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 CHAMELEON. 
 
 " UNTIE TOUR FOLDED THOUGHTS, 
 
 AND LET THEM DANGLE, LOOSE AS A BRIDE'S HAIR." 
 
 Webster's White Devil. 
 
 LONGMAN AND CO., LONDON; 
 
 OLIVER AND BOYD, EDIN. 
 
 ATKINSON AND CO. GLASGOW. 
 
 MDCCCXXXII.
 
 " Few guests sit down to a varied tabic' with an equal appetite for every dish. One 
 has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter 
 abomination; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavour of venison and wildfowl ; 
 and a fourth, with truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
 knicknacks here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned 
 in its turn ; and yet, amidst the variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away 
 from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests." 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 Chameleons feed on light and air : 
 
 Poet's food is love and fame : 
 If in this wide world of care 
 
 Poets could but find the same 
 With as little toil as they, 
 
 Would they ever change their hue 
 
 As the light chameleons do, 
 Suiting it to every ray 
 Twenty times a day ? 
 
 Poets are on this cold earth, 
 
 As chameleons might be, 
 Hidden from their early birth 
 
 In a cave beneath the sea ; 
 Where light is chameleons change ; 
 
 Where love is not, poets do ; 
 
 Love is fame disguised : if few 
 Find either, never think it strange 
 That poets range. 
 
 Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 
 
 A poet's free and heavenly mind : 
 If bright chameleons should devour 
 
 Any food but beams and wind, 
 They would grow as earthly soon 
 
 As their brother lizards are, 
 
 Children of a sunnier star, 
 Spirits from beyond the moon 
 O, refuse the boon ! 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 F^lward Khull, Printer, Glasgow.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The pieces in Verse are distinguished by Italics. 
 
 Seeking a Name, .... 
 The White Rose in Mull, a Tale, 
 The Hours, ..... 
 Sketches from Scottish History. 
 No. I. The Contrite One, 
 
 II. The Answer of Umfraville, 
 
 III. The Coronation of the Bruce, 
 
 IV. The Countess of Buchan, 
 The Focus, No. I. ... 
 
 I. The Limits of Poetical Expression, 
 
 II. The Novelists of the 18th Century, 
 
 III. Philosophy of Cheers, 
 
 IV. National Enterprise, . 
 
 V. Genius, Ingenuity, and Industry, 
 
 VI. Reason and Instinct, . 
 Five Sovgs. 
 
 I. O cauld to me, .... 
 
 II. For one fond hour with thee! 
 
 III. The Minstrel's Roundelay, . 
 
 IV. Drinking Song, .... 
 
 V. The Clansmen's Cheer, . 
 The Laughynge Madrygalle, 
 
 The Mother at the Cradle of her only Child, 
 In tears, my Love, ..... 
 
 The Sorrows of Sleepiness, a Prosaic Epigram, 
 
 Address to a Lock of my Mistress's Hair enclosed 
 
 Case, ...... 
 
 The Price of a Quadrille, .... 
 
 Enigma, ....... 
 
 in a Golden 
 
 PAGE 
 
 9 
 23 
 31 
 
 55 
 
 64 
 91 
 105 
 43 
 44 
 45 
 46 
 47 
 48 
 49 
 
 53 
 54 
 55 
 56 
 62 
 58 
 60 
 57 
 66 
 
 69 
 71 
 72
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 On a good Composer, but hideous Singer of Music, 
 Sonnets. 
 
 To Ideal Beauty, . . 
 
 Bcrigonium, . 
 
 To 
 
 I. 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 Written on seeing a Chalk Drawing of a Head, 
 Written at the base of Benlomond, 
 
 Jean Prevost, or the arm of the Devil, 
 
 Stanzas, .... 
 
 Ianthe, .... 
 
 Alas, I cannot love ! . 
 
 April Memories, 
 
 The Focus, No. II. 
 
 I. Belzoni's Character, 
 
 II. Utility of Dulness, 
 
 III. Dormant Propensities, 
 
 IV. Indolence of Genius, 
 The Ha' and the Cot, 
 The Wreck of the Comet Raised, 
 Two Blacks don't make a White, an acted 
 The Siletice of the Grave, 
 The Goblet, 
 The Anniversary Visit, 
 Epistle from a Lover to his Mistress, on her 
 
 Frivolity, . 
 The Cigar, 
 
 Being the Introduction to 
 Henry Porson, a Tale, 
 / did not weep, 
 The First of October, 
 The Focus, No. III. 
 
 I. Cookery, 
 
 II. Music as an Art, 
 
 III. Proximate Causes, 
 
 IV. Singleness of Virtues, 
 
 V. Root of Revolutions, 
 
 VI. Pride and Humility, 
 
 Proverb, 
 
 treating him ivilh 
 
 PAGE 
 
 72 
 
 75 
 76 
 ib. 
 77 
 78 
 79 
 87 
 94 
 96 
 98 
 
 100 
 101 
 102 
 103 
 107 
 108 
 111 
 143 
 144 
 145 
 
 147 
 157 
 
 156 
 166 
 167 
 
 171 
 172 
 174 
 176 
 
 ib. 
 177
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 Stanzas to —   
 
 The Enthusiast's Wish, 
 
 The Lambs, .... 
 
 The Oath was heard in Heaven, 
 
 A New Project, 
 
 Songs. 
 
 I. The Miller's Daughter, 
 
 II. Mary Shearer, 
 
 III. The Promise, 
 
 IV. Mary Glen, 
 
 V. Glenfalloch, 
 Midnight Moods, 
 The Debating Society, 
 On the Death of a Girl, 
 The Juncture, 
 
 My Life is all one Dream of thee, 
 The Gentle Widow, a True Story, 
 My Portrait, .... 
 The Focus, No. IV. 
 
 I. The Compensating Principle, 
 
 II. Origin of the Alphabet, 
 
 III. Feudal Virtues, 
 
 IV. Taste and Pleasure, 
 
 V. Civilization, 
 
 VI. Origin and Use of Sculpture, 
 
 VII. Genius and Criticism, 
 
 To 
 
 Epigram, ..... 
 Desultory Remarks on some of the Proper 
 The Mystic Three, .... 
 The Proud Lover's Remonstrance, 
 Adelaide and Roland, a Tale of the Rhine, 
 Stanzas on a Seal, .... 
 The Lovers' Loan, . . . • 
 Improvvising, 
 
 I. The Legend of the Lid, 
 
 II. The Romance of the Flower, 
 
 ties of Th 
 
 ought, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 179 
 180 
 181 
 
 182 
 183 
 
 193 
 
 194 
 
 195 
 
 196 
 
 197 
 
 , 198 
 
 , 207 
 
 . 221 
 
 . 222 
 
 . 223 
 
 . 224 
 
 . 228 
 
 . 231 
 
 . 232 
 
 . 233 
 
 . 234 
 
 . 235 
 
 . 236 
 
 . 237 
 
 . 241 
 
 . 242 
 
 243 
 
 252 
 
 253 
 
 255 
 
 273 
 
 274 
 
 278 
 
 279 
 
 281
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Graces, 283 
 
 Love's Pains, ......... 284 
 
 Tin: Focus, No. V. 
 
 I. Meteorology, ....... 286 
 
 II. Greek and Roman Customs, .... 287 
 
 III. Speaking in General, and Varieties of Imagination, 290 
 
 IV. Nature Endless — Art Limited, . . . .291 
 
 V. Influence of Memory — Plagiarism, . . . 292 
 
 VI. Prefaces, 293 
 
 VII. Woman's Knowledge of Character, . . . 294 
 
 7'he Poet's Farewell to his Books, 296 
 
 The Dying Wish, 298 
 
 300 
 
 . 303 
 
 • • • • • • oUO 
 
 310 
 
 The Return of the Muse, 
 The Lute's Decay, 
 Specimen of" a Tour," 
 Retrospective Ode,
 
 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 Good name, in man and woman, is the immediate jewel of their souls." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The search for a title has, on the part of statesmen and 
 lawyers, been for ages a prevailing pursuit ; — the seeking 
 for a name has occupied the lives of half the artists, all 
 the poets, and a considerable portion of the prosers of 
 every generation, at least since the flood washed away the 
 remembrance of antediluvian authors and of their ambition. 
 It may, then, well engage me for an hour. Nay, truth to 
 speak, it has absorbed my occasional attention for years, 
 since for vears have the contents of the following sheets 
 been kept, like an unchristened babe, within doors, and 
 under their nurse's care, till they should get a baptismal 
 appellation. Never did a disappointed patriot, without 
 Court influence, experience more diflficulty in getting a 
 peerage, or a poor poet in winning a name, though " who 
 can tell how hard it is to climb," &c, than I have done in 
 reaching to a title for my book. Like our good thoughts, 
 the ancients have stolen all our best appellatives, — by 
 ancients, meaning the piddishers of volumes of miscella- 
 neous matter, from twenty to thirty years ago ; for if age 
 is to be measured by comparison with any standard of 
 
 B
 
 10 SEEKING A NAM E. 
 
 endurance, an author, or compiler of collections of ' ' Essays" 
 or " Poems," must be looked upon as of very venerable years, 
 whose existence is remembered after the lapse of a quarter 
 of a century. In vain, from time to time, did I exclaim to 
 all my friends in succession, with Falstaff, " I would to God 
 thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were 
 to be bought !" I could " call them from the vasty 
 deep," to be sure, — but they would not come " when I 
 did call them ;" and at length, in despair of finding one 
 to please me while I lived, I bethought me of leaving 
 my papers, as a Bequest, to some friend or other, 
 and letting him get a " title" to the property of the 
 deceased, both on his own behalf and that of the public, to 
 whom The Legacy was jointly to be left, — though, like 
 the work that was dedicated to posterity, it might, as has 
 been the case with many a pacquet besides, never reach its 
 destination, in spite of its address, To give it, notwithstand- 
 ing, a chance, of moving on, I bethought me of calling it The 
 Bookseller's Bequest ; thereby expecting to enlist, in an 
 especial manner, Vesprit de corps of some one or other of 
 these cunning rogues, who might thus be induced, like 
 Blair's grave-digger, (infelix allusio!) to do for a buried 
 brother " what he had done for thousands !" But then, 
 perhaps, the worthy obstetrician of literature might find out 
 that it was no bequest of a bookseller after all, but only that 
 of a very different personage indeed, — a book-maker, — one 
 of a class which is either Iris " bliss or bane." In this dilem- 
 ma, and dismissing my testamentary intentions, it occurred 
 to me that I might secure an interest with the general body 
 of " The Trade," did I give my work a title complimen- 
 tary to them, in the way that baptizing a child, as in New 
 England, Perseverance or Faith — Tomkins or Williams — 
 as the case may be, is looked upon as a homage to the cardi- 
 nal virtues ; and I woidd name it with admirable brevity
 
 SEEKING A NAME. ] 1 
 
 and comprehensiveness, The Bookseller ! — a term 
 which has been eloquently said, signifies " a race of men, 
 who should never, for a moment, be confounded with 
 any other class of shop-keepers or' traffickers. Their 
 merchandize is the noblest in the world ; the wares to 
 which they invite your attention are not fineries for the 
 back, or Luxuries for the belly — the inward man is what 
 they aspire to clothe and feed, and the food and raiment 
 they offer are tempting things. They have whole shelves 
 loaded with wisdom ; and if you want wit, they have 
 drawers full of it at every corner. It is impossible that 
 this noble traffick should not communicate something of 
 its essential nobility to those continually engaged in it. 
 Your bookseller, however ignorant he may be in many 
 respects, always smells of the shop — and that which is a 
 sarcasm, when said of any other man, is the highest of 
 compliments when applied to him. What an air of intel- 
 ligence is breathed upon this man, from the surface of the 
 universe in which he moves ! It is as impossible for a 
 bookseller to be devoid of taste and knowledge — some 
 flavour at least — as it is for a collier to have a white skin, 
 or a miller to want one." * 
 
 Thus, something after the manner of the worthy 
 curate who applied, I believe, to Mr. Strahan, to print 
 a sermon for him, I argued that I should at once secm-e a 
 large salej- for the work; since thus every bibliopole, 
 fancying it would give him some new insight into his 
 
 * Peter's Letters, vol. 2. 
 
 ■f The story is told by the venerable and garrulous Nichols, I 
 think, and runs thus : — On the occasion of a general fast, a country 
 curate had felt himself peculiarly eloquent, and was quite convinced 
 that he had only to get his sermon printed to ensure him a mitre. 
 This, however, was a matter of some difficulty; but scraping a pound 
 or two together, he forthwith journeyed to London, with the MS. in
 
 12 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 craft, or, at least, in being the production of a member 
 
 of it, that it must, like himself, of necessity he a com- 
 plete cento of human accomplishments, — would secure 
 one copy at the fewest, and thus some "ten thousand" 
 would find a market. It then, however, occurred to me, 
 that in reducing the title to the general level of a nume- 
 rous hody, I should lose the influence which aristocratic- 
 distinctions will always carry with them. The proverb 
 of " too much familiarity, &c." though somewhat musty, 
 did occur to me, and I then resolved upon taking my 
 name from, and allying myself with, the higher " orders" 
 of the republic of letters; and although "Publishers" 
 would soon cease to be, were they not also " sellers," yet 
 as all sellers cannot be publishers, — argul — the former are 
 
 his pocket ; and, determined to ensure Court favour, he must needs 
 employ no one but the King's printer. Upon the patentee he waited, 
 and gave his instructions. " How many copies shall I throw off?" 
 was Mr. Strahan's question. " Why," replied the curate, " I think 
 we cannot calculate on there being less than one copy required for each 
 parish in the kingdom ; and as there are about ten thousand parishes in 
 England, I think that that ought to be the smallest amount of the 
 impression." " Very well, Sir," concluded the printer. In a year 
 after the Author waited on Mr. S. to pocket the proceeds — for the 
 mitre was not yet upon his brow. An Account Sales was presented 
 to him, in the following shape: — 
 
 Rev. Mr. in account with the King's Printer : 
 
 Dr. Cr. 
 
 By received for 10 copies 
 
 sold, . £0 10 
 
 To printing and paper, 10,000 copies 
 of your Sermon, . .£333 6 8 
 
 Halance at your debit, 332 16 8 
 
 The poor curate was aghast — but the good-natured printer speedily 
 relieved him, by telling him that he had ventured to disobey his orders, 
 and had only printed 100, which he requested him to accept as a 
 present.
 
 SEEKING A NAME. 13 
 
 more dignified than the latter. The PUBLISHER was then 
 the thing with which to catch the fancy of the " Trade." 
 Seeing mention, however made of The Portfolio 
 of some dismissed statesman having heen transferred 
 with great form to his successor, I resolved, like an am- 
 bassador, to assume a diplomatic dignity even for my 
 " Pages ;" and that they should be called, with a happi- 
 ness of alliteration, to which the letter P is particularly 
 partial, The Publisher's Portfolio ! What secrets 
 — to which even those of a cabinet minister were not 
 worth unveiling — might not lurk in a repository so 
 termed ! What mysteries might its opening not reveal, 
 what great " Great Unknowns" might it not discover, 
 and what a budget of that pleasantest of all twaddle — 
 literary gossip — might it not contain ! 
 
 One difficulty — quite unlooked for — did, however, pre- 
 sent itself at this stage : — I could not get a " Publisher" to 
 adopt the child, or even to stand sponsor for it, under that 
 name ! — " It was, no doubt, an honour ; but it would lead 
 the public to suppose, that one of our House really was 
 the writer, which might have an injurious influence — 
 Brethren in trade — Business, reputation — Can't afford to 
 have it supposed that we make verses, — or have time for 
 even reading books, let alone uniting them, — Wmdd never 
 do for the doctors to father the children they brought 
 into the world. — He ! he I he ! &c. &c." Will it be be- 
 lieved, too, that still clinging to the pleasant alliteration, of 
 — P. before — Portfolio, &c, and remembering Richardson, 
 Franklin, Buhner, Baskerville, et hoc genus omne, I found 
 the present race of printers equally obstinate. Indeed, one 
 sneering rascal among them, after looking over my MSS. 
 suggested that there were still some taking titles unappro- 
 priated, and quite new — such as simply The Portfolio, 
 leering at his own dirty black-leather Blade; or, if I ivas
 
 14 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 resolved to affiliate my offspring upon any of the branches 
 of the " Stationers' Company," I might safely call my 
 work Errors op the Press, or Proof Sheets — 
 nay, with some assistance from one of his " Readers," and 
 a clever little " Devil" he had, I might, perhaps, venture 
 to give it the more perfect name of Revises ! 
 
 In contempt for the taste and trade of this worthy, I 
 had nearly resolved to apply to a Lithographer, or an 
 Engraver, and through his assistance introduce a novelty 
 in modern publication — by rendering my book a Fac 
 Si3Hle of my manuscript, as well as of my mind — till 
 I recollected that the former was always as puzzling to 
 others from its illegibility, as the latter has often been to 
 myself from its contradictoriness. I then had almost 
 resolved to go back, as it were, to the happier times — or, at 
 least, in my case, renew them — when authors were not 
 the mere slaves of creatures who sell printing paper 
 and lamp black but when they employed Copyists 
 instead of, as now being too often little else than that 
 themselves. My book should, then, after all, have the 
 name of the instrument of its propagation. It should 
 be The Amanuensis, or The Copying Clerk ; 
 or it should be spoken of as that Avhich gave them 
 a worthy occupation, too long like Othello's, — "gone!" 
 Transcriptions was good — but Transcripts was 
 better, for it had a double meaning, and spoke of that 
 intimate relation, between the felt emotion and the written 
 line, which I trusted all the burning passages would 
 exhibit. Copies, however, was more simple, and re- 
 called to memory those pleasant times when poets were 
 caressed by the great, that they might give "copies" to 
 some fair Exclusive, who made a world's wonder of 
 them for a week ; or the days when a St. John and a 
 Halifax, men of infinite wit and talent, threw off splendid
 
 SEEKING A NAME. ]5 
 
 things, as they said, almost impromptu, and carelessly 
 called these diamond chips " Copies of Verses." But, 
 then, Copy was an ominous word, which, in these cap- 
 tious and jealous times, might suggest some far-fetched 
 piece of dull woidd-be witty churlishness, to a spiteful 
 critic, notwithstanding the perfect and unquestionable 
 originality of the ideas and style of the whole volume ! 
 Thus posed, I determined to resort to the advice of friends, 
 and even to give away the proudest distinction of author- 
 ship — a name, to another. I consulted many ; and many were 
 the suggestions with which I was favoured. tf What is the 
 nature of your book ?" said one and all. — " Is it of a mis- 
 cellaneous, or single aim ; with variety or unity of purpose — 
 grave or gay ; in prose or in verse?" — " It has every one of 
 these distinguishing features," was my modest, but com- 
 prehensive reply. " Then it can resemble nothing- so 
 much as an Album, and vou can't give it a better name," 
 remarked a gentleman, very original in his suggestions ; 
 but as I think I have seen or heard of some printed book 
 with a title like that, suppose you call it, The Album, 
 of some particular place or other, by way of distinction, 
 such as Pludingstone-Place Album, or The Albim 
 of Ballybrogle Hall. This would, at all events, have 
 been more novel than The Olio, which another sug- 
 gested, or the Olla-Podrida, that was proposed by 
 a youth, fresh from the perusal of Gil Bias in Spanish. 
 Hodge-Podge said I, woidd be better understood, if nut 
 quite so sonorous — and even Le Pot Pourri might 
 be regarded as equally complimentary. — " What's that ?" 
 " The Alternate." — < ; Tush ! Call it what it is, in the 
 name of the deuce, said a testy friend, who had just laid 
 down Banim's latest novel, (The Denounced,) — call it The 
 Postponed, as I can vouch for its being so, till I am sick of 
 heaving about it and about it ; or, if you wish for compre-
 
 16 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 hensiveness and novelty, why don't you covertly shove the 
 trouble of titling' it on the public, giving the word of 
 promise to the eye only, and call it Anything ? " Nay,"' 
 was my response, I might as well do the Hibernian at 
 once, and baptize it The Unchristened ; or name it The 
 Nameless ; or, better still, boldly challenge public curios- 
 ity, and entitle it The ^Enigma, or, in homelier English, 
 The Guess ; — " English ? — American you mean, I guess," 
 said a Yankee friend, but The Conundrum is much 
 more the favourite of " The Age 1 ' than the old-fashioned 
 amigma, which is now banished from even " Poole's 
 Pocket-Books for 18—," and " The Ladies' Diary." 
 " Since you cannot, as I perceive, tell us very distinctly 
 what it is," interposed a quiet observer, " perhaps we shall 
 be able to help you if you can inform us what it is not — 
 this Nondescript volume of yours ?" — " Eureka !" ex- 
 claimed a young student, the son of a worthy Upholder, 
 but who was a Politician, and aspired to be one day 
 a Cabinet-maker. — " That's it — Comprehensive — New — 
 Original — Fine — What Not ! — It embraces every thing! 
 " Yes/' said I, — " even dulness or indecency ; and surely 
 you, — &c. &c. Since you have, however, stumbled upon 
 a term derived from home, and household matters, I con- 
 fess I should like to find one that woidd give my book 
 a truly domestic character." — " Make it an indispensable 
 article of furniture, "in every well-regulated establish- 
 ment," I suppose, Eh?" — "Precisely." — "Why, then, 
 
 The ; but I had to stop old Testy's mouth, and 
 
 joke at the same moment." — « Well, well, then, call it Tm: 
 Chiffoniere, — there's a spick and span new furniture 
 one for you ; — it holds a collection of the thoughts of other 
 people ; or The Scrutoire, where one keeps the papers he 
 most values — and no one but himself can read ; or The 
 Oakwood Chest, — but that is taken up by Captain Suth-
 
 SEEKING A NAME. 17 
 
 erland's powerful tale ; or Desk Diversions, for I suppose 
 thev really were so to you ; or The Locked Drawer, 
 which might furnish a key to its own contents ; or, at 
 least, inspire women and servants, if nobody else, with 
 curiosity to open it !" 
 
 ' ; Why not name it The Boudoir, Mr. Yorke," 
 simpered Miss Angelica Evergreen. — " Because there is 
 nothing useless in it," was my polished reply. " Nor 
 elegant either, I presume," retorted the lady. — " It is, 
 then, fitter for A Parlocr Book, perhaps amiably," 
 interposed a sweet little girl ; — " and happy should I feel 
 if such it became." — " Aye, or a servant's hall, or a Post 
 Chaise, or a Steam Boat, or a Circulating Library, 
 or a Book Club one, if you can sell it, I suppose," was 
 shrewdly guessed by my friend — thus testy in more ways 
 than one. 
 
 I no longer, as may be supposed, sought for a name 
 among coteries of advisers, after they had at length declared 
 on looking at my Papers, that they could find no better 
 appellation for them in the winged state they were then 
 to assume, than that which they had in their chrysalis 
 condition, namely, The vulgar one of The Bundle. I 
 might as well have at once adopted the suggestion of a 
 would-be wag, and called them, as they were still without a 
 title, The Plebeian. — But, no, — I had some floating idea 
 of title pages, at once elegant — poetical, aud expressive of 
 their contents — that, till piqued by their merriment, I had 
 hardly ventured to sound in my own ears — they were so 
 silken ! The Echo of my own thoughts and feelings was 
 one, or Shadows another. All very beautiful — thought 
 I — " but meaningless," whispered a something voiced al- 
 most like old Testy himself, even when I whispered of the 
 Iris, or the plain Rainbow. " First Loves — surely that 
 would do — it was so true ! — thev were indeed my first
 
 18 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 loves 1" — "And First Follies too," said the aforesaid 
 troublesome Eidolon. " Well, then, there was The Fugi- 
 tives." — " Turned out to the world by their unnatural 
 father, to seek shelter in a Trunk-maker's warehouse ?" I 
 seemed to hear; " Foundlings?" — " What, to be sent to 
 the Poor's house disowned, even by the maker of 'em ? 
 Rather call them Natural Children at once !" — " De- 
 lightful ! — they were indeed the natural children of my 
 muse!" — "Eh? — Conceived in rapture, and with fire 
 begot," as Savage coolly said of himself? — Made a jade of 
 your muse, did you ? — pretty compliment !" This trouble- 
 some shadow — this ghost of Common Sense, " woidd not 
 away ;" and although the things Avere Pets of their father, 
 I had no right to libel the mother of My First Flock, 
 bastardize The First Family, make the Slips {Lapsus 
 pennae) of my Idlesse and Odd Hours — a source of 
 laughter to the public. — " No fear of that happening, un- 
 less the public confound the distinction between at and 
 with," a monitor again seemed to whisper. 
 
 At this juncture, I happened to meet with one of the most 
 skilful and experienced of the publishers of the Capital of 
 Scotland, then on a visit to its Western Highlands. On 
 him I inflicted a recital of my difficulties. Enchanted with 
 the beautiful scenery of Lochlomond, with enthusiasm 
 exclaimed even the man of calcidations — "Name your 
 book after one of those lovely mansions, pointing to Sir 
 James Colquhoun's and Mr. MacMurrich's ; let the diver- 
 sity of its habitants be assumed to account for the versatility 
 you seem to pride yourself upon, in your volume, made 
 up as it were of the contributions of a summer party 
 there assembled, as in the old story of the Bath-Easton 
 vase, and, by heavens ! your success is sure !" — And 
 so it woidd have been, if one of these paradises had had 
 a name that was not as terrible as the sound of the Bag-
 
 SEEKING A NAME. 19 
 
 pipe. " I could not call my fair child by such an alarm- 
 ing combination of consonants, as every one of these places 
 exhibited ; and the difficulty of pronouncing it would have 
 prevented me from ever experiencing the highest felicitv 
 young authors can know on this side of Elysium — hearing 
 their works quoted by the lips of beauty ! Stockgown, 
 though a heaven upon earth " hath but a rude name ;" and 
 that of its venerable and excellent owner, is still less mu- 
 sical to southern ears. Then, it would take a long intro- 
 ductory chapter to explain the reasons for adopting even 
 so simple a title as A Week in the West ; and, as is 
 evident from this one, I hate long introductions, or else 
 we might find in the Gowans or Heather-Bells, that 
 grow around these spots — names sweeter than they them- 
 selves have ; and, mayhap, more expressive of the wild 
 and unassuming nature of the Weeds, that are gathered 
 together in my volume. Besides, even these sweet 
 sounds would not express the feature you have adverted 
 to — the variety, Sir — the variety ; and of what use then 
 would be these ready written, and, if you would listen, 
 presently to be read, 
 
 PREFATORY REMARKS, 
 
 without which it is quite impossible I can allow my volume 
 to go to press ? — Here they are, Sir." 
 — " The classification of the pieces, or rather the total Avant 
 of it in the following pages, may, perhaps, be objected to by 
 some ; and many may think, that the effect of each depart- 
 ment of their contents is marred by being mingled with the 
 other. The prose runs mad, it will probably be said, in 
 the company of the verse ; and the verse is infected with 
 the unmeasured dulness of its prose neighbours. I have 
 weighed these opinions, and, I think, have found them 
 wanting in force what they may have in gravity. This is 
 the .age of variety, as well as of knowledge ; and limited
 
 20 SEEKING A NAME. 
 
 leisure engenders a craving' for the one, even while con- 
 vinced of the abstract importance of the other. Besides, 
 it will be obvious to every reader of the succeeding sheets, 
 that they are the result of that very circumstance ; and, 
 of course, naturally and insensibly appeal to it. Scrap- 
 books, — Albums, — Cabinets — Melanges of diversified lite- 
 rary matter, are the order of the day, and have frightened 
 away heavier and more systematic volumes from the book- 
 seller's counter to those limbo shelves, where stock, de- 
 nominated ' Dead,' is inhumed. Who now buys a volume 
 of ' Miscellaneous Verses ?' Have not even the writers 
 of established popularity been obliged to pi-efix a Narrative 
 Poem to volumes of exquisite lyrics, that their title-page 
 may end with 
 
 ' and other Poems, by, &c. ;' — 
 
 and did even the first charming verses of Moir, Landon, 
 and Hemans, find a publisher in their collected shape, till 
 a story was written to precede each of their volumes ? 
 Who woidd be mad enough to propose giving one of 
 ' Miscellaneous Pieces, in verse,' by an unknown wri- 
 ter, to any body but a snuff-merchant ? Surely, however, 
 a Scrap-book of unpublished articles, but as diversified in 
 the nature of its contents as the veriest potpourri volume 
 in existence ; — a cabinet of Original specimens, whether of 
 gems or pebbles ; — an Album of pieces which have never 
 before been transcribed, is not altogether so ridiculous a 
 project. But its publication, perchance, aims at different, 
 and, it may be, higher objects, than merely ministering to, 
 or availing itself of, a not illaudable taste for light and 
 varied reading. Would it not be at once curious and 
 desirable to become familiar, by a proper use of the arti- 
 cles constructed there, with the workshop of the mind, in a 
 young and aspiring author; to see tbe tools as they lay 
 about in apparent confusion, and the materials in all the
 
 SEEKING A NAME. 2] 
 
 different stages of manufacture and appropriation ? Here, 
 tbe craftsman engaged in twisting a lock of hair into a 
 bracelet for his mistress ; — there modelling a peaceful, 
 though potent steam apparatus ; — now firing off a squib to 
 try his combustibles, and anon charging- a carronade, or 
 setting off a pilot-balloon to see how the wind sets. In 
 the academies of music and painting, we are told, it is 
 only after attaining a certain degree of knowledge of the 
 art in general, and facility in several of its manual de- 
 partments, that the superiors, judging from the various 
 specimens of the pupil, decide whether he shall afterwards 
 uprightly handle the light bow of the violin — sit down to 
 the strings of its bulkier near name-fellow, or touch the 
 keys of the piano ; whether the artist shall grind his oil- 
 colours, and spread his ca?ivuss to the wind of fame, or 
 keep by chalk and drawing-paper. So may it be w T ith 
 the public, sitting in judgment upon the miscellaneous 
 papers, which afford the best, because most complete por- 
 traiture of the mind, and measure of the capabilities of a 
 young aspirant in authorship ; and upon their decision may 
 depend the direction which what little mental power he pos- 
 sesses may afterwards take, through the innumerable paths 
 of literary occupation or amusement. Besides, may it not 
 be with the man who digs into the mine of his own heart 
 and understanding, as with him who sinks a shaft into the 
 mineral riches of the earth, that he cannot go deeper until 
 the heaps of loose rubbish, accumulated in his progress 
 downwards, are removed ; or cares not to waste more time 
 in prosecuting his labours, until he has ascertained whether 
 the nature of the materials, which form the upper strata, 
 gives decided indications to the experienced in these 
 examinations, of the existence of a vein of ore of some 
 value below?" 
 
 " You see, Sir," I continued to the patient publisher 
 as I do now to the patient public. " these are mere
 
 22 SEEKING A NAME 
 
 Preludes : the whole volume being but The Pre- 
 lude, I trust, to something- " " Better, I hope," 
 
 was his reply. " Then why don't you call it, as you have 
 already hinted, Straws, when you only throw it up to 
 see how the wind blows ; or The Pilot Balloon, may- 
 hap, if The Experiment be too simple a title, and The 
 Trial rather an ominous one ; as is The Touchstone, 
 not exactly what, ten years after, you will wish applied to 
 you? — Essays, after all, since you wish these papers but to 
 be viewed as your gropings about for the path which Nature 
 meant you to follow, would best express their Aims, if men 
 now understood the term in its original sense, and woidd 
 not confuse it with a collection of chill, didactic, college 
 exercises on ' The Nature of Virtue,' ' The Love of Fame,' 
 ' The Use of Ambition,' and other novel subjects. But, 
 indeed, from what I have seen of your pieces, you might 
 give them almost any title, — for every one who reads 
 them will find a descriptive term to suit, according as 
 is his humour, or your success in pleasing him. The 
 volume, in fact, will take its complexion from the mood 
 of the reader, and either — pardon my candour — appear 
 trifling or sprightly, poetical or prosaic, according to the 
 portions of it, and the spirit in which it is read. It seems, 
 in fact, quite Chameleon like, and will be both conscien- 
 tiously praised and blamed, and declared to be either 
 black or blue — although, I trust, not unmercifully beaten or 
 crushed till it be either or both." " My dear Sir, it is done !" 
 I exclaimed ; " you have hit it — The Chameleon is; and 
 shall be the thing ! It is admirable ; and since you have 
 had the good fortune to find a name for the child, you 
 deserve to be its godfather, — and must have the distin- 
 guished honour of publishing my volume, under the new, 
 appropriate, and expressive title of 
 
 'THE CHAMELEON!
 
 THE WHITE ROSE IN MULL. 
 
 A TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY. 
 
 Wilder than fiction's night-mare dreams themselves, 
 
 Are oft the changes memory records 
 
 As Truths— yet Truths that History but tells 
 
 To sneer at ; — since, forsooth, they come not down 
 
 On musty parchment — but.the living tongue ! 
 
 The Tell-Tale. 
 
 It was in a stormy night of September, in the year 1398, 
 that a gillie (or household man-servant) of Donald, — the 
 potent and undisputed Lord of the Isles, as indeed he 
 was virtual monarch of the Western Highlands of 
 Scotland, — sought to steal out unperceived from a rude 
 postern in the wall which surrounded a mass of build- 
 ings, imposing rather from their extent than from any 
 other characteristic, which formed the castle, or habita- 
 tion of the island Chief. It was placed on the north- 
 west coast of Mull, in a situation protected in some degree 
 from the violence of the prevailing winds, by the small 
 island of Ulva, whose shores, though not lofty, formed a 
 sort of breakwater to the inner channel, in which lay at 
 anchor the galleys of Donald, whose warlike strength, as 
 may be supposed from his title, was rather maritime than
 
 24 THE WHITE ROSE IN MULL. 
 
 chivalric. Angus, or Crochcan, as he was called, from the 
 name of his father's farm, was, like many other young men 
 of four and twenty, — over head and ears in love. He, 
 to be sure, did not very well know whether it was with 
 Flora, the fair-haired nurse in the family of Donald's 
 brother, whose residence was a short way from the castle, 
 or with Morag, who presided over the culinary details of 
 the same community. Flora, he allowed, was the comelier 
 of the two, — but, then, Flora was a nurse, and that 
 without the priest's permission; and Morag had saved 
 some certain silver crowns in the course of her longer 
 period of service than Flora. Crochcan was, how- 
 ever, resolved upon seeing one or other of the rival 
 queens of his affection that night, even at the hazard of 
 the high displeasure of Donald himself, who had ordered 
 the warders to take care that no one approached or de- 
 parted from the castle, from dusk till dawn ; such precau- 
 tion being rendered necessary by certain rumours, that 
 Robert the Third, of Scotland, or rather, that his more 
 ambitious brother, Albany, the real governor of the 
 Lowlands, was not altogether satisfied with Donald, for his 
 not resting contented with the sovereignty of the Hebri- 
 dean Archipelago, — but occasionally hinting the propriety 
 of making settlements further inland than he had hitherto 
 attempted. The warder, however, as in duty bound, 
 having drank his master's health in usquebaugh, with the 
 more fervour and frequency that there was some likelihood 
 of danger to it from Lowland cross-bows, — was comfort- 
 ably asleep in his plaid, which, by the way, was all the 
 softer that it was as wet as a Mull mist could make it. 
 We presume the same loyal devotion had made the seamen 
 on board the galleys, if galleys they could be called, — 
 many of them being but coracles of wicker-work, covered 
 externally with raw hides, — be more easily lulled to rest
 
 THE WHITE ROSE IN MULL. 25 
 
 by the wind which, to ears unattuned to the stern elemen- 
 tal music of the Hebrides, woidd have appeared to blow 
 a gale. As it was, not a living thing, save Crochcan and 
 his dog, were astir, — unless, indeed, Morag and Flora 
 coidd be said to be so, who were lying and tossing about 
 their nether limbs, either from anxiety at the delay of 
 Crochcan's visit, curiosity to learn for which of them it 
 was really meant, — or the peculiarly populous condition 
 of the colonies, that in these days were allowed to locate 
 themselves on all woollen coverings, both north and south 
 of the Spey. Crochcan, a little, light, active fellow, 
 was stepping out with a very free and unencumbered 
 gait, — the wind taking considerable and somewhat unjus- 
 tifiable liberties with his kilt, — when, all of a sudden, his 
 dog gave a growL which he knew to be an infallible sign 
 that something either with two legs or four was approach- 
 ing. It was nothing, however, with legs at all, that was 
 nearing them, — although it held those which had these 
 needful aids to locomotion on dry land, we were about to 
 say, till we remembered it was of Mull we were writing. 
 Crochcan, in fact, was as near to the sea as, upon it, a 
 boat was near to the shore, although, in the darkness of 
 the tempest he had not discerned its approach. The 
 growl of his dog, in despite of a " shuist!" or two, was 
 speedily converted into an open bark, which threatened to 
 awake even the warder, as the keel of a vessel of some size, 
 and of a build superior to Hebridean architecture, touched 
 the strand. Before Crochcan had time to wonder who 
 the deuce had come so abruptly to interfere with his visit 
 to Flora and Morag, four stout fellows leaped ashore, and 
 pulled their boat high above the surf that was raging 
 round them. There was now enough of light to show that 
 they were not islesmen, even if the dog's violence had not 
 given good reason to infer that they were strangers. 
 
 c
 
 •26 THE WHITE HOSE IN WILL. 
 
 Crochcan was no coward, — but be was no sea king or 
 yarl either ; — so he thought it best to hold his tongue, 
 though his dog would not. Presently the four seamen lifted 
 out of the stern of the boat a figure, whose helplessness 
 seemed increased by the very quantity of protections wrap- 
 ped about it. Placed perpendicularly, and relieved from a 
 mountain of moist coverings, Crochcan, for the first time, 
 perceived that it was a human being, — but whether male or 
 female he coidd not make out. He now thought it high 
 time, however, to let the party know there was another 
 looker-on besides the dog ; and, accordingly, he advanced 
 and hailed them. The reply of the mariners was in the 
 Erse language, but in a dialect of it Crochcan could not 
 very well comprehend. He knew, however, by its sound, 
 that it was the Irish variety, and gathered enough of its 
 meaning to discover that they asked for food and shelter, 
 till morning would show them where they were, and how 
 to proceed to the residence of Donald, Lord of the Isles. 
 " You shall not need to go far in search of either," said 
 Crochcan, big with the dignity of being the representative 
 of his master, even before ambassadors so wild and weary. 
 " But why does not the lady speak ?" added he, turning 
 to the muffled figure, — whose draperies were certainly 
 somewhat feminine. — " She does not speak our language," 
 said the elder of the four, and apparently the skipper of 
 the barque. Although Crochcan had at first, in the dignity 
 of the moment, announced food, shelter, and even Donald 
 himself, as just at hand, a moment's consideration served 
 to show him the danger of trying to awaken a drunken 
 warder, and a fiery-tempered lord, — or, indeed, any of the 
 inmates of the castle, who were very likely to fell to the 
 ground the first man that roused them, by way of putting 
 their hand in trim for the approach of the enemy. Morag 
 and Flora, he knew, would be awake: and. even at the
 
 THE WHITE ROSE IN MILL. '27 
 
 risk of spoiling a night's courtship, he deemed it better to 
 convey the strangers to the house of the master of these 
 maidens, and also to appeal to their good offices for two- 
 thirds of what he had promised, than run the risk of 
 rousing any inmate of the castle, — and showing how very 
 insignificant a personage he was when within it. A gleam 
 of moonshine, it must be confessed, however, had pre- 
 viously shown to Crochcan's perfect satisfaction, that his 
 attractions had nothing to fear by comparison with the 
 external man of either of the four navigators. He did not 
 know what wheedling tongues Irishmen had for the girls, 
 even in the year 1398 ! To the house of Alister, Donald's 
 younger brother, he accordingly marshalled the party — 
 the muffled figure being almost carried along by their 
 apparent leader. Crochcan was quite right : Flora and 
 Morag were awake, and busy quarrelling with each other* 
 for being instrumental in tempting him out in such a night 
 of wind and wet. His presence, in safety, however, soon 
 put an end to the dispute, and the kind-heartedness of 
 women, which is a species of cosmopolitanism, or a higher 
 order of Freemasonry, that prevails in behalf of the for- 
 lorn stranger in every quarter of the world, was speedily 
 at work to reconcile the rivals to the loss of a night's 
 courtship, and to the labour of kindling a fire and preparing 
 a meal. Before the crackling blaze of the one, and the 
 exhilarating vapours of the other, the party were soon 
 seated ; — the now unmuffled stranger, however, being 
 placed by the seamen quite aloof from themselves and 
 their good-natured guide. With a shrug of needful acqui- 
 escence, the former swallowed the rude, but warming 
 cordial which the skipper, in a tongue unknown to Croch- 
 can, seemed to press upon him — or her. As the fire burned 
 brighter, the person was assisted to disrobe still further, 
 till at length Crochcan became satisfied that it was a man,
 
 28 THE WHITE ROSE IN MUM,. 
 
 in spite of his long garments, — consisting of a tunic and 
 mantle, — that had been passenger in the galley. The 
 feminine aspect of the stranger might have excused a 
 more prolonged hesitation. His hair was of that bright 
 colour which is vulgarly called red, for want of a better 
 name, although nothing can be more unlike the red of 
 any other substance. Brighter and paler than gold — yet 
 not golden, — it was neither yellow nor white, but of a hue 
 produced apparently by the mixture of hairs of both 
 tinges, — in short, such as all the Italian masters have 
 chosen to paint our Saviour with. A brief beard, of the 
 same colour, seemed so fair and soft, that it would hardly 
 of itself have convinced Crochcan of its wearer's masculine 
 character ; and cheeks pale, and eyes blue and sad, completed 
 the portraiture. While Crochcan was engaged in an 
 'examination of features so strange to him, Phaudrig, the 
 younger of the seamen, had contrived, in despite of his 
 Gaelic being different from that of Flora's, to ingratiate 
 himself into her good graces, whilst Terence had made 
 equal progress in those of Morag. So far, indeed, had 
 they proceeded, that they seemed actually deposed to 
 taste whether Mull lips were equal to those of the beauties 
 of the coast of Antrim. Crochcan, however, could not 
 stand this ; but he found the Irishmen, even then, were as 
 ready with buffets as with blarney. A regular battle was 
 about to ensue, in spite of the imploring looks, and soft, 
 but unintelligible language of the stranger. Morag and 
 Flora were in despair — " The lady would hear them, and 
 come down, &c." — And so the lady did. The wife of 
 Alister was from the Low country ; she had, indeed, been 
 educated in England, and was a woman of courtly man- 
 ners, although not above descending to see the occasion 
 of uproar in her kitchen. 
 
 With a stately step she entered the gloomy den, so
 
 THE WHITE ROSE IN MCUtL. 29 
 
 called, which was lightened up at one end hy the blazing 
 of faggots thrown about in the scuffle by the feet of the 
 struggling combatants and peace-makers. The picture was 
 one which would have startled hearts less stout than that 
 of " Maude Scrymgeour, now M' Donald," — six men being 
 at each others' throats, where she had only recently left 
 her two female domestics with her infant, which, in these 
 rude times, invariably shared in the humble accommoda- 
 tions of its nurse. " Flora, Flora, where is the babe ?" — 
 " Morag, what means this, in the name of our Lady !" ex- 
 claimed she, as she ran to the bed side, and ascertained that 
 her child was in safety. At the sound of her voice, even 
 the pugnacious and amorous Phaudrig left off both loving 
 and fighting, and Crochcan was dumb ; but Morag and Flora, 
 each rendered the other unintelligible by the profusion 
 and rapidity of their explanations. The lady, however, at a 
 glance, intuitively comprehended the state of matters, and 
 also the occasion of the quarrel. A single look afterwards 
 was enough to convince her, that one of the party was no 
 common sea-rover ; and without addressing a word of 
 either welcome or reproach to the seamen, she strode up 
 to the again muffled stranger, who, leaning upon the wall of 
 the recess, back to which the flaming embers were restored, 
 wore indeed the air of at once proud but dejected humil- 
 ity and nobleness. " Fair Sir," said she in her own Low- 
 land tongue — " that you are a stranger, I see — that you 
 needed shelter, I can believe — that you found it, I am glad. 
 I pray you, be not disconcerted at this rude brawl between 
 your guides and the clansman of my lord and brother 
 Donald, who has wisely, I see, brought you hither, rather 
 than rouse the inmates of the castle. This is no meet 
 place for you, however. — Morag, lift that branch and show 
 the way to your master's chamber — it will be for him to 
 inquire the title of the noble guest, who is honouring
 
 30 THE WHITE ROSE IN MULL. 
 
 his roof by seeking shelter beneath it." Morag lifted 
 the blazing brand, while the stranger, with an agitated air 
 and trembling hand, sought to draw the edge of his 
 mantle over his brow, as he made an obeisance of knightly 
 grace to the lady. It was too late, however. The light 
 flashed upon a face remarkable at any time — but strikingly 
 so among accessories so rude. " Jesu and our Lady !" 
 exclaimed the mistress of the mansion ; — " do I dream — 
 Richard of Bourdeaux — Richard of England here — 
 Richard the dethroned — the dead ! — My lord, my lord, 
 let me kneel to you as once before I did in York ! — God 
 of heaven can it be so ! — Morag, stay, — till I call your 
 master. My liege, I am lost in wonder — can it possibly 
 be you ?" 
 
 It was indeed Richard the Second of England, escaped 
 from Pontefract Castle, where, it was given out, he starved 
 himself to death, and now a refugee in Mull ! From 
 thence he shortly proceeded to the mainland of Scotland, 
 where, for nineteen years, he was entertained in an honour- 
 able but secret captivity, similar to that afterwards suffered 
 by James I. in England, with this difference, that it was in 
 secret. Before he left the island, he had given Flora her 
 marriage portion — added to Morag's store of crowns, and 
 stood sponsor to Richard, the babe whose slumbers he 
 had in so unlooked for a way disturbed.
 
 THE 110 1' HS. 
 
 31 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 Hours— minutes— moments are the smaller coin 
 That make the sum of even the richest life ; 
 But yet there are no misers of their hoards, 
 Nor usance reckoned in the mart upon them ; 
 Still they are priceless !— 
 
 Nay, Pallet, paint not thus the hours, — 
 
 Young urchins, weaving wreaths of flowers ; 
 
 Hiding in the buds of roses, 
 
 Where the folding pink-leaf closes ; 
 
 Peeping from the sunflower's stem, 
 
 Or a beauty's garment hem ! 
 
 No ! — rather Limner, make them lurk, 
 
 Busy at their blanching work, 
 
 Withering wrinkles in the cheek, — 
 
 Every hour before, more sleek ; — 
 
 In the dimples — 'neath the lid 
 
 Of the eye ; — or show them slid 
 
 Sly among the auburn tresses, 
 
 Like a Falcon bound with jesses ! 
 
 Turning them to silvery grey ; 
 
 Scattering snow tints in their play ! 
 
 Oh ! the hours are crabbed creatures. 
 
 Still at war with beauty's features!
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 FROM 
 
 SCOTTISH HISTORY. 
 
 No. I.
 
 THE CONTRITE ONE. 
 
 " It is Music 
 To hear good deeds." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 High actings sweeten histories of crime, 
 As what are records since the birth of Time, 
 Save tablets where are graved, the worst, most deep, 
 Acts that the good remember but to weep ?" 
 
 The Meditator. 
 
 The page of Greek or Roman story, 
 Believe me, my dear boy, doth not alone. 
 Possess the charms that tie thy young delight 
 So fixedly unto them. 
 
 True, they're writ 
 With matchless grace, and in such noble tongues, 
 That even virtue's self more lovely looks, 
 So clothed, than in its rude and natural beauty, 
 To more than thee. — But there have been such deed* 
 Done, even in this thy mountain birthland, boy, 
 In ages we call rude, (some customs so,) — 
 Tho' honour, generosity and worth 
 Are ever changeless ; live from breast to breast. 
 And clime to clime, allying noble hearts
 
 36 THE CONTRITE ONE. 
 
 Of every land, and every byepast age 
 
 Into one glorious co-brotherhood, — 
 
 As dim not in the lustre they glance back 
 
 Upon the torch of inquiry, whose beams 
 
 The shrivelled Chronicler, lean Antiquary, 
 
 Or accidental wanderer thro' the past, 
 
 Like to myself — may carry to the lines, 
 
 Dusky and dim themselves, where they are writ, 
 
 Tho' placed beside the Sire of History's, 
 
 Or Livy's matchless page. 
 
 Boy, in that Tome, — 
 Tho' worm-eaten, and ungainly in its looks, — 
 There's writ in language which thou canst not yet 
 Relish, as I do, no more than thy tongue 
 Can smack delight at the old wine I drink, 
 The tale which, if thou'lt listen, I shall tell, 
 Now that thou'rt seated at thy grandsire's side. 
 'Twill shew thee, boy, that virtue's still the same, — 
 Collected in its rays to more intenseness, 
 In the clear focus of the public weal, — 
 As 'tis in the recesses of the heart, 
 Where it but waits for touch to call it forth. — 
 Remember this when scorners seek to shake 
 Thy faith, in honour, which they cannot feel ; 
 And speak of man's soul as a something base, 
 Such in itself — but by collision made, 
 In the close compact of collective thought, 
 To breed a moral pestilence — an air 
 Where the pure flame of virtue cannot live. 
 
 My story's this : 
 
 Mogaldus (such the name tradition gives, 
 
 Tbat loves the sounds which fill its gaping mouth,)
 
 THE CONTRITE OXF.. 37 
 
 Mogaldus was a king in Scotland, while 
 Twas yet a land, its hills and storms kept hid 
 From other states ; but had good laws, and those 
 Who fashioned and administered them. 
 At least it had the barriers tyrants ne'er 
 O'erleap tho' often at the bound — the sense 
 Of general wrong, which, when intolerable, 
 Works by wild stormings, or resistance calm, 
 Its remedy. 
 
 He, by his lusts and crimes, 
 Wrought up this fever to that height — and 'fell, 
 Prostrate before the whirlwind he had raised : 
 But while the blast pass'd o'er him, as he lay, 
 He gathered strength, — he thought — to stand again 
 Erect and proud, undreading its return. 
 
 The first bold breath of plaint had been a breeze 
 Healthful, to clear the stagnant air ; the next 
 Was a sirocco, withering what it crossed. 
 He died — as hundreds he had made to die — 
 He, traitor to the million — they, to one ; — 
 And the spent storm left scatheless all around 
 The monarch tree. 
 
 Cornarus was his son ; 
 Eldest, and fittest, by his riper years, 
 To be, than offspring of a later union, 
 Crowned and care-worn, — ensceptered and enslaved. 
 He had not conned with care the lessons which, 
 Writ in his father's blood, — experience showed 
 Upon her storied leaf; but still his faults — 
 Crimes they had been in those who better knew, — 
 Were rather those of thoughtlessness than guilt ;
 
 38 THE CONTRITE ONE. 
 
 'Twas plain he had been all too soon transplanted 
 From boyhood's soil, where leaves alone are looked for 
 To stronger earth, where fruit, or sweet or hitter. 
 Comes forth, and hath its harvest. 
 
 He was ta'en 
 From off the throne on which he reeling sat, 
 And placed securely on a height less towering, 
 Where, 'twixt the ground and seat, his boyish limbs 
 Could measure distance, keeping hold on both. 
 
 To top the dangerous pinnacle of power 
 One then was sought for by the people, who 
 By talents and by virtues in him married, 
 Shoidd be the likeliest to give brood of deeds, 
 Each one a benefit, and all combining 
 Their family likenesses of feature, in 
 One whole of conduct, symmetry itself, 
 And separate beauty. 
 
 Such Argadus was, 
 Argyll's high thane, — (name oft in after times 
 A pledge for nobleness and patriot worth !) — 
 But power is poisonous. The soul that sleeps 
 Beneath its shade, and eats its glittering fruit, 
 Like the poor dreamer in the golden groves 
 Of Manchineel, grows feeble — then corrupts. 
 His port had been unbending when the storm 
 Pestilent — but raging, of corruption blew : 
 But when its odours floated round his head, 
 And played beneath his feet — he bent, and bowed. — 
 Prostrate he did not fall, — uprooted : No ! 
 
 And, — it was beautiful ! — 
 The very men whose virtue had up-grown
 
 THE CONTRITE ONE. 39 
 
 
 Beneath the shadow of his power, and snnn'd 
 
 By his example ; — and the youths in whom 
 
 He sowed the seed and watched the rising germs. 
 
 These — these were they who then gave noblest proof 
 
 In the unseating him, that he, tho' now 
 
 Abased, was unforgotten, nor had lived 
 
 In vain unto his country. 
 
 Yet ere they 
 Regretful — not reluctant — sent away 
 The man they loved — the rider they disliked, 
 Another Argyll in the Argyll's place, — 
 Their leader — weeping ! (there be tears, my boy, 
 Fitting the cheek of man, as deeds his arm — 
 Or woman's softer drops their fairer channel.) 
 Argadus could remind of what he'd been, 
 Had been ! not in the power conferred, now pass'd 
 But in himself. — The spell of pride was broke, 
 The wand of power had conjured up ; nor came 
 It back when that again unstained returned 
 Unto the hand, now better taught to wield it. 
 
 Thou weepest too, my boy : — I'm glad of it ! 
 Thy earliest tears were infant's ; — these are men's, — 
 Tbe first and proud ones — mind thou then their cause !
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 T)
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 
 " I had rather speak five words with ray understanding, than ten thousand 
 in an unknown tongue." 
 
 St. Paul. 
 
 : As 'tis a greater mystery in the art 
 Of painting to foreshorten any part 
 Than draw it out, so 'tis in writing chief 
 Of all perfections to be plain and brief." 
 
 Butler's Miscellaneous Thoughts. 
 
 It often happens to a meditative mind that thoughts, ut- 
 terly unconnected with the intended subjects of its musings, 
 present themselves by stealth, and " come like shadows — 
 so depart." They are as evanescent as they may occa- 
 sionally be original; and, from the want of a suitable 
 depositary, fail in acquiring " a local habitation and a 
 name." If written down, however, they might become 
 the foundation of much interesting discussion, and, by the 
 power of association, be even instrumental in recalling or 
 exciting lost or original conceptions in the minds of others. 
 They, in some degree, resemble the flickering and un- 
 settled flame of a crackling fire ; and, by the way, it is 
 most generally " beside the ingle, bleezing kindly," that 
 they present themselves. We have all, I douht not, in
 
 I ( I UK LIMITS OF POETICAL EXPRESSION. 
 
 perusing any work, whether important or trivial, found 
 unpremeditated ideas presenting themselves in rapid sue- 
 cession. Thought reproduces thought, in an almost end- 
 less series ; and opinions are formed and conceptions gene- 
 rated, while the chin rests securely in the palm of the 
 hand, and our untrimmed taper burns neglectedly, which 
 we may in vain endeavour to recall when wanted — and 
 that, if taken singly, might appear but of small importance ; 
 yet which woidd acquire an impressive power from their 
 concentration. Like widely refracted sunbeams, when 
 detached, they fall comparatively powerless, and are lost 
 in the shadows of forgetfulness ; but, collected into a focus, 
 they may prove the means of kindling up dormant ener- 
 gies, or lighting the latent flame of observation and emu- 
 lation in many a mind. — At all events the experiment is 
 worth making. 
 
 In the following series it is attempted. 
 
 I. THE LIMITS OF POETICAL EXPRESSION. 
 
 Genuine poetry being but the harmonious expression of 
 intense and highly wrought feeling, it follows that its lan- 
 guage will be used indiscriminately as a vehicle for simply 
 giving vent in ourselves, as well as for conveying to others, 
 a perception of the joys and sorrows, the pleasures and the 
 pains of those gifted with a poetical temperament. Ac- 
 cordingly, we find that persons of that description have 
 often identified themselves with their written works, and 
 moulded their fictitious incidents and personages in such 
 a way, as to afford them opportunities for imparting a 
 philosophical, or, I should rather say, a psychological and 
 biographical, as Avell as abstractly, literary interest to their 
 works. It may be well, at this point, to explain the 
 import of the term, psychology, introduced into the nom- 
 enclature of metaphysics, by the illustrious brothers,
 
 THE NOVELISTS OF THE 18TH CENTURY. 45 
 
 Schlegel, and some less eminent disciples of the Kantean 
 school. It is derived from the Greek word Psyche, — a 
 term for the soul, or purely mental essence, which wo 
 believe to animate and give intelligence to the physical 
 organization of man. Its meaning, then, may be briefly 
 expressed, as being the knowledge of the soul. In which 
 case it is the most sublime of all human studies — the 
 noblest of mundane pursuits. But to return: — The writ- 
 ings of many of our greatest poets, deceased and living, 
 are psychological studies of almost inestimable worth, if 
 they can be depended upon for as much of the accuracy 
 of detail supposed to characterise prose, as they excel that 
 in vividness and effect. But powerful as is this species 
 of poetical anatomy and delineation, as an instrument of 
 conveying to others an adequate perception of all the 
 feelings and emotions which in turn possess the breast of 
 him who seeks to lay it open to public gaze, I hold it to 
 be inadequately so, inasmuch as I also believe that the 
 most highly wrought expressions of written language arc 
 incapable of conveying a clear or complete idea of the 
 intensity or power of the more elevated class of mental 
 excitements ;— of the most transient, but exquisite happi- 
 ness, or of the deepest and most thrilling agony. The 
 miseries of the sons of Phcebus have often been adequately 
 sung by the dying swans of Pindus ; but the horrors of 
 their sorrows, and the beatific exhilarations of their rap- 
 tures, are alike beyond the power of the language their 
 emotions must stoop to clothe themselves in, and even the 
 grasp of that thought their imaginations so much transcend. 
 
 II. THE NOVELISTS OF THE 18TH CENTURY. 
 
 Richardson's portraits are fancy pieces : Fielding's are 
 real likenesses. Richardson, like the Greek sculptor who 
 selected every perfection from the beauties of Attica, to
 
 46 PHILOSOPHY OF CHEERS. 
 
 form a goddess, unites qualities, in themselves beautiful, 
 but in their combination inharmonious. Fielding's models 
 are faithfully imitated, and his copies have all the fresh- 
 ness, and vigoiu-, and gusto of life and reality. In them, 
 " nothing is extenuated, nor aught set down in malice." 
 Sinollet, coarse as his pictures are, deserves similar praise. 
 Tom Jones and Roderick Random are not gratuitously 
 wicked. Their occasional aberrations arise out of the 
 warmth of their dispositions, and not from the inherent 
 want of virtue or principle in their bosoms ; as it is that 
 soil that produces the richest crop to the husbandman, 
 which, from its peculiar power, if neglected, also produces 
 the rankest harvest of weeds. Their faults spring from the 
 same source, from which, at an after period, their virtues 
 would have arisen. In short, Richardson's fictions are 
 the views of the interior of a cottage fitted up in the style 
 of a drawing-room ; Fielding's and Smollet's an actual 
 delineation of a labourer's homely dwelling. 
 
 III. PHILOSOPHY OF CHEERS. 
 
 Among all the various methods of expressing satisfac- 
 tion and enthusiasm, there is none more universally resorted 
 to in Great Britain, by at least one half (the male one) 
 of the inhabitants, than cheers by lots of three, and its 
 squares and cubes. Is a speech made, or a health drunk 
 at a dinner, " three times three," or " nine times nine," 
 demonstrates the " magic of the name," or the power of 
 the oration ? Cheering is the thermometer of British 
 feeling. It never is heard but when the " mercury is up." 
 Have news of a victory arrived, cheers herald the pro- 
 gress of the Mail — three cheers welcome its arrival, and 
 rounds of cheers echo the triumphant conclusion of every 
 sentence of the "cheering" details. Critics, citizens, and 
 wen Dandies and the gods, cheer when the king visits
 
 NATIONAL ENTERPRISE. 47 
 
 the playhouse ; of cheers soldiers give three, the mystical 
 number, when they are led to battle ; and sailors, — 
 why sailors cheer at every thing! They have no other 
 possible method of demonstrating their joy, whencever its 
 cause, and whatever its complexion. Joy and gladness 
 are said to have a section of looks and language peculiar 
 to themselves, and which can express no other emotion. 
 With Sailors, three cheers supply the place of these on 
 every emergency. Dancing is the action of exuberant 
 animal spirits, — Singing is their melody ; but cheering is 
 with us, their unmodulated, but more vivid indication ; — 
 unsophisticated and thrilling, natural and unaffected. It 
 generally comes from the heart's core, and that core 
 I deem honest in its deepest recesses, which most warmly 
 prompts, and most feelingly echoes them. Yet, there are 
 even exceptions to this. I remember at a public dinner 
 given to some Statesman or other, of a man proverbially 
 a rapscallion, who was so exuberant in his cheers, that 
 he amazed even a company of four hundred half-drunk 
 political partisans ! 
 
 IV. NATIONAL ENTERPRISE. 
 
 Enterprise frecpiently leads to more splendid achieve- 
 ments, than either learning or genius. United with indus- 
 try, it is impossible to set limits to its power. It is often 
 remarked, that the Scotch, as a people, are remarkable for 
 a spirit of enterprise ; and the fact of individuals of that 
 nation being to be found in every country on the face of 
 the globe, is brought forward as a proof of the accuracy 
 of the statement. I am not inclined to accede to the 
 inference drawn from this circumstance ; in fact, I believe 
 Scotsmen to be rather remarkable, speaking of them in 
 regard to their natural dispositions, as being in general dis- 
 tinguished by nearly a total want of enterprise, and the
 
 48 GENIUS, INGENUITY, AND INDUSTRY. 
 
 possession of an extreme spirit of caution — if the word spirit 
 is not misapplied in speaking of that negative quality. 
 " Thousands of Scotsmen have made fortunes by Com- 
 merce," — true — and so have millions of Englismen. But 
 Scotsmen have kept theirs — Englishmen have never been 
 remarkable for their merely saving propensities. An Eng- 
 lishman makes or loses a fortune by fearless and often noble 
 daring. What is won by the exercise of any merely men- 
 tal power, is less prized because not so laboriously obtained, 
 as that which is gained by corporeal exertion — earned by 
 the "sweat of the brow." Enterprise has more of the former 
 than of the latter in its nature. What is accumulated 
 through its agency appears of less value, and, consequently, 
 is more readily dissipated, than what is heaped up by indus- 
 try, preserved by caution, or hoarded by avarice. English- 
 men and Irishmen may have won more money in foreign 
 climes than Scotsmen ; but they have not so well pre- 
 served it. 
 
 V. GENIUS, INGENUITY, AND INDUSTRY. 
 
 Genius, in its developement and exercise, often excites 
 less wonder than learning and industry, or that bastard 
 slip of itself — ingenuity. Its province is to delight and 
 to instruct ; to please rather than astonish. Admiration 
 is the motion it excites ; pure lofty — admiration. The 
 achievements of men famous for prodigious industry and 
 research, do not so frequently excite that feeling. One 
 judges of the fatigue which must have been experienced 
 in prosecuting their labours ; and few are anxious to win 
 that which only a world of toil can obtain. We seldom 
 wish to be called patient, industrious, &c, when, at the 
 same time, an implied opinion that Ave are only so, and 
 destitute of the higher qualities of genius and originality, 
 is conveyed in the " faint praise" of the concession. Who
 
 REASON AND INSTINCT. 49 
 
 would not rather be called clever than laborious ? Who 
 would not rather possess genius, however coupled with 
 idle and erratic habits, than be a " clodhopper," a common- 
 place man of mere industry ? It were well in this, as in 
 many other cases, if the two qualities could be united ; if 
 the extremes could be brought to meet and enclose within 
 their circle the perfection of mind, and the triumph of 
 physical application. But this has seldom been done. 
 Examples of the union, however, are not altogether want- 
 ing, although they have been of rare occurrence. Erasmus 
 was, as Brougham is, a giant in both respects. We admire 
 original speculations and ingenious arguments ; but we ivon- 
 der at amazing learning, erudition, and industry, as in the 
 case of the two Scaligers. This feeling is universal, and 
 holds good in all cases : we wonder at the shapeless monu- 
 ments of misplaced industry, called Pyramids ; but we 
 admire the delicate sculptures and paintings, which have 
 been found entombed within some of these piles. Poole's 
 Synopsis Criticorum is an amazing monument of human 
 industry, yet who talks of it with admiration, or mentions 
 it with pleasure? 
 
 VI. REASON AND INSTINCT. 
 
 In reading such works as Huber on Ants, Huish on 
 Bees, &c. an uncomfortable feeling of wonder often pos- 
 sesses the mind ; uncomfortable, because difficult to be 
 rationally, or, at least, very satisfactorily explained. To 
 think of armies of insects, hardly perceptible to the eye, 
 making regular campaigns, and besieging each others' 
 strong holds ; headed by leaders, and in a state of dis- 
 ciplined regularity, amazes and staggers. We ask our- 
 selves, whence this order and arrangement. Can such 
 effects be produced without mental guidance ? Is not the 
 possession of soul, or that unknown and impalpable, spirf
 
 50 REASON AND INSTINCT. 
 
 tual essence which we believe lives in, but dies not with 
 us, as visibly indicated in the daily habits of life in these tiny 
 tribes as in those of man, confessedly an animal, but of " a 
 larger growth?" It is painful and humiliating to say 
 aye, to that question ; but yet it must be, if we but look 
 superficially through it, he too often the answer. 
 
 Instinct is their guide, but instinct cannot vary. True ; 
 but it can preserve its nature, while it moulds itself to 
 circumstance. Reason is eccentric instinct ; by which I 
 mean, it is wider in its range, and not subjected to such 
 invariable laws. But will reason impel us to the achieve- 
 ment of any thing positively opposed to the physical and 
 established laws of Nature ? Can we argue ourselves 
 into a flight to the moon ? Instinct is but the display 
 of nature's workings. Reason becomes aprinnim mobile 
 to these, but cannot overstep them. Instinct keeps in the 
 same path, but not in the same routine. Reason, then, is 
 chiefly distinguished from it by constantly impelling na- 
 ture, or the will, to the discovery of what is new, and the 
 attainment of what was before unknown.
 
 FIVE SONGS.
 
 " Such is saide to be the powerrc of sweette music, that even the rude 
 stones and silente shrubbes doe trye to take up its notes, and ringe them 
 o'er agenne." 
 
 Discourse— "Tradition teacheth TRirrnE."
 
 O CAULD TO ME. 
 
 cauld to me, — cauld to me, 
 Is now that heart o' thine, Mary ! 
 
 Gin it had e'er heen tauld to me 
 
 That thou wad'st ne'er he mine, Mary, 
 
 Tho' prophet tongues, wi' angel's truth, 
 The hitter words had spoken, 
 
 1 hadna then believed them sooth, — 
 But now I've mony a token ! 
 
 O cauld to me, — O cauld to me, 
 
 That ee's now haughtv glanein', 
 As if my arms ne'er faulded thee 
 
 In love's ain hour entrancin', 
 Close to this honest bosom's core, 
 
 Where thou wert mistress only : 
 Shall they encircle thee no more ? 
 
 " No more," cries echo, lonely ' 
 
 O cauld to me, — O caidd to me, 
 
 The mournfu' breezes sweep, Mary ! 
 
 Frae aff the shore, now wall'd to me 
 By ocean braid and deep, Mary !
 
 54 FOR ONE FOND HOUR WITHTHEE. 
 
 Its waves and winds they waft me far 
 O'er leagues o' stranger sea, Mary : 
 
 Tho' saut and dark its waters are, 
 There's bitterer i' my ee, Mary ! 
 
 FOR ONE FOND HOUR WITH THEE! 
 
 I'm here, my love, tho' late the hour, 
 
 Tho' weary, long the way ; 
 I'm at the window of thy bower, 
 
 Come down — 'tis almost day ! 
 I've crossed the moor, I've swam the ford, 
 
 Tho' raging like the sea, 
 And all to meet with thee, adored, — 
 
 For one fond hour with thee ! 
 For one fond hour with thee, adored, 
 
 For one fond horn - with thee ! 
 
 Oh ! fleetly sped my gallant grey, 
 
 Like wild bird o'er the hill ; — 
 Full well it knew the love-ward way, 
 
 And guessed its master's will ! 
 With swifter pace my wishings flew, 
 
 My heart leaped yet more free ; — 
 It well the priceless value knew 
 
 Of one fond hour with thee ! 
 Of one fond hour with thee, my love, 
 
 Of one fond hour with thee ! 
 
 I know that wakeful eyes will mark 
 The time that I return,
 
 THE MINSTREL'S ROUNDELAY. 55 
 
 With loveless looks and welcome dark, 
 
 As lights that weary burn ; 
 But let them, sweet — since now thou'rt here, 
 
 And morn yet far may be, — 
 Altho' a night — a month — a year, 
 
 Seems but an hour with thee ! 
 Seems but an hour with thee, my sweet, 
 
 Seems but an hour with thee ! 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S ROUNDELAY. 
 
 You bid me sing ! — the notes are rude, 
 
 That I could e'er attune ; 
 Yet ruder far were sure the mood 
 
 That could refuse such boon ! 
 Then let me touch again the string, 
 
 Neglected many a day ; 
 — "Tis beauty teaches men to sing 
 
 The Minstrel's Roundelay ! 
 
 If e'er it turns to other themes, 
 
 Fame, glory — war or wine, 
 'Tis but by fits it thrills, and seems, 
 
 Then only half divine : 
 Of love and beauty when it speaks 
 
 We own like theirs its sway ; — 
 Their smiles alone for guerdon seeks, 
 
 The Minstrel's Roundelay ! 
 
 — But, ah ! the meed I once could woo, 
 With all a lover's fire,
 
 56 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 No more my heart — my hopes pursue, 
 Since grief unstrung my lyre ! 
 
 — Yet still some notes, like echos lone, 
 At times will o'er it stray ; 
 
 Tlien's heard, at Friendship's call alone, 
 The Wanderer's Roundelay 
 
 ■t 
 
 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Placed round the howl — Joy on the wing, 
 
 And soaring round our hall of pleasure ; 
 Care, steeped in wine, hath lost its sting, 
 
 Then, who the speed of time woidd measure ? 
 Thro' day's dull hours he creeps 'tis time, 
 
 But mends his speed in scenes like this : 
 Drench, then, his wing with purple dew — 
 
 That only stays his flight o'er hliss ! 
 
 Joy of the past ! — ours you have been, 
 
 The future's hid, hut what care Ave ; — 
 We have not time to lift its screen, 
 
 'Rapt in the ecstatic hours that he ! 
 Fill, fill the howl — pledge we, each man, 
 
 Those we have loved : was that a tear ? 
 Well, well, its pearl, like Egypt's one, 
 
 Makes even this goblet's lip more dear !
 
 IN TEAKS MV LOVE. 57 
 
 IN TEARS MY LOVE. 
 
 " As I have heard, there is a hot red wine, 
 In which if you but drop, before you quaff, 
 One crystal tear— 'tis mellowed into sweetness, 
 And hath a passing healthfulness within it." 
 
 The Chaste ner. 
 
 In tears, my love — in tears, my love, 
 With many bitter tears we parted ; 
 
 Shall we e'er meet in joy, my love, 
 
 When both — aye both, are broken-hearted ? 
 
 All ! no — our love was nursed in woe, 
 Joy's gaudy sunshine never cheered it ; 
 
 Yet every pang, yet every throe 
 
 Hath but the more to us endeared it ! 
 
 A Summer, love, there is, whose glow 
 
 But warms the breast in hours of gladness ; 
 
 Our thrilling love, my girl, you know, 
 
 Would pine in aught but such sweet sadness ! 
 
 The dews of heaven refresh the flower, 
 Not when the solar rays are beaming ; 
 
 They gently fall at twilight hour, 
 
 Or when the orb of night is gleaming. 
 
 The blaze of day may warm and cheer, 
 But night falls soft as mother's kisses ; 
 
 The joys of love may smile a year, 
 Its tranquil chastening ever blesses !
 
 58 THE LAUGHYNGE MADRYGALLE. 
 
 THE LAUGHYNGE MADRYGALLE. 
 
 STANZAS FOUND WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF L0VE- 
 GAUD'S PLAY, " THE MAIDE WHO NEVER MADE A VOWE." 
 
 "If laughing be, as sure it is, no crime, 
 Pray, why have Poets never laughed in rhyme ?" 
 
 The Lilter. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! a looke, a looke of scorne, 
 
 A loftye miene to me, 
 Upone the face wheare smyles were worne, 
 
 That I theire grace mighte see ! — 
 An eye — an eye that kindled once 
 
 With passioune to mye looke, 
 But yielde one dul and hawghtye glance, 
 
 And this for mee to brooke ! 
 
 Another time that gaze ! — but pshawe ! — 
 Its ansuere bee one lowde Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! lowde, lowde, but deepe-toned, laughes 
 
 The voyce of kindlede ire ; 
 The gurgle of the soide that quaffes 
 
 A draughte of vengeaunce dire ! 
 Fill up ! fill up ! — 'tis att youre wil — 
 
 The cup of sterne resolve : 
 Looke — and one drop I will not spil, 
 
 But pitye's pearle dissolve, 
 
 And draine the dregges — to hate ! — hurrah ! 
 To hate in hearte's blood dyede — Ha 1 ha !
 
 THE LAUGHYNGE MADJRYGALJLE. 59 
 
 Ha ! ha ! — 'tis deepe — 'tis deepe that hate 
 
 Whiche conies to fill the space 
 Where Love kepte once his palmey state, 
 
 If Friendship seekes noe place ! — 
 One pang — one pang mye lonely hearte 
 
 Endured, — when came, to fill 
 The bleedynge gap, and soothe the smarte, 
 
 Esteerne, wyth sobered Wil. 
 
 Prowde one ! — these from my breaste I drawe, 
 And thus throwe off! — Ha ! ha ! — Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! — thy looke — thy looke of pryde, 
 
 Thy everye smile of love — 
 Thy arte, that coulde these showe or hyde, 
 
 Shall — by yond heavenes above ! — 
 Shall live — shall live in burnynge wordes. 
 
 Ranke thou hast boughte ; but fame — 
 The fame that passiouned verse affordes — 
 
 I'll give thy worshypped name ; 
 
 Iff but agayn the looke I sawe 
 
 Shoulde rowse mee to Hate's lowde Ha ! ha !
 
 GO THE MOTHER o BR THE CRADLE 
 
 THE MOTHER AT THE CRADLE OF HER 
 ONLY CHILD. 
 
 " Blessed child, 
 
 Altho' thou can'st not speak, yet dost thou cry 
 
 Unto thy mother." 
 
 Hymen's Triumph, by Daniel. 
 
 The clammy damps of withering pain 
 Are on thy pallid brow, my child; 
 
 Dimly thy once bright eyeballs strain 
 On vacancy, with glancings wild. 
 
 Thy temples throb, — thy bosom heaves ; 
 
 Thy wan, wan cheek, with hectic flush'd, 
 More thus than in its paleness grieves ; 
 
 And oil ! thy murmuring joy is hush'd ! 
 
 Hush'd, too, thy healthful cry, which, clear 
 And shrill, thy wants and wishes told; 
 
 Which ask'd thy mother's care, when near, 
 (Thy right,) in accents brave and bold! 
 
 Thine, my proud boy, was not the plaint 
 Of sickly tempered pining, — No ! 
 
 The look was such as limners paint 
 Young heroes with — as princes show. 
 
 But now ! — upon thine eyelid sits 
 
 Dull languor, throned in leaden gloom; 
 
 The gems beneath beam but by fits, 
 Like meteors o'er some desert tomb.
 
 OF HER ONLY CHILD. 61 
 
 Shrunk now thy firm and ruddy arm. 
 
 And palsied all its playful waves ; 
 Thy balmy breath is dank and warm 
 
 As stagnant airs o'er yew-hid graves ! 
 
 Yet there's a beauty in thy form, 
 
 Disease hath touched but to improve ; 
 
 As gleams of sunshine in a storm 
 
 Make bright some spots with partial love ! 
 
 The lacing veins, heaven's own deep blue, 
 That up thy temples wind, and round 
 
 Thy little breast twine, in their hue 
 Leave all of earthly mould behind ; 
 
 Thine eye, when calmly upward cast, 
 
 In the brief intervals of pain, 
 Beams brightly sad, like joys long past, 
 
 Thro' memory's haze seen once again 
 
 Thus oft decay will doubting pause, 
 Ere it o'erwhelm what 'neath it pines ; 
 
 Smile on the wreck — itself its cause, 
 As sunlight upon frostwork shines 
 
 All I have lov'd, ere from me torn, 
 
 More lovely grew, as if to steep 
 Regret in bitterer dregs ! — I've worn 
 
 Loves in my heart but just to weep 
 
 For their uprooting, ere they bloomed ; 
 
 And here my last hope fades away : 
 Sunshine may be with him entombed, 
 
 For, to the hopeless, what is day ?
 
 ()2 the clansmen's cheer. 
 
 How beautiful lie grows ! — But, oh ! 
 
 Such fatal charms no pleasure bring ; 
 The heavy eye — the breathing slow 
 
 Were better — for I saw their sting ! 
 
 — But this is impious ! — it may be 
 
 Heaven thus renews the source of life ; 
 
 That lambent smile which now I see, 
 Be symbol of a vanquished strife ! 
 
 Oh ! Thou who gavest me my boy ! 
 
 Grant this lone prayer : — May he live, 
 Till, with a mother's silent joy, 
 
 / teach his lips my thanks to give ! * 
 
 THE CLANSMEN'S CHEER. 
 
 " Last of a line — thy clansmen wait to bid their chief 
 
 farewell : 
 " Thy steed is saddled at the gate — 'tis time your looks 
 
 would tell, 
 " To give a mother back one kiss, for thousands she hath 
 
 given : 
 " Go, then, my boy, thou wilt return — if not, we'll meet 
 
 in heaven !" 
 
 * If the allusions in the foregoing piece should appear too elaborate 
 to be natural, the writer has only to assure the reader that they are 
 literally copied from the expressions of a fond mother, as overheard 
 by him : they may, however, have lost much of their natural simpli- 
 city in being woven into connexion and verse.
 
 THE CLANSMEN'S CHEER. 63 
 
 The mother spake no more ; the boy dried fast the 
 
 starting tear 
 As lie heard his clansmen of the hill give forth their 
 
 parting cheer. 
 
 The stripling sped to other lands to seek a field of 
 
 fame ; 
 The laurel round his bonnet twined wkh the symbol* of 
 
 his name. 
 He won it, where the loftier plumes of many lowly 
 
 vailed ; 
 He wore it too, where even the star of fortune's favourites 
 
 paled : 
 And when the onset's stormy clang gave forth its music 
 
 dear, 
 The boldest notes the foeman heard were still his 
 
 clansmen's cheer ! 
 
 A hundred fields he victor fought, where frontward scars 
 he won, 
 
 And with them too a knightly crest : — but never on her 
 son 
 
 The mother gazed again ! — he fell as warriors should 
 fall, 
 
 Where his arm was one that saved the land ; his breast 
 its bulwark wall ! 
 And the voice of triumph came more sweet to even his 
 
 closing ear, 
 That, mingling with its lofty notes, he heard his clans- 
 men's cheer ! 
 
 * Branches of trees — leathers of wild-fowl, or sprigs of heather, 
 formed the distiuctive badges of the Scottish clans.
 
 SKETCHES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 THE ANSWER OF UMFRAVILLE. 
 
 " In the midst of this scene of national humiliation, one Scottish baron stood for- 
 ward, and behaved worthy of his country. The Earl of Angus, Gilbert de Umfra- 
 ville, who commanded the important strengths of Dundee and Forfar, declared, that 
 as he had received these, not from England, but from the Estates of Scotland, he 
 would not surrender them to Edward." 
 
 Txtler's Scotland, VoL I. p. 85. 
 
 Sir knight ! — be this the sole reply 
 
 Ye bear your master back ; 
 And speed ye — lest my answer fly 
 
 Before you on your track ! 
 I know not here even England's king 
 
 And Aquitaine's high lord ; 
 Nor scarce as knight, whoe'er may bring 
 
 From him such haughty word. 
 Tell — thus says Gilbert Umfraville : 
 He serves no single master's will ! 
 
 No ! — from the noble of the land 
 
 Of royal line and blood ; 
 From knights that wear no maiden brand,— 
 
 The sacred and the good ;
 
 THE ANSWER OF UMFRAVILLE. 65 
 
 Where Scotland's high estates were all 
 
 Ranged round its empty throne, 
 Within the ahbey's holy wall 
 
 This charge was made my own ; 
 And while one blood-drop's left to spill, 
 It passeth not from Umfraville ! 
 
 What boots it that the mitred pair,* 
 
 With Comyn have forgot, 
 And Stewart, — tho' I heard them swear ! 
 
 The name and faith of Scot ; 
 MacDuff and Buchan, did they live, 
 
 Would spurn the recreant four, 
 As must the Prince to whom they give 
 
 Their trusting country o'er. — 
 One nook shall hold for Scotland still, 
 Beneath the shield of Umfraville ! 
 
 Go — till my trust be rendered back 
 
 To them that trust who gave ; 
 At least I shall not live to lack 
 
 Room for a freeman's grave ! 
 My merry men of Angus here 
 
 Will hold themselves Scot free, 
 Till Edward bring us Southern cheer 
 
 As far as guid Dundee ! — 
 Now haste, Sir Knight, put yon broad hill 
 'Twixt you and Gilbert Umfraville ! 
 
 * The Bishops of St. Andrew and Glasgow.
 
 THE SORROWS OF SLEEPINESS. 
 
 A TROSAIC EPIGRAM. 
 
 I do not deny, my dearest Jane," said the blooming, 
 sentimental, and, in spite of herself, buxom Eliza, " that 
 I seem to enjoy all I could wish — money — society, and if 
 I can believe those wicked creatures, the men — some 
 beauty, and more than three devoted lovers. Yet — I take 
 high heaven to witness — (Eliza's half-stifled sobs were 
 here audible) — I am supremely miserable !" " And 
 wherefore so, my Eliza ?" responded Jane. — " Oh ! my 
 dear girl," replied Eliza, " I am such a horrid creature — 
 have such a milk-maid constitution, from the father's side 
 of our family, that I sleep soundly every night, do what 
 I will ! It is this unfortunate circumstance which pre- 
 vents my obtaining tbat elegant languidity, that inex- 
 pressibly interesting absence of red in one's cheek, — that 
 heroine-like complexion, upon which I doat to distraction. 
 I am as healthy as if I had no feeling ! I read the most 
 delightful novels ; and, though my mind is occupied with 
 the distresses of the hero or heroine, I sleep as soundly, 
 — (can you believe it ?) — as if I did not at all sympathize
 
 THE SORROWS OF SLEEPINESS. 67 
 
 with either ! Nay, I even fell asleep last night at twelve 
 o'clock, though I had only two volumes remaining, out of 
 the eleven, to peruse of Clara St. Clair's ' Woes of the 
 Soul, or the Sorrows of Satisfaction.' So inveterate is 
 my propensity, that when Henry laughed, and behaved 
 so cruelly to me the other day, though I wept sincerely 
 about it, yet that very crying set me asleep like a child ; 
 and then my Aunt, who knows my infirmity, rallied me 
 so upon it !" " I did not think she would have done a 
 thing so cruel," observed Jane. " It was cruel, indeed," 
 replied Eliza ; " but she tells me a hundred times, that 
 though I try as much as I please, I shall never resemble 
 any of my favourite heroines, so long as I have good 
 health — an appetite for food — ruddy cheeks, and sound 
 sleep. Now, I am determined to part with all these, if 
 she be in the right, — as I almost think she is. Heaven 
 knows, my mind is well stored with all the virtues of 
 romances. I constantly fancy myself as being run off 
 with, — persecuted, — or in some one or other of these 
 interesting situations ; yet I can't, for the life of me, keep 
 my eyes open five minutes, after laying my head on my 
 pillow ! 
 
 " To be sure" — at this juncture, simpered the blue-eyed 
 and pale-faced Angelina Miranda Drippingsip, who had 
 kept a half pitying, and half scornful silence, during the 
 former part of the conversation, which took place in 
 the saloon of Mr. Bull's library — " to be sure, there is 
 something vastly interesting and romantic in that high 
 souled sensitiveness and delicacy of feeling, which keeps the 
 eyes wide open, through the whole of a long winter's 
 night ; which damps the downy pillow with tears ; strews 
 the feather couch with thorns, and deprives its possessor 
 of the vulgar oblivion of seamstress-like sound sleep !" — 
 " Ah ! my dearest Angelina," replied Eliza, •' with what
 
 fi8 THE SORROWS OF SLEEPINESS. 
 
 elegance and feeling you express yourself! I dare say 
 you are not oppressed with this noctural invader as I am !" 
 — " No," answered Angelina Miranda Drippingsip ; " I 
 rarely sleep ahove an hour during any night, and that 
 only at intervals." — " Oh !" exclaimed the outrivalled 
 Eliza, " how provoking ! This is the way with every 
 body but me ; — yet, I am sure, it is not for want of feeling, 
 for, at this moment, I could shed tears by pailfuls ! — Pray 
 how did you conquer vulgar sleep so far as you have done, 
 my Angelina ; and how shall I *be able to do so also, 
 and so become worthy of your lofty friendship ?" Miss 
 Drippingsip replied, — " I drink strong tea — have a ner- 
 vous habit — and sleep all the forenoon !"
 
 ADDRESS TO A LOCK OF MY MISTRESSS HAIR. 69 
 
 ADDRESS TO A LOCK OF MY MISTRESS'S 
 HAIR ENCLOSED IN A GOLDEN CASE. 
 
 " He's an idolater I can be sworn ! 
 I've heard him muttering both at noon and night 
 To some strange mockery of our holy faith 
 He ties beneath his doublet !" 
 
 The Abbey op Crossraguel. 
 
 Close to my heart thou glittering toy ! — 
 Near to its core for once I fold 
 
 The pallid miser's yellow joy, 
 
 The dross, which avarice names Gold ! 
 
 But not, for all thy worth, poor dust, 
 For all the carvings, rich and rare, 
 
 Around thee wreathed, would I intrust 
 Earth's dust a place of hiding there, 
 
 Where every throb that heaves the breast 
 Hath in it part of scorn for pelf ; 
 
 Nor should the richest gem be prest 
 Thus, fondly thus, for all itself. 
 
 'Tis that, enshrined within thy round, 
 Like soul within its mortal frame, 
 
 A treasure, dearer far, is found ; 
 Emblem of her I will not name ! 
 
 Pledge of a love — deep as its dye, 
 Yet almost hopeless as its hue ; 
 
 Badge, knighthood's baubles to outvie, 
 But won, like them, in peril too !
 
 70 ADDRESS TO A LOCK OF MY MISTRESS'S HAIR. 
 
 — That this one glossy silken tress, 
 
 Should mesh my soul, and chain my will, — 
 
 Each hair a heart string ! — Let me press 
 The links of bondage closer still ! 
 
 Thou symbol, in thy curling twine, 
 
 Of endless, dim eternity, 
 Thou figur'st well this faith of mine, 
 
 This soul-like love, which cannot die ! 
 
 Thy jet, in wreathing her pale brow, 
 Perchance prefigured both our lots ; 
 
 Which may show hence, as they do now 
 Dark circumstance, but radiant thoughts. 
 
 Well — well ! if only mine the woe, 
 With future pining years I'll buy 
 
 Their summ'd up joys, in one wild throe 
 Extatic, if my 's nigh ! 
 
 Come to my lips, for she is far 
 
 Whose lip I press'd, when thou wert given ; 
 Gladden mine eyes — thou radiant star, 
 
 Thou givest me back an hour of heaven ! 
 
 That horn-, when, trembling with the bliss, 
 I panting clasp'd the half-robb'd boon, 
 
 And, from the morning of a kiss 
 
 Looked on to rapture's coming noon. 
 
 Be thou my leading star ! Whene'er 
 The glittering and the gay I see, 
 
 My Talisman ! be thou too there , 
 And. , I'll be true to thee !
 
 THE PRICE OF A QUADRILLK. 71 
 
 And when I leave a world which you 
 
 Alone have linked me to, again 
 Be yours the relic — homage due, 
 
 What most I prize ; — but not till then ! 
 
 Close to my heart ! thou glittering toy, 
 
 Near to its core for once I press 
 The pallid miser's yellow joy, 
 
 Made precious by my 's tress ! 
 
 THE PRICE OF A QUADRILLE. 
 
 Proud of her latest lesson, how to wheel 
 Thro' the soft mazes of a new Quadrille, 
 Myrrha for six long hours untiring dances 
 With any fool who trumps the game of chances. 
 Smiles cost her nothing ; — but she paid more dear 
 For the last set I saw her in, I fear ; 
 Tho' after all perhaps 'twas cheaply bought, 
 Nay, like her favour, almost given for nought ; 
 For at the most she did but one offend, 
 And a Quadrille is dirt-cheap at — a friend.
 
 72 ON A GOOD COMPOSER, &C. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 Hell holds it dear, yet precious 'tis in Heaven ; 
 Light ne'er heheld it, nor to night is't given ; 
 In water, fire, and earth, its force is found ; 
 Yet 'twill not live in air, nor in the ground ; 
 And, though each heing hreathes in it alone, 
 Yet both to soxd and body 'tis unknown. 
 In immortality it hath no part, 
 Nor yet is mortal, though within the heart — 
 The human heart enshrined, it loves to dwell, 
 Aye, and is found in every silent cell ! 
 Without it, what were health, or wealth, or fame ? 
 — Yet in the world it hath nor part nor name ! 
 
 ON A GOOD COMPOSER, BUT HIDEOUS 
 SINGER OF MUSIC. 
 
 So sweet's your Music when another sings, 
 We think you've stolen Dan Apollo's strings ; 
 So harsh it seems when by yourself 'tis bawled, 
 We wonder how the deuce 'twas Music called !
 
 SONNETS.
 
 TO IDEAL BEAUTY. 
 
 " There always exists in the mind a confused idea of an excellence, beyond every 
 model, of something better, — something greater than ourselves. This is what we 
 denominate Ideal Beauty." 
 
 Preface to Madame De Stael's Delpiiine. 
 
 Beauty, as yet unseen in fleshly guise ! 
 Spirit of all ideal loveliness, 
 Which in a form half earthly oft I dress, 
 When others deem on vacancy mine eyes 
 Look, thro' the dewy moisture, which, not tears, 
 Is yet their fountain ! — Shall it ever he 
 My longing gaze may rest itself on thee, 
 While I enclasp thee in a pure embrace, 
 Exhaling in one hour the bliss of years ? 
 Oh ! could I say to wide expanded Space, 
 Be nothing ! — and to far outstretching Time, 
 Shrink up into a moment ! — if beyond 
 Their horizon Thou dwelt for me ! The bond 
 Of earthly loves to Thine, what are thev, Tbou Sublime !
 
 7l> SONNETS. 
 
 [I. 
 
 BERIGONIUM. 
 
 This then is Berigonium* wliere I stand ; 
 
 A mass of rock with turf half covered o'er, 
 
 And brow that is with many tempests hoar, 
 While kindred hills look down from either strand. 
 
 That it is beautiful, it needs no more 
 Than but to turn and gaze on every hand, 
 
 Or look upon the blue sea stretched before, 
 Girdling with love and lustre round the land ! 
 Of what it was tradition's lofty dreams, 
 
 Shaping the clouds of far past time to forms, 
 
 Would picture here a citadel of storms 
 And halls of high debate on lofty themes. 
 
 My faith's perchance as baseless — built on air ; 
 
 It paints thee, as thou'rt now — for ever bright and fair ! 
 
 III. 
 
 TO 
 
 " Thus would he rave, poor dreamer !" 
 
 How oft I seem to gaze with fixed eye 
 On what to others seemeth but to be 
 
 The unpeopled solitudes of vacancy ! 
 
 They deem not that my glance is bent on Thee : 
 They cannot follow Fancy roaming free, 
 
 * Berigonium — the name given to a large rocky mound near to 
 Oban, having the appearance of those relics of the power of fire, called 
 Vitrified Forts, which abound on the north-west Coasts of Scotland. 
 Tradition loves to describe it as having been the site of the Capital of 
 a great Celtic kingdom — Heaven knows in what age !
 
 SONNETS. 77 
 
 That, swifter than the viewless winds of Heaven. 
 
 When the world's leaden bonds unlace their hold, 
 But for the brief space such winged thoughts demand, 
 Boundeth to thee — to thee ! — and then is given 
 
 Again to me thy bright eye to behold ; 
 Again to touch — to press thy gentle hand ! 
 
 They hear no music in the listening air ; 
 
 But unto me thy voice re-echoes there ; — 
 My spirit drinks delight; — I see thee near me stand ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 WH1TTEN ON SEEING A CHALK DRAWING OF THE HEAD 
 
 OF HAZLITT. 
 
 " Look on this picture, and on this." 
 
 Thus Hazlitt looked ! There's life in every line ! 
 
 Soul, — Language, — Fire mere colour coidd not give. 
 See ! on that brow how pale-robed thought divine, 
 
 In an embodied radiance seems to live ! 
 Ah ! in the gaze of that entranced eye, 
 
 Humid, yet burning, there beams Passion's flame, 
 
 Lighting the cheek, and quivering through the frame ; 
 While round the lips, the odour of a sigh 
 
 Yet seems to hover ; and its shadow sits 
 Beneath the channel of the glowing thought 
 
 And fire- clothed eloquence, — which come in fits 
 
 Like Pythian inspiration ! Bewick, taught 
 
 By thee, in vain doth Slander's venom'd dart 
 
 Do its foul work 'gainst him. This head must own a heart !
 
 7S SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE BASE OP BEN-LOMOND. 
 
 Monarch of many mountains ! at thy feet 
 
 A lover of the hills, I sit me clown, 
 
 To gaze upon the more than regal crown 
 Of clouds that gird thy brow, whose very frown 
 
 Hath in it less of terrible than sweet ! 
 Mine is an homage not the less complete 
 
 That I do not with incense bid thee hail 
 
 As " loftiest, frowning over every vale ;" 
 And thus the height of many another cheat. 
 
 No — for thy beauty is thy noble form : 
 Thy perfect station in its pride of place 
 
 And front serene — unscathed by many a storm ! 
 — And thus not greatness — but befitting grace 
 Shall most my spirit sway to men, whate'er their race !
 
 JEAN PREVOST; 
 
 on, 
 
 THE ARM OF THE DEVIL.
 
 " Which fill their' Master's house with violence and deceit." 
 
 Zepiianiah, i. 9 
 
   " Ho ! Signor Devil— 
 
 This your Sign Manual is— but mine the mark ; 
 I'faith the cross is better than the signature !"„ 
 
 The Paction.
 
 JEAN PREVOST; 
 
 OR, THE ARM OF THE DEVIL. 
 
 It is of little importance, gentle and judicious reader, 
 whether thou ever wert across the channel of the waters, 
 which flow betwixt the chalky cliffs of Dover, and the 
 sandy beach of Calais : — I mean in so far as regardeth 
 thy capacity to understand my tale ; seeing that it formeth 
 no part of my intention to quote French phrases, or hinge 
 the interest of my narration on customs exclusively Gallic; 
 although I must, as a faithful historian, apprize thee that 
 the circumstances I shall relate, took place in the commune 
 of Beauvais, in the department of Brest, in the kingdom 
 of France, in the year of Grace one thousand eight 
 hundred and seventeen. 
 
 Jean Prevost was as honest a man, and his family of 
 children and grand-children, who all dwelt under bis roof, 
 were as well provided for, as any in the whole parish. 
 He had the best cured bacon, and the finest flavoured 
 cheeses, in the district, and, on holidays, he could indulge 
 himself and his guests, with a rasher of the one, and 
 dressed lentils ; a slice of the other, and, to wash all over, 
 a draught of wine, superior to the small beer sort of stuff, 
 the poorer folks swallowed, under the fine name of vin du 
 pays.
 
 82 JEAN PBEVOST. 
 
 But Joan was old: — " he had been a soldier in his youth,' 
 and that did not make him a whit younger, for a soldier's 
 life is a rough one, and wears a man sadly. But, though 
 old, he was as brave in, spirit as he had ever been ; and, 
 except when the weather changed, and his old wounds, 
 barometer-like, felt it, he was vastly good-natured and 
 happy. And so he might — for he was above want, and 
 in comfort himself, and knew that he had wherewithal to 
 make those he cared for equally so ; for he owed no man 
 anything, and was the owner of a snug little corner of 
 land which he had bought from the Commissionaires of con- 
 fiscated domains six and twenty years before, with a little 
 money be had saved when quartered for two years in the 
 house of one rich widow in the Fauxbourg, St. Antoine, yi 
 Paris, and twelve months and a half with another in the 
 Rue de Provence in Lyons, for, though now bent and 
 weak, he was once tall, comely and strong. He also 
 received a pension from the State for the wounds he had 
 gotten in its service. 
 
 At the time my tale begins Jean was old, however, 
 and even ill. He had caught a cold after dancing at the 
 wedding of his eldest grandson. The Apothecary of 
 a neighbouring village in passing, having heard that Jean 
 Avas sick, called to see him, and brought from out his 
 saddle bags a goodly store of gallipots and pill boxes, 
 papers of brickdust, and other medicines ; but Jean, who 
 had never been so ill before, said he would have none of 
 them, and told the man of Glysters to go " au diable." 
 Whether he took this advice or not I cannot, for a cer- 
 tainty, state ; though I deem it improbable that he did, 
 seeing that he left the house muttering " Mori Dieu " — not 
 a very likely way of talking, when about making a call 
 on the Devil. 
 
 Jean ate, or tried to eat, fat bacon, and drank, or tried
 
 JEAN PKEVOST. 83 
 
 to drink, some of his best wine — but all would not do. 
 When honest Jean Prevost, sometime ploughboy, and 
 cultivator at the farm of Clos-Giraud, next grenadier in 
 Biron's Chasseurs, and lastly proprietaire in the depart- 
 ment of Brest, — was born, it was decreed that sixty- 
 eight years should be the term of his lease of life ; — and 
 Nature had fulfilled the contract. Now the time of expiry 
 had arrived, and Jean felt, and his children saw, that he 
 was dying - . The veteran had always been a good Catholic, 
 and had not missed hearing mass, and keeping lent and 
 fast days, as strictly as his love of bacon, when cured 
 after his own fashion, would let him, — at least for the last 
 dozen years. But his old friend, the Curate, who had 
 visited, and married, and bm-ied, and eaten with every 
 family in the parish in turn, had died lately of a surfeit, 
 from disposing of the greater part of a young pig, the 
 half of a turkey, and six " omelettes a la Fermiere" at 
 a merrymaking, on the marriage of the young woman 
 whom he called his niece, and the world called his daughter ; 
 and he had been succeeded by some zealous lenten-faced, 
 soupmaigre eating, but plotting and avaricious Jesuits, 
 called in modern parlance Missionaries, who settled them- 
 selves in an old monastery, and undertook the cure of all 
 the souls in the parish. 
 
 Jean had a mortal dislike to these fellows, who were 
 always preaching about the lost property of the church, — 
 the propriety of refunding it, and the blessedness of tithe - 
 paying. But how coidd the old fellow act, when he saw 
 himself dying? No other priest was to be had, and 
 what good Catholic would die sans absolution? So he 
 even sent for one of these lean-faced gentry, on purpose 
 to receive his certificate of discharge from the army of 
 this world, that he might the more readily get admission 
 into one of the standing regiments of heaven. A mem-
 
 84 JEAN PREVOST. 
 
 ber of the scarecrow tribe soon arrived, for they knew 
 Jean to be a man who could pay, and proceeded without 
 delay to his bedside. He was fast approaching to the 
 grave, but the friar would not let him get quietly into it, 
 by easing his soul, and by giving him extreme unction, 
 till he confessed and did penance. Did penance — why 
 old Jean could not turn on his side ! — yet he was obliged 
 to own that he had flirted with the widows — had liked 
 wine too well, and had eaten too much bacon in his life- 
 time — even on Fridays. " Now," thinks he, " he'll surely 
 dismiss me ;" — but no : — Jean Prevost was told he could 
 not have absolution till he restored to the church the lands 
 which had once been its property, but which he had fairly 
 bought and paid for ! At this startling proposition, 
 Prevost, weak as he was, raised himself up and stared — 
 as well he might. He then, by looks, declined to acquiesce 
 
 in this modest demand. — It was reiterated with threats 
 
 Jean recovered speech — cursed the old Monk — made signs 
 to his son to kick him down stairs — was eagerly obeyed — 
 shook hands with his children — blessed their offspring — 
 said an ave — and gave his spirit to its Giver. The 
 priest, with an aching breech, hastened to communicate 
 this bad success to his brethren, and they swore to be 
 revenged. This, they thought they would do by sending 
 word to Jean's family, that they would not permit him 
 Christian burial, " even if he came to the churchyard — 
 which he would never do ;" — (true, dead men don't walk 
 far,) " for," said they, "the Devil, and three of his servants, 
 would carry him to hell the same night." 
 
 Jean's friends were dreadfully frightened at all this; 
 but an old fellow-soldier of his, who happened to be a 
 guest in the house at the time, smelt the rat beneath the 
 cassock, and answered them that " his old friend's bones 
 would lie in the churchyard, and devil a bit of the Devil
 
 JEAN PREVOST. < s -> 
 
 would touch them, till tliey got there"— "How shall we 
 secure them ? " they inquired. — " Leave that to me," 
 ;uiswered the old hoy — " Give me a bottle of brandy — 
 a slice of your bacon — leave your doors on the latch, and 
 I'll dare all the devils that come, to touch the coffin of 
 Jeari Prevost, my old and worthy comrade!" Night 
 arrived— Jean's friends crept fearfully to bed — the old 
 soldier had his brandy and bacon ; and, having primed 
 himself with a dose of both, and sharpened a massy han- 
 ger which hunff at his side, he sat down by his friend's 
 corpse and sang old songs, and smoked from old pipes, 
 till twelve o'clock. A few minutes after that hour, strange 
 noises were audible without, screams were echoed by 
 howls, and grunts by groans ; — footsteps were heard on 
 the ground floor of Prevost's cottage, and, above all, 
 a strong smell of sulphur was perceptible. Pierre Jaque- 
 m0 nt — that was the old Soldier's name — began to feel 
 queerish at the sulphur ; but, recollecting it was used in 
 manufacturing gunpowder, he took another petite verre of 
 brandy, and was quite ready for the nocturnal visitors, 
 who soon floundered into the dead man's chamber, and 
 began to unscrew his coffin. " What d'ye want with my 
 old friend, you rogues?" cried Pierre, — but he got no 
 answer. They began to lift the body — " Come, come,'' 
 said he, "let him alone, will ye?" No reply. "Then 
 have at ye you old humbugs !" bawled Pierre, and with 
 one swing of his hanger he cut off the band of the most 
 forward devil of the party. If devils don't feel pain, 
 they at least cry when they appear to be hurt, for this 
 one roared unmercifully. He was, however, carried off ; 
 Jean Prevost was replaced in his coffin — next day was 
 quietly buried in it — his friend Pierre Jaquemont got well 
 paid for his sentinelship ; and it was remarked for ever 
 afterwards that the Prior of the neighbouring .Monastery
 
 8G J KAN PREVOST. 
 
 held his Missal during service in his left hand, and kept 
 his right, if he had one, under the sleeve of his Cassock ! * 
 
 * This story was written nine years ago. From the following extract 
 from the Foreign Quarterly Review, (No. XII. pp. 428-9.) it would 
 appear that such tricks as it describes are not unusual — or the writer 
 must have had the gift of second-sight ! Which is the more probable 
 conclusion, is left to the sagacious reader to decide. 
 
 " In the month of June, 1824, in a small village called Artes, near 
 Hostalrich, about twelve leagues from Barcelona, a Constitutionalist 
 being at the point of death, his brother called on the curate, requesting 
 him to come and administer the sacraments. The curate refused, 
 saying, ' Your brother is a Constitutionalist, that is to say, a villain, 
 an impious wretch, an enemy to God and man — he is damned without 
 mercy, and it is therefore useless for me to confess him.' ' But who 
 told you that my brother was damned ?' ' God himself told me dur- 
 ing the sacrifice of the mass, that your brother is damned to all the 
 devils.' It was in vain that the brother reiterated his entreaties, the 
 curate was inexorable. A few days after the individual died, when 
 his brother demanded for the body the rites of sepulture. The curate 
 refused, alleging, ' the soul of your brother is now burning in hell, as 
 I told you before. It would be in vain for me to take any trouble 
 about interring his body, for during the night the devils will come 
 and carry it away ; and in forty days you yourself will meet the same 
 fate.' The Spaniard, not giving implicit credit to this diabolical visit, 
 watched during the night by the body of his brother, and with his 
 pistols loaded. Between twelve and one o'clock a knock was heard 
 at the door, and a voice exclaimed, ' I command you to open in the 
 name of the living God ; open, if not, your instant ruin is at hand.' 
 The Spaniard refused to open, and shortly after he saw enter by the 
 window, three able-bodied devils, covered with skins of wild beasts, 
 having the usual quantity of horns, claws, and spiked tails, who set about 
 carrying the coffin containing the body ; upon this the guardian fired 
 and shot one devil dead, the others took to flight, he tired after them 
 and wounded both, one of whom died in a few minutes, the other 
 escaped. In the morning, when the people went to church, there 
 was no curate to officiate, and it was shortly after discovered, on ex- 
 amining the two defunct devils, that the one was the cm-ate and the 
 other the vicar ; the wounded devil was the sacristan, who confessed
 
 STANZAS. 87 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " There is more loftiness in wrong repented of, 
 Than all the port of never-faltering worth." 
 
 Rizzio, a Tragedy. 
 
 I come to breathe one sad farewell, 
 
 One precious hour to pass beside thee ; 
 
 For Fate's dim page alone can tell, 
 
 When next that pleasure may betide me ! 
 
 I come to print one burning kiss, 
 
 From lips disease leaves yet untainted ; 
 
 And in that moment think of bliss, 
 My raptured visions oft have painted. 
 
 I come — my last calm hour is thine, 
 
 The last high throb of fading spirits ; — 
 
 To-niorrow sees me sickly pine, 
 
 Beneath the pangs that Guilt inherits ; 
 
 Yes, Guilt : — the thrills of fiery pain, 
 The pulse with fever wildly beating ; 
 
 This dizzy aching of the brain, 
 This panic of the heart retreating 
 
 the whole diabolical proceeding. The case was brought before the 
 tribunal of Barcelona."
 
 88 STANZAS. 
 
 Within its very self with fear 
 
 Of some unknown but coming danger ; 
 
 These wild regrets the heart that tear. 
 Had all been still to me a stranger, 
 
 Had Fate and Thou been only kind ; 
 
 But frowning darkly both upon me, 
 Is't wonder that I — headlong — blind, 
 
 Rushed in where prudence would disown me ? 
 
 Is't wonder that, my heart on fire, 
 
 My blood should share the madding fever ; 
 
 That Love, and love-born pure desire 
 Thou to be mine — I thine for ever, 
 
 Quench' d by a frown — chill'd by a fate, 
 
 — A frown from thee — a fate that parts us, — 
 
 Should rouse me to that reckless state 
 Where even our self-respect deserts us ? 
 
 Quench' d did I say? The snow-showers fall 
 
 On Hecla's ever-blazing crater : 
 It thunders when they meet — but all 
 
 Their chill dims not that torch of Nature ! 
 
 — So even the coldness of thy mien, 
 
 The icy damp thy frown throws o'er me, 
 
 Can never quench the fire unseen 
 
 That glows in me. — I must adore thee ! 
 
 But ever as these o'er it come, 
 
 In all their withering — wintry sadness, 
 
 The pent up strife, in one wild sum, 
 
 Breaks out — and then I'm driven to madness !
 
 STAXZAS. 89 
 
 Aye ! then the haunts of mirthless din 
 
 I seek, and vex the night with riot, 
 Or drench with wine the flame within, 
 
 And mortgage years of future quiet. 
 
 — But I'll not press thy taintless lip 
 
 While I'm unworthy thee — No — Never ! 
 
 Repentance, dregs 'tis mine to sip, 
 
 — Then Thine — and Virtue's, I'm — for ever I 
 
 G
 
 SKETCHES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. 
 
 No. III. 
 
 THE CORONATION OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 *' From Glasgow, Bruce rode to Scone, and there was solemnly crowned, on Friday, 
 the 27th of March. Edward had carried off the ancient regalia of the kingdom, and 
 the famous stone chair, in which, according to ancient custom, the Scottish kings 
 were inaugurated. But the ready care of Wisheart, Bishop of Glasgow, supplied 
 from his own wardrobe the robes in which Robert appeared at his coronation, and a 
 slight coronet of gold, probably borrowed by the Abbot of Scone from some of the 
 saints or kings which adorned his abbey, was employed instead of the hereditary 
 crown. A banner, wrought with the arms of Baliol, was delivered by the Bishop of 
 Glasgow to the new king, and Robert received beneath it the homage of the earls 
 and knights who attended the ceremony. On the second day after the coronation, 
 and before Bruce and his friends had left Scone, they were surprised by the sudden 
 arrival of Isabella, Countess of Buchan, sister of the Earl of Fife, who immediately 
 claimed the right of crowning the king. It was a right which had undoubtedly be- 
 longed to the Earls of Fife from the days of Malcolm Canmore ; and as the Earl of 
 Fife was at this time of the English party, the Countess, a romantic and high-spirited 
 woman, absconding from her husband, joined Bruce at Scone, bringing with her the 
 war-horses of her lord. The new king was not in a condition to think lightly of any- 
 thing of this nature. To have refused Isabella's request, might give to his enemies 
 some colour for alleging, that an essential part of ancient custom and solemnity had 
 been omitted in his coronation. The English historians would have us believe that 
 this enterprising woman was influenced by tenderer feelings than ambition or policy, 
 but this is extremely doubtful. It is certain, that on the 29th of March, the crown 
 was a second time placed on the head of Robert by the hands of the Countess, who 
 afterwards suffered severely for her alleged presumption." 
 
 Tytler's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 232. 
 
 There's the tramp of armed warriors — the tread of mitred 
 
 priests, — 
 There are plaided gillies in the hall, and the hangers on 
 
 at feasts ;
 
 92 THE CORONATION OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 And more — bright scarfs and brighter eyes again are 
 
 where they've shone, 
 For the ladies of the land are come to see the pomp at 
 
 Scone ! 
 
 And what hath filled its stately halls with all this gallant 
 
 tlirong — 
 Halls that have slept in emptiness and silence for so 
 
 long? 
 O ! know ye not that on this day, without or leave or 
 
 truce 
 From English Edward, Scotland wills to make a king of 
 
 Bruce ! 
 
 There's cheer for Scotland yet, for see the noon-tide sun 
 
 appears, 
 In spite of all the morning's clouds and March's angry 
 
 tears ; 
 It lights the hall, and on each face its rays of gladness 
 
 shine, — 
 It leads thee to the empty throne — King Robert, make 
 
 it thine ! 
 
 The tyrant stole the sacred chair, where sat a hundred 
 kings,— 
 
 For where 'tis placed is Scotland's throne, — so old tradi- 
 tion sings : 
 
 He read but half the omen, tho', for if it come not back, 
 
 We yet may send a Prince to fill't, triumphant in its track ! 
 
 And he will wear that diadem, which we most deeply 
 
 vow, 
 Shall never, but as stolen gear, be seen on Edward's 
 
 brow ;
 
 THE CORONATION OF THE BRUCE. 03 
 
 For from the loins of him who now kneels down — to rise 
 
 a king, 
 — Plantagenet ! — when thine hath passed, a monarch race 
 
 shall spring. 
 
 What, tho' that golden hand be all the crown we have to place 
 Upon his head— who in each look leal love to death may trace ; 
 It needs no gems — for where he these in lustre that can vie 
 With the fire that flashes out in pride from the Lady 
 Buchan's eye ! 
 
 Tis hers, by right — the Scottish king — by love — the 
 
 man, to crown, 
 For this from craven Fife, her lord, the gallant one came 
 
 boun' ! 
 Ah, Bruce ! thou wilt be king, indeed, to Scotland's 
 
 farthest parts, 
 When thou shalt rule the land as much as now the ladies' 
 
 hearts J 
 
 But see, where Wisheart's withered hands in blessing 
 
 him grow young ! 
 There is no tremor in his frame, no falter on his tongue ; 
 He turns with humbleness, but hope, with the King of 
 
 kings to plead, 
 That He vouchsafe to ratify, in Heaven, this holy deed ! 
 
 And now the bravest of the land, with hearts and wea- 
 pons free, 
 
 To guard its rights — to guard its prince, swear upon 
 bended knee ; 
 
 And even tongues fear once made mute, in brav'ry now 
 break loose ; 
 
 And a thousand voices shout as one, « God save King 
 Robert Bruce !"
 
 <)4 1ANTHE. 
 
 IANTHE; 
 
 OR, THE DEATHBED OF BEAUTY. 
 
 O thou soft natural death !— thou art joint twin 
 To sweetest slumber ! — No rough bearded comet 
 Stares on thy mild departure ; the dull owl 
 Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse wolf 
 Scents not thy carrion. — Pity winds thy corse." 
 
 Webster's White Devil. 
 
 I saw her die, 
 
 I marked the spiritual beaming of her eye ; 
 
 It was not dimmed — it never looked decay, 
 
 Nor did its lustre slowly wane away, 
 
 But flashed in beauty on my tranced soul, 
 
 Brighter and brighter as her's neared its goal. 
 
 It was not sunken in its arch'd recess, 
 
 But full looked out from 'neath the jetty tress 
 
 Of long and silken hair, whose glossy wave 
 
 As slow she turned, a sybil wildness gave 
 
 To all her mien ; — that wandered o'er her brow 
 
 Half shading, and half showing it ; and now, 
 
 Reposed on its calm polish'd front, like clouds 
 
 Such as the Day orb's radiance sometimes shrouds. 
 
 There was a hectic glow upon her cheek 
 Tbat spoke not passion, for her soul was meek ; — 
 'Twas but the effort, struggling life's last toil 
 To free the Spirit from its gentle coil ; 
 Or — (yes ! 'twas so — for oh I that Spirit flew 
 Not in a pang — but like absorbed dew,
 
 IANTHE. 95 
 
 Noiseless and balmy !) — 'twas the lamp of life 
 That gave one flush of triumph in the strife 
 That then had end. 
 
 O ! ere her gentle Spirit fled to Heaven, 
 It lingered fondly like some Peasant driven 
 From his loved home ; — oft backward on the cell 
 Of mortal mould, where it had loved to dwell, 
 In parting grief it seemed to glance, and say, 
 " And shall this frame of beauty know decay ?" 
 
 Long on her lip, when all around was dead, 
 It lingering dwelt in smiles that lustre shed, 
 Even on the marble stillness of that face 
 Which once beamed o'er with light, and love, and grace ; — 
 Still on these lips, till earth in earth was laid, 
 It life-like sat, — still fondly round them played ! 
 
 She seemed in death to sleep and calmly dream 
 Of joys long strange, and the unclouded beam 
 Of fortune's Sun, which cheered her infant days ; 
 — Alas ! that e'er to her were quenched its rays ! — 
 Yet not alas ; — for had she never known 
 Woe undeserved — she ne'er as Saint had shone 
 In the bright calendar of sinless minds — 
 That living chain, which Man to Angels binds ! 
 Her name — her image, as in death she lay 
 Had ne'er possessed a talismanic sway, 
 Embalmed in memory, to guard the Will 
 From aught unholy : — Passion must be still 
 When she's remembered. — Rear no marble tomb 
 Near her green grave — her record be the bloom, 
 That never fades, of virtues which her name 
 And memory nourish — What is nobler Fame ?
 
 96 ALAS, 1 CANNOT LOVE ! 
 
 ALAS, I CANNOT LOVE! 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " 'Tis easy weeping with no cause for woe : 
 
 Across the plain the streams most smoothly flow." 
 
 Sweet lady, there was nought in me to win a heart like 
 
 thine ; 
 No stamp of honoured ancestry, that spoke a noble line ; 
 Nor wealth, that could that want repay, had I to lure 
 
 thine eye, 
 When all but thee and thine, still pass'd the boy-bard 
 
 coldly bye. 
 
 Can I forget the blushing hour, when by thee led to 
 
 dance, 
 Amid the proud, who on me lower'd with many a haughty 
 
 glance ? 
 A radiant smile there was to me — to them a lofty look, 
 Which graced my very bashfulness, and gave their scorn 
 
 rebuke I 
 
 Beside thee, in thy kinsman's hall, amid the banquet 
 
 throng, 
 For me was kept the place of pride — from me was sought 
 
 the song ! 
 What had I done — what can I do — my title to approve ? 
 Alas! this lay is all my thanks — my heart is dead to 
 
 love !
 
 ALAS, I CAXXOT LOVK ! 97 
 
 It is not that that heart is cold — nor yet is vowed away ; 
 But that, amid the spring of youth, it feels itself decay. 
 The withered bloom of early hopes, and darings hope above, 
 Encrust it now, and dim its shine : — alas I cannot love ! 
 
 They tell me that my broken lute once wrought on thee 
 
 its spell, 
 They whisper that my voice, now mute, in speech could 
 
 please thee well ; 
 Pale brow, blue eye, and Saxon locks, they say, thy heart 
 
 could move, 
 More than red cheek or raven curls — yet ah ! I cannot 
 
 love ! 
 
 It may be — as I trust it is — that in my willing ear 
 They poured the dew of flattery, and that thou, lady, 
 
 ne'er 
 Had'st thoughts that friendship would not own, for souls 
 
 like thine can prove 
 How much of kindred warmth may glow without a spark 
 
 of Love ! 
 
 One only passion now will cure this palsy of the heart : — 
 Ambition's spell, if aught, will lure ; but whatsoe'er the part, 
 In after life I do or dree — the praise shall all be thine, 
 And all the fame I e'er may win be offered at thy Shrine !
 
 98 A1M11L MEMORIES. 
 
 APRIL MEMORIES. 
 
 I 
 
 Joyous month, spring's non-age past, 
 
 Art thou come in smiles at last, 
 
 Laughing with the new-found glee 
 
 Of youth become maturity ? 
 
 — Yes — thy cheek in dimpled blushes 
 Flushes many a one with hopes : 
 Mine hath wrinkles, down which gushes 
 Midnight- Memory's weary drops ! 
 
 Thou dost come with flowery charms, 
 Floating soft in Zephyr's arms 
 Round the bower where she is now, 
 Whose step's as light as even her vow ! 
 
 — Thou comest slow and silent, sailing 
 On the twilight's chill to me, 
 All thy music turn'd to wailing — 
 Pealed thro' the vaults of memory ! 
 
 On tliy brightest day of bloom 
 
 All the love that had not room 
 
 In one deep heart, in words ran o'er : — 
 
 The drops seemed treasured like rich ore !
 
 APRIL MEMORIES. 99 
 
 Alas — they were not coin ! tho' token 
 Of wealth to which were poor Peru : 
 The heart that uttered them is broken — 
 The vows that paid them are so too !
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 I. BELZONl's CHARACTER. 
 
 Enterprise, I have before said, often performs prodigies; 
 but it frequently owes much of its triumph to the assist- 
 ance of chance ; at least it always calculates on, and 
 
 hopes for its aid Those who live by professions where 
 
 chance or fortune more frequently than their own efforts, 
 decide their success, — as players, artists, &c, whose dis- 
 plays, however meritorious, may be totally unrewarded 
 and neglected but for some concurrence of circumstances 
 over which they do not possess the slightest control, are 
 generally remarkable for their enterprise — Life is often 
 with them a game of hazard, where, however, skill is 
 neither unnecessary nor cumbersome. 
 
 I am old enough to recollect the celebrated Belzoni, 
 the Egyptian traveller, as an itinerant posture-master, 
 living by his shifts. — His discoveries have astonished Eu- 
 rope : but they have been the result of enterprise, not of 
 learning ; for he was not deeply versed in classical or
 
 UTILITY OF DULXESS. 10 I 
 
 Egyptian literature — May not the being inured to the 
 privations and disappointments, all of his former profession 
 often meet with, have enabled him to endure hardships 
 from which cleverer men would have shrank ? May not the 
 risks which a public performer runs in calculating on 
 popular favour, have tended to make him fearless and 
 confident ? Would not that attention to the most variable 
 of all possible subjects which are worthy of observation, 
 the human countenance, which he who lives on the smiles 
 of crowds must unceasingly pay, accustom him to note 
 the most trifling appearances and indications, which few, 
 not so prepared, would have been likely to observe, and 
 fewer regard ; and from that habit is it not probable that 
 that perspicacity had its rise which enabled him to discover 
 the chambers of the pyramid, and the tomb of Psammis ? 
 His merit lay in the possession of a secret. That secret 
 was the power of minute observation and skilful concate- 
 nation. To his former profession he probably owed both. 
 
 II. UTILITY OF DULXESS. 
 
 Dull, timid and weak men are, as it were, the cement 
 of society. The mortal' which serves to connect and bind 
 together the more valuable parts of the great fabric. 
 They are, like their supposed prototype, an indispensable 
 part of a superstructure ; a sort of trifling negative series 
 of particles, which, however worthless in themselves, can- 
 not be done without. — Thev are the seasoning of society 
 — somewhat liberally sprinkled to be sure. They give a 
 goat and flavour to the social circle, which even attic salt 
 cannot impart. Paradoxical as it may appear, they are 
 the finest possible breaks in the continuity of mere liveli- 
 ness, and converse would actually become tame without 
 them. — A didl uniformity would prevail and we all know 
 by experience, that nothing palls so much as unvaried
 
 102 DORMANT PROPENSITIES. 
 
 sprightliness, unshaded mirth and unrelieved brilliancy. 
 Deathlike dulness itself is not so tiresome and fatiguing. 
 When a boy, I have often made fireworks : — once in 
 compounding a set of squibs I forgot to mix up with the 
 positives of saltpetre and gunpowder the negative of 
 pounded charcoal ; and in firing them off, each consisted 
 of but one explosion, bright no doubt, but transient 
 also and dangerous withal ; while the squibs which were 
 rightly mixed up were both bright, sparkling too, and 
 much more lasting; — besides they did not scorch me. 
 Dull men are, then, to Society what charcoal is to squibs. 
 
 III. DORMANT PROPENSITIES. 
 
 The riches of the mineral world are hid, while those of 
 the animal and vegetable kingdoms challenge remark and 
 observation. It will not, however, be denied, that the 
 concealed stores of the earth are as useful and ornamental 
 for all the purposes of life as the more obvious produc- 
 tions of nature, though they are not revealed but by some 
 physical convulsion, extraordinary occurrence, or the skill 
 and experience of the geologist or practical miner. An 
 analogy obtains between certain qualities and properties 
 of the human mind, and the inferences I would draw from 
 the experience of men, on the admitted physical facts 
 above stated. — The energies of the soul are unknown to 
 its possessor, till circumstances call them into action. 
 The dispositions of mankind are equally veiled, under the 
 smooth covering of every-day occurrences. — Propensities, 
 whether to good or evil actions, may sleep dormant for 
 years ; nay, they may never in the career of this life be 
 displayed, and yet their existence may be as real as though 
 they were in a state of hourly development. 
 
 No man knows that he lias not within him the will and 
 the impetus to commit crimes, as atrocious as those, at
 
 INDOLENCE OF GENIUS. L03 
 
 the bare recital of which he shudders ; nor the most aban- 
 doned and heartless criminal, that the " milk of human 
 kindness" circulates not in his bosom, though it hath never 
 flowed forth in one genial drop of tenderness or affection. 
 Circumstances are the midwives of deeds. Men are acted 
 upon differently by the same circumstances and vicissi- 
 tudes ; and crime may spring through one mind from 
 causes which might have generated in another the highest 
 moral virtues. — This belief is at the bottom of true 
 charity. 
 
 IV. INDOLENCE OF GENIUS. 
 
 Idleness and indolence, for they are not equivalents, 
 are, to the man of genius, what rust is to the polished 
 metal. It is lamentable to think on the ravages they have 
 made in the finest minds, eating so deeply into them that 
 they have at last become, as it were, incorporated with 
 their very essence : often too that species of indolence 
 is nourished and even has its rise from the self same 
 source as the noblest of mental peculiarities. To indulge 
 in contemplation, for itself only, is one of the most alluring 
 of pleasures. — The bright and beautiful ideas which pre- 
 sent themselves to a mind so engaged, give as much 
 delight to the individual to whom they are suggested, 
 even though they perish at the moment of their birth to 
 make room for the embryo creations which crowd after 
 them in quick succession, as though they were chronicled 
 on tablets of brass, or the ever-during monument of a 
 nation's memory. — I speak of the delight felt at the mo- 
 ment of their creation, not of the permanent and strength- 
 ening pleasure received from their reiteration when pre- 
 served, or the applause of crowds when popular. — Some 
 laborious writers instantly seize these evanescent wan- 
 derers, and, with patient industry, pin them on paper, as
 
 104 INDOLENCE OF GENIUS. 
 
 a butterfly collector does his specimens ; but they are not, 
 nor do they in general deserve to be, the authors whose 
 memories are cherished with the deepest love, and whose 
 works are graven on the fleshly tablets of a thousand 
 congenial hearts. — In reading their works we think they 
 have rendered us all they could give, and left us nothing 
 to regret ; that they have drawn their wine to the lees, 
 and spun their airy web while a single particle of material 
 remained. There is in this, wherever displayed, a sor- 
 didness, even where no pecuniary profits could be reaped, 
 which revolts us. It is an ambition distinct from, and 
 grovelling below that noble thirst for fame which has 
 caused the transcription, at least of mighty works, though, 
 some will hold, the composition of none. An author of 
 this description resembles a painter who woidd admit of 
 no shading in his pictures, but filled every corner of his 
 canvass with gaudy lights and glaring figures, — on the 
 ground that he could not afford room for what was in 
 itself without expression. These considerations may serve 
 to reconcile us to the imputed indolence of many living 
 and deceased writers. There is now no want of authors, 
 nor of books : let then poets enjoy their solitary thoughts 
 unmolested; the world is already rich enough in their 
 productions !
 
 SKETCHES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 " A severe fate awaited the Countess of Buchan, who had dared to place the crown 
 on the head of Bruce, and who was soon after taken. In one of the outer turrets of 
 the castle of Berwick, was constructed a cage, latticed and cross-barred with wood, 
 and secured with iron, in which this unfortunate lady was immured. No person was 
 permitted to speak with her except the women who brought her food, and it was 
 carefully stipulated that these should be of English extraction. Confined in this rigor- 
 ous manner, and gazed at by all who passed by, she remained for four years shut up 
 in her turreted cage upon the top of the walls of Berwick, till she was released from 
 her misery, and subjected to a milder imprisonment." 
 
 Tytler's History op Scotland, v. I. pp. 245, 6. 
 
 O ! Edward King of England ! — is this your knightly 
 
 fame, 
 That you upon a lady thusshould put such mark of shame ! 
 Have you not prisons many, that be strong enough to 
 
 hold 
 A woman 'gainst her will and in despite of smiles or gold ? 
 
 What ! in the open eye of day to don my woman's gear ; 
 Before each gazer to let fall the captive's frequent tear ! 
 For shame ! — there's not a lady at your court hut will cry 
 
 fie! 
 Nor a belted knight but turns to you with scorning in 
 
 his eye ! 
 
 But hoist me — Monarch, if you will, as high as eagles flee, 
 At least the land I love so well I then shall better see ; 
 
 H
 
 106 THE COUNTESS OF BUCHAN. 
 
 And tho' like a wild bird you seek to cage me as your 
 
 thrall, 
 Your heart is more a slave than I'm — within its trembling 
 
 wall! 
 
 Altho' your bars were closer far than stone was ever 
 
 piled, 
 Think you my soul is with my frame, in durance and 
 
 exiled ? 
 No ! — on the wings of every wind my Spirit boundeth 
 
 loose, 
 And my voice as fetterless as it, finds music still in 
 
 " Bruce !" 
 
 Why chain you not my feeble hands, for they 'twas did 
 
 the deed ; 
 They placed on Royal Robert's brow the crown that was 
 
 his meed ; 
 But you, proud Prince ! with all your gold, are yet too 
 
 poor to buy 
 Bonds for the hands of all who then would have done as 
 
 did I ! 
 
 And if your wealth, Plantagenet, were ten times told, 
 
 'twere vain, 
 It could not price what more than hands that deed would 
 
 do again ; 
 That which you cannot manacle, — nor cage with all your 
 
 arts, 
 Imprison women as you may, — a hundred thousand 
 
 hearts !
 
 THE HA AND THE COT. 107 
 
 THE HA' AND THE COT. 
 
 In a gowden band my lady's hair 
 Is plaited up wi' meikle care ; 
 She laces her waist in to a span, 
 An' saft's the touch o' her lily han' ! 
 
 A hame-spun snood mak's Jenny braw, 
 The yellow curls on her bosom fa' ; 
 Her waistban' heaves as she's glad or wae ; 
 An' her hans work meikle mail* than they play. 
 
 There's gloom an' there's grief in yonder ha' ; 
 
 The gloom is my lord's, and the grief's 'mang them a' ; 
 
 For lady Ann's bridal pearls are big tears, 
 
 For her love far awa', and the carle that she fears. 
 
 There's mirth at the Cottar's ingle side ; — 
 The lad she lo'es has made Jenny a bride ; 
 Thro' life they'll gang cheery, ay han' in han' : — 
 Wha's happier — Jenny or Lady Ann?
 
 108 THE AVRECK OF THE COMET RAISED. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE COMET RAISED. 
 
 " The Comet Steam Boat, on her passage from Inverness to Glasgow, had reached 
 the Point of Kempoch, just below Gourock, at nearly two o'clock on the morning of 
 Friday, 21st October, when she was met by the Ayr Steamer, which was on her way 
 to that port from Greenock. The two boats going with considerable velocity, were 
 very near each other before mutually observed. As soon as perceived, the person on 
 the look-out on board the Comet, cried to the pilot to put the helm a-starboard, which 
 order the pilot of the Ayr understood to be meant as instructions to him : — both vessels 
 were in consequence directed towards each other, and before the unfortunate mistake 
 could be remedied, they came in contact with such violence, as to stave in the star- 
 board bow of the Comet, which vessel in a few minutes went down, and, melancholy 
 to relate, the whole of the passengers with the exception of seven, and the master and 
 five of the vessel's crew were drowned !" 
 
 Mr. Mennons' Narhatiye op the Loss of the Comet Steam Boat. 
 
 The shattered barque was afterwards raised to the surface, and presented a strik- 
 ing spectacle, which occasioned the following lines. 
 
 Wrecked by no hurricane, 
 
 Whelmed by no billow ; 
 Sunk, when, upon the main, 
 
 Peace made its pillow ; 
 But shattered and broken, 
 
 Down, down fathoms ten 
 That thou plungedst, we've token, 
 Though afloat now again 
 And the Port which thou steered for too almost in view! 
 But where is thy helmsman, barque, where be thy crew ? 
 Thou risest again to the bless'd light of day : — 
 Give back those that trusted thee J — Say where are they ? 
 
 — Sleeping as sound as when, 
 Dreamless of danger ; 
 
 Reckless of fear or pain, — 
 Doubt even a stranger,
 
 THE WRECK OF THE COMET RAISED. 109 
 
 They lay, whilst destruction strode 
 
 Forth to embrace them : — 
 — 'Tis but the trump of God 
 Now that will raise them ! 
 Ye ask for the lading- ? — go count yon turf graves ; 
 Would ye more ? Look beneath then the shroud of the 
 
 waves ; 
 Lack ye number ? Then reckon these remnants * of dust, 
 This, this was the lading — these, these were my trust ! 
 
 Thus the confiding heart, 
 
 On through life sailing ; 
 Wrecked at some smooth-like part, 
 
 Asks, wildly wailing, 
 " Where be its proud and young 
 
 Hopes, loves and darings ?" 
 Buried : — or, rent and wrung, 
 Pined to despairings ! 
 O ! then the torn frame- work the fond freight that bore, 
 Like thee, shattered hulk, may decay on the shore, — 
 — No flag waves above thee — no sail's on thy mast ; 
 And thy name's but remembered with errors bye-past ! 
 
 * Some fragments of human bodies were found on board the wreck 
 when it was raised.
 
 TWO BLACKS 
 
 DONT MAKE 
 
 A WHITE. 
 
 AN ACTED PROVERB.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Tom Black — A Young fellow of the North and " West end" of the 
 Island, — on his travels in search of a Mistress. 
 
 William Black — A name fellow and acquaintance, — in search of a 
 Sister. 
 
 Me. Duffield — A polished Bibliopole and Librarian of Bath and 
 Cheltenham, — in search of Subscribers. 
 
 The Landlord of the Plough — In search of Water and Wine 
 Drinkers. 
 
 Rub, Brush, and Scrub — His Waiters, — in search of perquisites. 
 
 Jeehup — A Coachman, — sometimes in search of his road. 
 
 Mrs. Black — An elderly lady, in search of a husband to 
 
 Miss Mart Black — In search of one for herself. 
 
 Maria — In one situation, — but in search of another. 
 
 Time — A day. Scene — Cheltenham.
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 THE PLOUGH INN, CHELTENHAM. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S ROOM. 
 
 Enter Tom Black, Rub, and Jeehup, with a Portmanteau. 
 
 Tom Black, (to the Coachman, ivho continues to hold out 
 
 his hand?) 
 
 O no, Jarvey ! — A crown for the seat — four alehouse 
 stoppages on the road, and an hour and three quarters to 
 drive the nine miles is not like the Stage Coaching of 
 Scotland, let alone of Glo'stershire, with its roads like 
 howling greens, and its Coachmen like beef-eaters. 
 
 Jeehup. 
 
 You knows, as how I gave you the ribbands when we 
 stopt. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Yes, — and you think the honour of sitting on the box 
 beside you, and holding the reins of your government 
 when you unbent yourself from its cares — like every thing 
 else in England — must be paid for. Well, then, there. — 
 
 (Gives money.)
 
 114 TWO BLACKS DON T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 Jeehui', (as he puts forth his hand.) 
 
 And we always gets more from Gem'men at the Chel- 
 tenham, than the Glo'ster end of the short stage. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 O ! — as we approach the temples of Fashion, we must 
 make haste to throw away the more vulgar monies, I 
 perceive. — (Exit. Jeehup.) — The circulating coins are like 
 the stationary countenances here, — yellow, I suppose — 
 Eh, waiter? 
 
 Rub. 
 
 O, Sir, our waters are a sovereign remedy for the Yel- 
 lows. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Have an affinity for the colour of Gold, I presume — 
 but, judging from what I see, — (looks hard at Rub,) — don't 
 impair the lustre of Brass ? 
 
 Rub. 
 
 Your 're right, Sir. Our Belles take on the gilding the 
 better that they're first ivatered. — (Bell Rings.) — But I'm 
 wanted. — Coming ! — Exit. 
 
 Tom, (to Rub, as he goes out.) 
 
 Come back instantly — I shall want you. — The servants 
 here are not above the cast off wit of their masters, though 
 they scorn to wear their clothes. — (Sits down.) — Well, 
 here I am in Cheltenham, while my worthy father thinks 
 I am studying Irish character and Malthus on Population, 
 on the borders of the Bog of Allen, or political consis- 
 tency and temperate discussion near the Corn Exchange 
 of Dublin. But it was no wonder I got wearied of Ire-
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 115 
 
 land. The magnificence of architecture in the buildings 
 of the State in Dublin, afforded but a heightening to my 
 disgust at the misery of those of the people. A few shops 
 with plate glass windows made no amends in my view for 
 thousands of hovels without windows at all ; and I cared 
 not, in the provinces, to look any longer on a land, where 
 the very bogs were fertile, and the mind of man alone 
 was waste ; — where the rich wheat stalk grew so tall as to 
 have its brown ear above the head of the poor peasant, 
 whose food was like himself — trampled in the soil. — 
 (Rises.) — But, what the deuce has become of the waiter ! — 
 (Rings.) — (Reseated.) — It was not surprising, then, that the 
 blue mountains which I saw rise upon the opposite shore, 
 from the expanding waters of the bay of Dublin, tempted 
 me, by their resemblance to those of my country, to cross 
 into Wales. I am sure nothing short of my passion for 
 the beauties of nature, could have led me over to Milford 
 and then to Tenby. The mere fact of my fair townswo- 
 man, Miss White, being with her London relations on a 
 visit to that watering place, I am confident, did not ma- 
 terially weigh with me as an inducement to visit it, 
 though I confess had I been in time to have met with 
 her before she left, it would have heightened my relish 
 for the beauties of the vales of Towey and the banks of 
 the Wye. — (Rises.) — Nay, faith, rather perhaps prevented 
 thee Tom from seeing either ; since, but for learning from 
 herself that immediately after leaving Tenby, the party 
 purposed passing some time in Cheltenham, there would 
 have been as little likelihood of thy sitting in the Plough 
 inn here as of holding the plough shafts in Connaught. 
 
 Enter Rub. 
 Rub. 
 
 You called, Sir ?
 
 116 two blacks dont make a white. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 I (lid. — (Aside,) — Must be civil to this fellow. — You're 
 head waiter here ? 
 
 Run. 
 No, Sir. — There are six of us. I'm fifth in order. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Six ! — Why that's an army. — What is your name ? 
 
 Rub. 
 
 My name, Sir, is Willoughby Malwa Westonford, — 
 my godfather was an old Indian, Sir, — hut it's too long for 
 use here, Sir, where every minute has its motion. I'm 
 called Rub, Sir. The hells have short numbers and the 
 waiters short names in this house. The head one is called 
 Bow — the next, Pop — the third, Brush — the fourth, 
 Wipe — and my nearest neighbour, Scrub. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 You'll make a pretty neat thing of it here in a twelve- 
 month ? 
 
 Rub. 
 
 Why, Sir, Bow in a good season clears five hundred, 
 which pays his situation fine ; and then he has all the rest 
 of the year to himself. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Season, — Five hundred, — Situation fine, — What do 
 these words mean, man ? 
 
 Rub. 
 (Aside.) — Raw! — The first, Sir, four months; the
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. I 17 
 
 next, Pounds sterling ; and the last the sum each of u- 
 pay the landlord for the privilege of answering the ques- 
 tions of his lodgers. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 I perceive. — A crown as a retainer. — ( Gives money.) 
 (Rub looks at the money, but does not pocket it.) 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Put it in your pocket, Rub. — I shall need to ask some 
 more questions. 
 
 Rub. 
 
 O, Sir, I have not my silver pockets in these breeches. 
 I never wear the silver-pocket namelessnesses after dinner. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Indeed, — well, well, as you must get me some infor- 
 mation, I care not though I give gold for it. Half a 
 
 sovereign has got back a crown before now ( Takes and 
 
 gives money.) 
 
 Rub. 
 O, Sir, thank you — though I am a great friend to unan- 
 imity. 
 
 Tom. 
 How ? Unanimity ? 
 
 Rub. 
 
 Why, Sir, — I think it a great pity that States or Sov- 
 ereigns are ever divided. 
 
 Tom. 
 Rub, 111 make it a whole Sovereign, if you tell me
 
 118 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 how I shall find out whether a young lady has yet arrived 
 in Cheltenham, and where she stays. 
 
 Rub. 
 
 I shall, Sir (Holds out his hand.) 
 
 Tom. 
 
 O, no — enough of earnest — performance now, if you 
 please. 
 
 Rub. 
 
 Why, Sir, if you are so gay as to dislike earnest — you 
 will not quarrel with a joke. You will see the arrival- 
 book at Duffield and Weller's Library — and you may find 
 the name you want when you seek it there ! 
 
 Tom. 
 
 O you're a wag, Rub. — Well, as we were talking of 
 a Sovereign, you know, the old joke of taking the externals 
 from Majesty will serve me in turning it into a jest. — 
 But as you've got the half in gold, and the other half in 
 promise, you have really what makes up the whole of 
 many monarchs. 
 
 Rub. 
 
 Sir, — We're quits. 
 
 Tom. 
 The library is ? 
 
 Rub. 
 A dozen doors to the right. — This way, Sir. — (Exeunt.)
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 119 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 DUFFIELD AND WELLER's LIBRARY. 
 
 Duffield. (Across the Shop to a young girl, ivho acts as 
 
 Librarian.} 
 
 Maria ! — Will you hand me the Lihrary Book, till I 
 look over the List of Outstanding Works. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 In a moment Sir. — I am just removing some stains 
 from Sketches of Character, and then I shall blot out a 
 Human Life, just returned, and give it to you. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 ( Writing?) — How many Albums shall bye and bye have 
 been filled from these Scotch " Scrap Books," and " Cabi- 
 nets," and "Casquets," of which I must have yetanother fifty. 
 Why, I believe there's not a young lady in Cheltenham, 
 but has bought a copy of these works, and said " it was 
 unnecessary to send it home, as her Reticule could hold 
 the volumes ; and Mr. D. need'nt mention to whom he sold 
 it." I shall go halves with the Publishers in printing a 
 4to. Copy in Scrip type, like Trussler's Sermons, and dis- 
 pose in a confidential manner of a thousand ready filled 
 Albums. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 Here, Sir, is the list of " Outs," and a note of the 
 " Strays," 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 O ! — Why, there are a great many of these latter. — 
 (Reads.)— Maria Darlington — 2d. Edition. That mat- 
 ters little. — It was a pretty volume — but done up imper-
 
 120 TWO BLACKS DON T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 feet. It once showed the author's likeness, but seems to 
 liave had his Superscription rubbed ont. — (Reading.) — 
 Urn — Um — What ! — are two Marriages off, and is Adam 
 Blair again amissing ? I declare, I will not have another 
 Inheritance, or I shall be ruined. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 I rather think, Sir, Captain O'Callaghan has one, and 
 has sent it over to Ireland, that his Correspondent's let- 
 ters from Tipperary in which it is noticed, may be shown 
 to Miss Stubblechin. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 What, he who has already bespoke the Treatise on 
 Draining Waste Lands, and the Marriage Laws, and 
 returned Rejected Addresses in a high passion? 
 
 Maria. 
 
 The same, Sir. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 Let me see what is out. — (Reads.) — Miss Toupeetime 
 — Advice to the Teens. Lady Sarah Sterileton — Taylor's 
 Guide to Mothers. Mr. Winwife — The Sextuple Al- 
 liance. Mrs. Ramsbotham — Sayings and Doings, both 
 Series. Mr. M'Adam — Highways and Byeways. Mr. 
 Rainy — A Tour through Wales. 
 
 Enter Toivi Black. 
 
 Tom, {Gazing about.) 
 
 By Jupiter, I must be wrong. — This cannot be a 
 
 Circulating Library It must be the Assembly Card 
 
 Room, or a Private Club House. I crave your pardon, 
 Sir. — I was in search of Duffield's Library.
 
 I'UO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 121 
 
 DUFFIELD. 
 
 Then, Sir, you have found it. — Can I he of any service 
 to you ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 What, is this elegant saloon a circulating library and 
 bookseller's shop ? 
 
 DUFFIELD. 
 
 It is both, Sir. — I perceive you wonder that a liberal 
 profession, — and ours I conceive to be as much so as any 
 of the three who would monopolize the title, — should ex- 
 hibit liberality in the details of its prosecution. May I 
 ask if you are from town ? 
 
 Tom. 
 O, Sir, I am, as you may perceive, a Scotsman. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 Should you wish to have your name entered in the 
 book of arrivals ? 
 
 Tom, (addressing Maria.) 
 
 I think, madam, I should become very studious were 
 my librarian, with every volume he took from the shelves, 
 to bring a blush like that along with it — I beg your par- 
 don, Sir, but you recall me to the purpose for which I 
 sought to find out your establishment — May I be per- 
 mitted to peruse the book of which you speak ? 
 
 Duffield. 
 Undoubtedly, Sir. Here it is. 
 
 Tom, (glancing on the pages.) 
 Hill — Atkinson — Reach — Fortune — Tims — Grey —
 
 1*22 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 Brown — Black — White— White ! White !— where ?— 
 Mrs. Black — My own Inn ! I have found it, Sir. — 
 Pray, Sir, which way do I take to get back to the 
 Plough ? — Arrived yesterday ! — Then I am just in time. 
 — Is this your hand- writing, Sir, or the lady's ? 
 
 Duffield, (looking at the book.) 
 
 Permit me, Sir, to solicit your address before I answer 
 these questions. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 O, certainly. Here is my Card, Sir. — I am at the 
 Plough. — Mr. Thomas Black, Sir, — from Glasgow — 
 Was Miss White fair or dark, Sir. — It must be she ! 
 
 Duffield. 
 Is it to this line, Sir, you allude ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 The same. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 The hand-writing is mine, Sir. — An English lady called 
 yesterday. Mrs. Black was on her Card. She sub- 
 scribed for a month to the Saloon, but mentioned that her 
 friend was only to be in Cheltenham for a week. I had 
 just done entering the address, and was about to insert 
 that of the young lady — but paused to listen to her speak- 
 ing the real Scotch of the Waverley Novels, — (I had 
 been curious to hear it pronounced, Sir,) — when she 
 enquired "if her friend had put their names down — Black 
 and White" — which saved me the necessity of requesting 
 her Card, and perhaps putting a stop to the language 
 I was glad to hear spoken by a well bred woman.
 
 TWO BLACKS DONT MAKE A WHITE. 123 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I cannot doubt that it is She ! — Sir, I am highly obliged 
 to you. — I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again — 
 when I have paid my respects to these ladies, 
 
 DUPFIELD. 
 
 O, Sir, This is just the hour the lady-subscribers 
 most usually visit the Saloon. — You may chance to see 
 them here. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Well, Sir, I shall gladly take my chance of a rencontre. 
 Miss White has some book at present from the Library, 
 I presume ? 
 
 Maria. 
 
 Yes, Sir, — She has " West Country Sketches, or Re- 
 collections of the Clyde." 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Another proof ! — She remembers me fondly yet — my 
 very birth-place is hallowed to her ! 
 
 Maria. 
 
 — But she was very desirous to have " Changes," or 
 even " The Agreeable Surprise." 
 
 Tom. 
 
 By Jupiter, she shall soon have that ! — But here comes 
 
 a bevy of fair ones — I must seem to read (A group of 
 
 Ladies — young and old — pass on to the Saloon and take tip 
 Newspapers, fyc.) 
 
 Tom, (to Duffield.) 
 Your Ladies at Cheltenham take liberties with the Sun,
 
 124 TWO BLACKS DO\T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 I perceive, in the afternoon, for the freedoms it may have 
 enjoyed with their faces in the morning ! 
 
 DUFFIELD. 
 
 You are facetious, Sir — Have already the air of the 
 place ! — Drank the waters this morning, I presume ? 
 
 Tom. 
 Yes — and repartee follows of course. 
 
 Dcffield. 
 Indeed — from what Spa, Sir ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Oh ! the Quakers' to be sure ! — How the Times are 
 disturbed by that near sighted old lady ! She tumbles 
 them about oddly. 
 
 Duffield. 
 The Times, Sir, are too hard for old women. That 
 lady is a terrible destroyer of Posts. — Nay, she generally 
 dispatches two Couriers of a morning. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 The Devil ! — Well it seems odd to Scotsmen the cus- 
 tom of ladies mingling in all the amusements of the place 
 precisely as men do — and yet, there is no good reason 
 why they should not gratify their taste for seeing the 
 novelties of Literature, as well as we things with breeches 
 on. But how do you keep them silent ? 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 Nothing more easy, Sir. — There is now no restriction 
 in the Reading Room against speaking ; and since that 
 was the case, they never open their mouths — wider than 
 to show the good effects of this admirable Dentifrice.
 
 two blacks don t make a white. 125 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Of which I shall buy a box — ( Aside,)— to shut your 
 mouth — if it opens theirs. But my Black Swan is 
 resolved still to be a "rara avis." — So I shall take wing. 
 I tkinkshe is not one of this feather indeed— and " Fools 
 of &c." — as we pronounce it in Scotland. — You remember 
 the rest of the Proverb ? Good morning, Sir Exit. 
 
 Duffield. 
 
 Good morning. A blade this, that is somewhat blunt 
 — but a few visits here will give him an edge — at least, if 
 
 rubs will do it— for he is likely to meet with some Enter 
 
 him as a Subscriber, Maria — and send him " The New 
 Chesterfield." — Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 THE PLOUGH INN. 
 
 Landlord, Tom, Brush, and Scrub. 
 
 Landlord. 
 Shall you dine in the house, Sir ? 
 
 Tom. 
 Why — yes ; — at least I think so. 
 
 Landlord, (to Brush.) 
 Dinner. No. 33. 
 
 Brush. 
 Yes, Sir.
 
 126 two blacks don't make a white. 
 
 Landlord. 
 Real Turtle to-day, Sir. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Turtle ! — Turtle Doves, I hope — I certainly am in love 
 
 and must pop the question You have an elderly lady 
 
 here? 
 
 Brush. 
 
 Five and twenty, Sir, are at this, the Plough Inn, and 
 thirty two over the way at the Boarding-house. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 Brush ! — You're called. — (Exit. Brush.) — A wag that, 
 Sir. The fact is, Sir, your question is like the efficacy 
 of our waters — a delicate matter. We have no ladies so 
 elderly, Sir, but, like a good soil, the Plough will restore 
 their fertility. — Ha, ha ! 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Landlord — your wit is quite Harrowing to me. — You 
 really run the Rig too much. — Ha, ha ! — Why, you will 
 Furrow my cheeks with laughter, Sir. — Ha, ha ! 
 
 Scrub, (Aside.) 
 
 This Scotsman greases our Boniface's boots. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 You are too much for me, Sir. — But to business. — You 
 asked a question ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Half a one — when you interrupted me. — You have an 
 elderly lady with a young one under her charge in your 
 hotel — havn't you ?
 
 two blacks dont mark a whitet 127 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 More than one, Sir. — Do you know their names ? 
 
 Scrub. 
 
 It must be the Scotch lady that he's after. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 The Matron's is Mrs. Black. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 Oh! Parlour No. 17, Scrub — Scotch of course. Yes, 
 we have, Sir — civil people — few callers — young lady that 
 speaks like Guy Mannering, with her — must be the same ! 
 shall I say you'll dine at 4 with them ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Mr. hem — I have not the pleasure of knowing 
 
 Mrs. B., but am a friend of her fair charge — Do me the 
 favour to send up my Card, and say I request to be al- 
 lowed to pay my respects. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 Scrub Place this card on a silver waiter, and 
 
 Scrub. 
 
 Done ! — Exit. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Smart waiters here, Sir, as well as Silver ones. — 
 They anticipate one's wishes. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 They had need; — for if they waited till they were 
 born, they could not be off till they had seen then! die, let 
 alone be decently buried.
 
 128 two blacks don't make a white. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Pray, what is the distinction in Cheltenham between 
 an Inn where we can Board, and those houses whose 
 boards tell us we can be taken in ? 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 Why, Sir, — In this house you fancy you have the 
 
 pleasure of taking yourself away at an hour's notice In 
 
 the other, the delight of paying for imprisonment by the 
 week. Eating here, Sir, is Piece Work — there, mastica- 
 tion is a duty you owe to distributive and i - etributive 
 justice. Here, you may lose your appetite on a rare occa- 
 sion — there you never find it on any. — But here comes 
 Brush. 
 
 Brush. 
 
 Sir, Mrs. Black, although she does not know how to 
 distinguish you from her other friends of the name, 
 desires to see you. — (Aside.)— Darkness visible ! 
 
 Tom. 
 I only waited her summons ! — Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A PARLOUR. 
 
 Mrs. Black, (Seated.) 
 
 It is a misfortune to have a common name, — or to be 
 intimate with any who have. Here is the card of a gen- 
 tleman galled Black, — and as I have about fifty of the 
 same distinguished title on my visiting list, I cannot guess
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 129 
 
 whether he may he from May Fair or Aldennanbury ! — 
 But I shall soon see. 
 
 Enter Scrub. 
 Scrub. 
 Mr. Black, Madam ! 
 
 (Mr. Black enters ivith a profound congee.) 
 Mrs. Black, (Aside.) 
 An absolute stranger ! 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Madam, I have to apologise for intrusion ; hut learning 
 that a fair friend of mine was honoured with your chape- 
 ronage at Cheltenham, I ventured to express the wish to 
 pay my respects both to her and to her guardian. But, — 
 {looking around,) — I did not think I should have required 
 to introduce myself. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 My friend and yours, Mr. Black, is at this moment 
 abroad, — but I expect her immediate return. — Pray, be 
 seated, Sir. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 (Aside.) Devilish queer this ! — What shall I find to 
 talk about? — (Aloud.) — You have, I perceive, Ma'am, 
 the latest news from your friend's native country with 
 you. — (lifting neivspapers.) I have not seen a Scotch 
 journal for an age. — The very sight of one is refreshing. 
 
 Mrs. Black, (Aside.) 
 
 It must be the gentleman from India, — but he is
 
 130 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 young — and not yellow ! — (Aloud.) — I am happy to be 
 able to offer you any amusement, Sir ; for I fear my com- 
 pany, when you anticipated that of a young lady, must be 
 rather tiresome. 
 
 Tom, (laying down the papers.) 
 
 By no means, Madam, I assure you. — Yet I confess I 
 could not resist my curiosity to look into the state of Scots 
 Times, and had still a great fondness for a Free Press. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 It was natural, Sir. I had just been dipping into your 
 Chronicle although not la chronique scandaleuse, and re- 
 gretting although the news were, news indeed to me with 
 all a woman's love for novelty even in name, that the 
 Courier had travelled slowly to us, and without a Herald 
 of its approach. The good folks of the West have been gay 
 of late. — They have had a bonfire on a large scale in 
 their theatre and a masquerade in consequence. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 The one would be worth the looking at, — the other not. 
 No one would go to so large a playhouse but to see it 
 burned ; and as for a fancy ball in Glasgow, we might as 
 well expect a pyrotechnic display at the bottom of a tan 
 pit. Indeed in the one there would not be even barking, 
 which we are sure of in the other — and a great deal 
 more of sole would come out of it too ! 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 You can only refer to the male part of the masquera- 
 ders, Mr. Black, surely ! 
 
 Tom. 
 True. — The ladies would be only dull — the gentlemen 
 stupid.
 
 two blacks don't make a white. 131 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 Your opinion of the ladies of Glasgow appears to be 
 rather slight. — But they may have greatly changed since 
 you left home. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 O no, ma'am. It is solid as themselves, and little change 
 I think can he since I saw them. But I make exceptions, 
 ma'am — Miss White is one. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 (Aside.) — And who may Miss White he ? This spark 
 is vastly complimentary to my friend and her towns- 
 women ! — (Aloud.) — Appropos, are there many of our 
 name in your city ? 
 
 Tom. 
 
 A considerable number, but none I can except from my 
 remarks. — I am never misled by names, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 Indeed, Sir ! You are to be envied for your firmness. — 
 But I hear your friend's bell ring, which tells me she 
 
 must have come home I shall let her know your high 
 
 opinion of her — (aside) — and of yourself. 
 
 Tom, (bowing.) 
 
 You will do me much honour, Madam, and a friend's 
 service. 
 
 Exit Mrs. Black, courtesying profoundly. 
 
 Tom, solus. 
 
 Eh — hem ! — Was'nt there a sort of civil sneer in that 
 last look. What does it mean? — I can't have committed
 
 \3'2 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 any blunder ? Oh no ! — It is but that d — d impertinent 
 sort of superiority the best bred of these English put on 
 to us Beotians of the North How Mary will be de- 
 lighted ! — She'll be here in a second on the wings of 
 rapture. — It is needless to sit down — (taking up a news- 
 paper^) — or to read. Hera — a — see who's got married 
 since I left home — or buried. — (Reads.) — So ! Hunks 
 is dead at last, " beloved and regretted by all who knew 
 him" — which means nobody, for he was as deep as the 
 Straits of Gibraltar as well as being as narrow. Mar- 
 ried, — Bessy Bell! — Aye, she's off; — I might have had 
 her — but she was vulgar — positively patronised Cool- 
 breath in silks and sarsnets ! So Jemmy's gone to pot, 
 I see — Married a stationer's daughter. — He may wear 
 the Fools' cap for me ! — Nobody at the door yet. — It can't 
 have been Mary — or her " wings "are confoundedly clipped. 
 I may as well sit down though, — as a June matrimonial list 
 is somewhat fatiguing. Agnes is gone too — (Reads.) — She 
 was in a deuce of a hurry — might have got some one wor- 
 thy of her, if she could have waited. Every hook has its 
 bait, however. Some women, like fish, are caught by red 
 rags and feathers — others by mere worms and reptiles — 
 or any gaudy rubbish of more bulk — I have heard of one 
 that bit at a fine Pier Glass or Side Board, I forget which ! 
 — Here they come — (Rises') — No ! — The deuce, is Mary- 
 lame, or only lazy? — (Re-seated.) — Who's next. Eh — 
 what ! — the devil ! — No ! — It can't be — what an ass ! — 
 Let me read again — ( Goes to the window*) — " Married 
 on the l-ith instant, at Shap, Mr. Jerome Higgleswick, 
 Commercial Agent for the house of Dip, Drop, Gutter and 
 Brothers, Kensington, to Miss Mary White, daughter of 
 William White, Esq. Glasgoio." Mary White married — 
 married — to — to — the — Bagman of a Candlemaker ! — to 
 a tall seller of short sixes ! — Heaven and earth ! — am I in
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 133 
 
 my senses It is impossible ! — Yet — the place — half- 
 way on her road home ; the time, — a week ago ; — the sneer 
 of this d — d civil namesake of mine — all seem to confirm 
 it. — Shall I blow my brains ont ? — Ass ! — Where are the 
 bells in this stupid house. — I'll make short work of it — 
 (Rings the bell.) 
 
 Enter Scrub. 
 Scrub. 
 
 Sir, I 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Tell me have yon 
 
 Scrub. 
 
 Oh, Sir, I was just on my way to tell you, that Mrs. 
 Black and the young lady will be here in an instant. — 
 Exit. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 " And the young lady." — Then I myself have been 
 making a fool of myself, and Mrs. Black has not ! Why 
 did I not remember that there are twenty Wm. White, 
 Esquires, with daughters called Mary, in Glasgow, — and 
 that Duffield told me she was in his Readiug-Room here 
 yesterday I Let me compose my ruffled pinions — and 
 adjust my cravat — (Turns to the glass. While he is busy 
 with his toilet) 
 
 Enter Mrs. and Miss Black. 
 Miss Black, (to Mrs. Black.) 
 
 He must have thought us rude in our delay, yet from 
 your description I hesitate to believe it can be my old 
 persecutor returned from the Ganges.
 
 134 two blacks don't make a white. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 He seems busy in studying to put the best face on 
 matters, and has not even heard us enter. 
 
 Tom, (at the glass.) 
 
 Nobody ties la nozud gordien like myself. But that 
 white drapery can't be my neckcloth. — I know the very 
 wave of Mary White's muslin. She thinks to steal a march 
 on me. — At her old romps — She wants to blindfold me ! 
 I'll turn round and astonish her with a Scotch salutation. 
 — That tie sits at last. 
 
 (As he speaks Mrs. Black advances slowly to announce 
 herself. He turns suddenly round and clasps her in 
 his arms, exclaiming — ) 
 
 Nay, I shall be first with you, dear Mary. 
 
 Mrs. Black, (extricating herself, and adjusting her dress.) 
 
 Upon my word, Sir, you have made more than one 
 mistake, I trust, — for even Miss Black is not to be treated 
 with so much familiarity. 
 
 Tom — (bewildered, and seeing that Miss Black is not Miss 
 
 White.) 
 
 Miss Black!— Mrs. Black — Madam I— I — You are 
 not Miss White then — and I — upon my soul I do not 
 know what to say for myself ! 
 
 Miss Black (to Mrs. Black.) 
 
 My dear Madam let us leave the gentleman to recover 
 his senses, — for I assure you I never saw him before — if 
 I retain mine. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 Mr. Black, my love, will see at once the propriety of
 
 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. I ;J."> 
 
 withdrawing till he unravels his mistake; and when he 
 comes properly introduced, we shall do every justice to 
 the apology which he must no doubt feel called upon to 
 make. 
 
 Tom, (recovering himself,} 
 
 Madam! — I feel myself truly an intruder, but crave 
 permission to explain all at some future time. — (Exeunt 
 severally.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A PARLOUR. 
 
 MRS. BLACK and MISS BLACK. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! you did amuse me, my dear Madam, by your 
 description of my "friend." — But after all, that lies not 
 the yellow youth from Calcutta, who can he be ! He 
 seems, you say, on speaking terms with himself? 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 A self-assured muttering puppy ; but not with so much of 
 the Cheltenham complexion — had you seen him before he 
 blushed — (although I did not expect that at his face !) — as 
 you imagine. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 O, Madam, I positively do not imagine any thing very 
 hideous about him. The fellow was really more than 
 passable — To be sure he stammered sadly for the confi- 
 dent personage you thought him.
 
 136 two blacks don't make a white. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 I fear I may have been unjust; vivacity sometimes 
 seems assurance till it be tried by some unexpected stand- 
 ard. — But we are pretty sure of hearing something more 
 of him. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 — And seeing him too, I suppose — (aside.) — The deuce 
 take the fellow ! he won't keep out of my 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 Out with it Mary Hopes was the thought, and ought 
 
 to be the word. — He has made an impression, I see. — He 
 never named the place nor time, though. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 O, were he a true Scottish Lover, he would not forget 
 either to set tryst or keep it. 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 I declare, Mary, you are getting sentimental on the 
 occasion. — Come, come — there's your piano, sing me that 
 song in earnest, which ironically you often applied to your 
 Indian admirer, who has doubled Cape Hope with you, 
 I fear, as well as Cape five and forty with himself. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 Ah, he is in the Pacific now, my dear Madam, for 
 I suppose his love — like his love letters — has burnt out. — 
 But I will sing you the song in sober sadness. 
 (Seats herself at the piano, and sings:) 
 
 THE TRYSTING TREE. 
 
 (Set to Music by J. Macfadyen.) 
 
 Thou bonny hawthorn trystin' tree, 
 
 What blythesome hours I've spent near thee;
 
 I'UO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 137 
 
 For whar does time so lightly flee, 
 
 As 'neath the weel kenn'd trystin' tree? 
 The spring's first gowans round thee blaw ; 
 The balmiest dews upon thee fa' ; 
 Green, green's the knowe aneath thy shade, 
 Whar aft he happ'd me wi' his plaid ! 
 
 Thou bonny hawthorn, &c. 
 
 The Norlan blast though e'er sae bauld, 
 At gloamin, near thee's never cauld ; 
 Or else the hearts are warm and leal 
 O' them at e'en, wha to thee steal. 
 Thou bonny hawthorn, &c. 
 
 Sae Jamie's was ! an' surely mine, 
 — At least 1 hope sae, is as kin' ; 
 Forthough he's far awa' frae me] 
 Anither's mine shall never be. 
 
 Thou weel kenn'd weel lo'ed trystin' tree, 
 
 What hours beside thee now I dree ! — 
 
 The mair I sigh or dowie be 
 
 The mair thou'rt dear, thou trystin' tree. 
 
 I ne'er shall hae anither jo ; 
 Though ye forget me, Jamie, No ! 
 But ye'll come back frae o'er the sea 
 An meet me at the trystin' tree ! 
 
 Thou ne'er forgotten trystin' tree, 
 
 A heart was lost, an' won near thee ; 
 
 The lave can 'bout ye naething see, 
 
 But mem'ry maks ye dear to me ! 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 Ah, Mary ! — you are more than half' in love now, I see, 
 for you sung that song with what you call birr, in Scot- 
 land — feeling, here — and gusto, in Italy. 
 
 Enter Scrub. 
 
 Scrub. 
 Ladies — a gentleman waits. 
 
 Mrs. Black and Miss Black — (at once.) 
 What. — He — already !
 
 138 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 Enter William Black. 
 
 William Black. 
 Oli !— did you expect me ? 
 
 Miss Black, (in a pettish lone.) 
 My brother ! 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 Mr. William Black. 
 
 William Black. 
 
 Why — you look mightily rejoiced to see me ladies. — 
 'Pon my word, what with meeting a devilish warm friend 
 in the lobby, and two marvellously cold ones here, I am 
 driven from the Torrid Zone to the Pole in double quick 
 time. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 Oh, dear William — pardon our surprise. We had 
 been led to expect a call from a strange gentleman of our 
 own name. 
 
 William Black. 
 
 From Tom Black, I dare be sworn. — Why, I just have 
 had an explanation with him in entering the Inn here. 
 There has been a whole chapter of blunders I learn. 
 But he is a good fellow, and I have asked him to dine 
 with us — even before I consulted you, Mary. — Any 
 offence in that ? 
 
 Miss Black. 
 None, dear brother.
 
 two blacks don't make a white. i .'}'.> 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 None assuredly — for with a long evening before us, all 
 mistakes will be explained, good humour restored 
 
 William Black. 
 
 And perhaps something better than even good 
 
 humour fostered. — Eh, Mary ? 
 
 Miss Black. 
 Oh, William ! — but I must to dress. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 DINING ROOM. 
 
 Mrs. and Miss Black, Mr. William and Tom Black, 
 
 seated at table. 
 
 William Black. 
 
 It was rather a lucky thing for you, and for Mary too, I 
 hope Tom, that I came to Cheltenham so opportunely last 
 night to convey my sister home, and saw you in the lobby 
 at the lucky moment. At all events, it saved you writing 
 a terribly long and apologetical or even, faith, penitential 
 letter. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 It did indeed — for, though amid my confusion, I recog- 
 nised the family likeness, which Miss Black has in common 
 with you, notwithstanding that I had never before seen 
 her, yet it would have been a tedious matter to explain how 
 I had the pleasure of once being a fellow member of our
 
 I 1(1 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 Literary and Commercial Society, as well as still a name- 
 sake and friend of her brother. 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 Why, we really must have sent you off to-day to Lon- 
 don or Glasgow for credentials, had you not had the for- 
 tune to meet William — and the sense to tell him all about 
 your sins. It was more than I could have expected of 
 you. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Indeed, Ma'am ! — But then allow for Duffield's blunder 
 of thinking your permission to put your name on " Black 
 and White," when you talked Scotch to please him, meant 
 that you were a Miss White with a Mrs, Black — How 
 could I but fall into error? 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 It was not unnatural in either Duffield or you, — al- 
 though it has led to results dramatic enough to be impro- 
 bable. 
 
 William Black. 
 
 As they really were, — for who would have believed a 
 month ago that Mary Black would have melted on the 
 top of Shap Fells before the ardour of a tallow chandler. 
 O ! Tom, Tom, your impressions have not been on spring 
 made composition, let alone on wax or spermaceti ! 
 
 Tom. 
 
 " No more of that Hal, an' you love me." — My grief 
 you see has not lasted even the length of the wick ! I was 
 not sufficiently sentimental for her, you say ?
 
 two blacks don t 3iake a whites. 141 
 
 William Black. 
 
 No ; you were " albeit unused to the melting- mood" — 
 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Tom. 
 
 But, my good fellow, it was fortunate for me that my 
 dear Mary was not so hardhearted as you woidd lead her 
 to believe I am ; for I may now tell Mrs. Black and your- 
 self what I see you both already half suspect, that tins 
 game of cross-purposes has turned up a trmnp card for 
 me — these contretemps a combination of lucky incidents ; 
 and if I have lost a mistress, I believe, in a month I 
 
 shall be able to say that I have found a wife Eh ! — my 
 
 dear Mary ? 
 
 Mrs. Black. 
 
 Ah ! Mr. Black. — Marriages, as the proverb says, must 
 surely be made in Heaven — though this one appears very 
 like one got up in Cheltenham ; — for it is very sudden, and 
 you set off to-morrow for Scotland ! 
 
 Miss Black. 
 
 Where we shall be tridy happy to see you — although 
 I fear my husband will always be regretting the truth of 
 the proverb, that had such confirmation yesterday — that 
 " Two Blacks don't make a White." 
 
 William Black, (aside to Tom.) 
 
 There's another proverb I remember ; you must needs 
 overturn the one, since you have confirmed the other, — 
 " One and One can never make Three." 
 
 Tom. 
 1 shall show, that in our case that may even be done with-
 
 142 TWO BLACKS DON'T MAKE A WHITE. 
 
 out the usual matrimonial exchange of a name. For (to 
 Miss Black,) I so love you that I never wish you to 
 
 wear another And, (to the Audience,) I trust you are 
 
 equally well pleased with Two Blacks, as I am with one, — 
 even although they do not make a White ! — (Exeunt.)
 
 THE SILENCE OF THE GRAVE. 143 
 
 THE SILENCE OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 There's quiet where the dead are laid, 
 
 There's silence where they sleep : 
 No matter where a grave be made, 
 
 There Peace will vigil keep, 
 And spread o'er that small stride of earth 
 
 A canopy of gloom ; 
 And noiseless is the tramp of mirth 
 
 Above the tomb ! 
 
 The bay 'net-scooped and slender grave, 
 
 Filled ere the battle's o'er ; 
 The corse-gorged, dark and yeasty wave 
 
 That heaves with sullen roar, — 
 Round these, may rave earth's wildest din, 
 
 Yet Silence droops its head ; — 
 It is enough they hold within 
 
 The voiceless dead ! 
 
 Yon churchyard, in the noisy street, 
 
 With many a lie paved o'er ; 
 Hath it a quiet, sad — but sweet ? 
 
 Oh ! no, but it hath more — 
 A silence horrid as the gap 
 
 Between each fitful sigh 
 That guilt expires, when in the lap 
 
 Of agony ! 
 
 Then, where the flowers their odours throw, 
 All noiseless in the air,
 
 144 THE GOBLET. 
 
 Where, without voice, the lilies grow 
 
 — O, be my last rest there ! 
 For wearied of the world's wild strife 
 
 I fain would quiet be ; 
 And Peace were cheaply bought with life 
 
 To one like me ! 
 
 THE GOBLET. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A DRINKING GUP MADE OUT OF WOOD, ONCE 
 PART OF THE RAFTERS OF ALLOWAY KIRK. 
 
 A relic that Time had made precious — aye more, 
 
 That Genius had hallowed with flame- written spell, — 
 
 Fond friendship away to Art's handmaidens bore, 
 And said, " Let its fashion its history tell !" 
 
 Transformed to a goblet, with silver girt rim, 
 
 Too small to hold aught but some essence divine. 
 
 " Behold !" as it sparkled with such to the brim, 
 
 Said the giver, " the goblet — the emblem are thine." 
 
 " May thy pleasures, like it, owe the half of their charm 
 That with Friendship and Song they are closely allied ; 
 
 But something intrinsic too cannot do harm, 
 
 Like this rim — and the spirit that flows o'er its side !"
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY VISIT. 145 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY VISIT. 
 
 " Notched in the kalendar of doom." 
 
 O are ye come ! — what now awaits 
 
 My lone and weary heart, 
 That thus I see you at my gates 
 Ye twain, and well may start ? 
 
 Remember ye, remember ye 
 
 The tidings last ye brought to me ? 
 
 'Twas on a day as calm as this, — 
 
 A Sabbath Sun rose bland, 
 And hallowed, by its rays of bliss, 
 A week-toiled, weary land, 
 
 Seeming, as it does now, to shine, 
 As 'twill do where no sad ones pine; 
 
 Light, life and beauty were abroad, 
 
 And all the joy of calm ; 
 My spirit knelt before its God, 
 My breath was one glad Psalm. 
 
 Till my soul, dragged to earth again 
 Felt that its passions were its chain ! 
 
 For, ye revealed what frightened speech, 
 
 Far from my palsied tongue, 
 And uttered sounds — the briefest which 
 Had Fate upon it hung. 
 
 Oh ! that one hour of agony,— 
 To suffer it, and not to die !
 
 14f) THE ANNIVERSARY VISIT. 
 
 I've lived — I live to see the day, 
 
 The day and you return 
 
 What, come ye as of old, they say, 
 
 Around the funeral urn 
 
 Friends met, — where kindred ashes slept, 
 And were — as now I am — he- wept ? 
 
 Away ! — there's hut one pang that Fate 
 
 Can add to what I've borne, 
 Since ye came last in two-fold state 
 As now, to The Forlorn : 
 
 'Tis pity — salve for skin-deep sores — 
 Canker for wounded bosom's cores ! — 
 
 Or come ye, annual visitants, 
 
 Freighted with one vast ill ? — 
 Another as the last ! — it wants 
 No more to quickly kill. 
 
 Another ! ah ! there's but one Hell, — 
 One woe, such as 'twas yours to tell ! 
 
 But ye are welcome ! — come, behold 
 The work your words have done ; 
 Look on my frame, — my blood is doled 
 In droppings, one by one ; 
 
 These bones are crumbling into dust — 
 My heart is broken with my trust ! — 
 
 You I reproach not — far less hate 
 
 Such were ungrateful — No ! 
 Ye were but as the tongues of Fate, 
 Wind that bore to and fro 
 
 Its shaft ; and even ye tried to still 
 
 The swelling waves: — 'twas past your skill !
 
 EPISTLE. 147 
 
 EPISTLE 
 
 FROM A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS, ON HER TREATING 
 HIM WITH FRIVOLITY. 
 
 There was a sunshine on your face 
 
 When last we parted, which, if not a grace, 
 Was yet, as all thou art is, its near kin; — 
 So near indeed it seemed its sister-twin. — 
 
 Yet trust me I had rather seen 
 
 Thy frowns — and frown thou canst, — than marked 
 
 thy mien 
 Touch, as it did, upon the bounding - line 
 
 Twixt all I hate — and all I hold divine. 
 " What !" you exclaim, — perhaps with that chill' d fire, 
 To love more killing than mere vulgar ire, — 
 " What ! shall my looks in thoughtless, artless mood, 
 " Or with design so guiltless, that 'tis good, 
 " Even in the motive, as 'tis in the end, 
 " Risk a cold lover, or offend a friend ? 
 " If such my fate, nor love nor friendship sought, 
 " — Alone — if but uncriticised — my lot 
 " Would happier be, than thus to tacit yield, 
 " A woman's privilege — a woman's shield, — 
 " The power to look, without Deceit's fold spot 
 
 " The thought she feels not — and the thing she's 
 not !" 
 
 Good ! — 'Tis your sex's privilege, I'll allow — 
 
 Would you ask more ? to your demand I bow ;
 
 1 48 EPISTLE. 
 
 But laying all my claims against its use 
 From you to me aside, 'tis its abuse 
 Alone I'll speak of : — Power's first, best ingredient 
 Is a small sprinkling, love — of tbe expedient. — 
 If you deem't prudent to conserve your rule, 
 By sbowing how you love to play the fool ; 
 Think there's a grace in triflings gaudiest guise, 
 Forbid it heaven I e'er should wish you wise ! 
 If you believe that rattling a slave's chains 
 With scornful mirth, that jests while it disdains, 
 Full in his face, doth bind the links more close 
 Around the Thrall then I am at no loss 
 To see a motive for what else to me 
 Seemed but a very aimless tyranny. — 
 — But think again — imperious woman, think, 
 Ere you rush headlong to the dizzy brink, 
 Where yawns below the gulf of wild regret ; — 
 Where friends have parted as they ne'er had met ; 
 While one plunged in, without a nobler aim, 
 But that the other, maddened, might the same. 
 'Tis vain the thought — if e'er 'twas dreamt of me : — 
 — Thou canst not, wildly as I worship thee, — 
 Thou canst not tempt me more to venture where 
 There's but one leap from rapture to despair ; 
 Where thou would'st with me climb love's loftiest 
 
 steep 
 That thou might'st, if thou willed it, plunge more 
 
 deep 
 
 Into its opposite ! — No ! No ! — 
 
 So far as fond allegiance I will go 
 — Yea to that furthest love's most outward bound, 
 Where still one sentinel of Pride is found ; — 
 Yea, far — so far as self-esteem's pale shade
 
 EPISTLE. 149 
 
 Will haunt the sunshine which thy love has made ; 
 But never, woman ! where its vertic ray 
 Steals, in that shadow,* half myself away. — 
 But I have done. Enough has now been said 
 If Love still live in thee — too much of it be dead ! 
 
 h The impossibility of aii extended shadow in tropical climates, is 
 a well known and obvious fact.
 
 THE CIGAR; 
 
 BEING 
 
 THE INTRODUCTION TO A FRAGMENT, 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY PORSON. 
 
 A TALE.
 
 " When 1 drink this tobacco, straitewayes mie fancie becomethe as lighte as the 
 vapoure which I pufife forthe, and mie thoughtes as odorifferous. Songes have beene 
 made on the bowie, whereby men meant the wine cuppe ; but the bowle of a pype 
 is the truest Care killer." 
 
 Noe Pltfe on Puffeing. 
 
 " Leaves !" — there be many sorts— the autumn sears 
 
 And scatters thousands o'er the yellow plain ; 
 
 There are too, those, the taking which doth wrench 
 
 The heart from what it clings to ; and there are 
 
 The Sybil leaves of Passion, and of Fate ; 
 
 Where, writ in tears or blood— that quenches not 
 
 The burning thought they tell— love's story's penn'd, 
 — /nd these are of them!" — 
 
 The Darke Conceite.
 
 THE CIGAR. 
 
 Nothing once united the appearance of fashion, and the 
 possession of actual comfort so much, as the smoking of 
 a cigar. It gave one, when seen with it in his mouth, 
 the appearance of having been beyond the boundaries of 
 his native country ; of having even crossed the line, or 
 served, first volunteer, and next capitano in the ranks of 
 some continental Sovereign, or State. Twenty or thirty 
 years ago it might almost have been sworn, that one who 
 smoked the real Havannah, in an evening walk, had re- 
 turned from the Czar of Muscovy's dominions, or had 
 retired on a pension from the Scotch Company of the 
 Prussian guards, or the Caledonian Legion of his most 
 Christian Majesty.* 
 
 It is impossible to catch cold, even in this raw climate, 
 while smoking a cigar. Now, I should like to know what 
 other employment, or amusemeiit either, can be named 
 with the same recommendation. — Does one ride ? He is 
 frozen or ducked. Does he walk ? He is, however for- 
 tified by cork soles, or copper health-preservers, sure to 
 catch damp feet, catarrh's nearest kin', and a gentleman 
 usher to the bedchamber Even talking is fraught with 
 
 * It is scarcely necessary to remark that this was written before 
 every boy had presumed to puff away his pocket money. 
 
 L
 
 154 THE CIGAR. 
 
 risk ; besides, every day talk, we all know, is a thing 1 of 
 smoke and fog, heavy, but unsubstantial ; so it is surely 
 better to prevent catching cold by puffing fragrant wreaths 
 of smoke, than to send out what is as thin and flighty, 
 and at the same time, draw in a dose of hoar frost, or raw 
 fog to the manifest detriment of the surface of the larynx. 
 In short, ten years ago had a young fashionable asked 
 me what single accomplishment would serve most to com- 
 municate to him, that airy nonchalance which travelled 
 gentlemen, members of the continental club, and others, 
 alone possess, I should unhesitatingly have recommended 
 him to consume a box of the real Cuba growth, with or 
 without straw mouth pieces. The thing is now vulgar 
 however since lawyers' apprentices have taken to it. I 
 still get my supplies of these delicious, but like pleasure, a 
 moralist would say, self-consuming tubes notwithstanding 
 from Hardham of Pall Mall. One evening, lately, however, 
 my mahogany box, (withpaper joints, none else exclude the 
 damp,) was unexpectedly found empty, and I was obliged 
 to procure some from an adjoining Tobacconist. They were 
 pretty tolerable, but had Scotch Straws, which, every body 
 knows, are not so stiff or smooth as those of England, — 
 Somersetshire, I might say, par eminence. The servant 
 brought them in, neatly rolled up in a somewhat larger 
 sized piece of paper than tradesmen are accustomed to 
 dole out to their customers, in the shape of wrappers and 
 coverings. It was after dinner, but I love of all things, 
 to have a solitary or social smoke, I care not which, in 
 the twilight hour, or as they picturesquely call it in Scot- 
 land " The Gloamin ;" so the candles were not yet lighted. 
 I stooped down to set fire to a piece of the paper in 
 which the packet had been wrapped, when, by the reflec- 
 tion of the flame from the bars of the grate, I discovered 
 that it was closely written over in a small neat Italian
 
 THE CIGAR. 155 
 
 hand. This attracted my attention, and I paused hefore 
 I committed it to the tender mercies of live sea coal. 1 
 had sometimes seen fragments of Bankrupts' or deceased 
 tradesmen's account hooks employed for similar purposes 
 with the present slip ; but never had I observed before 
 a handwriting so peculiar, and even elegant, on any of 
 these torn leaves of Debtor and Creditor formality. I felt 
 so much interested in the explanation of this somewhat 
 uncommon circumstance, that I gave my curiosity prece- 
 dence of my custom, and, before I took a single whiff from 
 my tube, nay, before I had even lighted it, I ordered 
 candles into my room. The untouched cigar was laid 
 on the table beside my spectacle case ; and the contents 
 of the latter were placed in their most fitting situation, 
 when I began to stretch out the rumpled creases of the 
 larger piece of paper. This being done I joined it to the 
 fragment that had been separated from it as a succedaneum 
 for a taper. When this was achieved, a work of some 
 nicety and tediousness, I eagerly set myself to decipher 
 the whole contents of what I now found to be a leaf of 
 a very large sized MS. — It appeared to have belonged to 
 a work of considerable extent, for the numbers expressed 
 upon the corner of the two pages were respectively 106 and 
 
 107 What the nature or purpose of the volume had 
 
 been, I could not, from the perusal of this very small por- 
 tion of it, and some more leaves which I sent to secure 
 from the Tobacconist, easily make out. — However it ran 
 as follows, and was headed —
 
 156 
 
 HENRY PORSON. 
 
 HENRY PORSON, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 # 
 
 " The only resource I had, to ease the perpetual feverish 
 throbbing- of my blighted heart, was to plunge with, if 
 possible, deeper eagerness, into the study of the most re- 
 volting and mysterious branches of the science more 
 intimately connected with that which necessity had now 
 determined me upon making my profession. — I was un- 
 known and unfriended in G , to the University of 
 
 which I had resorted, from motives of necessary economy, 
 in preference to other schools of greater reputation though 
 not perhaps of superior excellence — hence pleasurable 
 society was denied to me ; and, although I had possessed 
 the means of frequenting public places of amusement, 
 there were none sufficiently attractive to a cultivated 
 mind encouraged in that vast, and, in its taste and man- 
 ners, truly suburban city, as would at all have tempted 
 me. — A profound knowledge of anatomy, I felt convinced, 
 was the true foundation, on which to rear a superstruc- 
 ture of eminence, in the profession of Medicine and Sur- 
 gery. This study, then, I pursued, with an ardour and 
 enthusiasm nearly akin to madness. Ambition was ever 
 a ruling passion in my bosom, only second in its sway 
 over me to that of love. I was determined to excel in 
 whatever I attempted, and I felt my constant devotion to
 
 HENKY PORSON. 157 
 
 study, to a certain extent, supersede the bitter remem- 
 brances which, in every unemployed moment, I felt crowd- 
 ing, with overwhelming force, upon my soul — Shall I con- 
 fess it too ? — in the misanthropy of my blasted hopes and 
 expectations, I loathed the living man, and looked with 
 bitter scorn on the mental powers of which he so proudly 
 boasts the possession, yet so miserably perverts the use, 
 to the purposes of deceit, oppression and selfishness. — 
 The hand of Omnipotence, however crooked and distorted 
 man may contrive to shape his own heart and dispositions, 
 has given mechanical perfection to his corporeal frame. 
 There every thing is perfect : symmetry, and arrange- 
 ment the most consummate, are every where seen dis- 
 played ; nought is incomplete, nought is wanting, nothing 
 is superfluous. The complications, and most minute por- 
 tions of this wonderful machine, in my unruffled moments, 
 it was my delight to study, with a deep and holy sense of 
 reverence and wonder ; but there were hours, and nights, 
 yes, times, in the deathlike silence of the midnight noon, 
 when all around me were buried in slumber, during which, 
 with a fiendish delight, that on recollection I shudder at 
 with unspeakable horror, I would gloat over the mangled 
 limbs of some noble, lovely or manly form. — The inani- 
 mate remains of strength and beauty, were often pros- 
 trate before me, and as my dissecting knife sunk into the 
 firm or the already corrupting flesh, I felt a horrid thrill 
 of triumph in the thought, that, however loveliness in 
 woman's shape had scorned, deserted and betrayed me, or 
 subtlety and strength triumphed over me, or mere out- 
 ward form mocked me in its triumphant rivalry, " To this 
 complexion it should come at last." 
 
 One night — it was in December, — the storm had in- 
 creased to a hurricane, and the wind howled drearily 
 through the deserted streets of the large and crowded
 
 158 HENRY PORSON. 
 
 city, when two fellow students and myself sallied forth 
 from our noctui nal studies, with the design of proceeding 
 to a room, wu?re a few of us met, for prosecuting private 
 dissections, and where was a subject, which the resurrec- 
 tionman, in our employment, had previously informed us 
 he had procured from one who supplied him with corpses 
 from Ireland. The hours of midnight were the only ones 
 which we could devote to these unhallowed pursuits, when 
 the surrounding neighbourhood was hushed to rest; for the 
 repugnance of the lower ranks to anatomical investiga- 
 tion, as it is generally conducted, is greater in Scotland 
 than, perhaps, in any other part of the world. — They look 
 with a holy horror on the violator of Sepulchres, and re- 
 gard him who disturbs the repose of one in his narrow 
 bed, (however humble may have been his station,) in 
 nearly the same light as they woidd a murderer. I was 
 never superstitious, but I have often, when, in the silent 
 hours of midnight, I was engaged in examining the or- 
 ganic structure of some inanimate form stretched before 
 me, felt, as the wintry winds sighed mournfully among 
 the alleys and chimney tops, a sensation of fear, deep and 
 painful, but not cowardly. — I never shrunk, although I 
 often trembled ; thus proving, what I have long believed, 
 that there is a courage in connection with fear ; and that 
 they are cowards, in comparison, who have never known 
 terror, to those who have — but have also conquered 
 and surmounted it. — The wretch whom we were forced 
 to employ as our procurer, was too much stupified, by 
 his evening potations, to have prepared the room, for 
 our reception, where we were accustomed to meet. — It 
 was cheerless, cold and gloomy. — The Subject was not, 
 as was customary, ready laid out for our inspection ; and 
 no candles could be procured. The Ian thorn of Grimsby, 
 such was our drunken porter's name, was our only
 
 HENRY PORSON. 150 
 
 guide through the palpable obscure ni ocr garret, the 
 darkness of which, it faintly, and fearfully illuminated. 
 My fellow students, in these circumstances, declined 
 entering upon their investigation for that night ; but 
 I was forced to persevere, from being engaged in the 
 composition of an essay on the diseases of the heart, (alas! 
 how well calculated was I, from experience, to dilate on 
 a certain class of these diseases, which are beyond the 
 physician's art or inquiries !) The time allowed for the 
 finishing of my paper required, that not a moment's delay 
 should take place in prosecuting some of the researches, 
 upon which its conclusions were to be founded. I there- 
 fore determined upon remaining, though alone, and ill 
 accommodated ; and when the others had departed, after 
 trimming, as well as I could, the miserable glimmering 
 lamp in Grimsby's lanthorn, he lying asleep in the lobby 
 leading to the apartment, I untied the sack, which lay in 
 a corner, and there found the corpse of a female, of more 
 than ordinary stature. It was closely wrapped up in the 
 habiliments of the grave ; and, after the fashion of foreign 
 countries, had a wreath of artificial flowers twined around 
 the brow. This struck me as remarkable, for it had been 
 brought over from Ireland by Grimsby, who arrived in 
 
 G on the morning of that very day. As I lifted 
 
 it up the hand was uncovered. — It was a model of form, 
 and seemed as if it had been framed of alabaster by 
 Chantrey's matchless chisel It was thin, but not ema- 
 ciated — and though slender, yet uniformly small It told 
 
 of the youth and beauty of her, who had once ruled its 
 motion. Never had I seen the hand of any but one, that 
 could at all equal it in graceful beauty. — " That one," 
 said I to myself, " made the bounties of her charity, like 
 blessings from the Deity, by the very manner in which 
 her lovely hand dispensed them. Often, when it has ae-
 
 160 HENRY P0RS0N. 
 
 cidentally touched me, has it thrilled my frame with ex- 
 quisite sensations. That hand — it has been pressed in 
 mine, hut it shall be so no more ; — it has been sealed with 
 the warm kisses of a love that must wax cold. — That 
 hand — but ere this it is, I fear, — I almost frantically hope — 
 another's — and for ever !" 
 
 After I had finished this monologue, still too deeply 
 absorbed in the memories to which these words gave rise, 
 and the thoughts they expressed, to attend to what I was 
 engaged in — I unconsciously proceeded to uncover the face 
 of the corpse, which I had stretched on the table before 
 me. — This done, I paused, whilst my hand rested upon 
 the cold features of the female form, and internally re- 
 volved in my memory the wild and agonizing, yet still 
 cherished reflections, which the train of thought I had 
 fallen into, had revived, in all the freshness of recency. 
 I pictured out to myself, in vivid colours, my home — my 
 native home — my boyish haunts, and her, who was the 
 sun of these, that threw radiance and beauty round them. 
 — I lived again on that balmy eve in June, when on the 
 
 banks of the softly flowing , I knelt, and vowed, 
 
 and told my passion to Louisa, and hung with rapturous 
 and impatient ardour on the half stifled words that escaped 
 her lips, which told, more eloquently than if they had 
 been pronounced with studied grace, that I had won her 
 heart in losing my own. All the anguish of hope deferred 
 — all the agony of disappointment were now forgotten. 
 To me it was, at this moment, as if slander had never spit 
 its venom on my fame ; as if fortune had never deserted 
 me ; as if Louisa still lived, and lived for me, in mine own 
 green isle of the ocean ; as if she had never been forced — 
 but half reluctantly, alas ! — deceived and doubting — 
 away to her native Switzerland, to be the wife of 
 Fabier She stood and smiled before me — smiled as she
 
 HKNRY PORSON. 161 
 
 was wont to do, while her auburn tresses hung o'er lier 
 swanlike neck, and marble bosom, in all the yellow lustre 
 of a saintly halo. — She smiled again upon me — approv- 
 ingly, and with more of mirth than was her custom, light- 
 hearted though she was. — I stretched out my arms to 
 clasp her to my panting bosom, into which she seemed 
 ready to drop. — My hand was removed from the face of 
 the corpse, but my eye unconsciously wandered towards 
 
 it The dream was broken ; the vision had passed away ! 
 
 — Wild — senseless — breathless, horror seized upon me — 
 Oh God ! who chastenest thy sinful children, what did 
 I ever do to deserve aught — aught like that ! — Edward ! 
 — it was Louisa that lay dead before me ! — The form I had 
 essayed to clasp, was lifeless clay, — the smile that cheered 
 me in vision, was changed to the silent composure of real 
 death ! 
 
 I again looked, doubtingly — and hopingly : — a moment's 
 glance convinced me of the dreadful reality. — Too — too 
 deeply were these features (lovely, — how lovely even in 
 death !) engraven on my memory, — too much were they 
 separated from every recollection and association, save 
 their own, to admit of a moment's mistake. — I was 
 speechless with wonder — every nerve vibrated — every 
 limb of my body trembled in convulsive agitation. The big 
 drops of moisture which exuded, from every pore of my 
 frame, as if I had been crushed to pieces, poured down 
 my breast and brow in cold and clammy streams. I felt 
 within as if my mental parts became material and were 
 dragged from my bosom, while my heart-strings were 
 strained and cracked, by legions of fiends, to whom my 
 imagination assigned no shape, but left in airy and awful 
 indefiniteness. The hoarse growl of Grimsby's disturbed 
 slumbers, and the wild sepulchral moan of the wind, and 
 rattling of the rain, as if on grave stones, gave a voice to
 
 162 HKNRY PORSON. 
 
 the silent horrors of the scene Nature sunk beneath the 
 
 struggle, and I fainted away. 
 
 What time elapsed, while I was in this state, I never 
 knew. On recovering sensibility, I doubted the reality 
 of what had taken place, and fancied it, as I lay on the 
 floor, to have been some frightful dream. The glimmer- 
 ing and expiring lamp, and the hard boards on which I 
 lay, however, told me where I was. — I started up with 
 frenzied haste to resolve my doubts. Louisa still lay 
 before me in sweet and unruffled — beautiful repose. I 
 now believed 'twas she, as I printed warm — feverish 
 kisses on her clay cold lips, which yet showed no symptoms 
 of decay: — the worm, less remorseless than death, his pro- 
 vider, had refrained, as yet, from banqueting on such 
 beauty ! Horror had now given place to grief, and the com- 
 parative tranquillity of the latter emotion, suggested and 
 permitted the asking of myself, how this catastrophe had 
 happened — how — where — and (smile not at the thought) 
 — why had Louisa died ! It must have been in peace; — no 
 agonies had left their wrinkles on her brow, and fixed 
 features ; no loathsome or violent disease had impaired 
 their beauty. Again, and again I questioned myself where 
 had she died, whom I believed that moment in France. 
 
 How here ? — by what mysterious chain of circumstances 
 
 has this taken place ? Increasing, — aggravated, — despair- 
 ing agony, was the only response to which these questions 
 
 gave birth My agitation every moment increased ; my 
 
 brain throbbed, and my breast heaved with intolerable pain. 
 — Oh! how I longed that they would burst, and make 
 me happy, as the quiet corse before me — because, like it, 
 insensible ! I threw myself on the body of Louisa — She 
 was mine, though but in death ; and while I pillowed my 
 head upon her cold, cold bosom, I groaned defiance at the 
 fate which had dared to separate us. — The garments of
 
 HENRY PORSON. 163 
 
 the grave were turned aside from her breast, hy my con- 
 vulsive agitation, and thus revealed, tied closely to her 
 left side — to her heart, her once warm beating heart — a 
 picture. I knew it well — it had been mine — it was the 
 likeness of myself ! What volumes of unspeakable mean- 
 ing this discovery laid open to me ! What thoughts then 
 flashed upon my soid ! — Louisa, in her latest hour, had 
 loved me. — In the pangs of death, the pictured image of 
 one, who doated on her, had cheered — had soothed — had 
 consoled her ! — The current of her affections had returned 
 to their early channel.— r The mist of doubt and of slander 
 had passed from before her gaze — I tasted — I quaffed at 
 that moment the joy of despair ! My hoarded love gushed 
 out, from the heart's core, with overwhelming and resistless 
 force. — It carried reason and recollection before it, and 
 I clasped Louisa's senseless form to my palpitating bosom, 
 wildly exclaiming " Mine, — now for ever mine, Louisa !" 
 
 A blank occupies the space which should record the 
 two succeeding years of my life — a fearful void occurs in 
 that, as well as in my memory. 
 
 I have since learned that, on the return of day, I was 
 discovered sitting, in vacant wildness of mien, upon the 
 floor of the apartment, clasping Louisa's body to my heart 
 and supporting her stiffened frame. It was found nearly 
 impossible to separate us. — My grasp was convulsive, 
 and the only words I uttered were " Mine — now for ever 
 mine, Louisa!" The portrait, bound with devoted love 
 near her heart, told in part our story to those who took
 
 164 HENRY PORSOK. 
 
 an interest in my fate. The likeness had been correct 
 and striking. — We — yes we, (how I yet wildly doat 
 on the plurality of that word, and the conjunction which 
 it speaks of, that in spite of death took place betwixt 
 Louisa and him who had vowed never to be another's) we 
 were sent to my friends in Ireland, and it required the 
 force of many men to tear me away from her coffin on our 
 arrival there, and after the process of corruption, which 
 had so long", more tender than her parents, delayed in pity 
 its destructive march, wovdd pause no longer. 
 
 I was placed in a receptacle for lunatics, where, I am 
 told my rage and despair were frightfully ungovernable 
 when I found that I was alone. A straw bundle became 
 my companion, and the repository of the rivers of tears 
 which I would often shed. They were frequently tears of 
 joy, as I strained the yielding but inanimate heap, which 
 I pictured to myself as Louisa, to my bosom, inces- 
 santly exclaiming, " Mine, now for ever mine !" — I was 
 restored to reason by overhearing a relative repeat in my 
 presence the soothing story of Louisa's death and love. 
 She had detected the treachery of Fabier ; had probed 
 his calumnies to the bottom, and had endeavoured to show 
 him, to her credulous parents, in his true and native 
 colours. They doubted — disbelieved her assertions, and 
 forced on the preparation for her nuptials with him. She 
 gently smiled at their determined haste. She knew that 
 before even the period they accelerated she would be the 
 bride of death — a spouse less fearful to her than was 
 Fabier. — Her physicians soon found it needful for the 
 recovery of her health, to prescribe her return to the 
 moist climate of Ireland, where she had been reared in 
 her infancy. She expressed her happiness on learning the 
 purpose of her parents of proceeding thither, rejoicing 
 that she would sleep in the Green Isle, the birth-place of
 
 HENRY PORSON. 165 
 
 her Henry, and of her love. She never hoped to see him ; 
 for it had heen cruelly told her, that he was obliged to fly 
 from the vengeance of his country's laws, — yet she now 
 doubted not his perfect innocence. 
 
 Scarcely had her parents arrived at their old residence, 
 when the spirit of hope and expectation, that had cheered 
 and strengthened her on her journey, withdrew its pleas- 
 ing support. — She had arrived at her destination — at the 
 scene of the nativity of her love — the home of her heart, 
 — and she was contented. 
 
 Her last request was, to be suffered to keep my picture 
 near her eye in the hour of death, and to have it, as her 
 companion, next her heart, during her slumber in her 
 grave, which she wished should be on the very spot, where 
 first I revealed my passion. Her wishes were granted, 
 and, spite of the sacrilegious hands that disinterred her, 
 she there rests again — and for ever, while the earth trea- 
 sures in its bosom its weary children. There is room 
 made in her sepulchre for me. — I ordered it so. — Oh ! 
 when shall Heaven permit me to become its tenant !"
 
 16G I DID NOT weep: 
 
 I DID NOT WEEP." 
 
 " For Pride did scorch, 
 And wither up the fountain of his tears : 
 There be no streams on Etna's blazing breast !" 
 
 I did not weep when I was told 
 
 Thy hridal day was near ; 
 But ah ! the words dropped icy cold 
 
 Upon my anguished ear. 
 Like " dust to dust" upon a bier, 
 
 The sounds sepulchral fell, 
 And my faint heart shrunk back in fear 
 
 At this its hopes' sad knell. 
 
 I met thee — on my marble brow 
 
 There wrinkled no fierce ire ; 
 I touched thee — thou wast changed, and now 
 
 The thrill had nought of fire ! 
 I smiled — my pride did that demand ; 
 
 And thou hadst taught how well 
 Deep thoughts may wear a guise all bland, 
 
 Yea smiled a cold Farewell !
 
 THE FIRST OF OCTOBER. 167 
 
 THE FIRST OF OCTOBER. 
 
 " Life's journey's but a circuit, ever turning 
 Within its bounded circumscription ; — thus 
 The goal is now the starting place, — that point 
 The winning post anon ; and for the milestones, 
 Why, every Anniversary is one!" 
 
 The Green Gossip. 
 
 Again thou contest, with stealthy tread, 
 
 Thou unforgotten day, 
 That roused me from my hoyish bed, 
 
 While yet thy brow was gray, 
 To don the weeds of weary toil, 
 And wear a bondsman's name ! 
 
 — Then fled the light and laughing smile 
 That never backward came 
 
 And bent to earth, — it could not break, — 
 The Spirit fettered to the stake. 
 Of many a bitter day the first, 
 Yet will I hold thee not accurst : — 
 
 Tho' that thou chained me to the oar, 
 
 With but an urchin's arm, 
 Since I have struggled to the shore, 
 
 Men think with nttle harm. — 
 They wot not of the vigds kept ; 
 
 They know not of the rust, 
 That round my soul hath, stealthy, crept, 
 
 And now its shine encrust ! 
 
 They see but the toil -hardened palm, 
 That tugged me thro' the strife and calm:
 
 168 THE FIRST OF OCTOBER. 
 
 — The hand is shrunk — it cannot clasp 
 The laurel — if 'twere in its grasp ! — 
 They cannot mete the passion-tears 
 Rained in the stream of Fifteen Years ! 
 
 — But, if that day you rudely tore 
 
 The climbing hopes, till then, 
 That nestled in my bosom's core ; — 
 
 But ne'er were mine again ; 
 (Not for ignoble wealth nor ease, 
 
 Not for the joys of sense, 
 Bear witness, Heaven ! No ! not for these, 
 But with a thirst intense 
 
 For the pure streams of classic truth 
 For food for my soul's famished Youth !) 
 — Thou led'st me sternly on the way, 
 Where, since, I've won for every day 
 Its morsel, with the toil that wears 
 Deep furrows, even in Fifteen Years ! 
 
 Since then, my second natal day, 
 The first in aught but date, — 
 For mere existence often may 
 
 Be but the slave of Fate ; 
 The stuff of Time-wove destiny 
 
 Be second to th' imparted hue, — 
 Few flowers have bloomed beside my way — 
 My gleams of sunshine been more few ; 
 Nor was one day of leisure given 
 Save that the gift, the debt of Heaven : 
 Perhaps 'tis well these all have withered 
 Round those storm clouds have wildly gathered ; 
 — Yet mine have been hours worth some tears — 
 Hours such as this — in Fifteen Years !
 
 THE FIRST OF OCTOBER. 169 
 
 When I have hied me from the din 
 
 Of Traffic's tread, and slmnn'd the joy, 
 — Such it was called — of what were sin 
 
 Since costly to the outcast hoy ; 
 And sought in song that truth to find, — 
 The harmony that girds the spheres — 
 I could not meet among mankind ; 
 
 And half forgot th' oppressor's sneers. 
 
 And when I felt my climbing strength 
 Bear me above the hoofs at length • 
 That trampled on my earliest germs 
 Of hope or promise, Life had charms. — 
 It may have triumphs too : — that cheers 
 The vista of next Fifteen Years ! 
 
 M
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 No. III. 
 
 I. COOKERY. 
 
 We have the highest poetical authority, (even if our own 
 observation did not convince us of the truth of the re- 
 mark,) for believing that cant prevails to an enormous 
 extent at the present day. There are few modes of cant- 
 ing more disgusting than the cant of abstemiousness, and 
 the outcry against good eating, and attention to Cookery ; 
 as if food were not made to be eaten, and reason did not 
 tell us that it is wisdom to possess every thing in its best 
 condition. 
 
 In fact nothing more distinguishes Man from other 
 animals than his propensity to have the sustenance dressed 
 which Nature requires for its support, so that all its 
 nutritious qualities may be brought forth, and nothing of 
 its strength or usefulness wasted.— Man is essentially a 
 cooking animal — His progress in civilization may be esti- 
 mated by his increasing attention to the preparation of his
 
 172 MUSIC AS AN ART. 
 
 food : Savages devour their meat raw ; would those who 
 rail against the good things of the table wish to carry us 
 back to that point of taste ? If they induce us to approx- 
 imate at all to it, assuredly we shall likewise retrograde in 
 every thing which distinguishes us from the native of Van 
 Dieman's land, or the inhabitants of Terra del Fuego. — 
 A taste for the delicacies of V Art de Cuisine is the herald 
 and the moving principle of improvement. — What artifi- 
 cial, which are often, by the bye, the most natural, be- 
 cause the most rational wants, does it create ! Political 
 Economists have proved that demand gives birth to sup- 
 ply ; without it, invention would have no stimulus, and 
 ingenuity no reward. Science would sleep. Would the 
 Smoke-jack or Lazenby's sauce have ever blessed the 
 world but for the delicate taste, attention to the pleasures 
 of the palate causes ? 
 
 But, seriously, it is surely solemn prosing to impugn 
 attention to what we cannot do without, and must three 
 
 or four times a day practise Good eating ought never 
 
 to be confounded with gluttony, and a clean and Avell- 
 dressed meal is not the smallest of sublunary comforts. 
 
 II. 3IUSIC AS AN ART. 
 
 Some writers who have aimed at being distinguished, 
 at least by singularity, if not by talent, have broached 
 the notion that, as the fine arts of old were allegorically 
 spoken of as sisters, each of them is not only intimately 
 connected with, but the features of each find corresponding 
 traits in all the others. — Thus, one writer, a German 
 I believe, will have it that each instrument used to pro- 
 duce musical sounds has a colour corresponding : he in- 
 stances the Trombone as being analogous to deep red ; 
 and so on, by a fanciful, but curious comparison, he satis- 
 fies himself that colour and the instruments'of sound have
 
 MUSIC AS AN ART. 173 
 
 so many features in common that one of either can be 
 named as the equivalent of the other. 
 
 Though not inclined to assent to all the opinions of 
 this ingenious speculatist, I am clearly of opinion that 
 there is an intimate connexion between Music and Paint- 
 ing ; that is, that many of the qualities and developements 
 of mental organization, which go to form a skilful Com- 
 poser would not be out of place, but on the contrary be 
 conducive to eminence, in Painting; and that first rate 
 productions in both departments often produce effects, 
 similar in nature, and even in degree, upon a sensitive 
 mind and imagination — Who has ever heard the hailstone 
 chorus of Handel, or seen the last judgment of Michael 
 Angelo, without recoiling back upon himself with pleasing 
 dread and wonder? Can the Hallelujah chorus of the 
 same great man be listened to, or the Transfiguration of 
 Raphael be gazed upon, without the soul being at once 
 elevated and vivified with sublime devotional fervour and 
 admiration ? The delicious airs of the Zaiiberflote of 
 Mozart melt every feeling down into luxurious softness, 
 as much as do the Venuses of Titian, or the Bachantes of 
 Gasper Poussin — The airs of the Don Giovanni of Mo- 
 zart, and the Garden Fetes, beneath a smiling moon, of 
 Watteau, breathe alike of the enchantments of Love, of 
 Enjoyment, and Romance ! Painting and Sculpture speak 
 a language as universal as that of signs, and as easily under- 
 stood by all, as the living displays of animation or passion : 
 — so does Music. These never require translation or 
 transfusion. — They address themselves to universally pre- 
 vailing feelings, and they are understood and relished by 
 the antipodes of the men of the clime in which they were pro- 
 duced — Space mars not their merit ; distance dims not their 
 lustre; nor does travel alter their appearance, or diminish 
 their power. Music is the elder born, but is not gene-
 
 174 PROXIMATE CAUSES. 
 
 rally allowed to rank with her sister in precedency — and 
 why ? Is not as great an effort of imagination brought 
 into play in the conception, and as nice tact of art in the 
 execution, of an oratorio, as of a Scripture painting ? — Of 
 an opera, with its completeness as a whole, and its variety 
 in parts, as of a landscape or a mythological scene ? To 
 compose an air is surely to do as much for the pleasure 
 and improvement of mankind, as to paint a portrait ; — to 
 marry immortal verse to imperishable strains, as to illus- 
 trate the Poet by the pallet and the pencd. Music too 
 has more of immortality in its constitution. — It never gets 
 mouldy, like the last supper of Leonarda da Vinci ; is never 
 burned like the Cartoons of Michael Angelo, nor plundered 
 
 like the Transfiguration It is not pent up for amateurs 
 
 and professionalists only in the galleries of the rich ; but is 
 treasured in the hearts and memories of thousands of every 
 country, to which its ubiquity has extended. They are 
 twin sisters, and their favourites ought to rank equal in 
 the scale of illustrious remembrance. The genius of 
 Haydn is said to have been similar to that of Tintoretto ; 
 of Pergolesi to that of Raphael ; that of Mozart to that 
 of Domemchino, and Handel's to Michael Angelo's : — 
 at least these were, to Music, what those mighty spirits 
 were to the sister art of Painting. 
 
 III. PROXIMATE CAUSES. 
 
 The tracing of Historical events to their proximate 
 causes is an amusing employment, but not so instructive as 
 is commonly imagined, — because in some degree delusive ; 
 flattering with the appearance of communicating curious 
 and useful information, whUe it often misleads and guides 
 into error. 
 
 It certainly is worth while knowing that the French 
 war of 1688, was caused, as "proximate" hunters assert,
 
 PROXIMATE CAUSES. 175 
 
 by one of the windows of the great Trianon Palace, then 
 newly built, being disproportionably small. But it is not 
 worth knowing this — and stopping here ; supposing that 
 we have the real proximate cause of that event before ns ; 
 and forgetting that this " proximate" had a thousand 
 proximates, which went to the production of it, while 
 these again were descended from " proximate causes" as 
 numerous. 
 
 It woidd be instructive, and it is possible, to go through 
 some of the links of the chain. A few of these may be 
 enumerated as a sample of the endless diversity that might 
 be stated, and as a means of enabling one to form a notion, 
 however slight and inadequate, of the thousand heads or 
 fountains from which these had their source : — 
 
 1st. The state of vassalage in which the mind and will 
 of the King was held by his minister, whose petulant 
 contradiction of his Sovereign roused that anger, which 
 the war was waged for the purpose of allaying, or for 
 diverting his attention from home affairs. 
 
 2d. The cause, from Education or Constitution of the 
 obstinacy of temper, in which the Minister of Louis in- 
 dulged. 
 
 3d. The reason for the slavish terror of the Architect, 
 whose judgment sided with the King ; but who durst not 
 contradict the King's servant. 
 
 4th. The "proximate" causes of the absolute power 
 which that Minister, and French Ministers in general, 
 possessed in their own Country, and in the Cabinets of 
 Continental Europe, &c. 
 
 5th. But it is needless to enumerate more. — 
 
 Enough has been adduced to show the utter impossibility 
 of tracing any great historical event to one sole originating 
 "proximate" cause; since every proximate has its proxi-
 
 176 ROOT OF REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 mate, and so backward to the unity of all causes antece- 
 dent to the birth of Time ! 
 
 IV. SINGLES OF VIRTUE. 
 
 I think it was a French writer, (at least the remark 
 partakes of the smartness, point and superficiality of the 
 maximists of that nation,) who said that " Rudeness of man- 
 ner was not a single vice." — There are, as a masculine intel- 
 lect and habit of observation would have told the French 
 
 " philosophe" no such things as single vices Vice in its 
 
 very nature is compound. With virtue it is different. — A 
 virtuous action may be the child of but one virtuous feeling, 
 or impulse ; but a vicious one, I am inclined to think, must 
 arise from a combination of causes. Take the very slight 
 instance of the Frenchman's apophthegm, Rudeness, and 
 analyze it. — It may spring from a cross temper, or a habit 
 of indulging our propensities ; from envy and the desire of 
 gratifying that passion at the expense of another ; or from 
 wit, and the desire of showing it, and also with it, our own 
 superiority. — Deliberate Rudeness, and it is only to those 
 vices which arise out of some degree of deliberation that 
 I allude, might, and often does spring from one or other 
 of these combinations ; — never from them singly or sepa- 
 rate. But the virtuous display of feeling in an act of 
 Charity, for example, may often result from nothing more 
 than pure and unadulterated pity, or the simple obedience 
 to the commands of Him who tells us that we are " Stew- 
 ards for the poor." 
 
 V. ROOT OF REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 Financial difficulties in a Government are those which 
 have more than any others, nay more than any other thing, 
 contributed to the progress of liberty and the liberalizing
 
 PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 177 
 
 of States, Kings, Constitutions and Customs. They 
 throw men out of the sphere of the latter by placing their 
 country in a novel situation. They stir the mind by 
 touching the pocket ; sharpen the perceptions by untying 
 the purse-strings ; kindle patriotism by cooling conse- 
 quence ; and level privilege by elevating industry. The 
 mechanism of power will not work long unsmoothed by the 
 oil of plenty ; nor the canal of corruption keep up the com- 
 munications of tyranny, when the revenue of a country 
 only moisten the channels it should flow through. 
 
 VI. PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 
 Old Ironside, the Guardian, has already admirably 
 painted the degrees of civility, shown by a rich man of 
 etiquette to persons of his acquaintance according to their 
 title and rank, from " My Lord, your devoted servant!" to 
 " Ha, Frank, how are you ?" Pride now-a-days displays 
 itself in the same, or perhaps a more offensive manner, 
 than etiquette did in similar circumstances in the time of 
 Queen Anne. 
 
 Jack Wilson was a schoolfellow of mine, and we were 
 often engaged in boyish pranks together. I was once 
 beaten for him, rather than tell that he was, and I was 
 not the aggressor ; and " Playdays," usually spent together, 
 in Summer, in Birdnesting, and in Winter in reading 
 whatever we could lay our hands on, provided it was 
 nothing " in shape or pressure," at all resembling what 
 we were forced to study during the rest of the week. 
 Well, Jack, being older than me, first left the school, and 
 by good luck or good interest, got a junior Clerk's place 
 in a Merchant's Counting house. He ceased then to in- 
 vite me often to his father's house : in a few months, he 
 ceased to invite me at all. Six months after he left school 
 he gave up taking my arm. In less than a twelvemonth
 
 178 PKIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 
 he shook hands through all the varieties of hearty — jok- 
 ing — kind — damp — cold — and frosty ; and hy the expiry 
 of that period fairly relinquished shaking mine at all — 
 His salary rose, and he got a long coat. — He then began 
 to Sir me when we met. When the bunch of seals and 
 white neckcloth were added, he passed with a " How 
 d'ye do," which, as months wore on got to a nod, and 
 came to a jerk, sideways, as if pride stiffened the neck, 
 and memory pulled it awry in spite of him. His eye- 
 sight and Memory, though he is but twenty-two, have 
 
 now, both deserted him (Copying letters, and folding 
 
 samples, I am given to know, is bad for both.) He does 
 not choose to know me, — I scorn to remember him. — 
 Thus Pride and Humility combine to produce the same 
 results in both of us.
 
 STANZAS TO 179 
 
 STANZAS TO 
 
 Who that bath gazed upon a form like thine, 
 Where beauty dwelleth as a part of thee ; 
 And all the mild and witching graces shine, 
 Could e'er forget it ? Ah ! to me — to me 
 Thou art a fountain of dear memory ; 
 A guiding Spirit ; — radiant, like a Star, 
 High beaming o'er me, thro' life's stormy Sea ; 
 A thing to worship, lowly — from afar, — 
 And hope and wish for ay, however fate debar ! — 
 
 Thy raven tresses round my heart have twined, 
 And have become as chords for rapture's thrill ; 
 A chain, deep and devoted love to bind 
 For ever with thy name ! That must be still 
 A talismanic charm to sway my will ; 
 A magic word to make me muse on all 
 Of worth — of beauty, which the soul can fill 
 With raptured dreaming : — let the worst befall !— 
 While Memory is mine, — Fate cannot take, my all!
 
 ISO THE ENTHUSIAST S WISH, 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST'S WISH. 
 
 A FRAGMENT, IN THE OLDEN STYLE. 
 
 Oh ! for a solitude, where ne'er may come, 
 
 The din of man when roused by Passion's sting- ; 
 Whose loudest sound were but the streamlet's hum, 
 
 The stock-dove's plaint, or wild bee on the wing- ; 
 Where even at noontide broad branched oaks yfling 
 
 A shade around, the light of garish day, 
 Softening to calmest beauty ; where a Spring 
 
 Withouten chilness, — Summer sans decay, 
 Alternated their charms, — and carke bode far away ! 
 
 Oh ! that in this calm wilderness of bliss, 
 
 A heart — a fleshly heart, with hopes and fears, 
 Loves, but nee hates ; that fluttered at a kiss, 
 
 Though from the lips of one ytried for years ; 
 And having knit to't, by a band that wears 
 
 Not to decay, a bright ethereal mind ; 
 Full of high thoughts, — (not such that softness sears 
 
 To stoic firmness, — ) and all these enshrined, 
 Within a form so fair — it dreamings left behind ! 
 
 Not sucb a form as fits an empire's Queen, 
 That wins less love than it inspireth awe ; 
 
 Nee yet a soulless — unimpassioned mien, 
 
 But one whose suppliance were more strong than law ! 
 
 Talk I of Beauty that I ever saw ?
 
 THE LAMBS 181 
 
 Yea — and but saw : She left this earth to dwell 
 With gentle spirits — pure to pure will draw : — 
 
 Yet flow ye tears — thou heaving bosom swell — 
 The worm is on the brow — cheek — lip of Isabelle ! 
 
 THE LAMBS. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN ON SEEING A LAMB FEEDING UPON THE 
 TURF OVER AN INFANT'S GRAVE. 
 
 " In beauty's arching neck who shall decide 
 Where ends the rounding of the chiselled chin ; 
 Where 'gins the alabaster throat's proud curve, 
 Where heaves the first swell of the bosom's hills ?" 
 
 Rizzio. 
 
 I stood upon the silent shore, 
 
 And near a little infant's grave ; 
 There was no sound of ocean's roar, 
 
 No curl upon the wave. 
 
 It was, in sooth, a placid scene, 
 
 Where wisdom's silent language told, 
 
 To hearts, where troubled thoughts had been, 
 Its solemn lessons old. 
 
 A little lamb did crop the sod ; 
 
 A lamb slept calm beneath the mound, 
 Penned early in the fold of God ; 
 
 And flowers sprang from the hallowed ground.
 
 182 THE OATH WAS HEARD IN HEAVEN. 
 
 'Tis thus, said I, the gentle few, 
 Are linked together hy some ties ; 
 
 We cannot see, part of the clew, 
 
 That hinds earth's dweller's to the skies ! 
 
 THE OATH WAS HEARD IN HEAVEN. 
 
 The oath was heard in heaven, my lassie, 
 The oath was heard in heaven ; 
 
 The halmy wun,' and beamy sun, 
 Bore baith our vows to heaven ! 
 
 They're registered aye there, my lassie, 
 They're registered in heaven ; 
 
 A broken oath, a slighted troth, 
 May never be forgiven. 
 
 Think on that plighted faith, then, lassie, 
 
 By thee sae freely given : 
 Sic bands shou'd only break wi' death, 
 
 Nor e'er in life be riven. 
 
 Come to my waitin' arms, then, lassie, 
 
 Come to my langin' arms : 
 They'll be thy bield frae storm and strife, 
 
 While life my bosom warms !
 
 A NEW PROJECT. 
 
 COMMUNICATED BY AN IRISH CONTRIBUTOR TO THE 
 REPERTORY OF ARTS.
 
 " Eurika! Eurika!" 
 
 Archimedes. 
 
 " Then shall the earth, its primal crimes forgot, 
 
 Seem 'mid Creation's spheres the loveliest spot ; 
 
 Then shall hot Summer, and the Winter's gloom 
 
 Forget their rigours in perpetual bloom ; 
 
 All Sorrows, — Sins, and Tyrants cease to be, 
 —And Authors get thick slices to their Tea." 
 
 The Telescopiad.
 
 A NEW PROJECT. 
 
 Some, who wish to be thought wise in their generation, 
 sneer at Projectors. The thing- is easily done, and, occa- 
 sionally, if well set off, it passes as a sort of bastard wit 
 with those who laugh more than they think ; or do nothing 
 at all more than either ; — and they are not the most incon- 
 siderable portion or limb of that great nondescript hybrid 
 monster ycleped " The Public." 
 
 There are silly projectors of impracticable projects — 
 who doubts it? — but, because there are so, are we to 
 throw cold water upon every thing that bears the titillating 
 title ? It would be about as wise to laugh at Religion, 
 because there are hypocrites, or Literature, because blue 
 hose are worn by some ladies who are fond of talking. 
 
 In brief, I am, and glory in being a Projector ; and, 
 therefore, it is little to be wondered at, that I take up the 
 cudgels against the prevalent propensity to be-devil, that 
 most useful class of the Commonwealth. Useful I say, 
 for pray what worth remembering, or that we take credit 
 for having, was, ever executed without being first " pro- 
 jected ?" 
 
 N
 
 18G A NEW PROJECT. 
 
 We are all able enough to say " Why that is ingenious; 
 or that is cleverly done," after we see any thing finished; 
 hut we — no not we — the public then, have no tolerance 
 for that very thing while it is yet in embryo. — Plan is 
 Project, and Project is Plan, whether Synonimists say 
 so or not — Is the Architect of St. Paul's to be sneered 
 at because he only planned it, and the Stone-cutters and 
 sons of the hod, who were employed upon it immortalized, 
 because, forsooth, they executed it ! 
 
 But enough on this, for any reasoning animal ; and as 
 for laughing ones, why they may become corpulent on 
 their facetiousness, for aught I care. 
 
 I have a plan which — but before I develope it, let me 
 free myself from the suspicion of being one of the frater- 
 nity who beget an incubus in the emptiness of their* brain, 
 which they misname a " Project," and then, without suf- 
 fering much from the pains of parturition, usher, with 
 breathless impetuosity, their bantling, baptized before 
 birth, into the world ; generally clothed in Demy printing 
 paper, covered with a garment of brown or blue, and known 
 by the generic name of " Pamphlet." I have no scheme 
 for abolishing Poor Rates, digested after a Parish dinner, 
 and published before breakfast ; no method of liquidating 
 the national debt, which struck me in paying my washer- 
 woman ; no way for destroying an army, suggested while 
 combing my head, or plan of clearing forests, discovered 
 while I shortened my whiskers. I have thought on my 
 project by day, and dreamed of it by night, for the last 
 twenty years. — It is matured — it is perfect — it is — but 
 gentle Reader you'll wish to know, no doubt, what it is ? 
 
 Well then — it is, — but had I not better say, in the first 
 place, what it is not; — then lay down some preliminary 
 axioms, and make some introductory observations, for I 
 love conciseness dearly?
 
 A NEW PROJECT. 187 
 
 It is not a plan for lighting Ben Lomond and Snowdon 
 with Gas ; nor for milking Cows by Steam ; nor for repeat- 
 ing prayers in Cathedrals by a horological connexion with 
 the Steeple ; nor for saving the wear and tear of bullion 
 by coining causeway stones into a circulating medium. — 
 So much for negation. — Now for the preliminaries. Po- 
 litical Economists, I believe, are at one with all mankind, 
 in the admission, that Poverty is an evil. It is almost 
 the only thing upon which they are agreed among them- 
 selves, or coincide in opinion with the world in general. 
 Its truth must therefore be admitted, when mankind are 
 unanimous in believing it. To this axiom a corollary is 
 usually appended, which is equally undeniable in my es- 
 timation. — It is that the evils of Penury are felt keenly 
 in proportion to the mental cultivation of the individual 
 sufferer. Men of genius who are not authors, and authors 
 who are men of genius, (/have appeared in print before,) 
 are then most to be pitied if they be poor ; — and is it 
 not become a very proverb, that that class of Society is 
 generally ranked with the Son of Uz, and the mice of our 
 churches in the descending scale of possession? — This 
 ought not to be ; — and my plan will prevent it from being; 
 — which brings me to the statement of it. 
 
 By a maxim of our law, all the goods, and chattels, 
 and monies of those who die without heirs, become the 
 property of the King. — Now I am democrat enough to 
 wish these to form the civil list of the Republic of Letters ! 
 The King, God bless him ! will, I dare say, be among 
 the first to patronise the plan — and I would suggest that 
 Mr. Martin of Galway, or failing him Colonel Wilson of 
 York, or Sir C. Wetherell, now that Sir Frederick Flood 
 is not in the House, should introduce the Bill for the 
 purpose. — Its title might be " An Act for the better 
 enabling authors to live a floor lower, have whole stock-
 
 1«3 A NEW PROJECT. 
 
 ings aud a joint and pudding on Sundays." — It is needless 
 to object to the plan because there is no scarcity of claim- 
 ants to intestate property, for I am fully persuaded that 
 hundreds would die without heirs every year for the 
 express purpose of benefitting the fund. 
 
 Its division among the objects of its bounty will not be 
 so easily adjusted ; but I will have no objections to being 
 appointed president of the board to be named for the 
 purpose. — The hint is worth that surely, though it should 
 bring me a thousand a year. In that case O' Gorman 
 Mahon has already suggested, that it would lighten my 
 duty considerably, if people dying intestate, were to men- 
 tion in their wills what authors they would wish to be 
 their heirs. 
 
 This I have, in, perhaps, fewer words, and clearer lan- 
 guage, than ever before clothed a project, developed my 
 original scheme. — If it be adopted, among the collateral 
 consequences that must ensue, will be the abolition of war, 
 the emancipation of the Jews, and the hastening of the 
 millennium ; while he who writes epics shall no longer long 
 in vain for a rasher of bacon, nor the heroic tragedian 
 shrink with fear from the sight of his Taylor's bill. — The 
 Muses will come clothed in the guise of Roast Beef; and 
 Castaly will run over with Whitbread's entire and Whisky 
 punch. Eating and Writing will cease to be the antipodes 
 of each other ; and a new sonnet and clean shirt will go 
 hand in hand. Put authors in good humour, and you 
 will put the whole world in a similar key. Men will be 
 no more driven to despair by Odes to Madness, nor soil 
 extra handkerchiefs in the perusal of Elegies on buried 
 Hopes ; but when they eat a beef steak, we shall have 
 Spenserian Stanzas in its praise, served up with it ; and 
 every buttered roll will be accompanied with Distichs in 
 praise of its powers as a Stomachic. In short, this scheme
 
 A NEW PROJECT. 189 
 
 is at once so simple and so powerful, that its discovery 
 must immortalize — but I dislike any thing like anticipa- 
 tion, or egotism ! — Suffice it to say, happy ages, yet in 
 the womb of time will never think of Newton but they 
 will remember 
 
 Sam. O'Sanguine.
 
 SONGS.
 
 SONGS. 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Beneath the hill where Mary stood, 
 
 And saw her banner prostrate laid ; 
 Beside the brook, then red with blood, 
 
 That dyed the bosom and the plaid 
 Within which Loyalty and Love, 
 
 Twin passions, pure and proud were swelling ; 
 Now waves the pine and birch tree grove ; 
 
 And smiles sweet Jessy's sheltered dwelling. 
 
 If not so fatal fair as she 
 
 — Though Cart hath mirrored few more fair — 
 Beams not in Jessy's eye young glee, 
 
 Unlit by Art — undimmed by Care? 
 Though round Langside there throng not now, 
 
 High chiefs, who poured their blood like water, 
 Hers is one heart's unbroken vow : — 
 
 Who'd be the Queen — or Miller's Daughter ?
 
 I!)i MARY SHEAltEIl. 
 
 MARY SHEARER. 
 
 She's aff an awa like the lang summer day, 
 
 And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and 
 dreary ; 
 The sun hlinks o' June will come hack ower the brae, 
 But lang for blythe Mary fu' mony may weary ! 
 For mair hearts than mine 
 
 Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer; 
 But nane mair will pine 
 
 For the sweet Mary Shearer ! 
 
 She cam wi' the spring — just like ane o' its flowers, 
 
 And the Blue Bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither : — 
 The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, 
 
 But the Flower o' the valley nae mair will come hither ! 
 Their sweet breath is fled — 
 
 Her kind looks still endear her ; 
 For the heart maun be dead 
 That forgets Mary Shearer ! 
 
 O' the lowlands o' Fife to the hills o' Argyll, 
 
 The Forth to the Clyde — or Kirkaldy to Cowal ! 
 It was naething but love there the lassie could wile ; 
 Sae wha', tho' she's left us, could e'er wish her joe ill? 
 He's won — let him wear ; 
 
 We lads ne'er dared to spier her ; — 
 Sae dorty tho' dear 
 
 Was to a' Mary Shearer ! 
 
 Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung ; 
 An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover ;
 
 THE PROMISE. 195 
 
 Sounds safter ne'er dropt fnie an aye-saying tongue, 
 Nor mair spotless the white o' her bridal-bed cover. 
 O ! he maun be blessed 
 
 Wha's allowed to be near her, 
 For the fairest and best 
 
 O' her kind's Mary Shearer ! 
 
 But farewell (ilenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven, 
 
 My country and kin ! — since I've sae loved the stranger; 
 Whar she's been maun be either a pine or a heaven 
 — Sae across the braid warld for awhile I'm a ranger! 
 Tho' I try to forget — 
 
 In my heart still I'll wear her : — 
 For mine may be yet, 
 
 — Name and a' — Mary Shearer ! 
 
 THE PROMISE. 
 
 When last we parted by the wave, 
 
 You said you would return ; 
 Nor let the friends who loved you, have, 
 
 In you, The Lost to mourn. 
 'Twas truly meant, yet half fulfilled 
 
 The promise must remain : — 
 You're blest ! — regrettings then are stilled ;- 
 
 But, shall we meet again ? 
 
 No ! — other loves and other ties, 
 
 Another heart and home, 
 Where Susquehannah's waters rise, 
 
 Forbid that you should roam ;
 
 196 MARY GLEN. 
 
 But oh ! forget not, while apart, 
 You still dwell in the core 
 
 Of many a fond and faithful heart, 
 Though you return no more ! — 
 
 The needle ever poleward bends. 
 
 But cannot thither fly ; 
 So, from afar, friends turn to friends, 
 
 Who ne'er must glad their eye. 
 'Tis thus, that we who knew you here 
 
 Love fonder than before ; — 
 The Past in memory seems more dear, 
 
 That it returns no more ! 
 
 MARY GLEN. 
 
 " Guidesake lassie, whar hae ye been, 
 
 An' the wun' sae snelly blawin' ; 
 The cranreuch white on your hair is seen, 
 
 Or else the snaw's been fa'in' ?" 
 
 " O, mither ye needna flyte sae bauld ; 
 
 I'm no gaun to bear your scornin' ; 
 I'll keep my tryst in spite o' the cauld, 
 
 An' I'll bide wi' my joe till mornin';" 
 
 " For he praised as he preed my mou, an' saicL 
 He'd marry me spite o' his daddy ; 
 
 An' a silken scarf for an Ayrshire plaid 
 Would mak' his sweet lass a leddy ! " 
 
 " O, dochter dear — ye mak me wae ; — 
 Ye are nae match for ilk ither ! —
 
 GLENFALL.OCH. 197 
 
 The Gled may wi' the wee Lintie play, 
 But, will they e'er mate thegither?" 
 
 " He loes me mither ! — a bricht wee star, 
 
 Just blinkin' thro' the carry then,* 
 He took to witness, for better for waur 
 
 He'd be true to his bonny Mary Glen !" 
 
 Alas ! that the guileless are blin' an' bauld ! 
 
 She keepit her tryst when she saw the stern ; t 
 
 But lonely she greets, an' the warl' looks cauld 
 
 On Mary Glen, an' her laddie bairn ! 
 
 GLENFALLOCH. 
 
 Ae day as I came riding down 
 
 The hills aboon the green Glenfalloch, 
 My nagie threw a pair o' shoon, 
 
 And I was far frae Luss or Balloch ; 
 The day was dark — the hills were hid 
 
 Wi' mists, an' down the rain was fain'; 
 Wha' wadna done as then I did — 
 
 Sat down and quite forgot the lawin?^: 
 
 My heart grew light — my pouch grew toom, 
 But soon the sun shone out fu' cheery, 
 
 * Carry— The cloud-drift. f Stern— Star, 
 
 f Lawin — the reckoning.
 
 198 MIDNIGHT MOODS. 
 
 An' in my breast I found some room 
 To ha'e anither mountain deary; 
 
 For there I saw a lass as sweet 
 As ever stept the Hielan heather; 
 
 An' I forget baith Avind and weet 
 When sic a ane and I forgather ! 
 
 As onward flew the lightsome hours, 
 
 The day grew bright, as I grew happy, 
 Until, or e'en,* I walked on flowers, 
 
 And thoclit each parting gill mair nappy. 
 Then came farewell — nae mair to meet, 
 
 And the dreigh j road I took to Balloch ; 
 But ay I thocht, 'mid wind and weet, 
 
 O' her, the lass o' green Glenfalloch ! 
 
 MIDNIGHT MOODS. 
 
 " The troubles of this night 
 Are as, forerunners to ensuing pleasures." 
 
 The Hog bath lost its pearl. 
 
 Thou fairest, and thou falsest one, another midnight 
 drear, 
 
 Finds me stretched upon my lonely couch, with eyes with- 
 out a tear ; 
 
 But with burning brow, and parched lip, and fever scorched 
 palm, 
 
 In the leaden stillness passion leaves — a quiet, but ah ! 
 no calm. 
 
 * Or eon — before evening. f Dl'eigfa — tedious.
 
 MIDXIGHT MOODS. 199 
 
 Yet 'twas not always thus with me, for once I watched 
 
 for night 
 To come, and, with soft slumbers, bring protraction of 
 
 delight, 
 In th' echoing those waking thrills which made my life 
 
 one dream 
 Of passion, and of love and bliss : — Thou then wert all 
 
 their theme ! 
 
 Now, pillowed on another's breast, sleep on, serene and 
 
 still, 
 Whilst I wildly rave, and ask of Fate, if anguish cannot 
 
 kiU " 
 
 Sleep while thou may'st, thine hour will come, an hour of 
 
 pain and gloom, 
 When I'll rest as calm as thou art now — within an early 
 
 tomb ! 
 
 Be't thine to live and laugh ; — to love — to love and die be 
 
 mine ; 
 
 Yet, , I would never wish one hour of anguish thine. 
 
 Enough that love like ours hath seared, where it should 
 
 only warm, 
 One heart ; 'tis well the other 'scapes unscathed by aught 
 
 of harm ! 
 
 Enough, that on the pyre of Love, one sacrifice was 
 
 placed ; 
 Thou wisely deemed'st another given had been but lavish 
 
 waste ; 
 Or was it that so cold was thine, the flame but round it 
 
 played, 
 And that thou cool and calmly viewed'st the havock by 
 
 thee made ?
 
 200 MIDNIGHT MOODS. 
 
 — So chymic art oft imps a glow, which seems to all a 
 
 flame, 
 And though it kindles other lights, itself is hut a name ; 
 And thou hadst such a magic skill men's hearts to fire and 
 
 charm, 
 Whilst thine, it seemed, gave glow for glow — and yet was 
 
 never warm !
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 A SKETCH, WITH A SAMPLE.
 
 " Very good orators, when they are out, will hem and cough." 
 
 As You LIKE IT. 
 
 " Unto the walls of York the Scots make road !" 
 
 Marlow's Edward the Second.
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 I was prevailed upon the other evening to accompany a 
 young friend to a hall where, I was given to understand, 
 the meetings of an Oratorical Society were statedly held. 
 I need hardly mention, since I have alluded to the eager- 
 ness of my conductor, that he was a memher of the body. 
 I am very far however from wishing it to be inferred, 
 from my saying this, that I either seriously disapprove, 
 or slightingly regard, associations of individuals, more 
 especially of youths, for the purpose of mutual improve- 
 ment in the Art of Public Speaking. I shoidd be but 
 falling into a very hackneyed and beaten track of cant if 
 grave,— or of facile indifference, if contemptuous, did I 
 do so. 
 
 In a free country it is but second in importance to the 
 perfect liberty of writing and printing opinion, to pos- 
 sess the privilege of publicly expressing, whether in 
 fearless and argumentative conversation, or, with more 
 attention to system and at greater length, in oratorical 
 attempts,— sentiments deliberately formed, or of stating 
 important facts by the use of oral language. It is suffi- 
 ciently obvious then, that to do so with effect may some-
 
 204 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 times be of as much general moment, as to be able to use 
 an instrument, or wield a tool, is, in the exercise of any 
 individual vocation. By practice alone can skill in either 
 
 be obtained Natural ability is but the first moving 
 
 power, to borrow a mechanical illustration ; — only expe- 
 rience, however, can sufficiently direct its impulses. 
 
 But however deeply impressed with all these weighty 
 and statesmanlike considerations, from a constitutional 
 quickness of perception for the ridiculous, even in its 
 embryo state, I am, among the whole circle of my ac- 
 quaintances, the most ready to discern, and be diverted 
 with the buddings of the absurd, which ever and anon 
 spring forth in even the best regulated of such assem- 
 blages — now, in the shape of imperfectly comprehended 
 facts, and crudely digested views ; and again, in flights of 
 magniloquent declamation, whose sound is in a ratio 
 somewhat inverse, both to the sense of the periods, and 
 the dignity of the theme. — But I must proceed with my 
 narration. 
 
 The Hall into which I was ushered was large, com- 
 fortless, and about as ill adapted for the purpose, to which 
 it was then applied, as could well be imagined. Instead of 
 being compact, well lighted, and with seats amphitheatri- 
 cally arranged around the faces of the intending speakers, 
 it was long, narrow, dim, and dreary ; with a table and a 
 few candles at one end, and a parcel of straggling forms 
 here and there throughout its wearisome extent. A large 
 window which looked, in the twilight given by the chan- 
 deliers, like a mourning pall hung over a family gallery in 
 a parish church, filled up one end ; and a vast empty or- 
 chestra, (for the dismal place was a Ball Room !) like the 
 Corporation pew, stood at the other. 
 
 A considerable auditory had however assembled and 
 were seated in diversified groups throughout the room.
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 205 
 
 The majority of them were ladies, for, as I afterwards 
 was told, and indeed as I could of myself evidently per- 
 ceive, there were several of the " speaking members" 
 who had made admissibility of the fair sex a sine qua non 
 in drawing - up the regulations ; thinking, perhaps, that, as 
 the ladies had more than their fair share of the talk in 
 other places where they met with them, that it was no 
 more than justice to bring them once a week to a place 
 where they had nothing to do but listen. The actors, or, 
 in other words, the members, began to assume their seats 
 at the table shortly after I had taken mine in an empty 
 corner of the row of forms immediately behind it. I tried 
 to guess, if not at their various styles of speaking, by 
 their respective gaits as they advanced, at least at the 
 prevailing characteristics of their minds and manners, by 
 the airs each of them either assumed or could not get rid 
 of; and I fancied that in those to whom I afterwards 
 listened, I discovered "confirmation strong" of my "fore- 
 gone conclusions." — One, the young friend whom I ac- 
 companied, stepped forward with a strange air made up of 
 equal portions of confidence and timidity, evincing a desire 
 at once to avoid notice, and an assurance that it was 
 unavoidable. He seemed big with his subject — and yet 
 his looks plainly appeared to say that he felt his subject 
 was too big for him. He was to open the discussion. 
 While he placed some volumes for reference upon 
 the table, and, by conversing with those around him, 
 sought to convince them how much he was at his ease, 
 while in reality giving evidence that he was but indiffer- 
 ently so, a smart and snappish pitter patter of feet pre- 
 luded the approach of a young gentleman, whose coun- 
 tenance was one incessant simper of " nods and becks, 
 and wreathed smiles." — He too was tremulous, but whether 
 from timidity, or the sense of being somewhat imperfect
 
 206 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 in his information on the subject of debate, I am not able 
 to say, since neither the one nor the other were evidenced 
 in the glittering Speech with which he followed up the 
 opening harangue ; and since it referred to every possible 
 subject of declamation under heaven, and from the time 
 of Cicero, — saving and excepting the question in considera- 
 tion But I am getting personal even when I speak of 
 
 those who I am sure are amiable, even although they 
 hold themselves to be eloquent. — Besides I really fear 
 I should tire my readers were I to give them a ' Catalogue 
 JRaisonne,' of the members of this body, from the gentleman 
 who seems to melt himself into language, yet, I am tolJ, 
 without becoming " any thinner," so copious were the 
 streams of sound and perspiration and periods which I 
 saw him pour forth, — to a measured Precisian, who gave 
 you time for reflection betwixt every sentence — but also 
 gave you in each, solid matter for the wholesome exer- 
 cise. The Chairman having announced the question for 
 debate, on this occasion to be — " Whether has England 
 or Scotland reaped the greater benefit from the union of 
 the two Countries," my young friend rose, and spoke 
 exactly as he had looked a few minutes before. — He had 
 at once too high an opinion of the machinery and manage- 
 ment necessary for an Oration, and too little strength and 
 skill to wield what he had constructed. — It was a failure 
 without discredit, because an effort in itself commendable. 
 He had possessed me of the fact, on our way to the scene, 
 that for the first time in his life he had written down not 
 merely the track of his argument, his usual plan, but the 
 ipsissima verba of his address ; aud had laboured — how 
 vainly it afterwards appeared — to commit it literally to 
 memory. In five minutes I saw that he had lost his 
 reckoning, and was at sea on the wide ocean of argumen- 
 tative comparison, through which he struggled, assisted
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 207 
 
 at one time by his recollection of the facts inibodied in 
 his written speech, and at another puzzled by fruitless 
 attempts to throw himself into the train of its expressions. 
 He had copied it in a small hand, and had placed it on 
 the table, for reference hi case of blunder ; but an unlucky 
 snatching of his handkerchief whirled it beneath his feet, 
 from whence, he could not possibly stoop while " on his 
 legs," to lift it ; — and he forgot to do so when on his — 
 bottom. 
 
 This however / did, and, his purpose being served, 
 thought it no mighty sin to pocket the MS., which I shall 
 finish this paper by transcribing, as at once a curious spe- 
 cimen of a species of Oratory, which, though it finds 
 many listeners, is yet wholly sealed up from the general 
 public ; since, unlike other, and perhaps little better sorts of 
 harangues, it has no Reporters. — My young friend's anger, 
 I think, I shall be able to appease by reminding him that 
 written speeches are surely meant to be read, the more 
 especially if they have not had the good luck to be very 
 faithfully delivered; and that though he always protested, 
 as he alleges, against the ladies being admitted as audi- 
 tors to the Hall, he cannot but be flattered should they 
 become readers in the volurce. 
 
 The Debate went on, after the second Speaker's ora- 
 tion, in rather a straggling manner, but, as is the popular 
 belief in Scotland, all on the side of that country being the 
 loser ; and but for my picking up the following real bit of 
 nature, curiously illustrative of one of the endless phases 
 of society, I should have wearied, even more than I really 
 did, for the hour of dismissal of the only meeting at which 
 I was present of " The Society of 
 
 " Whether has England or Scotland reaped the greater 
 benefit from the union of the two Countries ?"
 
 1J08 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, 
 
 The limited duration of our meetings, Sir, as well 
 as the multifarious details connected with your question, 
 which it has become my duty to lay before you, demand 
 that short time shall be spent in preliminaries, and few 
 words expended in apologizing* for imperfections, which 
 are too obvious to escape your notice, but whose only 
 extenuation is that they do not ambitiously court it. 
 
 But while I prefer no claim for undue indulgence, I 
 shall not conceal that I must bespeak your candour, at 
 this time not less necessary to the speaker than to the 
 due consideration of the subject before us ; since mine is 
 the task to combat that amiable weakness, which makes 
 selfishness almost a virtue ; — that sensitive love of country 
 which o'ermasters, or at least diminishes, the veneration 
 for " Truth severe" in the breasts of those whose hearts 
 are warmer than their heads are clear. 
 
 Sir, though National Independence be an object de- 
 serving of a patriot's worship, and its security be worth 
 what else is priceless — a patriot's life, yet when the love 
 of it is an impulse of passion, where it ought to be a dic- 
 tate of reason, it becomes a morbid affection, weakening 
 where it ought to strengthen, and injuring that which it 
 means to defend. True patriotism is lofty as it is ardent, 
 — stern as it is virtuous. — It has nothing akin to the 
 maudlin twaddle of the tear-droppers over rotten, if 
 time-hoary follies, or the animal repugnance of a class of 
 men, whose only objections to changes are as valid and 
 weighty as those in the well known stanza 
 
 " I do not like thee Doctor Fell, 
 The reason why— I cannot tell ; 
 But this I know, and that right well 
 I do not like thee Doctor Fell !"
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 209 
 
 Sir, if we could divest ourselves of every such bias, my 
 task were easy, and my duty brief, since the bare state- 
 ment of the question would with it carry its appropriate 
 reply. — « Whether has England or Scotland reaped the 
 greater benefit from the union of the two Countries ?" — 
 In the nature of things, Sir, by the constitution of So- 
 ciety, — in an union for Security, — in a compact for safety, 
 — in a bond for even equal gain, the strongest must reap 
 fewest benefits, — the richest least of profit — the weakest 
 most of both. And where honour is not sacrificed, nor 
 liberty abridged, he is as little of a patriot, as he is of a 
 philosopher, who would oppose such an amicable coales- 
 cence, with fanciful anticipations, and vague generalities 
 of speech. Why, Sir, by what means is it that states 
 advance in refinement, and countries in civilization ? — By 
 the combination of many small and detached bodies into 
 one compact whole ; — by first, the union of families — next 
 of tribes — of clans — of districts, and of Kingdoms — Eng- 
 land has had its heptarchy — Ireland its many co-existent 
 monarchs — Scotland its coeval kings: But mankind 
 soon learn the value of union, and of the division of la- 
 bour ; and petty states join to form nations, who would 
 else have wasted their energies in predatory warfare and 
 perpetual heartburnings. 
 
 Yet, true it is, that, like every thing else, this system has 
 its limits, beyond which, if carried, by conquest or crime, 
 its virtues become vices, and its blessings turn to curses — 
 True it is, that, if nature has strikingly defined the boun- 
 daries of a country ; — if its Government can well protect 
 the blessings and privileges which its inhabitants feel that 
 they enjoy ; — if it " seek no change, and least of all such 
 change as wealth can give it," its national integrity is 
 indeed its proudest boast ; but if, on the other hand, it be 
 so close to another state that the line of demarcation is a
 
 210 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 stride ; — if its language and its institutions, its literature 
 and its manners be only different because tbey have been 
 carried to a less elevated degree of perfection, while in 
 principle they are the same; — above all, if both are swayed 
 by one Sovereign, — and that Sovereign, being human, as 
 such must naturally prefer the interests of the stronger 
 to those of the weaker state ; — nay if he or his predeces- 
 sors (as the Stuarts did) make one nation instrumental 
 in enslaving the other, — it recpiires no descant on the mise- 
 ries which a war would occasion, and a national antipathy 
 entail, to carry conviction to every one open to it, as to the 
 best, the only way of avoiding the overthrow of the weak- 
 er, and the guilty aggrandizement of the stronger power ! 
 
 Nature, Sir, meant that England and Scotland should 
 be one and incorporate ; and History will tell us how 
 soon this was discovered, and how often it was attempted 
 to be achieved. Never did a cbance of rationally uniting 
 the two Kingdoms offer, but it was eagerly seized upon, 
 and judged to be of mutual advantage by the wise of 
 
 both And happy would it have been for our country 
 
 had its Margaret become the wife of England's Second 
 Edward; or its fifth James the spouse of Henry's daughter! 
 At length, however, in the person of James the sixth such 
 junction, in as far as identity of arbitrary rule could make 
 a union, was effected. But, with the departure of Scot- 
 land's monarchs, all the advantages of independence fled, 
 while the more solid benefits of incorporation were not 
 received in return. — Nor were they till near a century 
 had elapsed, the blackest and most bloodstained in Scot- 
 land's bloody history, — though in 1670 and 1702 it was 
 essayed to win them. 
 
 At length, by the wisdom of Somers, and the ripening 
 of events, was consummated the marriage of the States, and 
 Gheat Britain took its name among nations, unques-
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 211 
 
 tionably to the peace of both Countries, but you re- 
 quire me to say — Whether more to the general advantage 
 of the one than the other, and to which? — This I have 
 already done, by reference to first principles ; but as it is 
 also a question of fact, by facts shall the question be 
 answered. What then was the state and condition of Eng- 
 land — what that of Scotland, immediately antecedent to 
 this event ; what their condition subsequent to it — Avhat 
 their aspect now ? Need I tell you, Sir, that England was 
 then in its most " high and palmy state ;" — that the effer- 
 vescence of its glorious revolution had subsided, but that 
 the pure and invigorating principles of it were still in 
 healthful play and circulation through the state ; that its 
 intellect was roused, as were its liberties, refreshed from 
 their long slumber ; that its revenue was growing ; its com- 
 merce giving rich promise of its after grandeur ; its people 
 contented ; and its wealth increased ? Or need I remind 
 you that the glories of Blenheim and of Ramilies were then 
 in their first lustre ? Why, Sir, this was the era of Somers 
 and of Godolphin, — of Addison and of Pope, — of Swift and 
 Steel, — of Peterborough and of Churchill ! Well indeed 
 might a Scottish Lord, — Belhaven — exclaim — " England 
 is a great and glorious nation. Its armies are numerous, 
 powerful and victorious ; its trophies splendid and memor- 
 able. She disposes of the fate of Kingdoms. Her Navy 
 is the terror of Europe. Her trade and commerce encircle 
 the Globe, and her capital is the emporium of the uni- 
 verse !" Such then was England — free and happy, rich 
 and powerful England ; but " Look on that picture and 
 on this — the counterfeit presentment of two brothers ! " — 
 Oh ! my beloved country, Pride but half o'erpowers regret 
 when I know what thou art ; but must show what thou 
 hast been ! It is the same painter that draws the picture 
 of both; and Belhaven uttered but the truth when he then
 
 '212 THE DEBATING SOCJETy. 
 
 said " but we are a poor and obscure people, in a remote 
 corner of tbe world, without name, without alliances, and 
 without fortune." — Then, without a present name, and 
 existing but on the recollection of the past. Indeed 
 nothing could be more wretched than the condition of the 
 Scottish people. A Revolution following a Restoration 
 had left the minds of men in a feverish and unsettled 
 state, and the tyranny of factious and rival nobles, who 
 sought to perpetuate that worst of forms of Government, 
 an oligarchical aristocracy, and to revivify the expiring 
 embers of the feudal fire which clanship cherished, was 
 but one remove from the bloody oppressions of Charles' 
 time, and the troubles of his successors' reigns. — Athol 
 might summon to arms, and maintain 10,000 men beneath 
 his private banners, and Hamilton and Queensberry keep 
 the retinues of rival princes ; but the body of the people 
 were poverty-stricken ; and we have the able Fletcher of 
 Saltoun's high authority for believing that almost every 
 sixth man in Scotland was a public beggar ! — Indeed, 
 from the accession of James to the English throne, our 
 trade had decayed, and our capital, like our court, had 
 emigrated to securer haunts. Famine overspread the land ; 
 — Agriculture was at a stand, and our Trade was too 
 inconsiderable to yield a revenue adequate to the neces- 
 sities of the state. What little did accrue was the prey 
 of rapacious statesmen, and those, their minions, to whom 
 it had been improvidently farmed. The flag of Scotland 
 
 floated above no rich Galleons Dutch vessels it was that 
 
 entered our harbours, and even fished upon our coasts. 
 We had no peculiar native product for exchanging ; noth- 
 ing that we held not in common with more powerful 
 rivals, save our cattle and our wool, — and these England 
 refused to receive ; whilst her colonies were as much shut 
 against our citizens, as against the French or Dutch ; nay,
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. '2\S 
 
 M'Pherson's Annals of Commerce show that from the 17th 
 year preceding the union, the interchange of commodities 
 had fallen off from £124,000 in value annually to one- 
 seventh part of that sum ! 
 
 It is idle to oppose to this statement, the convulsive 
 efforts which our expiring commercial energies made to 
 establish the colony at Darien. — These but emphatically 
 confirm their truth ; while their history recalls the humil- 
 iating remembrance of indignities which we were too 
 weak to resent, and encroachments which we had not 
 power to resist. It reminds us that in our single state 
 that colony, the all of Scotland's wealth, was sacrificed 
 to Spain, while the murder of a Scottish merchantman's 
 crew and captain was only discovered by an accident, 
 and punished upon a threat of rebellion ; — that our Seamen 
 were pressed into the English State service as subjects, 
 but excluded from the Merchants as foreigners ; and even 
 an English ship made liable to seizure if one-third of its 
 crew were Scotsmen ; — that those liable to this Shibboleth 
 were declared aliens by Act of Parliament, and, as such, 
 excluded from entering any of the colonies and plantations 
 of our sister country, while arms were even put into the 
 hands of the inhabitants of the six Northern Counties of 
 England to overawe us ; and twenty-four armed vessels 
 were fitted out, utterly to drive us from the highway of 
 nations: — yet had we not the power to vindicate our 
 rights or avenge these wrongs ! Whence was this weak- 
 ness — this national atrophy? Poverty produced — Mis- 
 government prolonged it. In this situation of our country 
 — the neighbour of a rich and powerful rival, to become 
 its servant was inevitable, if we refused to be its friend, 
 and to accept the community of interests which it proffered. 
 Anarchy and injustice are the natural concomitants of 
 weakness and misrule, — and the Parliament of Scotland,
 
 214 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 the Council of State, and the bench of Justice, were 
 then alike corrupt and hideous. The legislative assembly 
 was a heterogeneous mass of Peers — a majority of whom 
 could at any time be procured by Royal creation — and of 
 pensioned commoners, Jacobites and Republicans ; of such 
 extremes as Athol and Fletcher — Marchmont and Queens- 
 berry. These were never assembled, except to grant 
 supplies; and unity of purpose, or consistency of measures, 
 was as little to be expected from them, as purity of prin- 
 ciple, when, after the memorable " Secession," only about 
 thirty members, calling themselves " The Squadron," even 
 presumed at independence, or affected disdain for bribery, 
 during the fourteen years which had been the term of 
 their sittings ; nor was dignity and firmness, to be looked for 
 when the English act of Settlement, so important to every 
 man in the realm, had been merely intimated to them as 
 matter of courtesy and trivial interest. Yet, though too 
 weak effectually to revenge these insults, we had still 
 pride to feel an exasperation at them, Avhich would shortly 
 have hurried us into excesses that must have ended in 
 making our country either a province of England, or of 
 France, had not wiser counsels prevailed and the language 
 of reason, and the doctrines of enlarged philosophy, and 
 extended expediency, superseded the poetry of virtuous 
 sentiment, as well as the cabal of Jacobite intrigue. Re- 
 bellion, or at least, civil war, with its attendant horrors, 
 was truly within call when our Act of Security was passed, 
 and every fencible man in the Kingdom was summoned 
 to arms ; when the animosity of a mob could only be allayed 
 by the sacrifice of three Englishmen, who, if not innocent, 
 had not been proved to be guilty ; and when Athol had 
 planned a rising, in which he was to be another Albemarle, 
 and Hooke, a Jesuit priest, openly exhibited his creden- 
 tials as ambassador from the exiled James ! — But the
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 215 
 
 work of uniting the two nations — a triumph, before which 
 all other glories of the reign of Anne fade and grow dim, 
 
 begun on the 16th April, terminated in part on the 
 
 23d July 1706, and was finally consummated on the 1st 
 of May in the year following. 
 
 It is not for me, Sir, in this place, to detail its history, 
 or to particularize every one of its provisions ; far less to 
 descant upon the irritation which marked its progress ; 
 and the proud and noble, hut mistaken and misguided re- 
 sistance, which followed it to its close. These are matters 
 of history, whose province it too often is to show, — 
 
 " How nations sink, by darling schemes opprest, 
 When Rulers listen to the fool's request." — 
 
 But to some of its articles it is necessary I should advert, 
 and upon its general consequences that I should enlarge. 
 And, first, I will address myself to the consideration of 
 what it deprived us, before I enter upon the statements 
 of the acquirements which it made ours. Of what then 
 did it denude us ? Of a name — and of a Parliament, — 
 and of a Council. Of a name, I will admit, hallowed to 
 us by a thousand kindling recollections, but not more so 
 than that of England, to its sons, which was also merged 
 into the now prouder appellation of this Island — Great 
 Britain ; Of a Legislature — whose corruptions made it 
 a curse ; Of a Council — whose tyranny would have be- 
 come intolerable ; while it transferred a portion of the 
 Scottish intellect and hereditary dignity to an arena where 
 the noblest battles of freedom had been fought, and where 
 the proudest triumphs of mind and eloquence had been 
 achieved. But I will be told that this transfer was ina- 
 dequate and a mockery, and that the rights of Scotland 
 were juggled with and sold. — Sir, I broadly deny that the 
 transfer was then inadequate, and I assert that, if it di-
 
 216 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 minished the number of our legislators, it enhanced their 
 dignity, by extending the sphere of their influence, and 
 widening the field of their deliberations and exertions. — 
 That golden means were taken to influence some, I do 
 not mean to contradict ; but it has little to do with the 
 question, and though it had, we should remember that 
 those who could be so corrupted would have been ev r en 
 more ready, for a higher price, to have sown discord than 
 promote union in a state. It is to the end, rather than 
 to the means, that we must often look in state affairs. — 
 Taking the medium between the scales of the then popu- 
 lation and taxation as bases of representation, we shall 
 find that both in the Commons' and Lords' houses of the 
 united Parliament, Scotland had what was at that time 
 its fair proportion of influence assigned, even so much so 
 as to occasion protests in the latter as to its undue pre- 
 ponderance, and to have considerably exceeded Cromwell's 
 allowed ratio of Ath in the legislature. So much for the 
 grievances of the contract ; let us now look to the evils it 
 removed. I have said it denuded us of but our Name — 
 our Council and our Parliament : but, Sir, it stripped us 
 of more — of our National Debt — of our Feudal system, 
 mediately of our heritable jurisdictions, and immediately 
 of our court of final resort and appeal. And will any 
 man say these were not services, or at this time of day 
 regret, that we must go to an unbiassed, because not local 
 bench, for final decisions ; and that we cannot be hanged 
 or banished by the chiefs of our Clan, or head of our 
 patronymic ? In which of these advantages, let me ask, 
 did England participate ? and of which of those that did 
 accrue to her, by the measure, — as security, unity of gov- 
 ernment, &c. — did not Scotland equally share ? Where 
 then is even the arithmetical balance of gain ? But I 
 have only adverted to the evils which it has removed,
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 217 
 
 a word or two on the positive benefits which it has con- 
 ferred, — benefits too obvious to require to be dwelt upon, 
 and I have done. 
 
 The activity which distinguishes our national character, 
 and which led us to threaten rebellion when irritated and 
 unemployed, and made us turbulent when prosperous, it 
 instantly turned into useful channels and to better pur- 
 poses, and soon substituted Security for Violence ; In- 
 dustry for Idleness; and Wealth for Poverty: — Secu- 
 rity, by, in the very year of its completion, sheltering 
 us from a French invasion, through the protection of 
 what had then become our united, and, even at that pe- 
 riod, irresistible naval power and pretensions : Indus- 
 try, by opening up spheres of employment for the ener- 
 gies of Scotsmen, who, within a year of its date, spread 
 themselves, and, it is our boast, with themselves spread 
 habits of diligence and principles of unbending integrity, 
 over every Country and in every clime that owned the 
 British sway, and which had before been shut up and 
 unapproachable to them ; — Ay, spreading, says a plain 
 Chronicler in one branch even to the amount of not less 
 than 2500 of Scottish pedlars, who distributed themselves 
 over England, and each of whose ' packs ' was calculated 
 to be worth a hundred pounds ; Industry, by the 
 introduction of new Capital, that mainspring of prospe- 
 rity, and consequently of civilization, and of freedom, 
 with which the swamps of Holland became Gardens, and 
 without which the Gardens of Spain run to deserts ; and 
 by permitting even foreign built ships, if belonging to 
 Scottish subjects to share the advantages of the English 
 navigation laws : — Wealth, by procuring for us the 
 mighty boon that, to use its own words,* " All the sub- 
 
 * Defoe's History, p. 198. 
 I'
 
 218 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 jects of the united kingdom of Great Britain shall, from 
 and after the Union, have full freedom and intercourse of 
 trade and navigation, to and from any port or place with- 
 in the said united kingdom, and the dominions and plan- 
 tations thereunto belonging ; and that there be a commu- 
 nication of all other rights, privileges and advantages, 
 which do, or may belong to the subjects of either king- 
 dom, and that all ships belonging to her Majesty's subjects 
 of Scotland, at the time of signing this treaty for the 
 Union of the two kingdoms, though foreign built, shall be 
 deemed and pass as ships of the build of Great Britain." 
 — Wealth, for in five years after it our shipping had risen 
 from 215 vessels of, in all, 14,485 Tons — to 1,123 vessels 
 of 50,232 Tons ; the towns on the west coast, or those 
 which could more immediately benefit by the new colonial 
 trade, being the first to increase in industry and riches. 
 But its loftiest triumphs — its more enduring trophies — 
 its "greater advantages'" were of a higher kind, and ought 
 to be estimated far above an Indian commerce, a Cotton 
 Trade, or an impi*oved Agriculture, and a meliorated soil, 
 worthy as these are of being prized — Sir, it secured our 
 Religious Liberty. — Sir, it preserved our form of Church 
 Government — Sir, it conservated the parochial institu- 
 tions of our Country, whether educational or ecclesiastical. 
 Is there any one who will say that these woidd have sur- 
 vived anarchy, or weathered the storms of invasion and 
 civil war ? Is there, Sir, a Scotsman here whose heart 
 throbs not with love and veneration for our pure — because 
 poor and republican church ? Is there one who is insen- 
 sible of what we owe it, or dead to the recognition of its 
 inestimable worth ? There is not — there cannot be ! — 
 But, Sir, would this fabric — would even our Fathers' 
 faith, upon which it is built as on a rock, have been 
 our hope in evil, and defence in 'peril ; our instructor
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 219 
 
 in youth — our comforter in age — our refuge in the 
 hour of dissolution ; been ours to boast of — ours to 
 sustain — ours at all, had the Protestant succession not 
 been established ; — which God long preserve ! — had the 
 Stuarts reascended the throne, and had a Henry the IX th 
 worn the crown of our country, instead of the red hat 
 of a Cardinal ? Or, Sir, is there one who can for a mo- 
 ment believe that but for the union such might have been 
 the case — that, but for that unanimity, it would at least 
 have been again and again attempted to be brought about, 
 and the country deluged with its children's blood in set- 
 tling a disputed succession ? — Mr. Chairman, by the Union 
 our religious liberty was secured, and our civil liberty 
 was made permanent ! 
 
 AVith security and liberty, their handmaidens — Refine- 
 ment, Science, and the Arts have come. England could 
 receive no refinement from us, — no literary glory from 
 the nation which had only produced in Letters a Burnet 
 during a century ; but, once a graft upon the British oak, 
 — having once acquired a part in the glory of our sister — 
 in the paternal pride of the country of Milton and of Shake- 
 speare — of Bacon and Newton ; and in the recollections of 
 Cressy and Ramilies — Poictiers and Blenheim, we shook 
 off the lethargy of misrule and the chill of poverty ; and 
 ours have been a Thomson, a Bums, and a Scott — a Sim- 
 son and a Reid— a Smith and a Stewart— a Hume, and 
 that Robertson, who eloquently, but not more eloquently 
 than truly, says " At length the union having incorporated 
 the two nations, and rendered them one people, the dis- 
 tinctions which had subsisted for so many ages, have 
 gradually worn away ; peculiarities have disappeared ; 
 and the same manners prevail in both parts of the island ; 
 the same authors are read and admired ; the same enter- 
 tainments are frequented by the elegant and the polite ;
 
 '220 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 and the same standard of taste and purity of language is 
 established. The Scots, after being placed, during a 
 whole century, in a situation no less fatal to the liberty 
 than to the genius of the nation, are now enjoying the 
 possession of privileges, much more valuable than those 
 which their ancestors ever enjoyed ; and every obstruc- 
 tion which retarded their pursuits, or prevented their 
 acquisition of literary fame, is effectually removed." — And 
 surely, Sir, " It would be worth their while," as Defoe, 
 the historian of this event, has remarked, " for those who 
 opposed this union, and still refuse to own the advantage 
 of it, to look back upon the years of blood, and the ter- 
 rible devastations these two sister nations suffered in the 
 days of their Separation ; and let them examine the history 
 of the past ages, let them inquire there for the particulars 
 of three hundred and fourteen battles, and calculate the 
 value of the blood of a million of the bravest men in 
 Europe, lost in the senseless feuds of these two nations ; 
 and let them view the spoils of the borders, the monuments 
 of the slain, the demolished fortifications, and the depo- 
 pulated towns ; and let them look back upon the days of 
 cruelty and persecution, when the gaols were filled with 
 their citizens, and the places of execution covered with 
 the blood of their ministers ; when their church was 
 trampled under foot, and they had no liberty to worship 
 God according to their own consciences !" 
 
 Sir, If triumphs were, of old, allotted to him who 
 spread devastation in a country, and conquered tranquil- 
 lity by the sword, what ought to be their meed, who win 
 such peace — perpetual peace, without shedding one drop 
 of gore ; who heal woimds that for centuries had bled, — 
 and whose victories are the prevention of wars ?
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A OIRL. 221 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A GIRL. 
 
 Sickness and Pain are past — their work is done ; 
 
 Life and its agony have left the frame 
 Of the sweet sufferer. Rest was cheaply won, 
 
 Paid hy the shatter'd remnant which we name 
 Life, even when all which gives to that its hloom, 
 We see heneath Disease's blight consume I 
 
 Oil ! it was mournful to contrast her moan, 
 The hollow eye and the pain-withered look 
 
 She showed, with the clear voice, and sweet, crisp tone, — 
 The smiling glance, — the laugh which sparkles shook 
 
 From either eye, and health's fresh mingled hues, 
 
 Blanched now beneath infection's poison dews ! 
 
 Now all is still and tranquil on that face, 
 Where lately swept the hurricane of pain ; 
 
 The eyes are closed, but yet a marble grace 
 And hueless beauty lingeringly remain. 
 
 Here yet we note no trace of withering death — 
 
 'Tis but a beauteous frame, from which hath fled the 
 breath ! 
 
 Oh ! never slept in such a holy rest, 
 
 The form that guilt had tenanted in life, 
 Such peace alone the clay of the pure blest 
 
 Shows in decay ; for ay the print of strife 
 Sinks on the wrinkles even of the cold brow. 
 — No stamp of such she wears — she is a seraph now !
 
 222 THE JUNCTURE. 
 
 THE JUNCTURE; 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN IN DIFFICULTIES AND DESPON- 
 DENCY. 
 
 I know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee ! 
 
 We both are out of time and out of tune." 
 
 Thomas Hevwood. 
 
 Oh ! where art thou gone, thou bright spirit of youth, 
 That once cheered me on to dare deeds of renown ? 
 
 That fire I thought quenchless — that proud love of truth, 
 Which dared to do nohly, — oh ! where are they flown ? 
 
 Where are ye, ye heaven-dew'd laurels that bound, 
 In my Fancy's wild dreamings my warm throbbing 
 brow ? 
 
 — The cypress and yew of Regret twine around, 
 And the palsy of Idlesse enervates me now ! 
 
 The harp — the dear harp of my boyhood's unstrung, 
 And decayed, ere I called forth its one noblest tone ; 
 
 Its echo reproachfully asks what I've sung 
 
 To its breathings, — what deed of high emprise I've 
 done? 
 
 Ask me not — ask me not : — the lamp's flame hath decayed ; 
 
 My mind was not vestal to it and alone ; 
 The world and its cares my fond hopings betrayed — 
 
 — And each morsel before I have eaten I've won !
 
 MY LIFE IS ALL ONE DREAM OF THEE. 223 
 
 Yea toiled with the seared hand of labour, but ne'er — 
 
 No No ! I have ne'er been untrue in my soul, 
 
 To the noblest aims or" the Bard ; and if e'er 
 
 I seemed else — I but bowed to a sterner control. 
 
 Roll around then ye clouds of Forgetfulness — roll ! 
 
 Thicken o'er me ye horrors of mindless, dull life ; 
 Extinguish the lurid cold light that my soul 
 
 Yet illumines ! 'Tispast-and now closes the strife, — 
 
 And I am a worldling- ! — I've struggled — ah ! could 
 I have struggled more fiercely — perchance I'd have 
 won ; 
 
 But regrets are as vain as my life. That word " sfiould" 
 With me — nay with all — what a contrast to — '-'doner 
 
 MY LIFE IS ALL ONE DREAM OF THEE. 
 
 My life is all one dream of thee, 
 
 Sweetest one and dearest ! — 
 Sleeping — waking — still to me 
 
 Ever-ever nearest ! — 
 But to see thee, sleep I'd never; 
 But to dream, I'd slumber ever ! 
 There's not a thought, that flows along 
 
 The channels of my soul, 
 Or steals in silence or in song, 
 
 But on to thee will roll ; • 
 
 The fount streams forth without a hue — 
 Tbe bright sky makes the waters blue '
 
 224 THE GENTLE WIDOW. 
 
 THE GENTLE WIDOW. 
 
 — — " With him 'twas otherwise : 
 The steps of circumstance along Fate's tracks, 
 Seemed but the active comment on past thought, 
 Rather than thought the herbage that upgrew 
 Behind its footprints." 
 
 The Doomed One. 
 
 Proem. 
 
 Alas ! that deeds of blessedness, 
 
 By gentlest spirits done, 
 Should oft be seeds of wretchedness, 
 Which ripen one by one ; 
 Their fruitage here — Woe, Want, and Strife, 
 Whose harvest ends but with our life ; 
 
 Or, bright themselves, — as streams that glide 
 
 O'er precious ores yet tainted be, — 
 They tinge life's current till its tide, 
 Roll but one long adversity, 
 Unrippled by a joy ; — each wave, 
 Ebbing for ever — to the Grave ! 
 
 'Tis even so ! — and all seems dim, 
 
 Or wrapt in cloud-robed mystery; 
 And Providence is veiled to him, 
 Who, pondering o'er Man's history, 
 Seeks in each page of that to scan, 
 The unity God only can ; —
 
 THE GENTLE WIDOW. 225 
 
 He cannot turn the mystic leaf 
 
 On which Relation large is writ ; 
 He cannot, — life is all too brief, 
 Ken onward to the Just and Fit ; 
 The mighty music of the spheres, 
 Is jarring discord to his ears ! 
 
 Yet will he — impious ! — dare arraign 
 
 The symmetry he cannot see ; 
 And deem each print of Fate a stain ; 
 The syllables of destiny — 
 Which but the meek and lowly read — 
 The jargon of a mystic creed ! 
 
 The volume — Time — on which they're penn'd, 
 
 Hath many a dim and solemn page, 
 But none than this, on which there blend, 
 More of dark doubts, Man's heritage ! 
 
 * 
 
 The Widow White her humble hostel kept 
 
 Beside the crowded Quay, 
 Where Clyde in trade-dyed ripples swept, 
 
 On to th' expectant sea. 
 
 And many a weary mariner would there, 
 
 Beside her cheerful fire, 
 Forget his stormy life and scanty fare ; 
 
 Yet boasting these, ne'er tire I 
 
 * It may be needful, to account for the extreme simplicity aimed at 
 in the style of this Ballad, to state, that it renders almost literally into 
 rhyme, the rude but touching narrative given to the author by a person 
 in humble life.
 
 226 THE GENTLE WIDOW. 
 
 She was a Mother to the Cabin boy, 
 
 Whose home was far away ; 
 And she had ay a pleasure and a joy 
 
 In deeds, no coin can pay. 
 
 And sweat-bathed labour from the creaking crane, 
 
 A thirst, to her would hie ; — 
 For still, to many a one, the veriest pain 
 
 In life, is to be dry ; — 
 
 And in her ale the cordial drop diffuse, 
 
 Which Scotsmen love so well ; 
 And gossip joy-snatched moments o'er the news, 
 
 All love to hear or tell. 
 
 But never riot rude, or drunken brawl, 
 
 Disturbed her quiet dome, 
 And she was ever first, when wives woidd call, 
 
 To urge the husband home. 
 
 And those who, labour's sons themselves, had not 
 
 Reared sons again to toil, 
 She made amends to, for their houseless lot, 
 
 By many a meal and smile. 
 
 One of these friendless tuggers at life's oar, 
 
 With only pause to sleep, 
 One day, when labouring on the crowded shore, 
 
 Received a wound, not deep, 
 
 But rather like a scratch; — yet ere the day 
 
 On which 'twas done had sped, 
 The sufferer on his ragged pallet lay, 
 
 With pain, he said, half dead.
 
 THE GENTLE WIDOW. 227 
 
 For, with the wound the copper gave, its rust 
 
 Had left a poison-sting ; 
 And thus it is, Death to our mortal dust 
 
 The merest touch may hring ! 
 
 The widow saw his plight ; as wont, then sought 
 
 To do the utmost good ; 
 She had him to her own clean hostel brought, 
 
 And by his bedside stood ; 
 
 Till cooling draughts, by skill prescribed, had quelled 
 
 The fever in his veins ; 
 And still, by gentle charity impelled, 
 
 When hot and wrenching pains 
 
 At midnight shot athwart his purpled arm, 
 
 She came with tender hand — 
 A woman's gentle touch will often charm, 
 
 As once the Prophet's wand ! — 
 
 And bathed the wound, and, by another day, 
 
 For blessings on her head, 
 She heard the healed one lowly try to pray — 
 
 And he was heard indeed ! — 
 
 For Heaven the gentle Widow to itself 
 
 Soon took, and made her blest : 
 — The poison at a scratch from some small " skelf"* 
 
 Had onwards spread its pest 
 
 Thro' all her veins. She had some days of pain, 
 Borne like a saint, without a tear ; — 
 
 * Anglice — Splinter.
 
 228 STANZAS MY PORTRAIT. 
 
 And, near her husband, Widow White hath lain, 
 Yet unforgotten, for a passing year ! 
 
 STANZAS.— MY PORTRAIT. 
 
 0' Shaug/inesry. — " A mighty pretty dialogue that, 
 Where one has all the talk !" — 
 
 The Run Branch. 
 
 Is this my likeness ? Let me on it gaze, 
 
 Since I ne'er saw before my counterfeit ! 
 These lines are then my features, this my face — 
 
 My second self — with which this Art would cheat 
 Me with its lights and shades, and thereon trace 
 My very look, and tell me, " thus thou art," 
 When every moment's wing is changing some small part ! 
 
 Away vain skill ! — 'tis thine alone to show 
 Some fixed look, that's cold enough to sit 
 An hour upon the eye ; — thou art too slow 
 To catch the moment's gleam upon it lit, 
 Whose whole bright life is in one sparkle ! — No ! 
 That which is essence, thou canst never bind 
 Down to thy purpos'd fixedness ! — Paint me then the 
 Mind! 
 
 Let it, in words and thoughts that breed their kind, 
 
 Live, and be noted or remembered ; — all 
 That else is of me, perisheth ; the wind 
 
 That whirls my dust, will have respect but small 
 For its external features, — the poor rind 
 That cased the fruit, — worthless, but that it held 
 The spirit, that to noble thoughts or deeds impelled !
 
 STANZAS MY PORTRAIT. 229 
 
 Thus I have looked, ye say : — well, and how long ? 
 
 Once — or again ; when — why — and shall I e'er 
 Seem thus — all thus ? — No answer : — am I wrong, 
 Then, when I call thee cheat? — O ! passing air, 
 The hreath of vapour, or the sound of song 
 Were record surer than thy lines and hues ; 
 — And yet men name thy Art, child of another muse ! — 
 
 — Paint me no portrait of myself! — if o'er 
 My likeness any gaze, when I am gone, 
 In aught but my mind's thoughts, — it sure were more 
 
 To me, to have it live in flesh than stone, 
 Canvass, or metal, leaving the world my own, 
 Again to leave behind his own ; and thus to give 
 To far posterity the proof that we did live ! 
 
 — Thus I have thought, perhaps shoidd always think ; 
 
 Yet human vanity — thv mother meet ! — 
 Even at the eye, delights the draught to drink 
 
 Of flattery, which self-love makes always sweet : 
 Not Caliban would at a mirror wink ; 
 And every pimpled chin looks less unruly 
 On canv r ass placed, in truth, — than it doth truly ! — 
 
 Yes, I will own't, I pant to have that name 
 
 Which makes the hearers of its sound desire 
 To know, if that its owner's brow's the same 
 As other foreheads ; or if some strange fire 
 Is in the eye that sees, where all seems tame, 
 Light, life, and beauty ; and I happier hold 
 Those who in brass and marble live, than they who roll 
 in gold !
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 I. THE COMPENSATING PRINCIPLE. 
 
 There is a beautiful and consolatory tendency in many 
 dispositions, and indeed visible throughout the whole 
 frame of Society, to erect of the very ruined fragments of 
 our disappointed hopings, fabrics as pleasing and substan- 
 tial, if less gay and glittering, as those air built ones, 
 the overthrow of which we yet cannot help deploring. — 
 The cottages of many families in humble life, raised on 
 some green hill side, or by some murmuring burn, are 
 constructed of the mouldering stones that once lent their 
 strength towards the security of the proud Baronial keep 
 that crowns some neighbouring height. Thus placed these 
 seldom fail to shelter more real happiness and comfort 
 within their now humble bounds, than they ever did when 
 the halls which they girded were tenanted by the rich, 
 the valiant, and the powerful. So universal is this com- 
 pensating principle — this re-action of anticipation, that
 
 % 232 ORIGIN OP THE ALPHABET. 
 
 I can hardly doubt but that it is an inherent quality of 
 our nature, thrown in as a kind of make weight, which 
 causes the balance between happiness and misery in life 
 to preponderate in favour of the former. It prevails not 
 less morally and mentally than in substantial, physical 
 reality : Hughes tells us, in his Travels through Sicily, 
 that the delightful City of Catania has suffered more from 
 the eruptions of Etna than any other place in the island ; 
 but the inhabitants turn the very instrument of their 
 destruction into a benefit, and pave their streets, build 
 their houses, and even fashion ornaments, of lava. — Ask 
 there of what substance almost any thing is formed, and 
 the answer will be "Lava, Signor, tutta lava!" 
 
 II. ORIGIN OF THE ALPHABET. 
 
 What want was it that gave birth to the invention of 
 the alphabet ? Want it must assuredly have been ; for 
 never was there any plan of importance formed, or sytem 
 framed, the purpose of which was convenience, unless the 
 urgent and frequent calls of a want awakened ingenuity 
 and prompted contrivance. With discover// it is different. 
 Many, nay the majority of those aids to the weaknesses 
 or imperfections of mere Nature, which are referrible to 
 that source, are the children of chance ; invention, indeed, 
 often bringing up the rear with a train of improvements 
 and an addition of power, like the branches of the Banyan 
 tree of Hindostan, which in their turn become parent 
 trunks, and act as bulwarks and supporters to the aged 
 root from whence they sprung. What want required 
 the aid of a written language ? It could be none of the 
 physical ones : of the intellectual, it could not be for 
 purposes of disquisition or of speculation- Narration, 
 then, only remains. In those early ages, all narration 
 was impassioned, and often metrical poetry : to preserve.
 
 FEUDAL VTRTUES. 233 
 
 then, not merely the chronological details and facts of oc- 
 currences, and thus render the imperfections of a national 
 memory of little importance, and to secure to posterity the 
 knowledge of manners and occurrences as they actually 
 were, without the chance of the dubiety, and frequent 
 contradiction in interpretation, to which symbolical and 
 hieroglyphic chronicles were liable ; and also to hand 
 down the bold figures, touching details and inspiring 
 flights of the bard, who was also the historian, — the Al- 
 phabet was invented. — In its rude state, there can be little 
 doubt, it was the achievement of some highly gifted and 
 popular minstrel, who, animated by that noble thirst for 
 fame, to which the world owes, and must continue to owe 
 so much, sought to spread a knowledge of his own powers 
 beyond the sphere of his personal presence ; — and to pre- 
 serve it when that presence should no more be seen, the 
 lyre of the master unstrung, and the hand that touched it 
 cold ! To poetry then do we owe the Alphabet ; and it is 
 not the least of those numerous blessings which it has 
 given mankind, — cheering and animating and sustaining ! 
 
 III. FEUDAL VIRTUES. 
 
 Feudal times are those of gigantic vices, and of no less 
 colossal virtues. Great wrongs are then committed ; but 
 great examples of benevolence are, perhaps, from that 
 very circumstance, as common. They present a picture 
 in which the figures are bold and the expression forcible, 
 if the colouring be not harmonious, nor the design pos- 
 sessed of chasteness and unity. The lights are scattered, 
 yet vigorous and dazzling and intense ; but the shadowing 
 is proportionably gloomy and sombre, though not unpic- 
 turesque : Like the Baronial mansions, the relics of these 
 ages, which still brave, in sullen, hoar magnificence, the 
 destructive ravages of time, and the sacrilegious hand ot 
 
 Q
 
 234 TASTE AND PLEASURE. 
 
 "Improvement," they frown, from the lofty height of 
 Antiquity, upon the smiling, but comparatively tame 
 landscape presented by the aspect of modern manners, 
 as contrasted with their barbaric grandeur. Comfort was 
 not then understood. Security was the paramount object 
 of desire. All the modifications of society and manners, 
 and all the gradations of rank, were coloured by this feel- 
 ing — this wish and aim. The wind might whistle through 
 the dreary hall unheeded, if the crannies by which it en- 
 tered were impervious to a foe ; and the exhalations of 
 the Castle ditch, how pestilential soever, were unnoticed, if 
 that moat was broad and deep enough to set besiegers at 
 defiance. Still, with all their inconveniences, to these ages 
 the imagination turns with fondness : — they were rude ; — 
 but they were poetical ! 
 
 IV. TASTE AND PLEASURE. 
 
 The attainment of pleasure, under whatever guise, is 
 the object and pursuit of all, however they may differ in 
 their definition and conception of that in which it consists. 
 The gratification of the animal appetites, with one class, 
 is held as the only means of attaining that end. Intel- 
 lectual acquirements and studies are esteemed capable of 
 conferring it by another, but unfortunately smaller portion 
 of mankind. It has become proverbial the remark, that 
 the pleasures of one man would assume the shape of pains 
 if inflicted on another ; for pleasure is more variable than 
 taste, though in an intimate degree it depends upon it, — 
 having, in many instances, its rise from the gratification 
 administered to that mental perspicacity and standard of 
 feeling so named. It is more variable, or, in other words, 
 less defined or established by rules than taste, because the 
 latter may be to a certain degree gratified without a sen- 
 sation being created sufficiently vivid to deserve the for-
 
 CIVILIZATION. 235 
 
 mer appellation. — Pleasure is to Taste, what poetry is to 
 language, its fullest — almost its exaggerated developement ; 
 its warm-blooded and enthusiastic display when under 
 high excitement. This excitement seldom is found in 
 solitude — Tranquillity, piety and contentment are the off- 
 spring of that state. Pleasure is social, and, in its most 
 vivid sense, I should almost be inclined to say convivial 
 in its nature. The child of communion with our fellow 
 mortals, bow much of the pleasure of life lives but in the 
 act of pleasing and arises from seeing others pleased ! — 
 This puts in a beautiful point of view one of the links of 
 the unseen chain which binds Society together. 
 
 v. CIVILIZATION. 
 
 What is Civilization? Is it a relish for Learning; 
 a Taste for the Fine Arts ; a more refined humanity, or 
 a knowledge of vastly more extended limits to varied 
 enjoyments than uncivilized life admits of? — It is all 
 these ; for all these are but component parts of the great 
 aggregate of wants and acquirements, which we dignify 
 by the name of Civilization. A definition to be either 
 clear, striking, or correct must, however, be no less com- 
 prehensive than the above series, but also much more 
 forcible, because much more brief. — Let us try to arrive 
 at one for the term in question. 
 
 What then contradistinguishes an early from an advan- 
 ced stage of Society ; or, in other words, a savage and a civ- 
 ilized period in the history of nations ? The substitution 
 of the energy of the mind for the vigour of the body ; men- 
 tal strength for that which is purely corporeal ; thought for 
 power, argument for force. — But the intellectual capabilities 
 of foresight, memory, imagination and cunning, or arrange- 
 ment of plan, are often found developed, in a state of semi- 
 barbarism, in a great, or even greater degree of vigour
 
 U3G ORIGIN AND USE OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 than we find them ever able to attain under the culture of 
 experience, and the care of study. — True : — But let us look 
 to the application of these powers, granting that they are 
 sometimes possessed in equal strength in either state of 
 Society, or that they are inherent in our nature, and only 
 ask for circumstances of developement. Amusement is 
 the pursuit of all. — The desire for it can only be reckoned 
 second to the physical appetites of our frame. — " Good, 
 ease, content, whate'er its name," it is the ultimate object 
 at which all aim ; for pleasure is but the sensation we 
 receive from amusement. This, then, is our standard of 
 character — the only infallible, because the only universal 
 one. The human sacrifice — the captive's torments — an 
 annihilating warfare waged against the brute creation, 
 and perpetual hostilities and deadly combats, are the 
 amusements of uncivilized or savage life — the only ones. 
 Of those of a state of civilization, the latter form but 
 a part : The gratification of taste — the refinement of intel- 
 lect, the more tranquil excitation of the senses speaking 
 to the mind, are the predominating ones. Literature — 
 Philosophy — Science, though ostensibly pursued from 
 different motives, and cultivated for different ends, yet 
 ultimately verge to this centre, from which they had 
 radiated, for they oidy furnish, through the medium of 
 utility, the means of enjoying pleasure, or, in other words, 
 Amusement : Civilization is, then, it appears to me, best 
 
 measured by the modifications of our amusements It is 
 
 — A taste for refinement in Pleasure. 
 
 VI. ORIGIN AND USE OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 It is fitting that Sculpture should be that one of the 
 fine Arts to which Grief and Affection resort most fre- 
 quently, for the purpose of perpetuating the display and 
 securing the remembrance of the sensations of mind and
 
 GENIUS AND CRITICISM. 237 
 
 heart to which those names are given. It must have heen 
 monumental in its origin, and it is still most appropriately 
 connected with sepulchral associations. None of the fine 
 arts, even in their sweetest and most touching exhibition, 
 possess the same tranquillizing and soothing powers. The 
 " dying fall" of Music itself does not transcend, even if 
 it equals it ; since Music can only give birth to tranquil- 
 lity, through the medium of emotion, progressively attenu- 
 ated; while Sculpture, with the voice of silence, says to 
 every gazer — " Peace — be still ! " Who ever heard the 
 Requiem of Mozart, and felt not the thrill of quiet at its 
 close taking the place of the gentle throbbings of a placid 
 sorrow ? Who hath ever ffazed on Titian's Venus — 
 pure — lofty though it be, as a work of Art, and its very 
 transcendent excellencies, elevating it above grossness, 
 without the commingling of fleshly passion with his admi- 
 ration ? — colouring always producing that effect. But 
 has any one ever seated himself beside the " Mother" of 
 Flaxman, or the " Children " of Chantry, without seem- 
 ing to become for the moment as pulselessly still as the 
 pure marble itself on which he gazed ? Oh ! Sculpture 
 is profaned, when 'tis fashioned to the fiery form of some 
 still breathing man of war and blood ! 
 
 VII. GENIUS AND CRITICISM. 
 
 Criticism never flourished so much, nor was so gen- 
 erally studied and looked up to as at the present day. — 
 Another fact presents itself at the same moment to our 
 notice. Perhaps at no period in our literature, if we 
 except only the age of Elizabeth, as it is called, was there 
 so much of that quality, named genius, displayed, as at the 
 present moment.* I do not now speak of the production 
 
 * Written during Byron's lifetime, and when Scott was producing 
 Ivanhoe. &c.
 
 238 GENIUS AND CRITICISM. 
 
 of that inspiration ; of its developement or of its applica- 
 tion ; but of its actual seen existence ; and not of its nature 
 and qualities. With regard to the latter, differences of 
 opinion may and do exist : on the former proposition I 
 believe all are agreed. These premises being admitted, 
 are we to suppose that they stand to each other in the 
 relation of cause and consequence, or that they are mu- 
 tually connected, though not in that precise manner? 
 They certainly are in one or other of these circumstan- 
 ces. Common or popular modes of thinking would assign 
 to criticism the dignified station of cause, while the existing 
 amount of genius was marked down as its effect. With 
 this opinion I cannot agree. Criticism had originally, 
 and always must have its origin from the productions of 
 genius. These are what create it, what give birth to it, 
 and what supply it with nutriment. — The flower sheds its 
 fragrant perfumes on the air, and spreads its petals to the 
 sunbeam, before the bee or the wasp require or are fit to 
 seek there for nourishment or store. — Aristotle lived after 
 Homer. Longinus- succeeded Virgil, and Quintilian fol- 
 lowed Cicero — at an awful distance. 
 
 Real genius has in itself a knowledge and high conviction 
 of its powers. Aristocratical and Patrician in its self-modes 
 of thought, however philanthropic in its cosmopolitism, it 
 disdains to prop itself on the foundations of another ; or to 
 model its superstructure by another's plan. Shakespeare, 
 which is but another name for unbodied genius — genius 
 in all its grandeur — power — beauty, variety, eccentricity, 
 and, if you will, absurdity ; — Shakespeare, though I had 
 never read a word of his life, but had judged simply from 
 the perusal of his works, I should hold never for a moment 
 troubled himself with what " The Critics would say." 
 Criticism had no hand in his creation ; but his death, like 
 that of a noble animal, has given birth and sustenance to
 
 GENIUS AND CRITICISM. 239 
 
 myriads who prey upon his remains — revel on his beauties, 
 or batten, maggot like, upon his errors. Criticism has 
 pom-ed its copious streams, its incense and its scorn upon 
 the works of Byron, hut with equal results. — Conscious 
 of his own mighty powers, he is alike superior to its cen- 
 sure and its praise. — The former coidd not bridle him in 
 his young career : the latter has not spurred him on in 
 his glorious course. The very rules and examples of the 
 critic-art have been, and always must be, drawn from the 
 previously ever-flowing fountain of genius.
 
 TO 
 
 241 
 
 TO 
 
 And thou art cold ! — then 'tis for me 
 To quench the fast expiring flame ; 
 To-morrow — and my love shall he 
 
 Without an aim ! 
 It hath too long been slave to thee, — 
 
 To thee and shame ! 
 
 But not from me reproach shall come, 
 
 To stir thine apathy to ire ; 
 Mine eye be dark, my tongue be dumb ; 
 
 My heart a pyre, 
 Though all its ashes in their sum 
 
 Have now no fire ! 
 
 Thy stoic calmness I shall brook, 
 
 Perchance may learn to copy too ; 
 Tho' but a sigh of thine hath shook 
 
 My spirit through — 
 Nerved or unmanned by but a look 
 From you ! 
 
 No bond is rent ! — the ties that might 
 
 Have held me gently many a day, 
 But sternly worn — in wrong and right 
 
 Are in decay ; 
 They need not even their wasted weight 
 
 To fall away !
 
 242 ON ONE WHO PRONOUNCED WEAR AS WERE. 
 
 Farewell, then ! it is mine to learn, 
 
 The last sad lesson thus from thee — 
 Forgetfulness. — None shall discern 
 
 A grief in me, 
 If there lurk one — sad — silent — stem — 
 
 But one 'twill be — 
 That thou shouldst have been first 
 
 To tell me ive were free ! 
 
 ON ONE WHO PRONOUNCED 
 
 WEAR AND WERE— AS WERE. 
 
 Says Rattlebrain — " Slipshod, your language you say- 
 Is new and genteel — but 'tis just 'totber way; 
 Your tongue's secondhand, Man!" — " How?" — " Why 
 
 all who hear 
 You allow that it is much the worse for the were ! "
 
 DESULTORY REMARKS 
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 THE PROPERTIES OF THOUGHT.
 
 ' To fly from, need not be to hate mankind ; 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil." 
 
 Childe Harold. Canto III.
 
 DESULTORY REMARKS, &c. 
 
 The ideas and reflections which present themselves to us, 
 when in Solitude, are never mirthful ; — nay, they are sel- 
 dom even soothing, unless we are constitutionally imagin- 
 ative, and given to day dreams, and air-castle building. 
 They are almost always abstract ; frequently painfully 
 intense, but, in the majority of cases, they are also truly 
 beneficial ; — for, by inducing self-examination, they throw 
 us back upon, and increase our intimacy with ourselves ; 
 Now, contemplation is, in its very nature, stilly and so- 
 lemn, especially when it is directed inwardly, and towards 
 our capacities, whether moral or physical ; for we are 
 " fearfully and wonderfully fashioned." — Does this pro- 
 perty of thought, then, proceed, as a consequence from 
 our natural habits ; or, in other words, is man inherently 
 averse to mirth and hilarity ; and is a sombre sedateness 
 his natural state of existence ? Far from it. Naturalists 
 have found few more striking distinctions between man 
 and his fellow animals, than that Man laughs, and Brutes 
 do not : — they can weep, however, and, if wisdom is the 
 offspring of cogitation, there is a class of the fourfooted 
 creation, who must far surpass man in their philosophical
 
 246 DESULTORY REMARKS 
 
 attainments ; for, by way of pre-eminence, they have 
 been denominated "ruminating;" which is but another 
 name for thinking animals, — upon their skill in which art 
 the elite of mankind are found so highly, and with reference 
 to their comparative powers in that way, to those of the 
 mass of their fellow mortals, so justly to plume themselves. 
 I should presume, from this circumstance that Mirth, nay 
 often Cheerfulness itself, is the joint offspring of two con- 
 tributors ; at least, we cannot ourselves, and by our soli- 
 tary will, create it. It is the child of companionship ; and 
 often the spark elicited by the clashing of habits and opi- 
 nions. Its existence does not indeed require the actual 
 presence of plurality, in proper person ; but if the spirit 
 of another holds communion with us through the medium 
 of his — writings I was about to say, but that limitation 
 would have been incorrect, — through the medium of his 
 works, then, the productions of his pen, his pencil, his 
 graver, or his chisel ; the recollection of his voice or face, 
 — he is as much before us, if we enter into their spirit, as 
 if he sat by us. In contributing to the generation of mirth- 
 fid ideas, he, by his representatives, possesses far more 
 power than he would probably display were he actually 
 before us ; for many mirthful writers fail in becoming 
 cheering companions ; and even those who delight alike 
 by their conversation and their works, are not always 
 masters of themselves : they cannot wear a smile at 
 command, or be facetious at a moment's notice. In men 
 indeed whose writings display great humour and wit, 
 fits of deep, painful, and abstracted melancholy are of 
 frequent occurrence. Sterne is an example in point. An 
 Italian Buffo performer, whose mirth was separated from 
 his own individuality as much as if it had been written, 
 came to consult a celebrated Physician on a constitution- 
 ally melancholic habit. His person was unknown, and
 
 ON THE PROPERTIES OF THOl'GHT. 247 
 
 the prescription he received was, — to attend his own per- 
 formances ! 
 
 Written wit, humour, and mirthfulness, are, however, 
 always in themselves alike and unchangeable. We may- 
 be in a mood of mind which renders us unfit for properly 
 appreciating their merit ; or the allusions may be so per- 
 sonal, so local, or so antiquated, as to prevent us from 
 participating in the pleasantries ; — yet, notwithstanding, 
 its nature remains unchanged — Humour once, — humour 
 it must always be, however much its power of stirring up 
 our fancies may evaporate. The ore of wit is not oxi- 
 dized by time, nor its nature changed by any chronological 
 chymistry. The ashes of Cervantes are impalpable, yet 
 was any one so happy in his company as when alone with 
 the " Adventures" of the immortal knight of La Mancha! 
 Smollett's dust is mingled with its kindred earth, in the 
 land of the stranger, and even beneath the glowing sun 
 of Italy, it is cold ; but is Strap less warmly recollected, 
 Commodore Trunnion forgotten ; or have Matthew Bram- 
 ble and Tabitha passed away from our remembrance ? 
 Do we yet cease to think of Tom Pipes with an inward 
 chuckle of delight ? Or are the living pages of Fielding- 
 unread because he died fifty years ago ? These very men, 
 however, whose spirits are yet potent, and who have 
 made laughing hereditary with their names, were often, 
 (I may safely say, when alone, — always,) pensive and 
 sedate. 
 
 They had, and we all have, in such moments, the me- 
 mories of boyish years and youthful pleasures crowding 
 around, with all the charm of distance, and regretful inte- 
 rest in the thought that they are fled for ever. These 
 writers had in their solitude, and all who have lived long 
 have the remembrance of their youthful friends and loves, 
 from whom they were parted by distance, death, or the
 
 248 DESULTORY HEM AUKS 
 
 decay of those very feelings which once knit them together, 
 but now repel them from each other, like that property 
 of the electric fluid, which now attracts, and now repels 
 with an equal force. 
 
 Friendship and sociality, then, are the principal foun- 
 tains from which the cheering streams of mirth and glad- 
 ness have their rise. Those latter states of mind give 
 a beautiful variety to the picture of life ; but solitude 
 and meditation, in other words, the presence of sedate, 
 and it may be, perhaps, of painful reflections, are as neces- 
 sary to the beauty and harmony of that complicated 
 design — that mazy plan — the present life, as shadows in 
 a scenic work of art. Relieving the heart, and refreshing 
 the energies, as they truly do, they also, like these tints, 
 make the other hues appear more brilliant ; and the bright 
 groupings by their means stand out in pleasing promi- 
 nency. — Such moments are the resting places of the 
 spirit. — There indeed if it labours, yet it gathers strength 
 from its toil, and adds wealth to its stores by the very act 
 of expenditure. 
 
 There is a position which I have long held as established, 
 and which has some relation to the premises which I laid 
 
 down at my outset I have not the means of knowing 
 
 from those, who are professionally informed on the 
 point in question, whether or not my opinion is sanctioned 
 by experience. Plausibility is at least on its side. — 
 It is this — that it is much easier to delineate in the 
 person, by a look, attitude, or gesticulation, the poe- 
 tical or tragic emotions of the heart, than it is to do 
 those of a nature precisely opposed to them; more 
 particularly when the representation is professional — of 
 course often repeated, and hence has become mechanical. 
 We can affect with ease a sadness foreign to the heart 
 even in moments of the greatest mirth ; but he must
 
 ON THE PROPERTIES OF THOUGHT. 249 
 
 indeed be a master of countenance, who can dress his 
 visage in the gay garb of smiles, while his bosom is racked 
 with griefs, or his frame under the influence of thrilling 
 pain. — If he acts, his delineations, the state of his mind 
 being such as above described, cannot be flowing or natural, 
 for they are not effected with ease ; and if he does not 
 act, by which I mean, if he can give room in his breast, 
 at the same moment, to emotions of such contrariety of 
 nature, — they cannot, either of them, possess much vigour, 
 or have the power greatly to please even himself. In 
 such a case, it is impossible rationally to wish for such ver- 
 satdity of power. — These remarks, I doubt not, some may 
 imagine are in opposition to the fact of which few deny 
 the existence, namely, that the finer emotions are seldom, 
 and but faintly felt, by the great mass of mankind ; and 
 that, therefore, to imitate the more exalted forms of grief 
 and melancholy will generally, by which standard all rules 
 must be judged, be an achievement incomparably more 
 difficult than to personify mirth or cheerfulness, which, 
 they say, can be, or at least are only felt in their unsophis- 
 ticated and genuine force among the simple and inartifi- 
 cially mannered people of the inferior walks of life. — Now 
 in answer to such, I would urge, (and it is but their own 
 objection thrown back upon themselves), that however 
 much mirth may be an inmate of the Peasant's cottage, 
 the polished, refined and elegant expression of it, is un- 
 known to, and unstudied by, its rude inhabitant. — The 
 boisterous display of such is, indeed, by a vast number, 
 confounded, and, to their view, inseparably interwoven 
 with the feeling itself; the roaring laugh, with the titdlat- 
 ing occasion of it. Yet touching grief is often best, and 
 most naturally pourtrayed by the homely peasant, although, 
 to gracefulness in his expressions of joy, he can have no pre- 
 tensions.— -But it is almost idle to argue a point, when per- 
 
 R
 
 250 DESULTORY REMARKS 
 
 sonal experience can best, and, most easily decide it. — Let 
 any one, when plunged in sadness, attempt by an effort 
 to be gay, and then let him, when cheerful or joyous, 
 essay to appear oppressed with a load of woe, and, I am 
 content, that the case should stand on the result of his 
 feelings, — on the comparative ease or difficulty of the 
 assumption of certain characters, opposite to the prevail- 
 ing mental impressions of the moment. 
 
 In conclusion then, if melancholy be not the natural or 
 level state of man's disposition, as little title has mirth to 
 that distinction. The one may be the exaltation of the 
 mind and heart, which is so easily compressed and acted 
 upon by external circumstances ; and the other, the ebbing 
 reflux of those feelings. The first, the mountainous and 
 airy region, and the last, the murky dell or sunken hollow ; 
 but there is a mid tide of feeling — or a level valley of 
 thought, in which alone equanimity of happiness can be 
 obtained. Frequent solitude is a more necessary means 
 for attaining that end than its opposite ; for never can we 
 fully know our tempers, or aught of the nature of the 
 intelligence that framed us, without turning in upon our- 
 selves, and glassing the mind in the reflection of its own 
 
 workings That heart is but ill constituted where its 
 
 own impulses are either dull or bad companions. Without 
 such a knowledge so obtained, gladness may be airy, but 
 it will also be fleeting, and unsubstantial : and joy will be 
 as rapid in its flight as the oriental moralists pictured, 
 when they represented it as but a passing sunbeam, yet 
 leaving on our path of life a long and melancholy shadow, 
 — cast back by the roughness of the road, and magnified 
 by the very light which contrasts with, while it shows it! — 
 He who dreads to be alone is either weak or unworthy. 
 If the former, he resembles the patriarch who prayed to 
 be shadowed from the dazzling splendour of the face of
 
 ON THE PROPERTIES OF THOUGHT. 251 
 
 the Most High ; and if the latter, he is incapable of enjoy- 
 ing the true pleasures of the loftiest and purest of com- 
 panionship. 
 
 " To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Where things that own not man's communion, dwell, 
 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
 unroll'd."
 
 252 THE MYSTIC THKEE. 
 
 THE MYSTIC THREE, 
 
 OK 
 
 AGNESS— ANNE— AND ISABELLE. 
 
 Agness — Anne — and Isabelle ! 
 
 Names each in turn a potent spell ; 
 
 Are ye but names ? Ye once were more 
 
 Than mere inscriptions on the core 
 
 Of this lone heart, whose ruins speak 
 
 Of ire that wasted love doth wreak 
 
 Upon its dwelling - , like the hall 
 
 Scorched by some blazing festival ! 
 
 Your syllables — deep graved — though broken ; 
 
 There a sad tale but half express ; 
 Yet, shattered thus, they well betoken 
 
 Tadmor — 'mid the heart's wilderness ! 
 
 Isabella — Agness — Anne ! 
 
 Stripling — Boy — Youth — passioned-Man, 
 
 I've been as each the willing tlirall 
 
 To one of you ; — and now to all — 
 
 Aye, all! Through memory's regent sway 
 
 I the deep homage willing pay 
 
 Of loyalty, whose deedless faith 
 
 Is all its broken fortunes hath !
 
 THE i*ROl'D LOVERS REMONSTRANCE. 253 
 
 I could have served, with truth unshrinking 
 
 The liege ones of my boyish heart ; 
 Had trodden with a trust unthinking 
 
 Unto believing's utmost part ! 
 
 And Anna's — Bella's — Agness' name 
 Have in them still that touching claim 
 Which treasured notes of music wild, 
 Heard 'mid our dreams, or when a child 
 Have, when we hear them once again, 
 Amid some else unnoticed strain. — 
 The written page — the spoken line — 
 The hymned notes — the rites divine, — 
 All — all to me are more awaking, 
 
 If these dear symbols of the past 
 Be there. Graved deep on it while breaking. 
 
 My heart will show them there at last I * 
 
 THE PROUD LOVER'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 Nay, dry those tears ! — thy flashing eyes 
 
 For weeping look too proud, 
 That regal breast is not for sighs, 
 
 Or sighs that breathe aloud ! 
 There's sobbing for the trembling heart 
 
 That sheds in drops its woe ; — 
 There's wailings for the Feeble's part 
 
 But none for thee, love — No ! 
 Thy dauntless soul — though woman's still, 
 Should not in tears its sorrow spill I 
 
 * Queen Anne said something like this of Dunkirk.
 
 1254 THE PROUD LOVER'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 " I am the cause" — Well ! spare ray pride 
 
 The humbling — hated thought, 
 That I can only stir the tide 
 
 Whence woman's tears are brought, 
 Till it flow — but to ebb again ; 
 
 Yet have no power to print 
 Regret's deep stamp, where Love's grown pain. 
 
 By heaven there's madness in't ! 
 I'd rather quail beneath thy rage 
 Than thus a woman's grief assuage ! 
 
 I will not weep that thou art cold, 
 
 For that hath frozen all 
 The founts whence burning drops are doled, 
 
 And only these should fall 
 From eyes, whose fire hath flash'd to thine 
 
 Responsive, look for look ; 
 The heart can bend not to repine 
 
 To crave which will not brook ! 
 There is for it no choice of states, 
 It fiercely loves — or deeply hates ! 
 
 Which shall it be ? The love thou know'st, 
 
 The hate thou ne'er shalt see ; — 
 'Twill live — but, aye, it is my boast ! 
 
 'Twill only live for me. 
 As charnel droppings wear the tomb ; 
 
 But cannot reach the dead, 
 So will it slow my heart consume 
 
 But ne'er fall on thy head ! 
 Then weep no more — 'twas Love I sought ; — 
 I was a fool — and thou wert not !
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 A GERMAN LEGEND.
 
 ' " A sad and piteous history, 
 As e'er was writ, of mischief-making love, 
 Which breaks more true hearts than it ever bound, 
 And digs more graves than it makes bridal beds, 
 When was it loyal to the bosom's peace ?" 
 
 Old Plav— The True Mbdicament.
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 The banks of the Rhine form a succession of scenes more 
 romantic, in the sense of the term that I am fondest of, 
 than can be equalled in any of the countries, it has been 
 my fortune to wander through. Every hill, valley, stream 
 and rock has its wild, old and interesting tradition, em- 
 balmed in the memories of the aged, who received them 
 from their progenitors, and the hearts of the young, who 
 will hand them down to their successors. Fairy legends, 
 and tales of goblin, sprite and fay, are generally connected 
 with the natural curiosities, and remarkable, or beautiful 
 landscapes of the neighbourhood ; but deeds of chivalry 
 or outrage, and stories of feuds, loves and combats, are 
 presented to the recollection of the peasantry of the dis- 
 trict, by the ruined abbey, decayed church, aud moulder- 
 ing keep, or hoary castle, still terrible in age and desola- 
 tion, of which there are such numbers on the brink of 
 that river, especially in the neighbourhood of Bonn. 
 
 Near that City, the remains of three of these ancient 
 Baronial residences, are yet discernible, standing at a short 
 distance from each other. They were built, in the fifteenth 
 century, by three German brothers, of a daring and tur- 
 bulent disposition, who determined to distinguish them- 
 selves and families, with a total disregard of the honour or
 
 258 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 the legality of the means, too characteristic of their barbar- 
 ous age and country. They formed the resolution of estab- 
 lishing themselves in three separate but neighbouring 
 fortresses, from which they could mutually, and with ease, 
 sally forth, and violently seize upon whatever they were 
 in want of, or that excited their rapacity — the property of 
 the dwellers in the surrounding country. The three for- 
 tresses were placed in the midst of a rocky ridge of almost 
 inaccessible hills, called Sieben Bergen, or the seven 
 mountains. They received, from their builders, names, 
 in themselves, well calculated to strike the superstitious, 
 and the weak with awe and terror. — One was called 
 Drachenfels, or the Dragon's Rock — another, Wolken- 
 berg — the Cloudy Castle ; — and the third Lowenberg — 
 literally The Lion's Mountain. 
 
 Tradition reports that each of them was, not only 
 guarded with strong towers and outworks, but was also 
 rendered more secure by having a number of secret 
 accesses and outlets, communicating respectively with 
 each other, and the opposite bank of the river, and known 
 only to their owners. 
 
 By their good fortune and bravery, at the end of seven 
 years, from their possessing these places of* security, the 
 Brother Warriors, as they styled themselves, had amas- 
 sed so much pluuder as, not only enriched them, but 
 had made their names feared and renowned throughout 
 the whole Empire. These three feudal chieftains had 
 an only sister, called Adelaide, who was as remarkable 
 for her gentleness and virtue, tenderness and beauty, as 
 her brothers were for their reckless corn-age and hardihood, 
 and daring spirit of enterprise. Their parents being 
 dead she was under their guardianship ; and, rude though 
 their manners were, and steeled as their hearts had been 
 by deeds of outrage, they, yet, all equally and tenderly
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 259 
 
 loved and treated her with the greatest respect ; for we 
 often find the charities of life possessing a nook of the 
 heart where they were least to he expected, as the most 
 beautiful and sweet scented flowerets, are sometimes seen 
 sheltering themselves from the storm beneath the leaves 
 of the hemlock, and the deadly nightshade, or the ruder, 
 but less baneful, gorse and heath. 
 
 There was on the opposite shore of the Rhine, another 
 castle, very romantically situated, no vestige of which 
 now remains, but then inhabited by a young, valiant, 
 generous and handsome knight, named Roland ; one of 
 those who, imbued with a high and chivalrous spirit, 
 make even the darkest ages of European history, in some 
 respects, dear to the noble and warm-hearted of more 
 polished times. In a Joust, held at the castle of a neigh- 
 bouring Baron, he had the good, or bad fortune, — at least 
 the present happiness of meeting with Adelaide of Drach- 
 enfels. She could not be seen, without being admired, 
 nor long known, without being loved ; and his noble 
 presence, gallant mien, and courteous address, were irre- 
 sistible, even with the most volatile of the female sex. — 
 How powerful then must they have been in making an 
 impression on the susceptible heart of Adelaide, even by 
 their very contrast with the boisterous, though to her 
 affectionate, demeanour of her kinsmen ! The love of 
 this pair became, at the same instant, equally fervid and 
 mutual. Many were their stolen interviews in the clear 
 moonlight, near the walls of Roland's castle, when the 
 brothers of Adelaide were absent on their predatory 
 excursions ; — many the vows they plighted of enduring 
 faith, maiden love, and knightly constancy ; and many the 
 sweet and bitter tears they shed on the cheeks of each 
 other, when the hour of parting came, with a speed all 
 unlooked for, and almost unaccountable. Adelaide had
 
 260 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 held these interviews with her lover in secret, from no 
 other motive than an undefined dread, which weak and 
 gentle minds often have of strong or coarse ones, " that 
 it might offend her brothers." During one of these, when 
 Sir Roland pressed his suit with all the ardour of a young 
 and enthusiastic lover, and besought her to become his 
 own for ever, she referred him to her brothers, whose con- 
 sent obtained, her hand should be his, as was her heart 
 already. She thought he would have accepted of this 
 permission with transport ; but, instead of showing any 
 signs of satisfaction at her words, Roland fell into a pen- 
 sive mood ; and, after some minutes of silence, broke out 
 into the exclamation, " Ah ! had mine eyes never gazed 
 on thy fatal beauty, or had my sire or thine been but an 
 humble peasant, rather than a belted knight !" He then 
 communicated to his mistress what he had never had 
 courage of heart enough to mention before. — A deadly 
 feud had subsisted for many years between the families 
 of Roland and Adelaide ; and had only of late ceased to 
 produce actual warfare, from the more profitable occupa- 
 tion the warrior brothers had chosen, of plundering the 
 weak in place of fighting with the strong. " Your rich 
 and proud brothers, lady," said the young knight, " will 
 never consent that you should wed the son of their ancient 
 and hereditary foe. — But will this, which gives us an 
 opportunity of trying the strength of our love, only pre- 
 sent a proof of its weakness — Must we never meet again?" 
 Adelaide replied to him in words and with a manner 
 which most pleasantly and gracefully united the expression 
 of devoted, virtuous, maiden love, and that firmness which 
 even the weaker sex possessed in those days of warlike 
 prowess. She assured him that slie deemed it her duty — 
 a duty due to the memory of her revered parents — to 
 consult her brothers, — but only to co/ts/dt them ; and if
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. li() ( 
 
 they withheld their consent, then her love would demand 
 the sacrifice of her fraternal affection — and if needful it 
 should be made. This noble proffer overcame the doubts 
 of Roland ; he threw himself at her feet, and swore, 
 in any case, never — never to wed another. Adelaide re- 
 compensed his faith by reciprocating the vow. 
 
 Young' Roland, the very next day, demanded admittance 
 to her three brothers, on the plea that he had something of 
 importance to communicate ; and an audience was imme- 
 diately accorded to him. He entered the frowning gates of 
 the castle, where the meeting Avas appointed to be held, 
 with a not unknightly fear. He would, without a craven 
 thought, have dared to storm its battlements in the hour 
 of warfare ; but the trembling which agitated his frame, — 
 in spite of himself, and the recollection of many deeds of 
 heroic valour by him achieved, — as he crossed the moat, 
 and heard the sullen clank of the chains connected with the 
 drawbridge while it was elevated behind him, arose from 
 doubt, but not from cowardice, though the sensation 
 would be undiscriminatingly called fear by many. The 
 brothers of Adelaide awaited the arrival of Roland, in 
 the large oak-panelled hall where the boisterous festivities 
 of their rude followers and retainers, were usually cele- 
 brated. On the brow of each of them there was a pre- 
 determined scoff, in spite of the stately air of politeness 
 which the rules of knighthood, not altogether forgotten 
 even by them, required every one to assume on the en- 
 trance of a guest, although that guest should be a heredi- 
 tary enemy " Let Roland of Schwartzenberg be seated 
 
 near us," said the oldest of the brothers coldly, as the young 
 lover gave a bow of haughty recognition. — But recollecting 
 that he came as a suitor, the latter did what in him lay to 
 dismiss from his brow and curled lip any traces of the 
 scorn and feeling which, before his love for Adelaide,
 
 262 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 were hatred of the brothers. He seated himself, and, in 
 aHbrief, but interesting manner, and with a gallant bear- 
 ing, avowed to them the love he felt for their beau- 
 tiful sister, and asked their consent to his immediate 
 union with her. They were startled at the proposal, and 
 wondered how Roland ever had obtained opportunities 
 of becoming the lover of the secluded Adelaide. After 
 a prolonged, and to all parties, disagreeable audience, 
 Roland took his leave, being only able to extract from 
 the guardians of his mistress, a promise to consult together 
 with themselves and their charge, on the propriety and 
 expediency of granting the request. 
 
 Adelaide from her chamber window had eagerly watch- 
 ed for, and listened, with something more exciting than 
 pleasure, to the clang of his massive sword, the only 
 weapon he wore on the visit, as it rang in touching the 
 tesselated floor of the hall. — With what breathless earnest- 
 ness she watched the advance of the sunbeam across her 
 casement ; and how tedious did she that day think its 
 career, as she sat in the solitary indulgence of what was 
 a joy, though less vivid than the hope, that Roland's suit 
 woidd be successful — that the interview would be happily 
 and speedily concluded, and that she should either be called 
 down to attend her brothers' pleasure in the hall, or that 
 they would be desirous that after meeting them, Roland 
 should be admitted to her presence. With this half- 
 defined wish in view, she had, — she afterwards tried to 
 assure herself, that it was unconsciously — donned her in her 
 best attire at the morning hour. She wore on that day 
 the pale and beautiful blue robe of silk that Roland had 
 first beheld, and still most admired her in. A rare Gem, 
 twined round with what was of more value to her than all 
 the gems the argosies of Venice ever bore from the east 
 , — a lock of Roland's golden lined and Saxon hair, — was
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 2G3 
 
 not wholly hid in the most heavenly of shelters — her fond 
 and palpitating bosom. But no messenger knocked at 
 her chamber door, which was ready to bound open at the 
 very touch of a breath from the outside. It remained 
 unmoved. — Roland's steed was brought to the outerside 
 of the moat ; — his step was heard in the hall — the echo of 
 the departing and coldly formal courtesies, rung, like the 
 wail of broken hopes, up to the turret ; — He appeared at 
 the gate — looked upwards — sighed, and departed ! A 
 dreary interval of several days elapsed before the brothers 
 of Adelaide betrayed, in her presence, either by their 
 speech or demeanour, their knowledge of the mutual 
 affection subsisting between their sister and Roland. They 
 thought thus haughtily to mark their scorn of what they 
 deemed a dereliction from the honourable pride of hatred, 
 which their house bad long entertained against the line of 
 chiefs, hereditary possessors of Schwartzenberg. At 
 length when the time approached at which they were to 
 give an answer to the suitor of Adelaide, — who, by-the- 
 bye, they had so strictly watched, that no intermediate 
 interview had taken place between him and her, — they 
 condescended to open their minds upon the subject to their 
 sister. This they did when one day she was permitted, 
 and in spirits, to be their companion at their board, after 
 they were able to withdraw themselves from the ruder 
 companionship of their vassals. Their words were all 
 reproachful, even in the very tone of their delivery, and 
 in the expression of countenance which accompanied them. 
 They were also few and bitter. But love armed the soul 
 of the gentle Adelaide, and gave her a courage and an 
 elocpience, totally new and surprising to herself. It seemed 
 to have awakened, or indeed given birth to energies, the 
 possession of which she had never dreamed of; and such 
 was her winning fervour, and the impressive beauty of
 
 '264 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 her language and her looks, that even the obdurate hearts 
 of her brothers were softened. — They were made of 
 sterner stuff than to be melted. All that they could eon- 
 sent to was that Roland might cherish hope of obtaining 
 their countenance to the marriage, after distinguishing 
 himself and gaining an honourable name, by feats of arms 
 under the banners of our blessed Lord in Palestine. Be- 
 yond this point they were inflexible. 
 
 This resolution they communicated to Roland, when, 
 accompanied by a gallant train — for his pride had been 
 piqued by the coldness and formality of his first reception, 
 and the supposed negligence of Adelaide in her failing to 
 resort on the moonlit evenings to the old oak, bordering 
 the domains of Schwartzenberg ; — when I say escorted by 
 a gallant company he waited upon them to demand their 
 answer. That answer, though behind his wishes, was 
 beyond his hopes. He adored Adelaide — but he also, 
 though less devotedly, loved martial glory ; so that he felt 
 a sensation he was inclined to stifle as inconsistent with 
 his vows, and almost ashamed to own to himself, as akin 
 to satisfaction — when he heaixbthat the two passions which 
 possessed his bosom might be gratified — nay, the one be 
 the means of forwarding the aimings of the other. Fatal 
 self-deceit J Unhappy delusion ! Love must have unre- 
 served and undivided sway, else dreadful is the vengeance 
 it exacts. — The incense offered on its shrine must be to 
 
 it alone The homage paid in its temple, the heart, must 
 
 be shared by no other passion deified ! The parting of 
 Adelaide and Roland was the bitterest moment of their 
 lives. Though he was in all the gallant trim of a young 
 and noble knight, and high in hope and anticipations of 
 glory, they fearfully — and ah ! not falsely, looked forward 
 to the ills the future would give birth to. They kissed 
 and sighed till the dewy lips of Adelaide seemed to grow
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. H65 
 
 to those of Roland, and vowed — oh how they vowed — un- 
 dying constancy ! At length Roland gave one fervid 
 embrace — pressed the hand of her he had the presenti- 
 ment he was never to see again. — And the last echo of 
 the bugles of his train, as that faded in the distance from 
 the straining eyes of Adelaide, awoke her from the reverie, 
 into which she had fallen from the undefinable feeling of 
 loneliness she felt, when the hand of Roland ceased its 
 fond hold of hers. 
 
 Roland sped him on. When he bade adieu to the dear 
 and majestic stream that bounds his native country, upon 
 whose beautiful banks he had in boyhood disported him- 
 self, and in youth so devotedly loved ; — when he recollected 
 that his fatherland was behind him, and his mistress far 
 away, the gaudy dreams of martial glory, rainbow-like, 
 seemed to him only to be the accompaniment of deep and 
 throbbing sorrow; and their illusive splendour was at 
 times totally overshadowed by the dense melancholy of the 
 forebodings which rather rested heavily on his soul than flit- 
 ted moodily across it. But this state of mind did not — could 
 not long continue. He reached the seaport from whence he 
 was to sail for Palestine ; and, with increase of distance 
 from the gentle and all unforgetting Adelaide, was the 
 sharp edge of his sorrow blunted, and the unavailing poig- 
 nancy of regret deadened within him. 
 
 Roland and his train joined themselves to other war- 
 riors of the Cross. There Avere among them the young 
 and the old — the noble and the mean ; men who fought 
 ior the honour of their faith — but for it in conjunction 
 with the peerless fame of their mistress ; and men who 
 were stirred up to the daring of the enterprise by the 
 meaner promptings of a thirst for worldly possession, 
 which they longed to slake in the fertile and well stored 
 plains of Syria, and among the wealthy believers of the 
 
 s
 
 '26Q ADELAIDE AND KOLAND. 
 
 arch impostor Mahomet. The generous purpose and the 
 noble sentiments of Roland did not allow him to hesitate in 
 choosing to which of these orders of the army of God he 
 should attach himself; for lie found on his arrival in the 
 holy land, as were his companions on the voyage, so were 
 his comrades in the camp. The colours of Adelaide 
 shewed in the plume of Roland's helmet, — and in the van 
 of the Christian battle array. The lock of her raven 
 hair, which he wore next his heart, entwined round the 
 likeness of its former possessor, parted with a portion of 
 itself to wreath with the ribbon streamers that waved 
 over his mailed shoulder. — " God — the Cross, and my 
 Adelaide !" was the war-cry most frequently heard, and 
 ay most dreaded in the paynim ranks, and in the tents of 
 the unholy infidel ; for it was ever but the prelude of the 
 fiercest onset from the keenest tempered steel ; the most 
 undaunted courage, yea and with that courage, of the most 
 knightly courtesy, and the blooming look of a fairer manly 
 beauty than ever the daughters of the east had before 
 beheld. Many were the onslaughts which Roland led, and 
 as many were the victorious conquests he achieved. The 
 trophies of his prowess were numerous — but he never 
 thought them enow for the lonely dweller on the far distant 
 shores of the Rhine. To her, as they were won, they 
 were sent by such messengers as accidentally offered 
 themselves ; for his gallant followers were too few and too 
 fearless to be permitted, or, as they would have said 
 themselves, to be compelled to leave the warfare of Reli- 
 gion and Renown, and not be allowed to share the laurels 
 of their beloved master. But, alas ! these tokens of an 
 affection, still fresh and green, never reached the Lady of 
 his love, to whose withering and pining heart they would 
 have been like the pure and weltering stream to the pilgrim, 
 who is athirst and weary in the desert. The Brothers of
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 1>()7 
 
 Drachenfells knew why. Did a pilgrim seek charity in 
 the name of Christ and the Holy Mother, and by the scars 
 he bore from wounds received in warring with infidels ; 
 and by the scallop shell and the cross he wore, beseech 
 them for shelter and succour — he was driven from the 
 precincts of the churls, and for ever after, it may be sup- 
 posed shunned their inhospitable gates. Did a stranger 
 inquire for their sister — he was either bribed to silent 
 departure and unreturning absence, or driven by force 
 from their neighbourhood. No tidings of her, as she 
 thought, false and forgetting lover ever reached Adelaide. 
 
 Seven years had drearily and heavily gone on, and were 
 passed — yet Roland returned not! Many, many were 
 the ancient Nobles — the valiant Knights, and even the 
 wealthy Burghers, for dearly did her brothers value riches, 
 that sought to woo and win the maiden, whose charms 
 were widely known, and often sung, despite the jealous 
 watchfulness of her fraternal guardians ! But the first look 
 of Adelaide, when the beams of morning raised her from 
 her sleepless couch, feverish slumbers or desponding 
 dreams, was to where that morning sun arose — the East. 
 The last looks from her chamber window in the twilight 
 of eve, however, were not to where, in excess of monarch 
 like magnificence, it set; for there was not the earthly 
 god of her vows and her heart — the beautiful, though 
 clay formed, temple of her hopes and wishes. The name 
 and the image of Roland were ever present in her thoughts ; 
 and time but deeper graved them on the tablets of the 
 heart, and imprinted them on the viewless records of uu- 
 decaying memory. 
 
 What, it will perchance be asked, could stir up brothers 
 to such cruelty, and strip then- stoney hearts of all the gar- 
 ments of brotherly tenderness, yea, and even of the common 
 clothing of humanity, that they so created — so prolonged
 
 '26$ ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 y 
 
 their sister's pine? — It were better, and more merciful, 
 to have at once deprived her of the life their common 
 parents gave. Gentle one, if that it be a lady that in- 
 quireth, it was the spirit of Revenge, and the triumph of 
 the evil principle which, we may often see, do freeze up 
 the blood-currents of affection, and make the heart of man 
 like unto the iron, — hard as it is cold, or burning in its 
 softness. — It was from hate of Roland and despisal of her 
 who could love him. Art thou a man — aye and of the 
 world too, who askest me ? I will whisper thee then, 
 'twas Interest also ; for Adelaide, if she lived to the age 
 of five and twenty, became sole inheritor of the woods 
 and lawns ; the fair Castle and the wealth of her Mother's 
 brother : such was his expiring wish. These wide domains, 
 and that powerful Barony, the Brothers wished to have 
 for their own exclusive use. — Thus passionate hate is 
 often but a garment wherewith is covered interested love. 
 
 At length the seven years of Roland's absence had passed 
 away — at length Adelaide approached the blooming age 
 of five and twenty. The schemes of the Brothers were 
 completed ; and their triumph was at hand and matured. 
 
 One day, (it was a dismal and gloomy one,) Adelaide 
 was called down from her solitary chamber to attend her 
 brothers in the Castle hall. — She did not credit her ears nor 
 her senses, when she heard the attendant add, " A stranger 
 hath been closeted with your brothers, lady, and he looks 
 like one of the men who have fought in the holy land." — 
 Hastily, yet feebly, she tottered down the steep staircase — 
 for never had she obeyed a summons with more — pleasure 
 I had almost said, — but that were wrong ; — with less 
 reluctance then, — since the day of the departure of 
 Roland. She dared not hope that the stranger was her love, 
 but she believed that it would be one who knew of him, and 
 bore some message for her. " Why so pale, sister ? This
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 269 
 
 palmer is the bearer of some news for you, which, I 
 guess, will not improve your complexion ! " Adelaide 
 looked not even a reproach, but gently addressing the 
 pilgrim said, " Valiant and holy stranger, if you have 
 aught for my own peculiar ear, my brothers will retire to 
 a distance ; but if thy message demands not privacy, for 
 the love of the holy Mary, do not delay to tell it me ! " "It 
 will be well enough known an hour hence, lady, so I need 
 no secrecy, and the tale is too heavy to make me haste in the 
 telling," gruffly answered the stranger, and then went on 
 with an unfaltering and savage apathy, only varied by 
 occasional attempts at being pathetic or jocose, to tell that 
 he had fought along with Roland — seen him fall — received 
 his last breath, and was requested by him to be the bearer 
 of a box, which he threw on the table, and with it a ring, 
 as tokens of his love and his death, for Adelaide, the sister 
 of the lords of Drachenfells. — " Yes ! It is mine ! " cried 
 Adelaide ; — she could no more. — The breath forsook the 
 snowy bosom which had but a moment before heaved to the 
 music of hope; — colour fled the cheek it had tinted with 
 the long forgotten hue of joy ; — and she sunk on the hard 
 marble pavement of the Hall, which was yet softer than the 
 bosoms of her brothers. Life returned — the stranger still 
 remained, and Adelaide looked — she could not articulate 
 — fond questions, which he was, alas ! too ready to answer. 
 " We were comrades in the fight — but who was Roland's 
 peer in the combat ? It was during the hottest of the 
 bloody strife that I saw him fall, after I had witnessed 
 prodigies of his valour. In company with his page, though 
 also grievously wounded, we bore him to his tent ; but 
 life ebbed swiftly through the gashes of the Saracenic 
 scymitars, and a wound near the heart, given by the 
 arrow of an infidel. But his last words lady were of
 
 -70 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 you!" At this moment the palmer almost faltered, despite 
 of himself, at the picture he had sketched. " Take," said 
 he, " this casquet to my Adelaide, and tell her that my 
 latest sigh was towards her — my last thought regarded her, 
 and my expiring prayer was for her welfare." He then 
 gave up the ghost, and, lady, I am here, and have fulfilled 
 my promise ! " Yea, he had — but not to Roland — for he 
 never had made one. He earned the gold of Drachenfells' 
 lords ; — but with it bought a worm that gnaweth hearts, 
 and never — never dies ! The false traitor's tale was un- 
 true, yet Adelaide — could she else ? firmly believed it ; 
 and from that moment devoted herself to the memory of 
 her lover, and to sorrow. Her suitors, and many were 
 they, and noble, and generous, and gallant and gay, 
 increased ; — but she mildly told her tale. Her heart, she 
 said, was in a Syrian grave, and now her body should be 
 Heaven's, for the works of God and charity, before that 
 it was Death's. She associated with the nuns of a neigh- 
 bouring Carmelite Convent that, built on a small island in 
 the Rhine, was overlooked by the Castle of her brothers, 
 and the ancestral domains of Roland. Hope's flame that, 
 even unknown to herself, had still fitfully twinkled in its 
 socket, at kst for a moment brightly flashed — and died 
 away — for ever I She took the veil. The day, and but 
 the day after that event, which not even fate, all mighty as 
 it reigns over what is yet to be, can ever recall, the sound 
 of Roland's triumphant bugle rang through the woods of 
 Drachenfells, as with his valiant train he approached the 
 Castle of the Brothers to demand the fulfilment of their 
 promise and the hand, (he knew not that the heart ought 
 then to have been heaven's, — ) of Adelaide. The notes 
 danced o'er the Rhine, and hung lingeringly round the 
 turrets of the Convent. Adelaide knew them ! The per-
 
 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 271 
 
 fidy of her brothers — the brothers to whom she had 
 yielded her estate — that moment flashed across her mind ! 
 The longed for, and now replenished cup of happiness was 
 at the same instant dashed from the thirsty lips of Roland. 
 He cursed his fate — he almost cursed his God ! He 
 prayed that the earth — his native earth — would ope and 
 swallow him up, since all the perils of War he had escaped 
 — but to find that his Mistress had forgotten him, although 
 she had not loved another — for so was he told, and such 
 was his belief. But yet he cursed not her. He prepared 
 to return to Palestine, but before his departure, was pre- 
 vailed upon to seek his still beloved — adored Adelaide. 
 By special favour they met, but the never opening gate 
 of the Convent was betwixt them ; — yet it excluded not 
 the truth. He learned the baseness of the brothers of 
 his Mistress, gave to her tears and prayers the mightiest 
 boon he ever could dispense — his forgiveness ; — pressed 
 the hand of Adelaide — and was severed from her for ever ! 
 Speedily did the gentle frame of Adelaide sink under 
 this event. It had crushed her heart and withered her 
 spirit : — was it to be wished its tenement should still 
 remain — though in ruins? She died — and the name of 
 her Roland and of her God hung on her lips, breathed to- 
 gether in the deep devotion of her latest hour. Before 
 her decease, Roland had taken up his abode in a chapel on 
 a rock which overlooked the Rhine, and the windows of 
 the Convent. To these windows were his eyes ceaselessly 
 directed. He again saw — but only saw Adelaide. She 
 recognised him, — for love is far sighted ; and, at her calm 
 departure, her eyes were turned toward the chapel. 
 Roland was permitted to attend her remains to the tomb. 
 He took no monastic vow; — for he had deeply pledged a 
 holier one — that of love ; — and he kept it sacred. Sixteen
 
 272 ADELAIDE AND ROLAND. 
 
 years Roland survived his Adelaide ; but he never left 
 his chapel on the Rhine — never wished to gaze on aught 
 but the convent where she had died — the grave where 
 she was buried — (for he coidd see it) ; and never, never, 
 even in thought, was he another's !
 
 STANZAS. 273 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN ON FIRST OBSERVING THAT THE MOTTO ON A 
 SEAL IN MY POSSESSION WAS, 
 
 " TO LIVE AXD DIE FOR THOSE I LOVE." 
 
 " The voyager through untracked billows, 
 Who havens for a day in some sweet isle, 
 Such as his storm.rock'd dreamings showed, — doth look 
 The fonder on it, that 'tis like to them." 
 
 ClIATELARD — A PtAY. 
 
 There is, there is a mystic truth 
 
 In things we deem the freaks of Chance ; 
 Which sheds its lustre o'er our youth, 
 
 In blending with the Real, — Romance ! 
 Yes ! — henceforth, Prescience, I'll believe 
 
 In thee ! — Unfold then what's to be ; 
 Not chance alone, a web could weave, 
 Whose threads are Wish and Destiny. 
 This is indeed my Horoscope, 
 The past's Record, the future's Hope ; 
 O Joy ! all other joys above — 
 " To live and die for those I love !" 
 
 For those I've loved, I've lived alone ; 
 Let me for Love and loving die,
 
 274 the lover's loan. 
 
 And they may weep, when I am gone ; 
 
 Whose Will became my Destiny. 
 A happier lot, which I resign, 
 
 It may be, colder hearts may have : — 
 Enough ! — such triumph fond be mine, 
 As soars above the lowliest grave ! 
 
 Stamped on my soul, as on my seal ; 
 Badge of the faith to which I kneel ; 
 Boast of the heart, all boasts above, 
 " To live and die for those I love !" 
 
 Proud hopes of fame ! the heart love-broke 
 
 You cannot rouse nor thrill again ; 
 Dreams of delight ! from you awoke, 
 
 The real is but one lengthened pain.- — 
 Prophetic symbol of my life, 
 
 Ah I but mine Epitaph become ; 
 And with thy mystic words, its strife 
 Of thrilling joys and sorrows sum ! 
 
 O'er my cold dust no tablet rear; 
 Enough, if wet with friendship's tear, 
 — The holiest dew ! — one flower above, 
 Like me shall " live and die for love I" 
 
 THE LOVER'S LOAN. 
 
 Long years have gone over — 
 
 I come to the spot 
 Where first the boy-lover 
 
 Gave breath to the thought 
 That burned, as from lip 
 
 Unto lip it was given,
 
 the lover's LOAN. 275 
 
 And hath left two fond bosoms 
 
 All blighted and riven ! 
 Now noontide is shining 
 
 In lustre and light, 
 Then the star-light was pining ; 
 
 But yet, oh how bright ! 
 Was the blue sky above me, 
 
 The ravine beneath, 
 When " Yes, I do love thee," 
 
 He ventured to breathe ! 
 But the radiance of rapture that, halo-like, shone 
 Round the form that I doated on — where is it gone ? 
 
 Oh ! quenched — and for ever, 
 
 And dim as that ray, 
 Whose brightness may never 
 
 Again light my way — 
 That from forth a blue eye 
 
 Sent such flashes of love, 
 As to me made the bright sky 
 
 Look darkened above ! 
 That eye lacks its lustre, 
 
 Its glancings are dim ; — 
 But my bosom must burst ere 
 
 My tongue shall taint him ! 
 Let him march to the glory 
 
 That waits on his name ; 
 Not a tear for my story 
 
 Shall e'er blot his fame. 
 And perhaps when I rest, where the weary are gone, 
 He may come, as I came, to this dark Lover's Loan. 
 
 Then will he remember 
 The thrill of that hour,
 
 276 the lover's loan. 
 
 When the gloom of November 
 
 Grew bright in the power, 
 Which his words of devotion, 
 
 So ardent and fond, 
 Conld rouse to emotion, 
 
 And Love yet beyond ! 
 — Who could deem that 'twas haunted 
 
 This dark Lover's Loan, 
 While the sunny leaves flaunted 
 
 With June's freshness on ; 
 Who will guess as the glowing 
 
 Of soul lights his eye ; 
 Of the sad mem'ries throwing 
 
 Their deep shadows nigh ? 
 Yet, oh ! never may he, as I now do, atone 
 For that one hour of rapture in this Lover's Loan I 
 
 It seems, though long years bave 
 
 Since then passed away, 
 That my Rivers of tears have 
 
 Washed out every day ; 
 And I stand as the morrow 
 
 That chased that dear night, 
 I stood, half in sorrow, 
 
 Yet all in delight, 
 And gazed on the green boughs 
 
 That waved overhead, 
 As he breathed forth the deep vows 
 
 That like these — are dead ! 
 On my heart once again is 
 
 His little hand pressed ; 
 His fond clasp yet the chain is 
 
 That hangs on my breast ! —
 
 the lover's loan. 277 
 
 Poor dreamer, that voice which I thought was his own, 
 Is but Echo reproachfully bidding — begone ! 
 
 When a month had gone over, 
 
 What mound marked the spot, 
 Where first that fond lover 
 
 Gave voice to the thought, 
 That burned as from lip 
 Unto lip it was given, 
 And left two fond bosoms 
 All blighted and riven? 
 Though the noontide be shining 
 
 In lustre and light, 
 Mark the lithe willow pining 
 O'er the turf, that is bright 
 With the verdure that's springing 
 
 From a bosom now cold ; 
 And, more sinned on than sinning, 
 That hides in its fold. 
 She sleeps where she fell — and the place needs no stone, 
 For her heart long was there — in the dark Lover's Loan : — 
 But when Mercy from earth every sorrow hath driven, 
 From this spot — pure again shall she wing her to Heaven !
 
 278 IMPROVVISING. 
 
 IMPROVVISING. 
 
 Pinto.—" A Maravedi to a Ducat that he lies : 
 
 My life on't ! — 'tis so simply spoken out ! 
 Luix. — Truth is not always of a family likeness." — 
 
 The Lusitanian Mariner. 
 
 Dr. Bowring, in his fine sketches of, and vivid remarks 
 upon the Romances of the Spanish nation, observes, that 
 there is hardly a language in the world, in which it is so 
 easy to write Verse with elegance as the Castilian ; aris- 
 ing from a peculiar construction of their musical rhythm, 
 and the great license allowed in their assonant termina- 
 tions. We do not know how to reconcile this fact with 
 the circumstance of there never having appeared a Spanish 
 Improvvisatore or Improvvisatrice, unless it be that the 
 national gravity of the Spaniards prevents them from 
 exhibiting in public an accomplishment, in which it must 
 be as easy for them to excel, as it is for the Italians, who, 
 if thev have a softer language, follow more closely the 
 ancient authors in their severer use of it. — The exhibition 
 of that most extraordinary woman, Le Tiranna, (the 
 original of Maturin's Madame Dalmatiana,) as described 
 in Richard Cumberland's auto-biography, can hardly be 
 said to be an exception to the truth of our remark. 
 
 After all, however, Improvvising is no such difficult 
 matter, when sufficient excitement offers, as will be evinced 
 in some degree, by the two "copies of verses" subjoined. 
 — They were written witli almost as great rapidity as 
 they could have been spoken, to support an assertion then 
 made ; the difference indeed being only that of the speed 
 of the fingers, as compared with that of the tongue, while
 
 'I HE LEGEND OF THE LID. 
 
 L'79 
 
 there was the drawback — or advantage, as it may be held, 
 of inventing the story as the writer went along ; and they 
 are now printed, strictly in the original state, as a specimen 
 of what may be attempted, even in our own language, 
 Teutonic though it be. 
 
 The first speaks for itself. The subject of the second 
 is an eastern painting, representing a woman in a semi- 
 oriental costume, Avith whom is a boy, in a Turkish dress, 
 gazing on a plant blooming in a flower-pot, beside which, 
 a Gardener, also attired in the eastern fashion, is placed. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LID. 
 
 AN ATTEMPT AT ENGLISH IMPROVVISO THE SUBJECT, 
 
 AN ORIENTAL SKETCH ON THE LID OF A WORKBOX. 
 
 Who sits serene beneath yon leafy palm, 
 Glad as the sunshine — as the twilight calm :
 
 280 THE LEGEND OF THE LID. 
 
 Who, where the Acacia spreads its tender leaves^ 
 Holds maiden state ? No angry passion heaves 
 That gentle breast, nor beams on yon mild eye. — 
 Is that still bliss, the child of Melody, 
 Which, from the Zel's sweet strings, and Leila's touch, 
 Steals o'er tbe ear ? The power of sound is such, 
 When Music, soothing Music, round the heart 
 Twines its soft folds with more than Magic art. — 
 In such a scene — in such a tranquil hour — 
 Ah ! then 'tis, Melody we own thy power ! — 
 
 Yet 'mid these palms in Cashmere's garden bowers, 
 Sleeps not the heart, — it hath its passion'd hours : 
 For, see where Azim — he who lute or sword 
 Alike doth use and love, and the soft word 
 Which best, he knows, the female ear can win — 
 Points to the cool retreat, half hid within, 
 Which, to her listening mistress, Leila plays 
 The touching airs of other lands and days ; 
 And seems to say to Zara, " See the bliss 
 Thy friend Zuleika, in an horn* like this 
 Alone possesses. Then, what joy were ours, 
 Together seated in these tranquil bowers ? 
 There may be bliss in solitude, 'tis true ; 
 But rapture is communion, if when two, 
 Loving and lov'd — as, Zara, we do now — 
 Sit, and are bless'd in gazing on the brow 
 Of each ; and, marking in the others eye, 
 Their own resemblance pictur'd. — Then a sigh 
 Is aught but grief's sad descant ! — Come, my Love ; 
 The turtle murmurs gladness, and above, 
 The gayer birds wing their glad heavenward flight. 
 Here, let us sit, and watch the stealing night,
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE FLOWER. 281 
 
 Which, from the prophet's * tomh, in starless cloud, 
 Comes sailing- on, black as the Kaaba's f shroud. — 
 Yet let it come — thine eyes will make it blaze 
 To me, with more than sunshine's brightest rays !" 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE FLOWER. 
 
 IMPROMPTU ON AN EASTERN SKETCH, COMPANION TO 
 
 THE ABOVE. 
 
 " Lady ! see thy favourite blossom, 
 
 In our hot and fervid clime ; 
 Place its first flower in thy bosom 
 
 It may mind thee of the time 
 When thy western Father-land 
 Thou hadst not left for foreign strand ! 
 
 " Lady ! for thy gentle sorrow 
 
 I have nursed this plant with care — 
 
 Watch'd it fondly eve and morrow — 
 Turned it to the Sun, and air ; 
 
 I thought, an Exile's my own doom, 
 
 'T would please thee thus to see it bloom." 
 
 " Stranger ! one of Europe's daughters, 
 Thanks thee with a moisten'd eye ; 
 
 That floweret fair, o'er western waters, 
 Blooms 'mong my kindred silently : 
 
 * Mussulmans always turn to the east for Mecca. 
 ■j- The interior of the Temple at Mecca, hung with black cloth. 
 
 T
 
 282 THE ROMANCE OF THE FLOWER. 
 
 But here it speaks, and every leaf, 
 Bids ne'er to cease a captive's grief ! — 
 
 Yet tells that woe is joy's near kindred, 
 Since, here, a captive of the heart ; 
 
 I would not, though no lovihgs hindered, 
 From my fond Paynim brothers part : 
 
 My turban' d Boy, though half a Frank, 
 
 Would pine in England's breezes dank. 
 
 But, though I learned to love the chieftain, 
 Whose scymitar redeemed my life, 
 
 And in his fondness wrapp'd my grief, when 
 Him had I taught to love one wife — 
 
 Yet, thine, my Edward, who for me 
 
 Fought — fell — was my soul's constancy; — 
 
 And thine is half my widow'd heart, still !" 
 — What means the stranger's joyous cry ? 
 
 Quick ! see him doff his masqued part, till 
 Fond recognition fires her eye. — 
 
 — One moment, and, within his arms, 
 
 Her Edward folds his Mary's charms !
 
 THE GRACES. AN APOLOGUE. 283 
 
 THE GRACES— AN APOLOGUE. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MARY. 
 
 Some eighteen summers since, 'tis said, the Graces 
 When tired of Heaven, longed much to change their places. 
 They gained permission o'er the Earth to rove, 
 And, for their guide, a blind one, took young Love. — 
 This done, thro' earth they passed with eager haste, 
 Like modern tourists ; — and like them, their Taste 
 Was hard to please. They found no fixed abode, 
 Indeed how should they, when the wicked God, 
 Where'er he wandered, blinded people's eyes, 
 And whispered pleasing — yet most roguish lies ? — 
 
 Where'er the ladies wished a while to lodge, 
 The " Natives" called them sluts, and bade them budge, 
 Averring that, for many years before, 
 The Graces dwelt in an adjoining door, 
 Centered in Molly's form, or Bridget's face : — 
 In short, no sold would shelter even one Grace 
 He's thinking each their Mistress — She's themselves 
 Had long ago possessed the heathen elves. 
 
 Tired of their journey and their playful guide, 
 Who, they at last found out, with feigning, tried 
 While they were absent, to fill up their place, 
 And made men fancy he could show each Grace ; 
 They turned him off; — the boy to Heaven up flew, 
 The Graces then, my Mary, heard of you — 
 A lovely child in beauty's budding time ; 
 Took you in charge, and found a genial clime,
 
 284 love's pains. 
 
 At last on earth. With you they've dwelt, since then 
 And, while you shelter them, they'll ne'er agen 
 Think of returning-. — Should they quit thy mien, 
 I wonder where their vestige could be seen ! 
 But they'll abide, nor wish to soar above — 
 Ah ! then make room within your heart for Love. 
 Love and the Graces should be friends again, 
 And you, dear Mary, would the four retain ; 
 Rule o'er them, potent, as you reign o'er hearts, 
 And, where you listed, point the urchin's darts ; 
 Which, ere you sent them from your dimpled face, 
 Their barbs you'd polish with the prettiest Grace ; 
 And, taught at length, no more your heart to smother, 
 Find Mercv to be Graces' elder Brother ! 
 
 LOVE'S PAINS. 
 
 — "This mixed health and disease; — the servitude above freedom; the gentle 
 mind's religion ; the liberal superstition." 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 To sit and watch the beaming eye, 
 
 That never turns to thee ; 
 To mark the smile, to note the sigh 
 Another wins, and that one nigh. 
 
 Ah ! this is misery. 
 
 To feel the once bright spirit quenched, 
 
 Arid hope's last glimmer die ; 
 To know thy cheek is wan and blenched. 
 And that 'tis seen thy heart is wrenched.- 
 This, this is agony !
 
 love's pains. 285 
 
 To try to smile, to hide tliy woes, 
 
 Yet feel you try in vain, — 
 In form to seek to clothe the tlu-oes 
 Which but a burning bosom knows. — 
 Ah ! this is more than pain ! 
 
 To pant, to kneel, and bare thy heart, 
 
 Even to its inmost core, 
 To One who knows not what thou art, 
 Yet, Pride to act the tyrant's part, — 
 
 Ah ! this than grief is more ! — 
 
 To wither 'neath a look of scorn, 
 
 Or complaisance so chill, 
 That proud contempt were easier born, 
 Or hatred's stigma lighter worn. 
 
 Be thus — and what will kill ! 
 
 To envy, though you cannot hale, 
 
 A proud, but manly foe, 
 Who knows his triumph, and, elate, 
 Keeps haughty and condoling state ; 
 
 And what remains in woe ! 
 
 To tender, but to see declined, 
 The slightest homage-deed ; 
 To feel the heart infect the mind, 
 Till Reason's holds their links unbind, 
 And what will make thee bleed ! 
 
 To be all thus while she is near, 
 
 Yet pine more when alone ; 
 'Mid crowds to feel recluse and drear 
 Till torment by her, even is dear, — 
 Then wish thee turned to stone !
 
 THE FOCUS. 
 No. V. 
 
 I. METEOROLOGY. 
 
 The public seldom rank Meteorology among the number 
 of the exact sciences. — It is not easy rationally, to say 
 why. As well might medicine be contemned, because the 
 profession of it is overrun by miserable quacks and pre- 
 tenders, as the failure of the foolish prognostications of 
 Almanack makers be taken as a proof that no system of 
 the weather can ever be formed, or that the phenomena 
 of the atmosphere are not regulated by laws as wise and 
 as immutable as those which have been ascertained to 
 rule the combinations of gases, or the germination of 
 plants. A Newton, a Cavendish, and a Davy, are want- 
 ing to do away this reproach, though, perhaps, patient 
 observation is more necessary towards the elucidation of 
 the Science, than brilliant genius or hazardous speculation. 
 Yet it will hardly be asserted, even although we grant 
 that it is naturally surrounded with almost insurmountable 
 barriers against actual experiment, that it is less within the
 
 GREEK AND ROMAN CUSTOMS. 287 
 
 scope of human observation than the revolutions and move- 
 ments of the Suns of other systems, so far apart from our 
 globe that, though numbers can grasp at and enunciate 
 the eternity-like distance, thought can scarcely follow 
 them or expand itself to the comprehension of the state- 
 ment. Yes ; Meteorology is a Science, though man is yet 
 but a tyro even in its_ rudiments ! Let him patiently 
 initiate himself into its interesting Arcana by experimental 
 observations — prolonged through generations and ages ; — 
 and from these let maxims be drawn and ripened into 
 generalities and axioms, whilst he calls in to aid him in 
 his deductions, the powerful assistance of the sciences of 
 Astronomy, Electricity, Magnetism and Chemistry, with 
 which it is so intimately connected. ^ 
 
 In usefulness it yields to none of these ; by usefulness 
 meaning its power of adding to the comfort, security, 
 pleasure and duration of life Even in its present imper- 
 fect state, its importance is intuitively indicated by thou- 
 sands who have never heard of its name : we talk of the 
 Weather at the first moment of meeting and the last of 
 departure ; think of it oftener than perhaps any thing 
 else, and express our good will by wishing that each other 
 may have " A Good Day." 
 
 II. GREEK AND ROMAN CUSTOMS. 
 
 The Greeks were conquered by the Romans, whose 
 empire flourished long, long after Attica became but a 
 province under their colossal sway ; yet at the present 
 time the modern Grecians, often as they have been tri- 
 umphed over ; — trampled upon as they have been, and 
 degraded as they are, exhibit in their tastes, manners, 
 habits and physiognomies a much greater resemblance to 
 their illustrious ancestors, than the modern Italians do 
 to their precedent denizens of the " Immortal City." —
 
 288 GREEK AND ROMAN CUSTOMS. 
 
 This is so palpable that it can hardly be denied. — The 
 Marriages are conducted at the present day in the Morea 
 with little variation of the ceremonial from the time of 
 Pericles. — The child is received into the community on 
 its birth, and the man mourned over at his death with the 
 same formalities as in that Golden Age of Greece. — The 
 gossip-feast and the burial-banquet, have survived in their 
 peculiarities, — and with them all the intermediate ceremo- 
 nies which occupy in these countries so much of the life 
 of man — the strength and duration of even the codes under 
 which they were nurtured; the manners and mythology 
 under which they had their rise ; the splendid fabrics 
 within which many of these were celebrated, and all but 
 the memories of the Poets who satirized or illustrated, 
 the philosophers who disdained, and the patriots who with 
 them defended the rights, privileges and freedom with 
 which they were, perhaps, inseparably interwoven. 
 
 It is not easy to account for this singular immortality 
 of custom, — in itself considered, for who can use the same 
 language respecting other nations as ancient and as much 
 oppressed? But it becomes a still more difficult prob- 
 lem to solve, when we consider this perpetuity, as it were, 
 of manners in reference to the fleeting nature of the 
 usages of the Romans, whose mythology was the same, 
 while their power and conquests, and consequently their 
 exemplary and recollected force, Avere infinitely greater. 
 It surely cannot be that the phenomenon is owing to the 
 natural, national, and consequently permanent, nature of 
 the ceremonies, and manners themselves ? Or can it be 
 referred to their harmonizing and amalgamating with the 
 peculiarities of the conquerors who have succeeded each 
 other in the possession of the country ? Winkelman and 
 others have asserted the influence of climate on the arts : — 
 we all know it gives a fashion to manners, and naturally
 
 GREEK AND ROMAN CUSTOMS. 289 
 
 creates habits ; — has it a preservative effect even upon those 
 which seem least to depend upon its influence ? 
 
 Admitting the influence of one, or all of these causes 
 in union, would they not have acted even with greater 
 effect in the conservation of the manners of ancient Rome? 
 Climate may influence and perpetuate physiognomical 
 peculiarities : — well, — is the air of the Grecian peninsula 
 less changed than the climate of Italy ? By no means. — 
 Are the Turks more civilized or mild in their government 
 than were the Goths and Huns of Attila ? No ! Nor can it 
 be said that the customs of the Romans were less natural 
 than those of the Greeks. — Indeed customs seldom are 
 natural, or in accordance and harmony with unsophisticated 
 impulse, though habits may be so. — Like language they 
 are often purely conventional. 
 
 Perhaps the following considerations which I rather 
 indicate than detail, may solve, or assist in solving, the 
 problem. The Romans, as a matter of policy, imitated 
 and adopted the customs, and even the creeds and Deities 
 of whatever nation they had conquered. — All its free sub- 
 jects were then deemed citizens ; and, under the Emperors, 
 the Eternal City was peopled from every clime, between 
 Dacia and the Pillars of Hercules, and even beyond 
 them. — Again — the Romans were a military people, and 
 military habits are too unnatural and boisterous to be 
 permanent ; — the body of them were supremely unintel- 
 lectual, and reckless of reason, which embalms, through 
 national pride, as many customs as it destroys. All know 
 how different matters were in Greece. — The Grecians 
 were too much disunited to be conquerors — too proud to 
 be adopters or imitators ; and even the poorest of them 
 too much imbued with the self-sufficiency of demi-infor- 
 mation to concede their own customs, or to adopt those 
 of others.
 
 290 SPEAKING IN GENERAL, &C. 
 
 III. SPEAKING IN GENERAL AND VARIETIES OF 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Nothing is more common than talking in general ; and 
 vagueness is tolerated in every quarter and in every cir- 
 cumstance, as if vastness and extension were a compensa- 
 tion for precision and detail. No mode of talking in 
 generals is more in use, or more to be deprecated than 
 the way in which we confound, as it were the order, the 
 genera and species of things together, as if they were, 
 though of the same nature, of the same importance and 
 comprehension. — For example, we say this author is a man 
 of Imagination, and that one pecidiar for his possession of 
 Fancy — What sort of imagination — what sort of Fancy? 
 There are as many of each as button patterns on a Bag- 
 man's show card ! There is the obscure imagination and 
 the distinct one, — the sombre and the lively ; the im- 
 agination which revels in vastness, and that which dwells 
 on the fillings up of the pictures which it presents to the 
 mind, and to kindred feelings. There is the flowery fancy 
 — the roving — the settled — the minute — the sprightly and 
 the witty. It has its satirical and its laudatory moods, or 
 rather its caustic and its soothing varieties. — Few unite 
 in their writings all the styles of fancy — Moore crowds 
 a number in every page of his Poems ; but nobody in one 
 work, has ever combined the different species of emotion 
 which go to the formation of the meaning of the com- 
 prehensive term, Imagination. — Shakespeare was " of Im- 
 agination all compact," and displays more of its varieties 
 in his writings than any other author ; but the plays of 
 Lear and Macbeth are as different from Hamlet, as that 
 is from The Tempest and the Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 All of these are monuments of glorious Imagining ; but 
 will any one say that they are all alike in their nature and 
 expression, because one generic term is used for signifying
 
 NATURE ENDLESS ART LIMITED. ^91 
 
 the particular character of the inspiration which gave them 
 birth? Imagination is like the term Colour — in itself, 
 merely a name combining varieties, which require, for 
 precision and clearness, specific appellations of their own. 
 Illustrations more striking and more important might 
 easily be mentioned as bearing upon the assertion with 
 which I set out. But it is precisely because they are 
 so striking as to challenge notice that I have sought 
 for one showing the more remote and abstract, but still 
 pernicious influence of the habit of « speaking in geueral." 
 
 IV. NATURE ENDLESS ART LIMITED. 
 
 Familiarity with the finest works of art, or the most 
 stupendous monuments of ingenuity or power, at length 
 dulls the edge of our admiration, and we cease to admire 
 with the same fervour as we did while their contour, &c. 
 was comparatively new to us. 
 
 It is not so with objects named sublime or beautiful in 
 the Natural Landscape, nor even when the powers of art 
 are judiciously brought into combination, with the great 
 and permanent features of a scene. — This may be in part 
 accounted for by the large comparative extent of the 
 thing in contemplation, which must, proportionably to its 
 size, take a longer familiarity with its features to produce 
 satiety. 
 
 The associations connected with natural scenery, are 
 perhaps more powerful than those which spring from any 
 other material object ; but I will take the case of an indi- 
 vidual, unconnected with it by any ties or feelings, visiting 
 with frequency a landscape remarkable for natural beauty 
 — beauty only, and not sublimity, — and in this country, 
 feeling as much delight in the contemplation of it at the 
 last visit as he did at the first ; while any other specimen 
 of material beauty would have palled upon him. — The
 
 292 INFLUENCE OF MEMORY : PLAGIARISM. 
 
 occasion of this, in a great degree I hold to be that in a 
 climate like ours, the atmospherical phenomena are hardly 
 ever two hours alike. — Every view at every visit is seen 
 through a new, medium, in different hues, and under 
 
 different aspects It is never, in what must always be 
 
 a material feature of a landscape, twice the same, — and the 
 succession of novelty seldom tires. Beneath Italian skies 
 the reason may not hold. — These are ever brilliant and 
 unclouded : — ours alternates, as we sometimes know to 
 our cost, with great rapidity, " from grave to gay, from 
 lively to severe !" 
 
 V. INFLUENCE OF MEMORY : PLAGIARISM. 
 
 A more close connexion, than many will allow, I am 
 of opinion subsists between memory and thought, recol- 
 lection and conception. — After the lapse of a period, 
 varying according to the different degrees of vigour in the 
 mnemonic powers of different individuals, the ideas of 
 others which have forcibly impressed us, and on which 
 we have meditated often and deeply, become a part of 
 om* own mental capital. — The original thought is lost 
 sight of amid the long train of reflexions to which it has 
 given birth ; and the nucleus is hid by the debris of asso- 
 ciations which have gathered round it. This view may 
 in some degree serve to shield authors from the charges 
 of plagiarism so frequently brought against them by plod- 
 ding industry, and a kind of book-worm mediocrity that, 
 incapable of observing the mental process by which the 
 position, opinion, or phrase that their research enables 
 them to detect as having been before given to the world, 
 has been incorporated and insensibly interwoven with the 
 mind of its modern producer, immediately, raise the hue 
 and cry of literary theft, and endeavour to convict the 
 hapless writer of a larceny of which he was equally uu-
 
 PREFACES. 293 
 
 conscious .and incapable ; thus leaving authors and readers 
 of the present age perpetually to lament with the Hiber- 
 nian * candidate for poetic fame, " That these fellows, the 
 ancients, had stolen all our best thoughts !" 
 
 VI. PREFACES. 
 
 It is a practice, too prevalent, with many, and especially 
 with female readers, to pass over the Preface, Advertise- 
 ment, and other preliminary matter of any work they 
 intend to peruse, and to plunge at once into the unexplained 
 narrative of the detail of argument and fact ; which, from 
 being ignorant of the preliminaries, they often labour in 
 vain to understand. Of all the pages of a book, I am 
 fondest of those that are filled with the Preface ; not so 
 much for the information I receive concerning what I am 
 to expect in the body of the work, as for the insight 
 immediately acquired into the personal character, private 
 thoughts, domestic habits, and varied motives of the writer. 
 In reading a Preface, when written, not with the im- 
 posing dignity of Johnson, whose magnificent periods, like 
 a Counsel's opinion, were at the disposal of every one who 
 gave the reqiured fee, but with the evident desire of con- 
 ciliating " the candid reader" and penned by the author 
 himself, I am immediately introduced, as it were, to his 
 real thoughts, and made a confidential depository of his 
 purposes. The curtain is raised and I am admitted behind 
 the scenes. If the book be of an imaginative cast it is 
 however hurtful to the full enjoyment of its beauties to be 
 permitted too narrowly to inspect the wires that give the 
 puppets motion ; yet even in poetical works how touching 
 are the occasional breaks of the author, and allusions to his 
 
 * More correctly, it was Donatus the grammarian who said this; 
 perhaps it is even earlier than his time.
 
 294 woman's knowledge of character. 
 
 personal and engrossing 1 emotions ! Sonthey's exquisite 
 domestic introduction to the " Poet's Pilgrimage," is one 
 of the most affecting and beautiful displays of home feeling 
 and family affection that I have ever read ; and the line 
 with which Byron commences his third Canto of Childe 
 Harold, unites the abrupt sublimity peculiarly character- 
 istic of that singular poem with a stroke of truly beautiful 
 and simple affection, all too seldom met with in the pages 
 of that wonderful writer. 
 
 " Is thy face like thy Mother's, my fair child ?" 
 
 vii. woman's knowledge of character. 
 
 Women appear to me to have a much greater talent 
 for appreciating character and acquiring a circumspect, if 
 not a Philosophical knowledge of its various modes of 
 developement, than men. This is the more surprising, as 
 in the polite circles of polished society the mask of etiquette 
 is more perseveringly worn in their presence ; and a com- 
 mand of the passions and countenance more studiously 
 preserved than men feel inclined to aim at in the company 
 of merely their own sex. — The cheek of him who ap- 
 proaches them is too often dressed in borrowed smiles ; 
 and the language of flattery is perpetually substituted for 
 the unpleasant roughness of sincerity. — Yet in works of fic- 
 tion — in Novels, Comedies, &c, females, though they have 
 less pretensions to wit, have generally surpassed the male 
 authors of the same walks in the adjustment of the plot, when 
 its denoument is made to hang upon certain peculiarities, 
 whether personal or mental, of any of the dramatis persona?; 
 in tact, and in the nice discrimination and display of various 
 and coalescing shades of character. — How then is this 
 facidty acquired ? Many answers may be given, but I 
 would refer its origin to the same source from which it is 
 said their bashful timidity has its rise — Intuition. But
 
 LIMITS OF RIGHT. 295 
 
 though springing from the same source as modesty, it is 
 often found to be most dexterously exercised by such as 
 have denuded themselves of that loveliest ornament of 
 their sex : Women of Pleasure are practical experimenters 
 on human passions, and the knowledge of their nature, 
 and skill in their excitement, which they often display is 
 truly wonderful. — Even the abandoned wretches, who are 
 perpetually found prowling about the purlieus of a great 
 city, though frequently repulsive by their hardihood in 
 sin, yet often endeavour to attract by minute and skilful 
 touches and appeals to the passions, which would do credit 
 to the greatest masters of Human nature.
 
 ^90 THE POET'S FAREWELL TO UTS BOOFS. 
 
 THE POET'S FAREWELL TO HIS BOOKS. 
 
 IN THE STYLE OF THE 17TH CENTURY. 
 
 One of those gently syllabled adieus, 
 
 We mutter— but to make next meeting sweeter, 
 
 As evening's softness comes 'twixt noon and morn. 
 
 Dull Tomes, with joy I close 
 
 Your moth-mark' d musty pages ; 
 No longer one of those 
 
 Whose grief your lore assuages ! 
 There once was such a tranquil time — 
 Alas ! that calm were now a crime, 
 
 For I'm in love, and who 
 
 That passion ever cherish'd, 
 One moment after knew 
 
 The peace that hy it perish'd ? 
 It doth usurp the bosom's throne, 
 And if it reigns, must reign alone — 
 
 Go henceforth then, ye tomes, 
 
 That erst were all my treasures ; 
 My soul's attention roams 
 
 Far from your sober pleasures ! 
 With you my heart's love dwells no moe, 
 Then Maro— Tully— Plato— Go !
 
 THE POETS FAREWELL TO HIS BOOKS. 297 
 
 My study shall be love, 
 
 At morn and evening hour ; 
 My dreams at night shall prove, 
 
 O'er sleep the young god's power : — 
 But, yet alas ! I sigh farewell, 
 Friends of my youth, to your dear spell ! 
 
 — That past, now turn will I 
 
 To her, mine only book ; 
 To the poetry in her eye, 
 The volumes in her look ; 
 Find in her Nature, Virtue — Truth 
 Oft vainly sought 'mong books, in sooth ! 
 
 No ! henceforth, and for aye, 
 
 To thee my study's due ; 
 Thy charms my living library, 
 Where beauties ever-new 
 Will glad my weary print- worn eyes, 
 Like Livy's new-found Histories ! 
 
 Thy brow's as nobly grand, 
 As Homer's Epic strain ; 
 They smile as gently bland;, 
 And, anon, as bright again, 
 As aught Catullus sang of old, 
 Or dreamings of the age of gold ! 
 
 Is Ovid's love-penn'd page, 
 
 More balmy than thy cheek ; 
 Was the Stagyrite more sage 
 
 Than the words I've heard thee speak, 
 When thy gentle tones on passion's flame, 
 Like cooling dews descending came ? 
 
 u
 
 '298 THE DYING WISH. 
 
 Hath the Teian's sun-like song-, 
 
 Though redolent of wine, 
 Than thy ripe lip, or thy tongue, 
 A witch'ry more divine ; 
 Or the lines of Horace, though of wit 
 All pregnant, more than thou of it? 
 
 — In me 'twere sin to doubt, 
 But I cannot, if I wish'd, 
 For love makes those without 
 
 All these charms, seem with them blest.- 
 Though the worldling find not these in thee, 
 What boots it, — if they live for me ? 
 
 THE DYING WISH.* 
 
 " Still there was one regret, one deep regret, 
 Which haunted his young spirit ; 'twas that he, 
 The unown'd breathings of whose soul had wrought 
 Favour with those who knew'him not, should speed 
 To his eternal home, nor leave behind 
 A wreath of sweet remembrance for his name." 
 
 A. A. Watts. 
 
 Oh I for a something that may slake this thirst, — 
 
 This burning agony for after-fame, — 
 This soul-felt seeking to be with the first 
 
 Among the ranks of those who win a name ! 
 Oh ! for a wing — a spirit that could soar 
 
 To th' empyrean height ! — Oh ! for a flame, 
 Though it should scorch my young heart's inmost core, 
 
 That I may leave behind the cold and tame ! — 
 Pythiac agony, and Delphic dream, 
 Be mine — be mine, if but one glorious theme, 
 
 * Written during a dangerous and lingering illness.
 
 THE DYING AVISH. 299 
 
 Instinct with life, and Phoebus' thrilling fire, 
 Swell from the rude strings of my boyish lyre. 
 The crawling earth-worm sneers ; — I see him laugh 
 At this young madness ! — Be it so : — I'll quaff 
 The draught of scorn the worldlings may compound — 
 Aye, to the dregs — so that there there be found 
 One jewelled charm, its poison nor dissolve 
 Nor dim may ever. — Oh ! the high resolve 
 Lives on itself — the world but gazes on ; — 
 Created in the mind, 'tis there it dwells — alone ! 
 Or else enthroned in bright companionship 
 With noble thoughts, that scorn may never clip 
 To the dwarfed standard of the puny tribe, 
 Skilled in the whisper, leer, and leprous jibe — 
 
 What though mine eye looks dimly from its cell, — 
 What though this clammy moisture bathes my brow ; — 
 What though this flush now tints my cheek, and now 
 Fades like the memory of a waking dream ? — 
 These herald death, I know, — I know it well ! 
 Yet, let them stride their sweeping charnel course ! — 
 They leave, unclouded, the clear radiant soiu-ce 
 
 Of inward thought, which gladdens with its beam 
 What had been else uncheered by one bright gleam 
 Of aught in hue more lively than the gloom — 
 Thick, darksome, palpable — that girds the tomb ! 
 
 Come, Death ! — 'tis welcome, if it bring me fame. 
 Life ! — Oh ! what is it to an after-name ! 
 I ask not Heaven for half a Patriarch's age, 
 For who would wish, with weakened arm, to wage 
 War with decay, which, e'er one's given to dust, 
 Dims the soul's brightness with corroding rust ? 
 No ! — in green youth, or manhood's fresh full prime, 
 Let me, with courage, bid adieu to Time ;
 
 300 THE RETURN OF THE MUSE. 
 
 Plunge in the gulf etem, — if but behind 
 
 For me survive regrets and memories kind, — 
 
 And that for which alone I live and sigh — 
 
 A name — that will not with this frail frame die ! 
 
 Be it forgotten, that the thrill of Pain 
 Wasted my frame, — that Want with heavy chain 
 Weighed, leaden-wise, upon a soaring will, 
 And palsied energies, and blunted skill ; 
 That Slavery's fetters festered in the soul, 
 Which dared aspire to near the laurelled goal ; 
 That Toil — yea, years of groaning toil for hire — 
 Seared the young hand that might have woke the lyre ; 
 That Poverty and Woe depressed and chilled 
 A daring all intrepid, if unskilled : — 
 Which, but for these, might have proud trophies wrought, 
 Reared noble fabrics of seraphic thought ! — 
 Be it forgotten that I placed a trust 
 On love, that crumbled in my grasp to dust ; 
 Leaned on a friendship weaker than a reed, 
 Yet, trusted to, could make my heart-strings bleed, — 
 If but my name, in some succeeding age, 
 Live green in song, in but one deathless page ! 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE MUSE. 
 
 Palo Study lit its midnight lamp ; 
 
 Within his lonely bower, 
 And on his brow was set the stamp, 
 
 Of many a pensive hour. 
 
 It is not midnight yet, nor do I feel 
 The balmy languidness of slumber steal, 
 With syren softness, o'er my frame, and close 
 The half-reluctant lids to still repose:
 
 THE RETURN OF THE MUSE. 301 
 
 Yet sure I dream ; for nothing half so sweet, 
 Save when I dreamt, it hath been mine to meet, 
 For months — sad months, amid the jostling throng 
 Of cares and toils, which chill the love of song, 
 As that old feeling, lov'd because 'tis old, 
 And once, more valued than earth's sordid gold, 
 Now, from long absence, coming with new charms, 
 And panting, like young beauty, in my arms ; — 
 The hallow'd love of numbers and the lyre ; 
 The thrill, believed of inspiration's fire ! 
 
 O thou ideal being ! airy bom ; 
 Thou fond consoler of the else forlorn ; 
 Benignant soother of my heaviest woes, 
 Yet the dear cause of half my bosom's throes ; 
 Thou Impulse, men personify, and name 
 The Muse, — and do I find thee still the same ? 
 And can it be, that thou hast all forgiven 
 The iron coldness, which, Avhen from me driven 
 By noisy duties, I wrapt round my soul 
 'Gainst thy return ; and now, with soft controul, 
 Comest to resume thine empire o'er my heart, 
 And be again my lov'd and better part ? 
 Welcome — ah ! welcome to my truant arms, 
 More — more than ever do I prize thy charms ! 
 My soul hath pass'd the sordid ordeal througb, 
 And, still unsear'd it "fondly turns to you.'' 
 Oh ! I will cling to thee with quenchless love, 
 For ever now, and prize thee far above 
 All glittering vanities, all paltry joy, 
 The heaped-up coffer, and the gilded toy, 
 And we will never part, till time shall wear 
 The edge from feeling, and my hoary hair, 
 And closing eye, and faltering voice, shall tell 
 That to all thoughts, save one, a last farewell,
 
 302 THE RETURN OF THE MUSE. 
 
 And an unlingering one, must then be given ; 
 Yet even then — thyself a thing- of Heaven — 
 The aspirations that 'twas thine to teach, 
 Will my devotions elevate, to reach, 
 With less of earth in't, th' Eternal's throne : 
 Thy voice will time my tongue to praise's tone ! 
 
 Ah ! from me turn'd with fix'd resolve away, — 
 A tribute, Duty, I was loth to pay, — 
 What hath recall' d thee — what thy scorn allayed, 
 That thou should'st now, in all thy charms arrayed, 
 Revisit thus a shrine was once profaned, 
 And with the taint of worldly worship stained ; 
 Again descend, with thy celestial fire, 
 Upon an altar, where a broken lyre 
 Hangs idly now ; from whence no incense wreathes 
 On which no sacrifice or offering breathes ? 
 
 What hath recall'd thee ! ah ! I feel the spell 
 Potent o'er all that wooed thee from thy cell ! 
 Love sways all passions, rules all powers, and even, 
 At its behest, the Muse must leave its heaven, 
 To tenant clay, its fire refines and warms : — 
 Who ever lov'd that hath not sung Love's charms ? 
 Or, it may be, the heart, though waxing cold 
 And striving to be prematurely old, 
 Which yet, though steeled, in vain essayed to still, 
 The throbbings of a love that baffled will, 
 Thou could'st not scorn, though it had driven thee from 
 Its youthful core — thy lov'd and cherish'd home. — 
 Welcome — ah ! welcome — it is all thine own, 
 Thine be its worship — thine and thine alone ; 
 For now thou wear' St her graceful form — art she ? 
 Who's Inspiration — Mistress — Muse to me ! 
 Thy fire shall now on thine own altar blaze, 
 Thyself shall tune my lyre to thine own praise !
 
 the lute's decay. 303 
 
 Now will I cling to thee with quenchless love, 
 
 For ever — ever ; prize thee far above 
 
 All glittering vanities — all sordid joys, 
 
 The heap'd-up coffer, and the world's poor toys ! 
 
 THE LUTE'S DECAY. 
 
 I'll not unloose — but thus I break 
 My Lute ! — the last of all thy chords, 
 
 MHiich is not passionless and weak, 
 
 But throbs too fierce to sound with words ! — 
 
 Thou'rt moist — and can it be with tears ? 
 
 — Yea, tears that fell on thee like rain ; 
 But burned the lids, — as Lightning sears — 
 
 No gentler grief may dew again ! 
 
 And dost thou cling with softened hold, 
 — The stronger that thou bendest too ! 
 
 — Like Woman's love, in days of old, 
 But ah ! unlike the love I knew ! — 
 
 But thus I wrench thee from thy clasp, 
 As that deep love was wildly torn ; — 
 
 Now thou art crashing \n my grasp ; — 
 And now that passion is my scorn ! 
 
 Thou wert the sole and sacred string, 
 That ne'er for meaner theme was rung, 
 
 Than her — who yet on thee could fling 
 The light taint of an idle tongue !
 
 304 the lute's decay. 
 
 Thou wert her own : — for thee — for thee 
 I touched no brother chord for long ; 
 
 They're all unstrung, and as for me, 
 
 I've but one sense — one thought — one song ! 
 
 The wire that might have pealed the notes 
 That heave the pulses even of slaves ; 
 
 And echoed back the sound of thoughts 
 That almost stir the World of Graves — 
 
 Is tuneless — voiceless — idle now ; 
 
 And, more, — the hand that should have swept 
 Along its trembling length — oh how 
 
 Hath it its earliest lesson kept ! — 
 
 It cannot touch, with even the skill 
 
 It once had mastered, each stern string, 
 
 That asks a nerved and lofty will, 
 To lays that giant men might sing 
 
 It hath with one poor cadence played 
 In dallying mood so fond and long, 
 It cannot grasp a Freeman's blade — 
 It cannot wake a Freeman's song; 
 
 But only trills some lay of Love, 
 
 Still harping on the one worn string, 
 
 While even Ambition..Avill not move, 
 
 But cowers, with clipped and weary wing ! 
 
 At times, indeed, another chord 
 
 Gives sadly forth a deep-toned sigh ; — 
 
 — Regret for many an idle word, 
 
 And mare — for wasted hours gone bye ;
 
 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 305 
 
 While Echo backward peals the knell, 
 That once woke other sense than shame, 
 
 " Think each hour snatch' d from Pleasure's spell 
 An onward stride to coming Fame !" * 
 
 —Enough — enough ! — that nerves anew 
 
 My hand at least, now that 'tis free, 
 To break — if not to nobly do : — 
 
 This is its last lay, Love, for thee ! 
 
 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 
 
 Like every body else, I never set out on an excursion, 
 but I resolved to write down the observations which 
 occurred to me, when what was either new or striking in 
 character or scenery presented itself. Like every body 
 else, I never fully fulfilled these laudable intentions. I have 
 beside me as many half-filled and wholly soiled memo- 
 randum-books, as I have taken journeys in my lifetime. 
 The first page is always very completely crammed, and 
 carefully written. It comprises the date and hour of my 
 departure, — and a resolution to employ all its successors to 
 equal advantage. The second is more sparse ; and only 
 one-half of the third is obscured with pencilling. Neither 
 the fourth nor fifth usually have a word upon them, but 
 about the tenth I scribble some verses, resolving to fill up 
 the preceding blanks with sober prose detail — at the very 
 first leisure moment ; a period of time which, rapidly as 
 time proceeds, has never yet arrived. I have just been 
 looking over the disjecta membra of my latest journal, — and 
 here is a sample. 
 
 * The very words of a more than fatherly counsel, tendered to the 
 writer of this, when yet but a boy and a stranger to him, by the most 
 illustrious of living authors.
 
 306 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 
 
 July — , 18 — . — A good horse beneath me, a cloak 
 buckled before, and a valise behind, — a pleasant companion 
 at my side, and ominous appearances of rain above me — 
 off I set. In an hour I am very comfortably wet through. 
 My route lies by Dumbarton. From the inn at Bow- 
 ling to that at Dumbarton is the longest space, called 
 two miles, on this side of the Equator. Literature is at 
 Death's door at Dumbarton. The public library is cheek- 
 by-jowl with the churchyard. The bridge is a fine example 
 of building in the style of the first letter of the alphabet. 
 The nephew of the King of France, who crossed it the 
 other day, thought of the famous exploit of his ancestor, 
 who was known to 
 
 " March up a bill — and then march down again." 
 
 Found a tollman whose faith was great ; for, failing his 
 copper currency, he had not brass to ask credit for the 
 balance — but gave it! Smollett is a name delighted in 
 everywhere but at Renton. The pillar that was reared 
 to his memory, is no longer a monument to him — but of 
 his descendants. Their taste for ruins surpasses Lord 
 Elgin's. But they are not friends to Letters. Champol- 
 lion, or Dr. Browne, must visit and decipher the inscrip- 
 tion. The air of Bonhill is injurious to marble everywhere, 
 but in the hearts of landholders. However, a monument, 
 which, like its late county member, stands up, but says 
 nothing, is, like him, — shelved. It will make capital gate- 
 posts. Rain again. At Bellevue no prospect. At Belle- 
 retiro no shelter. Luss in the dark, but lightened by a kind 
 welcome. Memorandum — Marry and acquire children, 
 and send them hither to climb the braes, and get the first 
 branches of education — no place better. Luss water 
 is perilously strong. Headache. Inveruglas — a pattern 
 glen. The roads here become less ambitious, and more 
 convenient. Surveyors have discovered that hills. like
 
 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 307 
 
 fat landladies, are " as broad as they are long." The 
 name of the point of Firkin might suggest ideas of herring- 
 barrels to a Scotch Cockney. The road goes round it 
 like a hoop ; — we went with a halloo ! Stockgown — a 
 spot for a poet I May its possessor live as long as he 
 likes, and leave it to me afterwards ! Many a sheep's 
 eye I've thrown at it. Coincident taste with the Lord 
 Advocate, who longs for it too. Pleasing, but provoking. 
 Fifty to one on him against me ! Meanwhile, let me 
 express myself thus : 
 
 'Tis ever thus ! — Let me but dream a hope, 
 
 And sleep flies frighten'd ere the glimpse of day ; 
 
 Whate'er I dare to wish for fades away 
 Like snow-flakes on the mountain's lofty slope, 
 But tinged, while melting, with a roseate ray, 
 As is the cloudlet, sunn'd into decay; 
 Or it survives the rapture of its birth, 
 
 To live an alien — gladdening not its home ! 
 — There is a sunny spot upon the earth, 
 
 Where I had hoped in manhood's prime to come, 
 And lay my brow upon the lap of Peace ; — 
 
 'Twill be another's, ere that noontide hour ! 
 But let all sorrow for his fortune cease — 
 
 'Tis pride to love like him — lord of his soul's high 
 power ! 
 
 Tarbet — English grooms unrivalled in rubbing down 
 and swearing up. Work as fast as they talk though, and 
 astonish honest Donald, by taking as much care of a horse 
 as a baby, and washing it more than ever was done to 
 "wee Duncay." Glencoe—- " Rest and be thankful" 
 removed from its site. There we can neither rest nor be 
 thankful now. A shoe and two hours lost. Highland
 
 308 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 
 
 road-menders exhibit the march of mind in the waggon 
 they now pig snugly in, in place of sleeping on the heather. 
 Sixteen go into very small space. Cairndow — Drunken 
 blacksmith, choleric little landlord, with glimpses of pretty 
 nieces through a window, and of a dinner — two hours off. 
 Job. Farther draughts on patience dishonoured. " No 
 effects" in the stomach. Short landlord and long com- 
 plaints. Good dinner after all Enter Inverary like 
 
 Sterne's Slawkenbergius, with arms akimbo, and noses 
 lengthened out — by our cigars. The natives deem the 
 fiery points, as seen tlu-ough the gloom, ominous of an 
 additional consumpt of herrings next morning. Second 
 sight right for once. Dalmally. — A strive between the 
 rain and our horses which should pelt fastest. Every 
 body at church — even the hostler — The horses left behind, 
 though ; and, as Philpotts once said at Durham, " Not 
 a stall to be had." — « Every man his own groom." A 
 torrent of eloquence and rain. Highlanders' hearts more 
 easily penetrated than their plaids. Service over, but spiri- 
 tual consolation in great request. The dinner such only as 
 Pyle and Dalmally coidd furnish. Salmon firm as a rock, 
 and flaky as snow ; and mutton melting in the mouth, like 
 — Heaven knows what ! Ride to Bunaw — finest in the 
 world — site of the " Highland Widow's " cottage. Bless- 
 ings of the new act for churches. Good taste of their 
 designs. Manses excellent. Sleep in one. Silent thanks 
 to the absent and excellent owner. Connel Ferry — Scylla 
 and Charybdis, and Corrievreckan. — Berigonium. Get 
 poetical. — See Sonnet perpetrated on the spot. 
 
 Lochnell — lately made a ten hours' ride from Edin- 
 burgh — bet gained and leather lost. Spa at Durar — the 
 whisky preferable. Highland baronet resorting to it for 
 a sea-bathing place — five miles inland. French wander- 
 ers in these wilds — a tune on the hurdy-gurdy. Malbrook
 
 SPECIMEN OF " A TOUR." 309 
 
 in Appin ! — Portnacroish — terrible breakfast — Appin 
 House — the bird that drew me thither flown ! — Ballache- 
 
 lish Good fortune, kind friends — distinguished guests — 
 
 venerable prelate infull canonicals — scientific field officer — 
 and myself in a white coatee ! Thank Heaven, however, here 
 a man's fitness is not measured any longer by the length of 
 his tail ! Loch Leven — Steam-boats penetrating now to 
 the remotest wilds, wherever water can carry them, or low- 
 land comforts have penetrated. Why is there not one on 
 Lochawe ? Gigantic or Cyclopean slate quarries, where 
 the earth turns itself outside in. " Glencoe Inn !" — Time 
 hath wrought strange alterations ! But even yet, to en- 
 quire after the site of the massacre, makes the lonely 
 dweller in the glen walk more erect in the consciousness 
 of having inherited a wrong, and that is about the same 
 as being heir to an honour. The road up the valley — 
 disappointed till near the summit of the ascent. There, 
 it is all that imagination coidd picture, or Martin copy. 
 King's House — not a blush on the sky, but enough on the 
 landlord's face — Bardolph outdone — The day grew sunny 
 in the light of his countenance. Inveruran — a forest 
 without trees — or trees like Witherington " in doleful 
 dumps'' — fighting with time " upon their stumps." Tyn- 
 drum — before which, fifty waterfalls, that would any one 
 of them make the Vauxhall men's fortune. — A good inn, 
 and surpassing mutton chops. 
 
 Route by Glenfalloch to Tarbet. — Ride down the Gare 
 Loch, an epitome of Highland scenery. Helensburgh. — 
 Check shirts ominous of a regatta — likely to be some 
 sailing matches of more kinds than one ; and probably a 
 rotv or two — Gigs and giggling — picked up some know- 
 ledge of signals, and * * * Csetera Desunt.
 
 310 RETROSPECTIVE OT)E. 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE ODE. 
 
 1 
 
 No ! I'll no more essay to sing- : — 
 It is in vain ! — 
 
 I cannot plume my broken wing- 
 Again ! — 
 
 The bird whose pinions have been clipped 
 Anew may soar ; 
 
 The flower whose buddings have been nipped, 
 May bloom once more, 
 But the fine sense that prompts and guides to song 
 Never returns — if dulled by cold neglect or wrong ! 
 
 Oh ! to have never felt the glow, — 
 
 Or never chilled ! — 
 But it is agony to know, 
 
 That stilled 
 Ere I had taught my hand to tell 
 
 My Spirit's dreams, 
 Was the best music of that spell 
 
 The Poet deems 
 The radiant bond which links with Heaven his fame, 
 And bringeth down the fire, we Inspiration name !
 
 RETROSPECTIVE OIK.. •"' 1 I 
 
 Never to feel within this clod, 
 
 Or ne'er to quell 
 The flame that leapeth up in Song to God, 
 
 Were well : 
 But to have used the Altar's lire 
 
 Of my young heart 
 Only to light a victim-pyre, 
 
 Was ill my part — 
 On which to place my Lute — my Love — my Lays, 
 And barter for a meal my heritage of praise! 
 
 Better have begged the daily bread 
 
 I've earned in pain ; 
 Bleached in the desert my uncovered head, 
 
 Whose rain 
 Would not more coldly on my brow 
 
 Have trickling dropped, 
 Than freezes in my Spirit now 
 All I had hoped 
 Would stamp my name on hearts, with words, whose spell 
 Breathes all that Souls can feel — yet lack the power to tell ! 
 
 Yet 'twas not idly I compelled 
 
 The Spirit hence ! — 
 Want would its fearlessness have quelled 
 
 — Or quench'd: —
 
 312 RETROSPECTIVE ODE, 
 
 Rather than see it on a tainted shrine 
 
 In flattery burn 
 Oh ! be it ne'er again in vision mine, 
 Even to spurn ! 
 — I buried in the earth a priceless gem 
 Lest I should let it deck some tyrant's garment hem ! 
 
 6 
 
 If — Independence ! — thou and Song 
 
 I could not hold, 
 I did my soul the lesser wrong 
 
 By Gold, 
 Earned with heart-sweat, of blood and tears 
 
 To win the one 
 Than nurse my passion through the years 
 
 For ever gone — 
 And with them gone — (Ah ! there is hid the sting !) 
 All of the tone — the power of high imagining ! — 
 
 One boon alone from human thing 
 
 I ever had — 
 Life — or the poor flesh-covering 
 
 With which 'tis clad ! 
 This hand and head have won the rest, 
 
 With Pride to aid, — 
 Drawn from a noble Mother's breast : 
 
 — This homage paid, 
 I'm soul-free — yet not toil-free : — but 'twill come ! 
 When Inspiration — if e'er mine — may be no longer dumb ! 
 
 FINIS.
 
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