Gambar halaman
PDF
ePub

coming bliss flit before their eyes. Such thoughts as these were shedding their spiritual presence around the hearth of a handsome English mansion, over a scene which the pencil of a Hogarth might delight to pourtray. In a corner of the apartment was seated a tall, elegant young man, gazing with a look of deep and intense affection on the face of his companion, who was listening to ardent and passionate outpourings of deep and devoted love.

"Oh! my Josephine!" murmured he, in a voice of tenderness, "to have lived to see this hour, the rapturous realization of my fondest hopes, of my wildest day-dreamto call thee my own, my wife, more than repays me for all I have suffered," and with a look of unutterable affection he pressed the hand he held, with the fervour and devotion of a happy first love. The gentle girl did not answer, for her heart was too full of happiness; but the tear that stole into her dark eyes, as she raised them to his face, told the intensity of her feelings. The bright fairy forms of their companions were moving in the mazy dance, while a rich gushing stream of melody floated over the perfumed air of the apartment, but

"The gay dance passed unheeded by, the minstrel's lay unheard,

For to them was sweeter melody in each fondly whispered word."

The mother of Josephine stood at a distance gazing on her child with maternal fondness, inwardly blessing heaven, that ere she closed her eyes she had seen her daughter given to the arms of the deliverer of all that was dear to her. But to return to the period of their happy escape from Paris.

After cautiously urging their flight, they proceeded to the nearest port, where they embarked on board a ship that was fortunately bound for England, with passengers, who, like themselves, were seeking refuge from their country. Their voyage was happily prosperous, and with only a few jewels possessed by the Countess, they landed, for the first time, on the more hospitable shores of a foreign land. On landing, after deliberating what course they should pursue, Pierre determined to proceed to the house of an uncle, who had married an English lady of great fortune, whom he remembered as being very kind to him when a boy; but on his going to England soon after his marriage, I owing to the delicate health of his lady, and a yearning for her native land, the correspondence had been somewhat interrupted. His uncle received him very kindly, and with much affection. His wife had long slept in the tomb of her ancestors, but he had not returned to France owing to the unsettled state of the country; therefore with great pleasure, at the idea of enjoying their society, he offered Pierre and his friends a home. Of course the offer was gladly accepted, for Pierre, who had at first embraced the cause of the people from patriotism and dislike to the tyranny of the nobles, was soon disgusted at the horrid lengths of cruelty and inhumanity which their madness had hurried the misguided people into; and when he beheld her, whose image was bound up with his very existence, apparently about to fall a victim to their infatuated fury, abhorrence and detestation of their cruelty superseded every other feeling; but he feared openly to express his sentiments, as his life would have immediately paid the forfeit, and he would, most likely, have hastened the fate of those he wished to save. Gladly, therefore, did he seize the opportunity that presented itself of retiring from the revolting scene.

Time flew by. The repose he now enjoyed was an elysium to his heart, after so long an acquaintance with crime and bloodshed; the young lovers were happy in each other's society, and the aged Count and Countess found that repose to which they had long been strangers. But an unexpected change took place in their prospects. Pierre was summoned to the deathbed of his uncle, whose health had been some time declining. He bequeathed to his nephew his immense fortune, and by his will urged him to marry Josephine immediately. No wonder that he should be dutifully obeyed, for Pierre was delighted at being able to offer Josephine a home worthy of her who had been the bright star to which his fondest wishes had aspired. The scene I have just described was the celebration of their bridal; and few indeed would have recognized in the gentle and devoted bride, the heroic and energetic pleader for her father's life; or in the tender and adoring husband, the bold republican soldier of the revolution.

Trowbridge, Wilts.

[ocr errors]

THE SNOWDROP.

THE wintry sun his cold radiance shed,

And a snowdrop peep'd forth from her dreary bed,
She look'd all around with a virgin's pride,
And saw that no rival bloom'd by her side;
She unfolded her leaves, and thus carol'd free,
Like a fairy chaunt, 'neath the old oak tree:-
"How happy I feel, now permitted to reign
The empress serene of this silent domain;
Alone at the coming of spring I'll rejoice,
Alone will I list to the cuckoo's stray voice,
Alone view the shepherdess trip to the hill,
And bless the soft music that wakes with the rill;
While maidens will hail me, then breathe, as they move,
A prayer for the herald and emblem of love!"
Bloom on, little gem, may thy pleasures be long,
Thy virtues shall live in the poet's wild song;
Meet subject art thou for his hope-giving theme,
Oh, beautiful, beautiful child of a beam!

The perfume of spring is now borne on the breeze,
And the cuckoo's strange welcome floats over the trees,
And the blythe-hearted shepherdess trips to the hill,
And melody reigns in the voice of the rill,

And the field has renew'd its bright mantle of green,
And the daisy's meek form on the mountain is seen ;-
Then join, little snowdrop, in Flora's glad train;
But long may I call thee, yet call thee in vain,
For low art thou laid in thy snow-mantled bed,
And a thousand gay rivals exult in thy stead;
And no one will miss thee, or grieve at thy end,
Lonely outcast of Nature, devoid of a friend.
Full soon thy lone reign in the valley is o'er,
And pity now weeps that thou bloomest no more;
Yet long wilt thou live-the bard's idol and theme-
Oh, beautiful, beautiful child of a beam!

How much hath the world-cold experience has shown-
That an emblem in thee, little stranger, must own;
For the breast that is gentle, confiding, and pure,
Is the snowdrop of life-the unfoster'd and poor;
And the soul that is noble, the shrine of true worth,
That would emulate heaven whilst dwelling on earth;
That would place its proud name on the list of the free,
Gaunt spirit of want! is a slave unto thee.

Steal back, modest maid, to thy snow-cover'd vale,
Still whisper these truths in the ear of the gale;

And when the world-wearied droop o'er thee unknown,
Still prove to each bosom it grieves not alone;

And aye will I love thee, and make thee my theme,

Oh, beautiful, beautiful child of a beam!

Star of Hope Lodge, Manchester.

SYLVAN

A FRAGMENT FROM THE JOURNAL OF A COMMERCIAL

TRAVELLER.

Look on this picture, and on this.-SHAKSPERE.

August 18th, 18—.

AFTER roving about this large sea-port town, to examine the various improvements that had taken place since my last journey, I attended a select party at the residence of a friend. Amongst the guests at the festive board, my attention was forcibly attracted towards a young lady; her beautiful, expressive, and polished features, and her tall yet graceful figure, were more than sufficient to create pleasing emotions in the breast of a young man. A short time in her presence soon convinced me that beauty was not her only recommendation, for in her person I found a rare combination-loveliness and wisdom, blended with modesty and prudence.

She entered into conversation with spirit; there was solidity in her opinion, together with ease, elegance and vivacity in her expression. She avoided everything like a pedantic manner, and did not exhibit the least consciousness of superior wisdom. I could not avoid remarking how she gained the attention and applause of all, without the appearance of exciting envy, which is never the case when ostentation infringes on the attention of a company. She seemed to bear with every lady's humours, and to comply with the inclination and pursuits of those she conversed with. I was astonished at the readiness with which she could refer to the works of authors on divinity, history, and polite literature, and quote their remarks bearing on the subject of conversation. Often have I listened with pleasure to the eloquence of the fair sex, but never with the rapture I did on this occasion. I could not refrain from wishing that a Burns or a Moore had been in my situation; little effort would have been required to wake the Muses to sing the virtue, grace, and love of Elenor

I found, on a moment's reflection, that she had obtained a prominent place in my affections; for already had I been picturing to myself the bliss I should possess in such a partner. I soon relapsed into this pleasing reverie, but after I had gazed for awhile with rapture on the beautiful prospect my imagination had pictured, a harrassing conjecture suddenly sprang up,-"How know I," I inwardly inquired, "that her hand is not already bestowed?" But this unwelcome intruder was not cherished, the pleasing hope survived; yet still a casual cloud darkened the fair prospect my fancy dwelt on. An opportunity, however, availed to make doubt no longer doubtful. The ladies retired, and I procured a tête-à-tête with my good host. He soon discovered the impression his fair guest had made on my mind.

"Come, come, Mr. ," he said, "you must not allow your affections to rest there, for it is useless; her hand has been promised to a young gentleman now in London on business. And this I will venture to say, that no other person living would induce her to transfer her affections."

Thus were dispelled my pleasing anticipations, as suddenly as they were formed. The hand I aspired to would have been joined to another ere this, had Elenor not refused to remove her undivided attention from her feeble and aged mother. Elenor's sense of paternal duty prompted her to say,-"If she could not endure a little selfdenial for a parent's happiness, how could she expect to do so for a husband. She knew her mother desired her not to marry during her life, and she could not act contrary to her wish." I had, however, the pleasure of accompanying my fair enchantress to her home. On our approach a heavy shower of rain began to fall, and I was glad to accept the kind invitation to wait until it passed away, in the humble mansion of the fair one.

If I had been captivated by the accomplishing lady abroad, I was equally so by the humble domestic and dutiful child. Her aged mother was waiting her return as anxiously as though she had been absent months, in place of hours. The rain soon ceased, and I bid adieu to the happy dwelling, and bent my steps towards my inn, musing on the excellency of female virtue, the satisfaction and pleasure which children bestow on their parents, and the bliss in store for the fortunate individual who had gained her affections.

I continued thus musing until I had passed along several streets, meeting no one to interrupt me. I had almost reached my inn in the principal street, when, at a little distance, I perceived a figure advancing; the light from the gas lamps, and the reflection

on the wet flags enabled me to see a female in light attire. As she slowly advanced, I heard sobs, as though she were weeping. She held a white pocket handkerchief to her eyes, and was about to pass me unheeded; sorrow seemed to fill her soul, and I could not behold her without sympathy. I approached her, and inquired the reason of her weeping.

"Nothing," she replied.

"Then why do you weep," said I.

A fresh flow of tears gushed from her eyes, and she appeared as though

"Grief wrung her soul, and bent her down to earth."

"Poor girl!" I involuntarily ejaculated.

At these words she suddenly withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes, and gazed on my face.

"What," she said, "do you pity me? a wretch like me?"

Is there one who feels for my sorrow-for

"Whatever you are," I rejoined, "I have a heart that can feel for a fellow

creature."

"Fellow-creature!" she exclaimed; "call me not a fellow-creature. I am not worthy of the name-a wretch, a fiend, a murderer-a disgrace to all-a torment to myself a curse to my parents, but no fellow-creature! Oh! father-mother! and I, the cause of all this!"

A heavy flow of tears at this moment gushed from her eyes, and her sobs deprived her of speech. I endeavoured to prevail upon her to disclose the cause of her grief to that I might assist her to overcome it.

me,

[ocr errors]

"Your assistance is in vain," she answered, "the deed is already done, and I alone must bear the punishment. Not all the powers on earth can again restore me to happiness; the black guilt fills my soul with horror-death alone can befriend me."

I besought her to calm her passion, and relate to me the cause of her sorrow, and I promised to use my best endeavours to restore her to peace of mind; there was, I assured her, peace to be found for the greatest of sinners upon repentance.

"Talk not to me of repentance and peace," she hastily replied; “ my doom is sealed. But kindness is in your looks, and you desire me to inform you why I weep; I will comply, and oh! that the horrors of such a life as mine has been were told to every young woman; it surely would cause them to shun a similar path, and be spared the pangs that I endure. This evening," she continued, "I, together with some of my companions in vice, went into a public house. We had not been many minutes seated, when two men entered, apparently masters of vessels. They were so much interested in each other that they did not notice us. From their conversation I learnt that they had been companions in youth, and had not seen each other for several years. During their conversation one asked the other if he remembered John Sharp. 'Remember him! to be sure I do,' said he; 'I wonder you ask me such a question, for you know the very last Sunday I was in this port, now twenty-two years ago, you and I were at the christening of his first child, and many a time have I thought of that evening, when I have been thousands of miles away from the spot, wondering how my old mates were, and what they were about. But the child will be a woman now, I suppose. How are John and his family-have you seen anything of them lately?' The other man sat mute, and I saw him with downcast eyes shake his head, as the other spoke. 'Poor Sharp,' he answered, 'his is a sorrowful tale; I feel doubly for him, when you remind me of his joy at the birth of his daughter, and the pleasure he took in her as she grew up, for she was the only one he ever had. He spared nothing on her education, indeed, he thought too much of her; she was a beautiful young woman, but she was destined to be his torment; joy gave place to sorrow, he saw all his pains thrown away, and she became his disgrace, for scarcely had she attained the age of seventeen years when she was decoyed by an officer from the paths of virtue, and persuaded to elope from the town. Sharp was at the time on a four months' voyage, and she had been missing from home for three months when he returned, and a gloomy home he found. There was no Nancy, the joy of his heart, to welcome him, and his wife was laid on a bed of sickness, caused by distress of mind. Poor Sharp knew not what to do; no trace could be found of the residence of his lost one, though every inquiry was made. Some time after he received a letter from her, confirming his worst conjecture,

yet she kept him ignorant of her address. This news made another man of Sharp; previous to that time he had been remarkably steady, his object had been to gain all he possibly could to bestow upon her who had become his curse, but now he flew to the glass for consolation, and became as noted for drinking as he was previously for sobriety. One night, he and I were at London; our vessels lay only some hundred yards apart, so Sharp and I spent the evening together in my vessel. He, poor fellow, drank heavily, to drown sorrow, as he said. I endeavoured to prevail upon him to remain on board our vessel, but he would go to his own. In attempting to get into it, he fell; every assistance was bestowed, but all in vain-poor Sharp found a watery grave. It was only yesterday I called to see his widow, and she informed me that the officer who had seduced her daughter, had abandoned her.""

Here the poor girl stopped, and her tears flowed abundantly." "Well," at last I said, "what more?"

"What more can you hear, but that Sharp was my father, and I his undutiful daughter?"

Oh! what agony of heart did that unfortunate girl endure!

I endeavoured to offer her words of consolation, but before I had an opportunity of knowing whether they had made any impression, I heard a clamour of tongues, as though proceeding from an intoxicated mob. She withdrew her handkerchief from her weeping eyes, and looked towards the place from which the sound proceeded.

"They must not see me," she said; "thank you for your kindness; good night!" I hesitated how to proceed, for I thought that if she were left to mingle again with her companions in vice, the warning might be lost; but on my looking after her, she had disappeared, and I was left to reflect on her sad condition. I reached my inn, and retired to rest, but sleep was far from me; my mind had been so deeply impressed with opposite feelings, that some hours were spent in contrasting the two characters I had encountered that evening, the joy of one, the distress of the other. Then my mind turned upon those monsters of iniquity, who decoy young women, blast their character, inflict misery upon their parents, degrade them in the eyes of others, and then cast them away, to drag on a miserable existence, when all prospect of gaining an honest and reputable livelihood is cut off. The doors of all are closed against them, they are shunned by their own sex, pity is withdrawn, even a place wherein to lay their head is denied, except,-oh! that that exception were wanting-except the door of the den of infamy, where they mingle with creatures worse than themselves. Seeing the manner in which they are shunned by all who have the least semblance of virtue, they are driveņ from bad to worse, and live and die in the midst of sin and wickedness.

Three days afterwards I took up a newspaper, and it related that the body of a young woman had been found in the river. On the coroner's inquest it was discovered that she was the daughter of a widow, who had left home some years ago, and was, at the time of her death, leading a disreputable profession, and to add to the melancholy circumstance, on the information being received by her mother, the shock was so great as to deprive her of life.

Lambton Lodge, Gateshead District.

R. W. HETHERINGTON,

P. S.

[blocks in formation]
« SebelumnyaLanjutkan »