Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 340, Supplementary Number (1828)», страница 5

To this poor request, the iron-souled commander of the vessel, at last consented; and in the course of some weeks after, Laonce was landed on the coast of Kamschatka. His secret intent was to lie in wait for the possibility of some ship touching at the port where he was set ashore, that might be bound to the track of his beloved islands; but not uttering a word of this, to the reprobate wretch who had torn him thence, he simply bade him "farewell! and to use his next pilot better;" so saying, they parted for ever. But weeks and months passed away, and no vessel bound for the South Seas, showed itself in that distant latitude; and its gloomy fogs, and chilling atmosphere, its pale sky, where the sun never shone for more than three or four hours in the day, seemed to wither up his life with his waning hopes! In no way did it resemble the land he had left; the warm, and the genial heavens of the home he was yet bent to find again;—and he left Kamschatka for some more propitious port; but, like Sinbad the Sailor, he wandered in vain. A cruel spell seemed set on him, or on the spirit of adventure; for in no place could he hear of a vessel going the way of his prayers. At last he arrived, by a most tedious and circuitous journey at Moscow, with a design to lay his case before the young and ardent Alexander, the then Emperor of Russia; with the hope that his benevolence, and a sense of what he had done for the vessel which had betrayed him, would incline his majesty to make some effort to return him to his island, and his family.

That this hope was not vain, the character of the good Alexander, since proved by a life of undeviating promptness to all acts of humanity, may be a sufficient voucher. But whether the homeward-bound chief, found, on his setting his foot again upon the ground whence he had been so cruelly rifled; and whence, indeed, the innocent confidence, the playful bravery of his fond wife, had urged him; whether he found his cherishly-remembered home, yet standing as he left it; and her, still the tender and the true to his never-wandered heart; and whether his children sprang to his knee, to share the parental caress; and the people around, raised the haloo of joy to the returned son of their king!—whether these fondly-expected greetings hailed his arrival, cannot be absolutely told; for the vessel that took him out, was to make the circuit of the globe, ere it returned; hence, from that, and other circumstances, the facts have never reached the narrator of this little history, of what was really the meeting between Laonce and his Berea; of the young chief, and the natives he had devotedly served! But can the faithful hearts of wedded love, doubt the one; or manly attachment suspect the other? For the honour of human nature, we will believe that all was right; and, in the faith of a humble Christian, we will believe, that "he who shewed mercy, found mercy!"; That he is now restored to his island-home, and to his happy, grateful family!

Among the poetical contributions are The Angels' Call, and Woman and Fame, by Mrs. Hemans; Carthage, and Stanzas, by T.K. Hervey; the Chapel on the Cliff, by W. Kennedy; all entitled to high praise. A Christian's Day, by Miss A.M. Porter, is a sweet devotional composition. The extract from one of Mr. Atherstone's unpublished books of the Fall of Nineveh, maintains the high opinion already formed of the published part. Mr. C. Swain has two beautiful pieces. We have only room to name those gems of the poetry, viz. Wearie's Well, and another beautiful ballad, by W. Motherwell; and some exquisite lines by the Rev. G. Croly; and to quote the following:—

CHANGE

BY L.E.L

 
The wind is sweeping o'er the hill;
It hath a mournful sound,
As if it felt the difference
Its weary wing hath found.
A little while that wandering wind
Swept over leaf and flower;
For there was green for every tree,
And bloom for every hour.
 
 
It wandered through the pleasant wood,
And caught the dove's lone song;
And by the garden-beds, and bore
The rose's breath along.
But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps;
No rose is opening now—
No music, for the wood-dove's nest
Is vacant on the bough.
 
 
Oh, human heart and wandering wind,
Go look upon the past;
The likeness is the same with each—
Their summer did not last.
Each mourns above the things it loved—
One o'er a flower and leaf;
The other over hopes and joys,
Whose beauty was as brief.
 

We congratulate the editor and the public on the past success of the Amulet, especially as it proves that a pious feeling co-exists with a taste for refined amusement, and that advantageously. There is nothing austere in any page of the Amulet, nor anything so frivolous and light as to be objectionable; but it steers in the medium, and consequently must be acceptable to every well-regulated mind. Indeed, many of the pieces in the present volume may be read and re-read with increased advantage; whilst two only are unequal to the names attached to them.

THE GEM

Edited by Thomas Hood, Esq

The present is the first year of the Gem, which, as a work of art or literature, fully comes within the import of its title. It is likewise the first appearance of Mr. Hood as the editor of an "annual," who, with becoming diffidence, appears to rely on the "literary giants" of his muster-roll, rather than on his individual talent. Notwithstanding such an editorship must have resembled the perplexity of Sinbad in the Valley of Diamonds, Mr. Hood's volume is almost unexceptionably good, whatever he may have rejected; and one of the best, if not the best, article in the whole work, has been contributed by the editor himself. Associated as Mr. Hood's name is with "whim and oddity," we, however, looked for more quips, quirks, and quiddities than he has given us, which we should have hailed as specially suited to the approaching festive season, and from their contrast with the contents of similar works, as more likely to attract by their novelty and humour.

The embellishments of the Gem, fifteen in number, have been selected by A. Cooper, Esq. R.A. The Death of Keeldar is a beautiful composition by Mr. Cooper, and is worthy of association with Sir Walter Scott's pathetic ballad. The Widow, by S. Davenport, from a picture by R. Leslie, R.A. is one of the most touching prints we have yet seen, and every one is capable of estimating its beauties, since its expression will be sure to fasten on the affections of the beholder. May Talbot, by J.C. Edwards, from a painting by A. Cooper, is admirable in design and execution. Of the Temptation on the Mount, engraved by W.R. Smith, after Martin, we have spoken in our accompanying Number; but as often as we look at the plate, we discover new beauties. It is a just idea of "all the kingdoms of the earth;" the distant effect is excellent, and the "exceeding high mountain" is ably represented. The faces in the Painter's Study are decidedly superior to the rest of the print. The Fisherman's Daughter, from a painting by Bone, is pleasing; and Venice, with the Embarkation of the Doge, is a stirring scene of pageantry and triumph.

Among the poetry is the Painter's Song, a pleasing composition, by Barry Cornwall, who has also The Victim, a dramatic sketch of twenty pages. Stanzas by Horace Smith, Esq. are a pleasant satire upon the little vanities of great people. We give the Dream of Eugene Aram in full, although it consists of nearly two pages of small type.:—

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

BY T. HOOD, ESQ

[The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.]

 
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
 
 
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin:
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
 
 
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,—
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all—
A melancholy man!
 
 
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze—
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:
So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!
 
 
Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanc'd aside—
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide:
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
 
 
At last, he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp;
"O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"
 
 
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took,—
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook,—
And, lo! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book!
 
 
"My gentle lad, what is't you read—
Romance or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable?"
The young boy gave an upward glance,—
"It is The Death of Abel."
 
 
The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,—
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain;
 
 
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves.
 
 
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod,—
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
 
 
He told how murderers walk the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain,—
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain!
 
 
"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme,—
Wo, wo, unutterable wo,—
Who spill life's sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder in a dream!
 
 
"One that had never done me wrong—
A feeble man, and old:
I led him to a lonely field,
The moon shone clear and cold:
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!
 
 
"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife—
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my foot,
But lifeless flesh and bone!
 
 
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;
And yet I fear'd him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill!
 
 
"And, lo! the universal air
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame,—
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by the hand,
And call'd upon his name!
 
 
"Oh, God, it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain!
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,
The blood gush'd out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot,
Was scorching in my brain!
 
 
"My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul I knew
Was at the Devil's price:
A dozen times I groaned—the dead
Had never groan'd but twice!
 
 
"And now from forth the frowning sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice—the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite:—
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight!'
 
 
"I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream,—
A sluggish water, black as ink.
The depth was so extreme
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!
 
 
"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,
And vanish'd in the pool—
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands
And wash'd my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young
That evening in the school!
 
 
"Oh, heaven, to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer.
Nor join in evening hymn:
Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,
'Mid holy cherubim!
 
 
"And peace went with them one and all,
And each calm pillow spread—
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!
 
 
"All night I lay in agony,
In anguish dark and deep—
My fever'd eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of hell to keep!
 
 
"All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
That rack'd me all the time,—
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!
 
 
"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,—
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave!
 
 
"Heavily I rose up,—as soon
As light was in the sky.—
And sought the black, accursed pool
With a wild, misgiving eye;
And I saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry!
 
 
"Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing;
But I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing;
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
 
 
"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him up and ran,—
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murdered man.
 
 
"And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where:
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there;
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!
 
 
"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep;
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep!
 
 
"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh—
The world shall see his bones!
 
 
"Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again—again, with a dizzy brain,