« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
it is necessary that Mademoiselle de “ Is here. Have patience, and acFano should assist at the pulverising." cept the invitation that will be sent to “Nonsense !"
you to-day. Farewell. Be silent and Tis no nonsense, sir,” cried Le happy.” 'Abubeker disappeared. Blond—“I tell you you have carried About noon, somebody inquired for off the lady I adore ! and by the hea- Monsieur de Laure, and a stately-manvens above"
nered gentleman came into the room, "] carried her off-why should I where our hero had long been expectdo such a folly! I am married already ing something to take place, and preto one of the Fays of Caucasus. But sented an invitation to him to dine to business—your fortune is now made with the Archbishop of Alby. The
-enjoy it wisely, and forget how you invitation was accepted in mute admiacquired it. One word of tittle tattle, ration at the talents of the Chaldean; and you die—a bird shall carry it, and even the court of an archbishop though you whisper it to the priest; presented no difficulties to Le Blond, the sword shall find you though you who, having been a duke so long, are bending at the altar. You under- though only in a dream, enacted nostand me?"
thing so naturally as the bearing of a u And Jacqueline ?" inquired Le grandee. Blond.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. When his Grace's carriage, which he has told you so much, had told you out of compliment had been sent for all—that my heart-my soul”. hirn, had deposited him in the court “Well, man, he has told me all yard of the palace, he was conducted about it, and I hope he told you in reby several attendants into the episco- turn, that since you are recommended pal gardens. The Archbishop, who to me by those whom I consider it an was walking there, attended by a num- honour to obey, I feel myself proud to ber of gentlemen, received him cour own you as my son. Come, she exteously, and presented him to the pects us-gently, gently, man; you others as the new proprietor of De forget my damaged knee. Well, then Laure. All expressed regret at the run on, for these things are better said sudden and unavoidable absence of his in private.” friend Monsieur Valerien des Anges. Why should we say more? That
* We must get better acquainted," Le Blond was presented to the Archsaid a noble-looking old gentleman, a bishop's guests as the bridegroom of little lame of one leg, " for we are now Jacqueline—that in company with the neighbours in the country. I am Ge- General and his daughter he took posneral de Fano, and my daughter tells session of his new estate ; that the me she had the pleasure of knowing marriage was splendid, and that the you in Namur."
finest of it all was the tear that glitLe Blond grew red as scarlet, and tered in Jacqueline's eyes, as she fell then pale.
upon his neck when the ceremony was The General observed his confusion over, and they were left for one mowith a sly laugh.
ment by themselves, and whispered in “Give me your arm, De Laura,” the well known tones of other days, he said, familiarly, “and I'll present “Io amo~Io amo!” He cast him. you to her. She is yonder in the ar- self at her feet. Egli ama!" she hour, and knows already you are exclaimed, as she raised him; and here ?"
then, flinging themselves into cach Le Blond quivered with emotion. other's arms, they whispered “Noi
u Ah, General," he said, “I wish amamo! noi amamo !-we love! we my friend Valerien des Anges, since love!
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS CAVE.
“ONE of those heavenly days that Christopher in his cave! and he cannot die!" So saith Wordsworth, makes, we assure you, a very pretty while “ his heart rejoiced in nature's hermit. Our beard is not so long as joy,” as saith Burns--and in these few that goat's hanging on the cliff. In syllables you feel how happy at the Christian countries, Recluses shave, and time were both poets. But not hap- are attentive to their toilet.
We even pier than you and we have often been wear not spectacles, for we have come and are now, though poets we may to enjoy the haze our decaying eye. not be truly called except according sight gives to all objects in nature, nor to the sense in which all human beings envy yours, but bless it, that sees them are poets who love dearly their mother forever effulgent. World-sick? Yea, earth. And are you sure you under- streets are not the channels of the stand the feeling in Wordsworth's streams we love, whose flowings are beautiful line? Is it that the day in the soul. Earth-sick ? Nay-filial itself is too divine to die, and that the shall we be to the last-and bless her sun will never bring himself to set on as she takes us back into her bosom. it; or that the memory of it must Life-sick? Oh! say it not-for God needs be immortal?
is good—and grief gracious; and sor. Alas! how many heavenly days row consecrates the path of fading and “ seeming immortal in their depth of faded flowers-yet some among them, rest” have died and been forgotten! Owo! and bliss is me! brighter so Treacherous and ungrateful is our help us heaven, than ever—that leadeth memory even of bliss that overflowed to the grave. our being as light our habitation. Our And where is our Cave? Hushspirit's deepest intercommunion with for we must not "prate of its wherenature has no place in her records abouts”—were we to do so, it would blanks are there that ought to have been dissolve. But this much we may repainted with imperishable imagery, veal—it is in the Highlands. That is and steeped in sentiment fresh as the a wide word, and will not break the morning on life's golden hills. Yet spell. The interior is cool in these there is mercy in this dispensation, the Dog-days-nor would it be other. for who can bear to behold the light wise if Sirius himself were panting at of bliss re-arising from the past on the its mouth. Yet perfectly dry-though ghastlier gloom of present misery? one wonders how without moisture of The phantoms that will not come when some kind or other the moss roof and we call on them to comfort us, are too walls, in their infinite varieties of cooften at our side when in our anguish louring can be so freshly beautiful we could almost pray that they might Tis but some four paces wide-some be reburied in oblivion. Such haunt- six long—and the key-stone of the ings as these are not as if they were arch little higher than our heads--the visionary-they come and go like roof at no place beyond touch the forms and shapes still embued with long nail or claw on our middle finger. life. Shall we vainly stretch out our In a niche facing the light we are repos. arms to embrace and hold them fast, ing on a couch covered wlth the furs or as vainly seek to entrench ourselves ollox, wild-cat, and otter—a rootby thoughts of this world against their wreathed table, with slate-slab fair as visitation? The soul in its sickness any marble, we ever and anon—lean. knows not whether it be the duty of ing on our elbow-keep writing away love to resign itself to indifference or at-as now—soliloquizing perna susut. to despair. Shall it enjoy life, they ru—of which the whole wide world being dead! Shall the survivors, for will be listening delighted, in a week yet a little while, walk in other com or so—for sound travels slowly through panionship out into the day, and let such a solitude—to the echo. Friend the sunbeams settle on their heads as of our soul! would thou wert herethey used to do, or cover them with for the first time in thy life to hear dust and ashes, and show to those in silence. heaven that love for them is now to be What! you are eyeing that other expressed by remorse and penitence! table in shadow. That brightest of
chrystal would seem empty to an inex- the heart of one who is half-way-down perienced eye-to youis full to the the hill of life. “'Tis his son !” Ha! stopper-of Glenlivet. They who what voice gave that whisper? Was it placed it there were far from supposing thine, thou restless wren, that fifty that we were likely to imbibe the dimi- times at least within these two or three dium of a gallon—but tis an old sa. hours we have been sitting hire, hast ving superstition of the mountains that been borne leaf-like out and in our Cave, to place before a solitary man a vessel and only now been perceived by us to in which spirits are, yet fill it not, have been all the while occupied-in is fatal. Ay-wheaten bread of whitest bringing food to a voracious nestful that grain-though grown in the regions of will soon exchange the twilight of this heather. No need of the Po for cave for that of the umbrage of the maParmesan. The meadows here over- ny-gladed woods ? flow with milk as with honey. Field Time was we pounced on a book the strawberries redden the rocks—and instant we saw it on the board, like these basket-fulls by fairy hands were osprey on fish showing its back upon gathered, ere a dew-drop had of itself the billow—with a clutch as sure, and evanished—though tis a wonder, even maw as ravenous—shrieking over it as to ourselves, where can have grown we tore it piece-meal. In our sacred those glorious grapes, pale and purple, hunger no bones of a book made we in filed-up clusters-all for Chris- then-we swallowed it guts and alltopher in his Cave—the Sardanapalus and, lighter from the repast, upsoared that he is-yet abstemious as that old in circles, and then shot straight as an Roman at his Turnip Feast.
arrow, “to prey in distant isles," A Library, too, we declare—and Now we leisurely alight beside it, like well-selected for there is the face of an old sick sea-eagle as we are, and Maga—these six vols. are manifestly mumble at a leaf or two as if with Moxon's edition of Wordsworth— our teeth we had lost our appetite, and there is no mistaking Pickering's our stomach were in sympathy with Shakspeare by Campbell—and here, our gums. Often do we crawl away on the table before us, Milton, a from our quarry without tasting it mighty mass of ore from the gold without so much as knowing whether mines, and beside him an ALBUM. it be fish, flesh, or fowland keep In their own handwriting page after sitting disconsolately for hours toge. page of poetry by the great poets and ther on a stɔne or stump like a mere the good! Creations of the pencil
, too bunch of feathers. 0 Audubon ! no -landscapes belonging to all the love- more shalt thou behold Us-a Speck liest lands on earth and the most mag- in the Sun-no inore shalt thou hear nificent-by amateurs who are artists Us-a Cry in the Cloud. indeed--and by famous artists proud to “ Poems of Many Years !" "Tis leave some relic of their genius in the something to lie here—be assured, 0 Book of Beauty, laid here by Beauty's Volume ! for the lady whom all those hands, to charm in his solitude an old mountains love is herself a poet-and man's eyes!
no book that is not poetry would she And what volume is this, annual place for chance of perusal by Chris. like in its primrose-coloured boards, topher in his Cave. The still study—the if boards they be, so delicate in thelr busy parlour—the bed chamber serene seeming, and with lily-leaves that look —the mirthful drawing-room-are one as if they were fragrant--and fragrant and all fit places for the perusal of poemust they be, if ever breathed over tty; but fitter the wood, the have they been by the lips of her who glen—fittest—and already we begin to placed them for the perusal of Christo- feel the inspiration-such a Cave as this pher in his Cave. « POEMS OF Many in the heart of inland peace-yet visited Years by Richard Monkton Milnes ;" —if we mistake not—by the voice of the name is not infamiliar, nor yet is the sea. it familiar to our ear-thirty years ago
Let us hold converse, then, with and upwards, we heard a man of the this brother in the spirit, whom we name of Milnes speak in Parliament may never see in the flesh-and let in surpassing style—this may not be this pretty pen of ours, plucked from the same--no-no—for he, if extant, a stockdove's wing, and nibbed by must be as ancient as ourselves and Genevieve, cease its prattling, while poetry may flow into—but not out of we recite to ourselves ad aperturam
THE WORTH OF HOURS.
one lay to test the worth of all enough to love, yet nothing doubting -to assure Christopher in his Cave that had we ever so many hearts we whether Mr. Milnes be or be not a could give them all away among the Poet.
that we like to look at a
Volume as at a Valley-discerning "Believe not that your inner eye not one feature of the scene distinctly, Can ever in just measure try
but feeling its spirit as surely as if we The worth of Hours as they go by : distinctly observed them all—so that
when our dreamy eyes come to settle “ For every man's weak sell, alas!
down upon it, every object occupies Makes hin to see them, while they pass the very place we expected to find it in, As through a dim of lined glass :
and is of the very character and kind we “But if in earnest care you would
thought it to be, only lovelier in their Meie out to each is part of good,
neighbourhood, because now all underTrust rather to your after-mood.
stood, and forming in themselves a little
world where beauty has reduced them “Those surely are not fairly spent.
all into order, and order is the expression That leave your spirit bowed and bent of peace! In sad unrest and ill-content:
Nay, if we must still strive to make
clear our meaning, have you never "And more-though free from seeming sat in a boat on a lake before known harm,
to you but by name, and unwilling all You rest from toil of mind or arm, at once to look steadily on what is Or slow retire from pleasures charm, – nevertheless filling your breast with
delight, kept even your hands at times "It then a painful sense comes on
over your eyes, and at others glanced Of something wholly lost and gone,
stealthily around, almost as if afraid Vainly enjoped, or vainly done,
to lapse into the magical world among "Of something from your being's chain whose shadows you were sailing, till Bruke off, nor to be link'd again
taking courage as it were from the By all mere Memory can retain,-
glimpses of beauty that made them
selves be seen w hether you would "Upon your heart this truth may rise- or no—perhaps from some other fairy Noihin gihat alt ge: her dies
pinnace passing by meteorous with Suffi:e, Man's just destinies:
its cloud of sailor bird floating away
undisturbedly among the reeds, too “So should we live, that every Hour happy to fly from its own bay where May die as dies the natural flower,-- there was every thing to love and no A self reviving thing of power; thing to fear-you have at last delivered
up your whole soul to the scene, and in “That every Thought and every
one minute have become almost as well May hold within itself the seed
acquainted with its character as if or future good and future meed;
you had lived for years on its banks, "Estreming Sorrow, whose employ
and have added to the domain of meIs to develope, not destroy,
mory, never more to fade, a love, Far beter than a barren jy."
lier vision than Imagination's self
could have created in the world of Sweet-serious-solemn-wise and Dreams !
This comes of soliloquizing criticism 'Tis pleasant in a Cave to glance, on Poetry, with a pen plucked from with ever and anon a pausing , eye, the wing of a stockdove, and nibbed over a volume like this, of which one by Genevieve, in a Highland Cave. by-heart-gotten stain easily persuades Pardon our prolixity-and readus that the rest must be trustworthy to our memory-to glance over it without absolutely reading it, yet all the while feeling the breath, and seeing shapes that rise about and rear,
"Eyes which can but ill define the glow of its beauty—just as it is Through the far horizon's line pleasant in a room, in like manner, to Stretch a vision free and clear; glance over an array of ladies fair, not Memories fer ble to retrace one of whom we have looked on long Yesterday's immediate flow,
Find a dear familiar face
season of life, for almost all other In each hour of Long-ago.
passions are then dead or dying, or
ihe mind, no more at the mercy of a " Follow yon majestic train
troubled heart, compares the little Down the slopes of old renown,
pleasure their gratification can ever Knightly forms without disdain, Sainted heads without a frown;
yield now with what it could at any Emperors of thought and hand
time long ago, and lets them rest. Congregate, a glorious show,
Envy is the worst disturber or emMet írom every age and land
bitterer of man's declining years. la the plains of Long-ago.
but it does not deserve the name of
a passion-and is a disease, not of “ As the heart of childhood brings the poor in spirit-for they are bless. Something of eternal joy,
ed--but of the mean, and then they From its own unsounded springs, indeed are cursed. For our own Such as life can scarce destroy;
parts we know Envy but as we have So, remindful of the prime,
studied it in others-and never felt Spirits, wandering to and fro,
it except towards the wise and good Rest upon the resting time In the peace of Long-ago.
- and then twas a longing desire to
be like them, painful only when our * Youthful Hope's religious fire,
hearts almost died within usto think When it burns no longer, leaves that might never be, and that all Ashes of impure Desire
our loftiest aspirations were in vain! n the altars it deceives;
Our envy of Genius is of a nature But the light that fills the Pas!
so noble that it knows no happiness Sheds a still diviner glow,
like that of guarding from mildew Ever farther it is cast
the laurels on the brows of the MuO'er the scenes of Long-ago.
ses' Sons. What a dear kind soul 5 Many a growth of pain and care,
of a critic is old Christopher North! Cumbering all the present hour,
Watering the flowers of poetry, and Yields, wh-n once transplanted there, removing the weeds that might Healthy fruit or pleasant flower; choke them-letting in the sunshine Thoughts that hardly flourish here, upon them and fencing them from Feelings long have ceased to blow, the blast; proclaiming where the Breathe a native atmosphere
gardens grow, and leading boys and In the world of Long-ago.
virgins into the pleasant alleys
teaching hearts to love and eyes to "On that deep-retiring shore
see their beauty, and classifying, by Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
the attributes it has pleased nature Where the passion-waves of yore Piercely beat and mounted high:
to bestow on the various orders, the Sorrows that are sorrows still
plants of Paradise—this is our occuLose the bitter taste of wo;
pation and the happiness of witNo hing's altogether ill
nessing them all growing in the In the griefs of Long-ago.
light of admiration is our reward.
How many will be induced to read " Tombs where lonely love repines, this volume by the specimens now Ghastly tenements of tears,
selected by us in our Cave! How Wear the look of happy shrines harmoniously they combine-rather Thro' the golden mist of years;
selecting themselves--offering them. Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow :
selves to us by force of fine affini.
ties—families of kindred emotions Oh! we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of Long-ago.
that come flocking of their own ac.
cord to our feet. # Tho' the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong, Tho' for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlong
“No, tho' all the winds that lie Still the weight will find a leaven,
In the circle of the sky Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
Trace him out and pray and moan, While the Future has its Heaven, Each in its most plaintive toneAnd the Past its Long-ago.
No, tho’Earth be split with sighs,
And all the Kings that reign A green old age is the most loving Over Nature's mysleries
THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.