smm yiPrNRLF B 2 fl3D ma >.^r^ THE END . PTLORtlAGE THE END OF THE PILGRIMAGE, AND OTHER POEMS. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/endofpilgrimageoOOparsrich lS&^?rs!^^ THE END OF THE PILGRIMAGE. THE END OF THE PILGEIMAGE, OTHEE POEMS. ELIZABETH MARY PARSONS. LONDON: CHAKLES WESTERTON, PUBLISHER, ST. GEORGE'S PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER. 1869. l^OAN STACK 3^0^?^ CONTENTS. PAGE The End of the Pilgrimage 5 Gathering Flowers If) To my Eldest Sister, on the Anniversary of her Birthday 17 The Old Year, 1857 21 Thought 81 An Old Man's Tale 'X?> Verses suggested by Sermons on the Ministiy of the Angels 41 The Lamp 41) The Weary Hour Oa A Country Church 57 Twilight 63 Words of Strife 7(1 Change 85 Farewell 95 492 THE END OF THE PILGRIMAGE. ' CTJIjf^ITH bruised feet and aching head HSE/ " I lay me down and die ; " For I am weaiy of my life, " And thankful here to lie. " More weary than the ailing child " That seeks its mother's breast ; " More stricken, hopeless, hunted down, " Than bird with wounded crest. ** Life's pilgrimage is ended here, " In the lone wilderness ; " And none for me will shed a tear ** Or have a joy the less. The End of the Pilgrimage, " Yet farther than is North from South, "Be murmuring from me ; " Life's lamp is flick'ring to its end, " Contented let me be. " A stone my pillow, thorns around, " My staff laid by my side ; " The cross above, the cross below, " No ill can me betide. " The evening closes round me, " Its damps bedew my brow ; " My wand'ring thoughts I scarce can guide, " Where is my loved one now ? " The cross, my cross falls from my hand, " Now and for evermore ; •' God's mercy comes to me at last, " Life's pilgrimage is o'er." The End of the Pilgrimage, " In mercy," gentle voices said, For angels whispered near ; And tenderly to Christ they bore The soul to Him so dear. And the poor worn-out casket, laid Upon a foreign strand ; Will Christians pity on it take, And lend a helping hand ? The sinking sun withdrew his face, Night threw her mantle round ; The ocean murmuring a dirge. Moaning with heavy sound. Its dull, deep-sighing voice, unheard By the poor pilgrim there ; It seemed a faithful friend in need, Keeping lone watch with prayer. The Mid of the Pilgrimage, And morning dawned upon the wild, A quiet, sunless dawn ; The cross received the first faint rays, Protecting the " forlorn." Yet earlier than the God of day. With solemn step and slow, Came one to whom that cross was dear, Dearer than aught helow. And oh ! how many weary hearts Have at its foot laid down Burdens too heavy to he home. Winning thereby a crown. What though the crown of "thorns" is made? It matters little here ; Each thorn buds forth, a " peerless rose," In the Eternal sphere. The End of the Pilgrimage. Tears of repentance, turn to gems More bright than princes wear ; The jure gold, fretted o'er with sighs, By smiles is brightened there. But yon grey figure by its mien The crown of thorns must wear ; Stooping but not with age, bent down By suffering and care. He little recks who lies so near. Claiming of earth a grave ; He little thinks that one so deai* So small a boon must crave Of him, the thoughtless, thankless son, Who could a mother leave, Without a line, her heart to cheer, And much to make her grieve. 10 The End of the Pilgrimage. A day of reckoning came to Mm, When fever laid him low ; He listened for his mother's voice, In agony and woe. As he had sown so did he reap, No mother's hand was near ; Delirium wild upon him seized, No mother shed a tear. The church stretched forth a friendly hand. And helped him in his need ; And he had cause to hless her aid. He did, and brought forth seed. He never left the Convent's shade, A " Brother " he became ; Despised by many, his good deeds Our charity might shame. The End of the Pilgrimage, 11 His mother still he hoped to see, But weary weeks passed by ; His letters all unanswered were, His trouble mounted high. Poor mother ! ere the news could reach The Emerald Isle so dear. She had set forth to seek her son. Hoping 'gainst hope and fear. Her sufferings are ended now ; How great they were, none knew ; But God, in thy great mercy, send So sad a fate to few. ** Mother and son," they meet at last, It seems in mockery sent ; The boon so prayed for, come at last, In form of punishment. 12 The End of the Pilgrimage. With fear and trembling we should ask Favors of God for we, Hoping to 'scape th' effects of sin, Are blind, we cannot see The End ; or we should start aside And shrinking, fear to face What we have asked for, oft it lies On edge of precipice. Oh ! what a sad, sad meeting, here We draw a veil around ; They met, the son bent down and hid His face upon the ground. At eventide a solemn knell Tolled forth from Convent near ; A brotherhood of christian monks Were gathered round the bier. The End of the Pilgrimage, 13 " God rest her sonl," they murmured all, And then her mother earth Ope'd wide her aims, her careworn child Her ample folds hegirth. And many a wand'ring pilgrim Her story loves to hear : There is a simple cross, with words, " Her son too lieth here." 15 GATHERING FLOWERS. LITTLE child was gathering flowers Upon a dewy eve, Hast'ning in sport from bud to bud, Fearing she some must leave. But presently she seemed to fail, As wearied of her play, And sinking on a fallen tree The sweet child sleeping lay. As silence fell on all around, A soft voice seemed to say : ' When next God's Angel gathers flowers, ** Beware ! beware ! sweet May." 16 Gathering Flowers, The dews had chilled her tiny limhs, — She started from her sleep, — The voice that sounded in her ears, Though neither loud nor deep, Her life had saved ; and many years The sweet flower blossomed on, Though others, equally beloved, Went to their unknown " Home." The Angel spared her long ; she bent Beneath the weight of years ; Calmly she bore the ills of life. Watering her way with tears. And when the Angel came his rounds, She withered on the stem, — She went to join the choir above, And shine a peerless " Gem." 17 TO MY ELDEST SISTER, ON THE ANNI- VERSARY OF HER BIRTHDAY. flME, the avenging god, is hurrying on, And the AU-powerftd stays not His mighty course ; He can, but does not, — 'tis in vain we try, Mocking our efforts weak, the giant passes by : Our prayers he heeds not, even while the breath We use is warm, our pleading is unheard. For he is then still further on his way. On, on, the old, the young, even the gentle babe. Once launched upon the stream can asver stay ; We weary and we cry for rest, — we moan In agony, — our spirit yearns for one Brief moment of repose — for one short interval Of nothingness. — Vain ! vain the wish, B 18 To my Eldest Sister on the The prayer, all worse than vain. sit i]i ^ ♦ Tune, the resistless, since o'er thee Nothing has power, what are thy boons to man ? I read my answer 'mid the wild wind's sighing, And in murmurs low it §aid : '* The widow and the orphan know — ask them. " The father, stooping o'er the lonely grave, " That has in its dark keeping one " More loved than life, knows but too well — ask him. *' The mother, mourning for her only son, " The beauteous and the brave, " In bitterness of heart can tell thee — ask of her. •' Repeat the question to the lonely one, " Crushed by some secret grief, bowed to the earth, " By what ? Blighted affection ? Trust betrayed ? " The richest treasures of the heart " Poured forth in waste ? It matters little what, " So that the heart is wrung, almost to breaking. " Oh ! when the wound is deep Anniversary of her Birthday. 19 " It lies and festers there, — sleep brings no rest — " Phantoms glide by most life-like, " And perchance it seems to us " That all is well. — We start, we waken, " And the gush of memory threatens destruction, — " The racked brain, tottering upon its throne, '* Scarce tells us, that our dream was sent to show " That misery can be more complete than aught " Our wildest fancy ever painted. " Then ask of such a one, if memory cannot stray " Back to some happier hour ? Ask one and all, " What was the boon time brought ? ** But nei-ve thyself to hear of naught " But desolation, suffering, shame and deatli." With a wild shriek the wind flew by — It lessened in its fury, till it sunk To a hoarse whisper, and then added : " If more thou hast a wish to learn, " Then ask experience — a liai'd task-master — " And he'll teach thee, to thy cost.'' £3 20 To my Eldest Sister. * :fc * * Time, still upon the wing, is bearing me, And many dear to me, upon its heaving bosom. Trial all must expect, but all Not in the same ratio ; — to some Are many happy hours allotted, and to thee, Sweet Sister, may the sum of them be great. Many will wish thee happiness to-day. The wish be many times re-echoed. Kind and forbearing, in my heart thou'lt rest, A memory sweet, and none, if more they show. Feel more than I. And oh, may those Who wish thee well to-day, be spared To love thee long, till blessing and blest. The earth can scarce bestow On thee. Sister beloved, one blessing more. Farewell, farewell ! Accept this tribute small From one whose only merit Is, " A loving heart." 21 THE OLD YEAH, 1857. fHE Old Year fadeth from our grasp, He dietli silently ; At midnight hour he breathes his last, All alone, mournfully. None around his death-bed standing, Watching his slow decay, They are to the New Year handing Presents both rich and gay. And does the poor Old Year deserve To be neglected thus ? Think of the many happy hours He brought to all of us. 22 The Old Year, 1857. We owe him gratitude for these, His gifts were kindly meant, In sorrow, and in suffering too, He wrought with good intent. From some he took the one most loved,- Sorrow how great to bear ! Yet better than to know they live With heart and conscience sear. Doubtless this heavy grief to some Unsparingly he dealt ; And many other bitter woes By human hearts were felt. England must ever, looking back In agony and shame. Confess that for her many sins Dread retribution came. The Old Tear, 1857. 23 Keason afFrighted, left her seat, Hope died from out the heart, And nameless evils on us came, Beyond all healing art. The gourd we planted in the East Withered as Jonah's did ; The burning sun scorched all beneath. And God's own sons fell dead. But let us not recount alone The ills that us befel, For mercies numberless were there, And these record as well. A grievous year thou'st been to some, But not to all, I ween, For many looking back can say, '* How happy I have been." 24 The Old Year, 1857. I will stay by thee, good Old Year, Thou shalt not die alone ; The throes of Death are coming on, I hear thee pant and groan. Thy numbered moments glide away, Vain is thy prayer for aid, I, in thy petition joining. Though words are left unsaid. The tide of life is ebbing fast, Kest, rest thy weary head : At rest it is, oh ! good Old Year, Oh ! poor Old Year thou'rt dead. TJie Old Tear, 1857. 25 PAET II. I'm list'ning to the merry bells, They chime with heart and will ; The heir is come, another year Old Time has giv'n us still. And thoughtlessly they rush to meet And greet the coming year ; Hail him with gifts, his health they drink, And crown him with good cheer. Sweet bells ! so merrily they sound, I love their melody ; Their voices so harmonious, blend With my thoughts soothingly. 26 The Old Year, 1857. I cannot haste the heir to meet, So soon, so very soon ; The closing scene is scarcely o'er, My soul is out of tune. But thy sweet chimings still I love, My solitude they cheer ; And naught their music interferes With thoughts of the Old Year. How tenderly he cherished some. And decked their hrows with flow'rs ; And wreathed with loving hearts their lives, And gave them golden hours. Youth, health, and heauty, gifts how bright ! From his full hand he gave ; Triumphantly he shed around All they most wished to have. The Old Year, 1857. 27 So gratefully and tenderly We'll say, " Good-bye, Old Year ;" For sorrow and for happiness We thank thee with a tear. For happiness should ever be Received with trembling heart ; Impending ruin o'er it hangs, Our sweetest joys depart. And when the cloud of sorrow drops Its sable shroud, between Us and the hopes we'd garnered up, And nothing can be seen But darkness palpable and thick, As the Egyptians saw ; Cease thy lamenting, brighter days There are for thee in store. 28 The Old Year, 1857, So quickly in our changing life Our cares are laid aside, The heaviest grief we have to hear Will not for aye ahide. The Old Year hrought us much of good, The New will do the same ; And moaning in the distance now Grief will make sure its claim. For good and ill alike prepare And do the thing that's right ; Bury the evil thou hast done During the Old Year's flight. Its precious moments fleeted hy Gone are its hopes and fears ; It lies a wreck of what has heen With other hygone years. The Old Year, 1857. Each one a warning is to us, Beck'ning with solemn hand ; Beseeching us our house to huild, But not upon the sand. Each year a seed-time has, keep watch And let it not pass by ; Each year a harvest has, beware ! Nor spend it heedlessly. Farewell ! Old Year, around thy brow An ivy wreath I twine ; 'Twere cruelty to call thee back, Thou art no longer mine. And as the chiming ceases now, My heart shall still its moan : Welcome ! New Year, I tnist my fate, To me, to thee unknown. 80 The Old Tear, 1857. I leave it in the hands of One Who doeth all things well ; His grace, His truth, His love for us, Eternity shall tell. And when the Eeaper gathers in His sheaves from far and near ; May I amongst the wheat be found And all whom I hold dear. 31 THOUGHT. fH OUGHT ! busy, restless, anxious thought, When will thy ceaseless wave be stayed ? Oh ! foolish question, yet how like mankind To call thee ceaseless, and then ask of thee How many weary hours must pass Ere thou art still ? Yet one thing more I ask of thee. What art thou ? and why dost come Uncalled for, uninvited ? Coming alike to all : No courtly guest art thou, the weary think ; Thou art no stranger to the wretched ; And the guilty curse thee for thy hateful company. Vast and illimitable, beyond compare, A god with power omnipotent to raise Or crush the drooping hcai't. And wilt thou, 32 TlioughL Proud as thou must be of thy dominion — Wilt deal more gently than it is thy wont With one whose heart is early dimmed by care ? Give me sweet images, and rest my weary soul. My only hope is rest : oh ! give it me, and let My thankful blessing rest on thy hydra form. 83 AN OLD MAN'S TALE. « f'VE heard a tale, a strange old tale it is, But true or not, as I remember, so will I Relate it : the truth methinks is often stranger than, Fearing ridicule, we dare acknowledge ; But to an old man like me, it matters not Or ridicule or praise, 'tis as you will ; So to my task. 'Tis many years ago That a young man whom I knew well. Too well, loved a sweet girl of my acquaintance ; Not as some love, believe me : no, with his whole being ; Strong in passion and affection, he surrendered To her keeping every hope that bound him to a ftiture. For happiness or misery. Oh ! his was lovo ! 34 An Old Man's Tale. My old heart leaps again to think of it. And she, bless her young heart 'twas sad ! She loved him too, I do not doubt it now Though once I did ; but there were busy tongues And they make mischief, (an old man's Malediction rest upon them ! ) and then all went wrong. The young man's heart was wroth. Long nights of weeping, and long days Of weariness, fretted his life away. She noted altered looks, as I've heard tell, And fretted to, and then 'twas hinted to him That she fretted, being bound to him unwillingly ; And he, — and he, — no, pause a moment : It was I, I did it, I am he ; 'Twas in my misery, I was wild with grief, I had no wish to tie her young life down to mine And she unwilling, so I told her I must leave For my health's sake ; (I did it for the best ; ) I went, not many miles away, but far enough, An Old Man's Tale. 35 My presence I believed a pain to her And I withdrew it. After a time they told her She was free, made free by death, and as my last words Said, " I wished her well and loved her to the end." And so I did, and do and ever shall. So when They finished, waiting for an answer, she had naught to say, Which frightened them, and this continued How long I know not ; but in time they saw How false it was to say her vows were mine Unwillingly, and then they wrote to me. Oh ! for the happiness within my reach, no more Could doubt come stealthily between us, I knew her for my own in heart. And travelling with speed to claim her, I arrived — What a bright life before me ! — I stepped in. I would delay the sequel if I could, but cannot ; Years have not obliterated or softened do^vn the Fearful agony which succeeded my short dream od B6 An Old Man's Tale. Of bliss : on seeing me she started forward With the words, " They told me he was dead," Then staggered back upon her seat, a maniac ! I soothed her with kind words, with gentle offices. But all in vain. Summer faded to Autumn, Autumn winds sighed by, stern Winter came, Spring breathed again upon the face of Nature, Still there was no change in her I loved ; Again and once again the seasons wearied on. And then the old physician whispered me That when the violets drooped, she too would fade, And restlessly I watched for one brief interval Of reason. It came, perhaps vouchsafed to me In answer to my broken-hearted prayers. We understood each other then, too late, alas ! She saw my fatal error, pitied, and forgave it, Soothed my distraction with her loving voice, And as a parting gift, bequeathed to me The likeness of my miserable self, which she An Old Man's Tale. 37 Had treasured ; with some lines attached Of her own composition : she reminded me (I needed no reminder) of the time when She had said, " that I should live to know " The deep affection which she bore for me " And prize it." And my answer then had been, " That if such knowledge ever came to me, " 'Twould be the brightest day in my life's history." Yet so it was not, could not be, the truth had shone Upon my heart, contrasting with the thickness Of the fearful darkness, that henceforth Must settle on my soul. She died. So beautiful, and true, and loving ; everything She thought could solace me she had said, In hopefulness of a reunion in a better world, — My loved, my lost one ! When she died, All the emotions and affections of my heart died too In faith I still am hers, tio second love e*re won A thought from me, impossible as it may seem 38 An Old Man's Tale. To some, by whom tlie dead too quickly are forgotten. I have her portrait and my own, and the sweet. Melancholy lines she penned Thinking on me — they will go with me to the grave : In justice to her you shall hear, not see them ; 'Tis her writing, and I would not other eyes Should gaze on it, 'twas given to me, to me alone ; Also to me alone was given to know How precious was the treasure of a heart I might have owned, did own, and broke. Listen, the words are music, the only music to my ear : '* His portrait, my own loved one, loved in vain ; " Oh! how reproachfully those lustrous eyes meet mine, '' Yet have I not deserved it ; to have spared him pain *' I would have suffered, tenfold more " Than I have suffered. 'Tis a fearful grief '• To gaze thus earnestly upon these lineaments " So fondly traced upon my heart, and know " That they are saddened by distrust of me An Old Man's Tale. 89 " Who so presumptuously thought to be a blessing. " Loved one ! no word of mine could now " Have influence to remove from off your heart " A weight that you must ever bear alone. " But for my own sake I bear testimony, " That never since my promise given to you *' Has my heart swerved, nor could it " Though the whole world laid at its feet : " Faithful and true, yours now, yours ever." My tale is told, memories come rushing Thick and fast as the strewn leaves in Autumn ; I am too deeply moved by the remembrance. See my white hair, my trembling step. My figure bent and old ; nearly the only name I have is, " the Old Man," but in years I scarcely number fifty ; it is sorrow, Deep and unutterable grief, and self-reproach, Have made me what I am. A warning take. Beware of whispering tongues, believe them not. Farewell ! 41 " Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation ?" — Heb. i. 14. SERMON I. INGED messengers accredited by heaven, In olden times, in human form were sent On especial errands, by the Triune God, For mercy, warning, or for punishment. Three Angels unto Abraham were sent. 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" The terms * unblushing calumny,' * foolish and wicked story,' * truly profligate waste of human character,' * assassinating of pri- vate reputation,' and so forth, are the mild and gentle reproofs which this meek man of "Westminster has borrowed from those pe- culiar purlieus wherein he informs us he delights to dwell, for the castigation and correction of his female antagonist. Nor is his logic much superior to his moderation." — Leading Article of 2'hs Times. XVIL Also, as a Sequel to the above, Price One Shilling, with Four Illustrations. The LEGEND of St. PETER'S CHAIE. By Anthony Rich, Jun. B.A. Author of " The Illustrated Companion to the Latin Dictionary nud Greek Lexicons," &c. "Lef|[end, which moans that which ouglit to be road, is from the early misapplication of tho terms ho imports, now used bj us as if it meant— that which ought to be laughed at." — TookcU IHv*rnotu of rurky. 8 KEW WORKS XVIII. In 1 Vol. Price Five Shillings. SIX MONTHS AT SEBASTOPOL; Being Selections from the Journal and Correspondence of the late Major George Ranken, R.E. By his Brother, W. Bayne Ranken. Contains a valuable narrative of the unfortunate assault on the Redan, in which the writer had the post of honour and of danger, as the leader of the ladder party. " Major Ranken was a most promising young officer, whose fate it was to be the last Englishman killed in the Crimea. His zeal cost him his life, for having to destroy the large White Barracks, and finding that some of the mines did not explode, he entered them to light the fusee again, and remained buried in the ruins." — Examiner, '•Major Ranken evidently thinks the attack on the Redan failed - through apathy and bad management. On this question he speaks with great authority. He led the ladder party, and was charged with the engineering operations upon the works. He was one of the first men to reach the Redan, and one of the last to quit it. His narrative has a distinctness about it that we have not found in any otlier account. The account is long, but it is mi historical docu- ment, and the only one, we believe, that has been published." — Spectator. ''■ Respecting the fearful attack on the Redan, in which he took the lead, he has recorded many incidents which have not yet been mentioned, and which it is only right to make as widely known as possible, A more vivid description, or a more trustworthy account assuredly will never be written. We hope we have done enough (inserting two columns of extracts in addition to remarks) to re- commend the best memorial of a thoroughly Christian Soldier which has appeared since the publication of the admirable biography of the late Captain Headly Vicars." — Bell's Weekly Messenger, " The narrative given by Major Ranken, who nobly led the attack, is more graphically told, and evidently more reliable, than any which has preceded it. He is almost the first officer who led ' a forlorn hope ' to live to describe what he went through in the performance of so desperate a service. No pen was so competent to place before us, and none has so completely succeeded in doing so, the attack and the repulse on that occasion." — Morning Tost, " Some of the Major's sketches are uncommonly vivid, and being taken from close points of view have a special value. No man was more identified with the dangers of that terrible campaign. We find he was one of the first to enter, and the last to leave the Redan. In trenches and rifle pits, in the forlorn hope and the midnight PUBLISHED BY ME. WESTEBTON. 9 SIX MONTHS AT SEBASTOVOL^contmued. battle, this brave young officer, in the fulfilment of his duty, gained the respect of all classes in the army. His own narrative, modest and without etfort, is precisely such as a soldier should write/' — AthencBum. *' Major Ranken's Journal is an acceptable contribution to the history of the Siege. His narrative of what he witnessed during that terrible time, ' the Storming of the Redan,' is the most com- plete and clear account of the affair that has yet been given."— Literary Gazette. *• His description of the assault brings the scene vividly before us. "We must take leave of Major Ranken s interesting memoir, — it is a valuable addition to our Crimean literature, and the ability stamped upon its pages adds another regret for his loss." — Press. XIX In 2 Vols. Price One Guinea. THE WIFE'S TEMPTATION; A STORY OF BELGRAVIA. By Mrs. Challicb, Author of "The Sister of Charity," "The Laurel and the Palm," &c. *' The Novel of the Season." — Morning Advertiser. "All that there is of noble, self-sacrificing, and hopeful in woman finds a warm and eloquent advocate in the pen that wrote these pages." — Morning Post, " For its stirring interest and loftiness of purpose, one of the best novels ever read." — Sunday Times, " It brings us faoe to face with things and people as they are. It is embellished with keen wit, subtle satire, and the deepest pathos." — Civil Service Gazette. "The remarkable nature of some of the personages imparts a brilliancy and vigor to the story, which combines a good purpose with the attractions of an interesting fiction." — The Sun. " Supremely eminent in vigor, and must command our earnest attention." — South Loudon limes. " The talc is one of thrilling agonizing interest, written with great freedom, spirit, and power." — Caledonian Mercury. " Replete in its duvclopmcnt with womanly tenderness." — W««kl^ Dispatch, " Wo congratulate the authoress upon having gained this high literary prize." — The Review. "Not unworthy the fertile brain of Dumas."— rA# Critic. " The many characters which are introduced, and the animated scenes wherein they figure, denote a close observatioD of life.*'— i^iewt of Ui$ H'orld. 10 NEW WOEKS XX. In 1 Vol. Price 10s. 6d. LUXIMA, THE PROPHETESS; A TALE OF INDIA. By Lady Morgan. "Most powerfully drawn, and the untimely fate of both gives a deep interest to the conclusion of the tale." — Morning Advertiser. "The unvarying" phases of the Eastern character, superstitions arid customs, impart to this novel an ever-enduring freshness. The story is one of exceeding interest, and will be much admired by the lovers of the romantic and the sentimental." — Sunday Times. " It is one of the best works of its class." — Morning Chronicle. " Powerfully drawn." — Illustrated London News. " There is much imagination in the scenes of the story and luxu- riance of description ; one of the best specimens of a literature which nevertheless exercised too great an influence on its age and country to be forgotten." — New Quarterly Review. " There is a picturesque freshness about some of its descriptions which it would not be easy to excel." — Critic. " A charming tale." — Weekly Dispatch. " Replete with soul-stirring incident and deep interest." — Country Gentleman* s Journal. *' It is interesting as having been one of the earliest productions of the lamented authoress, and the very latest on which her pen was employed before her death." — The Critic. XXL In 2 Vols. Price 1 2s. POISONERS and PROPAGANDISTS: Or, a DEVELOPED LIFE. " A tale of dark deeds, well and ably written." — Daily Express. *' The tale before us greatly exceeds in interest, in rapidity of action, in novelty of situation, and we may add in delicate delinea- tion of character, any one of the cunning, erudite, and rather * slow ' productions of the Tractarian school." — Warder. " We entirely sympathise with the motives in which this well- written work originated." — Bulwark. "Devoted to a thrilling exposition of the wiles of the (Jesuit) order, which are terrible, secret, and multiform." — Athenceum. " At the present time such works are peculiarly valuable, and the one before us is clever in plot, extremely trenchant in style, and throughout remarkably effective." — Dublin Evening Packet, "The author writes with fluency and force." — Morning Post. *' We should recommend the work for perusal as a production ab- PUBLISHED BY ME. WESTEBTON. 11 solutely per se, divulging facts in themselves, and in their results, at once extraordinary and important." — Daily Telegraph. " Never perhaps was the power of Rome's enchantments more awfully exhibited than in these volumes. AVe have been occupied to stupefaction with the Author's terrible facts, and when we say this, we pay hira and his book the most unlimited meed of com- mendation it is in our power to bestow." — Sentinel. XXII. Price One Shilling. RICHELIEU IN LOVE; Or, THE PROHIBITED COMEDY. By the Author of ** Whitefriabs," &c. *' * Richelieu in Love/ — unusual fact ! — is entirely original."— Timei. " Written in a sharp, pungent vein, full of sharp rejoinder and searching irony. Anne and Richelieu, whenever they are in con- tact, maintain a perpetual epigrammatic warfare, in which the sar- casms of the Queen are parried by the minister with great dexte- rity and address." — Morning Herald. " Many of the points are admirable, and as pungent and true as they are witty. Indeed, a smarter or more elegantly written play has not been produced for a lengthened period." — Morning Chronicle. " The language is always appropriate to the characters — some- times even lofty, as the exponent of aphoristic wisdom, or the em- bodiment of ScintillsB of brilliant wit." — Observer. " The comedy is vfritten in a brilliant epigrammatic style." — Sunday Times. " The dialogue of this play is smartly written, the diction is an- tithetic, flowery, and satirical." — Atheii