Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 340, Supplementary Number (1828)», страница 2

Day rose, and the multitude rushed out to see what was become of the city. Every thing was as it had been, but the column of the lion: its famous emblem of the Venetian republic was gone, wings and all. They exclaimed that the world had come to an end. But the wheel of fortune is round, let politicians say what they will. In twelve months from that day the old podesta was again sitting in the government-house—yet a podesta no more, but a French prefect; the Signora Maria, his lovely daughter, was sitting beside him, with an infant, the image of her own beauty, and beside her the stranger, no longer the man of magic in the scarlet cloak and green and vermilion striped cap with a topaz clasp, but a French general of division, in blue and silver, her husband, as handsome as ever, and, if not altogether a professed Diavolo, quite as successful in finding money whenever he wanted it. His first entree into Vicenza had been a little theatrical, for such is the genius of his country. The blowing-up of his little steam-boat, which had nearly furnished his drama with a tragic catastrophe, added to its effect; and his discovery of the sequins was managed by three of his countrymen. As an inquirer into the nakedness of the land, he might have been shot as a spy. As half-charlatan and half-madman, he was sure of national sympathy. During the three days of his stay the old podesta had found himself accessible to reason, the podesta's daughter to the tender passion, and the treasures of the state to the locomotive skill of the French detachment, that waited in the mountains the result of their officer's diplomacy. The lion of St. Mark, having nothing else to do, probably disdained to remain, and in the same night took wing from the column, to which he has never returned.

As we love to "march in good order," we begin with the plates, the most striking of which is the Frontispiece, Marcus Curtius, by Le Keux, from a design by Martin, which we are at a loss to describe. It requires a microscopic eye to fully appreciate all its beauties—yet the thousands of figures and the architectural background, are so clear and intelligible as to make our optic nerve sympathize with the labour of the artist. The next is a View on the Ganges, by Finden, after Daniell; Constancy, by Portbury, after Stephanoff, in which the female figure is loveliness personified; Eddystone during a Storm; the Proposal, a beautiful family group; the Cottage Kitchen, by Romney, after Witherington; and the Blind Piper, from a painting by Clennell, who, from too great anxiety in the pursuit of his profession, was some years since deprived of reason, which he has never recovered.

In the poetical department we notice the Retreat, some beautiful lines by J. Montgomery; Ellen Strathallan, a pathetic legend, by Mrs. Pickersgill; St. Mary of the Lows, by the Ettrick Shepherd; Xerxes, a beautiful composition, by C. Swain, Esq.; the Banks of the Ganges, a descriptive poem, by Capt. McNaghten; Lydford Bridge, a fearful incident, by the author of Dartmoor; Alice, a tale of merrie England, by W.H. Harrison; and two pleasing pieces by the talented editor. Our extract is

LANGSYNE

BY DELTA

 
Langsyne!—how doth the word come back
With magic meaning to the heart,
As Memory roams the sunny track,
From which Hope's dreams were loath to part!
No joy like by-past joy appears;
For what is gone we peak and pine.
Were life spun out a thousand years,
It could not match Langsyne!
 
 
Langsyne!—the days of childhood warm,
When, tottering by a mother's knee,
Each sight and sound had power to charm,
And hope was high, and thought was free.
Langsyne!—the merry schoolboy days—
How sweetly then life's sun did shine!
Oh! for the glorious pranks and plays,
The raptures of Langsyne!
 
 
Langsyne!—yes, In the sound, I hear
The rustling of the summer grove,
And view those angel features near,
Which first awoke the heart to love.
How sweet it is, in pensive mood,
At windless midnight to recline,
And fill the mental solitude
With spectres from Langsyne!
 
 
Langsyne!—ah, where are they who shared
With us its pleasures bright and blithe?
Kindly with some hath fortune fared;
And some have bowed beneath the scythe
Of death; while others, scattered far,
O'er foreign lands at fate repine,
Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star,
To muse on dear Langsyne!
 
 
Langsyne!—the heart can never be
Again so full of guileless truth—
Langsyne! the eyes no more shall see,
Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
Langsyne! with thee resides a spell
To raise the spirit, and refine
Farewell!—there can be no farewell
To thee, loved, lost Langsyne!
 

Of the prose articles, we have already given some specimens—The Hour Too Many, a fortnight since; and Vicenza, just quoted. The next we notice is Recollections of Pere la Chaise, for the graphic accuracy of which we can answer; Eliza Carthago, an African anecdote, by Mrs. Bowditch; Terence O'Flaherty, a humorous story, by the Modern Pythagorean of Blackwood; two interesting stories of Modern Greece; a highly-wrought Persian Tale, by the late Henry Neele; Miss Mitford's charming Cricketing Sketch; the Maid of the Beryl, by Mrs. Hofland; a Chapter of Eastern Apologues, by the Ettrick Shepherd; the Goldsmith of Westcheap, a story of the olden time—rather too long; and a characteristic Naval Sketch.

As we have already drawn somewhat freely on the present volume, we may adduce that as the best proof of the high opinion we entertain of its merits. The editor has only two or three pieces; but the excellent taste and judgment displayed in the editorship of the "Forget-me-not" entitle it to a foremost place among the "Annuals for 1829."

The Literary Souvenir,

Edited by Alaric A. Watts, Esq

If the present were the first volume of the Literary Souvenir, the name of the editor would be a passport to popularity; but as this is the fifth year of its publication, any recommendation of ours would be supererogatory.

But the Souvenir for 1829, realizes that delightful union of painting, engraving, and literature, (at whose beneficial influence we have glanced in our accompanying number) even more fully than its predecessors. Ten out of the twelve embellishments are from celebrated pictures, and the whole are by first-rate engravers. Of their cost we spoke cursorily in a recent number; so that we shall only particularize a few of the most striking.

The engravings are of larger size than heretofore, and, for the most part, more brilliant in design and execution than any previous year. We can only notice the Sisters, (frontispiece) full of graceful and pleasing effect, by J.H. Robinson, after Stephanoff; Cleopatra, on the Cydnus, a splendid aquatic pageant, by E. Goodall, after Danby; the Proposal, consisting of two of the most striking figures in Leslie's exquisite painting of May Day in Queen Elizabeth's time; a Portrait of Sir Walter Scott, from Leslie's painting, and considered the best likeness; this is from the burin of an American artist of high promise. We must not, however, forget Ehrenbreitstein, on the Rhine, by John Pye, from a drawing by J.M.W. Turner, which is one of the most delightful prints in the whole series.

In the poetry are Cleopatra, well according with the splendid scene it is intended to illustrate—and I think of Thee, a tender lament—both by Mr. T.K. Hervey; Mrs. Hemans has contributed four exquisite pieces: Night, the Ship at Sea, and the Mariner's Grave, by Mr. John Malcolm, only make us regret that we have not room for either in our columns; Mary Queen of Scots, by H.G. Bell, Esq., is one of the most interesting historical ballads we have lately met with; the Epistle from Abbotsford, is a piece of pleasantry, which would have formed an excellent pendent to Sir Walter's Study, in our last; Zadig and Astarte, by Delta, are in the writer's most plaintive strain; the recollections of our happiest years, are harmoniously told in "Boyhood;" a ballad entitled "The Captive of Alhama," dated from Woburn Abbey, and signed R–, is a soul-stirring production, attributed to Lord John Russel; and the Pixies of Devon has the masterly impress of the author of Dartmoor. And last in our enumeration, though first in our liking, are the following by the editor:—Invocation to the Echo of a Sea Shell; King Pedro's Revenge, with a well written historiette; the Youngling of the Flock, full of tenderness and parental affection; and some Stanzas, for our admiration of which we have not an epithet at hand, so we give the original.

ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS

By A.A. Watts, Esq

 
Relics of love, and life's enchanted spring,
Of hopes born, rainbow-like, of smiles and tears:—
With trembling hand do I unloose the string,
Twined round the records of my youthful years.
 
 
Yet why preserve memorials of a dream,
Too bitter-sweet to breathe of aught but pain!
Why court fond memory for a fitful gleam
Of faded bliss, that cannot bloom again!
 
 
The thoughts and feelings these sad relics bring
Back on my heart, I would not now recall:—
Since gentler ties around its pulses cling,
Shall spells less hallowed hold them still in thrall!
 
 
Can withered hopes that never came to flower
Match with affections long and dearly tried
Love, that has lived through many a stormy hour,
Through good and ill,—and time and change defied!
 
 
Perish each record that might wake a thought
That would be treason to a faith like this!—
Why should the spectres of past joys be brought
To fling their shadows o'er my present bliss!
 
 
Yet,—ere we part for ever,—let me pay
A last, fond tribute to the sainted dead:
Mourn o'er these wrecks of passion's earlier day,
With tears as wild as once I used to shed.
 
 
What gentle words are flashing on my eye!
What tender truths in every line I trace!
Confessions—penned with many a deep drawn sigh.—
Hopes—like the dove—with but one resting place!
 
 
How many a feeling, long—too long—represt,
Like autumn flowers, here opened out at last!
How many a vision of the lonely breast
Its cherish'd radiance on these leaves hath cast?
 
 
And ye, pale violets, whose sweet breath hath driven
Back on my soul the dreams I fain would quell;
To whose faint perfume such wild power is given,
To call up visions—only loved too well;—
 
 
Ye too must perish!—Wherefore now divide
Tributes of love—first offerings of the heart;—
Gifts—that so long have slumbered side by side;
Tokens of feeling—never meant to part!
 
 
A long farewell:—sweet flowers, sad scrolls, adieu!
Yes, ye shall be companions to the last:—
So perish all that would revive anew
The fruitless memories of the faded past!
 
 
But, lo! the flames are curling swiftly round
Each fairer vestige of my youthful years;
Page after page that searching blaze hath found,
Even whilst I strive to trace them through my tears.
 
 
The Hindoo widow, in affection strong,
Dies by her lord, and keeps her faith unbroken;
Thus perish all which to those wrecks belong,
The living memory—with the lifeless token!
 

Barry Cornwall has contributed several minor pieces, though we fear his poetical reputation will not be increased by either of them.

Some of the minor pieces are gems in their way, and one of the most beautiful will be found appended to our current Number.

To the prose:—The first in the volume is "the Sisters," a pathetic tale of about thirty pages, which a little of the fashionable affectation of some literary coxcombs might fine-draw over a brace of small octavos. As it stands, the story is gracefully, yet energetically told, and is entitled to the place it occupies. The author of Pelham (vide the newspapers) has a pleasant conceit in the shape of a whole-length of fashion, which, being the best and shortest in its line that we have met with, will serve to enliven our extracts:—