*.Jt THE ANNIVERSARY. 1829. / •<~ J* 2t: ■#. ILLUSTRATIONS. subjects. 1. Psyche 2. Vignette Title 3. The Lute 4. Morning 5. The Little Gleaner . . . G. The Earrings 7. The Author of Wavei ley* 8. The Blackberry Boy . . 9. The Travelled Monkey . 10. Chillon 11. Pickaback 12. Fonthill 13. Beatrice 14. Newstead Abbey .... 15. Love me, love my Dog . 10. The Snuffbox 17. The Young Cottagers . . 18. Evening— Twilight t . • . 19. First Presentation Vignette 20. Second Presentation Vignette . ., PAINTERS. ENGRAVERS. Sir T. Lawrence, p. r.a. J. H. Robinson Clarkson Stanfield ... W. R. Smith R. P. Bonnington . . . C. Rolls William Linton E. Goodall Sir Wm. Beechey, r. a. E. Finden M. A. Shee, Esq. r.a. . C. Rolls W. Allan, a. r.a E. Goodall W. Hamilton, Esq. r.a. W. Finden E. Landseer, a. r.a. ... B. P. Gibbon Clarkson Stanfield . . . R. Wallis R. Westall, Esq. r. a. . . C. Rolls J.M.W.Turner,Esq.R.A. T. Crostick H. Howard, Esq. r. a. . S. Sangster F. Danby, a. r.a R. Wallis John Hoppner, Esq. R. A. W. Greatbatch F. P. Stephanoff .... H. Robinson T.Gainsborough, Esq.R.A. H. Robinson G. Barrett E. Goodall W. Harvey J. Thompson W. Harvey J. Thompson » Painted from sketches made for that purpose in Sir Walter Scott's Study at Abbotsford — a slight change has since taken place in some of the minor arrangements. The 18th plate has been inserted in lieu of another to which an un- fortunate accident has happened on the eve of its completion. This circumstance will account for its being without any Literary appendage, the volume having been previously printed off. The Vionette on the opposite page is intended to suit the presentation of the Volume with the recurrence of any particular day in the Year. It will be observed that the ancient " Anniversary" has been taken to adapt it to the purpose ; it is doubtful whether this expressive word of twelve letters might not as well have been spared the pruning-hook of the modern orthographer. The subject matter of the circle being necessarily minute, an explanation of the figures introduced in it is subjoined. • The Laplander and his Sledge. The Ploughman — The Woodman and his Dog. Sowing and Pruning. April. Watering Flowers — The Rainbow. Dancing with Garlands. Haymaking. Bathing. Reaping and Gleaning. Sporting and the Vintage. Hunting the Boar. The Decline of the Year. Christmas — The return of The Anniversarie. It will be better to use the pencil, rather than the pen, for the purpose of inserting the names of the parties required. As the first inspection of a design, of the conundrum class, sometimes occasions a momentary misconception or perplexity, it may be as well 10 remark that the wording, when found out and filled up, will resolve itself into something similar to the following &o Lady Teazle, on the Q&£IW(&&%W&3<& of heh wedding day, from Sik Peter. ft Jan. « Feb. £ Mar. a April V May. @ June. 3R, July. S Aug. % Sept. m Oct. 3 Nov. Dec. ^&. > » > J > i » » > a n ainted b S Y C H K . ED OCT 1 ]8?.e.<°° - .« 1 1 o >ri » THE ANNIVERSARY. Of the various subjects which have employed the thoughts and have been adorned by the pens of the moralist and the poet, few have been more frequently or more successfully treated than the subject of Time. The grand division of Time into the past, the present, and the future, is indeed of a character far too im- pressive for discussion in a page chiefly dedicated to amusement, and we leave it willingly to the philosopher and the divine. But the recurrence with the year, of the seasons, and the days of our joys and our sorrows — the theme of many a letter and many a lay — is so inter- woven with our feelings that no one can upon reflection be surprised at the popular preference so manifestly shown for those Literary Works so happily united with the Arts and adapted to almost every circumstance of remembrance or presentation. All mankind have their chosen moments, which, like the green hills touched first by the ascending sun, glow brighter than the rest of the landscape. On these they b 2 4 THE ANNIVERSARY. love to think and to brood, and to recall images of depaj-oted joy, and of early gladness. The man, thought- SVrf artd senate, tottering with years and reposing in hope, looks back witti a "glistening eye on one golden hour of pare enjoyment which influenced his life, and he holds its anniversary in tranquil and devout joy. The matron, proud of the increasing number of her descen- dants, and old in years yet young in heart, when her marriage day returns, puts on her bridal jewels, clasps her husband's picture to her desolate bosom, and sees him in imagination when he bore her to the altar from the wishes of many a rival. Her flushed cheek and brightened eye tell you that she is holding her bridal ANNIVERSARY. The Youth carried by fortune to a foreign shore, when the hour of separation from his native land returns, stands and looks on one clear and stedfast star, and thinks on his mother and on the time when he left her bosom to work for her support and fulfil his vow to his dying father. He holds the anniversary of filial affection. The wife sits in the domestic solitude of her chamber, or in the society of her husband, and lives over and over again one delicious hour, in which her heart was rewarded for its deep affection, and holds THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WELL-PLACED LOVE. The mother smiles amongst her children — sees them in imagi- nation grow up in stature and in beauty, and thinks on the happy hour when they first came to her bosom, and holds THE ANNIVERSARY OF MATERNAL LOVE. Behold! — if our glance may be permitted to invade THE ANNIVERSARY. 5 the palace of a monarch — behold the King, successful in a just war, and prosperous in an honourable peace. The hour is returned which gave him to his country, and he holds its anniversary surrounded by the ambassadors of every land and of every tongue. Or see that stately figure — a man whose eye looks through you, and whose mind seems made up for all emer- gencies ; to him the day has returned pn which he saved his country on a perilous and well fought field. His anniversary will never be forgotten. But why proceed with particularizing? The three nations hold their anniversaries individually and col- lectively ; and, as a token to mark their remembrances, we beg to lay a volume annually before them, which for that purpose we have named The Anniversary. ON THE PSYCHE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. Fair Psyche, thou who wert renowned Of old, and on Olympus crowned; Art thou come, gladsome goddess, now, In beauty beaming, breast and brow ; With lips like drop-ripe cherries cleft, And tresses like Fate's charmed weft ? Art thou come with thy round white neck, Which gold may dim, but never deck ; Come back to man and earth again, In loveliness to rule and reign ; With looks too gently meek for mirth, And more of heaven than's fit for earth ? Thanks, Lawrence, thanks ! thy skill hath wrought A form with soul and sense and thought. O wondrous art ! which thus redeems The glorious forms which glad our dreams ; Arrests the vision when it dips Itself in beauty to the lips : Which calls from days far gone and dim, Their loveliness to paint and limn. Fair fall the art which gives of mind And heaven as much as man can find. THE PSYCHE OF SIR T. LAWRENCE. Blind dreamer ! Thinkest thou Fancy e'er Could frame a form so real and dear ? No goddess this, with zone and star, A baptized beauty — nobler far : A wife — a word that's much to me, A mother — what can brighter be ? Can Fancy, in her happiest mood, Like Nature work in flesh and blood ? Create those fair ones who preside In household state and matron pride ; Who lull — in that dear duty blest, The baby, happy at the breast? Or when man's chafed, can smile to flight Wrath's darkness, and restore his light? Or when he's sick, can sit and shed All wedlock's comfort round his bed ? Or rise — should glory gild his name, And share his love and feel his fame ? Or live — should fortune frown, as one Who ne'er had wealth or splendour known : And trim his home and gently share His woes and make his peace her prayer ? Woe worth thee, Fancy ! who shall meet Of thine aught so supremely sweet : O'er others spread thy splendid wings, I'm earthlv, and love mortal things. Ed. J8 THE WARRIOR. His foot's in the stirrup, His hands on the mane — He is up and away, Shall we see him again ? He thinks on his ladye-love, Little he heeds The levelling of lances Or rushing of steeds : He thinks on his true love, And rides in an armour Of proof woven sure By the spells of his charmer. How young and how comely — Lo ! look on him now, How stedfast his eye And how tranquil his brow ; The gift of his ladye-love Glitters full gay, As down, like the eagle, He pours on his prey. Go, sing it in song ; And go, tell it in story — He went in his strength And returned in his glory. EPISTLE FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Well, Heaven be thanked ! friend Allan, here I am. Once more, to that dear, dwelling place returned, Where I have passed the whole mid stage of life, Not idly, certes, . . not unworthily, . . So let me hope ; where Time upon my head Hath laid his frore and monitory hand ; And when this poor frail earthly tabernacle Shall be dissolved . . (it matters not how soon Or late, in God's good time ;) . . where I would fain Be gathered to my children, earth to earth. Needless it were to say how willingly I bade the huge metropolis farewell ; Its dust and dirt and din and smoke and smut, Thames' water, paviours' ground, and London sky ! Weary of hurried days and restless nights ; Watchmen, whose office is to murder sleep, When sleep might else have "weighed one's eyelids down ;" Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts, And tramp of iron hoofs ; and worse than all, 10 EPISTLE (Confusion being worse confounded then With coachmen's quarrels, and with footmen's shouts) My next door neighbours, in a street not yet Macadamized (me miserable !) at home ! For then had we, from midnight until morn, House-quakes, street thunders, and door batteries. (O Government, in thy wisdom and thy wants, Tax knockers ! in compassion to the sick And those whose sober habits are not yet Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day, Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged Armorial bearings and bepowdered pates !) Escaping from all this, the very whirl Of mail-coach wheels, bound outwards from Lad Lane, Was peace and quietness ; three hundred miles Of homeward way, seemed to the body rest, And to the mind repose. Donne did not hate More perfectly that city. Not for all Its social, all its intellectual joys, (Which having touched, I may not condescend To name aught else the demon of the place, Might as his lure hold forth) ; not even for these Would I forego gardens and green field walks, And hedgerow trees and stiles and shady lanes, And orchards, . . were such ordinary scenes Alone to me accessible, as those Wherein I learnt in infancy to love The sights and sounds of Nature ; wholesome sights, Gladdening the eye that they refresh ; and sounds, TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. II Which when from life and happiness they spring, Bear with them to the yet unhardened heart A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy ; Or, if proceeding from insensate things, Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith To woo the ear and win the soul attuned. Oh not for all that London might bestow, Would I renounce the genial influences And thoughts and feelings, to be found where'er We breathe beneath the open sky, and see Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then from thyself, Allan, true child of Scotland ; thou who art So oft in spirit on thy native hills, And yonder Solway shores ; a poet thou, Judge from thyself how strong the ties which bind A poet to his home, when . . making thus Large recompense for all that, haply, else Might seem perversely or unkindly done, . . Fortune hath set his happy habitacle Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams And lakes pellucid ; in a land sublime And lovely, as those regions of romance, Where his young fancy in its day dreams roamed, Expatiating in forests wild and wide, Loegrian, or of dearest Faery land. Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy No man drinks freelier ; nor with heartier thirst, Nor keener relish, where I see around Faces which I have known and loved so long, 12 EPISTLE That, when he prints a dream upon my brain, Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types. And therefore in that loathed metropolis Time measured out to me some golden hours. They were not leaden-footed while the clay, Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand, Grew to the semblance of my lineaments. Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots Of sunshine, are the mornings, when in talk With him and thee and Bedford (my true friend Of forty years) I saw the work proceed, Subject the while myself to no restraint, But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged ; Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride, To think this countenance, such as it is, So oft by rascally mislikeness wronged, Should faithfully to those who in his works Have seen the inner man portrayed, be shown; And in enduring marble should partake Of our great sculptor's immortality. I have been libelled, Allan, as thou knowest, Through all degrees of calumny : but they Who put one's name, for public sale, beneath A set of features slanderously unlike, Are our worst libellers. Against the wrong Which they inflict, Time hath no remedy. Injuries there are which Time redresseth best, Being more sure in judgement, though perhaps Slower in his process even than the Court, TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 13 Where Justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed, Sleeps undisturbed, fanned by the lulling wings Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down Evil or good report, if undeserved. Let then the dogs of faction bark and bay, . . Its bloodhounds savaged by a cross of wolf, . . Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant Beast, . . Its poodles by unlucky training marred, Mongrel and cur and bobtail ; . . let them yelp Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length Silence the noisy pack ; meantime be sure I shall not stoop for stones to cast among 1. 93 can be no doubt that, like Grose of merry memory, the mighty Minstrel Has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets, Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets, Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont' guid. These relics of other, and for the most part darker, years, are disposed, however, with so much grace and elegance, that I doubt if Mr. Hope himself would find any thing to quarrel with in the beautiful apartments which contain them. The smaller of these opens to the drawing room on one side and the dining room on the other, and is fitted up with low divans rather than sofas; so as to make, I doubt not, a most agreeable sitting room when the apartments are occupied, as for my sins I found them not. In the hall, when the weather is hot, the Baronet is accustomed to dine ; and a gallant refectory no question it must make. A ponderous chandelier of painted glass swings from the roof; and the chimney- piece (the design copied from the stonework of the Abbot's Stall at Melrose) would hold rafters enough for a Christmas fire of the good old times. Were the com- pany suitably attired, a dinner party here would look like a scene in the Mysteries of Udolpho. Beyond the smaller, or rather, I should say, the nar- rower armoury, lies the dining parlour proper, however ; and though there is nothing Udolphoish here, yet I can well believe that, when lighted up and the curtains drawn at night, the place may give no bad notion of the private snuggery of some lofty lord abbot of the time of the 94 ABBOTSFORD. Canterbury Tales. The room is a very handsome one, with a low and very richly carved roof of dark oak again; a huge projecting bow window, and the dais ele- vated more majorum ; the ornaments of the roof, niches for lamps, &c. &c. in short, all the minor details, are, I believe, fac similes after Melrose. The walls are hung in crimson, but almost entirely covered with pictures, of which the most remarkable are — the parliamentary gene- ral, Lord Essex, a full length on horseback ; the Duke of Monmouth, by Lely ; a capital Hogarth, by himself; Prior and Gay, both by Jervas ; and the head of Mary Queen of Scots, in a charger, painted by Amias Canrood the day after the decapitation at Fotheringay, and sent some years ago as a present to Sir Walter from a Prus- sian nobleman, in whose family it had been for more than two centuries. It is a most deathlike performance, and the countenance answers well enough to the coins of the unfortunate beauty, though not at all to any of the por- traits I have happened to see. I believe there is no doubt as to the authenticity of this most curious picture. Among various family pictures, I noticed particularly Sir Walter's great grandfather, the old cavalier men- tioned in one of the epistles in Marmion, who let his beard grow after the execution of Charles the First, and who here appears, accordingly, with a most venerable appendage of silver whiteness, reaching even unto his girdle. This old gentleman's son hangs close by him ; and had it not been for the costume, &c. I should have taken it for a likeness of Sir Walter himself. (It is very like the common portraits of the Poet, though certainly ABBOTSFORD. 95 not like either Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture or Chan- trey's bust). There is also a very splendid full length of Lucy Waters, mother to the Duke of Monmouth ; and an oval, capitally painted, of Anne Duchess of Buc- cleugh, the same who, In pride of yontli, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. All the furniture of this room is massy Gothic oak ; and, as I said before, when it is fairly lit up, and plate and glass set forth, it must needs have a richly and luxuriously antique aspect. Beyond and alongside are narrowish passages, which make one fancy one's self in the penetralia of some dim old monastery ; for roofs and walls and windows (square, round, and oval alike) are sculptured in stone, after the richest relics of Melrose and Roslin Chapel. One of these leads to a charming breakfast room, which looks to the Tweed on one side, and towards Yarrow and Ettricke, famed in song, on the other : a cheerful room, fitted up with novels, romances, and poetry, I could perceive, at one end ; and the other walls covered thick and thicker with a most valuable and beautiful collection of watercolour drawings, chiefly by Turner, and Thomson of Duddingstone, the designs, in short, for the magnificent work entitled "Provincial An^ tiquities of Scotland." There is one very grand oil painting over the chimneypiece, Fastcastle, by Thomson, alias the Wolf's Crag of the Bride of Lammermoor, one of the most majestic and melancholy seapieces I ever 9G ABBOTSFORI). saw; and some large black and white drawings of the Vision of Don Roderick, by Sir James Steuart of Allan- bank (whose illustrations of Marmion and Mazeppa you have seen or heard of), are at one end of the parlour. The room is crammed with queer cabinets and boxes, and in a niche there is a bust of old Henry Mackenzie, by Joseph of Edinburgh. Returning towards the armoury, you have, on one side of a most religious looking cor- ridor, a small greenhouse with a fountain playing before it — the very fountain that in days of yore graced the cross of Edinburgh, and used to flow with claret at the coronation of the Stuarts — a pretty design, and a stand- ing monument of the barbarity of modern innovation. From the small armoury you pass, as I said before, into the drawing room, a large, lofty, and splendid salon, with antique ebony furniture and crimson silk hangings, cabi- nets, china, and mirrors quantum suff. and some por- traits; among the rest glorious John Dryden, by Sir Peter Lely, with his gray hairs floating about in a most picturesque style, eyes full of wildness, presenting the old Bard, I take it, in one of those " tremulous moods," in which we have it on record he appeared when inter- rupted in the midst of his Alexander's Feast. From this you pass into the largest of all the apartments, the library, which, I must say, is really a noble room. It is an oblong of some fifty feet by thirty, with a projection in the centre, opposite the fireplace, terminating in a grand bow win- dow, fitted up with books also, and, in fact, constituting a sort of chapel to the church. The roof is of carved oak ABBOTSFORD. 97 again — a very rich pattern— I believe chiefly a la Roslin, and the bookcases, which are also of richly carved oak, reach high up the walls all round. The collection amounts, in this room, to some fifteen or twenty thousand volumes, arranged according to their subjects : British history and antiquities filling the whole of the chief wall ; English poetry and drama, classics and miscellanies, one end; foreign literature, chiefly French and German, the other. The cases on the side opposite the fire are wired, and locked, as containing articles very precious and very portable. One consists entirely of books and MSS. relating to the insurrections of 1715 and 1745; and another (within the recess of the bow window), of trea- tises de re magica, both of these being (I am told, and can well believe), in their several ways, collections of the rarest curiosity. My cicerone pointed out, in one corner, a magnificent set of Mountfaucon, ten volumes folio, bound in the richest manner in scarlet, and stamped with the royal arms, the gift of his present Majesty. There are few living authors of whose works presenta- tion copies are not to be found here. My friend showed me inscriptions of that sort in, I believe, every European dialect extant. The books are all in prime condition, and bindings that would satisfy Mr. Dibdin. The only picture is Sir Walter's eldest son, in hussar uniform, and holding his horse, by Allan of Edinburgh, a noble portrait, over the fireplace ; and the only bust is that of Shakspeare, from the Avon monument, in a small niche in the centre of the east side. On a rich stand of porphyry, in one corner, reposes a tall silver H 98 ABBOTSFORD. urn filled with bones from the Piraeus, and bearing the inscription, " Given by George Gordon, Lord Byron, to Sir Walter Scott, Bart." It contained the letter which accompanied the gift till lately : it has disappeared ; no one guesses who took it, but whoever he was, as my guide observed, he must have been a thief for thieving's sake truly, as he durst no more exhibit his autograph than tip himself a bare bodkin. Sad, infamous tourist indeed ! Although I saw abundance of comfortable look- ing desks and arm chairs, yet this room seemed rather too large and fine for ivorh, and I found accordingly, after passing a double pair of doors, that there was a sanctum within and beyond this library. And here you may believe was not to me the least interesting, though by no means the most splendid, part of the suite. The lion's own den proper, then, is a room of about five-and-twenty feet square by twenty feet high, contain- ing of what is properly called furniture nothing but a small writing table in the centre, a plain arm chair covered with black leather — a very comfortable one though, for I tried it — and a single chair besides, plain symptoms that this is no place for company. On either side of the fireplace there are shelves filled with duode- cimos and books of reference, chiefly, of course, folios ; but except these there are no books save the contents of a light gallery which runs round three sides of the room, and is reached by a hanging stair of carved oak in one corner. You have been both at the Elisee Bourbon and Malmaison, and remember the library at one or other of those places, I forget which; this gallery is '.'. SVmn A «> THE AUTHOR OF WAVE RLE V TS HIS STPDY. !■'. . I. O M U O.N e « ABBOTSFORD. 99 much in the same style. There are only two portraits, an original of the beautiful and melancholy head of Claver- house, and a small full length of Rob Roy. Various little antique cabinets stand round about, each having a bust on it : Stothard's Canterbury Pilgrims are on the mantelpiece ; and in one corner I saw a collection of really useful weapons, those of the forest-craft, to wit — axes and bills and so forth of every calibre. There is only one window pierced in a very thick wall, so that the place is rather sombre ; the light tracery work of the gallery overhead harmonizes with the books well. It is a very comfortable looking room, and very unlike any other I ever was in. I should not forget some Highland claymores, clustered round a target over the Canterbury- people, nor a writing box of carved wood, lined witli crimson velvet, and furnished with silver plate of right venerable aspect, which looked as if it might have been the implement of old Chaucer himself, but which from the arms on the lid must have belonged to some Italian prince of the days of Leo the Magnificent at the furthest. In one corner of this sanctum there is a little holy of holies, in the shape of a closet, which looks like the oratory of some dame of old romance, and opens into the gardens ; and the tower which furnishes this below, forms above a private staircase accessible from the gal- lery and leading to the upper regions. Thither also I penetrated, but I suppose you will take the bed rooms and dressing rooms for granted. The view to the Tweed from all the principal apart- ments is beautiful. You look out from among bowers, H2 100 ABBOTSFORD. over a lawn of sweet turf, upon the clearest of all streams, fringed with the wildest of birch woods, and backed with the green hills of Ettricke Forest. The rest you must imagine. Altogether, the place destined to receive so many pilgrimages contains within itself beauties not unworthy of its associations. Few poets ever inhabited such a place; none, ere now, ever created one. It is the realization of dreams : some Frenchman called it, I hear, " a romance in stone and lime." THE CARLE OF INVERTIME. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE QUEEN'S WAKE. Who has not heard of a Carle uncouth, The terror of age, and the scorn of youth ; Well known in this and every clime As the grim Gudeman of Invertime ; A stern old porter who carries the key That opens the gate to a strange countree ? The Carle's old heart with joy is dancing When down the valley he sees advancing The lovely, the brave, the good, or the great, To pay the sad toll of his darksome gate. THE CARLE OF INVERTIME. > > , , 1een a beast, or seen a vision; But whether my flesh or fancy dreed The toil, I've learned to make a steed. I swear by Solway, deep and wide, I'll run nae mair while I can ride." He shook the curb. But more ado, Mark fled on four feet or on two, I wotna which ; he ne'er was seen Again by Criffel cleft and green. While Rob, victorious o'er the pit, And harder still, o'er woman's wit ; Look'd pleased, and like her only child, On Elspat glanced, and Elspat smiled. From that day Rob cracked o'er his bowl, How he had saved a beauteous soul ; From witches won a magic curb, Could turn a bondsman to a barb. Soft grew his bed, fat grew his food, Large was his fee, his drink was good ; Loud was his song and loud his mirth, And wept for when he went to earth. 157 SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. We have met with few men whom we wished so much to meet again as Sir George Beaumont. We have met with men of greater talents, of higher rank, of equal learning, and of finer powers of conversation ; but we never met with one who represented so gracefully and naturally the man of rank, of learning, and of literature. He had all the easy dignity which we assign to the Sid- neys and the Raleighs of Elizabeth's court ; united to the polished manners, refined taste, and sense of pro- priety which distinguish that of George the Fourth. His kindliness of nature and generosity of heart were his own. The man and his manners had a dignity about them which were inherited, not copied. His learning was extensive, and sat gracefully on him, like an every day dress ; while his love of literature, and his admira- tion of art, dawned modestly out, and brightened upon you fuller and fuller. He was of old descent, and had reason to be proud of it, for he came from a race of great warriors and poets, yet he was not proud ; he had cause to be vain of his possessions, for they were ample, and of that picturesque kind which the owner loved, yet he was not vain ; he had also good cause to be proud of his learning, his 158 SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. taste, his talents, and his influence, yet he seemed un- conscious of them all. You could see at once that he was not of the common order of men, for his looks were full of talent and intelligence ; nor could you fail to feel that the graceful and simple stateliness of his manners was something hereditary — belonged a little to other days, and had nothing at all to do with the upstart lordliness of those who are the first of their family that find a gold spoon in their mouths. If we had uttered the words we have now written, during the lifetime of our friend, and had they been doubted by any one, a single glance of the unbeliever at Sir George Beaumont, at the company he loved to keep, and at the house which he inhabited, would have wrought his cure. At home, his good taste and his good sense were alike visible. His house was not a glittering museum of shells and spars and specimens of clay and bits of bone and cracked porringers and things rare and strange and dirty and far-fetched — for the walls were hung with the noblest paintings, the finest efforts of the human intellect, which taste and riches had united in obtaining ; his shelves were stored with the learning and genius of all ages, and his table was surrounded by men who had a claim on the world, not because the fire-new stamp of honour was upon them, nor because their fathers had been the " tenth trans- mitter of a foolish face," but from the more unques- tioned title, of learning, talent, and genius. Men were there whose genius honoured the age ; men of rank , whose taste and attainments rendered their titles less SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 159 necessary; the poets and the artists most famous in their time. Nor were they there because they happened to be momentary' bubbles sparkling on the stream of fashion ; but from a sense of their worth and a feeling of their merits. Their entertainer could taste their various excellencies for himself; he could anticipate their future as well as present fame ; he was no feeder of the popular lion that roars in the mobs which sur- round the mere rich man's table. There were few men of eminence with whom Sir George Beaumont was not friendly and familiar. Of the genius of Wordsworth he was a rewarder, as well as a warm admirer ; and the poet has repaid his affection by many touching verses and graceful allusions em- bodied in his works. They were companions. They planted trees, planned arbours, erected altars and orna- mented fountains among the picturesque domains of Charnwood and Grace-Dieu ; and nothing can display more touchingly the brotherhood of nature and union of taste and feeling than their joint employments. The fame of the poet was warmly aided by the friendship of Sir George. It is true that the original power of thought and deep sympathy with nature, and the supremacy claimed for genius over the artificial dignities of the earth, which distinguish the poet's works, were sure to make their way to public affection, for nature will assert her own power at last ; but all this is wondrously facilitated by a friendly voice calling out, like the herald in Scripture, " Behold the man whom the king delighteth to honour." Let Wordsworth speak for himself of this honour- 160 SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. able brotherhood. " Several of my best poems were composed under the shade of your own groves— upon the classic ground of Coleorton — where I was animated by the recollection of those illustrious poets of your name and family who were born in that neighbourhood ; and, we may be assured, did not wander with indiffer- ence by the dashing stream of Grace-Dieu, and among the rocks that diversify the forest of Charnwood. Nor is there any one to whom such parts of this collection as have been inspired or coloured by the beautiful country from which I now address you, could be presented with more propriety than to yourself, who have composed so many admirable pictures from the suggestions of the same scenery." To the former illustrious proprietor the poet else- where refers when he is singing of Coleorton — and refers very happily: " There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child ; . There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks ; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heartbreaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskin'd stage." This is very honourable to all. In an age like this, when the patrons of literature are far from abounding ; and in a country where a marketable borough, which contains ten inhabitants and returns two members to parliament, has more influence than all the genius of the land united, we could ill spare such a man as Sir George Beaumont. He lived long and profitably for his coun- SIR GEORGE BEAUMOTsT. 161 try ; he influenced its works of art and its productions in literature, and gave his friendship to modest worth and his protection to all who merited it. We remember once of meeting at his table that wiz- ard in conversation, Coleridge the poet. The discourse at first was discursive, and shifted with the shifting dishes ; it glanced upon art, upon prose romances, and then shone full upon poetry. Coleridge burst out like a conflagration. We had met the inspired man before, and were aware of the untiring fascination of his elo- quence, and how effectually he could keep a listener captive. It was at a midnight supper ; he took up a prawn, and from that diminutive text preached upon the flux and reflux of the ocean, the wild theory of St. Pierre, the immensity of the leviathan, and the magnificence of the great deep. Had we supped upon a whale entire, he could not have done more with his subject. At the baronet's table, however, he seemed less inclined to pursue his wild career, though verse presented an ample field, and Lady Beaumont found time to say, " I wish, Mr. Coleridge, you would give us a volume of such poems as the Genevieve." " The Genevieve, my lady," said the Bard, in a voice as musical as the inimitable poem itself, " I shall give you a far worthier work than the Genevieve/' He then proceeded to draw the character of a work of a devout nature, in which his learning and his talent would be poured freely out ; and if the excellence of the book equal the splendid summary of its contents, it will be a treasure to the church. From this a transition to the M 102 SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. Revelations was easy and natural ; out if it had been neither, the orator would have made it both, for he is unequalled in the art of transition, and never seems embarrassed for a moment. From the Revelations, the hand of his friend the Rev. Edward Irving was then seeking to lift the veil, and to this new and magnifi- cent task the Poet turned with sparkling eyes and glowing brow — he had found a theme suitable to his own lofty imagination, and as mystical as his own mind. How he soared ! He appeared to think that the Apo- calypse was a divine poem rather than a Revelation. We have said that Sir George Beaumont was a lover of art ; he was much more ; he was a very beautiful landscape painter. But he felt the poetry of the pro- fession better than he could fix his conceptions in suit- able colours. His works have less of the fresh glow of nature — the dashing freedom which deals with grand scenes, and the sunshiny radiance of open fields and sloping hills, than some of the high masters of the call- ing. He had the soul of the artist — he wanted the complete discipline of hand, without which all feeling is vain and useless. The dignity of his household was well maintained by his lady, who in look and taste so much resembled him that they seemed akin. We have known many men of old descent and fine taste, inheriting splendid houses and enjoying fair estates, but we know of no one who continues to the nation the dignified image which Sir George Beaumont has left on our heart and mind. N. M. 163 THE LASS OF LAMMERMOOR, I met a lass on Lammermoor, Between the corn and blooming heather ; Around her waist red gowd she wore, And in her cap she wore a feather. Her steps were light, her looks were bright, Her face shone out like summer weather ; Birds sing, sweet lass, said I, nor fear Thy looks so lovely 'mang the heather. O sic a geek she gave her head, And sic a toss she gave her feather ; Man, saw ye ne'er a bonnie lass Before, among the blooming heather? Pass on, pass on, so fair a one Should be less scornful ; I would rather Have one I name not in her snood, Than thou with thy proud cap and feather. UPPER CANADA, MAY 2. II 2 164 CHILLON. A lonely tower, a shaggy hill, Green spreading groves, and waters still : The sunlight slumbering 'mongst the flowers, The stray deer rustling 'mongst the bowers ; A beauteous sky that loves to brood With gorgeous wings o'er tower and wood : Boors watching well, with eyes of jet, The harvest of the dripping net. All, all is there that man can give, To bid the landscape glow and live ; All, all is there the eye can ask, Art well hath wrought its wondrous task ; And Stanfield with triumphant skill Hath steeped in splendour tower and hill. All is not there. Round that gray tower, And shaggy hill, and sunlit bower, There hangs a holier halo brought Bright down from heaven by Byron's thought. He gave that tower a tongue to tell Of sorrow like a parting knell ; He stamped the likeness of a god On every stone and crumbling clod ; The very water seems to take His form as we look on the lake ; 1 CHILLON. 165 The sweeping wind, the glittering rill, Seem murmuring with his music still ; Yon flower that glows above the clod Seems proud that on its stem he trod. 'Tis thus the poet godlike flings His glory round earth's lowliest things ; Half earth, half heaven — half pure, half gross, He stamps himself on gold or dross : Warm, glowing, strong, soft, tender, faint — Which all can feel and few can paint. THE CHURCHYARD. BY CAROLINE BOWLES. The thought of early death was in my heart, Of the cold grave, and " dumb forgetfulness And with a weight like lead, An overwhelming dread Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. And forth I roamed in that distressful mood, Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; All hung with one huge cloud, That like a sable shroud On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. 166 THE CHURCHYARD. Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms (Instinctively my feet had wandered there), And through that awful gloom, Headstone and altar tomb Among the dark heaps gleamed with ghastlier glare. Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood ; Mine eyes fast fixed on a grass grown mound ; As though they would descry The loathsome mystery Consummating beneath that charnel ground. Death, death was in my heart — Methought I felt A heavy hand that pressed me down below — And some resistless power Made me, in that dark hour, Half long to be, where I abhorred to go. Then suddenly — albeit no breeze was felt — Through the tall tree-tops ran a shivering sound — Forth from the western heaven Flashed out the flaming levin, And one long thunder peal rolled echoing round. One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace — Cool rain-drops gemmed the herbage — large and few ; And that dull vault of lead Disparting overhead, Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue. THE CHURCHYARD. 167 And up toward the heavenly portal sprang A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain — Up from my very feet — And Oh ! how clear and sweet Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. " Blithe, blessed creature ! take me there with thee," I cried in spirit — passionately cried — But higher still, and higher Rang out that living lyre, As if the bird disdained me in its pride. And I was left below, but now no more Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night ; Up with the skylark's lay My soul had winged its way To the supernal source of Life and Light. 168 THE MOTHER PRAYING. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. See, in yon chamber's dim recesses, A lady kneels with loosened tresses ; A lovely creature lowly kneeling, With mournful eyes and brow of feeling ; One hand before her meekly spreading, The other back her ringlets shedding, That ay come gushing down betwixt Her eyes and that on which they're fixt. She shudders. See ! Hear how she's sighing, Can one so young, so fair, be dying? Is she some favourite saint adoring, Confessing shame, or God imploring? Her lustrous dark eyes wild are straying, She bows her head — lo ! she is praying. See, see ! before her, slumbering mild, A fair-haired and a faded child ; He is her son, — could any other Look with those rapt looks save a mother ? That bosom which seems nigh the burstin', Yon child was suckled, nestled, nurst in ; Those lips which o'er his sick bed hang, Have shrieked for him the birthtime pang ; That heart to God outpoured and offered, Death for her son hath three times suffered. THE MOTHER PRAYING. 169 O ! of all mortal pangs there's nought So dreadful as the death of thought. He wakes, he smiles, looks up — and there He rises — God hath heard her prayer ; While she, 'twixt sobbing, tears, and shrieking, Clasps him with heart too big for speaking — She holds him up to God. And now, Proud priest of Rome, what canst Thou do ? In all thy miracles there's nought Like that a mother's prayers hath wrought. ON A LADY WHO WOULD SING ONLY IN THE EVENING. Like the sad-hearted minstrel of the Moon, Who will not pour her misanthropic lay Until the Night grows upward to its noon, And the winds hymn the death-song of the day ; But silent all, in woodlands far away, A little hermit sits within her cell, Mossy and dim, where no intruding ray Peeps through the solitude she loves so well : Like her, the sweet enchantress of the dell ! Thou wilt not sing, until the stars arise : And then, like her, for ever wilt thou dwell On themes to make Pity weep out her eyes ! Sure thou wert once a Nightingale ! — And when Thou leav'st this world, thou shalt be one again ! D. 170 THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE QUEEN'S WAKE. Sit near me, my children, and come nigh, all ye who are not of my kindred, though of my flock ; for my days and hours are numbered ; death is with me deal- ing, and I have a sad and a wonderful story to relate. I have preached and ye have profited ; but what I am about to say is far better than man's preaching, it is one of those terrible sermons which God preaches to mankind, of blood unrighteously shed, and most won- drously avenged. The like has not happened in these our latter days. His presence is visible in it; and I reveal it that its burthen may be removed from my soul, so that I may die in peace ; and I disclose it, that you may lay it up in your hearts and tell it soberly to your children, that the warning memory of a dispensation so marvellous may live and not perish. Of the deed itself, some of you have heard a whispering ; and some of you know the men of whom I am about to speak ; but the mystery which covers them up as with a cloud I shall remove ; listen, therefore, my children, to a tale of truth, and may you profit by it ! CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 171 On Dryfe Water, in Annandale, lived Walter John- stone, a man open hearted and kindly, but proud withal and warm tempered ; and on the same water lived John Macmillan, a man of a nature grasping and sordid, and as proud and hot tempered as the other. They were strong men, and vain of their strength ; lovers of plea- sant company, well to live in the world, extensive dealers in corn and cattle ; married too, and both of the same age — five and forty years. They often met, yet they were not friends ; nor yet were they com- panions, for bargain making and money seeking nar- roweth the heart and shuts up generosity of soul. They were jealous, too, of one another's success in trade, and of the fame they had each acquired for feats of personal strength and agility, and skill with the sword — a weapon which all men carried, in my youth, who were above the condition of a peasant. Their mutual and growing dislike was inflamed by the whisperings of evil friends, and confirmed by the skilful manner in which they negotiated bargains over each other's heads. When they met, a short and surly greeting was exchanged, and those who knew their natures looked for a meeting between them, when the sword or some other dangerous weapon would settle for ever their claims for precedence in cunning and in strength. They met at the fair of Longtown, and spoke, and no more — with them both it was a busy day, and mutual hatred subsided for a time, in the love of turning the penny and amassing gain. The market rose and fell, and fell and rose ; and it was whispered that 172 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. Macmillan, through the superior skill or good fortune of his rival, had missed some bargains which were very valuable, while some positive losses touched a nature extremely sensible of the importance of wealth. One was elated and the other depressed — but not more de- pressed than moody and incensed, and in this temper they were seen in the evening in the back room of a public inn, seated apart and silent, calculating losses and gains, drinking deeply, and exchanging dark looks of hatred and distrust. They had been observed, during the whole day, to watch each other's movements, and now when they were met face to face, the labours of the day over, and their natures inflamed by liquor as well as by hatred, their companions looked for personal strife between them, and wondered not a little when they saw Johnstone rise, mount his horse, and ride homewards, leaving his rival in Longtown. Soon after- wards Macmillan started up from a moody fit, drank off a large draught of brandy, threw down a half-guinea, nor waited for change — a thing uncommon with him ; and men said, as his horse's feet struck fire from the pavement, that if he overtook Johnstone, there would be a living soul less in the land before sunrise. Before sunrise next morning the horse of Walter Johnstone came with an empty saddle to his stable door. The bridle was trampled to pieces amongst its feet, and its saddle and sides were splashed over with blood as if a bleeding body had been carried across its back. The cry arose in the country, an instant search was made, and on the side of the public road was found CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 173 a place where a deadly contest seemed to have hap- pened. It was in a small green field, bordered by a wood, in the farm of Andrew Pattison. The sod was dinted deep with men's feet, and, trodden down and trampled and sprinkled over with blood as thickly as it had ever been with dew. Blood drops, too, were traced to some distance, but nothing more was discovered ; the body could not be found, though every field was examined and every pool dragged. His money and bills, to the amount of several thousand pounds, were gone, so was his sword — indeed nothing of him could be found on earth save his blood, and for its spilling a strict account was yet to be sought. Suspicion instantly and naturally fell on John Mac- millan, who denied all knowledge of the deed. He had arrived at his own house in due course of time, no marks of weapon or warfare were on him, he performed family worship as was his custom, and he sang the psalm as loudly and prayed as fervently as he was in the habit of doing. He was apprehended and tried, and saved by the contradictory testimony of the wit- nesses against him, into whose hearts the spirit of falsehood seemed to have entered in order to perplex and confound the judgment of men — or rather that man might have no hand in the punishment, but that God should bring it about in his own good time and way. " Revenge is mine, saith the Lord," which meaneth not because it is too sweet a morsel for man, as the scoffer said, but because it is too dangerous. A glance over this conflicting testimony will show how little was then 174 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. known of this foul offence, and how that little was ren- dered doubtful and dark by the imperfections of human nature. Two men of Longtown were examined. One said that he saw Macmillan insulting and menacing John- stone, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword with a look dark and ominous ; while the other swore that he was present at the time, but that it was Johnstone who insulted and menaced Macmillan, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword and pointed to the road homewards. A very expert and searching examination could make no more of them ; they were both respectable men with characters above suspicion. The next witnesses were of another stamp, and their testimony was circuitous and contradictory. One of them was a shepherd — a reluctant witness. His words were these : "I was frae hame on the night of the murder, in the thick of the wood, no just at the place which was bloody and tram- pled, but gaye and near hand it. I canna say I can just mind what I was doing ; I had somebody to see I jalouse, but wha it was is naebody's business but my ain. There was maybe ane forbye myself in the wood, and maybe twa ; there was ane at ony rate, and I am no sure but it was an auld acquaintance. I see nae use there can be in questioning me. I saw nought, and therefore can say nought. I canna but say that I heard something — the trampling of horses, and a rough voice saying, ' Draw and defend yourself.' Then followed the clashing of swords and half smothered sort of work, and then the sound of horses' feet was heard again, and CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 175 that's a' I ken about it ; only I thought the voice was Walter Johnstone's, and so thought Kate Pennie, who was with me and kens as meikle as me." The exami- nation of Katherine Pennie, one of the Pennies of Pen- nieland, followed, and she declared that she had heard the evidence of Dick Purdie with surprise and anger. On that night she was not over the step of her father'>s door for more than five minutes, and that was to look at the sheep in the fauld ; and she neither heard the clash- ing of swords nor the word of man or woman. And with respect to Dick Purdie, she scarcely knew him even by sight ; and if all tales were true that were told of him, she would not venture into a lonely wood with him, under the cloud of night, for a gown of silk with pearls on each sleeve. The shepherd, when recalled, admitted that Kate Pennie might be right, "For after a'," said he, " it happened in the dark, when a man like me, no that gleg of the uptauk, might confound persons. Somebody was with me, I am gaye and sure, frae what took place — if it was nae Kate, I kenna wha it was, and it couldna weel be Kate either, for Kate's a douce quean, and besides is married." The judge dismissed the witnesses with some indignant words, and, turning to the prisoner, said, " John Mac- millan, the prevarications of these witnesses have saved you ; mark my words — saved you from man, but not from God. On the murderer, the Most High will lay his hot right hand, visibly and before men, that we may know that blood unjustly shed will be avenged. You are at liberty to depart." He left the bar and resumed 176 CAMERONIAN PREACHERS TALE. his station and his pursuits as usual ; nor did he appear sensible to the feeling of the country, which was strong against him. A year passed over his head, other events happened, and the murder Of Walter Johnstone began to be dis- missed from men's minds. Macmillan went to the fair of Longtown, and when evening came he was seated in the little back room which I mentioned before, and in company with two men of the names of Hunter and Hope. He sat late, drank deeply, but in the midst of the carousal a knock was heard at the door, and a voice called sharply, "John Macmillan. " He started up, seemed alarmed, and exclaimed, " What in Heaven's name can he want with me?" and opening the door hastily, went into the garden, for he seemed to dread another summons lest his companions should know the voice. As soon as he was gone, one said to the other, " If that was not the voice of Walter Johnstone, I never heard it in my life ; he is either come back in the flesh or in the spirit, and in either way John Macmillan has good cause to dread him." They listened — they heard Mac- millan speaking in great agitation ; he was answered only by a low sound, yet he appeared to understand what was said, for his concluding words were, " Never! never ! I shall rather submit to His judgment who can- not err." When he returned he was pale and shaking, and he sat down and seemed buried in thought. He spread his palms on his knees, shook his head often, then, starting up, said, " The judge was a fool and no prophet — to mortal man is not given the wisdom of God CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 177 — so neighbours let us ride." They mounted their horses and rode homewards into Scotland at a brisk pace. The night was pleasant, neither light nor dark ; there were few travellers out, and the way winded with the hills and with the streams, passing through a pastoral and beautiful country. Macmillan rode close by the side of his companions, closer than was desirable or common ; yet he did not speak, nor make answer when he was spoken to ; but looked keenly and earnestly before and behind him, as if he expected the coming of some one, and every tree and bush seemed to alarm and startle him. Day at last dawned, and with the growing light his alarm subsided, and he began to converse with his companions, and talk with a levity which surprised them more than his silence had done before. The sun was all but risen when they approached the farm of Andrew Pattison, and here and there the top of a high tree and the summit of a hill had caught light upon them. Hope looked to Hunter silently, when they came nigh the bloody spot where it was believed the murder had been committed. Macmillan sat looking resolutely before him, as if determined not to look upon it ; but his horse stopt at once, trembled violently, and then sprung aside, hurling its rider headlong to the ground. All this passed in a moment ; his companions sat astonished ; the horse rushed forward, leaving him on the ground, from whence he never rose in life, for his neck was broken by the fall, and with a convulsive shiver or two he expired. Then did the prediction of N 178 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. the judge, the warning voice and summons of the pre- ceding night, and the spot and the time, rush upon their recollection ; and they firmly believed that a mur- derer and robber lay dead beside them. "His horse saw something," said Hope to Hunter ; " I never saw such flashing eyes in a horse's head •" — " and he saw something too," replied Hunter, " for the glance that he gave to the bloody spot, when his horse started, was one of terror. I never saw such a look, and I wish never to see such another again." When John Macmillan perished, matters stood thus with his memory. It was not only loaded with the sin of blood and the sin of robbery, with the sin of making a faithful woman a widow and her children fatherless, but with the grievous sin also of having driven a worthy family to ruin and beggary. The sum which was lost was large, the creditors were merciless ; they fell upon the remaining substance of Johnstone, sweeping it wholly away ; and his widow sought shelter in a miserable cottage among the Dryfesdale hills, where she supported her children by gathering and spinning wool. In a far different state and condition remained the family of John Macmillan. He died rich and unincumbered, leaving an evil name and an only child, a daughter, wedded to one whom many knew and esteemed, Joseph Howatson by name, a man sober and sedate ; a member, too, of our own broken remnant of Cameronians. Now, my dear children, the person who addresses you was then, as he is yet, God's preacher for the scattered kirk of Scotland, and his tent was pitched CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 179 among the green hills of Annandale. The death of the transgressor appeared unto me the manifest judgment of God, and when my people gathered around me I rejoiced to see so great a multitude, and, standing in the midst of them, I preached in such a wise that they were deeply moved. I took for my text these words, ' * Hath there been evil in the land and the Lord hath not known it V* I discoursed on the wisdom of Provi- dence in guiding the affairs of men. How he permitted our evil passions to acquire the mastery over us, and urge us to deeds of darkness ; allowing us to nourish for a season, that he might strike us in the midst of our splendour in a way so visible and awful that the wildest would cry out, " Behold the finger of God/' I argued the matter home to the heart ; I named no names, but I saw Joseph Howatson hide his face in his hands, for he felt and saw from the eyes which were turned towards him that I alluded to the judgment of God upon his relative. Joseph Howatson went home heavy and sad of heart, and somewhat touched with anger at God's servant for having so pointedly and publicly alluded to his family misfortune ; for he believed his father-in-law was a wise and a worthy man. His way home lay along the banks of a winding and beautiful stream, and just where it entered his own lands there was a rustic gate, over which he leaned for a little space, ruminating upon earlier days, on his wedded wife, on his children, and finally his thoughts settled on his father-in-law. He thought of his kindness to himself and to many others, n2 180 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. on his fulfilment of all domestic duties, on his constant performance of family worship, and on his general reputation for honesty and fair dealing. He then dwelt on the circumstances of Johnstone's disappearance, on the singular summons his father-in-law received in Longtown, and the catastrophe which followed on the spot and on the very day of the year that the murder was supposed to be committed. He was in sore per- plexity, and said aloud, " Would to God that I knew the truth ; but the doors of eternity, alas ! are shut on the secret for ever." He looked up and John Macmillan stood before him — stood with all the calm- ness and serenity and meditative air which a grave man wears when he walks out on a sabbath eve. " Joseph Howatson," said the apparition, " on no secret are the doors of eternity shut — of whom were you speaking ?" "I was speaking," answered he, " of one who is cold and dead, and to whom you bear a strong resemblance." " I am he," said the shape ; " I am John Macmillan." " God of heaven !" replied Joseph Howatson, " how can that be ; did I not lay his head in the grave ; see it closed over him ; how, therefore, can it be ? Heaven permits no such visita- tions." " I entreat you, my son," said the shape, " to believe what I say ; the end of man is not when his body goes to dust ; he exists in another state, and from that state am I permitted to come to you ; waste not time, which is brief, with vain doubts, I am John Macmillan." " Father, father," said the young man, deeply agitated, " answer me, did you kill and rob CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 181 Walter Johnstone?" "I did," said the Spirit, " and for that have I returned to earth ; listen to me." The young man was so much overpowered by a revelation thus fearfully made, that he fell insensible on the ground ; and when he recovered, the moon was shining, the dews of night were upon him, and he was alone. Joseph Howatson imagined that he had dreamed a fearful dream ; and conceiving that Divine Providence had presented the truth to his fancy, he began to con- sider how he could secretly make reparation to the wife and children of Johnstone for the double crime of his relative. But on more mature reflection he was im- pressed with the belief that a spirit had appeared to him, the spirit of his father-in-law, and that his own alarm had hindered him from learning fully the secret of his visit to earth ; he therefore resolved to go to the same place next sabbath night, seek rather than avoid an interview, acquaint himself with the state of bliss or woe in which the spirit was placed, and learn if by acts of affection and restitution he could soften his sufferings or augment his happiness. He went accordingly to the little rustic gate by the side of the lonely stream ; he walked up and down ; hour passed after hour, but he heard nothing and saw nothing save the murmuring of the brook and the hares running among the wild clover. He had resolved to return home, when something seemed to rise from the ground, as shapeless as a cloud at first, but moving with life. It assumed a form, and the appearance of John Macmillan was once more before him. The young man was nothing 182 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. daunted, but looking on the spirit, said, " I thought you just and upright and devout, and incapable of murder and robbery." The spirit seemed to dilate as it made answer. *' The death of Walter Johnstone sits lightly upon me. We had crossed each other's pur- poses, we had lessened each other's gains, we had vowed revenge, we met on fair terms, tied our horses to a gate, and fought fairly and long; and when I slew him, I but did what he sought to do to me. I threw him over his horse, carried him far into the country, sought out a deep quagmire on the north side of the Snipe Knowe, in Crake's Moss, and having secured his bills and other perishable property, with the purpose of returning all to his family, I buried him in the moss, leaving his gold in his purse, and laying his cloak and his sword above him. " Now listen, Joseph Howatson. In my private desk you will find a little key tied with red twine, take it and go to the house of Janet Mathieson in Dumfries, and underneath the hearthstone in my sleeping room you will get my strong-box, open it, it contains all the bills and bonds belonging to Walter Johnstone. Restore them to his widow. I would have restored them but for my untimely death. Inform her privily and covertly where she will find the body of her husband, so that she may bury him in the churchyard with his ancestors. Do these things, that I may have some assuagement of misery; neglect them, and you will become a world's wonder." The spirit vanished with these words, and was seen no more. CAMEROMAN PREACHER'S TALE. 183 Joseph Howatson was sorely troubled. He had com- muned with a spirit, he was impressed with the belief that early death awaited him ; he felt a sinking of soul and a misery of body, and he sent for me to help him with counsel, and comfort him in his unexampled sorrow. I loved him and hastened to him ; I found him weak and woe-begone, and the hand of God seemed to be sore upon him. He took me out to the banks of the little stream where the shape appeared to him, and having desired me to listen without interrupting him, told me how he had seen his father-in-law's spirit, and related the revelations which it had made and the com- mands it had laid upon him. "And now," he said, " look upon me. I am young, and ten days ago I had a body strong and a mind buoyant, and gray hairs and the honours of old age seemed to await me. But ere three days pass I shall be as the clod of the valley, for he who converses with a spirit, a spirit shall he soon become. I have written down the strange tale I have told you and I put it into your hands, perform for me and for my wretched parent, the instructions which the grave yielded up its tenant to give ; and may your days be long in the land, and may you grow gray-headed among your people." I listened to his words with wonder and with awe, and I promised to obey him in all his wishes with my best and most anxious judgment. We went home together ; we spent the evening in prayer. Then he set his house in order, spoke to all his children cheerfully and with a mild voice, and fall- ing on the neck of his wife, said, "Sarah Macmillan, 184 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. you were the choice of my young heart, and you have been a wife to me kind, tender, and gentle." He looked at his children and he looked at his wife, for his heart was too full for more words, and retired to his chamber. He was found next, morning kneeling by his bedside, his hands held out as if repelling some approaching object, horror stamped on every feature, and cold and dead. Then I felt full assurance of the truth of his commu- nications ; and as soon as the amazement which his untimely death occasioned had subsided, and his wife and little ones were somewhat comforted, I proceeded to fulfd his dying request. I found the small key tied with red twine, and I went to the house of Janet Ma- thieson in Dumfries, and I held up the key and said, "Woman, knowest thou that?" and when she saw it she said, " Full well I know it, it belonged to a jolly man and a douce, and mony a merry hour has he whiled away wi' my servant maidens and me." And when she saw me lift the hearthstone, open the box, and spread out the treasure which it contained, she held up her hands, " Eh ! what o' gowd ! what o' gowd ! but half's mine, be ye saint or sinner ; John Macmillan, douce man, aye said he had something there which he considered as not belonging to him but to a quiet friend ; weel I wot he meant me, for I have been a quiet friend to him and his." I told her I was commissioned by his daughter to remove the property, that I was the minister of that persecuted remnant of the true kirk called Came- ronians, and she might therefore deliver it up without CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 185 fear. " I ken weel enough wha ye are," said this worth- less woman, " d'ye think I dinna ken a minister of the kirk ; I have seen meikle o' their siller in my day, frae eighteen to fifty and aught have I caroused with divines, Cameronians, I trow, as well as those of a freer kirk* But touching this treasure, give me twenty gowden pieces, else I'se gar three stamps of my foot bring in them that will see me righted, and send you awa to the mountains bleating like a sheep shorn in winter." I gave the imperious woman twenty pieces of gold, and carried away the fatal box. Now, when I got free of the ports of Dumfries, I mounted my little horse and rode away into the heart of the country, among the pastoral hills of Dryfesdale. I carried the box on the saddle before me, and its contents awakened a train of melancholy thoughts within me. There were the papers of Walter Johnstone, correspond- ing to the description which the spirit gave, and marked with his initials in red ink by the hand of the man who slew him. There were two gold watches and two purses of gold, all tied with red twine, and many bills and much money to which no marks were attached. As I rode along pondering on these things, and casting about in my own mind how and by what means I should make restitution, I was aware of a morass, broad and wide, which with all its quagmires glittered in the moonlight before me. I knew I had penetrated into the centre of Dryfesdale, but I was not well acquainted with the country ; I therefore drew my bridle, and looked around to see if any house was nigh, where I could find shelter 186 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. for the night. I saw a small house built of turf and thatched with heather, from the window of which a faint light glimmered. I rode up, alighted, and there I found a woman in widow's weeds, with three sweet children, spinning yarn from the wool which the shepherds shear in spring from the udders of the ewes. She welcomed me, spread bread and placed milk before me. I asked a blessing, and ate and drank, and was refreshed. Now it happened that, as I sat with the solitary woman and her children, there came a man to the door, and with a loud yell of dismay burst it open and stag- gered forward crying, " There's a corse candle in Crake's Moss, and I'll be a dead man before the morning." " Preserve me ! piper, said the widow, ye 're in a piteous taking ; here is a holy man who will speak comfort to you, and tell you how all these are but delusions of the eye or exhalations of nature." " Delusions and exha- lations, Dame Johnstone," said the piper, " d'ye think I dinna ken a corse light from an elf candle, an elf candle from a will-o'-wisp, and a will-o'-wisp from all other lights of this wide world." The name of the morass and the woman's name now flashed upon me, and I was struck with amazement and awe. I looked on the widow, and I looked on the wandering piper, and I said, "Let me look on those corse lights, for God creates nothing in vain ; there is a wise purpose in all things, and a wise aim." And the piper said, " Na, na; I have nae wish to see ony mair on't, a dead light bodes the living nae gude ; and I am sure if I gang near Crake's Moss it will lair me amang the hags and quags." CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 187 And I said, "Foolish old man, you are equally safe every where ; the hand of the Lord reaches round the earth, and strikes and protects according as it was fore- ordained, for nothing is hid from his eyes — come with me/' And the piper looked strangely upon me and stirred not a foot ; and I said, " I shall go by myself;" and the woman said, " Let me go with you, for I am sad of heart, and can look on such things without fear ; for, alas ! since I lost my own Walter Johnstone, pleasure is no longer pleasant : and I love to wander in lonesome places and by old churchyards." " Then," said the piper, " I darena bide my lane with the bairns ; I'll go also ; but O! let me strengthen my heart with ae spring on my pipes before I venture." " Play," I said, u Clavers and his Highlandmen, it is the tune to cheer ye and keep your heart up." " Your honour's no cannie," said the old man ; " that's my favourite tune." So he played it and said, " Now I am fit to look on lights of good or evil." And we walked into the open air. All Crake's Moss seemed on fire ; not illumined with one steady and uninterrupted light, but kindled up by fits like the northern sky with its wandering streamers. On a little bank which rose in the centre of the morass, the supernatural splendour seemed chiefly to settle ; and having continued to shine for several minutes, the whole faded and left but one faint gleam behind. I fell on my knees, held up my hands to heaven, and said, " This is of God ; behold in that fearful light the finger of the Most High. Blood has been spilt, and can be no longer 188 CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. concealed ; the point of the mariner's needle points less surely to the north than yon living flame points to the place where man's body has found a bloody grave. Follow me," and I walked down to the edge of the moss and gazed earnestly on the spot. I knew now that I looked on the long hidden resting place of Walter Johnstone, and considered that the hand of God was manifest in the way that I had been thus led blindfold into his widow's house. I reflected for a moment on these things ; I wished to right the fatherless, yet spare the feelings of the innocent ; the supernatural light partly showed me the way, and the words which I now heard whispered by my companions aided in directing the rest. " I tell ye, Dame Johnstone," said the piper, " the man's no cannie ; or what's waur, he may belong to the spiritual world himself, and do us a mischief. Saw ye ever mortal man riding with ae spur and carrying a silver-headed cane for a whip, wi' sic a fleece of hair about his haffets and sic a wild ee in his head ; and then he kens a' things in the heavens aboon and the earth beneath. He kenned my favourite tune Clavers ; I'se uphaud he's no in the body, but ane of the souls made perfect of the auld Covenanters whom Grahame or Grierson slew ; we're daft to follow him." " Fool body," I heard the widow say, " I'll follow him ; there's something about that man, be he in the spirit or in the flesh, which is pleasant and promising. O ! could he but, by prayer or other means of lawful knowledge, tell me about my dear Walter Johnstone ; thrice lias he ap- CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 189 peared to me in dream or vision with a sorrowful look, and weel ken I what that means." We had now reached the edge of the morass, and a dim and uncertain light continued to twinkle about the green knoll which rose in its middle. I turned suddenly round and said, " For a wise purpose am I come ; to reveal murder ; to speak consolation to the widow and the fatherless, and to soothe the perturbed spirits of those whose fierce pas- sions ended in untimely death. Come with me ; the hour is come, and I must not do my commission negli- gently." u I kenned it, I kenned it," said the piper, he's just one of the auld persecuted worthies risen from his red grave to right the injured, and he'll do't dis- creetly ; follow him, Dame, follow him." "I shall follow," said the widow, " I have that strength given me this night which will bear me through all trials which mortal flesh can endure." When we reached the little green hillock in the centre of the morass, I looked to the north and soon distinguished the place described by my friend Joseph Howatson, where the body of Walter Johnstone was deposited. The moon shone clear, the stars aided us with their light, and some turfcutters having left their spades standing near, I ordered the piper to take a spade and dig where I placed my staff. ' ' O dig care- fully," said the widow, " do not be rude with mortal dust." We dug and came to a sword ; the point was broken and the blade hacked. " It is the sword of my Walter Johnstone," said his widow, " I could swear to it among a thousand." " It is my father's sword," 190 CAMERONIAN PREACHERS TALE. said a fine dark haired boy who had followed us unper- ceived, "it is my father's sword, and were he living who wrought this, he should na be lang in rueing it." " He is dead, my child," I said, " and beyond your reach, and vengeance is the Lord's." " O, Sir," cried his widow, in a flood of tears, " ye ken all things; tell me, is this my husband or no ?" " It is the body of Walter Johnstone," I answered, " slain by one who is passed to his account, and buried here by the hand that slew him, with his gold in his purse and his watch in his pocket." So saying we uncovered the body, lifted it up, laid it on the grass ; the embalming nature of the morass had preserved it from decay, and mother and child, with tears and with cries, named his name and lamented over him. His gold watch and his money, his cloak and his dress, were untouched and entire, and we bore him to the cottage of his widow, where with clasped hands she sat at his feet and his children at his head till the day drew nigh the dawn ; I then rose and said, " Woman, thy trials have been severe and mani- fold ; a good wife, a good mother, and a good widow hast thou been, and thy reward will be where the blessed alone are admitted. It was revealed to me by a myste- rious revelation that thy husband's body was where we found it ; and I was commissioned by a voice, assuredly not of this world, to deliver thee this treasure, which is thy own, that thy children may be educated, and that bread and raiment may be thine." And I delivered her husband's wealth into her hands, refused gold which she offered, and mounting my horse, rode over the hills CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 191 and saw her no more. But I soon heard of her, for there rose a strange sound in the land, that a Good Spirithad appeared to the widow of Walter Johnstone, had disclosed where her husband's murdered body lay, had enriched her with all his lost wealth, had prayed by her side till the blessed dawn of day, and then vanished with the morning light. I closed my lips on the secret till now ; and I reveal it to you, my children, that you may know there is a God who ruleth this world by wise and invisible means, and punisheth the wicked, and cheereth the humble of heart and the lowly minded. Such was the last sermon of the good John Farley, a man whom I knew and loved. I think I see him now, with his long white hair and his look mild, eloquent, and sagacious. He was a giver of good counsel, a sayer of wise sayings, with wit at will, learning in abundance, and a gift in sarcasm which the wildest dreaded. 192 PICKABACK; OR, MOTHER AND CHILD. Young mother, may thy spirit long Retain its joyous light, Thy step as firm and springy be, Thy brow as smooth and bright As now, e'er cares of womanhood Have left one dreary trace, Deprived thee of one youthful charm, Or marred one maiden grace ! And that fair rosy boy ! 'tis bliss Heart-thrilling and divine, To clasp him in thine arms, and press His ruddy lips to thine ; — To hear his artless thoughts lisped forth In music's gentlest tone ; To mark the gaze of his blue eye Uplifted to thine own. E.Westall .R.A.del .RolU.fcffip. 1* I C K A B A. C K PTXBI.TSHP.n OCT. 1.]B?.6. BT JOHN SMRPS.IOKDO"S PICKABACK. 193 Along the smooth and fragrant turf To act the courser's part, And fondly hail the rapturous gush Of laughter from his heart ; — Yes, these are earth's divinest joys, Surpassed alone in heaven, — And shall they die like summer flowers, And fade like hues of even ? Alas ! alas ! the brightest morn May change to darkest day, And where the early sunshine glowed Wild tempests hold their way ; Glad voices may grow sorrowful, And merry eyes be dim, And grief may lurk in wait for thee, And wasting pain for him ! 'Twere vain — 'twere impotent to wish That Time should stay his wing, Autumn and Winter must succeed To Summer and to Spring ; Or fain I'd hope years, withering years, Might thy pure pleasures spare, Leave him as artless and as young, And thee as glad and fair ! N. H. 194 INSCRIPTIONS FOR THE CALEDONIAN CANAL. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. 1. AT CLACHNACHARRY. Athwart the island here, from sea to sea, Between these mountain barriers, the great glen Of Scotland offers to the traveller, Through wilds impervious else, an easy path, Along the shore of rivers and of lakes, In line continuous, whence the waters flow Dividing, east and west. Thus had they held For untold centuries their perpetual course Unprofited, till in the Georgian age This mighty work was planned, which should unite The lakes, control the innavigable streams, And through the bowels of the land deduce A way, where vessels which must else have braved The formidable cape, and have essayed The perils of the Hyperborean sea, Might from the Baltic to the Atlantic deep Pass and repass at will. So when the storm Careers abroad, may they securely here, INSCRIPTIONS. 195 Through birchen groves, green fields, and pastoral hills, Pursue their voyage home. Humanity May boast this proud expenditure, begun By Britain in a time of arduous war ; Through all the efforts and emergencies Of that long strife continued ; and achieved After her triumph, even at the time When national burdens bearing on the state Were felt with heaviest pressure. Such expense Is best economy. In growing wealth, Comfort, and spreading industry, behold The fruits immediate ! And in days to come Fitly shall this great British work be named With whatsoe'er of most magnificence For public use, Rome in her plenitude Of power effected, or all-glorious Greece, Or Egypt, mother-land of all the arts. 2. AT FORT AUGUSTUS. Thou who hast reached this level where the glede Wheeling between the mountains in mid air, Eastward or westward as his gyre inclines, Descries the German or the Atlantic Sea, Pause here ; and as thou seest the ship pursue Her easy way serene, call thou to mind By what exertions of victorious art The way was opened. Fourteen times upheaved The vessel hath ascended since she changed The salt sea water for the Highland lymph : As oft in imperceptible descent o 2 196 INSCRIPTIONS FOR Must, step by step, be lowered, before she woo The ocean breeze again. Thou hast beheld What basins most capacious of their kind Enclose her, while the obedient element Lifts or depones its burthen. Thou hast seen The torrent hurrying from its native hills Pass underneath the broad canal inhumed, Then issue harmless thence ; the rivulet Admitted by its intake peaceably, Forthwith by gentle overfall discharged : And haply too thou hast observed the herds Frequent their vaulted path, unconscious they * That the wide waters on the long low arch Above them, lie sustained. What other works Science, audacious in emprize, hath wrought, Meet not the eye, but well may fill the mind. Not from the bowels of the land alone, From lake and stream hath their diluvial wreck Been scooped to form this navigable way ; Huge rivers were controled, or from their course Shouldered aside ; and at the eastern mouth, Where the salt ooze denied a resting place, There were the deep foundations laid, by weight On weight immersed, and pile on pile down-driven, Till stedfast as the everlasting rocks The massive outwork stands. Contemplate now What days and nights of thought, what years of toil, What inexhaustive springs of public wealth The vast design required ; the immediate good ; The future benefit progressive still, THE CALEDONIAN CANAL. 197 And thou wilt pay thy tribute of due praise To those whose counsels, whose decrees, whose care For after ages formed the generous work. 3. AT BANAVIE. Where these capacious basins, by the laws Of the subjacent element receive The ship, descending or upraised, eight times, From stage to stage with unfelt agency Translated, fitliest may the marble here Record the architect's immortal name. Telford it was by whose presiding mind The whole great work was planned and perfected ; Telford, who o'er the vale of Cambrian Dee, Aloft in air, at giddy height upborne, Carried his navigable road, and hung High o'er Menai's straits the bending bridge ; Structures of more ambitious' enterprise, Than minstrels in the age of old romance To their own Merlin's magic lore ascribed. Nor hath he for his native land performed Less, in this proud design ; and where his piers Around her coast from many a fisher's creek Unsheltered else, and many an ample port, Repel the assailing storm ; and where his roads In beautiful and sinuous line far seen, Wind with the vale, and win the long ascent, Now o'er the deep morass sustained, and now Across ravine, or glen, or estuary, Opening a passage through the wilds subdued. 198 THE SEA-KING'S DEATH-SONG. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. I'll launch my gallant bark no more, Nor smile to see how gay- Its pennon dances, as we bound Along the watery way ; The wave I walk on's mine — the god I worship is the breeze ; My rudder is my magic rod, Of rule, on isles and seas : Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France, Or shores of swarthy Spain ; Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord, When monarch of the main. When last upon the surge I rode, A strong wind on me shot, And tossed me as I toss my plume, In battle fierce and hot ; Three days and nights no sun I saw, Nor gentle star, nor moon ; Three foot of foam flashed o'er my decks, I sang to see it — soon THE SEA-KING'S DEATH-SONG. 199 The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun, Broad dimpling smiled the brine ; I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made Half of her riches mine. The wild hawk wets her yellow foot In blood of serf and king ; Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe, And helm and cuirass ring ; The foam flies from the charger's flanks, Like wreaths of winter's snow ; Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start In thousands from the bow — Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all, Use tongue and tuneful chord — Be mute ! — My music is the clang Of cleaving axe and sword. Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust In mortar and in stone ; Who rears a wall, or builds a tower, Or makes on earth his throne ; My monarch throne's the willing wave, That bears me to the beach ; My sepulchre's the deep sea surge, Where lead shall never reach ; My death song is the howling wind, That bends my quivering mast, — Bid England's maidens join the song, I there made orphans last. 200 THE sea-king's death-song. Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me, Oft, oft, by frith and flood, I called ye forth to feast on kings.; Who now shall give ye food? Mourn, too, thou deep devouring sea, For of earth's proudest lords We served thee oft a sumptuous feast With our sharp shining swords ; Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou 'It hear Armed thousands shout my name, Nor see me rushing, red wet shod, Through cities doomed to flame. My race is run, my flight is flown ; And, like the eagle free, That soars into the cloud and dies, I leave my life on sea. To man I yield not ; spear nor sword Ne'er harmed me in their ire, Vain on me Europe shower' d her shafts, And Asia poured her fire. Nor wound, nor scar, my body bears, My lip made never moan, And Odin bold, who gave me life, Now comes and takes his own. Light ! light there ! let me get one look, — Yon is the golden sky, With all its glorious lights, and there My subject sea flows by: THE SEA-KING'S DEATH-SONG. 201 Around me all my comrades stand, Who oft have trod with me On princes' necks, a joy that's flown, And never more may be. Now put my helmet on my head, My bright sword in my hand, That I may die as I have lived, In arms and high command. ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND IRISH BEAUTY. It has been said by some one, and if not said, it shall be said now, that no woman is incapable of inspiring love, fixing affection, and making a man happy. We are far less influenced by outward loveliness than we imagine. Men speak with admiration and write with rapture of the beauty which the artist loves, which, like genius in the system of Gall, is ascertained by scale and compass : but in practice, see how they despise those splendid theories, and yield to a sense of beauty and loveliness, of which the standard is in their own hearts. It is not the elegance of form, for that is often imperfect ; it is not in loveliness of face, for there nature has been perchance neglectful ; nor is it in the charm of sentiment or sweet words, for even among women there is an occasional lack of that ; neither is it in the depth 202 BEAUTY. of their feelings, nor in the sincerity of their affection that their whole power over man springs from. Yet every woman, beautiful or not, has that power more or less ; and every man yields to its influence. The women of all nations are beautiful. Female beauty, in the limited sense of the word, is that outward form and proportion which corresponds with the theories of poets and the rules of artists — of which every nation has examples, and of which every woman has a share. But beauty, by a more natural definition of the word, is that indescribable charm, that union of many quali- ties of person and mind and heart, which insures to man the greatest portion of happiness. One of our best poets has touched on this matter with the wisdom of inspiration ; these are his words : She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be : But she is in her grave, and, Oh ! The difference to me ! This was a maiden something more to the purpose than the slender damsels whom academies create on canvass, or of whom some bachelor bards dream. The Poet of Rydal Mount is a married man, and knows from what sources domestic happiness comes. The gossamer crea- tions of the fancy, were they transformed to breathing flesh and blood, would never do for a man's bosom. Those delicate aerial visions, those personified zephyrs, BEAUTY. 203 are decidedly unfit for the maternal wear and tear of the world, and would never survive the betrothing. Not so the buxom dames of our two fine islands. It was the intention of nature that they should be the mothers of warriors and poets and philosophers and historians, of men of sense and science ; and she formed them for the task. Look at them as they move along. If art with its scale and its compasses and its eternal chant of " the beau ideal — the beau ideal," had peo- pled the world, we would have been a nation of ninnies, our isles would have been filled with lay figures and beings "beautiful exceedingly/' but loveless, joyless, splendidly silly, and elegantly contemptible. It has been better ordered. I have looked much on man, and more on woman. The world presents a distinct image of my own percep- tion of beauty ; and from the decisions of true love I could lay down the law of human affection, and the universal sense entertained respecting female loveli- ness. There is no need to be profound, there is no occasion for research ; look on wedded society, it is visible to all. There, a man very plain is linked to a woman very lovely ; a creature as silent as marble, to one eloquent, fluent, and talkative ; a very tall man to a very little woman ; a very portly lady to a man short, slender, and attenuated ; the brown weds the black, and the white the golden ; personal deformities are not in the way of affection ; love contradicts all our theories of loveliness, and happiness has no more to do with beauty than a good crop of corn has with the personal looks of him who sowed the seed. The question, there- 204 BEAUTY. fore, which some simple person has put, "which of the three kingdoms has the most beautiful ladies ?" is one of surpassing absurdity. Who would ever think of going forth with rules of artists in their hands, and scraps of idle verse on their lips, to measure and adjust the precedence of beauty among the three nations ? Who shall say which is the fairest flower of the field, which is the brightest of the stars of heaven ? One loves the daisy for its modesty, another the rose for its splendour, and a third the lily for its purity ; and they are all right. We know not, indeed, by our natural theory of female loveliness, which of the nations has the most beautiful women, because we know not which of them is the happiest. Wherever there is most bosom tranquillity, most domestic happiness, there beauty reigns in all its strength. Look at that mud hovel on one of the wild hills of Ireland ; smoke is streaming from door and window ; a woman to six healthy children and a happy husband, is portioning out a simple and scanty meal ; she is a good mother and an affectionate wife ; and though tinged with smoke and touched by care, she is warmly beloved ; she is lovely in her husband's eyes, and is therefore beautiful. Go into yon Scottish cot- tage ; there is a clean floor, a bright fire, merry children, a thrifty wife, and a husband who is nursing the youngest child and making a whistle for the eldest. The woman is lovely and beautiful, and an image of thrift and good housewifery, beyond any painter's creation ; her hus- band believes her beautiful too, and whilst making the little instrument of melody to please his child, he thinks BEAUTY. 205 of the rivals from whom he won her, and how fair she is compared to all her early companions. Or here is a house at hand, hemmed round with fruit trees and flowers, while the blossoming tassels of honeysuckle perfume us as we pass in at the door. Enter and behold that Englishwoman, out of keeping with all the rules of academic beauty, full and ample in her person, her cheeks glowing with vulgar health, her eyes shining with quiet happiness, her children swarming like sum- mer bees, her house shining like a new clock, and her movements as regular as one of Murray's chronometers. There sits her husband, a sleek contented man, well fed, clean lodged, and softly handled, who glories in the good looks and sagacity of his wife, and eyes her affec- tionately as he holds the shining tankard to his lips, and swallows slowly and with protracted delight the healthy beverage which she has brewed. Now, that is a beauti- ful woman; and why is she beautiful ? She is beautiful, because the gentleness of her nature and the kindliness of her heart throw a household halo around her person, adorning her as a honeysuckle adorns an ordinary tree, and impressing her mental image on our minds. Such is beauty in my sight — a creation more honourable to nature and more beneficial to man, and in itself infinitely more lovely, even to look upon, than those shapes made according to the line and level of art, which please inexperienced eyes, delude dreamers, fascinate old bachelors, and catch the eye and vex the heart. M. 206 THE THREE QUESTIONS. During the sunset of a summer's day, I chanced to enter one of those numerous glens in the north country, where a ruined castle and a parish kirk present an image of war and peace, and where a clear deep stream, tenanted with trouts, runs glittering in link succeeding link, amongst the homes and gardens of the peasantry. The beauty and seclusion of the scene induced me to stop and look; several old gray-headed men walked idly about, shepherds and hinds returned from their labours on the hills, their wives saw them approach with a silent gladness of eye ; the whole place swarmed with children. A young woman, a mother and a widow, sat at her door spinning flax ; one son had just returned from school, the flask which held milk for his midday meal was on his back, his catechism was in his hand, while a brother and a sister, both less than himself, stood with their hands and hats filled with flowers which they had gathered in their native glen. She smiled on her children, set her wheel aside, clasped her hands on her knees, and looked upward, silent and happy. Her little daughter, with dark eyes, a head overflowed with glittering curls, and a voice as THE THREE QUESTIONS. 207 sweet as music, tried several innocent stratagems to gain her mother's notice ; she held up her hat and flowers, showed first a foxglove and then a honeysuckle, crying, " Look, mother, look, I pulled this at the Raven's Crag, and Johnnie pulled that by the Otter's Pool." Her mother answered only by passing her hand tenderly over her head, and stroking down her clusters of natural curls. The moon now became a visiter, and rising over the eastern woods, dropt her light into every nook of the glen, making stream and cottage shine. The little girl looked anxiously in her mother's face, and said, " Who made the moon, mother ; and why is it shining there?" Her mother seemed in no haste to speak, but sat looking upwards, in quiet gladness of heart. The child made her hands quiver and her feet patter, and cried again with importunate impatience of voice, "WHO MADE THE MOON?" " The moon was made, Mary," said her mother, " to give us light by night, as the sun gives us light by day ; a mild and sober light, refreshing to our eyes and plea- sant to look upon. It has risen where it rises now, shining with the same beauty and purity, since woods grew and water ran, since man obeyed God and little children loved his name. The moon was made to be the evening companion to man, to cheer him with its dewy light when the sun which ripens corn and fruit is withdrawn, and man retires from labour. It rises now 208 THE THREE QUESTIONS. in its appointed place, to fulfil the will of its Maker, as you, my child, rise in the morning at the command of your mother ; it has its evening duty to do on earth, as you have your bedtime duty to do to God. Yon cloud now passing along, hides its beauty but for a moment ; like virtue, it shines though it is out of our sight. Your uncle, who is sailing on the wide sea, is glad of the rising of the moon ; he stands on deck and rejoices as it rises above the waters. He thinks how often he has seen it arise where you now stand ; its presence unites his heart with home, and he blesses the moon, and bless- ing the moon is honouring the moon's Maker. Your father, too, my poor children, who is now where the blessed are, loved the same moon which you love ; and as he came to us at eve, blest the planet which released him from toil and sent him home to his babes and me. And I, too, have blest the moon, my beloved children, in other days as well as now. When I was a maiden, and in my teens, I was glad to see it rise in the evening and shine on the way along which your father came to sing a song nigh my window, and walk among the trees which I loved and the flowers which I planted. " The moon, my child, is pleasant to the weary hus- bandman ; he wipes his hot brow, and sits and rests him when its light arises. It is pleasant to the wise man, for he has leisure then to give counsel to others and to do his duty to heaven. It is welcome to those who are thirsty for knowledge ; they sit and gather wisdom from the words of the wise, from the songs of the poets, and the sermons of divines. It is gladsome to the song-birds, THE THREE QUESTIONS. 209 for they sit quiet among the green branches, nor dread any longer the hawk. It is pleasant to the deer, they roam then among the dewy groves and by the run- ning streams, for the horn is silent and the chase- dog is chained. It is pleasant to the horse, for he reposes from toil ; and to the milch cow, ruminating over her crib of new mown clover. It is dear to the flowers, for they gather their leaves together, and sleep in fragrance till the sun awakes them. It is pleasant, too, to look upon, for see how brightly it shines on Torthorold Castle, softening into beauty all that is rough and rugged in the massy walls/' Her eldest son looked on the ruin, through whose battered and breached sides the moonlight found a passage, and with a voice anxious and enthusiastic, said, "who built torthorold castle?" She smiled on her child, and answered, " History says it was built by a bold baron to repel the Southron ; but tradition tells another tale. In this glen there lived on a time a man who made shoes ; and in allusion at once to his trade and his disposition, his neighbours called him Skrinky Hardscraes. Now, this man was skilful and diligent, and who on all the banks of the Nith could measure a foot and put it handsomely into black leather compared to him ? He was a merry man too ; he whistled as he made his shoes, and sang as he took them home, and no one in the valley was so happy till he dreamed a dream. He dreamed thrice in one night p 210 THE THREE QUESTIONS. that he found a coffer of gold at the end of London Bridge ; and as he rose from his sleep he was heard to exclaim, ' O what o' gold ! and pure gold too.' He thought of his dream, and was sure it would come to pass ; so he took his staff in his hand and a bag to carry the gold, and went on his way. " Now, the story of his dream ran through the valley ; and when his neighbours saw him depart, they one and all followed him to the gorge of the glen, crying, 1 Skrinky Hardscraes, you're mad, O what o' gold ! and pure gold too/ But he heard them as if he heard them not, and travelled till he came to London ; and the rising sun shone bright on wall and tower and stream, and brighter still on the bridge. He went to the bridge, but no coffer of gold was there ; so he sat down on a stone, clasped his hands, set his knees toge- ther, and placed his heels apart like a good shoemaker, and was very sorrowful. Thousands and tens of thou- sands of people passed him ; he sighed to see them go gaily by, and he thought on his house in the glen with its garden filled with flowers and gooseberry bushes, and on the scoffs and laughter of his neighbours, and he almost shed tears. " Now there came to the end of the bridge an old man with a box of spice and a bag of oranges, and he sat down, and opening the little box from which the smell of cinnamon arose, spread out his oranges, and cried, *, Buy, buy, who will buy.' And Skrinky bought an orange, for sorrow makes the heart dry, and he sucked it and sighed ; and the old man said, ' Friend, thou art THE THREE QUESTIONS. 211 sad.' And Skrinky said, ' I am sad because I have been foolish f and the old man said, i If all the foolish were sad, there would be few dry cheeks in London/ And Skrinky smiled as well as his sorrow would let him, and made answer, * Of my folly you shall judge,' and so he told his dream. ' In truth/ said the old man, ' folly flourishes in the north as well as in the south ; there are some very foolish creatures in the world, though I am not one of them. Of my wisdom be thou the judge. I dreamed a dream and I dreamed it thrice, that in a wild place called Torthorold, where dwells a man called Skrinky Hardscraes, there is as much red gold in a coffer under his middle beehive as would buy a baron's land and build a stately tower ; but I am not the fool to run and seek it.' Skrinky said nought, but bought another orange, and returned home. 1 ' Now word flew far and wide that the dreamer was coming, and out gushed the whole population of the glen to meet him. ' Where's the gold, Skrinky, ye got at London Bridge,' cried one ; * Skrinky, wilt thou dream me a golden dream,' cried a second ; ' Stick to your inseam awls, outseam awls, pegging awls, and closing awls,' shouted a third ; while, worse than all, a man who was infected with the incurable malady of rhyme chanted aloud : O silly Skrinky Hardscraes ! When red grapes grow on Tinwald braes, When eagles build 'mang Amisfield broom, When ships of might down Lochar swoom, When Scotland is to England knit By might of sword or slight of wit, P2 212 THE THREE QUESTIONS. When in Lochmaben Castle stark The blind bats build and foxes bark, And Nith's cold water carries cream, Thou'lt find red gold to rid thy dream. Skrinky smiled to one and shook his empty bag good lmmouredly at another, and went home and recom- menced his whistling and his making of shoes. It happened soon after that the neighbours saw him mea- suring out the foundations and giving directions for build- ing a grand castle, and they rubbed their eyes and said, * Skrinky's wiser than we believed him ;' but when they beheld the walls rising and saw towers climbing into the air and the dreamer presiding over all, they rubbed their eyes again, and Skrinky said unto them, ' Neigh- bours, have ye dreamed a dream?' and they said, ' Whose tower is that V And he made answer, ' It be- longeth to one who was once a maker of shoes, but who is now a bold border baron ; a foolish man, a dreamer of dreams, and Skrinky Hardscraes is his name.' And they all wondered and cried, ' Long live the dreamer of dreams, and long live Skrinky Hardscraes ; may his banner ever float free on his castle wall, and may his lance pierce as surely as his elson V And so Torthorold Castle was built, my child, and there it will stand, says the legend, till Nith runs dry." The widow's youngest son looked on the stream as it flowed and dimpled in the sweet moonlight, and said, " WHEN WILL THE NITH RUN DRY ?" " The Nith will never run dry, my child, while the snn shines and the grass grows. It runs and will ever run. THE THREE QUESTIONS. 213 The folly of man may stain it and turn its course, but still the stream will flow and refresh the land. Nor is it to shine in the sun or glitter to the moon that its Maker has poured it out. There is a use and intention in all the works of nature ; nor does she do her work slovenly or unwisely like man. That river is made up of many brooks, and each brook waters its own little vale, refreshes its own trees and flowers, turns the mill which grinds the corn, supplies water to the maiden to bleach her linen, is drink to man and beast, and contains within its bosom ten thousand speckled trouts which leap in the water and play in the sunlighted pools. All those brooks gather into one and form a river, broad and deep, on the banks of which castles and cities are built, and on the bosom of which ships swim as swans do, and spreading out their wings, bring to us the fatness of far countries. The river has its people also as the earth has. The fish which swim there come as food to man, and nothing can surpass them in beauty as they glide along in their native element. God sends the river and God sends the fish, that they may be a benefit and a blessing to the sons of men. Listen, my children. There was once a good man who lived in this vale, and he had a wife and seven children. And it was a time of drought and of famine, and crops failed and cattle died, and his children cried for bread and he had none to give them. And he went out and the moon shone bright on the hill and bright on a rich man's flock of sheep, and the unhappy man said to himself, ' I shall take one from the fold, for my children will surely perish/ And he took a staff in his hand and began to wade the river: as he 214 THE THREE QUESTIONS. passed through, he saw two large fish struggling to swim up the ford, and he struck them with his staff and car- ried them home, and said, ' Eat, and bless the Lord, for he is good, and has delivered me this night from a great sin ; eat, for these are of his providing/ So he asked a blessing when they were dressed, and his wife and chil- dren ate, and want fled and never more returned ; and before he died he told me the story, that the mercy of God might be known among us. Let us go in and bless him and praise him, my children, for he is good and he is merciful and he is wondrous." FONTHILL. Man and his works ! The meteor's gleam, The sun-flash on a winter stream, A vision seen in sleep, that gives Of gladness more than aught which lives, A palace from a splendid cloud Formed, while the wind is rising loud, A bubble on the lake, a cry Heard sad from sea when storms are high, Ways made through air by wild birds' wings, Are sure and well established things ; Man and his works ! words writ on snow Are emblem of them both below : Stars dropt from heaven to darkness thrown, A moment light — and all is gone. FONTHILL. 215 See, Art has cast her spell to check Man's greatness ere it goes to wreck ; Here, Turner, with a wizard's power, Has fixed in splendour tree and tower ; And bravely from oblivion won, A landscape steeped in dew and sun. A grove, a shepherd, sheep, a rill, Towers seen o'er all — behold Fonthill '. Where, like a saint embalmed and shrined, Long worshiped Beckford dozed and dined ; Strayed through that wood, strolled by that brook Ate much — thought little— wrote a book ; Tattled with titled dames and sighed In state like any prince, and died. And that's Fonthill ! things of high fame Less lovely are in look than name — Spots bright in song and fair in story Glow far less lustrous than their glory : Historians' heroes, poets' lasses, Shine glorious through Fame's magic glasses, Who in rude war, or rapture's hour, Had no such heart-inspiring power. So fares it with Fonthill, which proud Shoots there in lustre to the cloud ; Give fame its portion, art its share, And all the rest is empty air. No longer, through the lighted hall, - Its lord at midnight leads the ball ; Nor, dancing 'mid its dazzling rooms, . Young jewelled beauty shakes her plumes ; 216 FONTHILL. Nor bards are there, glad to rehearse A rich man's praise in trembling verse ; Nor shrewder souls who breathe rich wines In laughter when their landlord shines : All, all are gone — the green grass sward, On jewelled belle and beau and bard And man of rank, grows long and green, Nor seems to know that such have been. The tower that rose so proud and fair, Hath left its station in mid air ; While in its place the sunbeam flings Its glory down — the skylark sings : O'er the wide space usurped by vain Man, Nature hath resumed her reign. So hath it been, and will be still With all, as well as proud Fonthill. Where's Cicero's villa, Caesar's hall ? Attila's hut, Alaric's pall ? The throne of iron whence late flew forth Napoleon's words which shook the earth ? Men, glorious men, where are they gone, Who ruled and fooled and sinned and shone ? And women who, like babes in strings, Led mighty earls and conquering kings ? They lie beneath our feet — we tread, Regardless, o'er the illustrious dead ! The dust which we shake from our shoe, Once breathed and lived and loved. Adieu ! Dames with their charms, bards with their laurel- Read ye who run, and sigh the moral. 217 TWO SCENES FROM THE WALLENSTEINS CAMP OF SCHILLER. Scene — Tlie Camp near Pilsen in Bohemia. Soldiers' tents. In front of them a sutler's booth. Soldiers of all uniforms and insignia passing backtuards and for- wards. Tables all occupied. Croats and Hulans cooking at a fire. Sutler's wife serving out wine. Soldiers' children throwing dice on a drum. Singing in the tents. SCENE VI. Sergeant, two of Holk's Yaegers, and Trumpeter. FIRST Y^EGER. Your health, my masters. We sit with you By your permission. SERGEANT. And welcome too. How like you our quarters ? FIRST Y^GER. We like them well. Your seats are warm. Where we followed the Swede, On such goodly lodgings we seldom fell. 218 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. TRUMPETER. Yet you show small symptoms of hardship or need. SERGEANT. Aye, aye — no blessings on you of yore, , We heard by Meissen and Sala's shore. SECOND Y^GER. And what has Meissen of us to tell ? God wot the Croat had gone before, And we had his leavings and nothing more. TRUMPETER. Yet your hose sit well, and it falls with grace O'er the collar, your ruff with its cobweb lace, The soldier's hat with its plume erect, The fine wove linen all make effect ; On others, for ever, such luck may shine, Such luck and such trappings were never mine. SERGEANT. No wonder ; for we are the Friedlander's own, And claim the respect that is due to his fame. FIRST YiEGER. Do you think it belonging to you alone ? We serve the Duke too, and bear his name. SERGEANT. Yes. You are a part of the general throng. WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 219 FIRST YiEGER. And to what, by distinction, do you belong ? I think that the uniform draws the line — I shall gladly abide by this coat of mine. SERGEANT. I pity your notions, but cannot condemn, You live with the peasants and think with them ; The air, the manner, the tone to gain, One must be in the Duke's peculiar train. FIRST Y^GER. Oh yes. In trifles you hit it off, You can spit like the Friedlander, ape his cough ; But the spirit, the genius, with which to his aid, His dukedom was won and his fortune made, Are not to be learnt on the guards' parade. SECOND Y.EGER. Question and ask us what men we be — The Friedlander's huntsmen wild are we ; We shame not the title, for free we go Over the country of friend or foe ; Over furrow and ridge, through the yellow corn, They know the yell of Hoik's Yaeger horn ; In the lapse of an instant, near and far, Swift as the sun-flood there we are ; As the red fire flame through the rafters breaks, In the dead of dark night, when no man wakes ; 220 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. To fight or to fly they may neither avail, Drill and discipline both must fail ; In the sinewy arm may the maiden strain, War has no pity, she struggles in vain. Now ask, if ye doubt me. Ask, far and wide, In Baireuth and Cassel, and elsewhere beside ; Where'er we have marched they remember us well, Their children's children the tale shall tell, For the age to come, and for others too, Where Hoik and his squadrons have once marched through. SERGEANT. Hear how he talks. Is the soldier found In the riot and waste which he spreads around ? The sharpness makes him ; the dash, the tact ; The cunning to plan, and the spirit to act. FIRST Y^GER. 'Tis liberty makes him ! That I should hear Such phrases Unmeet for a soldier's ear ; That I should have left the rod and the school, The inky desk and the pedant's rule ; In the tent of the soldier again to find The galley slave work which I left behind. I will swim with the current and idle stray For change and for novelty every day ; To the will of the instant give myself o'er, Look not behind me, and look not before ; WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 221 For this I'm the Emperor's, body and limb, My cares and my troubles make over to him ; Let him order me straight where the battle is hot, Through the smoke of the cartridge the hail-storm of shot ; Or o'er the blue deeps of the hurrying Rhine, Let the third man be down to the end of the line, I will march where he will, so that freedom be mine. But as for restraint, I must beg for a truce, And for every thing further I make my excuse. SERGEANT. In truth, what you ask is no mighty affair, 'Tis but little, in conscience, you claim for your share. FIRST Y^lGER. What a coil and a turmoil in word and in deed, With that plague of his people, Gustavus the Swede. His camp was a church, and a chapel each tent, And to it at morning and evening we went ; To psalms and to prayers round the standard we flew, By the morning reveille and the evening tattoo ; And if we but ventured an oath or a jest, He would preach from the saddle as well as the best. SERGEANT. He ruled in religion and godly fear. FIRST YjEGER. And as for the girls they must fly the camp, Or straight to the altar both parties must tramp. This last was too much, and I left him here. 222 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. SERGEANT. The Swede on this head now is less severe. FIRST YiEGER. So I rode where the Liguist had just sat down, And opened his trenches against Magdeburgh's town Aye, there was a different game to play, All was jovial, merry, and gay ; Dice and women, and plenty of wine. The stakes were deep and the sport was fine ; For the fierce old Tilly knew how to command ; Though he governed himself with an iron hand, He could blink at our faults, and the soldier could claim The license denied to his own old frame ; And if from the chest he had little to give, He went by the proverb of, live and let live. But Tilly's fortunes might not stand fast, And he lost his all on the Leipsick cast ; All crumbled at once and to pieces fell, No scheme would answer, no blow would tell. Where we came and where we knocked, Faces were surly and doors were locked ; We begged and we wandered the country round, For the old respect was not to be found. So to mend my fortunes I marched away To the Saxon's forces and touched his pay. SERGEANT. You nicked the moment, no doubt you fell On Bohemia's plunder. WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 223 FIRST Y^GER. It went not well ; For their cursed discipline held us tight, And we dared not demean us as foes outright. We had castles to guard which we longed to burn, With compliments, speeches at every turn ; The war was a jest, and we played our part In such childish sport with but half an heart ; In a wholesale fashion we might not deal, No honour nor profit to win or steal ; And to fly from a life which I liked so ill, I had well nigh returned to the desk and quill. But the sword still carried it over the pen, For the Friedlander's levies began just then. SERGEANT. And how long here may you look to stay ? FIRST YjEGER. You joke. While the Friedlander holds the sway. For my desertion take you no fear, Where can the soldier sit better than here ? We have war to deal with in form and soul , And the cut of greatness throughout the whole ; And the spirit that works in the living form, Whirls on in its course like the winter storm ; Trooper, like officer, on with the rest, I too step forward among the best ; I oo on the citizen learn to tread, As the general steps on the prince's head. 224 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. Such customs the good old times recall, When the blade of the soldier was all in all. There is one transgression : by word or look To gainsay the word of the order book. All that is not forbidden is free, No man asks of what creed ye be. All things to the army belong or not, I with the former have cast my lot ; I to the standard am pledged alone. SERGEANT. You please me, Yaeger, in sooth your tone Is that of ourselves, of the Friedlander's own. FIRST YAEGER. He bears not his staff like some petty sway, Which the Emperor gave and can take away ; He serves not, he, for the Emperor's gain, And how has he propped the Emperor's reign ? And what has he done to protect the land From the terrible Swede and his Lutheran band ? No : a soldier kingdom he fain would found ; Light up and fire the world around, Measure out and conquer his own domain. TRUMPETER. Hush, who would venture so bold a strain. FIRST YjEGER. I speak what 1 think, and I speak it plain, 'Twas the General's saying that words are free. WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 225 SERGEANT. He stood, as he uttered it, close to me, And added, moreover, I call it to mind, " That deeds are dumb and obedience blind ;" And these are his spoken words I know. FIRST YjEGER. I wot not if these were his words or no ; But, however, he said it — the thing is so. SECOND YiEGER. For him the chances are ever the same ; Not as with others they turn and veer. The fierce old Tilly outlived his fame ; But the Friedlander's banner is charmed to fly To certain triumph and victory. He has spell-bound fortune to his career. Those who follow him to fight Own the aid of darker might ; For friends and foes alike will say That the Friedlander holds a devil in pay. SERGEANT. He is proof; and of that no man can doubt : I saw him in Lutzen's bloodiest rout, Where the musket's cross fire chiefly swept, As coolly as on the parade he stepped ; His hat, I saw it, was riddled with shot ; In his boots and buff coat the lead was hot ; Q 226 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. But the hellish salve was so well rubbed in, That not a bullet might raze the skin. FIRST YjEGER. What, miracles now ? Who credits such stuff? He wears a jerkin of elk skin tough, Through which no bullet may find its way. SERGEANT. Once more, 'tis the witches' salve, I say, Cooked up with vigil and sign and spell. TRUMPETER. Dark doings these with the fiends of hell. SERGEANT. They say that he reads in planet and star Things to happen both near and far ; But others believe, and I know they are right, That a small gray man, at the hour of night, Through the bolted portals is wont to glide, Has brushed by the sentinels' very side, Challenged and screamed to, has never replied ; And something of import was ever near, When the little gray man has been known to appear. SECOND YjEGER. He is sold to the devil, I doubt, indeed, Which causes the jovial life we lead. WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 227 SCENE VIII. Enter Capuchin. Shout and swear. Ye devil's crew, He is one among ye, and I make two. Can these be Christians in faith or works ? Are we Anabaptists, Jews, or Turks ? Is this a time to feast and play, For banquet, dance, and holiday ? When the quickest are slow, and the earliest late is, Quid hie otiosi, statis ? When the Furies are loose by the Danube side, And the bulwark is low of Bavaria's pride, And Ratisbon in the enemy's claw, The soldier still looks to his ravenous maw : For praying or fighting, he eats and swears ; Less for the battle than bottle he cares ; Loves better his beak than his blade to whet, On the ox, not Oxenstiern, would set. 'Tis a time for mourning, for prayers and tears, Sign and wonder in heaven appears ; Over the firmament is spread War's wide mantle, all bloody red, And the streaming comet's fiery rod Betokens the right full wrath of God. Whence comes all this ? I now proclaim That from your sin proceeds your shame. Sin, like the magnet, draws the steel, Which in its bowels the land must feel. Q2 228 WALLENSTETNS CAMP. Ruin as close on wrong appears As on the acrid onion tears ; Who learns his letters this may know, That violence produces woe ; As in the alphabet you see How W comes after V. When the altar and pulpit despised we see, Ubi erit spes victoria? ? Si offenditur Deus. How can we prevail, If his house and preachers we assail ? The woman in the Gospel found The farthing dropped upon the ground ; Joseph again his brothers knew, (Albeit a most unworthy crew) ; Saul found his father's asses too. Who in the soldier seeks to find The Christian's love and humble mind, And modesty and just restraint, He in the devil seeks a saint ; And small reward will crown his hopes, Though with a hundred lights he gropes. The gospel tells how the soldiers ran In the desert of old to the holy man, Did penance, were baptized, and prayed : Quid faciemus nos? they said. Et ait illis, he answers them, Concutiatis veminem, No one vex, or spoil, or kill, Nee calumniam — speak no ill ; Contenti estote — learn not to fret, Stipendiis vestris — at what you get. WALLENSTEINS CAMP. 229 The Scripture forbids us, in language plain, To take the holiest name in vain ; But here the law might as well be dumb, And if for the thundering oaths which come From the tip of the blasphemous soldier's tongue, As for heaven's thunder the bells were rung, The sacristans would soon be dead ; And if for each wanton and wicked prayer, Were plucked from the blasphemous soldier's head, As a gift for Satan, a single hair, Each head in the camp would be smooth and bare Ere the watch was set and the sun was down, Though at morn it were bushy as Absalom's crown. A soldier Joshua was like you, And David tall Goliath slew ; They layed about them, as much and more, But where do we read that they cursed or swore? Yet the lips which we open to curse and swear Are not opened wider for creed or prayer ; But that with which the cask we fill, The same we must draw, and the same must spill. Thou shalt not steal, so the Scriptures tell, And for this I grant that you keep it well, For you carry your plunder and lift your prey With your vulture claws in the face Of day ; Gold from the chest your tricks convey ; The calf in the cow is not safe from you , You take the egg and the hen thereto. 230 WALLENSTEINS CAMP. Contenti estote, the preacher has said, Be content with your ammunition bread. But the low and the humble 'twere sin to blame, From the greatest and highest the evil came. The limbs are bad, but the Head as well, No one his faith or his creed can tell. FIRST Y^GER. Sir priest, the soldier I count fair game, So, please you, keep clear of the general's name. CAPUCHIN. Ne custodias gregem meam ! He is an Ahab and Jerobeam. God's people to folly he leads astray ; To idols of falsehood he points the way. TRUMPETER. Let us not hear that twice, I pray. CAPUCHIN. Such a Bramarbas, with iron hand, Would spoil the high places throughout the land. We know, though Christian lips are loath To repeat the words of his godless oath, How Stralsund's city he vowed to gain, Though it held to heaven with bolt and chain. TRUMPETER. WALLEN STEINS CAMP. 231 CAPUCHIN. A wizard ; a fiend-invoking Saul ; A Jehu, or he whom Judith slew, By a woman's hand, in his cups who died ; Like him who his Master and Lord denied, Who was deaf to the warning cock that crew ; Like him, when the cock crows he cannot hear. FIRST YiEGER. Shaveling liar, thy death is near. CAPUCHIN. A fox-like Herod, in wiles and lies. trumpeter and yagers (pressing upon him). The lie in his slanderous throat — he dies. CROATS (interfering). They shall not harm thee, discourse thy fill, Give us tHy sermon, and fear no ill. CAPUCHIN. A Nebuchadnezzar in pride and sin, Heretic, Pagan, his heart within ; While such a Friedland has command, The country is ever an unfreed land. (During this last speech he has gradually been making his retreat. The Croats meanwhile protecting him from the rest.) 232 BEATRICE. She couches in the pleached bower Which tasselling honeysuckles deck ; Peers out and pants with parted lips, Nor heeds that o'er her ivory neck Boon Nature's hand admiring pours Her richest scents and newest flowers. Young Beatrice, ne'er were Nature's sweets Before for thee so vainly flung ; How thou dost drink ! Lips, eyes, and ears Suck in the words thy cousin's tongue Thus scatters, as the fowler grain Some sweet wild bird from heaven to train. I love to see fair woman shoot Her shafts of gay and gladsome wit ; I smile, and 'tis no bitter smile, And cry, a hit, a pleasant hit. E'en let her tongue's sarcastic measure Mete me full length, if such her pleasure. • < < I BEATRICE. 233 A. lance ill headed ; a foul blot ; An agate vilely cut ; a vane Blown round by every blast. Go on, Gay Beatrice, give thy fancy rein ; In all thy proud sarcastic glory Descend. Need I repeat the story Which Shakspeare tells and Howard paints ? See there she listens, breast and brow Throbbing and flushed — the blind might see The serpent that hath stung her now. Flowed off, her wits o'ermastering mood, That swept men's follies like a flood. Love on that sharp satiric tongue Hath laid his load ; no more it sins 'Gainst man — what merry fish could swim, Hooked thus with lead upon its fins. Farewell. An image fair thou art, Of a keen wit and kindly heart. N. M. 234 SONG. EY THOMAS PRINGLE, ESQ. Oh ! not when hopes are brightest, Is all love's sweet enchantment known ; Oh ! not when hearts are lightest, Is all fond woman's fervour shown : But when life's clouds o'ertake us, And the cold world is clothed in gloom ; When summer friends forsake us, The rose of love is best in bloom. Love is no wandering vapour, That lures astray with treacherous spark ; Love is no transient taper, That lives an hour and leaves us dark : But, like the lamp that lightens The Greenland hut beneath the snow, The bosom's home it brightens, When all beside is chill below. 235 THE DEAD. BY LUD. COLQUHOUN, ESQ. " As the cloud is consumed, and vanisheth away ; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more." Job. Arise ! arise, ye dead ! Unseal your closed eyes ; Ye have lingered long in your narrow bed, From the sleep of death arise ! Would ye not look upon The things ye loved while here ? O brightly gleams the glorious sun In the ocean's mirror clear ; The gorgeous sky is loud With the ringing voice of mirth, And the sounds of joy have overflowed This fair and fruitful earth : Would ye not look once more On the scene of bliss and bloom Ye left for a land where joy is o'er, The dank and dreary tomb ? 236 THE DEAD. Ye answer not ! The flowers Of spring are glancing fair, Nursed by the warm and welcome showers That southern breezes bear ; The wild bird's mellow song, From her leafy solitude, Pours in a rapturous flood along The green and sunlit wood ; All, all around us seems Without a taint of woe, Bright as the lovely clime his dreams To the sinless hermit show ; Joy is over the earth, Joy is over the sky, Would ye not mix with the sons of mirth, And the festal revelry ? What ! silent still ? May none Of these things win your praise ; Not the smiling earth, nor the glittering sun. Nor the wild bird's sweetest lays ? The friends ye prized of old, May not they your greeting crave ; Or waxeth the hand of friendship cold In the chill and cheerless grave ? THE DEAD. 237 Long ye not yet to press To your hearts each once loved form, Or reck ye less of love's embrace Than the clasp of the slimy worm ? Arise ! arise ! for they Invite to the banquet hall ; Rend, then, your mouldering shrouds away, And burst the enamel's thrall ! Ye linger ! Sleep ye yet In the narrow house of fear? The feast is spread, and the guests are met, But still ye come not here ! The young, the fair, are sped To the banquet in their pride ; The wine is sparkling, ruby red, O'er the goblet's jewelled side ; The song of pleasure rings From joyous hearts on high, And the minstrel wakes the golden strings Of his lyre to melody : Would ye not know the mirth That lits each burning soul ? Then shake off the weary weight of earth, And spurn the grave's control ! 238 THE DEAD. Still silent ! Then 'tis vain For man to call ye back To pass the bourne of death again, And retrace life's shining track : As the rainbow is consumed, And vanisheth away, So were ye in your springtime doomed To fade from the light of day ; To sink in that dark sea Where fear and hope are o'er, And a breathless calm eternally Broods o'er a tideless shore : Slumber, then, yet, ye dead ! Till the hour when earth and sky Shall echo the angel's voice of dread, And the tyrant Death must die ! 239 PADDY KELLEHER AND HIS PIG. BY T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ. " Thunder an' ages! an' what's that?" exclaimed a voice, which appeared to proceed from behind me. I was somewhat startled, and naturally so, for I was quietly sketching amidst the neglected ruins of Bridge- town Abbey. It was a soft autumnal evening, whose mellow light and shadowy clouds, alternately flitting across those solitary ruins, rendered the mind pecu- liarly alive to the startling effect of such an unexpected exclamation. "Thunder an' ages! an' what's that?" I lowered my drawing frame, placed it against a tree, and turned to gaze on the speaker : he was a peasant who had just entered by a side door of the ruin. " Well, my friend," said I, " what is the matter with you?" " If I didn't think that white thing, before your honour there, was a real ghost ; and if it didn't take the start out of me, just for all the world as Paddy Kelle- her's pig did out of the priest, my name isn't Darby Hoolahan, why." " How came Paddy Kelleher's pig to startle his reve- rence ?" 240 PADDY KELLEHER " Oh, 'tis a true story, sir ; as true as you are there ; and the never a word of lie in it from beginning to end ; but see now if it isn't drawing out the place your honour would be. Oh, then, it's as like as itself, and so it is." " But, Darby, I want to hear the story about Kelle- her's pig." " The story is it, 'tis I that'll tell you that same, and a thousand welcomes. Your honour must know, then, that Paddy Kelleher was a mighty decent sort of a man, and no one could say * black was the white of his eye' to him or any one belonging to him, barring a small misfortune that happened to his brother, who was trans- ported one day, for being out one night ; but what of that ? he was as innocent as the child unborn ; and sure many an honest man has had the luck to be hanged in Ireland before now, let alone being transported. 'Tis I that knew that same Paddy Kelleher well, for he rented a snug patch of common, and a neat bit of a bog, from one Counsellor O'Leary ; and a good landlord he was to Kelleher, who without any kind of doubt was a good tenant to the counsellor. " If ever you travelled, sir, you see, like myself, some fifteen years ago, from Cork to the raking town of Mallow, you'd remember the spot of Kelleher's farm to this hour, or I'm much mistaken. At that time (may be 'tis now rather better than fifteen years), the man who took the new road, which for certain every man having any sense in him would do, if it was only to save the bother of putting his hand in his pocket, whenever he'd meet with a 'pike, which was at least at every mile and AND HIS PIG. 241 a half of his journey. The man who took the new road, from the blessed moment he turned his back on the old red forge at the end of sweet Blackpool, if it wasn't for the new state house, close to Kelleher's bounds ditch, might have gone thirsty enough into the town of Mallow itself! with his throat as dry as any powder horn of a midsummer's day, there being then but that one place of entertainment to be met with. And a real beautiful painted sign it had up over the door, of three pots of porter, with their white heads on them like any cauli- flowers, and underneath was printed out in elegant large letters, i Entertainment for Man and Horse/ It was none of your poverty struck ' dry lodging' houses. It was ask and have, if you had but the tenpennies to pay for it. " The place was called Lissavoura, and the same name was on Paddy Kelleher's farm, for I am never the man to forget the name of a place where I was well treated. Well, one morning about eight o'clock, Kelleher was standing by the side of a bog hole, and scratching his head with thinking how in the wide world he should ever lift a great lump of bog oak that was there lying in the ground since the time of Noah. He was in the midst of a perplexity, when, who should he see but a man coming across the road towards him, without shoe or stocking, but they hanging over his shoulder, and a stick in his hand, as if he was in great haste after a smart journey. " So up the man came to Kelleher, and asked him, as well as he could for want of the breath, if he knew R 242 PADDY KELLEHER whereabouts one Mister Kelleher lived. ' I have come,' says he, ' without having time to bless myself, every step of the way from Buttevant, and 'tis a sister of Kel- leher's has sent me; she's lying, poor creature, in a dying way, and has a deal of money, and no one in life to leave it to but Kelleher.' ' I'm the man/ says Kel- leher, * and 'tis poor Biddy you've come from ? Lord relieve her, any way ; I'll just step up to the house and get the mare, and be off at once, back with you, honest man.' " ' Never mind the mare,' said the messenger, ' if you don't make all speed, you'll never be after over- taking her alive. Sure, if you step at once across to the half-way house, you'll just catch Purcel's coach going into Mallow ; and I'll be bail, when you get there, Mr. Ahern will lend you the best horse in his stable, and have it saddled and bridled for you with all speed. So come along, Mr. Kelleher, if you please, sir, without stopping or staying for any mare, if 'twas his worship the mayor of Cork himself. Come along, sir.' " Away went Paddy Kelleher after the man, without telling any one where he was going, or saying as much as ' Beannait De leaf * to his wife, so much afraid was he of losing his sister and her money, if she heard that he delayed coming off at once, hot foot, at her bidding. Kelleher got to Buttevant without delay, and sure enough he found his sister there, very bad entirely ; but she did not die that night, and she was a little better the * God's blessing with you. AND HIS PIG. 243 next day ; and then she'd be worse again, and then better, and so she kept them on from day to day for as good as a fortnight, thinking the life would go out of her every minute. Kelleher didn't mind sending word to let his woman know where he was, because why he thought his sister would draw the last breath every hour, and then he could carry the news himself; and to be sure she did die, at long last, and left all her money to Kelleher, tied up in the toe of an old stocking. " ' Och ullagone, what'll I do at all, for sure and cer- tain something has happened to Paddy, or he wouldn't stay out in this kind of way from me. Oh, then for certain he's drownded, kilt, and murdered, and I to be left after him, a poor lonesome widow, with never a one in the wide world to do a hand's turn for me,' cried poor Moll Kelleher, as she sat on a siestheen in the chimney corner; and then she threw her apron over her head, and began to clap her hands, and rock her body to and fro, like a ship on the wild sea, and she cronauning all the time, enough to break the heart in a stone, if it had one. " ' Why then, Molly dear, can't you be asy,' said Murty Mulcahy, a red headed tailor that was at work in the house, winking his left eye, ' can't you be asy, and who knows but things mayn't be so bad entirely ; and sure, which ever way it goes, you won't want a friend, and Murty Mulcahy to the fore." " Now, whether it was Murty's coaxing words, or the wink, or whatever it was, it's quite certain, that Moll Kelleher from that out got quite asy, and did'nt seem to R2 244 PADDY KELLEHER take on half so much as before, no not even when news was brought that a man was found drowned in a bog hole on the farm ; and though she didn't half believe that it was her own Paddy, she let Murty persuade her to it ; for he swore by this and by that, and by all the saints in the calendar, that the drowned man was Paddy Kelleher himself, and no other in life ; so they had a fine wake, and lost a world and all, till they buried him. " Well, sir, when the herring was over, Murty began to discourse Mrs. Kelleher to try and persuade her to marry himself. ' Now, Mauria agra,' says he, *■ sure you won't be after refusing Murty Mulcahy, that's the very moral of poor Paddy that's gone ; and sure you never'll be able to live or manage all alone here, with- out having man or mortal to lend you a hand ; 'tis myself would do that same for you, as nate as any man in Munster ; but you know it wouldn't be dacent without our being married ; so, Mauria dear, you'd better make up your mind at once." " Faint heart never won fair lady, they say, but Murty was none of that sort, signs by, that he persuaded Moll Kelleher to go with him before the priest to be married. " The Rev. Father O'Callaghan was just mixing the fourth tumbler of whisky punch, when who should bole in to him but Moll and Murty. And you must know the Rev. Father had a way with him, that he didn't like to be bothered when he was over his tumbler of punch ; so he asked them, as gruff as you plase, what they wanted AND HIS PIG. 245 with him at that time of day. Upon which well-become Moll, she up and told his reverence, how she was left a lone woman, without a mankind in the world, to see after her little farm, or do a hand's turn for her ; and so she thought as how she'd take Murty for a husband, if his reverence had no objection, and that what brought them there was to be married that very night. " Then the priest got into a mighty great bit of a fret, and told her she was no better than she should be, to think of marrying so soon after Paddy's death. But Moll, who had a pretty way with her, whispered some- thing in his reverence's ear, without minding in the least his being in a fret. " ' The fat pig/ says he. " * Yes, your reverence can send for her this very night/ says she. " * Why, now I consider the matter/ says the priest, ' to be sure you are a lone woman, and live in a lone- some place ; so, as there's no knowing what might happen to you, I believe I'd "better marry you out of hand/ " Well, sir, after every one was gone from the wed- ding, and all the family in bed, who should come to the door but Paddy Kelleher himself, after walking all the way from Buttevant, and a good step it was. So he gave a thundering knock at the door, for he was mighty tired after the journey, and was in a hurry to get into bed. " ' Who's there ? a pretty time of night to come knocking at a dacent man's door/ said Murty. 246 PADDY KELLEHER " "Tis I, Paddy Kelleher ; get up and let me in; and sure a man may rap at his own door, and no thanks to any one/ " When Moll heard that she gave a great screech entirely, ' The Lord have mercy on us,' says she, ' what is it you want now, Paddy ; but don't I know very well it isn't you at all, but only your ghost ; and sure you haven't any business in life to be coming here now, for didn't I give you a fine wake and a decent herring, and the fat pig to the priest to say masses for the good of your sowl/ " * The devil you did,' said Paddy, and away he ran to the barn to look for his pig, for he saw it was all in vain to knock or call ; they wouldn't let him in, and he didn't like to break his own door ; so, finding the pig safe in the barn, he lay down to sleep in the straw till morning ; but he was'nt long there, when the priest's boy came for the pig, and was putting a sugan about her leg to drive her away, for 'twas settled he should take her in the night; but Kelleher, not liking to lose his pig that way, and thinking it was stealing the beast he was, for he didn't clearly understand what his wife had said, up he jumps and gives him the mother of a beating. " I'll engage the boy did'nt wait for the pig after it, but ran off to his master as fast as his legs could carry him. " * Where's the pig?' says the priest. " ' The never a pig have I,' says the boy, ' for just as I was going to take her, Paddy Kelleher's ghost jumped out of a corner of the barn, and gave me the truth of a AND HIS FIG. 247 beating- ; so I ran away as fast as I could, and I wouldn't go back again for half Cork/ " * A likely story indeed/ says the priest ; f you know well enough 'tis no such thing, but the glass I gave you, and you going, that made you drunk, you vagabond, and so you fell down and cut yourself and couldn't bring the pig.' " ' May I never see Grenough Chapel again, if every word I told your reverence wasn't as true as the sun/ says the boy ; ' but come yourself with me, and see if I won't bring the pig home, if you'll only give her into my two hands.' " ' I will,' says the priest, and away they went to the barn; but the moment he put a hand on the pig, up jumped Kelleher, from among the straw, and gave the priest such a beating as he never got before or since. Away he went without the pig surely, and the boy after him, roaring ten thousand murders. Poor Kelleher, you may be certain, was tired enough after this, so down he lay, and slept as sound as a top till late next morning, which happened to be a Sunday, so that when he got up and went into his own house, he found every one was gone to mass, except an old woman who was left minding the place, and she, instead of getting him his breakfast as he desired, ran away out of the house screeching for the bare life, at the sight of the drownded man walking in to her. H So Kelleher had to make out breakfast for himself as well as he could ; and when he was done, away he goes to mass, thinking to find all the people there before him, and learn some account of how things had been 248 PADDY KELLEHER going on at home. He was walking smartly along, when who should he almost overtake, but his ould neighbours, Jack Harty and Miles Mahony. ' Good morrow, Jack/ says Paddy ; ' Can't you stop for a body, Miles?' says he ; but when they looked back at the sound of his voice, and saw who they, had after them, they took to their scrapers and ran as fast as their legs would carry them, thinking all the time it was a ghost was at their heels. " Kelleher thought it was running to overtake mass they were, so he ran too, for fear he'd be late, which made them run the faster ; and sure enough they never stopped or staid, till they got into the chapel and up to the priest where he was standing at the altar. " 'Why, boys/ says the priest, 'what's the matter with ye ?' " ' Oh, your reverence !' says one, and ' Oh, your reverence/ says the other, ' "lis Kelleher's ghost that's running after us, and here he is in/ " 'Murder alive!' roared the priest, ' 'tis me he wants and not you ; so if he's in, I'll be out," and flinging off his vestments, away with him through the side door of the chapel, and the people after him : he never stopped to draw breath till he got to the top of a hill a good mile or better from the chapel, and there he begun to say mass as fast as he could, for fear of the ghost. But it was Murty Mulcahy, the red haired tailor, was in the pucker when he saw Kelleher ; he roared like a bull, and went clean out of the country entirely, and never came back again. "To be sure, Kelleher thought nothing at all, but AND HIS PIG. 249 they were all out of their senses, every mother's son of them, till his ould crony Tom Barret, seeing at last that he wasn't a ghost, came up to him and tould him how they all thought they buried him a fortnight before. " So Kelleher went home to his own house, and his wife was kind and quiet of tongue ; and the priest ever after was as civil to him as may be, and all for fear he'd spake about the fat pig." THE POET. Say, who is independent ? — He enrolled Mid grandeur's servitors ; proud to emboss His chains : or he who burrows 'mid the dross, Gnome-like, which men first buy, then worship— gold ? Or he, who for ambition all hath sold, And feverously grasps at a splendid loss, To whom in vain her stores may Nature toss, Her bosom open, and her eye unfold ? The Poet alone is free. For him all time Is fortunate : all Nature is his dower ; Unmoved amid the change of Fate and Tide — His eye doth weary not, nor want — Sublime, His now is ever. — Like that eastern flower, Living upon Jleaven's breath, and nought beside. T. D. 250 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Thou wert well known, Newstead of old, When England, with her clothyard shaft, Won kingdoms, and as hlythe as bold, Drank her brown ale and laught. Beneath thy broad and ancient oak, Her wassail shout she merrily woke, And with white hand and welcome glance, Called out Will Scarlett to the dance ; With Will, the gallant and the leal, Came Little John, as true as steel, And Allan of the dale ; a score Of lads in Lincoln green, and more, Bestirred them, till that shaking tree Bropt acorns to their games and glee. Whilst Robin Hood, to mend their cheer, A sharp shaft sent to seek the deer, And Lincoln's prelate quaking stood, And blest the knaves of blithe Sherwood. NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 251 Less joyous, but far smoother times, Have passed o'er Newstead since her tree Shook its green branches to the rhymes Of Robin's minstrelsie. A soul of other stamp hath woke His song beneath the outlaw's oak ; k One nobly born and proudly bred Hath there the mirth and revel led ; Whose lofty soul and haughty heart Were stung as with a poisoned dart. One, like bold Robin, proud and kind, Of daring thought and generous mind. For wild of life, untamed of mood, Was Byron, so was Robin Hood : All else unlike, as saw to sword, Lived Newstead's first and latest lord ; As frost to fire, as tears to mirth, As light to darkness, heaven to earth. To jolly Robin yet belongs Enough of joy, enough of mirth, Of social tales and saucy songs, To keep his name on earth. But to his great successor more Was given than this, for he had store Of lofty thought and lordly scorn For meanness high or humbly born ; Much of that will which owned no awe For holy or for human law ; 252 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Much of that lightning power which burned All those on whom in wrath he turned ; Too much, too, of that withering thought Which blasted all with whom he fought. He sang of man — his poet rod Called up the fiend and sank the god. He threw his spell — men mourned to mark Strong spirits rise, for they were dark. He came to Newstead, came at length ; Came, not as Lara, soured and stained With crime, but shorn of all his strength, His charmed goblet drained. The harp o'er which Childe Harold flung His practised hand, lay all unstrung ; And he, the loftiest of his race, Lay rotting in his pride of place. There ! proof of his unsobered soul, His wassail cup — a ghastly bowl ! Fill it with wine, and when 'tis full, Drink, mortal ! 'tis thy brother's skull. O, noble Byron ! thou hadst light, Pure as yon sun, and warm, as bright ; But thou hadst darkness deeper far Than winter night that knows no star. I glory in thee ; yet I weep For thy stern moods and early sleep. NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 253 There stands thy mansion, lordly, lone ; Its friendly cheer I've proved, And Danby o'er its roof has thrown The cloud its owner loved ; One brightly splendid as the vast Grand spirit which from earth has past. Proud baron's hall, and poet's tower, And artist's toil, all have their hour ; For this will sink and that will pass, Like autumn's fruit and summer's grass : Man's art to them their being gives, But Byron is of God, and lives. hadst thou writ of brother men, With milder mood and soberer pen ; Nor poured thy scorching spirit proud, O'er them, like lightning from a cloud ; 1 could, beneath thy favourite tree, Have blessed — done all but worshiped thee. 254 LORD BYRON. [We cannot resist the temptation of illustrating our plate and our poetry with the following characteristic letter from Lord Byron, dated Genoa, 1823, and addressed to one of his best and wisest friends. It is an answer to a letter advising economy and retrenchment. Its peculiar humour can- not be mistaken ; the Poet's resolution to become parsimonious was but a pleasant theory, for in practice he spent a fair fortune. Ed.] * * * This is merely a line of advice to your honour, to get me out of the tremulous funds of these oscil- latory times. There will be a war somewhere, no doubt ; and wherever it may be, the funds will be affected more or less ; so pray get us out of them with ajl proper expedition. It has been the burthen of my song to you these three years and better, and about as useful as wiser counsels. With regard to Chancery, appeals, arbitrations, sur- veyings, bills, fees, receipts, disbursements, copyrights, manorial ditto, funds, land, &c. &c. &c. I shall always be disposed to follow your more practised and practi- cable experience. I will economize, and do, as I have partly proved to you by my surplus revenue of 1822, which almost equals the ditto of the United States of America, in proportion, (-vide President's report to Con- gress) ; and do you second my parsimony by judicious disbursements of what is requisite, and a moderate liquidation. Also make an investment of any spare monies as may render some usance to the owner ; LORD BYRON. 255 because, however little, " Every little makes a meikle," as we of the north say, with more reason than rhyme. I hope that you have all receipts, &c. &c. &c. and acknowledgments of monies paid in liquidation of debts, to prevent extortion and hinder the fellows from coming twice, of which they would be capable, particularly as my absence would lend them a pretext. You will perhaps wonder at this recent and furious fit of accumulation and retrenchment ; but, it is not so unnatural. I am not naturally ostentatious, although once careless, and expensive because careless ; and my most extravagant passions have pretty well subsided, as it is time that they should on the very verge of thirty- five. I always looked to about thirty as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and deter- mined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine ; and I flatter myself that perhaps I have pretty well done so, and now the dross is coming, and I loves lucre. For we must love something. At least, if I have not quite worked out the others, it is not for want of labouring hard to do so. But perhaps I deceive myself. At any rate, then, I have a passion the more ; and, thus, a feeling. However, it is not for myself ; but I should like, God willing, to leave some- thing to my relatives more than a mere name ; and besides that, to be able to do good to others to a greater extent. If nothing else will do, I must try bread and water, which, by the way, are very nourishing and sufficient, if good of their kind. Noel Byron. 256 LINES TO AN OLD BAGPIPE. BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ. You're rough and rusty, old compeer, And what the world would scorn, But yet to me the chanter's dear, Although its reed be worn ; And when I hear your honest voice, For still a strain ye'll lend, It comes upon me like the tongue Of old, remembered, friend. We've been together, hard and soft ; Early we've been, an' late ; We've helped the cogies' social clink, An' gar'd him speed his gate ; We've heard the Coquet's music clear, And beat him in his line ; And we've added cadence to the sough Of old fantastic Tyne. But when we sung together then, Far fewer days we'd seen ; The head would own no touch of grey, ' Aye, and the heart was green : LINES TO AN OLD BAGPIPE. 257 And though a voice be left us yet, And we pipe cheerly still, We cannot make a music now Like that first early thrill. Full many a song I've heard sin' syne, But ne'er a strain like those ; No foot goes down as once it did, No heart-warm tear-drop flows. Or if, perchance, across the cheek Some wandering water strays, 'Tis at the fond remembrance brought Of those wild youthful days. I cannot touch your keys again I cannot press them now ; The days are gone, when breasts were light, And bright was every brow. • There is no need to lesson me, Why should I wake your strain, To tell me that my heart beat once As it ne'er shall beat again ! 258 EVENING. BY JOHN MACDIARMID, ESQ. Hush, ye songsters ! day is done, See how sweet the setting sun Gilds the welkin's boundless breast, Smiling, as he sinks to rest. Now the swallow, down the dell, Issuing from her noontide cell, Mocks the deftest marksman's aim, Tumbling in fantastic game. Sweet inhabitant of air ! Sure thy bosom holds no care ; Not the fowler, full of wrath, Skilful in the deeds of death — Not the darting hawk on high, Ruthless tyrant of the sky, Owns one art of cruelty Fit to fell or fetter thee, Gayest, freest of the free. Reeling, whistling shrill on high, Where yon turrets kiss the sky, Teasing with thy idle din, Drowsy daws, at rest within ; Long thou lovest to sport and spring, On thy never wearying wing. Lower now, 'midst foliage cool, Swift thou skim'st the peaceful pool, EVENING. 259 Where the speckled trout at play, Rising, shares thy dancing prey, While the treacherous circles swell Wide and wider where it fell ; Guiding sure the angler's arm, Where to find the finny swarm ; How with artificial fly, Best to lure his victim's eye ; Till, emerging from the brook, Brisk it bites the barbed hook ; Tugging in unequal strife, With its death, disguised as life ; Till it breathless beats the shore, Ne'er to cleave the current more. Peace ! Creation's gloomy queen, Darkest night, invests the scene — Silence, Evening's handmaid mild, Leaves her home amid the wild, Tripping soft, with dewy feet, Summer's flowery carpet sweet, Morpheus' drowsy power to meet. Ruler of the midnight hour, In thy plenitude of power, From this burdened bosom throw Half its leaden load of woe ! Let thy cheerless suppliant see Dreams of bliss, inspired by thee; Let before his wondering eyes Fancy's fairest visions rise ; Long lost happiness restore, None can need thy bounty more ! s 2 260 THE DRAUGHT PLAYERS. BY THOMAS ATKINSON. Behold an image of the strife Which man with fortune holds for life. The anxious look, the ardent heart, The pondering thought, the subtle art, The skill, the sharpness, touch and tact, Where cunning gathers strength from fact : And speculation loves to soar Above the sea that has no shore. Behold all these — though thrice a span That boy is yet from measuring man — 'Tis but a step, at most a stride, From boyhood meek to bearded pride. Age thinks of youth's gay time and weeps ; Youth looks and laughs and forward sweeps, And chants his song and sips his wine, Thinks earth is heaven and man divine. O'erflowed with health and strength, he braves The battle shout and ocean waves, Or shakes the senate in the hour When virtue goes to strife with power ; Or quotes old sages, makes grave saws, And reads to wide earth's worms her laws ; Till grim Death levels, with his shafts, This monarch of life's game at draughts. 261 THE TEMPTATION. BY BARRY CORNWALL. *Stand up, thou son of Cretan Daedalus, And let us tread the lower labyrinth. MlDDLETON . SCENE I. A Street in Murcia. The Count of Ortiz and Mordax enter, as from a Tavern. Count (singing) . Wine ! wine ! The child of the grape is mine : We'll nurse it again and again, Until it array the brain With wit, or until it expire In hot desire, And then we'll drink again, &c. Mordax. Count ! Count. I am well, quite well : the air blows fresh. Mord. If ever you should go to Lapland (mark ! To Lapland, where lean witches sweep the moon), I'll lend thee a broom to ride on. Count. Ha, ha ! — well ? 262 THE TEMPTATION. Morel. I will, by Sathan ! You shall be equipped With expedition for a northern journey. But speak, — and ere the morning stars look pale We'll breathe above the Baltic. Count. Ha, ha, ha ! Mord. I'll take thee there upon a goat's back flying, Look ! amongst all those lights : dost see 'em twinkling Count. Away ! I could not do an impious deed Before the eternal splendour of the stars ! Mord. Ho, ho, ho, ho ! Now 'tis my turn to laugh. By Momus, you jest well. Didst eve* hear Of Agaberta, that most famous witch ? Count. No. Mord. Thou shalt see her. She shall give thee philtres, So thou mayst change to air, or walk in fire — Count. Peace, peace ! no more : the place seems full of frenzy. Millions of sparks go dancing through the air : My brain grows sick and dizzy. How is this ? An armed phantom seems to gaze upon us ! Mord. That is my master. Count. What, yon piece of cloud ? Mord. Ay, sir, yon lofty gentleman. Folks say He was a gambler once, and dared a stake Such as before or since was never won. He lost, indeed — Count. 'Tis gone ! Mord. He came to show How tenderly he watches over us. Hark ! there are footsteps coming : This way, sir. They must not track us. Hush ! Count. How the wind wails ! [Exeunt. THE TEMPTATION. 263 Don Ferrand and Inez enter. Don F. Look ! where they go, well mated (rake and knave), The tavern brawler, and his crooked friend ! Inez. Uncle, — beware ! Don F. If the fierce devil still x Sends out his brood to blacken this fair world, That slave is one, — he with the dusk brute visage, And shuffling gait, and glittering scorching eyes, — Inez. But Manuel, sir, has nought in common with him. The Count of Ortiz, be whoe'er his mates, Owns something still, methinks, which asks respect. Don F. Soh ! soli ! You love him still ? You, Melchior's daughter, With half a kingdom for your dowry ? Good ! Inez. I love him ? — Well, I love him. What must follow ? Don F. Nothing ; all's said : The worst extremity Of baseness and enduring grief is touched. Inez. Speak gently, sir ; and speak more nobly too, Of one who (though now fall'n) was good and wise : Valiant he is, sir, and a peer of Spain ; And on his brow wears his nobility ! Why do you scorn him, sir ? He ever spoke Kindly of you : and when my father's fame And tottering greatness asked for some strong help He went unto the king, and pled for him. Don F. That story wants but truth. If time be given Inez. If time be given, he'll force the world give back Its bright opinion, sir, and show him honour. Oh ! then {if he return, and stand redeemed 264 THE TEMPTATION. From his wild youth and be — what he may be) Soon shall the poor maid cast her mask of pride, And look, once more, love upon Manuel ! [Exeunt. SCENE II. An underground Cemetery. The Count and Mordax are dimly seen descending a broad flight of steps in the distance. Mord. (entering). Adieu, Sir Phosphor! For thy light, take thanks ! We've barred the world out bravely, noble count ! Count. Where are we? What ! is this the road ? 'tis dark. Mord. Ay ; but as fire is dashed from out cold stone, We'll pluck bright wonders from this world of night. One of earth's wisest sons, 'tis said, taught men That they should seek her subtle secrets — not In their near likeness, but in opposite shapes, — Count. Ho, speak ! Who goes ? I thought — but no, 'twas nothing. Mord. 'Tis nought. Look up ! This is a cemetery. Take care, else you may stumble on a king. Halloo ! Methought I trod on a fool's skull. This is a learned spot, perhaps a bed Of full blown doctors ; they are harmless now ! Count. You are a nice observer. Mord. Oh ! I am used To choose 'tween knave and fool. Dost thou not see, There, — a pale stream of light run to and fro, Threading the darkness? — 'tis a madman's wits. THE TEMPTATION. 265 Count. Where are we? Let us go. The air is close : And noises as of falling waters, mixed With strange laments and hummings of fierce insects, Take my ears captive. Mord. O fine harmony ! 'Faith, they have dexterous fiddlers here. Who blows The trumpet honeysuckle in mine ear ? Speak out, Sir Gnome. Hush ! hark ! That gentleman Who beats the drum must be a cricket? Count. 'Tis one. Mord. Right, — or a death-watch. Now, sir, what's the matter? Count. I felt a clammy touch, as cold as death, Flap on my cheek, and something breathed on me An earthy odour — faugh ! as though the tongue O'er which 't had passed had fed on worms and dust. Again, — who goes? Dost thou not hear a, trampling? Mord. Be calm : 'tis but some people from the moon, Or the star Venus, or from Mercury, Madmen, or rakes, or monks, fellows who feed On air, and rail against our homely dishes. A plague upon the spiritual rogues, They always abuse their betters ! Count. Hush, — sweet music ! The air is vital : every pore seems stung Until it whispers with a thousand tongues ! Voices are heard; faintly at first, but becoming gradually more distinct. Spirits (below). Come away ! come away ! Spirits (above). Whither? whither? 266 THE TEMPTATION. Spir. (below). Come away ! come away ! And leave the light of the fading day ! Thorough the vapour, across the stream, Come, — as swift as a: lover's dream ! Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! Over the wood and over the heather ! Where winds are dying Along the deep, Where rivers are lying Asleep, asleep ! Spir. (above) . We come ; we are coming ; — but whither ? Spir. (below). Come hither, come hither, come hither! Chorus. Hark ! hark ! hark ! hark ! A power is peopling all the dark With wonder, — life, and death, and terror, And dreams which fill the brain with error. The elves are coming in glittering streams, Loaded with light from the moon beams ; And the gnomes are behind in a dusky legion, Hurrying all to their earthen fare : A Voice. Stand, and gaze ! for now ye are In the midst of a magic region ! Mord. Dost hear, Count ? Look about ! What see you, sir ? Count. I see a vault,— spectral, — immeasurable, Save that at times the gaunt and stony ribs THE TEMPTATION. 267 Bulge through the darkness and betray its bounds : And now come countless crowds (millions on millions), Whirling like glittering fire-flies round about us : — By hell, the things seem human ! Let me pass. Mord. Stay, — stay, sir : use more patience : you'll dislodge These piles of coffins. Kings and counts lie here, sir, Shouldering each other from their places still. The villanous lifeless lump of clay Count. What's that ? Methought I heard the arches crack : — Look, look ! - The pillars are alive ! Each one turns round, And grins, as though the weight crushed in his brain ! Dead faces leer upon me ; figures chatter ; And from the darkest depths watch horrid eyes ! Let me come near thee. Rest here." Ha! I feel As though I leant against an iron shape. Thy sinews (and thy heart ?) are firmly knit. Never did nerve or muscle yet give way, From fear, or pity, or remorse, or love ! Never did yet the bounding blood go back Into its springs, nor leave my dusk cheek pale. But, I'll not boast at present : — Some dull day I'll tell you all I've done, — since Cain went mad ! Meantime, let's see what comes. How fare you now ? Count. I feel more firm since I did lean on thee. But, hark ! the ground labours with some strange birth. What volumes of dark smoke she sends abroad ! Blow off the cloud ! Mord. Count. Mord. 268 THE TEMPTATION. Mordax blows, and a Mirror is seen. What's here ? Methinks I see A mighty glass set in an ebon frame. Mord. Right, sir ; true Madagascar ; black as hate. Now then we'll show you what our art can do : Wilt have a ghost from Lapland or Japan ? Speak ! for 'twill cost a minute, and some rhyme. Count. You're pleasant ? Mord. Sir, they'll not obey plain prose. Whate'er my friends, the utilitarians, preach, Verse has its use, you see : but listen, senor. — Come ! Without torch, or trump, or drum, Every fine audacious spirit Who doth vice or spite inherit ! By His name, long-worshiped 'round All the red realms underground, I bid and bind ye to my spell ! By the sinner who doth dwell In the temple, like a saint ! By the unbeliever's taint ! By the human beasts who riot O'er their brothers graved in quiet — Count. You have a choice collection of quaint phrases ? Mord. I picked 'em up, as men of reputation Steal musty phrases from forgotten books. But how's this ? 'Wake, dust o' the earth ! Are ye deaf? Mischievous ? mad ? or spelled ? or bound in brass ? Away ! a million of you tumbling imps THE TEMPTATION. 269 That jump about here ! Hence, and drag before us A squadron of sea-buried bones. Begone ! Ravage the deep, and let us see your backs Crack with a ship load from the ooze — Oh, ho ! Dost thou not hear him ? Count. A strange noise I hear. Mord. It is the Atlantic stirring in his depths. Dost hear his spouting floods ? Hark ! Banks and cliffs Are broken, and the boiling billows run Over the land and lay the sea-depths bare ! Now shall the lean ghosts laugh and shake their sides, Cramped by the waves no more. Count. How the winds blow ! A Tlirong of Shadows rush in. Sliad. We come : — we have burst the chain Of slumber, and death, and pain : The ice bolts could not bind us, Though they shot through our shrunken forms; And we left the swift light behind us, The wrack and the howling storms. A Group of Spirits descend. 1 Spir. I have trod the arid mountains. 2 Spir. I have wing'd the frozen air. 3 Spir I have left the boiling fountains, Which, like flowers rich and rare, Spread their leaves of crystal high, In the lonely polar sky ! 270 THE TEMPTATION. A Crowd of Indian Spirits are driven in. Ind. Sp. We are come : we came in legions From the flat and dusky regions, Where a wooden God they own. We have perished bone by bone, Cracked beneath the giant's car, While our mothers shouted far, Over jungle, over plain, And drowned the discord of our pain ! Mord. You see, sir, you may choose your company. Count. No more of this ; which may be false, — or true. [Spirits fade away. Let me see one I know to be now dead. Mord. Dost see this tawdry coffin ? It is now A prelate's palace, — Bishop Nunez' see. The poor at last can come quite near this saint : Nay, 'round him, now, the worms are met in council : Cossus and Lumbricus are chosen presidents ; The one because he is a judge of learning, And t'other has taste in flesh. Wilt see your friend ? Count. No, no : I'll not disturb him. What lies here Beneath this heap of rough and rotting boards ? A felon's body ! Well, — what shall be done? Mord. Kick it, as you would spurn an enemy ! [Count touches it with his foot : the boards crumble away and a body is seen. Count. Ha ! Sanchez ! Thou false friend ! Rise up, ye rocks, Pillars, and floors of stone ! Rise up and press The villain downwards ! Hell hath let him 'scape. THE TEMPTATION. 271 Mord. This rogue looks paler than his shirt. Count. Look there ! The name of Sathan is not on his brow. Mord. (looking). N — o : there's no name. Count. And yet, in his black heart, The devil lived, and swayed him like a slave, And laughed, and lied, and with a glozing tongue Cheated the world of love. Mord. What, this poor worm ? What, he with his throat cut from ear to ear ? Ha ! ha ! O mighty man ! Count. He slew my sister, So good — so fair — so young — Mord. I warrant you The gallant's sorry enough now. Begone ! [The figure sinks. ' But how's this ? you look pale, sir. Lean on me : I'll be the reed, at least, if not the rock. But, hush ! strange music, like a swarm of bees, Seems oozing from the ground ! Voices /row below. Hush ! — there is a creature forming : Earth is into beauty warming : Between dust, and death, and life, There is now a crimson strife : Between fire and frozen clay, Water, ether, darkness, day, There is now a magic motion, Like the slumber of the ocean 272 THE TEMPTATION. Heaving in the sullen dawn ! — Is the cloud withdrawn ? A Voice. 'Tis withdrawn ! Friends and foes are met. together, Like a day of April weather, Beauty hand in hand with death ; What is wanting ? — only breath ! The Shadow of the Body of a Girl rises. Count. Speak, ere I look. What comes ? Mord. A sleeping girl. Yet — round her white throat winds a dark red line : What can it mean ? Count, (looking up) . Ha ! 'tis herself, dead, dead ! Poor girl, poor girl, too early lost ! Was Fate (Who gives to all the wretched store of years) A niggard but to thee ? Mord. Soh, — let her pass. Count. Yet one look ; for methinks it is (though pale) A pretty picture. When stern tyrants perish, False slaves, or lustful men, we look and loathe The ghastly bulks ; but beauty, pale and cold, (Albeit washed never in Cimolian earth). Like the crushed rose which will not lose its sweets, Commands us after death. She sleeps, she sleeps ! Have you no power to wake her from her sleep, — To give the old sad accents to her tongue ? Mord. 'Tis past my power. Count. I'll give thee THE TEMPTATION. 273 Mord. Noble Count, Dost think I'm bought with gold ? Count. I'll worship thee Mord. Umph ! — that sounds better. Yet, I cannot do't, — or must not. Wouldst thou have The dead turn traitors and betray the grave ? Count. Didst thou not swear that I should look through time ? See joy and sorrow ? wherefore drag me here ? Mord. Sir, you shall see the future, if you will. But, patience ! This fair thing must vanish first ; And then we'll try your fortune. Say farewell ! Count. Farewell, my dear one— Ha! be gentle with her. Dirge, during which the Body sinks. Lay her low in virgin earth, Till she claim a brighter birth ! Let the gentle spirits weave Songs, for those who love to grieve, — Maidens, mothers, lovers (they Who have locks too early gray), Fathers who are tempest tossed, Widows who have won — and lost ! Children, fairer than the morning, Die and leave an awful warning, With the unhealing wound, whose smart Never quits the childless heart ! Count. Now let us look on that which is to be. Mord. My glass is there : yet, ere you gaze, think well. The future Count. Bid it come, as terrible T 274 THE TEMPTATION. Mord. Count. Mord. Count. Mord. Count. Mord. Count. Mord. As tempest or the plague, I'll look upon't And dare it to an answer. Methinks I feel Swollen with courage or some grand despair, That lifts me above fortune. Quick ! unveil Your dusky mirror, you, lords of the mansion ! Base goblins, quick ! Unveil your lying glass, And let my lord look in. Now, noble Count, What see you ? [Shadows appear on the Mirror. Ha! Two figures, like ourselves ! We're linked together, Count ? True ; but thy shadow Wears a strange cunning look and quivering eye, And the face changes — Ha ! from young to old, From fair to dark — from calm to smiles — to mirth ! From mirth, look ! into — Ha ! Diabolus ? [turns round quickly. What is't? 'Tis gone ! Methought thou didst assume a fearful visage. Let me look on thee nearer : — no, thou'rt fair, — As fair as truth. No fairer ? Wouldst thou be Whiter than truth ? Why, — no : in fact, my notion Is that she wears a much too cold complexion. Now, sir, I like the olive, — or the black. Then, she was naked too, or poets lie : Give me some covering, though 't be but a mask. THE TEMPTATION. 275 Count. That was a fearful face I saw ! Mord. Forget it. Let us consult the mirror once again. [Other Shadows appear. Count. Heaven ! 'tis herself, my love, my dear, dear Inez ! She will he mine. After Love's fears and pains, The god sits crowned with roses ! What are they ? Mord. Your children. Count. Both ? — How fair ! no lily fairer. See, with what matron smiles the mother bends, Kissing their veined temples with her lips ! Mine ? mine ? all mine ? O, Fate, why did I swear Hate everlasting to thee ? • I abjure My rashness at thy feet. Mord. Had you not better Dip once again in the dark lottery ? Perhaps this spring may change. But see — what comes? [The Shadows alter. Count. A thin shape comes : 'tis like myself; so like, That, but 'tis younger and more spare and pale, I'd say — 'twas I. Mord. This phantom never lived. Count. I'll call it. Thou ! Mord. Be still ! You must not talk To that which ne'er was flesh. Unto my ears Confide your transports : We may talk together ; Though not to them. These pigmies are as proud As a rich tradesman, or a new-made lord. Count. Who is the vision ? Speak ! Mord. It is — your son. t2 276 THE TEMPTATION Count. Forbid it, Heaven ! Sickness or want hath struck This pale thin boy with death Must he then bear Youth without blossom? without age, decay? After all childhood's ills and pains endured, (Before life's sweets are blown) 'tis hard to die. Let him not perish ! Mord. Do you pray to me ? Count. I had forgot : methought the thing was real. But, see, he comes alone / Shew me the rest, All the fair shapes, and she, the first and fairest, Whose beauty crowns my dreams, whose heart is mine, My own / Not all your juggling tricks can shake My trust in her unmatched fidelity. Mord. I said not she was false : she is most true. Count. O, my fast friend ! Mord. But beauty still is frail ; And what dishonour could not, Death has struck ! Count. Ah ! Mord. Stand up, Count ! What, fall at the first word ? Why, this is but the future. (Aside.) The weak fool ! Count. O thou false friend ! (He turns his back on me). Is there no hope, — no way, — no ? Mord. None ; — yes, one ! Count. Quick, quick ! Mord. You need but change your — livery, Count. You've served one thankless king in camps and councils, Have got hard knocks, no rank, and little pay ; Have been dishonoured / — What else need be said ? Push him aside, and choose a better master. Count (pauses). Umph ! — he must be a king. Mord. He is. THE TEMPTATION. 277 Count. A great one. Mord. He is a king more vast and terrible Than any one whose cannon shakes the world. He hath huge hosts, wide realms, and such a power As the strong tempest hath when it is wroth. Fate cannot awe him : Death is sworn his slave : — Count. What devil- Mord. Hu — sh ! You've guessed well. Hark ! his name — [whispers. Count. Avaunt ! What art thou ? Who art thou ? Mord. Your friend ! [The figure of Mordax changes.] Your fellow, too, who'll save all those you love : But, still, you must be prompt. Your vow runs thus — Count. I will not hear him. Ears, shut up your sense ! Mord. Choose and be quick, Count ; for you're in some peril. The Inquisitors have scented out your path, (They are brave bloodhounds), and will soon be here. Count. I care not. Mord. But they've racks, which change men's humours. Then, for the things thou lovest, their graves are open : Wilt save, or thrust them in ? Count. Be dumb, thou tempter. Turn your red eyeballs from me— O, 'tis fable, Black, base, unfounded, false — what else ? what else ? Yet, if it be, — and I can save them thus—? [A noise is heard at a distance. Mord. Hark ! they are on thee. Count, Ha ! is death so near ? No matter ; let it come : — I shake like fear ! Mord. I still can save thee, thee and all thou lovest : Quick, speak the word. 278 THE TEMPTATION. Count. The word ! what word ? Speak on. [Voices are heard without. Mord. They're at the door. Say thus : " T give my soul — " Count. Stay ! stop ! What shall be done ? Now, life or death? The grave for her, — or love ? God ! help me — Ha ! I'm safe — 'twas a wild struggle — but I'm safe. Fiend ! I abjure thee (falls down) , loathe thee — Officer (without). Open the doors, In the name of the most Holy Inquisition ! Mord. Ha, ha! the holy rogues! — (whispering) You still may choose, Life, love, and wealth? or the rack and scaffold? Quick ! Officer (without). Burst through the doors ! [The doors are broken open, and Officers, fyc. of the Inquisition enter. Ho ! seize upon him. — Ha ! My lord of Ortiz ? — Sir, Count Melchior heard You were beset by some fierce enemy, And sent us here to save you. Raise him up ! Now, where's your foe ? Seize on him ! A Voice laughs. Ha, ha, ha ! Officer. I hear a horrid voice, but nothing see. Spread yourselves out, and search the vaults with care. Haste, and let none escape. Count (faintly). 'Tis vain : — he's gone ! Wherefore he came, or who he is, or was — Officer. We do not ask : Our master bade us say He'd speak in private with you. Count. He is wise ; Wise, good, and gentle, as a great man should be. THE TEMPTATION. 279 Bring me before him : I will try to thank him. I'd go, — but cannot. Voice laughs again. Ha, ha ! Office)-. Lean on me. Now let us haste : Methinks strange sin and horror Tenant these lonely vaults : Perhaps they sit Watching the couches of the wicked dead ! Come, let us go : — to the Count's house, my lord ? Count. . Ay, strait, strait, strait — ( Aside) and strait to Inez bosom Which was (and must once more be) my sweet home ! [Count, fyc. exeunt. NANCIE IRVING O, ken ye lovely Nancie, Of Annan's fairy water ; O, ken ye lovely Nancie, John Irving's youngest daughter ? She's peerless when she speaks, When silent she's a shiner, There's sorcery in her song, And her dancing's still diviner. O were I but the light Of the morning to awake her, Ere she rises pure and bright, In the glory of her Maker. A. 280 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. The bee delights in opening flowers, The birds rejoice in scented bowers, The plover loves the lonesome hill, The speckled trout the silver rill, The wakeful bittern loves the bog, And I love thee, my faithful dog. I love with thee, as forth we walk, Mute though thou art, to smile and talk, Through beds of lilies white as snow, Treading their dewy heads, we go ; Arousing, in our merry race, The mousing cat thou fearest to face — The mild of mood ay look with awe On creatures wearing tooth and claw. But let at night the scared owl screech, Thy look is fire, thy bark is speech ; With tail extended, white teeth baring, No lion looks more fierce and daring ; Thy back with rage is all one bristle, Thy whiskers sharpen like a thistle. On days of state, 'tis grand to see Thee strut with dogs of high degree. No peacock waves his golden trail So stately as thou shakest thy tail. Live on unharmed by chain or clog, My word is — Love me, love my dog. LOVE ME LOVE MY DOG PUBLISHED. OCT. 1.182 8. BY JOHN SHAJtPE . LONDON. 281 A TALE OF THE TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. BY THE REV. EDWARD IRVING. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow 1 There is nothing, ray dear friend, for which I envy former times more than for this, that their information was conveyed from one to another so much by word of mouth, and so little by written letters and printed books. For though the report might chance to take a fashion and a mould, from the character of the reporter, still it was the fashion and the mould of a living, feeling, acting man ; a friend, haply a father, haply a venerable ancestor, haply the living chronicler of the country round. The information thus acquired lives embalmed in the most precious associations which bind youth to age — inexperienced ignorant youth, to wise and narra- tive old age. And to my heart, much exercised in early years with such traditionary memorials of the pious fathers of our brave and religious land, I know not whether be more pleasant, to look back upon the ready good will, the heartfelt gladness, with which the vene- 282 A TALE OF THE rable sires and mothers of our dales consented to open the mystery of past times — the story of ruined halls, the fates of decayed families, the hardships and mortal trials of persecuted saints and martyrs ; or to remember the deep hold which their words took, and the awful im- pression which they made, upon us whom they favoured with their tale. Of the many traditions which I have thus received, I select for your use one of the most pious and instructive, as well as the most romantic and poetical, for that, while I prize you as a poet, I esteem you as an upright and worthy man. Now, I have such a reverence for the traditions of past times, that you may depend upon my faith as a Christian man and a minister, that I have invented nothing, and altered nothing, in what I am about to relate,, whether as to the manner of my receiving the story, or as to the story itself. A branch of my mother's family who lived in Niths- dale, and whom you knew well as distinguished amongst the clergy of that district for faithfulness, had culti- vated the most intimate brotherhood with another family, likewise of the Scottish clergy, who, when the father died, betook themselves to Glasgow, where the blessing of God continued to rest upon the widow and the father- less. When about to repair to that city, to serve our distinguished countryman, my dear and honoured mas- ter, Dr. Chalmers, I received a charge from my mother's aunt, now with the Lord, not to fail to pay my respects to the old lady and her children, of whom I had seen the only daughter, when on a visit to our part of the TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 283 country. Thus intrusted with the precious charge of an old and faithful family friendship, and with this also for my only introduction, I proceeded to the house of the old lady and inquired for her daughter. The servant who admitted me, mistaking my inquiry as if it had been for the old lady herself, showed me into a large apartment; and deeming, I suppose, that I was well acquainted with her mistress, she shut the door and went away. When I looked around, expecting some one to come forward to receive me, I saw no one but a venerable old woman, seated at the further end of the room, who neither spoke nor removed from her seat, but sat still looking at her work, as if the door had not opened and no one had entered ; of which, indeed, I afterwards found she was not conscious, from her great infirmity of deafness. I had therefore time to observe and contemplate the very picturesque and touching figure which was before me. She sat at her spinning wheel, all dressed in black velvet, with a pure white cap upon her head, an ancient plaited ruff" about her neck, and white ruffles round her wrists, from under which appeared her withered hands, busily employed in drawing the thread, which her eyesight was too feeble to discern. For as I had now drawn near, I observed that her spinning wheel was of the upright construction, having no heck, but a moveable eye which was carried along the pirn by a heart-motion. She afterwards told me that it had been constructed on purpose to accommo- date her blindness, under the direction of her son, a gentleman in a high office in London : for she had so 284 A TALE OF THE much difficulty in reading, and was so dull of hearing, that it was a great relief to her solitude to employ herself with a spinning wheel, which also preserved her habits of early industry, and made her feel that she was not altogether useless in the world. I felt too much reverence for this venerable relict of a former genera- tion that was now before me, to stand by, curiously perusing, though I was too much impressed imme- diately to speak ; besides, feeling a little embarrassed how I should make my approach to a stranger for whom I instinctively felt so much reverence, and with whom I might find it so difficult to communicate. Having approached close up to her person, which remained still unmoved, I bent down my head to her ear, and spoke to her in a loud and slow voice, telling her not to be alarmed at the sight of a stranger, of whose presence she seemed to be utterly unconscious, for that I was the friend of one near and dear to her. I know not whether it was from her being accustomed to be thus approached and spoken to, in consequence of her infirmity of sight and hearing, but she was less surprised than I had ex- pected, and relieved me from my embarrassment by desiring me to sit down beside her ; so I sat down, and told her of her ancient and true friends, whose remembrances and respects, thus delivered, she seemed highly to prize ; and as I had touched upon a chord which was very sweet to her memory, she began to talk of her departed husband, and of my departed grand uncle, who had been long co-presbyters and fast brethren, and had together fought the battles of the kirk, against the inva- TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 285 sions of moderation and misrule. I loved the theme and love it still ; and finding what a clear memory and fine feeling of ancient times she was endowed withal, I was delighted to follow her narratives, as she ascended from age to age, so far as her memory could reach. When she found that I had so much pleasure iu her recollec- tions of former times, she said that she would tell me a story of a still older date, which her father had oft told her, and in which he was not a little concerned. So, pushing her wheel a little away from her and turning her face round towards me, for hitherto for the conveni- ence of my speaking into her ear, she had looked towards her wheel, she began and told me the following history, of which I took a faithful record in my memory, and have oft told it since to pious and well disposed people, though never till this hour have I committed any part of it to paper. I shall not attempt to recall her manner or expressions, but simply recall the very remarkable events of Divine Providence which she related to me. After the restoration of Charles the Second, when the presbyterian clergy of Scotland were required to conform to the moderate episcopacy which he sought to introduce, the faithful ministers of the kirk were con- tented, with their wives and children, to forego house and hall, and to tear themselves from their godly people, rather than suffer the civil power to bring guilt upon its own head, and wrath upon the land, by daring, like Uzziah, to enter into the sanctuary of the church and intermeddle with its government and discipline. But 286 A TALE OF THE when the civil authorities of the realm, not content with this free will resignation of all they held of their bounty, would require the ordained ministers of the word to shut their mouths and cease from preaching the gospel of the grace of God to perishing sinners, they preferred to obey God rather than man, and the head of the church whose vows were upon them, rather than the head of the state, who had ventured to usurp the power of the keys, instead of resting contented with the power of the sword, which by right appertaineth to them. The first who suffered in this contending for Christ's royal office in his house, was James Guthrie, professor of divinity in the university of Edinburgh. He was the first of that time who was honoured with the martyrs' crown, and having witnessed his good confession unto the death, his head, according to the barbarous custom of those evil days, was placed upon a pole over one of the ports of the city of Edinburgh, called the West Port, which lies immediately under the guns of the castle, and looks towards the south and west, the quarter of Scotland where the church ever rallied her distressed affairs. And at the same time a proclamation was made at the Cross, and other high places of the city, forbidding any one, under peril of instant destruction from the castle, to remove that head of a rebel and traitor to the king. The body was given to his sorrowful kindred, amongst whom was a youth, his nephew, of great piety and devotedness to the good cause of Christ and his church, of strong and deep and tender affection to his uncle, in whose house he had lived, and under whose TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 287 care he had studied until he was now ripe for the minis- terial office, and might ere this have been planted in the vineyard, but for the high and odious hand with which ungodly power and prelatical pride were carrying it in every quarter of poor suffering Scotland. This youth, his heart big with grief to see his uncle's headless trunk, vowed a vow in the presence of God and his own con- science, that he would, in spite of wicked men, take down from the ignominious gate his uncle's reverend head, and bury it beside his body. Full of this purpose, and without communicating it to any one, he went his way, at high noon, and climbed the city wall, and from beneath the guns of the castle, in broad daylight, he took down his uncle's head, wrapped it in a linen napkin, and carried it away with him ; whether overawing by his intrepidity the garrison, or by his speed outstripping them, or whether protected by the people, or favoured by the special providence of God, my venerable narrator staid not to tell, but as he vowed he was honoured to perform, and in the same grave was the martyr's head buried with his body. Soon was it noised abroad what this devoted and fearless youth had done, who, regardless of his life, was disposed to walk abroad and at large as usual, and abide whatever revenge and vio- lence might be permitted to do against him. But his kindred, and the stedfast friends of the distressed church, perceiving from this heroic and holy act what such a youth might live to perform, set themselves by all means to conceal him from the public search, which was set on foot ; and to save him from the high price which was 288 A TALE OF THE placed upon his head. Finding this to be almost impos- sible, in the hotness of the search which the lord provost, zealous in the cause of prelacy, whereof he was a parti- san, had set on foot, they sought to convey him beyond seas. This was not difficult at that time, when Scot- land had become too hot for the people of the Lord to abide in, and many of her nobles and gentlemen found it better to leave their lands and habitations and follow their religion in foreign parts, than by following it at home, to suffer fines, forfeitures, imprisonment, and death. These noble witnesses by exile, for that cause for which the ministers and the people witnessed by death, were glad to find pious scholars or ministers who would accompany them as chaplains to their households and tutors to their children, and the name of Guthrie had already risen to such distinction in the service of Christ, and of his church, that little difficulty was found in obtaining for the proscribed youth honourable shelter and occupation in a foreign land. But here, said the venerable matron, I should have told you that young Guthrie was knit to Edinburgh by a tie which made it more after his heart to abide in the face of threatening death than to accept the protection of any noble family or the shelter of a foreign land. For the providence of God to give in this youth a notable example of true faith as well as of high devotion, had fast knit his heart to a maiden of good degree and fervent piety, as the sequel of this sad history will prove, being no other than the only daughter of the lord provost of the city, who with such zeal and bitterness was seeking her lover's life. TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 289 To this true love religion had been the guide and minis- ter, as she was destined to prove the comforter ; for the soul of this young maiden had been touched with the grace of God, and abhorring the legal doctrines of the curates, she cast in her lot with the persecuted saints, and in the hiding places from the wrath of man, where they worshiped God with their lives in their right hand, these two hearts grew together, as it were, under the imme- diate eye and influence of the Holy Spirit; and now that they were knit together in the bands of faithful love, they were called upon to sacrifice their dearest affections to the will of God. She, knowing her father's zeal and speed to serve the cruel edicts of the reigning powers, was not only content to part with the proscribed youth, but anxious to hasten his escape from the danger to which he was continually exposed from her father's diligent search ; and he, though very loath to leave his heart's desire under the sole authority of a father who sought his life and persecuted the saints of God, was fain at length to yield to the remonstrances of all his friends, and become an exile from his native land. Yet did these pious lovers not part from each other until they had plighted their mutual truth to be for one ano- ther while they were spared upon this earth, and to fulfil that vow by holy wedlock, if Providence should bless them to meet in better days. And so they parted, never to meet again in this world of suffering and sorrow. All this passed unknown to her father, and, indeed, hardly known to herself; for the events of the uncle's 200 A TALE OF THE martyrdom, and the nephew's piety and proscription, had awakened the maiden's heart to the knowledge of an affection whose strength she had not dreamed of; and all at once,, setting her father, whom next to God she honoured, in direct hostility to him whom more than all men she loved ; there was neither time nor room, nor even possibility, to give heed to any other thought than how she might prevent the man whom most she honoured from slaying the man whom most she loved. Fearful predicament for one so young and uncounselled, but a more fearful predicament was re- served for her. She was her father's only child, and he was a widower ; so that all his affections and hopes centred in her alone. Her fear of God made her mind beautiful, and her walk and conversation as become th godliness. Her father, also, bore himself tenderly towards her predilections for the persecuted preachers, thinking thereby the more easily to win her over to his views, not finding in his heart to exercise harsh authority over such a child. Sore, sore was her heart as she thought on her exiled lover and her affectionate father, who lay in her heart together, and yet she must not speak their names together ; than which there is no trial more severe to a true and tender mind. To sit beside her father, night after night, and not dare mention the name of him over whom she brooded the livelong day, was both a great trial, and seemed likewise to her pure conscience as a great deception. But aye she hoped for better days, and found her refuge in faith and trust upon a TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 291 good and gracious Providence. But Providence, though good and gracious unto all who put their trust therein, is oft pleased to try the people of the Lord, and make them perfect through sufferings, which truly befell this faithful but much tried lady. Her father, seeing the hopes of his family centred in his only daughter, naturally longed to see her united to some honourable and worthy man, which, above all things, she feared and sought to prevent, well knowing that the man to whom she had betrothed herself could not be he. Her father's official rank and good estate made her hand to be sought by young men of high family, with whom he would have been glad to see her united, but her own disinclination, to the cause of which he must remain a stranger, continually stood in the way, until at length, what at the first he respected as a woman's right, he came at length to treat as a child's perverseness ; and being accustomed to obedience, as the companion and colleague of arbitrary men, leagued in the bad resolution of bowing a nation's will from the service of God, he was tender upon the point of his authority, especially over a child whom he had so cherished in his bosom. At length, when his patience was well nigh worn out, the eldest son of a noble family paid his court to the betrothed maiden, and her father resolved that he should not be gainsayed. When she saw that there was no escape from her father's stern and obstinate purpose, she resolved to lay before him the secret of her heart. Terrible was the struggle, for she dreaded her father's wrath ; and yet at times she would u2 292 A TALE OF THE hope from a father's kindness. But when he heard that she had given her affections to the man who had defied his authority and set at nought the proclamation of the state, his wrath knew no bounds. His dignity as chief magistrate, which had been braved by that young man ; his religion, which had been contended against by him and his fathers ; his prospect of allying his family to the nobles of the land ; and, above all, the joy of heart which he had set upon his beautiful, his obedient, and his only child, arose together in his mind, and made him sternly resolve that she should not have for a husband the man of her own choice. It was in vain she pleaded a woman's right to remain unmarried if she pleased. It was in vain she pleaded a Christian woman's duty, not to violate her faith, nor yet to give her hand to one, while her will remained another's. When she found her father unrelenting, and that he would oblige her upon her obedience to marry the man of his choice, she felt that she had a duty to perform likewise unto him whom he would make her husband. But whether God would, in her case, teach unto all young maidens a lesson how they betrothed themselves without their fathers' consent, or whether he would show to betrothed maidens an exam- ple of true heartedness and faithfulness to their plighted troth, it was so ordered that this pious and dutiful child should find both a hard hearted father and a hard hearted husband, who vainly thought that their after kindness would atone for their present cruelty. But, alas ! it fared to her and them as she had told them before- hand, that they were mingling poison in their cup, and TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 293 together, a father and a husband, compassing her death. Oh that this tale of sorrow might prevent such deeds of stern authority and unrelenting wilfulness ! This young woman, who had borne a lover's peril of death, and a lover's exile from his land, and hidden her sorrows in her breast, without a witness, through the strength of her faith, could not bear the unnatural state in which she now found herself placed, but pined away, without an earthly comforter, and without an earthly friend. Resignation to the will of God, and a conscience void of offence, bore her spirits up, and supported her consti- tution for the space of twelve months only, when she died, without a disease, of a blighted and withered heart. Yet, not until she had brought into this world of sorrow an infant daughter, to whom she left this legacy written with her dying hand : ' I bequeath my infant daughter, so long as she is spared in this world, to the care of William Guthrie, if ever he should return to his native land ; and I give him a charge before God, to bring up my child in the faith of her mother, for which I die a martyr, as he lives a banished man.' This, all this misery, had passed unknown to her faithful lover, who had no means of intercourse with his own land, and least of all with that house in it from which his death warrant had issued and vigilant search gone out against him. But shortly after these things were consummated, a full opportunity was given to him and every brave hearted exile, to take share in that great demonstration which was made by William of Orange for the Protestant cause in Britain. Without 294 A TALE OF THE delay, William Guthrie hastened to Edinburgh, where all the faithful sufferers for the truth were now over- whelmed with joy. But for him, alas ! there awaited in that place only sorrow upon sorrow. Sorrow, they say, will in a night cover the head of youth with the snows of age ; sorrow, they say, will at once loose the silver cord of life, and break the golden pitcher at the foun- tain ; and surely hardly less wonderful was the change wrought on William Guthrie's heart, which grew cold to the land of his fathers, and indifferent to the church for which the house of his fathers had suffered so much. For in his absence also, his cousin or brother, I wot not which, the persecuted minister of Fenwick, and the author of the ' Trial of the saving Interest in Christ,' with other principal works of practical godliness, had been violently ejected from his parish, and died of sorrow for the suffering church. Wherefore the youth said that he would turn his back upon the cruel land for ever, and with his staff go forth and seek more genial heavens. They sought to divert his grief, but it was in vain. They sought to stir him up to exercise his gift and calling, of a minister, but it was in vain. His faculties were all absorbed in the greatness of his grief, and the vigour of his heart was gone. One thing only bound him to that cruel city, the charge he had received of the infant child, whom God spared only for a short season after his arrival, and then removed to himself. Upon this, true to his purpose, he took his staff in his hand and turned his face towards England, which hath often yielded shelter since, to many a Scotchman tossed TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 295 in his own land with envious and cruel tempests, and by the way he turned in to the town of Dumfries, being- desirous to take solemn leave of some of his kin- dred before leaving his native land for ever. His friends soon saw of what disease he was pining, and being men of feeling, they gave themselves to comfort and heal him. Being also men truly devoted to the church, they grieved that one who had proved himself so faithful and true should thus be lost from her service. They medi- tated, therefore, how they might win him back unto God and to his duty, from this selfish grief which had overclouded all his judgment But wisely hiding their intent, they seemed only to protract his visit by friendly and familiar attentions, taking him from place to place, to show him the monuments of those who, in the much persecuted dale of the Nith, had sealed their testimony with their blood ; skilfully seeking to awaken the devo- tion of the martyr, that it might contend with the sorrow of the broken hearted lover. And from day to day, as thus they endeavoured to solace and divert his grief, they would point out to him how, now that the church had gotten rest, she was threatened with a hardly less grievous evil, arising out of the want of well educated and well principled ministers, who had been mostly cut off by martyrdom, imprisonment, or exile. And as they spake to him of these things, they would gently, as he could bear, press upon him their grief and disappoint- ment that he who was fitted by his learning and devoted- ness to be an example and a help to many, should thus surrender himself to unavailing grief, and forsake the 296 A TALE OF THE church which his fathers had loved unto the death. And being now removed from Edinburgh, the scene of his sufferings, the seat of business and bustle and hard hearted men, and dwelling amongst the quiet scenes and noble recollections of his country, he felt a calm and repose of soul which made it pleasant to abide amongst his friends. Now, in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, there is a parish called Irongray, and in the remote parts of this parish, in a sequestered hollow amongst the hills, look- ing towards the south and west, whence least danger came, but on every other side surrounded with summits which command the whole of Nithsdale, the foot of Annandale, and a great part of Galloway. In this hol- low are to be seen at this day, nearly as they were used, tables and seats cut out of stone, at which the persecuted people of the country were wont to assemble from the face of their enemies, and meet their pastors, who came forth from their caves and dens of the earth to administer to them the precious memorials of the dying love of out Lord ; for which they are called, to this day, the com- munion tables of Irongray. And as they were filled by one company after another, some were stationed upon the summits round about to keep watch against the approach of their persecutors. To these communion tables of Irongray would William Guthrie wander forth and meditate upon the days of old ; and then there would come over his heart a questioning of his back- wardness and opposition to the work of the Lord, like the voice which spake to Elias in the cleft of the rock TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 297 of Sinai, saying, " What doest thou here, Elias?" Now, it so happened at that time, that the faithful people of Irongray were without a pastor, and God was preparing to give them one according to his own mind. Little wist William Guthrie why God permitted that darkening of His glory, and hiding of His face, in his soul. Little knew he for what end God had loosened him from Edinhurgh, and from Angus, the seat of his fathers, driven him from his station, and "tossed him like a ball into a wide country/' Little thought he wherefore he was turned aside from his heedless course, and drawn and kept for a season at Dumfries. The people of Irongray, as I said, were, in the south, like the people of Fenwick in the west, a home and a rallying place unto the distressed of the Lord ; and if aught under heaven, or in the Providence of God, could hallow a spot, which may not be until Jerusalem be rebuilt and his feet stand upon the Mount of Olives, then would these communion tables of stone, from which so many saints, famishing saints, were fed with heavenly food, have hallowed the parish of Iron- gray. But though there may not be any consecrated places under this dispensation, there is a Providence, be assured, which extendeth itself even to the places where worthy and zealous acts have been done for the testimony of God and of his Christ. And in no way was this faithfulness, unto a well deserving and much endur- ing parish, shown more, than in that providence which drew this much tried and faithful youth to their borders. Haply moved thereto, and guided by the friends of 298 A TALE OF THE the youth, who longed for his stay, the heads of the parish came and entreated him to become their pastor, offering him all affection and duty. Whereupon our worthy was much pressed in spirit, and sorely straitened how he should refuse, or how he should accept the entreaties of the people ; and then it was that his heart said, " What art thou, foolish man, who settest thyself up against the providence of God ? Hast thou suffered like Job, or like any of the cloud of witnesses, wilt thou leave that land unto which thou hast received thy com- mission to preach the gospel ? What would she thou mournest advise thee to do in this strait ? How wouldst thou most honour and best please her whom thou be- lievest to be a saint of God ? Would it not be in caring for those with whom she preferred to cast in her lot, and unto whose society she bequeathed her child?" And thus, after sore strugglings between the righteousness of duty and the inclination of grief, between the obedience of the Head of the church and the idolatry of a departed saint, whom he loved as his own soul, he surrendered himself to the call of the heads of the parish and was ordained over the flock. Yet, so far as nature was concerned, there was a blank in his heart which he pre- ferred should remain a blank, rather than seek the fellowship of any other woman. Year passed over year, and found him mourning ; for thirty years he continued to deny himself the greatest comfort and joy of human life, though drawn thereto by a true and tender heart, but after this long separation unto the memory of her who had proved herself so faithful unto him, he at TIMES OF THE MARTYRS. 299 length yielded to the affections of the living and married a wife. Of which marriage," said the venerable old mother who told me the history, " I am the fruit." Such was the history of her father ; after hearing which, you may well believe, my dear friend, I was little disposed to listen to any thing besides. My desire for traditions was swallowed up in deep sympathy with the wonderful narrative which I had heard ; and I felt dis- posed to withdraw to my own reflections. But the worthy and venerable woman would not suffer me to depart until she had taken me to her own little apartment and shown me a small picture, but whether of her father or of her husband, who was minister of the neighbouring parish of Kirkmahoe, I cannot now recall to my remembrance. She also showed me the Bible on which she was wont to read, and told me it had been the Bible of a queen of England. I took my leave ; and not many weeks after, I followed her body to the grave : so that this story, if it contain any moral instruction, may be said to be expired by the dying lips of one of the mothers of the kirk of Scotland. Farewell, my dear friend, may the Lord make us worthy of our sires ! 300 THE SNUFFBOX. A lady young and gay and fair, And joyous as a bird in May, Sat nigh a youth who much did look, Sigh sometimes, and but little say. He looked first this, then looked that way, And upward looked. The lady free, Smiled as she said, " Kind sir, I pray, What colour may your musings be?" He answered with embarrassed brow, " O they are pure, for I did think On her I love, and she is fair As lily on a rivulet's brink, Where lambs stay and forget to drink, With looking on the flower/' Aside She turned and seemed nigh hand to sink, Then spoke, and spoke with meikle pride. " I leave thee to thy thoughts, to shapes Formed, like thy words, of empty air." Her curls, her head, disdainful tossed, Like rays of sunshine here and there. THE SNUFFBOX. 301 Then gathering thus her golden hair, She would have gone, when he said, " Stay, See my love's form, is she not fair And lovely as a morn of May V She took the jewelled box ; she looked Upon the mirrored lid ; she grew Like crystal stained with rosy wine, Or like a sunbeam seen through dew. She saw herself, and sidelong drew Nigh him, and with a soft low voice, Said, " If the mirror tells me true, I know her, and approve thy choice." Such is the story told by one Excelling in the natural way Of saying simple things, whom none Tn elegance surpassed. The gay, The grave, the young, and hoary gray, Love Nature in her meek undress. No more, for words will poorly say What Art's embodied thoughts express. 302 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. BY GEORGE DARLEY, ESQ. " Array ! array the bridal feast ! Be ready, paranymplis and priest ! Hurry to church the swooning Maid ! — The rite is done, the blessing said : She is the old Lord Walter's wife, Her destiny is sealed for life ! No heir from these unfruitful bands Shall step between us and her lands, Which should have come to us by right ; Our Uncle was a drivelling wight To leave the Girl his treasures, when He had as near relations men \" So spake her Cousins. Months flew past, I left my fevered couch at last : " O, Eveline ! dear Cousin ! now For thy soft hand to sooth my brow ! Thy breath, as sweet as morning air, To pour its perfume on my hair ! Come, with thy harp, my soul to calm ; Come, with thy voice, my spirit's balm ! Sweet-murmuring, like the forest dove, Sing me the ditty that I love !" THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 303 A brother's voice in laughter broke Close at my elbow as I spoke : 'Twas Simon, with as sly a grin As drunken Death might cast on Sin : Another face as blear, but older, Looked with a death-scowl o'er his shoulder, My brother Roland's ; black as night, When Hell has suffocated light. *' Six months ago, our Cousin wed, While you lay groaning on your bed ; And now is — where, the Heavens can say ! — But sure some thousand miles away. Glad was the Nymph to save from you Her broad lands and her beauty too." Had Heaven upon my head let fall The fiercest thunderbolt of all, It had not withered thus my youth ! Age came at once : in very sooth, By agony, in one short day, My raven locks were turned to gray ! Misfortune now most bitter made The scenes where we together strayed, The hills we ranged like two gazelles, The banks we sought for cowslip bells, Or lily pale, her favourite flower, The darkling grove, the secret bower, The simple lays our hearts approved, The tales of beauty that we loved, The silent, dim, secluded vale, Where love had breathed his ardent tale, — 304 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. All, all like bosomed scorpions were, That stung with native vigour there. In foreign lands, perchance, thought I, These adders of the mind may die. With empty scrip, but heart overflowing, I chose an autumn morn for going. Vain hope, indeed, the hope to find In change of place, a change of mind ! " My Eveline ! — that potent name Should still my deathward steps reclaim. I would not quit this mortal sphere And think I left thee lonely here ; I would not quit this terrene shore, Till I beheld thy face once more." Methought, that while my throbbing heart Was conning o'er this bleeding part, A shadowy form, like that I loved, Before my dim perception moved ; And uttered with a plaintive cry — " We'll meet again before we die !" Howe'er it was, that strong belief Upheld me 'gainst the waves of grief Which stormy Fate against me blew : I hoped, I thought, I felt, I knew These arms which circled her before Should press her to my heart once more ! And still whene'er my spirits fell, Came the sweet voice I knew so well. I passed one time the lordly towers Which Shirewood's giant grove embowers, THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 305 Beneath whose antiquated reign Spreads far and wide a green domain : O'er the soft mead and velvet lawn Range the staid deer and trotting fawn, Or.primly walk the long arcades, Like owners of those secret shades. But on this day, I ween, they stept Less stately, and the in-wood kept ; For since the upspring of the morn, Their ears had echoed to the horn, And the keen stag-hound's fatal yell Tolled in them like a passing bell. I chanced to pass the greenwood nigh, When the loud pack came sweeping by, With gallant hunters in their train, Who all, but one alone, were men. She on a milkwhite palfrey rode, That seemed too happy for his load . In suit of silvan green, the Maid Was like a kirtled woodnymph clad : A velvet helm, jet black, she wore, With snow-bright plumage nodding o'er. Along they flashed : I could not trace The clouded features of her face, Although I guessed it lovely fair ; But as she past, two rings of hair, Like twisted threads of matted gold, Behind each snowy ear were rolled . My pulse throbbed high ! There was but one With tresses wound from off the sun, x 306 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. Like these ! — 'Tis she ! so bliss be mine ! I knew her by her locks divine ! 'Tis Eveline ! — And at a bound I broke the sanctuary ground ; The greenwood rang with shrill alarms, — She screamed, and fell into my arms ! " My Eveline ! my heart-sworn bride ! Look up ! behold thy love !" I cried, And tore her jealous veil aside — When, Oh ! what horror sealed mine eyes ! What shrieks of anguish and surprise Burst from my lips ! — Fond wretch, away ! 'Tis young De Bohun's Ladye gay. Through fair Hesperia's balmy clime I *j ourneyed in that reckless time Which Superstition grants to Sin For acting her loose pleasures in, Ere her own gloomy rites begin, — The Carnival. Fair Florence shone, The imperial Druggist's classic town ! Like the great orb at going down, Gorgeous and glorious ; while the breath Of fuming Luxury beneath, Who led the wine-flushed, panting crowd, Sat o'er the city like a cloud ; Dizzying the sight, though amber clear, Of all in its Circean sphere. 'Mid all this joy, and hum, and whirl, Who is that melancholy girl ? Fixed on that marble block alone, She seems of kindred to the stone ; THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 307 Woe, looking at her clasped hands, Or counting Death's slow minute sands ? So wrapt my thoughts, I spoke aloud, When one of the near-standing crowd : 4t Alas ! who knows not, by her mien, The lovelorn lady Eveline ? An angel from another sphere, Whom friends by force have carried here ; Because her maiden choice, forsooth, Instead of palsied Age, was Youth !" No more ! my heart has long confest Her presence whom it knows the best ! Long ere we die, indeed, we meet ! — I rushed, and threw me at her feet ; With upraised arms and streaming eyes, Poured out my soul in sobs and sighs, And broken words, and gasps of joy, Like a fond, visionary boy ! Then rose the statued beauty, while Her eyes betrayed a pitying smile, And sighing like a thing of clay, Walked slow and silently away. At once the hope my folly nursed, Her tall majestic form dispersed : That beauteous Grief might be a queen, But, ah ! 'tis not my Eveline ! Along the deep majestic Rhine, Flowing as dark as his own wine, I took my meditative way. Dim Twilight, in her veil of gray, x2 308 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. Stood on the Eastern hills afar, Watching pale Vesper's beacon star. Pondering, I woke not from my dream Till broadly o'er the rippling stream, A battlemented mansion threw Its form athwart the sullen blue. Lost in the splendour of the sight, I gazed upon the vision bright, And stood in long abstraction here ; When sweetly, faintly on my ear, O'er the reflecting waters stole A strain deep drawn from Passion's soul ; Melody that the Saints might sigh, Seeing a. sister spirit die. " The very voice ! the very lay 1 My Eveline ! O haste away ! Descend ! descend ! my bride ! my wife ! The pride, the passion of my life !" — Ere twenty ripples kissed the shore, We ferried the deep current o'er, And like two doves that seek their nest, Flew through the greenwood, breast to breast. At length ! at length my hopes are crowned ! At length my Eveline is found ! Even in its treasury of ill, Heaven had some mercy for me still ! She gazed — she faintly, wildly screamed — The moon which then unclouded streamed, Fell on her cheek, the boughs between — O God ! it was not Eveline ! THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 309 Down sank I, as a corpse that stands Falls, when you take away your hands. Homeward I bent my steps again — Joined by a youth from old Bretagne, Upon whose brow, though fair and young, The cloud of melancholy hung ; His raven curls and sable plume Deepened his fixed look of gloom, And though I often wished to be Left to my own sad company, I could not to a Youth so fair, So desolate, refuse his prayer, That he " might journey o'er the wild With the good Pilgrim, as his child." Together, then, we journeyed on, Like father and his youthful son ; For Grief was canker to my prime, And Woe had done the work of Time, And cloak and staff and scallop shell Suited my tremulous accent well. With this poor Youth (I heard him sigh) My ministry begins, said I ; Some vision seems to haunt his mind, He often starts and looks behind, As if some foe or spectre grim, Studious of blood, still followed him. Like ivy round an elder tree, He crept, he clung, he grew to me ; And trembling pulled me from the way Which through the mountain valley lav . 310 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. " No ! we must quit the sunny road," Said I ; " this leads to my abode ; The deep, green, silent valley's shade Seems for the weary pilgrim made." We went. A visor'd horseman keen, Rushed on us from a dark ravine ; And fierce of mood and fell of hand, Struck my fair comrade with his brand, Who shrieked my name and fled. I drew My sword and thrust the murderer through. He gazed, and shuddering on the bank, " Arden V exclaimed — and lifeless sank. I flew into the wood and cried, " Where art thou, Boy ?" But nought replied. I found him underneath a cave, Leaning beside a crystal well, Into whose green translucent wave His piteous tears in silence fell. He dipt his napkin in the spring, And wiped therewith his pallid brow, But all the plaint and murmuring Was from the little stream, I trow, That bubbled, all too crimson, by ; For scarce the Youth was seen to sigh. But, oh ! more near, I saw his breast Heave through his scarcely opened vest. 'Tis white as undescended snows, Or the pure foam that crests the linn ! Full as a woman's breast it rose, That time he put his napkin in ! THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 311 O, pity ! see, the breast doth bleed ! And 'tis a woman's breast indeed ! I placed her dying on my knee, Her bonnet fell upon the green ; Her golden hair flowed splendidly — O, God ! it is my Eveline ! — Is this, is this your mercy, Fate ? Is this the work of Hope or Hate? That voice recalled her from the skies. " Why" — and she gazed with dim surprise ; 1 ' Why from the grave of absence rise To greet, in vain, my closing eyes 1 — Yet, no ! — 'tis much to see thy face, To feel, once more, thy kind embrace ; I am content, if so thou art, To find me near thy beating heart ; 'Tis much to hear thy tender tone, To die in thy loved arms alone." These words I echoed with a groan. — Wishing my sorrows to beguile, She strove, — but 'twas such pain to smile, Her lips were grave again. I wept, Some unknown tears mine eyes had kept. " Weep not !" she said, " but let us give The few short moments I can live To sweet aflection. — Care and woe, Young Arden ! have they changed thee so ? Thy Eveline, too weak for strife, Was made the old Lord Walter's wife, 312 THE SORROWS OF HOPE. While thou, who mighfst have been my aid ? Wert on the couch of sickness laid : Spite of her grief, his bride he bore To wild Illyria's murmuring* shore ; But threat, nor prayer, deceit, nOr dread, Could force me to his hated bed ; For still I hoped, when he had died, I should have been thy unstained bride." — Sighing (though half immortal !) here, She wept another human tear. Then, as I kissed it off: " Nor long Lived the old Baron. All the wrong He did, lay with him in his grave. My soul was on the Adrian wave, And, bird like, o'er the silvering foam, Returned to love, and thee, and home. But — Fortune razed what Fancy reared ! Ere died the Baron, oft appeared Scowling amid the castle walls, Two visages my childhood feared ; Nay, glared upon me in the halls, Or from the gloomy woods around, As I passed on, looked out and frowned."' " Death came at last ; and with it, they, Like vultures, to devour the prey. Both widowers : so, to strife they grew, And Simon his dark brother slew. Meantime, disguised, afoot I fled, And begged, through France, my way and bread: THE SORROWS OF HOPE. 313 But still upon my track pursued That fiend, who now hath shed my blood, Lest both my wealth and person, he Should wrest from him, who married me, Thyself I hoped ; but, kindly Fate Comes with the boon a pace too late." " 'Tis sad — almost too sad — that when So far I 'scaped — that I should then Be murdered in my native glen ! — Within thy very arms ! — so near The only bliss that made life dear ! — But vain — all vain, beneath the sun ! Let the great will of God be done I" Her lips grew settled : mine begun — " No pity, Heavens ? No mercy ? none?" — She oped her faint death-clouded eye, Looked up, and whispered in a sigh, " We meet — some consolation ! — We meet again before we die !" — Then joined her sister saints on high. Beneath that fountain's margin-sands I buried her with my own sad hands ; And led the little stream to rave A requiem round her hallowed grave ; And plucked white roses for her tomb, Fit emblems of her virgin bloom, Her beauty, and her luckless doom ! 314 THE YOUNG COTTAGERS. Thomas Gainsborough is distinguished in British art for truth and force, and his landscapes open out upon us like flowers expanding in the morning sun. Nature was his instructor, and Suffolk woods were his academy. He felt and saw and thought for himself. A group of cattle, a winding brook, a vacant shepherd, a maiden singing through a wood, and a matron smiling at her cottage door, were the themes which inspired him ; and these he found, without travel, in the varied scenes of his native island. He loved nature — a little wild and rough and dishevelled ; and despised her when trimmed and pruned and reduced to regular beauty and artificial elegance. His hand was ever ready to dash off, at a few hasty and happy strokes, the subjects which touched his fancy ; and his fancy and his taste united in selecting what was simple and wild and impressive. There is a charm about the children running wild in the landscapes of Gainsborough, which is more deeply felt by comparing them with those of his more fortunate rival, Reynolds. The children of Sir Joshua are indeed beautiful creations — free, artless, and lovely. But they seem to have been all nursed in velvet laps and fed with golden spoons. They are the progeny of rank rather than of nature. A long train of powdered tutors and nurses, wet and dry, crowd into the picture as we look, THE YOUNO COTTAGERS. I 'UBLISHED OCT. 1.1826. BY JOHN SHAKFE.LOKJJOH. THE YOUNG COTTAGERS. 315 and we think of future lords and ladies rather than of men and women. This will not be much felt, unless we glance from Reynolds to Gainsborough. There is a rustic grace and untamed wildness about the children of the latter, which speak, of the country and of neglected toilettes. They are the true unsophisticated offspring of nature, running unchecked among woods as natural as themselves. They are not afraid of disordering their satins, of soiling their finery, and wetting their shoes. They roll on the greensward, burrow like rabbits, and dabble daily in the running streams. They have an illiterate, yet an intelligent look, with the frank spirit of old England in their eyes. In this the works of Gainsborough and Reynolds are unlike each other, and both differ materially from the productions of the great painters of Italy. The babes of Raphael and Titian and Correggio are not mortal, they are divine. We think not of mothers' bosoms when we look at them — they are infant divinities — juvenile saints — hallowed babies — allied more to heaven than to human nature — things dedicated to the church and removed from mortal sympathy. We admire, but cannot love them as we do more homely and more earthly things. 316 ON HEARING " THERE'S A SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME 7 SUNG BY ITS AUTHOR, THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. BY MISS A. D. REYNETT. Hush ! move not, sigh not, let not breath be heard, Lest we should lose a tone, a look, a word. Hark ! 7 Tis " a master spirit of his kind," And all that's sweet in language is combined With all that's sweet in sound. 7 Tis almost pain To lose in listening, that delicious strain, " There's a song of the olden time ;" he sings, And touches the soul's most sensitive strings. The vision of my early days I see, The dream of youthful fancy visits me. Matchless enchanter ! whence derived the power To bring back with thy spell the blissful hour : To give again, as in my brightest years, Those who have left me long, to earth and tears ; Spirit of Melody ! by every token . . . Alas ! the strain has ceased, the enchantment's broken. c < t i | c « 31' BETTER FAR THAN BONNY. BY JOHN MAYXE, ESQ. He's what they ca' a bonny lad, That I loo best of ony ; But, O ! what makes my heart fu' glad, He's better far than bonny ! I met him first at Moffat- Wells, Where a' the Nithsdale gentry, In summertime, amuse themsels, And make a joyous entry ! At gloaming, down by yon burnside, The last time that I saw him, He vowed that I should be his bride, Whatever might befa' him : But war, that scourge of young delight, Has torn him frae my bosom, And I am dowie, day and night, For fear that I should lose him ! What though there's lairds in Annandale, At kirk and market booing ; And mair than ane, in Nith's sweet vale, That fain wou'd come awooing ? Fareweel to them and their green braes, Where crystal streams are gliding ; For my poor heart, far, far frae these, Is wi' my love abiding ! 318 TO JOY. BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND. Joy ! we search for thee in vain In the monarch's gilded train, In the mask's fantastic crowd, In the revels of the proud, In the camp or festive hall, At the rout and midnight ball. Thou, in all that's pure and fair, Dost delight, O ! Joy, to share. In creation's vesper song, Warbling with the winged throng ; In the cuckoo's mellow voice, Shouting to the woods, " Rejoice !" Thou art on the dewy lawn, Sporting with the lamb and fawn, Joining in the frolic play Of childhood's happy holiday. Thou the homeward bark dost greet, Thou art near when lovers meet, Thou art in the mother's breast When she sings her babe to rest ; In all that's lovely, sweet, and holy, Thou art e'en in melancholy ; Glistening in the hallow'd tear Affection sheds o'er virtue's bier. 319 TYRANTS AND SLAVES. BY WILLIAM KENNEDY. " By Allah ! I long for the music of war !" Cried Hassan, and grappled his broad scymitar: " The love of light woman — nay more — the chibouque, Are pleasures too tame for my spirit to brook. " The poppy's black juice, the foul infidel's wine, Will not kindle a flame in this bosom of mine ; Drag hither the captives, why live such as they, When the jackall and vulture are pining for prey !'' The slaves of fierce Hassan are gone at his word, And each, like a falcon, comes bearing his bird ; To sooth the dread Lion, they show with what skill The sons of the Prophet have learned to kill. The fresh-severed heads, nicely ranged upon spears ; The sack, quite correct, with its quantum of ears ; And the last of the lot to eternity sped, Well pleased, the Pasha w says his prayers, and to bed. Though the curses of thousands encompass him round, The sleep of the savage is tranquil and sound ; Though his guards in the night are his victims by day, And loath while they watch him, they do not betray. 320 TYRANTS AND SLAVES. O blame not the Moslem, thou pale-visaged Frank, Free actions are fair "in a man of his rank ; w Nor cry out with me, " Let his slaves bear the shame ! 1 Till thou and thy tribe cease to share in the game. Thy country may boast its religion and law, Yet it holds many chiefs like the hated Pashaw ; Their deeds not so daring, their hearts not less vile, Nor their vassals less ready to suffer and smile. And better to kneel to a Mussulman lord, Whose home is the battle, whose bride is the sword, Than cringe to a creature of Europe, whose claim Is the glitter of gold, or the sound of a name. Fly, lovers of freedom, indignantly fly The pack always yelping the democrat cry ; Who growl about tyrants, with feelings as base As ever to earth bent a recreant face. For what is a tyrant ? the idol of slaves, Who creep at his bidding to infamous graves. And make, God of Heaven ! thy image a stool To bear the vile heel of a madman or fool. With wormwood and gall may their cup overflow, Who batten the monster which causes their wo ! Who truckle to riches, or cower to brands, With souls in their bodies, and arms in their hands ! ('. WHITTINCHAM, CH1SVMIK. RETURN TO the circulation desk of any University of California Library or to the NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station University of California Richmond, CA 94804-4698 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS • 2-month loans may be renewed by calling (510)642-6753 • 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books to NRLF • Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW SErtTONfLL JAN 2 1 1999 U . C . B ERKELEY 2,000(11/95) M8UbCJ5 M\3 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY