Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 396, October 31, 1829», страница 5
And he uttered not a cry.
There was no bread within the wreck,
And water we had none,
Yet he murmured not, and cheered me
When my last hopes were gone;
But I saw him waste and waste away,
And his rosy cheek grow wan.
Still on we drove,
I knew not where,
For many nights and days,
We were too weak to raise a sail,
Had there been one to raise.
Still on we went, as the west wind drove,
On, on, o'er the pathless tide;
And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death,
And the child was at my side.
And it chanced as we were drifting on
Amid the great South Sea,
An English vessel passed us by
That was sailing cheerily;
Unheard by me, that vessel hailed
And asked what we might be.
The young child at the cheer rose up,
And gave an answering word,
And they drew him from the drifting wreck
As light as is a bird.
They took him gently in their arms,
And put again to sea:—
'Not yet! not yet!' he feebly cried,
'There was a man with me.'
Again unto the wreck they came,
Where, like one dead, I lay,
And a ship-boy small had strength enough
To carry me away.
Oh, joy it was when sense returned
That fair, warm ship to see.
And to hear the child within his bed
Speak pleasant words to me!
I thought at first that we had died,
And all our pains were o'er,
And in a blessed ship of Heaven
Were sailing to its shore.
But they were human forms that knelt
Beside our bed to pray,
And men, with hearts most merciful,
Did watch us night and day.
'Twas a dismal tale I had to tell
Of wreck and wild distress,
But, even then, I told to none
The captain's wickedness.
For I loved the boy, and I could not cloud
His soul with a sense of shame:—
'Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast
A sinless orphan's name!
So he grew to be a man of wealth,
And of honourable fame.
And in after years, when he had ships,
I sailed with him the sea,
And in all the sorrow of my life
He was a son to me;
And God hath blessed him every where
With a great prosperity.
The Amulet for 1830.
THE LITTLE MAJOR'S LOVE ADVENTURE
You must know, when I was in the 18th light dragoons, I was quartered in Canterbury; and having got some introductory letters, I contrived to make out a pleasant time enough. One of my visiting-houses was old Tronson's the banker's—devilish agreeable family—four pretty girls—all flirted—painted on velvet—played the harp—sang Italian, and danced as if they had been brought up under D'Egville in the corps de ballet. The old boy kept a man-cook, and gave iced champagne. Now, you know, there is no standing this; and Harriette, the second of the beauties, and I, agreed to fall in love, which in due course of time we effected. Nothing could be better managed than the whole affair; we each selected a confidant, sat for our pictures, interchanged them with a passionate note, and made a regular engagement for ever.
Such was the state of things, when the route came, and my troop was ordered to embark for Portugal. Heavens! what a commotion! Harriette was in hysterics: we talked of an elopement, and discussed the propriety of going to Gretna; but the hurry to embark prevented us. I could not, you know, take her with me. Woman in a transport! a devilish bore; and nothing was left for it but to exchange vows of eternal fidelity. We did so, and parted—both persuaded that our hearts were reciprocally broken.
Ah!—if you knew what I suffered night and day! her picture rested in my bosom; and I consumed a pipe of wine in toasting her health, while I was dying of damp and rheumatism. But the recollection of my constant Harriette supported me through all; and particularly so, when I was cheered by the report of my snub-nosed surgeon, who joined us six months after at Santarem, and assured me on the faith of a physician, that the dear girl was in the last stage of a consumption.
Two years passed away, and we were ordered home. O heavens! what were my feelings when I landed at Portsmouth! I threw myself into a carriage, and started with four horses for Canterbury: I arrived there with a safe neck, and lost not a moment in announcing my return to my constant Harriette.
The delay of the messenger seemed an eternity: but what were my feelings, when he brought me a perfumed note (to do her justice, she always wrote on lovely letter-paper), and a parcel. The one contained congratulations of my safe arrival, accompanied by assurances of unfeigned regret that I had not reached Canterbury a day sooner, and thus allowed her an opportunity of having her "dear friend Captain Melcomb" present at her wedding; while the packet was a large assortment of French kid skins and white ribbon.
That blessed morning she had bestowed her fair hand on a fat professor of theology from Brazen Nose, who had been just presented to a rich prebend by the bishop, for having proved beyond a controversy, the divine origin of tithes, in a blue-bound pamphlet. Before I had time to recover from my astonishment, a travelling carriage brought me to the window; and quickly as it passed, I had full time to see ma belle Harriette seated beside the thick-winded dignitary. She bowed her white Spanish hat and six ostrich feathers to me as she rolled off, to spend, as the papers informed me, "the honey-moon at the lakes of Cumberland.' There was a blessed return for two years' exposure to the attacks of rheumatism and French cavalry.—Stories of Waterloo.
When the celebrated Philip Henry was ejected from the establishment, Dr. Busby (who had been his tutor) meeting him, said, "Who made you a nonconformist?" "You, Sir," replied he, "I made you a nonconformist!" "Yes, Sir, you taught me those principles which forbade to violate my conscience."
TOSCAR.
THE SKETCH-BOOK
ANTWERP CATHEDRAL
(For the Mirror.)
Antwerp possesses considerable interest to an Englishman, as a place of great importance during the late war, when there was a sort of mystery attached to it, as the secret grand naval depot of Napoleon, which our Government thought to "cripple France for ever," by getting into our own hands! But what the Earl of Chatham, with an army of twenty thousand men, aided by a fine British fleet, could not do, I did: I made my entry into Antwerp—without molestation, thanks to the benign Spirit of Peace—towards the evening of a fine day in July; and while the impression of novelty was still fresh, enjoyed a rich treat in viewing its noble Cathedral. The interior is grand, but simple—striking the beholder more by its loftiness and spaciousness, than by any profusion of glittering ornament, so common in Catholic churches—although the forest of pillars, the altar-piece, the statues, and above all the splendid pictures which grace the walls, form a rich variety to the eye. It would be useless to enter into a minute detail, for no description can give a stranger a perfect idea of one building distinct from others of a similar kind, and those who have seen the object itself do not require it. Antwerp may be called the country of Rubens: at every turn you meet with monuments of his genius; and here (in the Cathedral) you have what is esteemed his masterpiece—the "Descent from the Cross"—which surprises you with a boldness of drawing, vigour and richness of colouring, and an animation in the grouping, that can scarcely be excelled; and when you discern the colossal figures from a little distance amongst the pillars and arches of the nave, you feel inclined to bow in reverence to the divinity of the genius which has portrayed so wonderful a conception of the mind. It is needless to say that this was one of the works of art carried to Paris to enrich the gallery of the Louvre, together with one placed in a corresponding situation, "The Assumption of the Virgin," which is more in Rubens' florid style than the former. There is also, by the same master-hand, a noble picture, "The Elevation of the Cross," in the artist's happiest manner; and the exquisite altarpiece, "The Ascension," is also his work. There are several other fine paintings here—one of them said to be the best performance of Quintin Matsys, who, under the inspiration of love, deserted the anvil for the pallet; and another by his father-in-law, Flors, supposed to be the identical picture upon which the ci devant blacksmith painted a bee, with such skill as to obtain the old artist's cordial consent to the marriage of Matsys with his daughter. Amongst the carved wood-work in the aisles, we admired the execution of several statues of Saints, male and female, whose features and drapery are finished with all the delicacy of marble.
The shades of evening now began to add to the solemnity of the scene, by the indistinctness that was gradually enveloping the more distant objects; and, alone, we almost dreaded to break, with our own whispers, the silence which reigned around. In the midst of this "stillness audible," the fine bell of the cathedral struck the hour, and its melodious tone seemed at once to reach the heart. We sat down to listen to the prolonged note, as each successive toll reverberated through the expanse—lingering like a halo around the walls, and appearing to awaken echoes from the guardian spirits of the night. I fancied I had never in my life heard so full-toned—so musical a bell: certain it is, none ever gave me the same sensation of delight. Indeed, the whole belfry is well assorted, for the carillons, which play certain airs at intervals, produce a sweeter effect than I remember any where else; and one of the pleasant recollections I retain of Antwerp arises out of the frequent, but unobtrusive, chimes that salute the ear during the day. We left Notre Dame this time with "lingering steps and slow."
But how can I give an idea of the exterior? The tendency to placid reflection which we had caught within found ample food for indulgence when we came to witness the effect of the architecture without, combined with the particular time of night—about nine o'clock—different tints and shadows displaying themselves upon the angles of the building, as the light decreased. Imagine a spire of light, ornamental, elegant open-work, carried up about a hundred feet higher than St. Paul's. I believe it is the loftiest in Europe, with the exception of Strasbourg, than which, in the opinion of many, it is more handsome. The only drawback upon its beauty is the glaringly large dial of the clock; but even this may suggest appropriate reflection: for may we not consider it an emblem of Time, whose course it measures, intruding upon the fairest prospects of our lives, to remind us that all human monuments and enjoyments must yield to his irresistible hand? The spire rises on one side of the principal entrance; and there is a corresponding tower on the other, to the height of the base of the steeple part, as if there had been an intention to erect one of similar dimensions there also, like the twin towers of Westminster Abbey; but I cannot help thinking, that as two and two are said not always to make four, the projecting counterpart, instead of doubling the effect, would have lessened the feeling of stupendous height with which the present single pinnacle inspires the beholders. As there cannot be two suns in the same sphere, neither could the spire of Antwerp have borne a rival near its solitary, aerial throne. It soars aloft with such grandeur, that in gazing upon it my brain actually grew dizzy with the sight: never was I conscious in an equal degree of such a feeling of awe from a work of art, and my mind really ached with the intensity of the impression.—We seemed to view this sublime object with mutual wonder and admiration—gazing upon it in one position, then in another—walking about—stopping—excited as it were by the same impulse. Once, when nearly dark, as our eyes were fixed upon the top, a gentle light suddenly appeared upon the very summit, crowning the majestic fane with glory, as if pointing it out for admiration to a surrounding world: it was a star twinkling upon the very spot where the highest point of the spire rested on the sky.
The name of Antwerp is derived from Hand-werpen or Hand-thrown: so called from a legend, which informs us that on the site of the present city once stood the castle of a giant, who held the neighbouring country in thraldom, and who was accustomed to amuse himself by cutting off, and casting into the river, the right hands of the unfortunate wights that fell into his power; but that being at last conquered himself, his own immense hand was disposed of, with poetical justice, in the same way. With the impression of this story on my mind, it came into my head that the giant was personified by the towering spire: no wonder, thought I, that Don Quixote mistook a windmill for a giant, since I, even in my sober senses, cannot get rid of the idea that I see the mighty hand-thrower before me. With a little confusion of the image, I then imagined the spire to be the guardian of the city—that it took cognizance of all its affairs, and that it would watch me even into my retreat for the night. Like the adored phantom of youthful love, it pervaded every place, and haunted me in my dreams. Often the motion of the clouds seemed to be transferred to the lofty spire, which again assuming the giant character startled me with the impression that it was falling towards me, or rushing to crush its victims, like the horrid car of Jaggernaut.
