Imágenes de páginas

unfortunate thing, when valuable and respect A "pleasant companion" is not often one able beings are wanting in every popular quali. who has lived much in solitude. Reflective ty. “Will my friend risk his life, upon occa habits and depth of information are valuable; sion, for mine : will he be perfectly just, steady, but a slow man is not an agreeable man. An and to be depended upon?"-all these are very hour after the party is broken up, such an one essential questions;-but" Will he condescend will have framed an excellent reply to an arguto be agreeable ?" is another, which I must ask, ment; but we wanted entertainment, and wit, before I can look forward to much improving and spirit; and cannot wait for the full develop. intercourse with him. Is he thinking about ment of every rising idea. We do not like to himself continually-about his own mind-be always learners or teachers—though, in due about some one ohject of pursuit ?—in other season, we are willing to be both. A far more words, is he an entirely preoccupied man?-if unpleasant character, however, is often reared so, he is not the companion for me. Again, is up in solitude. A pedant, for ever endeavour. he a man of sects and parties? I have no am ing to lead conversation into one particular bition to associate with one who has never felt, track,-ifunsuccessful, looking with angry connay, intensely felt, the high claims of religion, tempt upon the little minded beings before the blessings of liberty, the glories of a noble him. It matters not what the pursuit may be, name :-but I cannot bear the principled blind to which he has devoted his exclusive attenness of those who have taken their part, and tion. He may be an antiquarian, or a geolo. are determined never to bestow another honest gist; a Spurzheimite, a Wordsworthian, a ra. look upon the other side of the question. dical reformer, or a speculative Theologian.

What is it that constitutes the power, which Whatever it may be, his looks, his whole man. some few favoured individuals possess, of con. ner testify, that if that one thing be not valued ciliating the loost unpleasant tempers, and by his associates, he regards them and their uniting the suffrages of ihe most agreeable and pursuits as unworthy his attention. disagreeable people in the world in their fa

“ Pleasant companions” are not those, who, vour? It is not good temper only; nor hila- brought up in a small and literary circle, have rity, nor sensibility,—nor is it even benevo

accustomed themselves to an uncommon de. lence,-for very benevolent persons may be deficient in tact-nor is it mere good sense ;

gree of correctness and finish in speaking and though sensible people will be, on the whole, and appear ever on the watch for ungrammati.

thinking ;-who talk, as it were, "out of book," more likely to obtain affection, at last, than those kind-hearted, ill-judging souls, chiefly for your carelessness fifty times in an hour.

cal, inappropriate expressions : make you blush known by their good intentions and practical Such people are “like the frost, which blights uselessness. It is very difficult, in short, to say

what it cannot produce." Every warm feel. what a pleasant companion is; but not so hard

ing, or gay flight of fancy, is checked in their to tell what he is not.

presence ;-sacrificed to the dread of failing in He is not a jester. Professed jokers are wea.

some trilling turn of expression. It is so imrisome company. They have, of all people, the possible for any but consummate assurance, or least real knowledge of the human heart

å hardiness acquired by long habit, to pass though they often make it their boast, that through such an ordeal with credit, that I realthey know human nature thoroughly; the least ly pity the persons who can subject their fel. tenderness for those little infirmities which low creatures to it; seeing that they must for cling to the best of human beings; the least

ever remain strangers to the true spirit of so. sympathy in bodily or mental afflictions; the

ciety. least reverence for the image of God in the mind of man. When once the spirit of ridicule Some feeling of equality is requisite to make has taken possession, thenceforth farewell high you enjoy the company of others. Hence, and noble feeling; jarewell all hopes of par. people of rank or talent, who do not possess taking with such an one any of that deep coin.

the art of raising their associates to their own munion which exalts and refines the human level, cannot be a pleasant companions.” You character. Serious, even these jesters must

do not wish them to let themselves down to sometimes be; but their seriousness is not im you; that is a humiliation: you like to feel ele. proving. So accustomed are they to irony, vated to their station, and then you are disposed that they can never again regard life in a

to give and receive pleasure. calm and philosophic spirit. It is still a jest, There are some individuals who in common though a bitter one. But suppose that the society are not unpleasant, but who are inde. banterer never had a mind, and that no regrets scribably annoying in certain states of the mind are called forth for the blight which has passed and affections. These are common-place chaover it, still he might have been an inoffen- , racters; people without imagination, who sive companion. But now he is the scourge therefore form no conception of what will be of every company into which he enters ;-and soothing or wounding to other persons. They will spoil the most refreshing conversation, by have regular rules for every thing. They filling up every pause with a joke. We often may have kind and affectionate natures; but feel afrection for the individual who has extort. having settled it with themselves that grief ed from us tears; but he, who drags forth, hour and joy have established modes of exhibiting after hour, unwilling laughter, is never regard themselves, they are apt to resent all depared with complacency.

tures from these, as something very like a de"With limbs of British oak and nerves of wire, parture from principle. They wonder, are And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, alarmed, and endeavour to bring back the wanHis sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke,

derer into the beaten track. As life cannot alOn pangs enforced by God's severest stroke." ways present one fair and pleasant prospect, I


tremble at the idea of sharing it with those, editorial management of the former volumes of who cannot leave me the liberly of taking my the Souvenir, are still more obvious in the preown measures, when storms and difficulties

sent instance. The prose articles, with but arise. The companion I love will always allow few exceptions, are of a very superior order, me independence:

and the poetry is often exquisitely beautiful. Upon the whole, it seems that we want a The embellishments we have already noticed little more of the spirit of a chivalrous age. with the commendations they deserve. They Selfishness is at the root of the evil. We have are alone worth more than twice the purchase no business to rely upon our own intentions money of the volume.* It would be needless merely; but should endeavour to take cogni to attempt an elaborate criticism of the numezance of another's mind before we spread be. rous contents of this varied little work, and we fore him our own; to get an insight into his shall therefore chiefly confine ourselves to the feelings before we hazard the expression of more easy and pleasant task of presenting spesuch as may be painful or unpleasant to him. cimens to our readers. To begin with the pue. I am not fond of the fashionable world, and its try, which is perhaps superior to the prose, we levelling habits; it seems difficult to rise above extract the following very beautiful stanzas by its standard of good-humoured pleasantry, or the editor: to think deeply and soberly when we mingle much in it; but yet it is pleasant to see the ease and refinement which pervade a truly po Relics of love, and life's enchanted spring, lite circle; to see how agreeably the actors in Of hopes born, rainbow-like, of smiles and the drama play into one another's hands, and

tears: how complete is the avoidance of, at least, the With trembling hand do I unloose the string, appearance of selfish and monopolizing babits. Twined round the records of my youthful Such people may not be actuated by a deep

years. spirit of Christian benevolence, they may not be thus agreeable on the highest principles,

Yet why preserve memorials of a dream,

Too bitter-sweet to breathe of aught but pain! but agreeable they are; and let those, who pro Why court fond memory for a fitful gleam fess to be guided by higher motives, be waich

Of faded bliss, that cannot bloom again! ful, and not suffer ihemselves to be outdone by those, over whom fashion, and the desire of The thoughts and feelings these sad relics bring distinction, may exercise the principal domi

Back on my heart, I would not now recall : nion.

Since gentler ties around its pulses cling, Polite conversation, it is true, is apt to take

Shall spells less hallowed hold them still in a turn in which no one possessing kind and ge.

thrall ? nerous feelings can follow it. Poignant and Can withered hopes that never came to flower, satirical remarks on individuals are never to be Match with affections long and dearly tried ! justified; but in the best society, things are al. | Love, that has lived through many a stormy ways preferred to persons, as the subjects of hour, lively remark. Upon these to talk, and to talk Through good and ill,—and time and change well, is an accomplishment no one need dis.

defied ! dain; and he, whose motives of action are the

Perish each record that might wake a thought most exalled, whose politeness approaches the

That would be treason to a faith like this!nearest to philanthropy, and whose philanthro- Why should the spectres of past joys be brought py loses itself in the clearer and more distin. guishing benevolence of Christianity, may,

To fling their shadows o'er my present bliss! and ought to be the pleasantest of companions. Yet, ---ere we part for ever,-let me pay

E. T. A last, fond tribute to the sainted dead;

Mourn o'er these wrecks of passion's earlier


With tears as wild as once I used to shed. From the London Weekly Review. What gentle words are flashing on my eye! THE SOUVENIR, FOR 1829.

What tender truths in every line I trace!

Edited by Confessions-penned with many a deep-drawn Alaric A. Watts, Esq. London: Longman and Co.


Hopes—like the dove—with but one resting It is seldom, indeed, that we have had a

place! more agreeable occupation than in wandering through the pages of the work before us. The How many a feeling, long-too long-represt, critic, in a case of this kind, has a double plea

Like autumn-flowers, here opened out at sure: he has all the gratification of the ordi

last! nary reader, with the comfortable consciousness that he will be able to present an attrac * It is stated in the preface to the Souvenir, tive report to the public, and do justice to the that such is the expense of the publication, that writers to whom he is indebted for so much “a circulation of less than from eight to nine enjoyment. The freshness, variety, and ele. thousand copies would entail a loss upon the gance of the brilliant little works among which proprietors;" and it is added in a note, that if the Souvenir holds so prominent a station, are ihe copyright and copperplate printing be taken peculiarly striking and acceptable at this dull into consideration, 100 guineas was the lowest season of the year, when publications of any cost of each of the engravings, and that some interest are extremely scarce. The excellent of them indeed were from 150 to 170 guineas taste and indefatigable industry evinced in the each.

How many a vision of the lonely breast Nor rock, nor hill, nor tower, nor tree,
Its cherished radiance on these leaves hath Breaks the blank solitude of sea ;-

No! not alone ;-her beauteous shade
And ye, pale riolets, whose sweet breath hath Attends her noiseless way:

As some sweet memory, undecayed, Back on my soul the dreams I fain would Clings to the heart for aye, quell;

And haunts it-wheresoe'er we go, To whose faint perfume such wild power is Through every scene of joy and wo.

given, To call up visions-only loved too well ;

And not alone ;-for day and night

Escort her o'er the deep : Ye too must perish!- Wherefore now divide And round her solitary flight

Tributes of love-first-offerings of the heart; The stars their vigils keep: Gifts—that so long have slumbered side by Above, below, are circling skies, side;

And heaven around her pathway lies. Tokens of feeling-never meant to part!

And not alone;—for hopes and fears A long farewell :-sweet flowers, sad scrolls, Go with her wandering sail ; adieu :

And bright eyes watch, thro' gathering tears,
Yes, ye shall be companions to the last : Its distant cloud to hail;
So perish all that would revive anew

And prayers for her at midnight lone
The fruitless memories of the faded past! Ascend, unheard by all, save One.
But lo! the flames are curling swiftly round And not alone ;-with her, bright dreams

Each fairer vestige of my youthful years; Are on the pathless main ; Page after page that searching blaze hath And o'er its moan-earth's woods and streams found,

Pour forth their choral strain ;
Even whilst I strive to trace them through When sweetly are her slumberers blest
my tears.

With visions of the land of rest.
The Hindoo ridow, in affection strong, And not alone ;--for round her glow
Dies by her lord, and keeps her faith un The vital light and air ;

And sumething that in whispers low
Thus perish all which to those wrecks belong, Tells to man's spirit there,

The living memory—with the lifeless token! Upon her waste and weary road,
Mr. Watts's verses - To the Echo of a Sea-

A present, all-pervading God! sbell," in imitation of Mrs. Hemans, aro im

Barry Cornwall has contributed his usual bued with the genuine spirit of that chaste,

quantity of verse. His “ Invocation to Birds'' pathetic, and harmonious writer. His stanzas,

is written in a loose and irregular kind of blank entitled “ King Pedro's Revenge," are remarks verse, and has very little merit. His lines to ably free and spirited, and the prose introduc. Madam Pasta are sufficiently absurd. After tion to them is very interesting and well writ- stating that she has given him such “an endlen. His address to “ The Youngling of the less rapture," that with infinite good sense and Floek" has some of those exquisite touches of propriety, doroestic tenderness which come home to the

** In places lone hearts of all men. There is a poetical “ Epis He shouts it to the stars, and winds that flee;" tie from Abbotsford," apparently from the pen

he concludes with saying, that of Mr. Lockhart, which we should like well encogh to extract, but its length prevents us.

"The critic brings her praise, which all rehearse; As it describes some of the personal habits of And I, alas! I can but bring my verse!" the northern Ariosto, it will be read with pecn. liar interest. The following poem by Mr. John he could offer her.

-in our opinion, one of the very worst things Malcolm, entitled “The Ship at Sea,"contains

We are surprised to meet with such stuff as images of much truth and beauty :

this in a book where there is, in other respects, A white sail gleaming on the flood,

such a constant evidence of rigid taste and disAnd the bright-orbed sun on high,

crimination on the part of the editor. That Are all that break the solitude

Barry Cornwall has occasionally written some of the circling sea and sky ;

agreeable poetry, we do not mean to dispute ; Nor cloud, nor cape is imaged there;

but of late he has only insulted the public by Nor isle of ocean, nor of air.

his negligence, nonsense, and affectation. We

have no wish to be unfriendly to him, and Led by the magnet o'er the tides,

should be glad if he would change his tone, That bark her path explores

and give us an opportunity to praise him. Sure as unerring instinci guides The birds to unseen shores :

Our next extract shall be some very exquiWith wings that o'er the waves expand,

site verses by Mrs. Hemans: She wanders to a viewless land. Yet not alone ;-on ocean's breast,

From the bright stars, or from the viewless Though no green islet glows,

air, No sweet, refreshing spot of rest,

Or from some world, unreached by human Where fancy may repose ;

thought, Museum.- Vol. XIV.

No. 79.-C




Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there, ple had a wake before a funeral, and a dinner And if thy visions with the past be fraught, after it, and there was an end of the affair.Answer me, answer me ! But with the march of mind comes trouble and

vexation. A man has now-a-days no certainty Have we not communed here, of life and death? Have we not said that love, such love as ours,

of quietness in his coffin--unless it be a patent

He is laid down in the grave, and the Was not to perish, as a rose’s breath, To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

next morning he is called upon to demonstrate Auswer, oh! answer me!

an interesting experiment."

Most of the stories are clever, but some of Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that

them are a little forced and extravagant. The shone

longest, and one of the best in the volume, is Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze;

“ The Rock of the Candle,” by the author of Didst thou bear with thee, to the shore un

“ Holland-ride." This, though also somewhat known,

Germanic, is a very superior production. Nought of what lived in that long, earnest

The following remarks are from “ A Clap

ter on Portraits,” by Barry Cornwall, which, Hear, hear, and answer me!

though fat and commonplace in some parts, is

occasionally fresh and interesting. The PorThy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone trait of Sir Walter Scott, to which the author Thrilled through the tempest of the parting alludes, is an exquisite work of art, and is en. strife,

graved with extraordinary delicacy and effect Like a faint breeze :-oh! from that music by a Mr. Danforth, who is, we believe, an Ame. flown

rican. Send back onc sound, if love's be quenchless “ We can scarcely imagine a thing much life!

more pleasant indeed, to an artist, than to be But once, oh! answer me! brought face to face with some famous person, In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,

and permitted to examine and scrutinize his

features, with that careful and intense curioIn the dead hour of night, when thought grows sity, that seems necessary to the perfecting a deep;

likeness. It must have been to Raffaelle, at When the heart's phantoms from the darkness

once a relaxation from his ordinary study, and rush,

a circumstance interesting in itself, thus to Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep;

look into faces so full of meaning as those of Spirit! then answer me!

Julius and Leo—and to say, " That look-that By the remembrance of our blended prayer ;

glance, which seems so transient, will I fix for By all our tears, whose mingling made them

Thus shall be be seen, with that exact

expression (although it lasted but for an inBy our last hope, the victor o'er despair;

stant), five hundred years after he shall be dust Speak !-it our souls in deathless yearnings

and ashes!' moet,

“ This was probably the feeling of Raffaelle ; Answer me, answer me!

and it must have been witb a somewhat simi

lar pride that our excellent artist, Mr. Leslie, The grave is silent—and the far-offsky, accomplished his portrait of Sir Walter Scoli, And the deep midnight:-silent all, and lone! which the reader will have already aduired in Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

this volume. It is surely a perfect work. No What voice has earth?--Hear, pity, spcak! one, who has once seen the great author, can mine own!

forget that strange and peculiar look (so full of Answer me, answer me! meaning, and shrewd and cautious observation

-so entirely characteristic, in short, of the There are several beautiful contributions

inind within) which Mr. Leslie has succeeded from the pen of Mr. T. K. Hervey. The ano.

in catching. One may gaze on it forever, and nymous poem of “ Mary Queen of Scois" is

contemplate an exhaustless subject-all that spirited and harmonious. Miss Mitford's

the capacious imagination has produced and is “Young Novice" is pleasing, but rather fee producing,—the populous, endless world of ble. Hofer," by C. R.; " Zadig and As.

fancy. tarte,” by Delta; a Sonnet or tiro by H., and

" Let the reader look, and be assured that one by Mr. Thomas Roscoe, are all deserving of commendation. We could also conscien- and wrought all the fine shapes that he has

there is the strange Spirit that has discovered tiously praise many other pieces in the vo

been accustomed to look upon with wonderlume, but must close our notice of the poeti.

Claverhouse, and Burley, and Bothwell,- Meg cal department, or we shall have no room left

Merrilies and Elspeth-the high and the low for the prose.

-the fierce and the fair-Cavaliers and CoveOf the prose articles, the most striking is the nanters, and the rest-presenting an assem. “MSS. found in a Mad-house." Though too blage of character that is absolutely unequalfull of horror, it is very strongly written, and led, except in the pages of Shakspeare alone. the interest is deep and stirring. The story of There is no other writer, be he Greek, or " The Sisters" is powerful and pathetic. The Goth, or Roman, who has ever astonished the “ Vision of Purgatory,” by Dr. Maginn, is ex. world by creations so infinitely diversified. tremely clever, and has a good deal of humour. The mind of the author appears so free from We were amused with the following allusion egotism, so large and serene, so clear of all to galvanism and the resurrection system : images of self, that it receives, as in a lucid " In former times,” says the writer, “the peo mirror, all the varieties of nature. It was thus


sweet ;

that the greatest and rarest of all poets was Such as the wood leaves in disorder shook enabled to perform his wonderful task. Thus By startled stockdove's hasty flapping wings; free from egotism and turbid vanity was Shak- Or the coy woodpecker that, tapping, clings speare himself. And thus, we may prophecy, To grey oak trunks, till, scared by passing must every author be, who shall succeed in clowns, stirring the hearts of men by dint of example It bounces forth in airy ups and downs only."-p.353–355.

To seek fresh solitudes; the circling rings We must now conclude our notice of the The idle puddock inakes around the towns, Souvenir. It would be idle to recommend this Watching your chickens by each cottage pen: delightful publication to our readers, for its And such are each day's party-coloured skies; own merits, and the reputation of the editor And such the landscape's charms o'er field and will secure its popularity.

That meet the Poet's never weary eyes,
And are too many to be told again,


From the Literary Souvenir.

A NOURIFUL gift is mine, O friends!

A mournful gift is mine!
A nurmur of the soul, which blends

With the flow of song and wine.
An eve that through the triumph's hour

Beholds the coming wo,
And dwells upon the faded power,

Midst the rich suminer's glow.
Ye smile to view fair faces bloom

Where the father's board is spread; I see the stillness and the gloom

Of a home whence all are fled. I see the sither'd garlands lie

Forsaken on the earth, While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly

Through the ringing hall of mirth. I see the blood-red future stain

On the warrior's gorgeous crest, And the bier amidst the bridal train,

When they come with roses drest. I hear the still small moan of Time

Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory's prime,

With the sunshine stands arrayed. The thunder of the seas I hear,

The shriek along the wave,
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer

Salute the parting brave.
With every breeze a spirit sends

To me some warning sign ;-
A mournful gift is mine, o friends!

A mournful gift is mine!
Oh, prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,

To all deep souls belong;
The shadow in the sunny hour,

The wail in the mirthful song.
This sight is all too sadly clear-

For them a wail is riven;
Their piercing thoughts repose not here,

Their home is but in heaven!

“Oh! that I had wings like a dove!"
On! for the wings we used to wear,

When the heart was like a bird,
And floated, still, through summer air,
And painted all it looked on fair,

And song to all it heard !
When Fancy put the seal of truth
On all the promises of youth!
Oh! for the wings with which the dove

Flies to the valley of her rest,
To take us to some pleasant grove,
Where hearts are not afraid to lovo,

And Truth is sometimes blest!
To make the spirit mount again,
That grief has bowed-and care and pain!
It may not-oh! it may not be !

I cannot mount on Fancy's wing,
And Hope has been like thee, like thee!
These many weary years, to me,

A lost and perished thing!
-Are there no pinions left, to bear
Me where the good and gentle are.
Yes! rise upon the Morning's wing, *

And far beyond the farthest sea,
Where Summer is the mate of Spring,
And Winter comes not withering,

There is a home for thee! Away--away! and lay thy head In the low valley of the dead!

From the winter's Wreath.



From Friendship's Offering.


BY JOHN CLARE. How many pages of sweet Nature's book Hath Poësy doubled down as favoured things:

"Sunt geminæ somni portæ, quarum altera fertur Cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris."

Virgii. As I was passing a month of the delightful summer of 1780, at the ancient soat of my family in North Wales, I one morning awoke, aster a disturbed night, soon after daybreak; and the shutters of my windows being open, the light shone on the bed where I lay. Not find. ing myself disposed to return to sleep, I open

* "If I take the wings of the morning.”

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