking, each and all, with their white 
 muslin, their white roses, and their bright smiles and blushes, exceedingly interesting 
 and peculiarly well fitted to discharge, with elegance and simplicity, the graceful duties 
 which belonged to their maidenly office. 
 
 The church was brilliantly illuminated, and spread with carpets for the accom- 
 modation of the high-born throng. Numerous priests, in their richly-embroidered 
 and flowing robes, were in attendance ; he who performed the principal part of the 
 ceremony being an old man of striking appearance. Before him stood two boys, at 
 some distance from each other, holding over the kneeling pair who were mutually 
 exchanging the irrevocable vow, the embroidered drapery which forms a singular 
 feature in the French marriage ceremonial ; while the prayers were intermingled with 
 the harmonious chants and anthems of the choir. 
 
 At length the ceremony was concluded; the officiating priest had blessed the 
 newly-married pair ; the sacrament of the Eucharist had been administered to them ; 
 tlie organ burst forth in a magnificent jubilate ; the bridal train passed down the long 
 aisles of the ancient church ; and all was still. 
 
 An acolyte being now engaged in restoring all things to their accustomed order, 
 I ventured to ask of him the name of the beautiful bride. He answered, that the lady 
 was Mademoiselle Virginie St. Eugene ; and upon being further questioned, he entered, 
 nothing loth, upon the personal history of the fair Virginie and her lover. His narrative, 
 or rather his mode of communicating it, was somewhat tedious; for he spoke slowly; 
 used much circumlocution ; and fi-equently digressed into irrelevant matter. His tale, 
 however, possessed strong points of interest ; and was, in substance, as follows : — 
 
 Virginie St. Eugene was the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, but of good 
 family and high character. Near to her father's habitation was situated the Chateau 
 de Breuillet, at that time inhabited by the young count, who had lately succeeded to 
 his uncle's title and vast possessions. This noble youth became attached to Virginie ; 
 and with the full consent of M. St. Eugene, the young people were betrothed to each 
 other ; and Virginie promised to become the bride of the Count de Breuillet, so soon as 
 she should have attained her twentieth year. At this time she was scarcely eighteen. 
 
 A few months had passed away, when a new claimant of the title and vast estates 
 of Breuillet made his appearance. A lawsuit was commenced ; and after a protracted 
 and carefully-conducted investigation, justice was compelled to decide against the 
 youth who had hitherto borne the title of Count de Breuillet. Without rank or 
 riches, Henri de Breuillet went forth into the worid to acquire for himself a name and 
 the means of subsistence. He off'ered to liberate Virginie from her engagement ; but 
 the noble-minded maiden replied, " I am betrothed to Henri de BreuUlet, not to the 
 count ; and I will never wed another." 
 
 After the lapse of a few months Henri obtained a government-situation sufficiently 
 lucrative to enable him to live in comfort, but not afl"ording any of the luxuries of 
 s. s. — VOL. I. 2 n
 
 122 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 ■wealth. By this time Virginie had completed her twentieth year. She had been 
 separated from her lover for more than thirteen months, during which time her 
 father had carried her to Paris ; where she had been the flower and the star of every 
 assembly which she graced by her presence. Noble and wealthy suitors knelt at 
 her feet, but in vain ; and her father, though inwardly annoyed at her rejection of so 
 many desirable alliances, could not but admire the firmness of her unvarying constancy 
 to her ruiued lover. 
 
 At length, Henri de Breuillet wrote to inquire of Virginie whether her affection for 
 him remained unchanged ; and, if so, whether her father would yield his consent to 
 their marriage. M. St. Eugene, though disappointed in his aspiring views for his 
 dauo-hter, was too honourable to retract his promise ; and the nuptial day was fixed. 
 The preparations made by Virginie were simple in the extreme ; and when some of her 
 youu" companions remonstrated with her on the score of the utter absence of the 
 splendour which, in their opinion, ought to have attended the auspicious event, 
 she smiled so brightly, that even her lovely face became yet lovelier ; and her bride- 
 maids were constrained to allow that there might, perhaps, be a ha[ py marriage, without 
 jewels ; or magnificent equipages ; or troops of fashionable friends. 
 
 The wedding morning came ; but an liour before that which was appointed for the 
 celebration of the marriage, Henri was summoned away on urgent business. The 
 person who had justly claimed his titles and estates, had just died, suddenly and child- 
 less ; and, once more Count de Breuillet, Henri returned to lay his re-acquired wealth 
 and honours at the feet of his constant Virginie. The marriage was deferred for a short 
 time ; and then M. St. Eugene had the satisfaction of bestowing, amid a concourse of 
 sympathizing friends, the hand of his beautiful and high-minded daughter, on the 
 wealthy and happy Count de Breuillet. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 'Tis eve ; and the arch of the sunset skies 
 Is bathed in rich light of a thousand dies ; 
 All nature is still ; for the languishing breeze. 
 Laden with fragrance, scarce stirreth the trees j 
 And flowers of all hues shed their beauty there, 
 Breathing their scents to the calm summer-air ; 
 And the song of the birds, and the bee's heavy hum 
 Has ceased with the glow of the setting sun. 
 
 'Tis an hour which a maiden's heart may move 
 Softly to muse on her absent love;
 
 l^^y^
 
 LOVE. 123 
 
 And now while the beams of the fading day. 
 
 Are dissolving in roseate light away, 
 
 See Jessica stealing in beauty rare, 
 
 While the moonbeams disport in her silken hair. 
 
 With a step so light, that the daisy's head 
 
 Scarce bends to the weight of her gentle tread. 
 
 She hies to the grove where the nightingale's song 
 
 Re-echoes her lonely haunts among ; 
 
 And while Philomel pours on her heedless ear, 
 
 Floods of sound it might witch the world to hear, 
 
 She thinks but of him, who in regions afar. 
 
 Is the light of her eyes, her guiding star. 
 
 Of him, for whose vows pledged in by-gone time. 
 
 She devotes her young heart, and her hfe's sweet prime. 
 
 And what doth she draw from her bosom's fold ? 
 
 And what doth she grasp with a loving hold ? 
 
 'Tis the image of him, whose long-plighted truth 
 
 Is the hope of her age, the joy of her youth ; 
 
 Of him, who hath sworn to return yet again, 
 
 And herself for his peerless bride to claim ; 
 
 Of him by whose side she believes it is given, 
 
 That her path shall be trodden from earth to heaven. 
 
 And she talks to her sisters, a beauteous train, 
 
 Of her deep-cherish'd hopes, again and again ; 
 
 For she dreams not, that man's is a less constant love 
 
 Than that which her own maiden-bosom doth prove, 
 
 And she recks not of doubt ; for hath he not sworn. 
 
 In love's own persuasive and tenderest tone. 
 
 That, come weal, or come woe, he will make her liis bride. 
 
 Nor ever waste thought on a maiden beside ? 
 
 Alas ! gentle Jessica ! sad is thy lot ! 
 
 Lord William forgets thee ; nay, long hath forgot ; 
 
 But mourn not ; the false one deserves not thy sighs. 
 
 Deserves not the tear-drops that dim tby meek eyes. 
 
 Forget him, sweet Jessica ; pass on thy way. 
 
 Through storm and through sunshine in this mortal day; 
 
 Content if thou reach that blest haven above. 
 
 Where all is sweet peace, and unchangeable love.
 
 124 
 
 MRS. P I E T C H E R. 
 (formerly miss jewsbxjry.) 
 
 This gifted lady was born in Warwickshire, in the year 1800. During her early 
 youth, her family settled themselves at Manchester ; and there Miss Jewsbury lived 
 till her marriage with the Rev. Kew Fletcher, an event which took place on the 
 2nd of August, 1832. 
 
 Although the personal history of this lady affords, comparatively, but few incidents 
 which the biographer will deem worthy of being recorded, the contemplation of her 
 character and literary career cannot fail to supply food for profitable meditation. 
 That so bright a star should have set so early, may seem to be matter of unmingled 
 regret. In her case, however, the poet's admonition would appear to be singularly 
 applicable : 
 
 " ^VeeJ1 not for her, in her spring-time she flew 
 To the land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd." 
 
 Slie left the world before her genius was fully revealed; and before the Christian 
 character, of which she bore decisive marks, would seem to have reached its fuU 
 maturity. While we cannot but grieve over the premature grave of one whom we 
 might deem singularly well qualified to delight and improve all who might come within 
 the sphere of her example, or her writings ; we should remember that He, at whose 
 " bidding thousands speed," needs not the instrumentality even of the most gifted of 
 his creatures in the working out of his own purposes; and that the tenant of the 
 early grave over which men weep, is often taken, in mercy, " from the evil to come." 
 These considerations may serve to check those " natural tears" which might otherwise 
 be called forth by the removal from this world of sin and sorrow, of a woman of 
 genius and piety, 
 
 " Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, 
 And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow." 
 
 It is further to be considered, that genius, especially genius like that which 
 distinguished Miss Jewsbury, is often a highly dangerous gift. The author of " The 
 Enthusiast," has, in that remarkable production, given to the world a striking and 
 very touching picture of the restlessness, the insatiable thirst after that which is here 
 unattainable, and the misery too often attendant upon superior intellect, when that 
 intellect is associated with feminine weakness and ill-regulated susceptibility of heart. 
 The character of Julia, with more justice than is usually practised in such cases, has 
 been identified with that of the author herself; but though, by her own confession, 
 the childhood, the opening years, and many of the after- opinions of her heroine, 
 are drawn from her own personal history and experience, the listless dissatisfaction
 
 /^ y-^^^^^A/y
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 1-2.-) 
 
 and dreary wretcheilncss which are described as the lot of the ideal Julia, form an 
 uudeniable and stiiking contrast with the iudefatigalilc industry, the practical useful- 
 ness, and the cheerful piety, which, "Enthusiast" though she were, marked the later 
 years of the lamented subject of this memoir. 
 
 The mental constitution of Miss Jewsbury was such as especially qualified her 
 to shine in society. Her keen talent for observation, although dashed by a proneness 
 to satire, was united with a playful temper, and an amiable and aflectionate disposition. 
 She had also a rich imagination ; and when her own feelings were strongly excited, 
 she exercised, over the minds of others, a power which was increased by a ccitain 
 shade of pensive melancholj', observable even during the hours of her most tiium- 
 phant success, and having its origin in habitual thoughts of death, and of the world 
 unseen. This singular union of gaiety and solemnity rendered intellectual comrauiiioii 
 with Miss Jewsbury a thing never to be forgotten. The impression made by social 
 intercourse with her, remained for ever, a bright spot in the memory, nucffaced arid 
 unefFaceable by any subsequent companionship on earth. 
 
 Ordinary minds can perhaps scarcely appreciate the temptations which must have 
 beset a woman thus gifted. That JNIiss Jewsbury's feelings should, in many particulai's, 
 have borne too close a resemblance to those which she has described as belonging to her 
 " Enthusiast," can be no matter of wonder. The wonder rather is, that, richly endowed as 
 she was, she should have devoted herself, as she did, to domestic duties in the family of 
 her widowed father. In this feature of her character, she gave evidence of a solidity 
 of principle and a soundness of judgment not always found in conjunction with high 
 intellectual endowments ; and in this particular her conduct is peculiarly to be 
 recommended to the attention and imitation of women who may be, in any degree, 
 similarly endowed. From lack of attention to her duties as a woman, sprang, as there 
 seems good reason to believe, much of the domestic unhappiness of the gifted friend 
 of Miss Jewsbury, Felicia Hemans. The characters of both these daughters of genius 
 may be advantageously studied, especially by the younger among their admiring 
 countrywomen ; the one as a warning, the other as an example. 
 
 Never did Miss Jewsbury's character display itself iu a fairer light than on her 
 recovery, at the age of nineteen, from an illness which had rendered it necessary tiiat 
 she should relinquish her accustomed domestic occupations. At this period she wrote 
 lier beautiful "Letters to the Young;" many of which letters were personally 
 addressed to young friends of her own; and all of which enforce the necessity 
 of that entire devotedness of heart to God, without which outward duties have no 
 value in his sight. 
 
 One rule of conduct which this lady, on the re-establishment of her health, 
 laid down for herself, ought to be mentioned to her honour. So fearful was she, 
 having the sole charge of a large family, and knowing the bent of her own tastes, 
 of being seduced from the discharge of the duties to which it had pleased God 
 to call her, that she made it a point of conscience never to take up a book till all 
 the young ptoiile under her care had retired for tiie night. Then, indeed, she
 
 126 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 drank from the well of knowledge with an avidity which only kindred minds can 
 conceive. 
 
 There is, however, good reason to believe, that Miss Jewshury's ardent desire of 
 literary distinction was soon superseded by nobler principles and incentives. She was 
 but nine years old, when the thirst after earthly fame, " the ambition of writing a book, 
 being praised publicly, and associating with authors," seized her " as a vapid longing." 
 The desire of her heart was afterwards granted ; and what was the result ? even such 
 as it ever must be when the heart is set on earthly objects — ^keen regret, disappoint- 
 ment and dissatisfaction, even in the attainment of the desired good ! " Vanity of 
 vanities; vanity of vanities!" was the bitter experience of her soul. 
 
 " I have done nothing to live," such is the tenor of her reflections ; " and what 
 I have done must pass away with a thousand other blossoms, the growth, the beauty, 
 the oblivion of a day." 
 
 " I feel the long grass growing o'er my heart. In the best of everything I have 
 done, you will find one leading idea — death. All thoughts, all images, all contrasts 
 of thoughts and images, are derived from living much in the valley of that shadow." 
 
 As a writer. Miss Jewsbury is well known to the world. Her poetry, perhaps wants 
 somewhat of melody and ease ; but this defect is abundantly compensated by the full 
 recognition, in many of her poetical compositions, of those religious principles on which 
 all moral excellence depends. 
 
 There is, perhaps, nothing more strongly expressed in the writings of Miss Jews- 
 bury, than her own deep sense of the unsatisfactory nature and utter insufficiency of 
 all earthly enjoyments. Even human sympathy, she felt to be a frail and evanescent 
 thing. What then remained for one who had sought after, and obtained everything 
 which, to her ambition or her intellectual tastes, had appeared desirable, and had 
 learned by experience, even in the prime of life, that all was " vanity and vexation of 
 spirit ?" What, but to seek, in dependence upon the Saviour, through whom alone it 
 can be obtained, that " better part," that heavenly treasure, which alone can satisfy 
 the immortal soul of man ? She sought it ; and obtained rest to her soul. 
 
 Among other points of character, Miss Jewsbury was distinguished by the strength 
 and warmth of her benevolent affections. 
 
 The following stanzas, addressed, after meeting her for the first time, to the highly 
 gifted and most unhappy Letitia E. Landon (L. E. L.) may illustrate the truth of this 
 observation : — 
 
 " Good night ! I have no jewels, 
 As parting gifts to bring ; 
 But here's a frank and kind farewell, 
 Thou gay and gifted thing. 
 
 In the lonely hours of night, 
 
 When the face puts oif its mask ; 
 When the fever'd day is o'er, 
 
 And the heart hath done its task ;
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 127 
 
 Then, then, I'll think of thee, my friend, 
 
 With soft, sad, earnest thought, 
 As of a child from fairy-land 
 
 Into the desert brought. 
 
 As of a rose at noon-tide 
 
 Waving proudly to the view ; 
 Yet wanting in its crimson depth, 
 
 The early drop of dew. 
 
 As of a tree in autumn. 
 
 With its green leaves tum'd to gold, 
 But having on the healthy bough 
 
 A faint decaying hold. 
 
 As of rills that run in summer. 
 
 With bright and cai'eless glee ; 
 Wilt thou blame me, my too careless friend. 
 
 If thus I think of thee? 
 
 I would my home were lovely, 
 
 A3 some which thou hast sung ; 
 And would there were around it 
 
 All lavish beauty flung. 
 
 I would bear thee to its bosom ; 
 
 Thou should'st dwell with nature free ; 
 And the dew of early truthfulness 
 
 Would soon come back to thee. 
 
 Thou should'st dwell in some fair valley, 
 
 Amid the true and kind ; 
 And mom should make each motmtain 
 
 A Memnon to thy mind. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! my dwelling 
 
 Is amid a way-worn world ; 
 And my vision, like a banner. 
 
 But open'd to be furl'd. 
 
 And yet my thoughts turn to thee, 
 
 They kind and anxious turn ; 
 I foresee for thee a future, 
 
 ■Which will have much to learn. 
 
 Thy life is false and feverish ; 
 
 It is like a masque to thee ; 
 When the task and glare are over. 
 
 And thou grievest— come to me." 
 
 These verses are doubly touching, when we caU to mind the clouds and darkness 
 amid which the sun of poor L.E.L. went down ! 
 
 In 1832 the gifted lady of whom we write, proceeded with her husband, the Rev. 
 Kew Fletcher, to India. Here she was called upon to drink yet deeper draughts
 
 128 THE PEOPLE'S GALLERY OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 of that cup of tribulation which is presented to all whose " names are written in 
 heaven," and her Christian virtues wore consequently matured and brought into 
 eificient exercise. 
 
 Her husband was attacked by dangerous illuess ; the cholera was raging around 
 her; and her abode was thronged by native women and children, whose hearts she won 
 bv commiserating, and as far as possible relieving, their sufferings : thus con\'incing 
 them, that the Christian religion is indeed a religion which iuduct^s those who receive 
 it to be kind and tender-hearted ; and to weep with those that weep ; and preparing 
 tliem to listen favourably to those essential doctrines of the gospel which it was her 
 niiiin object to instil into their minds. 
 
 The term of her usefulness was, however, now near its close. She died of Asiatic 
 cholera, on the 3rd of October, 1833. 
 
 Her friend and sister in genius, Felicia Hemans, thus expi-essed her feelings on 
 receiving the tidings of Mrs. Fletcher's decease. " It hung the more heavily upon my 
 spirits, because the subject of death, and the mighty futuie, had been so many times 
 that of our confideutial communion. How much deeper power seemed to lie coiled up, 
 as it were, in the recesses of her mind, than was ever manifested to the world in her 
 writings ! Strange and sad does it seem, that only the broken music of such a spirit has 
 been given to the earth ; the full and finished harmony, never drawn forth." 
 
 Noiv, that harmony is fully drawn forth, to cease no more for ever ; for now, as 
 we may venture earnestly to believe, her ransomed spirit has joined that great multitude 
 " whose number is ten thousand times ten thousand and thousands of thousands," in 
 the "new song" which they will sing eternally before the throne of God and of the 
 Lamb — " Thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood."
 
 
 
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