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LONDON. PUBLISHED BY CHARLES IILI, 86. FLEET STRF.ET. 
 
Ik 
 
 I 
 
FINDENS' TABLEAUX. 
 
 A SERIES OF PICTURESQUE SCENES 
 
 OF 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER, BEAUTY, AND COSTUME. 
 
 FROM PAINTINGS, BY VARIOUS ARTISTS, 
 AFTER SKETCHES BY W. PERRING. 
 
 EDITED BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR. OF " OUR VILLAGE," &c. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES TILT, FLEET STREET. 
 
 M.DCCC.XXXVIII. 
 
LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY JAMES MOVES, CASTLE STREET, 
 LEICESTER SQUARF. 
 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY DACRE, 
 
 EQUALLY EMINENT HERSELF IN DESIGN AND IN POETRY, 
 
 THIS ATTEMPT 
 
 TO 
 
 COMBINE THOSE BEAUTIFUL ARTS, 
 
 $s most respertfullp Jnscribeo 
 
 BY HER OBLIGED AND ATTACHED FRIEND AND SERVANT, 
 
 THE EDITOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In commending this Volume to the Public, the Editor has little 
 to say, beyond the pleasant duty of thanking her accomplished 
 Coadjutors for such Poetry, and, in one instance, such Prose, 
 as may render her pages no unfit companions to the beautiful 
 Engravings which they are intended to illustrate. 
 
 For her own poor part, she has only to solicit for Stories 
 necessarily brief, and written, from circumstances over which 
 she had no control, in more than usual haste, the same indul- 
 gence which has been extended to the productions, — over- 
 numerous, perhaps, — -which she has sent forth during the last 
 fifteen years. 
 
 It is right to mention, that the two Songs in one of her 
 little Tales, have been stolen from herself; being verses that 
 she did not quite wish to die ; and which had appeared in 
 two works out of print, and, to all intents and purposes, as 
 good or as bad as manuscript. 
 
 Three Mile Cross, 
 September 19th, 1837. 
 
CO 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SICILY — SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN. John Kenyon 1 
 
 ENGLAND. — THE KING'S WARD. Miss Mitford 4 
 
 ANDALUSIA THE DEATH OF THE BULL. Barry Cornwall 11 
 
 FLORENCE.— THE WAGER. Miss Mitford 13 
 
 VENICE — THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE. John R. Chorley 18 
 
 EGYPT.— D'AUBERVAL. Author of « Conti" 21 
 
 INDIA.— A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. E. B. B 29 
 
 CEYLON.— THE LOST PEARL. Miss Mitford 32 
 
 AMERICA — A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. Mrs.Howitt 38 
 
 SCOTLAND.— SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. Miss Mitford 44 
 
 GEORGIA.— THE GEORGIAN SISTERS. Miss Harrison 49 
 
 CASTILE.— THE SIGNAL. Miss Mitford 52 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 SUBJECTS. PAINTERS. ENGRAVERS. 
 
 SICILY Shrine of the Virgin T. Uwins, A.R.A W. Finden. 
 
 ENGLAND Hawking F. P. Stephanoff .... E. Finden. 
 
 ANDALUSIA Death of the Bull J. Browne W. Holl. 
 
 FLORENCE The Wager F. P. Stephanoff C. E. Wagstaff. 
 
 VENICE The Bride's Departure F. P. Stephanoff .... W. Holl. 
 
 EGYPT Rising of the Nile J. Browne E. Finden. 
 
 INDIA Hindoo Girls J. Browne H. Egleton. 
 
 CEYLON The Lost Pearl W. Perring J. Posselwhite. 
 
 AMERICA The Captives W. Perring W. H. Mote. 
 
 SCOTLAND Deer-shooting L. Seyffarth E. Scriven. 
 
 GEORGIA The Slave Merchant T. Uwins, A.R.A H. Egleton. 
 
 CASTILE The Signal W. Perring E. Finden. 
 
s 
 
 ICILY. 
 
 SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN. 
 
 " The Catholic, who hears that vesper bell, 
 
 Howe'er employed, must send a prayer to heaven. 
 In foreign lands I liked the custom well, 
 
 For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 
 It well accords ; and wert thou journeying there, 
 It would not hurt thee, George ! to join that vesper prayer." 
 
 Southey's St. Gualberto. 
 
 Who knows not, fair Sicilian land ! 
 
 How proudly thou wert famed of yore, 
 When all the Muses hymned thy strand ; 
 
 And, pleased to deck so sweet a shore, 
 Bacchus and Ceres, hand in hand, 
 
 To thee their choicest treasures bore, 
 And saw uprise their graceful shrines 
 Mid waving corn and curling vines. 
 
 Yes ! land thou wert of fruits and flowers, 
 
 The favoured land of Deity ; 
 By Jove made glad with suns and showers, 
 
 By Neptune cheered with brightest sea ; 
 E'en Dis, beneath his gloomy bowers, 
 
 Had heard and loved to dream of thee, 
 And, when he willed to take a bride, 
 Snatched her from Enna's sloping side. 
 
 Those hollow creeds have passed away ; 
 
 Those false, yet graceful, shrines are gone ; 
 A purer faith, of stricter sway, 
 
 For our behoof, their place hath won ; 
 And Christian altars overlay 
 
 Yon temple's old foundation stone ; 
 And in Minerva's vacant cell* 
 Sublimest Wisdom deigns to dwell. 
 
 And where, within some deep shy wood, 
 And seen but half through curving bough, 
 
 In silent marble Dian stood, 
 
 Behold ! a holier Virgin — now — 
 
 Hath sanctified the solitude ; 
 
 And thou, meek Mary — Mother — thou — 
 
 Dost hallow each old pagan spot, 
 
 Or storied stream, or fabled grot. 
 
 The devious pilgrim, far beguiled, 
 How gladly doth he turn to greet 
 
 Thy long-sought image mid the wild, 
 A calming thought ! a vision sweet ! 
 
 If grief be his, then, Lady mild ! 
 Thy gentle aid he will entreat, 
 
 And bowed in heart not less than deed, 
 
 Findeth a prayer to fit the need. 
 
 There, while his secret soul he bares, 
 
 That lonely altar bending by, 
 The traveller, passing unawares, 
 
 Will stay his step — but not too nigh — 
 And hearkening to those unforced prayers, 
 
 — Albeit the creed he may deny — 
 Shall own his reason less averse, 
 And spirit — surely — not the worse. 
 
 * The present cathedral of Syracuse was formerly a temple of Minerva. 
 
 B 
 
SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Thy shrines are lovely — wheresoe'er — 
 And yet if it were mine to choose 
 
 One — loveliest — where fretted Care 
 
 Might come — to rest — or Thought — to muse, 
 
 T would be that one, so soft and fair, 
 That standeth by old Syracuse, 
 
 Just where those salt-sea waters take 
 
 The likeness of an inland lake. 
 
 Green-tendrilled plants in many a ring 
 Creep round the gray stone tenderly, 
 
 As tho' in very love to cling 
 And clasp it ; while the reverent sea 
 
 A fond uplooking wave doth bring, 
 To break, anon, submissively, 
 
 As if it came that brow to greet, 
 
 Then — whisper praise beneath thy feet. 
 
 When suns, that sink in twilight clear, 
 Forth from the city tempt to roam, 
 
 Be mine to meet mild evening here, 
 And muse on friends I've left at home. 
 
 But she, who loves the mariner, 
 Shall yet more duly hither come, 
 
 Where, fitly, thou art held to be 
 
 Our Guardian-Lady of the Sea. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 She cometh to the seaward shrine, 
 A mother, with her children three ; 
 
 And they have made the holy sign, 
 
 And they have dropped on bended knee ; 
 
 Three in the lowly rite combine, 
 And one is cradled, peaceably. 
 
 That mother's heart hath business here, 
 
 For she doth love the mariner. 
 
 Her gallant boy is on the deep, 
 
 — She loves him more that he is brave — 
 Yet when around Peloro's steep 
 
 The midnight surges leap and rave, 
 What marvel if a mother weep, 
 
 And, thinking on the tropic wave, 
 Doth flee to thee, Oh, Mother mild, 
 Thou Mother of the Blessed Child ! 
 
 Thro' winds, that sweep like hurricane, 
 
 And deadly lightning's lurid light, 
 She speedeth to the pillared fane, 
 
 Where thou dost stand in silver bright.* 
 If solace but for him she gain, 
 
 What should a mother's soul affright ! 
 And, now, the porch-way she doth win, 
 
 And thro' the portal glideth in. 
 
 I love the ever-open door 
 
 That welcomes to the house of God ! 
 I love its wide-spread marble floor 
 
 By every foot in freedom trod ! 
 Free altars let me kneel before, 
 
 Free as the pathway or the sod, 
 Whence journeying pilgrim — mid broad a 
 Wafts unpremeditated prayer ! 
 
 She prayeth mid the silent pile — 
 
 Her whispers round the columns creep— 
 
 She prayeth all alone — the while 
 Her babes at home securely sleep ; 
 
 Their brother loved to see her smile — 
 She would not they should see her weep 
 
 Youth's rightful joys she will not dim 
 
 With tears — not even tears for him ! 
 
 But now, — when eve is calm and bright — 
 You see her here — and not alone — 
 
 Her children, in the sweet blue light, 
 Are with her by the sculptured stone ; 
 
 With her they share a soothing sight ; 
 Yon scarce-stirred bark — the only one — 
 
 Almost as still, on that still tide, 
 
 As unrocked cradle by her side. 
 
 Bland omen doth that vessel bring ; 
 
 " As smoothly sails his vessel now" — 
 And mark how hope and fondness cling 
 
 Around the elder maiden's brow ! 
 The while on that dear younger thing, 
 
 — Too young to frame — itself — a vow — 
 The mother thoughtful hand doth lay, 
 And timely teacheth how to pray ! 
 
 * In the cathedral of Syracuse is a statue of the Virgin in silver. 
 
SHRINE OF THE VIRGIN. 
 
 As homeward now their way they trace, 
 Their bosoms own no anxious smart ; 
 
 For they have seen that blessed face, 
 And felt how She can calm impart, 
 
 Who, tho' in heaven's supremest place, 
 Bears — as on earth — a woman's heart; 
 
 And know that She will guard him — She ! 
 
 Mother of Him who walked the sea ! 
 
 And if at last those hopes deceive, 
 Yet be our reasoning scorn represt ; 
 
 Nay — since 'tis sweet, to those who grieve, 
 To dream of comfort and of rest — 
 
 Forgive them if they do believe, 
 And, leaning on that Mother Blest, 
 
 Link earth below to heaven above 
 
 By tender ties of human love. 
 
 JOHN KENYON. 
 
ENGLAND. 
 
 THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 " I have no joy of this contract to-night." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " What ! not a word to thy poor old nurse, or thy faithful bower-women ? Not a nod, 
 or a smile, or a kindly look, to shew that thou heedest us ? Thou that wast wont to be 
 the merriest and kindliest damsel in merry Cumberland, the fair and the noble Edith 
 Clifford, the wealthiest maiden north of Trent, about to be wedded, too, to the young 
 Philip Howard, the goodliest and the bravest knight of King Henry's court, for whose 
 favour the gay dames of the south have been trying and vieing at pageant, at joust, and at 
 tournament, ever since his return from the wars! Men say that, for all that he hath 
 fought against the Soldan, and carried the " blanche-lion," the old banner of his house, 
 foremost among the proud chivalry of France and Italy, he hath rather the mien of a 
 young page than of a stalwart warrior, so smooth and fair is his brow, so graceful his 
 form, so gentle and courteous his bearing. Still amort, Sweeting! mute as a marble image 
 on thy very bridal eve ! " And the good old Margaret, seeing her lady still unmoved, 
 paused for very vexation. 
 
 " So generous a wooer, too ! " exclaimed one of the attendant maidens, glancing at 
 the profusion of rich gifts with which a heavy wain had been laden, and which had arrived 
 that very day at the castle, under convoy of the good knight's squire, and a score or two 
 of pages and men-at-arms, and which now lay in magnificent profusion about the 
 tapestried chamber, scattered amidst the quaint antique furniture, high-backed ebony 
 chairs, oaken screens, cut into mimic lace-work ; marble slabs, resting on gilded griffins, or 
 some such picturesque monsters of heraldry ; and huge cabinets, composed of the rarest 
 woods, an entire history, profane or sacred, carved upon the doors, and surmounted with 
 spires and pinnacles, like the decorated shrine of a Gothic cathedral; the whole scene, 
 lighted up by the bright beams of the evening sun, coloured into a thousand vivid hues, 
 as they glanced through the storied panes of the oriel window. A scene more bright, or 
 
THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 5 
 
 more gorgeous, than that stately lady's bower, tenanted, as it was, by woman in her fairest 
 forms, by venerable age and blooming youth, could hardly be found in merry England. 
 Yet there sat the youthful lady of the castle, in the midst of all this costly beauty, languid 
 and listless, pale and motionless as a statue. 
 
 " So generous a wooer, too!" exclaimed Mistress Mabel, the pretty bright-eyed 
 brunette, the Lady Edith's principal bower-woman, who, being reckoned the best adjuster 
 of a head-tire, and the most skilful professor of all arts of the loom and the needle, 
 whether in white-seam, cut work, tapestry, or broidery, of any maiden in the north 
 country, was, more especially, alive to the rarity and richness of Sir Philip's gifts. 
 
 " So generous a wooer, too ! only look at these carpets from Persia ! 'Tis a marvel 
 how folk can have the heai't to put foot on such bright flowers ; they seem as if they were 
 growing ! And these velvets from Genoa ; were ever such colours seen ? And the silken 
 stuffs from Padua, that stand on end with their own richness ; what kirtles and mantles 
 they will make ! And the gloves of Cales, that cause the chamber to smell like a 
 garden full of spice, cloves, and jessamine ! And these veils from the Low Countries, as 
 fine as a spider's web ! And the cloth of gold, and the cloth of silver, — where did Master 
 Eustace say they came from, Dame Margaret? And this golden vessel for perfumes, 
 which looks like a basket all over-run with grapes and ivy ?" 
 
 " That was wrought by a cunning goldsmith of Florence," responded old Margaret, 
 " whose skill is so surpassing, that, albeit he employs chiefly the precious metals, the 
 workmanship is of more value than the materials. This silver tray, with the delicate 
 trellis-work, wreathed with lilies and roses round the edge, and the story of Diana and 
 Ac — Ac — fie on my old brains ! I shall forget my own name soon! — Diana and — he 
 that was turned into a stag — " 
 
 " Actseon!" whispered Alice, the fairest and most youthful of the Lady Edith's 
 attendants, gently and unostentatiously supplying the good dame's failure of memory, 
 without looking up from her work. 
 
 " Ay, Actseon ! I thank thee, Alice. Thy wits are younger than mine by fifty good 
 years, or more. This silver salver, with the light delicate edge, that seems like the work 
 of the fairies, and the story of Diana and Actseon inside, is by the same hand." 
 
 " And then the caskets of precious stones!" pursued the enthusiastic waiting damsel, 
 warming at the contemplation of the finery. " The brooches and bracelets ! The coronets 
 and the carkanets ! Why, yonder wreath of emeralds and amethysts, which lies on the 
 table underneath the great Venetian glass — to think of my lady never having had the 
 curiosity to look into that!" (and Mistress Mabel took a self-satisfied peep at her own 
 pretty figure, as it was reflected on the broad clear surface of the rare and costly mirror), 
 " that single wreath, which she hath never vouchsafed to glance upon : and the ropes of 
 pearl which I laid upon her lap, and which she hath let drop upon the floor; — do pick 
 them up, Alice! — I verily believe the foolish wench careth as little for these precious 
 
 c 
 
6 
 
 THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 adornments as the Lady Edith herself! That one wreath, and those strings of pearl, be 
 worth an earl's ransom." 
 
 At this moment the sound of a harp was heard, and the voice of the minstrel arose 
 from beneath the casement : — 
 
 " Waken to pleasure, 
 
 Lady sweet ! 
 Lo ! an empire's treasure 
 
 Is spread at thy feet : 
 Here be shawls of Cashmere fine ; 
 Rubies from Bucharia's mine ; 
 The pear-shaped pearls of Ormuz' bay ; 
 And gold, 'mid Yemen's sands that lay. 
 Waken to pleasure, 
 
 Lady sweet ! 
 Love, and Love's treasure, 
 
 Be spread at thy feet." 
 
 The air was smooth and flowing, and the voice that of Robert Fitz-Stephen, one of 
 the most approved of the courtly minstrels : but still the Lady Edith sat pale and 
 motionless, as though the tide of melody had glided unfelt over her senses, producing no 
 more impression than the waters of the lake upon the plumage of the cygnet. 
 
 Dame Margaret sighed deeply ; and Mabel, giving her head a provoked impatient jerk, 
 resumed her embroidery with such furious rapidity, that she broke her silk half-a-dozen 
 times in the course of a minute, and well nigh spoiled the carnation upon which she was 
 engaged, and which she had intended to outvie the natural blossom in Father Francis's 
 flower-border. Young Alice, drawing her tapestry-frame nearer to them, and further 
 from the Lady Edith, and speaking in a low tone, even lower than her own soft and gentle 
 natural voice, resumed the conversation. 
 
 " For my poor part, good Mabel (call me foolish an' thou wilt), I do not wonder at 
 our sweet lady's sadness. Think what a piteous thing it is to be an orphan ; think but of 
 that great grief! And then to be a great heir to boot, left in the king's ward, and dragged 
 from her old dear home in her old dear north countrie, to this fine grand castle (which, 
 albeit her own also in right of her lady mother, seems too strange and too grand for 
 happiness), and all for the purpose of being wedded to this young lord, with his costly 
 glittering gifts, who hath never vouchsafed to come near her until now, on the very eve 
 of the bridal, when it hath pleased him to give notice of his approach. Holy St. Agatha 
 defend me from such a wooer ! A wooer, whose actions shew, as plainly as words could 
 tell, that he seeketh the Lady Edith's broad lands, and careth as little for the Lady 
 Edith's warm heart as I do for a withered rose-leaf. I'll tell thee what, Mabel, I never 
 look to see such happy days again, as when we dwelt in our old dear home, amongst the 
 
THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 7 
 
 pleasant vales and breezy mountains of Cumberland. There was health and freedom in 
 the very air. Dost thou not remember the day when old Geoffrey the falconer had lamed 
 himself among the rocks, and the youth Albert, the travelling minstrel, took charge of the 
 hawks, and waited on my lady, as if he had been trained to the sport all his life long ! 
 Hast thou forgot how she stood by the lake, with her favourite merlin on her wrist, and 
 her white greyhound Lily-bell at her side, looking like the very goddess of the chase, so 
 full of life, and spirit, and cheeriness ? And that bright evening, when she led the dance 
 round the May-pole ? Well-a-day, poor lady ! 'tis a woful change ! " 
 
 It was remarkable that the Lady Edith's attention, which neither the louder speech of 
 her elder attendants, nor the ringing tones of the harper, had been able to command, was 
 arrested at once by the soft low voice of Alice. The womanly sympathy sank soothingly 
 into the woman's heart, just as the gentle rain from heaven penetrates the parched 
 hill-side, from whose arid surface the sharp and arrowy hail rebounds without impression. 
 The drooping mistress listened in mournful silence, whilst her faithful maiden, un- 
 conscious that she had attracted her notice, pursued, in still lower accents, the train of 
 thought which her own fond recollections of the freedom and happiness which they had 
 tasted among their native mountains had awakened in her mind. 
 
 " Poor Albert, too ! the wandering minstrel, who came to the castle gate to crave 
 lodging for one night, and sojourned with us for three long months ; and then, when he 
 had wrought himself up to go, — and, verily, it was a parting like that of the spirit and 
 the flesh, when he left our old walls, — returned again and again, and finally fixed himself 
 in the fisherman's cottage, where the mountain streamlet, after meandering along the 
 meadow, falls into the lake. Poor Albert ! I warrant me he taketh good care of 
 Lily-bell and my lady's merlin, whereof he craved the charge from old Geoffrey. I 
 marvel whether my lady knoweth that her pretty Lily-bell and her favourite falcon be in 
 hands that will tend them so needfully, for her dear sake ! To my fancy, Mabel, that 
 poor youth, albeit so fearful and so ashamed in her presence, worshipped the very 
 ground that she trod upon. I have seen him kiss Lily-bell's glossy head, after her hand 
 had patted it, reverently and devoutly, as though it had been a holy relique in the great 
 minster at Durham." 
 
 Again the full and ringing chords of the harp — but, this time, to an old border air, 
 well known to the northern maids — arose from beneath the casement. The voice, too, 
 was different from that of the courtly minstrel — deeper, manlier, pouring forth the spirit 
 of the words, as they gushed spontaneously, as it seemed, from his lips, as though, in his 
 case, song were but the medium of feeling, and the poet's fancy and the musician's skill 
 buried in the impassioned grief of the despairing lover. So the strain rang : — 
 
 " High o'er the baron's castle tall, 
 Rich banners float with heavy fall ; 
 And light and song, in mingling tide, 
 Pour forth, to hail the lovely bride. 
 
8 
 
 THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 Yet, lady, still the birchen tree 
 
 Waves o'er the cottage on the lea ; 
 
 The babbling stream runs bright and fair, — 
 
 The love-star of the West shines there." 
 
 " Ha ! " exclaimed old Margaret ; " that ditty hath aroused my lady. See how she 
 listens." 
 
 " 'Tis the rondelay which she herself was wont to sing," observed Mabel ; " but the 
 words are different." 
 
 " Peace! peace !" cried the Lady Edith, checking, with some impatience, the prattle 
 of her attendants, and leaning against the casement which she had flung open, as the 
 deep and earnest voice of the minstrel again resounded through the apartment. " Be 
 silent, I pray ye ! " 
 
 " Mailed warders pace o'er keep and tower ; 
 Gay maidens deck the lady's bower ; 
 Page, squire, and knight, a princely train, 
 Wait duteous at her bridle rein. 
 Yet in that cot the milk-white hound, 
 The favourite falcon, still are found ; 
 And one more fond, more true than they, 
 Born to adore and to obey." 
 
 " Alack ! alack ! " sighed the tender-hearted Alice. " Well-a-day, poor youth ! I 
 ever deemed that his strange fondness for Lily-bell — albeit as pretty and playful a 
 creature as ever gambolled on the greensward, and as swift of foot as ever followed hare 
 over the mountains — had a deeper source than love of the good hound. Well-a-day, 
 poor Albert ! He was a goodly youth ! " 
 
 " Hush! hush!" exclaimed the Lady Edith, as the symphony finished, and the voice, 
 again mingled with the chords of the harp, struck falteringly and unsteadily now, as 
 though the hand trembled, and the heart waxed faint. 
 
 " The coronet of jewels rare 
 
 Shines proudly o'er her face so fair ; 
 And titles high and higher name 
 Lord Howard's lovely bride may claim. 
 And yet, the wreath of hawthorn bough 
 Once lightlier pressed that snowy brow ; 
 And hearts that wither now were gay, 
 When she was but the Queen of May." 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! my lady, my dear sweet lady ! " murmured Alice to herself, as poor 
 
THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 9 
 
 Edith, after lingering at the window long enough to ascertain that the harp was silent, 
 and the harper gone, sank into a seat with a sigh and a look of desolation, that proved, 
 more plainly than words, the truth of the last lines of the minstrel's lay. 
 
 "Alas! alas! dear lady!" exclaimed she in a louder tone, as the sudden burst of 
 startling noises, the warlike blasts of trump and cornet, the jarring dissonant sound caused 
 by raising the heavy portcullis, and lowering the massive drawbridge, and the echoing 
 tramp of barbed steeds and mailed horsemen in the courts of the castle, shewed that the 
 expected bridegroom had at length arrived. 
 
 Edith wrung her hands in desperation. 
 
 " This knight I cannot, and I will not see. Go to him, Margaret ; say that I am 
 sick — that I am dying. The blessed saints can bear witness that thou wilt say but the 
 truth in so telling him. Sick at heart am I, sick to the death ! Oh that I had died 
 before this wretched hour!" And poor Edith burst into an agony of tears, that shook 
 her very frame. 
 
 " Why goest thou not, Margaret ? " inquired she, a few moments after, when, 
 exhausted by its own violence, her grief had become more tranquil. " Why dost thou 
 not carry my message to the Lord Howard ? Why dally thus, old dame ? Mabel, go 
 thou ! They stand about me as though I were an ignorant child, that knew not what 
 she said ! Do my bidding on the instant, Mabel : thou wert best !" 
 
 " Nay, good my lady, but our gracious lord the king " 
 
 "Tell me not of kings, maiden! I'll to sanctuary. I'll fly this very night to my 
 aunt, the prioress of St. Mary's. The church knoweth well how to protect her votaries. 
 Wo is me ! that, for being born a rich heir, I must be shut from the free breath of 
 heaven, the living waters, and the flowery vales, in the dark and gloomy cloister ! To 
 change the locks that float upon the breeze for the dismal veil ! To waste my youth in 
 the cold and narrow convent cell — a living tomb! Oh! it is a sad and a weary lot. 
 But better so, than to plight my troth to one whom I have never seen, and can never 
 love ! to give my hand to one man, whilst my heart abideth with another." 
 
 " Lady ! " cried Margaret ; " do my senses play me false ? Or is it Edith Clifford 
 that speaketh thus of a low-born churl ?" 
 
 " A low-born churl!" responded Edith. " There is a regality of mind and of spirit 
 about that youth, which needeth neither wealth nor lineage to even him with the greatest 
 — the inborn nobility of virtue and of genius ! Never till now knew I that he loved me ; 
 and now . Hasten to this lord, Alice ; and see that he cometh not hither. Where- 
 fore lingerest thou, maiden?" inquired Edith, of the pitying damsel, who staid her steps 
 with an exclamation of surprise, as the door of the chamber was gently opened. " Tell 
 the Lord Howard the very truth; men say that he is good and wise — too wise, too 
 good, to seek his own happiness at the expense of a poor maiden's misery. Tell him the 
 whole truth, Alice. Spare thy mistress that shame. Say that I love him not ; say that 
 I love 
 
 D 
 
 4 
 
10 
 
 THE KING'S WARD. 
 
 " Nay, sweetest lady, from thine own dear lips must come that sweet confession," 
 said a voice at her side, and, turning to the well-known accents, Edith saw, at her feet, 
 him who^ having won her heart as the wandering minstrel, the humble falconer, claimed 
 her hand as the rich and high-born Philip Howard, the favourite of the king. 
 
 " A cry of joy burst from the astonished waiting-women, and was echoed by the 
 pretty greyhound Lily-bell, who had followed the Lord Howard into the room, and now 
 stood trembling with ecstasy before her fair mistress, resting her head in her lap, and 
 looking up into her face with eyes beaming with affectionate gladness — eyes that literally 
 glowed with delight. 
 
 Never was happiness more perfect than that of the betrothed maiden, on this so 
 dreaded bridal eve. And heartily did her faithful attendants sympathise in her happiness ; 
 only Mabel found it impossible to comprehend why, in the hour of hope and joy, as in 
 that of fear and sorrow, her dearly beloved finery should be neglected. 
 
 " To think," quoth the provoked bower-woman, " that now that all these marvels 
 have come about, and that the Lord Howard turns out to be none other than the youth 
 Albert, my lady will not vouchsafe to tell me whether her kirtle shall be of cloth of gold 
 or cloth of silver; or whether she will don the coronet of rubies or the emerald wreath ! 
 Well-a-day !" quoth Mabel, " this love! this love!" 
 
ANDALUSIA. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE BULL. 
 
 " He's dead ; and at the murderer's horse's tail, 
 Tn beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field." 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 The Andalusian maids are dancing 
 
 Round and round to a merry tune ; 
 Their eyes, like bright black beads, are glancing 
 
 Dark meanings underneath the moon : 
 And many a youth, and many a maid, 
 Are loitering in the chestnut shade, — 
 Lovers all, — each gentle heart 
 
 Trembling with its tender pain, 
 And struggling to conceal the smart 
 
 In vain, — in vain ! 
 
 The bounding foot, and the castanet, 
 And the word that lights the eyes of jet, 
 (The gentle sweet love-laden word), 
 Alone are in the greenwood heard ; 
 Nought else : — and, in a swift hour, they 
 Like faery dreams have passed away. 
 Even the Moon hath ta'en her rest 
 In her chamber in the west, 
 And Darkness lies on vale and hill, 
 And Silence, — and the world is still! 
 
 Hush, — hark! what spoils a scene so fair? 
 What noise comes bellowing through the air ? 
 Hark ! — from the lone Sierra's side 
 A wild cry comes, as full of pride 
 
 As ever Andalusian heart 
 
 Held in its proudest inmost part. 
 
 It comes, — it speaks, as clarions speak, 
 
 When they the rest of armies break 
 
 At morning, — and with heartless strife 
 
 Hunt the soldier out of life. 
 
 It is a voice, as bold and free 
 
 As lives 'tween Seville and the sea : — 
 
 'Tis Tormes, tyrant of the herd, 
 
 By dreams on fierce ambition stirred. 
 
 Victor in every bloody fight, 
 
 He sends defiance to the Night ! 
 
 ... A week has vanished ! Would ye learn 
 Where he is, so wild and stern, 
 Who upon the green-sward lay, 
 And startled Midnight on her way ? 
 Alas ! a week of " sports" has flown, 
 And mute is now each wild bull's tone. 
 All are gone ! A herd that fed 
 Near Xenil are stiff and dead, — 
 Some that knew where Darro sings, — 
 Some where white Nevada springs 
 Soaring to the unclouded sky, — 
 All in gore and gashes lie ! 
 
12 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE BULL. 
 
 One alone, — the best, they say, 
 
 That ever held a knight at bay, 
 
 Remains. Without the barrier wall 
 
 He now awaits the trumpet call ; — 
 
 And now (for on the signal sound, 
 
 All the chains are on the ground), 
 
 With a cry, of joy and anger full, 
 
 Forth from the darkness springs — The Bull. 
 
 Mark the fight. Two bolder foes 
 
 Never met in bloody close : 
 
 One, all calm and like a knight ; 
 
 The other, furious for the fight, 
 
 Plunges on : — With fierce amaze 
 
 He meets for once a fiercer gaze ; 
 
 And lo, — the bull doth backward tread, 
 
 Shaking low his horned head. 
 
 Ne'er before did doubt or fear 
 
 Check him in his mid career ; 
 
 And even now he seeks the strife, 
 
 And rushes headlong on the knife. 
 
 A blow ! — he turns it with his horn, 
 
 And eyes his foe with seeming scorn : 
 
 Another! — ha! the blood doth run 
 
 Down the stout champion's hide of dun : 
 
 It marks his course upon the sand : 
 
 It leaves its red on Juan's hand. 
 
 What care ! his horned head he lowers, 
 
 And pauses to regain his powers. 
 
 His hate is roused : another close 
 
 Shews us how well matched the foes : 
 
 Again they meet. Ha, Juan falls ! 
 
 And now the wild-tongued clarion calls, 
 
 And in affright they smite the drums ; 
 
 For full of wrath the wild bull comes ! 
 
 He rushes on : — Now, Juan, strength ! 
 
 Death is before thine eyes, at length. 
 
 Be still ; — he's safe ! See, see, — his knife 
 
 Has found the Andalusxan's life ! 
 
 Right through his heart the steel has sped ; 
 And Tormes, — he is with the dead! .... 
 
 Sound! — O'er Seville's guarded ground, 
 
 The wild war-thundering trumpets sound ! 
 
 Sound ! — Twice — thrice — With savage mouth, 
 
 They rend the air, from North to South ! 
 
 " The Bull is slain! the sports are done! 
 
 Dark Juan hath the battle won !" — 
 
 'Tis so : — the mountain king is dead ! 
 
 A rope is round his curled head : 
 
 His tongue is lying on the sand, 
 
 Foaming white ! On either hand, 
 
 A thousand eyes are strained in fear, 
 
 To see a hero on his bier 
 
 Laid at last, in bloody pride, 
 
 Without a mourner by his side ! 
 
 Sound ! — athwart the startled sky 
 
 Let the martial echoes fly. 
 
 Bid the drums sound forth in thunder — 
 
 Bid the trumpets shout their wonder, 
 
 That a creature (whom we scorn) 
 
 Conquest bore upon his horn, 
 
 In a hundred fights, and tore 
 
 Many a sinewy matador, — 
 
 Nobles, knights, and fearless men, 
 
 Who had braved the world till then ! 
 
 Sound ! — A warrior should not die 
 Without music sounding high. 
 Man or brute (whate'er the name), 
 If he have deserved his fame, 
 Give him honour ! give him glory! 
 Place him high in after story, — 
 Amongst those who've fought and won 
 Victory, underneath the sun ! 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
iF.n ur chat. 
 
FLORENCE. 
 
 THE WAGER. 
 
 " Gone to be married ! Gone to swear a peace !" — Shakspeare. 
 
 " Lily on liquid roses floating ! 
 
 So floats yon foam o'er pink Champagne. 
 Fain would I join such pleasant boating, 
 And prove that ruby main, 
 And float away on wine ! 
 
 " Those seas are dangerous (graybeards swear) 
 Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 
 And true it is they drown old Care — 
 But what care we for him, 
 So we but float on wine ! 
 
 " And true it is they cross in pain, 
 
 Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 
 But only make our Styx — Champagne, 
 And we shall cross right merry, 
 Floating away on wine. 
 
 " Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
 Then, gaily row his boat from shore ; 
 While we, and every jovial fellow, 
 Hear unconcerned the oar 
 
 That dips itself in wine ! " * 
 
 " So you really wrote this, Giovanni?" said the young and pretty Beatrice Alberti, 
 as she sat on a terrace of her brother's villa, overlooking the Val d'Arno. " Sing it 
 to me. I want to hear it in your own voice. Can Antonio play the air ?" 
 
 * The Editor is indebted for this Anacreontic — almost an impromptu — to the kind friend, Mr. Kenyon 
 (she is proud to name him), to whom she also owes the Stanzas entitled " Shrine of the Virgin." 
 
 E 
 
14 
 
 THE WAGER. 
 
 And the little page ran rapidly over the notes, and then accompanied the conte's rich, 
 mellow, baritone voice, in a melody as rich and flowing as the verses. Both the singing 
 and the playing were full of right Italian taste ; and the fair Florentine, charmed with 
 both the words and the air, was evidently not a little proud of her gay and gallant 
 brother, whose talent as a poet she had never even suspected. 
 
 " Well," said Giovanni, when he had concluded, " will this do, Beatrice ? Will that 
 Anacreontic win me the laurel wreath to-night at the Palazzo Riccardi, think you ?" 
 
 Beatrice started from her seat in astonishment. 
 
 " You go to the Palazzo Riccardi ! You contend for the laurel crown ! You, Giovanni 
 Alberti, who, since you were the height of Antonio there, have done nothing but laugh 
 at that old precieuse, the marchesa, with her pedants and her poets, and all the trumpery 
 of all the Delia Cruscans transported into a lady's saloon ! You are making a fool of me, 
 brother ! You never can mean it !" 
 
 " I am perfectly in earnest, I assure you," replied the conte, looking, or rather 
 trying to look, as grave as an habitually joyous and hilarious temperament would permit. 
 " I have repented of my sins of scoffing and mockery, and mean to make that venerable 
 priestess of the muses all possible amends by enacting the part of her Monsieur Trissotin, 
 her homme d'esprit." 
 
 " With this great lawsuit pending, too ! A suit which, if you gain it, will leave that 
 sweet-looking creature, her daughter (every one speaks so well of that pretty gentle 
 Bianca), little better than a beggar ! Why, it would be like the story of one of the 
 Montechi in the house of the Capuletti, in times of old. Think of that dismal tragedy ! 
 And, then, our uncle the cardinal, what would he say ? Think of him." 
 
 " There are no tragedies now-a-days, Beatrice — at least none of the Romeo and 
 Giulietta description ; they have left off happening : and as to our dearly beloved uncle, 
 he is a man of peace, and also — with reverence be it spoken — a man of contrivance. 
 Leave his eminence to me. Go I shall ; and I'll wager the antique gem that you were 
 wishing for the other day, do you remember ? — the Psyche — against your doves, that 
 I bring home the prize. I see," continued he gaily, " that you think my verses are too 
 good to please that fantastical assembly ; and, perhaps, you are right. But, good or 
 bad, they will answer my purpose ; and you shall confess yourself that my wager is 
 won." So saying, the light-hearted cavalier nodded to his sister, and departed, carolling, 
 as he went, the refrain of his own song, " Floating away on wine." 
 
 Five minutes saw him prancing on his mettled barb, a fiery roan, whose gay curvets 
 and sudden bounds shewed to great advantage his noble owner's horsemanship ; for the 
 young Conte Alberti was, by common reputation, as well as in the estimate of his fond sister, 
 reckoned amongst the most accomplished cavaliers of Florence; and a very short space of 
 time found him passing through the Lung 'Arno, on his way to his splendid home in the 
 Piazza del Granduca, regarding with the indifference of an accustomed eye and a pre- 
 occupied mind, the spacious, yet tranquil town, whose size, compared with its population, 
 and whose fortified palaces, are so striking to strangers ; as well as the magnificent 
 
THE WAGER. 
 
 15 
 
 groups in bronze and marble, mere copies of which enrich the museums of other 
 nations, whilst the originals are the familiar and out-door treasures of the city of the 
 Medici. 
 
 Little thought our friend Giovanni, passing them at full speed on his full-blooded 
 barb, of palace or of statue ; and as little, some few hours after, when pacing in the twi- 
 light the church of Santa Croce, did he heed, even while looking them in the face, the 
 monuments of Galileo, of Machiavelli, or of him who wore so nobly the triple crown of 
 Art — the sculptor, painter, architect, Michael Angelo Buonarotti. His thoughts were on 
 other matters. 
 
 " Ay, there is the good father safe enough until he be wanted, I warrant him," cried 
 he, gazing complacently upon a round, rosy, good-humoured brother of the order of 
 St. Francis, drowsily ensconced beside a dimly lighted shrine. " Per Bacco ! the Monte 
 Pulciano hath done its good office. Look, if he have not fallen asleep over his beads ! 
 A comfortable nap to thee, Father Paolo ! Stay there till I come to rouse thee ! " And 
 off danced the mercurial conte, murmuring his old burden, " Floating away, floating 
 away, floating away on wine !" 
 
 A blue-stocking party loses nothing of its proverbial dulness in the marble halls of 
 Italy ; and the assembly gathered together in the marchesa's magnificent saloon — 
 that is to say, that very important part of such an assembly, the listeners, were roused 
 from a state of drowsihood, scarcely inferior to that of Father Paolo, by the unexpected 
 entrance of the young heir of the Alberti in the palace of the Riccardi. 
 
 It was a most animating sensation. The appearance of a Montagu amongst the 
 festivities of the Capulets was nothing to it. The commerce of flattery (for the im- 
 portant business of the evening had not yet begun) suddenly ceased ; and the foundress 
 of these classical amusements, a fade and faded lady, emulous of her of the golden 
 violet, who sat on a fauteuil, slightly elevated, with the laurel-wreath on its crimson 
 velvet cushion, laid upon a small table of rich mosaic, before her, and two starched and 
 withered dames of the noble houses of Mozzi and Gerini at her side, stopped short in the 
 middle of a compliment, with which, as in duty bound, she was repaying the adulation of 
 one of the competitors for the prize, and started between horror and astonishment, as if 
 she had been confronted by an apparition. 
 
 Our modern Romeo, however, was not a man to be dumbfounded by the amazement 
 of a great lady, or awe-stricken by her displeasure. He advanced with a mixture of gaiety 
 and gallantry, an assured yet winning grace, which, for the moment at least, the stately 
 marchesa found irresistible, and professing himself an humble aspirant at the court of the 
 Muses, come to do homage to their fair representative, took his station at the back of 
 her chair, and listened with smiling attention to the competitors for the wreath. 
 
 It was, perhaps, the very worst period of Italian literature ; before Alfieri had come 
 in his might to renew the old strength and power of the sweetest of modern languages ; 
 and when the versifiers of the day, " the word-catchers, who lived on syllables," confined 
 themselves to mere verbal quiddities, and the most feeble and trivial imitations of the 
 
16 
 
 THE WAGER. 
 
 worst parts — the only parts that such mimics can hope to catch — of the great poets 
 of a preceding age. 
 
 Signor Ricci, a lean, yellow, shrivelled anatomy, began the recitations with squeaking 
 forth a canzone to Angiolina, all bristling with concetti, after the manner, as he was 
 pleased to say, of Petrarch ; and was followed by a wild, sallow, pseudo-enthusiast, who 
 declaimed, with astounding vociferation and gesticulation, an unfinished and seemingly 
 interminable dream, in the involved and difficult triple rhyme which, beauty and sub- 
 limity apart, was, in the matter of obscurity, pretty truly what it professed to be — a 
 Fragment in imitation of Dante. 
 
 For " flickering lights, to no one focus brought, 
 
 And mirage mists still baffling thirsty thought, 
 
 And night-mare phantasies from drowsy grot, 
 
 And far similitudes that liken not," — Rhymed Plea for Tolerance. 
 
 Signor Puzzi beat Signor Ricci all to nothing. And accordingly he gratified to the 
 highest point the bad taste of this coterie of Italian precietises ; and in the midst of 
 tappings of fans and murmurs of admiration of this grand effort of their chosen bard, 
 the Monsieur Trissotin of Florence, our friend Giovanni gently stole off to a quiet 
 corner, near the door, where sat a very sweet-looking little maiden, whose black eyes 
 sparkled with innocent pleasure, and whose rosy lips curled into irrepressible smiles at 
 his approach. She made room for him beside her, with a natural simplicity and artless- 
 ness that formed a strange contrast with the affectation and minauderie of the rest of 
 the assembly. 
 
 " So, you are a poet, Conte Alberti ?" said she, in a low voice. 
 
 " To be sure I am," replied he gaily ; " any thing that will bring me to you." 
 
 " Really a poet ?" asked the lady. 
 
 " Why, that is putting my modesty to a very severe test," said the gentleman. 
 " Really a poet ! Who may dare answer that question in the affirmative ? Judge for 
 yourself. Come out into the porch, and Antonio shall bring his guitar, and I'll sing the 
 words to his accompaniment. You have heard such a serenade before. Don't you 
 remember our old signal ? 
 
 ' The moon is abroad in her glory to-night, 
 Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white ; 
 Gaily her beams pierce the vine's trellised shade ; 
 Softly they sleep on the long colonnade ; 
 Calm her path in the heavens, though the bright orb below 
 Still trembles and heaves to the dark river's flow. 
 
 All lovely things are around us to-night ; 
 
 The rose with her perfume, the moon with her light ; ' 
 
THE WAGER. 
 
 17 
 
 and so forth. This song is worth a thousand of that. To be, sure," added he, laughing, 
 " that is not saying much for it. But these stanzas are really good. Only come, 
 and hear." 
 
 " You'll win the prize, then ?" 
 
 " I have laid a wager with Beatrice that I carry the prize home to her, in spite of 
 them all ; and it will be your fault if I lose. Only come out into the porch ; I can't sing 
 here. Besides, I have something important to say to you. I want you to help me to 
 get rid of our weary lawsuit. Would not you like to put an end to this unnatural 
 strife, and live with Beatrice as a sister and friend ?" 
 
 " Ay, from the bottom of my heart, would I, Conte Alberti!" said Bianca, clasping 
 her hands fervently. " From the very bottom of my heart ! And with you, too," added 
 she, with great simplicity. 
 
 " Come with me now then, and I will shew you how it may be managed. I beseech 
 you, come." 
 
 " Oh, Giovanni, I cannot ; I must not ! We shall be missed. See, Signor Puzzi has 
 finished, and they are going to call for your poem." 
 
 " Heaven forfend ! " cried Giovanni. No ! the danger's past. Young Caroli is going 
 to declaim a drama a Vimprovvista. What subject do they give him ? The Judgment 
 of Solomon, by Jove ! The Judgment of Solomon ! ! ! Now, will he turn the marchesa 
 into the Queen of Sheba, and go flattering on for two good hours, at the very least. 
 They are safe enough now. Come, fairest Bianca ! Dearest Bianca, come ! " 
 
 " Well, Beatrice," said Giovanni, as he led his pretty wife to his delighted sister, " is 
 not my wager fairly won ? The cardinal suggested this catastrophe to our story ; not 
 indeed the means, — per Bacco! they would never have entered his eminence's brains; 
 but he said, a year or two ago — that is to say, he intimated — that if the heir male on 
 one side married the heiress on the other, he, the aforesaid heir male, would have nobody 
 to go to law with but himself. I had not then seen my little Bianca, and therefore I 
 turned a deaf ear to his hints. But after I had seen her, Fede di Dio ! if it had been 
 necessary, to gain admittance, that I should have constructed as vile a canzone as 
 Signor Ricci, — and have dreamed as detestable a dream as Signor Puzzi, — and dramatised 
 the Judgment of Solomon into the bargain, I'd have done it. We have sent a dutiful 
 billet to the marchesa, and I have no doubt but, for joy at getting rid of the lawsuit, and 
 out of compliment to my poetical genius, she will behave like a reasonable woman — the 
 more especially as what is done cannot be undone, and all the anger in the world will not 
 mend it. So now, my fairest Beatrice, you have nothing to do but to set her the good 
 example of bearing misfortune with philosophy, and pay me my wager. The doves! 
 signora, the doves ! " 
 
 F 
 
VENICE. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 " ? Decid, ondas, quando 
 Visteis vos doncella 
 Siendo tierna y bella 
 Andar naveguando ? 
 ? Mas, que no se espera 
 De aquel nino fiero ? 
 Vea yo a quien quiero, 
 Y sea marinera." 
 
 Luis de Camoes. 
 
 Quick ! to the Port ! adown the seaward stair 
 Are laid rich tissues for a bridal guest : 
 
 Yon merry gondolier, whom seeks he there, 
 
 With gilded oar, and prow with garlands dress'd ? 
 
 The Flower of Venice ! Princes sued to wear 
 That maiden rose ; — and on a stranger's breast 
 
 She folds her sweetness ? Hasten ! he hath been 
 
 Too bold, too blest, to bear her forth unseen ! 
 
 So ! in truth a noble brow, 
 
 Manly form, and gracious bearing, 
 With a joyful glance, and daring ! 
 
 Such a gallant wight, I vow, 
 
 Maiden would not leave despairing, 
 
 Who hath seen him — Cousin, thou ? — 
 Strange ! that he hath come and gone, 
 
 While his gay emprise pursuing, 
 Hidden thus from all but one ! — 
 For a love not lightly won, 
 
 Say, was e'er such secret wooing ? 
 
BY CE&1U.F.S TILT. 86. FLEET STREET 
 
THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 None may count how many moons 
 
 Watched him, when the West breathed coolly 
 
 From the hills of steep Friuli, 
 Gliding o'er the dim lagoons. 
 Well he knew what shadow falls, 
 
 Shine the star-gleams ne'er so brightly, 
 Slanting from those lofty walls 
 
 Where the singer, shrouded nightly, 
 Poured his love in madrigals. 
 Many a fancy-stricken dame 
 
 Threw her opened lattice wide, 
 Wondered whence the music came ; 
 
 Whose that winning foreign tongue, 
 Whose the peerless praise it sung, 
 
 Listening through the gloom, — and sighed 
 Wishes she had blushed to name ! 
 
 Now that shade is lost in shine, 
 Say what wandering hopes and sweet 
 Yonder bridal train may cheat — 
 
 Cousin, what a blush was thine ! 
 
 The bride descends : below one dainty foot, 
 Trusted to air, the ready boat lies heaving. 
 
 What if her eyelids droop, her voice be mute ! 
 Love's blessing cheer thee, Flower of Venice ! leaving 
 
 Home, kindred, country ! Bitter sweet the fruit 
 Of thy long cherished passion ! nursed by grieving, 
 
 Vexed by strong fears ; and dashed with bodings dim, 
 
 Even in the hour which yields thee all to him ! 
 
 To him ! whose hand upholds thee ! To his prize 
 He clings, a living type of rapture, glowing 
 
 All hope, and pride, and tenderness, in eyes 
 
 That seeing thee, see heaven ! — and gaily shewing 
 
 Yon restless bark, that waits but ere she flies 
 
 For her sweet freightage, seems a Genius, wooing 
 
 Thy heart from its faint fears and memories fond, 
 
 To a new life of joy that shines beyond! 
 
 Pale she looks, but passing fair ; 
 Such a mien the bride should wear : 
 
20 
 
 THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 Fitly tended, too, behold 
 Sour Lorenza's prudish care ; 
 
 Saints ! methinks she fain would scold, 
 Thinking shame that youth should dare 
 
 Such a virgin hand to hold ! 
 Nay ! 'tis well the forward page 
 
 Mocks her primness — yonder maiden, 
 
 Quick Zabetta, too, were aiding, 
 But that softer claims engage 
 
 Eyes that turn to seek the strand, 
 
 Parting becks, and waving hand. 
 
 But the sire — can he refrain, 
 
 When his favourite's foot is pressing 
 Steps she may not tread again, 
 
 From one look, one word of blessing ? 
 Well-a-day ! 't was hard to yield 
 
 Her, that only brightest daughter ! 
 Thus his ireful heart was steeled ; 
 Thus she pined with love concealed, 
 
 While the threatened stranger sought her : 
 And to give the long-denied, 
 Death alone could wring from Pride ! 
 
 Oh, fold her gently to thy heart ! for thee, 
 
 Strange anguish hath she borne, for one so weak ! 
 
 Be kind ! she leaves beyond a homeless sea ! 
 The tombs her heart in solitude must seek ! 
 
 Be all to her, all lost unless she be 
 
 Paid by thy love for his thou mad'st her break, — 
 
 The household charm — the mystery that endears 
 
 The conscious scene of all her smiles and tears ! 
 
 And now unmoor ! the painted galley springs, 
 As the swart rowers brush the hissing foam ; 
 
 The sail is spread : Oh ! happy be the wings 
 That speed the Rose of Venice from her home ! 
 
 Where evermore, the gondolier that sings 
 By Lido's wall, or white St. Mary's dome, 
 
 Will count from year to year how many sighed, 
 
 The day that Adria lost her sweetest bride ! 
 
 JOHN R. CHORLEY. 
 
< 
 
EGYPT. 
 
 D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 SCENE IN CAIRO. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " CONTI." 
 
 " Henceforth, let all young men take heed, 
 
 How in a conjurer's books they read." — Southey. 
 
 'T was when the fight was nobly won, 
 
 That, deafened by the cannon's roar, 
 I leaned, a proud but wearied one, 
 
 Against a kindly cottage door. 
 Who brought clear water from the pool, 
 
 To wash my brow, all battle-red ? 
 Who poured the wine so old and cool, 
 
 And pledged with me our glorious dead ? 
 
 'T was brave Jeanette ! — 
 My heart had ne'er been touched till then ; 
 But seasons change, and so will men. 
 
 There was a broad and amber moon, 
 
 — The like we ne'er shall see again, — 
 That, leaning from the heaven of June, 
 
 Lit our light shallop down the Seine. 
 Rememberest thou, my tender soul, 
 
 Who nestled 'neath this sinewy arm? 
 The kiss — the curl thy rover stole? — 
 
 And still he wears it for a charm. 
 
 My soft Elise ! — 
 My heart was never moved till then ; 
 But seasons change, and so will men. 
 
22 
 
 D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 That was a night — our General's fete ! 
 
 (Ay, bless him, all French hearts and true !) 
 Those ripe red cheeks, I see them yet ; 
 
 They meet me now, those eyes of blue ! 
 My gallant lass, who poured the wine, 
 
 My moon-lit trembler — where were they, 
 As, clasping two small hands in mine, 
 
 I sighed, and swore to love alway? 
 
 O bright Amande ! — 
 My heart was never caught till then ; 
 For seasons change, and so will men. 
 
 " If you mean to play at ecarte, deal : if you mean to sing, give us something better 
 than that trumpery song. You must have made it yourself, Alfred." 
 
 " Bah ! " cried the other, rising from the table, and, with a loud and merry laugh, 
 flinging the neglected pack of cards in his antagonist's face ; " you are a couple of betes, 
 and I shall quit your company." 
 
 " We ! Henri, dost hear that ? No ; he did not hear a word. How he sits there, 
 as still as the sphynx ! " 
 
 Henri (the third and only other occupant of the cool and scantily furnished apart- 
 ment) did indeed appear wholly abstracted from the noise and war of words raised by his 
 eager fellow-soldiers. And yet he was the youngest of the party ; as handsome as any 
 one can be, whose face, while its owner is little more than a boy, is stamped with an 
 unchanging expression of reserve and sadness. He was leaning on one hand, with the 
 unused chibouque beside him ; perhaps, far away, in thought, from Cairo, or the Grand 
 Army, in some fairy boudoir at Paris, or under the shade of some berceau of vines and 
 roses in his rich native province of Languedoc. So, at least, thought Villars and Montin- 
 
 " Dreaming again ! Always dreaming ! Best quit the army at once. A young 
 fellow who turns monk, or savant, or misanthrope, is no longer fit for a soldier. And 
 such a handsome young fellow, too ! — Did he hear that, think'st thou, Pierre ?" 
 
 " Hear ? No more than he heard that charming chanson of thine. 'Tis a vain task 
 to attempt to rouse him to-night. Once let that black look come over him, and there 's 
 an end of every thing. I have known many lovers ; but Henri 's the strangest I ever 
 knew. 'T was all the same in Paris, when he was running after that pretty dark-eyed 
 Aurelie DArgentour ; just the same — he was just as grave and as gloomy as he is yonder. 
 One would have thought he carried half a hundred murders on his conscience, instead of 
 being, as he was, a happy fiance." 
 
 " And how did the affair go off?" 
 
 " Nay, who can tell ? Why, and the other day, when he chose to take a fancy to 
 that little Arab girl, who used to run in and out with dates (I wonder what has become 
 of her!), it was just in that same sly, surly manner. But the women like it. He had 
 
D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 23 
 
 only to look thus," — (the speaker tried to frown grimly from under his magnificent 
 eyebrows), — " and all was arranged. Come away ! never mind Henri. Poor fellow ! 
 one loves him in spite of his megrims. Let us think of some sport, without him." 
 
 " But what sport, if thy pockets be no better filled than mine ? " 
 
 " Voila /" cried the other, tossing up his purse, which rose with a suspicious buoy- 
 ancy. The two laughed (as the young can laugh) at this mutual exposition of their 
 scanty resources. 
 
 f Henri, lend us some money : we are quite tired of thy company, and are going to 
 send for something to enliven us. Or, what would st say to a serpent-charmer, or a 
 magician ? He believes every thing, Pierre ! " 
 
 " I'll warrant thyself twice as credulous, coquin ! It is always such noisy fellows who 
 are soonest frightened." 
 
 " I frightened ! I . . . . But didst hear Delamare's wonderful story the other night : 
 how the old fellow called up La Marquise, as large as life, — absolutely her very self, — 
 and they were all in such a sweat, they none of them durst question her ? / afraid ! I 
 would have spoken to her ! Let us send for Abon — what 's his name ? this instant ; and 
 thou shalt see ! I love fortune-tellers above all things ; and used to have rare sport with 
 Lenormand. — Poor soul! she went the length of a sentiment for me. I'll go and have 
 this man of magic hunted up at once. What a blessing we hit upon the thought ! A 
 true inspiration, Pierre, to get rid of a dull evening. 
 
 My heart was never caught till then ; 
 For seasons change, and so will men." 
 
 And with this careless da capo, Alfred Montin left the room. 
 
 The door opened softly at the end of an hour (the chamber being now dim with 
 evening shadows), and a comely middle-aged man entered, dressed simply as a scribe, 
 or man of law, with a green turban and benisch. Save for his eye, which was quick, and 
 piercing, and intelligent, and shone like a diamond through the twilight, there was 
 nothing in his physiognomy — nothing in his dress, to bespeak the magician. He left 
 his slippers and the spare benisch, which, according to custom, he carried on his shoulder, 
 at the edge of the carpet, and made his reverences with less reserve than is common in 
 the East. 
 
 " A fine, strong fellow," whispered Montin to his companion ; " he has not worn 
 himself out, I'll swear, with sitting up to question ghosts and read the stars. But we '11 
 have a lamp ; no juggling in the dark for me." 
 
 " What, Montin ! afraid already ?" 
 
 The lamp was brought ; and Achmed (so was the man of art named) desired that 
 one of the house-servants should seek out some very young boy or other, through whom, 
 as is the usage, he was to communicate with the unseen powers. In the interval, the 
 
24 
 
 D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 two young soldiers and the Arab conversed tranquilly ; the latter speaking of his art 
 as an heritage derived from the elders of his tribe ; and, without boast or hesitation, laying 
 claim to powers far more extensive' than any he chose to exhibit to Europeans. His 
 voice was deep and gentle : his manner rational, and likely to inspire confidence ; and 
 the two young men found themselves listening, open-mouthed, long ere the re-entrance 
 of their dragoman, who came bringing the little Arab he had picked up in the street 
 and bribed with the reward of a piaster to follow him, — and the one other requisite for 
 the scene about to be enacted — a chafing-dish. 
 
 But neither Villars nor Montin were sufficiently disengaged to remark the sudden 
 glance which Achmed had thrown towards the corner where Henri sat, still, to all 
 appearance, rapt in his reverie. A moment's scrutiny, however, had sufficed to satisfy 
 the curiosity of the seer. 
 
 " All is now ready," said he, quietly rising from the divan ; "and I will shew my 
 lords a slight specimen of my art." 
 
 The ceremony was brief and simple. The little boy (the son of a pipe-merchant, 
 it was afterwards learnt) was placed close to the manghal, or chafing-dish ; and Achmed, 
 with a few good-natured words of encouragement, bade him hold out his left hand ; then, 
 with a reed-pen, scrawled an irregular figure and a few characters upon it, finishing his 
 task by leaving a large blot or pool of ink in the midst of them. Having bidden the boy 
 to look fixedly into this, and to speak as soon as he should see any thing, the magician 
 began to throw perfumes on the fire ; and, as the smoke rose, forming a sort of canopy 
 round and above the head of the child, to chant an invocation, repeating the same words 
 often ; — at first emphatically ; then with a louder and more piercing voice, which filled 
 the hall. Still the child said nothing ; and Achmed, without moving, fed the fire with 
 additional perfumes, and became more and more earnest in his adjurations. 
 
 " Didst ever hear such a voice ?" whispered Villars to Montin. 
 
 " Hush!" 
 
 At that instant, the little Arab, now but dimly visible through the smoke, began to 
 laugh. His merry, childish tones sounded, by contrast, almost ghastly after that solemn 
 incantation. 
 
 " A hand with a broom in it," cried he — " I see a hand with a broom in it, sweeping 
 a space before a tent, a large, gay tent ; and there is a white horse tied at the door. 
 And " 
 
 " Stop ! " said Achmed, " that will do. Now, will my lords call for any one they 
 would wish this child to see ? speaking their names carefully, that there may be no 
 mistake." 
 
 " Villars ! thou first. Will he bring them here, I wonder ?" and the young man's 
 hand found itself on the hilt of his sword. 
 
 Villars paused a moment ; no name would occur to him. At last he fixed upon 
 Louis Quatorze. " The urchin can know nothing about him," whispered he to his 
 comrade. But Montin did not hear ; he was absorbed by a thrilling curiosity. 
 
D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 25 
 
 The child made an attempt or two ere he could rightly pronounce the uncouth 
 Frankish words. " Ah ! a handsome man ! a fine man ! a proud man ! " cried he, " with 
 his head curled more than a fleece ; and long hair falling on his shoulders, and a 
 jewel here," pointing to the place where a buttonhole should be ; and, in his artless lan- 
 guage, completing the picture on the pacquct, even to the jieur de lis on the ceiling 
 above his head, and under his feet, in the room where the king was standing. 
 
 The young men looked at each other ; and it has been said, that Montin crossed 
 himself : but this the latter always denied. " Another ! " cried the little boy, eager after 
 a show in which it seemed as if he found great amusement, " bid me call another ! " 
 
 And, jealously avoiding modern times, the two named, in turn, La Pucelle and Henri 
 Quatre, the brilliant de Sevigne, and Moliere, that prince of comedy writers. Each was 
 described by the boy with the same precision of idea, the same hesitation of language, as if 
 he found it difficult to give an account of features and costumes so unlike those of his own 
 country. Villars and Montin, neither of them spoke, save to mention a new name. It 
 was impossible to resist the creeping awe which accompanied the conviction increasingly 
 forced upon them. There was something, too, impressive in the unambitious but grave 
 quietness of the magician. Nor did the motionless and half-recumbent figure of Henri 
 D'Auberval, in the background, lessen the singularity of the scene, or disturb its 
 character. 
 
 " The child is becoming weary," at length said Achmed ; " if my lords have any other 
 friend they would have called " 
 
 " Thou art not afraid, Montin," exclaimed Villars, rousing himself with an effort ; 
 " come, I will put this wonderful gentleman to the proof. He can never have heard of thy 
 mother, Madame Montin ; call her, and let him tell us what she is doing at this moment ! " 
 
 " Sacre ! " exclaimed Alfred, with a furious oath ; " my good old mother ! Thou 
 
 shalt answer to me for this, Pierre ! ... If she should be ill ! If she should 
 
 I cannot bear it ; he deals with the devil ! Taisez-vous, je vous dis I" .... and he fairly 
 rushed out of the room. 
 
 The magician smiled, and, it may be, there was something of contempt in his smile, — 
 as the door closed upon the high-spirited, but superstitious young man. " My lord, I 
 trust, is now content," said he, turning to Villars. 
 
 But a third, hitherto silent and motionless, had joined the group, — this was Henri 
 DAuberval, upon whom, inattentive and engrossed as he had seemed, not a word, nor a 
 look of the past remarkable scene, had been lost. A strange desire had seized him. 
 What his comrades had hinted concerning the Arab girl was not altogether baseless. In 
 a moment of despondency, which followed the destruction of his first hopes, his eye had 
 been arrested by her timid figure, and bright eyes, and the innocent fearlessness of her 
 talk, as she came in and out, a free child of the desert, to ply her small trade. She had 
 been hitherto allowed to pass unmolested ; but the strong safeguard of confidence and 
 artlessness lasts not for ever. She had shewn herself, alas the day ! greatly struck by his 
 
 H 
 
26 
 
 D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 personal beauty; he had fascinated her. The next step was a short one. She began to 
 attract his attention, at first as a plaything, ere long as a pursuit. He was pleased with 
 her wild wit, and, touched by the fear and shrinking she testified, but only in his presence 
 — for she was used to make her way into the general's tent as boldly as a cherished 
 domestic animal. Heedless of the future, Henri had now fairly engaged himself in the 
 adventure : but, unprotected as she seemed, the maiden was watched over, either by the 
 good angel in her own heart, or some other of her tribe, who had become acquainted with 
 her dangerous fancy. She had made her escape, with many sighs and tears, and sad 
 misgivings ; — happily ere escape was too late : by her sudden departure, making her 
 society and presence of tenfold consequence to the moody being who had, never since 
 his cradle-days, brooked contradiction or delay. And now, curiosity — passion, — with 
 one prompting, perhaps, of a purer and deeper feeling, of a yearning to attach some 
 one to him for ever, who should love him as devotedly as he felt himself capable of 
 loving, — with a prompting, too, of that strange, irresistible impulse, which has made 
 the wisest, and most strongly-fibred of all ages, aspire to question futurity, to raise 
 the veil higher than fate and circumstance permit — had drawn him from his reverie, 
 and placed him, he scarce knew how, close to the speakers in the middle of the apart- 
 ment ; close to Achmed and Villars. 
 
 " Pierre ! my dear friend, Pierre ! " said he, rapidly, in a low voice, seizing the other's 
 hand with a passionate gripe ; " Pierre, I entreat of thee, leave me with him ! — leave us 
 alone together for a minute ! " The dew stood thick on his brow with eagerness as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Pierre, I will give thee whatever thou wishest : — money, — that old sword I have 
 heard thee admire so often, — my black horse, — all I have; but I will be left alone with 
 this man ! " 
 
 " Why, Henri ? " 
 
 " Art thou not yet gone?" exclaimed the other, vehemently stamping his foot; " my 
 reason, my life hangs on it. Thou shalt know all some day. Go — go, and quickly." 
 And with that mastery of stronger passions, and stronger will, which, joined as they were, 
 in him, with a princely generosity, his comrades never knew how to gainsay, he thrust 
 his companion towards the door. 
 
 " Montin will say that I am turned coward, too ; but Henri must pay the magician 
 now, that's clear : and it would be awful to be left alone with them, — God knows what 
 they may not conjure up between them ! " And with these rational and consoling thoughts, 
 Villars allowed himself to be forced over the threshold. 
 
 " The boy is well nigh exhausted," said Achmed, looking askance at Henri, who was 
 standing irresolute, his features and his heart, ay, to its inmost depths, working violently 
 the while ; " the boy is well nigh exhausted ; has my lord decided ? " 
 
D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 27 
 
 " I will not call Aurelie — base, treacherous, heartless ! What is she now to me ? 
 
 Let him call me Salmeh (and he whispered the name in the magician's ear) let 
 
 him call her, and let him tell me where she is now — and I will enrich thee." 
 
 " My lord is good," replied Achmed, drily. It was, peradventure, the passing roll of 
 thunder, very far distant, that made him tremble slightly, but only for an instant, under 
 the nervous grasp of D'Auberval, as the latter stooped towards his ear ; for imme- 
 diately he gave the required name distinctly to the little Arab, who had begun to 
 droop his head, and to describe his recent visions languidly — and with an unfaltering 
 voice recited the formula with which, throughout the whole ceremony, he filled the 
 moments intervening between the summons and the appearance. 
 
 " I can see nothing," said the child, faintly, with a pause of fatigue and exhaustion 
 between every word ; " I can see nothing but a great, long plain of waters. Oh, yes ! 
 yonder are the Pyramids — I know them — and there is a palm-tree or two — that is all ; 
 and the moon is rising as red as blood." 
 
 " Look again !" said Achmed, throwing fresh perfumes on the flame — " look steadily 
 — it is the last time I shall question thee. Dost thou see nothing more ?" 
 
 " It is brighter now, — no, nothing — but the Pyramids and the palm-trees, and some- 
 thing dark floating down this way. It is a water-pot — no, there is that too, — and there is 
 a striped garment. Ah ! now the cloud has passed, and it is all as bright as day ! I see 
 a long lock of black hair, streaming upon the top of the river ; and there is an arm 
 and a bracelet close beside. Some one must be drowned there ! " And the child sunk 
 down at the magician's feet, as gently as one who drops to sleep out of weariness. 
 
 There was another also who lay prostrate on the earth, crushed by the violence of 
 conflicting feelings. Henri had drunk in every broken word drawn from the Arab, 
 with increasing agitation ; and at the last, had uttered a loud cry, and fallen senseless to 
 the ground. 
 
 Achmed gently raised his little assistant to his shoulder, the child still lying in a heavy 
 trance. There were none to mark the bitter contempt and hatred which gathered over his 
 comely countenance, as he turned towards the spot where D'Auberval lay ; making a 
 gesture as though he would spurn him — and glancing downwards towards the dagger that 
 lurked in the folds of his sash. But the wrath passed. He merely said : — " She would, 
 then, have returned to him — she would have left her own people for him! — my dead 
 brother's child ! And he would have dishonoured her ! " Then he quietly departed. 
 
 It was a week after that day that a party of young French officers went out from the 
 city to see the inundation of the Nile, then at its highest ; and higher than it had been 
 known to rise for many seasons. They laughed, they sung, they played those gay tricks 
 with each other, which distinguish — in the intercourse among men — our livelier neigh- 
 
28 D'AUBERVAL. 
 
 bours from our sober selves. But the most gamesome of the party, the foremost in 
 every freak, the most vociferous in every chorus and charivari, was wanting — Where 
 was Alfred Montin ? 
 
 " Only fancy that good Alfred turned nurse ! " said one. " How dull we are without 
 him ! Day and night — night and day : he never quits D'Auberval's bedside." 
 " And what ails D'Auberval ? " 
 
 " Dying, only ! " was the philosophic reply, as the speaker lighted his cigar. " Petit- 
 pierre says poison .... but my belief is, it is those sullen humours. Thou heard'st the 
 news from Paris, that le Marquis de Rochambault had stabbed his wife — she was that 
 little Aurelie — in a fit of jealousy. Mon Dieu! they say she gave him abundant cause." 
 
 " Well, but what is that to Montin ? " 
 
 Nothing to Montin — bete ! D'Auberval was an old lover of hers. They were to 
 have been married ; but a quarrel — I don't know what about — never mind .... Come, 
 as Montin is not here, sing something ! " 
 
 " Nay, but," said a third, " that is not the reason that D'Auberval 's dying. Petit- 
 pierre swears it 's poison ; and I heard Villars talking last night about an Arab, who is 
 missing — the old wretch ! — that conjuring fellow, whom they had in to amuse them 
 one night last week, and who took a spite against D'Auberval ! It 's as clear as noon-day. 
 And there was something more about a girl of the same tribe, whom her mother got 
 away from him (I don't believe such things of mothers too often), who was drowned by 
 the rising of the waters." 
 
 " Oh, ho ! now I understand Master Henri, why he must needs go a-boating on 
 that tremendous hot day. It 's a coup de soleil, I tell you, he is dying of," chimed in a 
 fourth speaker. " The maddest fellow I ever knew ! I suppose he went to fish for the 
 young lady — and they say he came back raving and dying of thirst, and yet he had 
 drained all the skins that the fellows in the boat had with them. I know, for I had the 
 same set in the evening." 
 
 " Well, I know that too ; and Petitpierre swears the water was poisoned ; and the 
 conjurer is not to be heard of from one end of Cairo to the other. A case of love and 
 revenge, I take it. Give me a light, Victor — that last cigar was detestable." 
 
 ''• Come — hold your tongues, or sing, one of you! D'Auberval, they tell me, won't 
 see the morning ; and we shall soon have Montin back among us. What 's that tune he 's 
 so fond of ? 
 
 ' My heart was never touched till then ; 
 For seasons change, and so will men.' " 
 
 And the party strolled on. 
 
LONDON , T3TVTJSHTD BT CJTATU.ES T1F.T. MJUF.T 8TUKKT. 
 
INDIA. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 " When thy light perisheth, 
 That from thee issueth, 
 Our life evanisheth." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 They stand beneath the midnight, 
 
 Beside the river-sea, 
 Whose water sweepeth white around 
 
 The shadow of the tree. 
 The moon and earth are face to face, 
 
 And earth is tranced deep ! 
 The wave-voice seems the voice of dreams 
 
 That wander through her sleep. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 The stars are strong above us, 
 
 To symbolize the soul ; 
 Whereby a tempest-wind may rush, 
 
 Nor dim them as they roll. 
 And yet the soul, by instinct sad, 
 
 Doth stoop to symbols low — 
 To that small flame, whose very name, 
 
 Breathed o'er it, shakes it so. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 What bring they 'neath the midnight, 
 
 Beside the river-sea ? 
 They bring that human heart, wherein 
 
 No nightly calm can be — 
 That droppeth never with the wind, 
 
 Nor drieth with the dew — 
 Oh, calm it, God ! Thy calm is broad 
 
 To cover spirits, too. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 Go, little boats, go softly, 
 
 And guard the symbol spark ! 
 The little boats go soft and safe 
 
 Across the waters dark. 
 And Luti's eyes have caught the fire 
 
 They watch ; and unawares, 
 That blessed while, she lets a smile 
 
 Creep silent through her prayers ! 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 The maidens lean them over 
 
 The waters, side by side, 
 And shun each other's deepening eyes, 
 
 And gaze adown the tide : 
 And each within a little boat 
 
 A little flame hath lit ; 
 If bright it move, the loved doth love, — 
 
 And love doth fail with it — 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 The smile — where hath it wandered ? — 
 
 She riseth from her knee ; 
 She holds her dark, wet locks away — 
 
 There is no light to see ! 
 She cries a quick and bitter cry — 
 
 " Nuleeni, launch me thine ! 
 We must have light abroad to-night, 
 
 For all the wreck of mine ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 I 
 
30 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 " I do remember watching 
 Anear this river-bed, 
 When on my childish knee was laid 
 
 My dying father's head.* 
 I turned mine, to keep the tears 
 
 From falling on his face — 
 What doth it prove, when Death and Love 
 Choose out the selfsame place ?" 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " They say the dead are blessed, 
 
 The death-change here receiving. 
 Who say — ah, me ! — do any say 
 
 Where blessed are the living ? 
 Thy boat, Nuleeni ! — look not sad — 
 
 Light up the waters rather ! 
 I weep no faithless lover where 
 I wept a loving father ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " My thought was of his falsehood, 
 Ere my flame had waxed dim ; 
 And though I closed mine eyes to dream 
 
 That one last dream of him, 
 They shall not now be wet to see 
 
 The shining vision go. 
 From earth's cold love, I look above 
 To the holy house of snow."f 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " Gome thou — thou never knewest 
 
 A grief, that thou shouldst fear it — 
 Thou wearest still the happy look 
 
 That feels another's near it ! 
 Thy humming-bird is in the sun, J 
 
 Thy cuckoo in the grove ; 
 And all the three broad worlds, for thee, 
 Are full of wandering love." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 The little maiden cometh — 
 
 She cometh shy and slow. 
 I ween she seeth thro' her lids, 
 
 They drop a-down so low ! 
 Her tresses near her small feet bare — 
 
 She stands, and speaketh nought ; 
 Yet blusheth red, as if she said 
 
 The name she only thought. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 She kneeled by the water — 
 
 She lighted up the flame — 
 And o'er her youthful forehead's calm 
 
 The trembling radiance came. 
 Go, little boat ; go, soft and safe, 
 
 And guard the symbol spark ! 
 Soft, safe, doth float the little boat 
 
 Across the waters dark. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 Glad tears her eyes have blinded — 
 
 The light they cannot reach — 
 She turneth with that sudden smile 
 She learnt before her speech. 
 " I do not hear his voice ; the tears 
 Have dimmed my light away ; 
 But the symbol light will last to-night — 
 The love will last for aye." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 Then Luti spake behind her— 
 * Out spake she bitterly : 
 " By the symbol light that lasts to-night, 
 Wilt vow a vow to me?" 
 She gazeth upward in her face ; 
 Soft answer maketh she : 
 " By loves that last when lights are past, 
 I vow that vow to thee." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 * The Hindoos carry their dying friends to the banks of the Ganges, believing in the after-blessedness of 
 those who die there. 
 
 •f The Hindoo heaven is localized on the summit of Mount Meru — one of the mountains of Himalaya, or 
 Himmeleh, which signifies, I believe, in Sanscr it, the abode of snow, winter, or coldness. 
 
 J Hamadeva, the Indian God of Love, is imagined to wander through the three worlds, accompanied by the 
 humming-bird, cuckoo, and gentle breezes. 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 31 
 
 An earthly look had Luti, 
 
 Tho' her voice was deep as prayer. 
 " The rice is gathered from the plains, 
 To cast upon thine hair.* 
 And when he comes, his marriage-band 
 
 Around thy neck to throw ; 
 Toward his gaze thy bride-smile raise, 
 
 And ask of Lutis wo ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " And when, in seasons after, 
 Thy young bright-faced son 
 Shall lean against thy knee, and ask 
 
 What deeds his sire hath done ; 
 Press deep adown thy mother-smile 
 
 Upon his ringlets long — 
 View deep his pretty childish eyes — 
 And tell of — Luti's wrong !" 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 She looked up in wonder, 
 Yet softly answered she — 
 " By loves that last when lights are past, 
 I vowed that vow to thee ! 
 But why glads it thee, that a bride-day be, 
 
 By a word of wo defiled — 
 That a word of wrong take the cradle song 
 From the ear of a sinless child ? " 
 " Why!" Luti said, and her laugh was dread, — 
 
 Her laugh was low and wild — 
 " That the fair new love may the bridegroom prove, 
 And the father shame the child ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " Thou flowest still, O river! 
 
 Thou flowest 'neath the moon — 
 Thy lily hath not changed a leaf,+ 
 
 Thy charmed lute a tune ! 
 He mixed his voice with thine — and his 
 
 Was all I heard around ! 
 But now, beside his chosen bride, 
 / hear the river s sound!" 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " I gaze upon her beauty, 
 
 I feel her happy breathing : 
 The light above thy wave is hers; 
 
 And mine, the rest beneath them. 
 Oh ! give me back the dying look 
 
 My father gave thy water ! 
 Give back ! and let a little love 
 O'erwatch his weary daughter ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " Give back!" she hath departed — 
 The word is wandering with her, 
 And the stricken maidens hear afar 
 
 The step and cry together. 
 O symbols ! none are frail enow 
 
 For mortal joys to borrow ! 
 While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat, 
 She weepeth, dark with sorrow ! 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 * The casting of rice upon the head, and the fixing of the band or tali about the neck, are parts of the Hindoo 
 marriage ceremonial. 
 
 f The Ganges is represented as a white woman, with a water-lily in her right hand, and in her left, a lute. 
 
CEYLON. 
 
 THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 " The gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
 
 Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 It was somewhere in the last quarter of the last century, that Charles Pemberton, the 
 younger son of an ancient but impoverished family, having committed the old-fashioned 
 folly of marrying a young lady, for no better qualifications than beauty, sense, and 
 goodness, without regard to those worldly considerations which modern prudence 
 deems indispensable, esteemed himself most fortunate to inherit, through the bequest of 
 a distant relative, a small estate in the Island of Ceylon ; and to obtain a commission 
 in a Dutch regiment serving in that colony, in which, in the course of fourteen or fifteen 
 years, he attained the rank of lieutenant-colonel. 
 
 Living chiefly upon his own property, about a mile from the beautiful village of 
 Negumbo, amongst some of the finest scenery of Ceylon (which the inhabitants imagine 
 to have been the abode of our first parents, the paradise of the old world) ; enjoying an 
 elegant competence, and all-sufficient to each other, Colonel and Mrs. Pemberton would 
 have considered themselves blessed beyond the ordinary lot of humanity, in spite of their 
 banishment from the country they loved so dearly, and the society they were so well 
 calculated to adorn, but for the great evil of eastern climates, the successive deaths of 
 several promising children. Five fine boys and girls had they followed to the grave ; 
 and the only one who now remained to them was their little son, William, a child 
 remarkable for his affectionate temper, his intelligence, and his beauty ; upon whom 
 both parents doted, more particularly, perhaps, his mother, whose own health had been 
 considerably injured by the repeated trials which her maternal feelings had undergone. 
 
 No tutor had been provided for Willy, whom they intended hereafter to send to 
 England for education. Meanwhile his father taught him, when at home in the intervals 
 of duty, whilst Mrs. Pemberton supplied his place in his absence ; but the active, lively 
 boy was much about in the cinnamon plantations (just then beginning to be cultivated 
 by the few British residents on the islands), which were superintended by a Cinglese, 
 
WMMMMmi 
 
 TJVDKKS TABLEAUX 
 
 LONDON, rniiUS.11111) BY CHARLES TILT. 86. FLEET STRETST. 
 
THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 33 
 
 called Vinna, a man of remarkable quickness and much apparent fidelity ; whilst on 
 longer excursions, he was put in charge of a superior domestic servant, a Malay of the 
 name of Gatura, who, by his pliancy of manner, and powers of amusement, had greatly 
 ingratiated himself with his young master. 
 
 So implicit was the colonel's confidence in these dependents, especially in Vinna — 
 for there was an occasional expression in the dark eye of the Malay, which recalled to 
 recollection the vindictiveness of his race; — but such was his reliance upon Vinna's 
 integrity and care, that it came upon him like no common shock, to find, having con- 
 tracted for the sale of some essential oil of cinnamon (extracted from such fragments 
 as happen to be broken off in packing up the bales), and having seen it actually measured 
 and ready for delivery, that half-a-dozen bottles of this valuable oil, which sometimes 
 sells as high as ten pounds British a pint, were missing ; and that, upon subjecting all 
 concerned to an examination, two of the very peculiar bottles, in which the oil had been 
 contained, were found in a corner of Vinna's hut, behind the earthen vessels used for 
 cooking rice ; whilst another was hidden between the brass basin and the pestle and 
 mortar, where the spices are pounded, upon the bench which surrounded the apartment, 
 and formed, with the articles which we have enumerated, nearly the whole of its simple 
 furniture. The bottles were not merely distinguishable by their fabric and shape ; but 
 the strong aroma of the precious commodity, and even a few drops left in the bottom, 
 proved that they had been secretly and hastily emptied of their contents ; and that 
 Vinna, the trusted superintendent of this valuable manufactory, was himself the thief. 
 
 After one simple but earnest denial of the charge — a denial to which his master made 
 no other reply than pointing to the concealed bottles — the delinquent attempted no 
 further defence, but resigned himself tranquilly to whatever punishment the laws might 
 decree. That extremity was, however, averted by the intercession of Willy, whose 
 urgent entreaty for pardon for his friend was so far complied with, that Colonel Pem- 
 berton contented himself with dismissing the favoured servant, who had set so flagrant 
 an example of dishonesty to the labourers under his charge. 
 
 " Remember," said his master, impressively, when paying the wages due to him and 
 discharging him from his service, " Remember, that I have abstained from punishing you 
 at the earnest solicitations of this child ; but that if ever you again come before me for 
 any act of theft or fraud, the chastisement will be exemplary." Vinna listened in silent 
 submission, kissed the skirt of Willy's garment, and departed. 
 
 For awhile the boy missed his kind and pleasant face in the cinnamon plantations and 
 about the home-grounds ; but the griefs of childhood are enviably brief, and he had 
 nearly forgotten his old playfellow, when he was thrown unexpectedly in his way, many 
 months afterwards, in a visit paid by himself and his father, attended by Gatura, to the 
 pearl-fishery at Condatchy. 
 
 A gay and pleasant scene was this pearl-fishery. Thousands of persons, of all colours 
 and nations, in the picturesque costumes of the East, from the rich travelling merchants 
 
 K 
 
34 
 
 THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 who supply the great jewellers of our European cities, to the poorest of the Cinglese 
 women and children, who hover around the sieves, and pore for days over the heaps of 
 sand which have been thrown aside, in hopes of lighting upon the smallest seedling pearl, 
 crowd the streets of the temporary town (at other times a mere fishing village), washing, 
 sifting, boring, drilling, squabbling, and bargaining, in every variety of dialect and jargon ; 
 all intent upon the beautiful luxury destined to add a costlier splendour to the monarch's 
 crown, or a rarer charm to the brow of beauty. 
 
 Willy was delighted ; all the more delighted that he met his old friend Vinna, and that 
 Vinna had been singularly prosperous. A speculating merchant had not only engaged 
 divers on his own account, but had employed persons to examine the sand that had been 
 thrown by after passing, or being supposed to pass, through the sieves. Vinna had been 
 fortunate enough to discover, in a portion which must have been spilled before being sub- 
 jected to that process, a pear-shaped pearl of such size and beauty, as had not been found 
 off the coast of Ceylon within the memory of the oldest trader connected with the fishery. 
 An agent of the King of Candy, specially despatched by his royal master for the purpose 
 of obtaining such a jewel, to gratify a fancy expressed by his favourite wife, who wanted 
 such an one to complete a set of ornaments, was at that moment treating for it with 
 his employer. Vinna ran to procure it to shew to the boy, and placed it on a crimson 
 shawl to display the shape and colour to the best advantage. At Willy's entreaty, Colonel 
 Pemberton also advanced to admire the treasure, attended by Gatura, who had accom- 
 panied them to Condatchy ; and a little crowd of merchants and natives gathered round 
 the place, enlarging upon its merits, marvelling at Vinna's good fortune, or rather the 
 extraordinary luck of his employer, and wondering how, by any degree of carelessness, 
 a pearl of such magnitude could have escaped from the sieves. 
 
 Whilst these assistants, in the heat of their discussion, stood divided into separate 
 groups, and Colonel Pemberton, at Willy's entreaty, was speaking with a grave and 
 measured kindness to Vinna, his employer and the agent of the King of Candy 
 having concluded their bargain, returned for the pearl. They applied to Vinna, who 
 motioned to the shawl which he had deposited on the top of a high covered basket close 
 behind him. The basket was there, and the shawl ; but the pearl was gone ! The 
 consternation was general. Vinna wrung his hands in agony ; the buyer and seller of 
 the precious commodity were in equal dismay. Every man looked suspiciously on his 
 fellow. Some disclaimed ; some accused. Gatura, who had stood nearest to the basket 
 upon which the valuable jewel had been so unhappily left, insisted so vehemently upon 
 being searched, that, rather to pacify him and rid themselves of his clamour, than from 
 any positive mistrust, his dress and person were, as he desired, subjected to a very 
 rigorous examination ; nothing, of course, being found that could implicate him in any 
 way in the delinquency. 
 
 In the mean time, the less successful adventurers, who had before been loud in the 
 expression of their astonishment that such a pearl could be found in such a manner, 
 
THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 35 
 
 began to gather round Colonel Pemberton, to examine into the character which Vinna, 
 whom they understood, from what had passed between them, to have been heretofore 
 employed by him, had borne while in his service. The agent of the King of Candy, 
 the purchaser of the pearl, and the speculator who had sold it, also approached with the 
 same view. Willy, who, child as he was, saw the turn that matters were about to take, 
 seized the opportunity to steal towards his friend. 
 
 " Go, Vinna! go !" said Willy; and, with a sudden start, and a momentary pause, 
 Vinna obeyed the injunction. He disappeared among the crowd ; and, by the time 
 that the questions of those interested had extracted from Colonel Pemberton the cause of 
 his dismissal, and that two or three of the most determined called out to arrest him, he 
 had made such good use of his time, as completely to baffle every effort of his pursuers : 
 his flight, whilst it saved him from almost inevitable punishment, producing upon every 
 body, except Willy, who did battle manfully in his behalf, the most complete con- 
 viction of his guilt. It seemed as certain that he had stolen the pearl, — perhaps, that he 
 had twice stolen it, — as that he had stolen the oil of cinnamon. No one believed in the 
 possibility of his innocence, except our friend Willy. 
 
 The boy and his father returned to Negumbo ; and, in a little while, the colonel was 
 called away on service ; and, Mrs. Pemberton being in delicate health, Willy was left 
 much to the care of Gatura, who spared no pains in his endeavour to win the favour 
 of the lively and spirited boy. He constructed a pad, on which to take him before him 
 on a blood horse, belonging to the colonel, and carried him every day upon some 
 excursion to the cocoa groves (or topes), or the dreary forests which surrounded their 
 habitation. One day, he took him to see the manner in which wild elephants are caught ; 
 and Willy was delighted with the sagacity and affection displayed by one of the tame 
 ones, who, apparently recognising an old companion in the largest of those that had been 
 insnared, actually opened the fastenings of the gate for the release of his friend ; thus 
 shewing, although enslaved himself, his sense of the value of freedom. Willy was en- 
 chanted ; and, on Gatura's dwelling upon the grandeur and interest of a buffalo hunt, never 
 ceased importuning the Malay to afford him that gratification. 
 
 One fine morning, accordingly, they set forth professedly to witness this remarkable 
 spectacle. The high-bred steed carried them rapidly through the cocoa tope, into the 
 very depth of the forest. No sign appeared of the hunters ; but, pleased with the 
 beauty of the scenery, the golden rays of the sun darting through the shaddock and the 
 tamarind, and resting on the beautiful fruit of the jamboe, and amused by the variety 
 of bright coloured birds and gorgeous butterflies, the boy took no note of the distance. 
 At last, as the day advanced, the claims of hunger began to be felt, and he intimated to 
 Gatura his desire to return home. 
 
 " Home!" said the Malay, in the low accent of bitter hate; " you never shall return. 
 Do you remember the day — you, child as you are, may forget ; but, on my memory that 
 day is burnt in characters of fire — when, for striking this horse, ay, it was this very horse, 
 
36 
 
 THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 as Colonel Pemberton, my master, your father, was pleased to think over hard, he snatched 
 the whip from my hand, and struck me, ay, lashed me with it, as if I had been a beast ? 
 I grasped the crease in my bosom; but that would have been a brief and common 
 vengeance. I have waited for such revenge as may endure ; and now my hour is come. 
 You, too, young sir ! you were pleased to read out of some story-book to your mother that 
 pearls might be hidden in the mouth ; that stripping the dress, and searching the person, 
 was no security against a skilful thief! Home shall you never come to tell your father 
 that tale, unless, indeed, you can win your way through the beasts and reptiles, the snakes 
 and the panthers of this forest. Down with you, sir ! Do not cling around me in this 
 manner ! Let go my sash, or I will cut away those little hands ! What noise is that ? 
 Off with you, I say ! " 
 
 And, frightened at some real or imaginary noise, Gatura dashed the struggling child to 
 the earth, and rode rapidly away, leaving, in the boy's hands, the shawl sash, by which he 
 had hung so tightly, and which had been folded, after the oriental fashion, round the 
 waist of the Malay. A small packet dropped from it — it was the lost pearl! 
 
 Hungry and bewildered as he was, the stout-hearted boy lost neither his courage nor 
 his presence of mind. He pocketed the precious jewel, plucked the unripe fruits to appease 
 the cravings of appetite, and tried, with all his might, to retrace the way by which he had 
 come, and to turn back to his home ; but, far beyond his own knowledge, he only plunged 
 deeper and deeper in the forest. He avoided, however, with remarkable boldness and 
 sagacity, the frequent dangers from snakes and wild animals, took refuge under a talipot- 
 tree from a storm, which sent the shrieking flor-mouse to the same friendly shelter ; and 
 at night, remembering that the Cinglese sometimes constructed their habitations for 
 security on the branches of trees, he climbed the tall trunk of the cocoa to sleep. 
 
 What was the agony of the bereaved mother during that long and solitary night ! 
 Gatura had not returned, and, wholly unsuspicious of his treachery, she imagined that 
 some fatal accident had happened to him and to his charge. Messenger after messenger 
 did she despatch in every direction ; Colonel Pemberton was recalled ; and every means 
 taken that the most anxious affection could dictate, to recover the missing child. 
 
 He, meanwhile, wandered on, subsisting on wild fruits by day, and sleeping in trees 
 by night, until he had nearly reached the boundaries of Candy. He, too, poor child, was 
 heart-sick and home-sick. The high courage which he inherited from his father, roused at 
 the approach of danger ; but at other moments, footsore, weary, bruised by falls, and torn 
 by bushes, his spirits flagged, and his strength was exhausted. One day, as he was 
 passing by some brushwood, which half concealed the entrance to a low cavern, a furious 
 buffalo came bellowing up a track in the forest, and, pausing for an instant, lowered his 
 head to attack the child. Another moment, and Willy would have been gored by his 
 horns, or tossed into the air ; but a man rushed from the cavern, and, seizing the child 
 with one arm, with the other flung a piece of cloth (part of his own garments) over the 
 head of the buffalo, blinding him, and entangling his horns, so that the boy and his 
 
THE LOST PEARL. 
 
 37 
 
 preserver had time to retreat into the cave, the entrance to which was too low to admit 
 the enraged animal. Willy was saved ; and, turning to thank the friend to whose boldness 
 and address he owed his life, he burst into tears of delight, clapped his little hands 
 together, and shouted " Vinna! dear, dear Vinna!" 
 
 Three days after this, Vinna, bending in respectful salutation, with his arms folded upon 
 his bosom, stood in the presence of the beautiful wife of the Candian king. She listened 
 to his little story, and listened pityingly, for she was a woman and a mother. Slie 
 promised, with the grace of conscious power, and nobly did she redeem her promise, to 
 redress all Vinna's grievances, whether as regarded the oil of cinnamon, which she justly 
 suspected Gatura to have stolen, or the pearl ; and with regard to that pearl of pearls, 
 the noble boy Willy, she made it her first business, her first pleasure, to send him home 
 to his distracted parents, laden with presents, and accompanied by his brave preserver, 
 the faithful Cinglese. 
 
AMERICA. 
 
 A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 " I was at William Penn's country-house, called Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much 
 of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in council concerning 
 their former covenant, now renewed on his going away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may 
 mention the following : ' They never broke covenant with any people,' said one of their great chiefs ; and, 
 smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ' they made not their covenants there ; but here,' said he, smiting on 
 his breast three times. 
 
 ^ ^fc % 
 
 " I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew towards them. The love of God filled 
 my heart ; and I felt it right to look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come from a 
 far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call God), and my message was to endeavour to 
 persuade them that they should not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put away 
 their wives for small faults ; for if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would 
 not prosper them, but bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain from these evils, 
 then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed 
 these things to them in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies. 
 
 ifc 4fr iflfe 4fr Jf; % 
 
 " They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing Friends ; 
 and whilst I was amongst them my spirit was very easy : nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress me, as 
 I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves Christians." — Journal of John Richardson, 
 one of the early Friends. 
 
 They read of rapine, war, and wo, 
 A party by an English fire,— 
 
 Of Indian warfare in the wood, 
 Of stern and ruthless ire. 
 
 They read of torture worse than death — 
 Of treachery dark — of natures base — 
 Of women savage as the beast — 
 
 Of the red Indian race. 
 
 " Hold !" said the matron of the hearth, 
 A woman beautiful in age ; 
 
 " And let me of the Indian speak; 
 Close, close that faithless page ! 
 
 " My father was the youngest born 
 In an old rural English hall ; 
 The youngest out of five stout sons, 
 With patrimony small. 
 
Tuminra" tableaux. 
 
 r.OTJDOM. PUBLISHED BY CHARLES TILT. 86. FLEET STREET. 
 
A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 His boyhood was in greenwood spent ; 
 
 His youth was all a sylvan dream ; 
 He tracked the game upon the hills ; 
 
 He angled in the stream. 
 
 Quiet was he, and well content, 
 
 With naught to fret, and none to chide ; 
 
 For all that his young heart desired 
 The woods and streams supplied. 
 
 Small knowledge had a youth so trained, 
 College or school ne'er knew his face ; 
 
 And yet as he grew up, he grew 
 Superior to his race. 
 
 His brethren were of sordid sort, 
 
 Men with coarse minds, and without range ; 
 He grew adventurous and bold, 
 
 Inquisitive of change. 
 
 And, as he grew, he took to books, 
 And read whate'er the hall supplied ; 
 
 Histories of admirals, voyages old, 
 And travel far and wide. 
 
 He read of settlers, who went forth 
 To the far west, and pitched their tent 
 
 Within the woods, and grew, ere long, 
 To a great, prosperous settlement. 
 
 He read of the bold lives they led, 
 
 Full of adventure, hardy, free ; 
 Of the wild creatures they pursued, 
 
 Of game in every tree. 
 
 And how the Indians, quaintly gay, 
 
 Came down in wampum-belt and feather, 
 
 To welcome them with courteous grace ; 
 
 How they and the free forest-race 
 Hunted and dwelt together. 
 
 " And how they and their chosen mates 
 Led lives so sweet and primitive : 
 Oh ! in such land, with one dear heart, 
 What joy it were to live! 
 
 " So thought he, and such life it were 
 As suited well his turn of mind ; 
 For what within his father's house 
 Was there to lure or bind ? 
 
 " Four needy brothers, coarse and dull ; 
 A patrimony, quite outspent; 
 A mother, long since in her grave ; 
 A father, weak and indolent ! 
 
 " At twenty he had ta'en a mate, 
 
 A creature gentle, kind, and fair; 
 Poor, like himself, but well content 
 The forest-life to share. 
 
 " She left an old white-headed sire ; 
 
 A mother loving, thoughtful, good ; 
 She left a home of love, to live, 
 For him, within the wood. 
 
 " And that old couple did provide, 
 
 Out of their need, for many a want 
 Else unforeseen ; their daughter's dower 
 In gifts of love, not scant. 
 
 " His father with cold scorn received 
 
 So dowered a daughter, without name 
 Nor could his purposed exile win 
 Either assent or blame. 
 
 " All was a chill indifference ; 
 
 And from his father's gate, he went, 
 As from a place where none for him 
 Had kindred sentiment. 
 
40 
 
 A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 " And in the western world they dwelt ; 
 Life, like a joyous summer morn ; 
 Each hope fulfilled ; and in the wild 
 To them were children born. 
 
 " All that his youth had dreamed he found 
 In that life's freshness ; peril strange ; 
 Adventure ; freedom ; sylvan wealth ; 
 And ceaseless, blameless change. 
 
 " And there he, and his heart's true mate, 
 Essayed, and found how sweet to live, 
 'Mid Nature's store, with health and love, 
 That life so primitive ! 
 
 " But that sweet life came to an end. — 
 As falls the golden-eared corn 
 Before the sickle, earthly bliss 
 In human hearts is shorn. 
 
 " Sickness — bereavement — widowhood — 
 Oh, these three awful words embrace 
 A weight of mortal wo that fell 
 Upon our sylvan dwelling-place ! 
 
 " It matters not to tell of pangs, 
 
 Of the heart-broken, the bereft ; 
 I will pass over death and tears, 
 I will pass on to other years, 
 When only two were left ! 
 
 ' ' I and a sister ; long had passed 
 The anguish of that time, and we 
 Were living in a home of love, 
 Though in a stranger's family. 
 
 " Still in the wilderness we dwelt, 
 
 And were grown up towards womanhood ; 
 When our sweet life of peace was stirred 
 By tales of civil feud. 
 
 " By rumours of approaching war, 
 Of battle done, of armed bands ; 
 Of horrid deeds of blood and fire, 
 Achieved by Indian hands. 
 
 " We heard it first with disbelief ; 
 
 And long time after, when had spread 
 Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt 
 All unassailed by dread. 
 
 " For they with whom our lot was cast, 
 Were people of that Christian creed 
 Who will not fight, but trust in God 
 For help, in time of need. 
 
 " The forest round was like a camp, 
 
 And men were armed day and night ; 
 And every morning brought fresh news 
 To heighten their affright. 
 
 " Through the green forest rose the smoke 
 Of places burned the night before ; 
 And from their victims, the red scalp 
 The excited Indian tore. 
 
 " This was around us, yet we dwelt 
 In peace upon the forest bound ; 
 Without defence, without annoy, 
 The Indian camped all round. 
 
 " The door was never barred by night, 
 The door was never closed by day ; 
 And there the Indians came and went, 
 As they had done alway. 
 
 " For, ' these of Ouas are the sons,' 
 
 Said they, ' the upright, peaceful men ! ' 
 Nor was harm done to those who held 
 The faith of William Penn* 
 
 * Innumerable, and beautifully poetical, are the instances of forbearance exhibited by the Indians, during 
 the time of their greatest excitement, towards those of the Society of Friends who adhered faithfully to their 
 Christian principles of peace. Father Onas is the Indian name for William Penn. 
 
A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 41 
 
 " But I this while thought less of peace, 
 Than of the camp and battle stir ; 
 For I had given my young heart's love 
 Unto a British officer. 
 
 " Near us, within the forest-fort, 
 He lay, the leader of a band 
 Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep 
 The Indian from the land — 
 
 " The native Indian from his woods — 
 I deemed it cowardly and base ; 
 And, with a righteous zeal, I pled 
 For the free forest-race. 
 
 " But he, to whom I pled, preferred 
 Sweet pleading of another sort ; 
 And we met ever 'neath the wood 
 Outside the forest-fort. 
 
 " The Indian passed us in the wood, 
 Or glared upon us from the brake ; 
 But he, disguised, with me was safe, 
 For Father Onas' sake. 
 
 " At length the crisis of the war 
 
 Approached, and he, my soul's beloved, 
 With his hot band, impatient grown, 
 Yet further west removed. 
 
 " There he was taken by the foe, 
 
 Ambushed, like tigers, mid the trees : 
 You know what death severe and dread 
 The Indian to his foe decrees. 
 
 " A death of torture and of fire — 
 
 Protracted death ; I knew too well, 
 
 Outraged and angered, as of late 
 Had been the Indian spirit, fell 
 
 Would be their vengeance, and, to him, 
 Their hate implacable. 
 
 " When first to me his fate was told, 
 I stood amazed, confounded, dumb ; 
 Then wildly wept and wrung my hands, 
 By anguish overcome. 
 
 " ' Wait, wait !' the peaceful people said ; 
 ' Be still and wait, the Lord is good !' 
 But when they bade me trust and wait, 
 I went forth, in my anguish great, 
 To hide me in the wood. 
 
 " I had no fear; the Indian race 
 
 To me were as my early kin ; 
 And then the thought came to my brain, 
 To go forth, and from death and pain, 
 
 My best-beloved to win. 
 
 " With me my fair, young sister went, 
 
 Lone journeying on through wood and swamp ; 
 Three long days' travel, ere we came 
 To the great Indian camp. 
 
 " We saw the Indians as we went, 
 
 Hid 'mong the grass with tiger ken ; 
 But we were safe, they would not harm 
 The daughters of the peaceful men. 
 
 " In thickest of the woods at length 
 We came to a savannah green ; 
 And there, beneath the open day, 
 The Indian camp was seen. 
 
 " I turned me from that scene of war, 
 And from the solemn council-talk, 
 Where stood the warriors, stern and cold, 
 War-crested, and with bearing bold, 
 Listening unto a sachem old, 
 Who held aloft a tomahawk. 
 
A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 I knew they were athirst for blood ; 
 
 That they had pity none to spare ; — 
 Besides, bound to a tree, I saw 
 
 An English captive there. 
 
 I saw his war-plume, soiled and torn ; 
 
 I knew that he was doomed to die ; 
 Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood ; 
 The ground was crimsoned with his blood ; 
 Yet stood he as a soldier should — 
 
 Erect, with calm, determined eye. 
 
 I would not he should see me then, — 
 The sight his courage had betrayed ; 
 
 Therefore unseen we stepped aside, 
 Into the forest-glade. 
 
 An Indian woman there was set, 
 
 We knew her, and to her were known ; 
 
 The wife of a great chief was she, 
 
 Decked in her Indian bravery ; — 
 Yet there she sat alone. 
 
 ' Woman,' I said, the silence breaking, 
 
 ' Thou know'st us — know'st that we belong 
 
 To peaceful people, who have ne'er 
 Done to thy nation wrong. 
 
 ' Thou know'st that ye have dwelt with us, 
 As friend upon the hearth of friend ; — 
 
 When have ye ask'd and been denied, 
 That this good faith should end ? ' 
 
 The Indian did not raise her head, 
 
 As she replied in accents low, 
 ' Why come ye hither unto me, 
 
 When I am sitting in my wo ? ' 
 
 ' Woman,' I said, ' I ask for life — 
 
 For life, which in your hands doth lie ; — 
 
 Go, bid thy tribe release the bands 
 Of him now doomed to die ! 
 
 " ' Go, Indian woman, and do this, 
 
 For thou art mighty with thy race ! ' 
 The Indian made me no reply, 
 But looked into my face. 
 
 " ' Mighty ! said'st thou ? ' at length she spoke, 
 ' Mighty ! — to one no longer wife ! 
 
 ' The hatchet and the tomahawk 
 
 Lie by me on the forest-walk ; 
 
 The great chief in my hut lies low, 
 
 The ruthless pale-face struck the blow — 
 And yet thou com'st to me for life ! ' 
 
 " ' By that chief's memory,' I cried, 
 
 ' Whom ne'er the peaceful men gainsaid ; 
 To whom the peaceful men were dear ; 
 Rise, stricken though thou be, and aid ! 
 
 " ' Crave not revenge,' and with my words 
 
 My tears flowed fast, though hers were dry ; 
 ' But look upon this pictured face, 
 And say if such a one shall die ! ' 
 
 " Long looked she on the pictured face, 
 
 Which from my neck I took and gave ; 
 
 Long looked she ere a word was spoke, 
 
 And then she slowly silence broke, 
 
 ' The hatchet is not buried yet ; 
 
 The tomahawk with blood is wet ; 
 And the great chief is in his grave ! 
 
 " ' Yet, for the Father Onas' sake — 
 
 For their sakes who no blood have shed ; 
 We will not by his sons be blamed 
 For taking life which they have claimed ; — 
 The red man can avenge his dead ! ' 
 
A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 
 
 4 
 
 So saying, with her broken heart — 
 
 She went forth to the council-stone ; 
 And when the captive was brought out, 
 Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout, 
 She stepped into the fierce array, 
 As the bereaved Indian may, 
 
 And claimed the victim for her own. 
 
 He was restored. What need of more 
 To tell the joy that thence ensued ! 
 But sickness followed long and sore, 
 And he for a twelvemonth or more, 
 With our good, peaceful friends abode. 
 
 " But we, two plighted hearts, were wed ; 
 
 A merry marriage ye may wis ; — 
 And guess ye me a happy life — 
 In England here, an honoured wife, — 
 
 Sweet friends, ye have not guessed amiss ! 
 
 " But, never more let it be said, 
 The red-man is of nature base ; 
 Nor let the crimes that have been taught, 
 Be by the crafty teachers brought 
 As blame against the Indian race !" 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
SCOTLAND. 
 
 SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 " Therefore his age was as a lusty winter, 
 Frosty, but kindly." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " No, Oscar ! no ; your young master is deer-stalking to-day. Don't you hear the gun, 
 which has startled Jessy so wofully? He does not want you just now, Oscar. His 
 view, before firing that startling gun, which, wo is me ! will have more than frightened 
 the poor, pretty deer ; for Allan is such a shot, that he seldom misses his aim, — his view, 
 before he frightened Jessy, and awakened the echoes and brought down the red deer 
 with that sudden shot, was to creep towards them quietly and stealthily. He does 
 not want the good hound, Oscar, to-day! Oscar must stay with his mistress." And 
 as the lovely Agnes Macdonald spoke coaxingly these coaxing words, her small, fair 
 hand thrown around Oscar's neck, as he stood beside her, the noble animal looked up in 
 her face with his bright, intelligent eyes, delighting in the sweetness of the voice, compre- 
 hending, or seeming to comprehend, the meaning of the words, and acquiescing most 
 contentedly in her decision. There was, certainly, no great hardship in standing at the 
 side of Agnes Macdonald, the beautiful and the kind; and with looks that spoke, as 
 plainly as looks could speak, his affection and his gratitude, her honest and faithful 
 favourite (somewhat of the largest and roughest for a lady's pet), lay down in calm and 
 quiet happiness at her feet. 
 
 Her fair companion, the high-born and graceful Jessy Stewart, who, startled, as Agnes, 
 had truly said, at the sudden sound of Allan Macdonald's gun, had been standing in some 
 dismay behind her friend, now that the shock was passed, advanced smilingly, and found 
 a seat upon the bank beside her. 
 
 " How fond you are, Agnes, of that huge dog! What would the exquisites who 
 hovered round you in London and in Paris say, if they saw you in full dress, too, not as 
 I am, snooded and plaided like a Highland lassie, with your jewelled hand resting upon 
 that shaggy head, and his long, rough body reclined upon the satin skirt ! What would 
 they say to that, ' my dainty leddy,' as old Annot is wont to call you ?" 
 
 " And what matters what they say or think, Jessy ? " responded the warm-hearted 
 
TABLEAUX. 
 
SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 45 
 
 maiden, kindling into a dignity of youthful beauty and unconscious stateliness, pure, 
 delicate, and graceful as the attitude of a swan upon mountain or lake, or the station 
 of a doe amongst her native glens. " What care I for the exquisites of Paris or of 
 London 1 Not half as much as for the mountain posy which you have been collecting — 
 the harebell, and the heather-sprig, and our own elegant and abundant Scottish rose. 
 What is the worth of a ' wilderness of such ' monkeys,' compared to that of our noble, 
 faithful Oscar ? What would be the amount of their services in a whole century, 
 measured with those which he has rendered to us ? Why, did you never hear," con- 
 tinued Agnes, observing the surprised look with which her friend regarded her evident 
 excitement ; " did you never hear of poor Oscar's exploits in the hard winter, five 
 years back ? No ; you were in Germany at the time : and it was before Allan's attach- 
 ment and your return of affection (nay, Jessy, a princess would have no cause to blush 
 for loving such a man as my brother) ; it was before this affiance, so gratifying to us 
 all, had given you a daughter's interest in the affairs of our house. If you are not afraid 
 of a long story, I will tell you why it is that, from the oldest to the youngest, we all 
 consider Oscar, not merely as a noble animal, but as a benefactor and a friend. 
 
 " You know the pride and delight of our family, my little sister, Jean ; but you did 
 not know the beloved and venerable relative, my dear and excellent grandfather, of whom 
 she was, from the moment she could totter across the room, climb into his lap, and 
 hang prattling round his neck, the prime pet and favourite. He doted upon the sturdy, 
 hardy, merry little girl, with her joyous smile, and her joyous temper, so fearless, open, 
 frank, and kind ; and she, in her turn, idolised the fine, cheerful, benevolent old man, her 
 most alert playmate and most indulgent friend ! Oh ! how they loved each other ! And 
 what a picture it was to see them together ! He, at nearly eighty, still upright, robust, 
 and vigorous in form, with a regular, oval countenance, high, noble features, hazel eyes, 
 bright and keen as a falcon's, a mouth of feminine sweetness, a fine open forehead, a 
 magnificent bald head, and long curling hair, as white as the snows on Ben Nevis, con- 
 trasting with his clear, ruddy complexion, the very hue of a ripe peach. Oh, what a sight 
 it was to see that beautiful old man, so full of health, and life, and glee, and kindliness, 
 tossing about that rosy, laughing child with the activity of youth ! never weary of 
 humouring her pretty fancies, and going even beyond her in innocent mirth, and fun, and 
 frolic. How Jeanie loved him ! How we all loved him, the dear and venerable man ! 
 so generous and frank, so open-hearted and guileless himself, so unsuspicious of guile in 
 others ; so full of honourable thoughts and disinterested and affectionate feelings ! How 
 proud we all were of a relative, whose cheerful and venerable age accorded so well with 
 his virtuous and active youth ! The Southrons, estimating little except the conventional 
 benefits of wealth or station, are apt to sneer at our pride of ancestry ; and perhaps we 
 may a little overvalue that mere string of names, that long roll of parchment, a pedigree ; 
 but a progenitor like Sir Allan Macdonald, or, as he preferred to be called, Kilburnie, — 
 a living example of all that is true, and just, and honourable, and kind, cannot be too 
 
 N 
 
46 
 
 SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 highly appreciated. His family, his clansmen, his very countrymen, were proud of the 
 good old man, whose sweet and genial temperament diffused gaiety and happiness around 
 him. He was a blessing to the whole country. You will be a happy woman, Jessy, if 
 my dear brother, the heir of his estates and his name, should (as Heaven grant he may) 
 fulfil the promise of his youth, and inherit also the frank and winning virtues to whicli 
 his grandfather owed his extensive and remarkable popularity. 
 
 " Sir Allan being a widower, and my mother a widow, she and her three children, 
 Allan, Jeanie, and myself, lived with him at Kilburnie ; Jeanie, younger than either of us 
 by ten years, and a posthumous child, being, as I have said, his companion ; whilst 
 Oscar, then in his prime, whom my grandfather, still a keen sportsman, valued above all 
 greyhounds for his speed (if my venerable kinsman, in his universal candour and charity, 
 had a prejudice, it was against the sleek, high-bred, fine-limbed dogs, which form the 
 pride of the southern courser, and Oscar had won a cup from a round dozen of compe- 
 titors from Newmarket, brought on purpose to oppose him), and whom Jeanie delighted 
 in for his gamesomeness, was the constant attendant of their long rambles. In spring, 
 summer, autumn, and winter, in every season, and in all weathers, would the active 
 old man sally forth with the hardy little girl, sometimes holding him by the hand, or 
 when weary, carried in his arms, and the good hound, Oscar, bounding on before 
 them. He had an innocent pride in dropping in with Jeanie in his hand at houses 
 at a considerable distance, particularly at the residences of his daughters and grand- 
 children (for his daughters, older than my father, an only son, and early married, 
 had scattered his descendants over the country), and replying, with a chuckling glee, 
 when questioned about horses and servants, ' that he had walked ; that he left such 
 effeminacies as coaches and flunkies to those who needed them, and was ready to 
 dance a reel with the youngest lassie present; and it should go hard but he would 
 tire her down : and Jeanie hersel' will keep it up with any lad of her inches ; won't 
 you, Jeanie?' and the vaunt would end by the good old man tossing Jeanie upon his 
 shoulder, and cutting the Highland fling to his own music. This was his delight : a ball 
 was nothing without his presence. If you had but seen the nod and the wink, the fulness 
 of his glee, the overflow of his good-humour, his archness in suspecting, and sagacity 
 in detecting which lad and lassie would like to come together for the dance; ay, and 
 sometimes for longer than the dance ! How he would reconcile old feuds, and cement 
 new friendships; ay, and how he would use the influence of age, and character, and 
 property, even to the very stretch of his interest, to smooth difficulties, and turn dim 
 and distant wishes into present realities ! Many a hopeful youth has owed his prosperity, 
 many a gentle maiden her happiness, to the unwearied benevolence of the kind and merry 
 Sir Allan. 
 
 " One Christmas he went to Glenmore, accompanied, as usual, by Jeanie and Oscar, 
 to keep the birthday of his favourite daughter, Lady Macleod. My brother was detained 
 
SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 47 
 
 at home by a slight indisposition ; and the weather was so severe, that my mother, always 
 delicate, was afraid to venture, I myself being too young for parties of any kind. Sir Allan 
 had fixed to return on New Year's Eve, the succeeding day being always one of high 
 festivity at Kilburnie, the servants and neighbours dining in the great hall, and the 
 whole castle being alive with feasting and jollity. It was an occasion on which we felt 
 that he would be very unwilling to absent himself, and yet the day fixed for his return 
 was so tremendous, that we took for granted Lady Macleod would detain her honoured 
 guest at Glenmore. Snow had fallen during the whole of the preceding night, accompanied 
 by a drifting wind, so that to send carriages and horses was impracticable, every vestige 
 of the road, a wild mountain-track, at the best, was impassable, or my brother would 
 have gone under pretence of fetching Jeanie; for we all knew well, that the only shade 
 that ever crossed the brightness of our dear grandfather's countenance, was occasioned by 
 his suspicion of being taken care of, — an affront which the hardy sportsman would have 
 regarded with as much jealousy and displeasure as would be evinced by a veteran of the 
 wars at any precaution that should imply a doubt of his personal prowess. This consi- 
 deration alone deterred my brother from setting forth to Glenmore in person ; and as the 
 day grew wilder and wilder, all around, hill, plain, and valley, covered with a sheet of 
 fragile, glittering white, with scarcely an hour's intermission of incessant snowfall, and the 
 night closed in with bitter gusts of wind, which blew the frozen and feathery particles 
 against the face with blinding violence, even my mother, a nervous and timorous woman, 
 with a revered parent and a beloved child at stake, made up her mind to believe that, as 
 it was evidently impossible that the expected guests would reach Kilburnie Castle on the 
 morrow, its master would be content to remain where he was. Weather less formidable, 
 so that it might have afforded some chance of his finding the road, or some probability of 
 the arrival of his guests the next day, would have been more alarming. To have stirred 
 out in such a fall as this seemed impossible. So we went to bed in comfort. 
 
 " About an hour after midnight we were awakened by a tremendous noise at the gate 
 of the castle, a mixture of scratching and howling. Upon opening the door, it was found 
 to be our friend, Oscar, who, instantly singling out my brother, leaped upon him with a 
 piteous cry, and then went on a little way beyond the gate, returning to see if Allan 
 followed him (who delayed a few minutes to furnish himself with a lantern, and men with 
 hurdles, mattrasses, and ropes), pulling him by the coat-skirts with the most urgent whine, 
 wagging his tail when he began to move, and enticing him forward by every means 
 in his power. Oh, I shall never forget the poor dog's piteous ways, his trembling 
 earnestness, his eager looks, and the expression of his anxious cry — no human voice 
 could have conveyed his meaning more distinctly. Never shall I forget that moment, 
 nor the hour of agonising suspense that followed." 
 
 " They were saved?" inquired Jessy, anxiously, breaking silence for the first time. 
 
 " Oscar led his party to a hollow by the hill-side, about three miles distant ; and there 
 
48 
 
 SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 the venerable old man was found leaning against the rock in a half-recumbent posture, so 
 as to shelter the child, who was clasped to his bosom. The snow was gathering around 
 them. Sleep had crept upon both, and, in another hour, all help would have been 
 unavailing." 
 
 " But they were saved?" again inquired Jessy. 
 
 " Thanks to Oscar's fidelity and intelligence, they were. By proper care, they both 
 recovered sufficiently to dance at the postponed festival on Old New Year's Day. Our 
 dear grandfather lived in health and happiness until last year, just before we had the 
 happiness of renewing our friendship with your family ; and Jeanie is, you know, as lively 
 and as lifelike a little personage as treads this most excellent earth. And now, my 
 dearest Jessy, do you wonder that Oscar — look at him, poor fellow, he knows that we 
 are talking of him ! — Do you wonder that this noble and sagacious animal should 
 be my pet ? " 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
GEORGIA. 
 
 THE GEORGIAN SISTERS. 
 
 " Timon {looking on the gold). Oh ! thou sweet king killer, and dear divorce 
 'Twixt natural son and sire." — Timon of Athens. 
 
 'T was evening, and softly the moonbeam strayed 
 Thro' the trellis-work of the woodland shade ; 
 The south wind stole with a murmur sweet, 
 Like the feathery fall of a fairy's feet ; 
 And an echo came from the distant sea, 
 Of the blue waves' mighty jollity. 
 'T was evening, and marking the shadows fall 
 On Nature's brow, as a funeral pall, 
 Watching the clouds o'er the pale moon flying, 
 Two Georgian Sisters were listless lying. 
 They were young and happy ; their life's brief hours 
 Had passed in that valley, mid trees and flowers : 
 They were lovely and loving ; with arms entwined, 
 They lay in their thoughtless peace resigned : 
 " Sing to me, Sister ! My sister, sing ! 
 Sweet in mine ear let thine accents ring!" 
 " What would'st thou, dearest 1 A joyous tune, 
 Like the wild wood-note of the bird in June ? 
 Or that by the cradle I'm wont to frame, 
 Of my brother, wearied with childish game, 
 Till his slumbering head, on the pillow press'd, 
 Hath the soothing charm of my song confess'd ? 
 Or would'st thou the spirit-thrilling lay 
 That we sung on the eve of the battle day, 
 
 o 
 
THE GEORGIAN SISTERS. 
 
 When, safe in his glory, my father came 
 
 In the blood-red light of a warrior's fame, 
 
 With helmet and mail, when we saw him ride, 
 
 When the sword gleamed scabbardless at his side? 
 
 Or lovest thou, dearest, the sweet sad note, 
 
 Like the tones through the autumn leaves that float, 
 
 Which we sang when we bound our sister's head 
 
 With the last pale garland of the dead ?" 
 
 " Stay, Zoe, see'st not our mother near, 
 
 And a stranger with her, I fear, I fear; 
 
 Yet I know not why, but his stern cold eye 
 
 Is viewing us long and earnestly. 
 
 I love him not ! Now the red gold gleams, 
 
 And my mother, all tearful, and trembling seems. 
 
 She comes." " My children, bright news I bear ; 
 
 Fortune hath smiled on ye, great and rare : 
 
 Proud tidings, and happy, this merchant brings; 
 
 My daughters! Ye go to the Hall of Kings. 
 
 Ye have prized frail flowers ; there, gems will be 
 
 As rife as the sands in Araby. 
 
 Ye have loved your brother ; one far more dear 
 
 Will kiss from the eyelid each rising tear. 
 
 Farewell ! Ye leave little for fond regret ; 
 
 Your fountain of joy is scarce opened yet. 
 
 Life stretches before ye its green expanse ; 
 
 Go forth on its pathways with song and dance." 
 
 Wild rose the wail. " We are sold, we are sold ; 
 
 The mother hath bartered the child for gold ! 
 
 We are leaving the land we have loved so well ; 
 
 We are bidding its fountains and woods farewell ! 
 
 We are leaving the home of our childhood free, 
 
 For a gilded, but drear captivity ! 
 
 Our voice on the hills will be heard no more ; 
 
 Its gladness hath passed from our father's door. 
 
 Our brother will wake with the sunrise bright, 
 
 And call us to join him in gambols light, 
 
 Ere the dew be dried in the opening flowers, 
 
 Or the fragrance flown of the morning hours. 
 
 He will seek us high on the sunny hill, 
 
 By the willowy stream, and the leaping rill ; 
 
THE GEORGIAN SISTERS. 
 
 He will call us vainly, then turn and weep, 
 
 Till, wearied, he sinks, in his grief, to sleep. 
 
 He will soon forget us; some painted fly 
 
 Will charm the tears from his laughing eye. 
 
 Our father, who glories in Foray wild, 
 
 Will he give a thought to an exiled child, 
 
 When he hears on the mountains the fleet hoofs ring, 
 
 That back from the battle the booty bring? 
 
 They may forget us, but ne'er can'st thou, 
 
 The mother who bore us, and loved till now : 
 
 We shall stand 'twixt thee and the sun's glad beam ; 
 
 We shall hover around thee in midnight's dream. 
 
 Thou wilt think of us in the twilight dim, 
 
 And thine ear will yearn for our vesper hymn; 
 
 And, when on the mountains, the morn smiles sweet, 
 
 For the merry sound of the bounding feet. 
 
 Thou wilt think of us when the spring hath flung 
 
 Its garlands the greenwood's boughs among. 
 
 Thou wilt think of us when the summer glows; 
 
 Our image will come with the opening rose. 
 
 And the tongues of the winds, and the waters wild, 
 
 Will cry, as in judgment, Thy child ! Thy child ! 
 
 Ah, no! thou can'st never forget; to thee 
 
 Each season will bring our memory; 
 
 Each gleam, each shadow, each idle word, 
 
 Will wake in thy heart, as by trumpet stirr'd, 
 
 Remembrance dear to the childless mother, 
 
 Ne'er marked, or unheeded by every other. 
 
 Thou art rich, indeed, if that merchant's gold 
 
 Weigh but half the price of the love thou hast sold. 
 
 HENRIETTA E. HARRISON. 
 
CASTILE. 
 
 THE SIGNAL. 
 
 " Mine honour is my life." — Shakspeaee. 
 
 " Be waiting soon after dark, rny dearest Leonora, at the balcony of your apartment, 
 and when you see me holding up a torch in the little boat upon the lake, steal unobserved, 
 if possible, from the castle, and come to meet me at the water-side. I must see you ; 
 must pour my sorrows into your sympathising bosom ; must take leave of you — pos- 
 sibly for ever! 
 
 Your unhappy Brother, 
 
 FERNANDO JUAN CARLOS DE GUZMAN." 
 
 For the twentieth time, Donna Leonora read her beloved brother's letter, as she stood 
 leaning upon the beautifully carved stone work of the balcony, watching the appointed 
 signal. Her husband was absent ; and the mystery in the delivery of the billet, which 
 had excited the attention of her serving maidens, Livia and Ursula, and had even 
 awakened in their coarser minds, — accustomed to the not unfrequent flirtations of 
 Spanish beauties, — suspicions that their grave and high-minded lady, hitherto so in- 
 accessible and so spotless, was, at last, about to listen at least to one amongst her 
 innumerable admirers. The disguise of the letter-bearer, and the silence and secrecy of 
 his own approach, were, so far as Don Pedro was concerned, wholly unnecessary. But 
 Donna Leonora, aware of the untamed — perhaps untameable — impetuosity of her 
 brother's character (an only, and a twin brother, and most fondly beloved), and of his 
 impatience of contradiction, and doubtful, also, how far what she had to hear might be 
 connected with the political convulsions of these troubled times, and certain of her hus- 
 band's just reliance upon her affection and prudence, resolved to obey implicitly Don 
 Fernando's directions, to wait in the balcony until she perceived the signal-torch, and 
 then to hasten to meet him by the edge of the lake. 
 
 As she stood leaning on the carved stone-work, her guitar at her side, the beams of 
 the full moon striking on her rich jewels and her commanding beauty, and illumining the 
 splendid mansion, of which she was the undisputed mistress (from one of whose opened 
 
riNDtNS TABLF.AVZ: 
 
THE SIGNAL. 
 
 53 
 
 windows peeped forth the inquisitive and laughing serving maidens), the contrast — that 
 contrast so frequent in this world of contradictions — between the splendour and gaiety of 
 outward circumstances, and the cares and anxieties of the interior mind, the wide dif- 
 ference, in short, between appearance and reality, was most strikingly exemplified. To 
 the eye she was bright, fair, sweet, and calm, as the flowers clustered in their sculptured 
 vase, that waved above her head, diffusing beauty and fragrance around her ; but, as the 
 flower-leaf is subject to influences from without, shaken by the night wind, and bat- 
 tered by the rain, so is that sentient and delicate blossom, the human heart, liable to 
 be swayed by the changeful gusts of passion and feeling ; and, even when in itself equable 
 and firm, it is but too often torn and shattered by sympathy with the sufferings and 
 injuries of the objects of its best affections. And so it fared with the gentle Leonora at 
 this moment, when, awakening from a long reverie, occupied in vain guesses as to the 
 purport of the letter which lay by her side, she glanced suddenly down towards the lake, 
 and saw the signal-torch gleaming high above the waters. 
 
 In a few minutes the brother and sister were standing together, in earnest conver- 
 sation beneath a group of cedar, and cypress, and Portugal laurel, through whose dark 
 foliage the moonbeams struck in bright fitful gleams, as the cool breeze of evening swayed 
 the huge branches. 
 
 " He insulted me, Leonora, before the whole regiment : called me a rash, hot-headed 
 boy ; and when I sent the young Conde de Merida to him, to demand an apology, or to 
 appoint the time and weapons for a meeting, he refused to listen to him or answer him, 
 otherwise than by saying that his regard for my father's memory, his old comrade in 
 arms, alone prevented him from putting me under arrest for sending a challenge to my 
 superior officer ; that for this time he forgave me, but that I had need look to it, for that 
 the next breach of discipline should be visited upon me with all the rigour of military 
 law. And this from Manuel Hernandez to a descendant of the house of Guzman ! And 
 he survives, and I survive ! And all redress is closed against me by military discipline, 
 forsooth ! Military discipline ! ! ! Well, I have removed that barrier, have thrown up 
 my commission ; and if, upon my return to Madrid, he refuse me the satisfaction that I 
 require, I will leave Spain — leave Europe ! The world does not want ways in which the 
 son of an old Castilian, even if he abandon his estates, his rank, his country, may win 
 for himself enough to maintain life, without forfeiting that without which life is worthless 
 — honour." 
 
 " Alas ! my dearest Fernando ! my most dear brother ! " exclaimed Donna Leonora, in 
 the deepest affliction ; " can you speak thus of leaving your country, of abandoning the 
 princely name and the princely home of your ancestors, of deserting now, in the moment 
 when she most needs the defence of every loyal cavalier, the young and innocent sove- 
 reign, in the assertion of whose rights you took so vivid an interest ; — above all, can 
 you think of forsaking me ! True, I have a kind and an honourable husband ; but even 
 his affection would not suffice for my happiness, if you, the playmate of my childhood, 
 
 p 
 
54 
 
 THE SIGNAL. 
 
 the companion and friend of my maturer years, my twin brother, my only living relation, 
 were to become a wanderer and an exile ! Speak to my husband, Fernando ; he, too, is 
 a soldier, and a noble Castilian ! Consult him. What was the commencement of this 
 unlucky quarrel ? Don Manuel Hernandez has a lovely daughter, the Donna Serafina, 
 respecting whom be is known to be singularly tenacious. Surely, her name was not 
 mentioned between ye ?" 
 
 " His daughter, quotha ! " replied the fiery youth. " I never saw her, have hardly 
 heard that such a person existed ! Don Diego Velasquez and myself were speaking of a 
 stranger, clearly a lady of distinction, a beauty whom we had met together on the Prado, 
 and whom I had subsequently seen, oftener indeed than I cared to tell him, at early mass 
 at the church of San Isidro. He dared to compare with this angel, pure, dignified, gracious, 
 and graceful; — I have never spoken to her, but I am sure that she is all this; there is an 
 evidence of bearing and of countenance, to say nothing of the careful attendance of two 
 old domestics, whose appearance vouches for the station and the character of their 
 mistress ; — he dared to compare with her a Jewish girl, picked up in some of the alleys of 
 the city : and it was my indignation at this insult, offered to a virtuous lady, which 
 provoked the interference of Colonel Hernandez, who had entered unobserved during the 
 dispute. Don Diego apologised. He is a slight boy ; a trivial jester, who would crack 
 jokes at his mother's death-bed, or his father's tomb: but Hernandez! And to refuse 
 me all explanation ! all redress! To disgrace me before my comrades, and then to stand 
 upon his seniority ! his military discipline ! ' The day would come,' he said, ' when I should 
 repent my violence.' Death will arrive before that day ! Farewell, my Leonora ! 
 Women cannot comprehend these feelings ! Schooled before all his officers ! And he 
 expects that I shall submit ! that I shall rejoin the regiment, to be pardoned, it may 
 be ! or schooled again ! By St. Jago, the gentleman is modest ! Farewell, my precious 
 sister ! my own Leonora ! May the Holy Virgin watch over you ! Forget me, my best 
 Leonora ; I can never forget you ! " And he broke from her affectionate embrace, leaped 
 into the boat that awaited him, and rowed rapidly to the opposite shore ; where Jose, his 
 faithful domestic, attended with his horses. 
 
 The weather was singularly fine even for that delicious climate. The moon, nearly 
 at full, reigned in the clear and deep-blue sky like a milder sun, throwing a silvery light 
 upon the wild and beautiful scenery, the deep and richly wooded glens, threaded by 
 mountain streams, and surmounted by the abrupt precipices and rugged steeps of the 
 Sierra Guadarrama, into the defiles of which a few hours' riding had now brought them. 
 Even the stormy passions of man were insensibly soothed by the peaceful sights and the 
 harmonious sounds of nature, the calm sweetness of the night, the lulling sound of the 
 wind amongst the willows, and distant fall of waters gushing from a rock, and the balmy 
 odours of the cistuses, the wild thyme, and the thousand aromatic herbs that sprang 
 around him on every side. Unconsciously his anger was yielding to milder thoughts, 
 as he wended his way, taking, at the guidance of Jose, or the will of his steed, the 
 
THE SIGNAL. 
 
 55 
 
 nearest but least-frequented road to Madrid, when, on emerging from a grove of cork- 
 trees, and entering a strait and narrow valley where the rude cart-track wound between 
 tall and almost inaccessible crags, celebrated as the resort of the banditti, formed in these 
 times of civil war by the refuse of either army, he was startled from his meditations by 
 the repeated sound of a pistol-shot, and the shrill screams of female voices ; and saw 
 right before him, in the moonlight, a carriage drawn by mules, with one or two unarmed 
 attendants, who, overpowered by superiority of numbers, and the suddenness of the 
 attack, were on the point of surrendering to half-a-dozen ferocious-looking savages, 
 armed to the teeth, who were so intent on their booty, that they did not perceive 
 the new comers. 
 
 " Carry off the trunks, Pablo ! Take care of the lady, Joachim ! She looks like one 
 for whom we may demand good ransom!" cried the ruffian, who seemed to be their 
 leader. 
 
 The reply to this injunction was a shot from Fernando's pistol, which levelled the 
 wretch to the earth. The faithful Jose seconded his master ; the driver of the carriage 
 and the attending servants, encouraged by the unexpected succour, rallied round 
 their lady; and, in a few minutes, the assailants, dismayed by the loss of their cap- 
 tain, and alarmed also by the sound of horses advancing along the highway, fled 
 the field. 
 
 Don Fernando advanced to the trembling and frightened travellers (for there were 
 two females ensconced in the caleche), whom he had rescued from worse than death. 
 
 " The beauty of the Prado ! " cried he, in ecstasy. " The lovely devotee of San 
 Isidro!" 
 
 " Serafina, my beloved daughter!" exclaimed the newly arrived cavalier, joining the 
 group ; " and you, senor, her protector, her preserver, how can we repay such services ? 
 Don Fernando ! Is it, indeed, Don Fernando de Guzman ?" 
 
 " Colonel Hernandez!" and, without their at all knowing how it happened, the two 
 brave hands were joined in the most cordial grasp of affectionate amity. 
 
 " Well, is not this better, now, than fighting for neither could tell what ?" said Don 
 Manuel, after a few minutes passed in the warmest expressions of gratitude on the 
 part of the father and daughter. " You will understand, my good young friend, that I 
 had heard enough of your conversation with Don Diego, to be convinced that you were 
 speaking of Serafina, without exactly knowing the degree or the manner of your 
 acquaintance with her. This occasioned my taking up the matter with undue warmth. 
 Upon discovering, however, how matters stood, I was actually on my road to your 
 excellent sister, Donna Leonora, to commission her to mediate between us ; and, as you 
 confess to having left her in some trouble, why, I think, with your permission, we 
 had better proceed thither now. She will forgive our untimely visit for the sake of its 
 object." 
 
56 
 
 THE SIGNAL. 
 
 There is little need to say with how much delight Don Fernando acceded to this 
 proposition, or how much more delicious the silver light of the moon, the lulling sound 
 of wind and waters, and the balmy scent of the herbs, which hung, heavy with the night- 
 dew, from the romantic defiles of the Sierra Guadarrama, seemed to the lover, when 
 traversed at the side of his beloved. 
 
 It was long past midnight when they arrived at the castle, to the unspeakable 
 pleasure of its fair mistress, and a little to the disappointment of her waiting maids, 
 who found, to their no small amazement, that the cavalier of the signal-torch was no 
 other than their lady's twin-brother. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OK THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 VIC . BIND . 
 
 folio 
 
 GB1838 
 
 .F56 
 
 F5 
 
 v