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Friendship's Offering

Edited by Thomas Pringle, Esq

The present volume will support, if not increase, the literary reputation which this elegant work has enjoyed during previous years. The editor, Mr. Pringle, is a poet of no mean celebrity, and, as we are prepared to show, his contribution, independent of his editorial judgment, will do much toward the Friendship's Offering maintaining its ground among the Annuals for 1829.

There are twelve engravings and a presentation plate. Among the most beautiful of these are Cupid and Psyche, painted by J. Wood, and engraved by Finden; Campbell Castle, by E. Goodall, after G. Arnald; the Parting, from Haydon's picture now exhibiting with his Mock Election, "Chairing;" Hours of Innocence, from Landseer; La Frescura, by Le Petit, from a painting by Bone; and the Cove of Muscat, a spirited engraving by Jeavons, from the painting of Witherington. All these are of first-rate excellence; but another remains to be mentioned—Glen-Lynden, painted and engraved by Martin, a fit accompaniment for Mr. Pringle's very polished poem.

The first prose story is the Election, by Miss Mitford, with the hero a downright John Bull who reads Cobbett. The next which most attracts our attention is Contradiction, by the author of an Essay on Housekeepers—but the present is not so Shandean as the last-mentioned paper; it has, however, many good points, and want of room alone prevents our transferring it. Then comes the Covenanters, a Scottish traditionary tale of fixing interest; the Publican's Dream, by Mr. Banim, told also in the Winter's Wreath, and Gem:

 
Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed;
 

and Zalim Khan, a beautiful Peruvian tale of thirty pages, by Mr. Fraser. The French story, La Fiancée de Marques, is a novelty for an annual, but in good taste. Tropical Sun-sets, by Dr. Philip, is just to our mind and measure:—

A setting sun between the tropics is certainly one of the finest objects in nature.

From the 23rd degree north to the 27th degree south latitude, I used to stand upon the deck of the Westmoreland an hour every evening, gazing with admiration upon a scene which no effort either of the pencil or the pen can describe, so as to convey any adequate idea of it to the mind of one who has never been in the neighbourhood of the equator. I merely attempt to give you a hasty and imperfect outline.

The splendour of the scene generally commenced about twenty minutes before sun-set, when the feathery, fantastic, and regularly crystallized clouds in the higher regions of the atmosphere, became fully illumined by the sun's rays; and the fine mackerel-shaped clouds, common in these regions, were seen hanging in the concave of heaven like fleeces of burnished gold. When the sun approached the verge of the horizon, he was frequently seen encircled by a halo of splendour, which continued increasing till it covered a large space of the heavens: it then began apparently to shoot out from the body of the sun, in refulgent pencils, or radii, each as large as a rainbow, exhibiting, according to the rarity or density of the atmosphere, a display of brilliant or delicate tints, and of ever changing lights and shades of the most amazing beauty and variety. About twenty minutes after sun-set these splendid shooting rays disappeared, and were succeeded by a fine, rich glow in the heavens, in which you might easily fancy that you saw land rising out of the ocean, stretching itself before you and on every side in the most enchanting perspective, and having the glowing lustre of a bar of iron when newly withdrawn from the forge. On this brilliant ground the dense clouds which lay nearest the bottom of the horizon, presenting their dark sides to you, exhibited to the imagination all the gorgeous and picturesque appearances of arches, obelisks, mouldering towers, magnificent gardens, cities, forests, mountains, and every fantastic configuration of living creatures, and of imaginary beings; while the finely stratified clouds a little higher in the atmosphere, might really be imagined so many glorious islands of the blessed, swimming in an ocean of light.

The beauty and grandeur of the sunsets, thus imperfectly described, surpass inconceivably any thing of a similar description which I have ever witnessed, even amidst the most rich and romantic scenery of our British lakes and mountains.

Were I to attempt to account for the exquisite enjoyment on beholding the setting sun between the tropics, I should perhaps say, that it arose from the warmth, the repose, the richness, the novelty, the glory of the whole, filling the mind with the most exalted, tranquillizing, and beautiful images.

There is likewise a tale, Going to Sea, and the Ship's Crew, by Mrs. Bowdich, which equally merits commendation.

Powerful as may be the aid which the editor has received from the contributors to the "Friendship's Offering," we are bound to distinguish one of his own pieces—Glen-Lynden, a Tale of Teviot-dale, as the sun of the volume. It is in Spenserian verse, and a more graceful composition cannot be found in either of the Annuals. It is too long for entire extract, but we will attempt to string together a few of its beauties. The scenery of the Glen is thus described:—

 
A rustic home in Lynden's pastoral dell
With modest pride a verdant hillock crown'd:
Where the bold stream, like dragon from the fell,
Came glittering forth, and, gently gliding round
The broom-clad skirts of that fair spot of ground,
Danced down the vale, in wanton mazes bending;
Till finding, where it reached the meadow's bound,
Romantic Teviot on his bright course wending.
It joined the sounding streams—with his blue waters blending.
 
 
Behind a lofty wood along the steep
Fenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen:
And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep,
Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen,
Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men,
At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voice
Of children nutting in the hazelly den,
Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise,
Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.
 
 
Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,
By time and outrage marked with many a scar,
Told of past days of feudal pomp and power
When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.
But that was long gone by: and waste and war,
And civil strife more ruthless still than they,
Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,
Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,
O'er this secluded spot,—sole remnant of their sway.
 

Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild, husbandman," and his wife—

 
She he loved in youth and loved alone,
Was his.
 
 
And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm
Are all the world to him: he feels no sting
Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,
Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,
Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.
 
 
Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,
The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,
Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,
Met the fierce typhon-blast—and perished there:
But she was left the rustic home to share
Of those who her young mother's friends had been:
An old affection thus enhanced the care
With which those faithful guardians loved to screen
This sweet forsaken flower, in their wild arbours green.
 
 
But dark calamity comes aye too soon—
And why anticipate its evil day?
Ah, rather let us now in lovely June
O'erlook these happy children at their play:
Lo, where they gambol through the garden gay,
Or round the hoary hawthorn dance and sing,
Or, 'neath yon moss-grown cliff, grotesque and grey
Sit plaiting flowery wreaths in social ring,
And telling wondrous tales of the green Elfin King.
 
 
Ah! evil days have fallen upon the land;
A storm that brooded long has burst at last;
And friends, like forest trees that closely stand
With roots and branches interwoven fast,
May aid awhile each other in the blast;
But as when giant pines at length give way
The groves below must share the ruin vast,
So men who seemed aloof from Fortune's sway
Fall crushed beneath the shock of loftier than they.
 
 
Even so it fared. And dark round Lynden grew
Misfortune's troubles; and foreboding fears,
That rose like distant shadows nearer drew
O'ercasting the calm evening of his years;
Yet still amidst the gloom fair hope appears,
A rainbow in the cloud. And, for a space,
Till the horizon closes round of clears,
Returns our tale the enchanted path to trace
Where youth's fond visions rise with fair but fleeting grace.
Far up the dale, where Lynden's ruined towers
O'erlooked the valley from the old oak wood,
A lake blue gleaming from deep forest bowers,
Spread its fair mirror to the landscape rude:
Oft by the margin of that quiet flood,
And through the groves and hoary ruins round,
Young Arthur loved to roam in lonely mood;
Or here, amid tradition's haunted ground,
Long silent hours to lie in mystic musings drowned.
 
 
Here Arthur loved to roam—a dreaming boy—
Erewhile romantic reveries to frame,
Or read adventurous tales with thrilling joy.
Till his young breast throbbed high with thirst of fame;
But with fair manhood's dawn a softer flame
'Gan mingle with his martial musings high;
And trembling wishes—which he feared to name,
Yet oft betrayed in many a half-drawn sigh—
Told that the hidden shaft deep in his heart did lie.
 
 
And there were eyes that from long silken lashes
With stolen glance could spy his secret pain—
Sweet hazel eyes, whose dewy light out-flashes
Like joyous day-spring after summer rain;
And she, the enchantress, loved the youth again
With maiden's first affection, fond and true,
—Ah! youthful love is like the tranquil main,
Heaving 'neath smiling skies its bosom blue—
Beautiful as a spirit—calm, but fearful too!
 

Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as these:—

 
A gentle star lights up their solitude
And lends fair hues to all created things;
And dreams alone of beings pure and good
Hover around their hearts with angel wings—
Hearts, like sweet fountains sealed, where silent rapture springs.
 

Here is a beautiful apostrophe—

 
Oh Nature! by impassioned hearts alone
Thy genuine charms are felt. The vulgar mind
Sees but the shadow of a power unknown;
Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind
And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned:
But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire
Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined
In that diviner fane where Love's pure fire
Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!
 

The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid

 
Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.
 

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the following exquisite ballad:—

 
Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,
And Cheviot mountains blue.
 
 
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song:
Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.
 
 
Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.
 
 
The battle-mound, the border-tower,
That Scotia's annals tell:
Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower—
To each—to all—farewell!
 
 
Home of our hearts! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The keel is flashing through the foam
That bears us far from thee.
 
 
We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main:
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again.
 
 
But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we or ours forget thy name,
Green island of our sires.
 
 
Our native land—our native vale—
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!
 

We have only space to add that the poetical pieces are very numerous, and those by Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd, Delta, and William Kennedy, merit especial notice.

The elegant embossed binding is similar to that of last year, which we mentioned to our readers, and which we think an improvement on the silken array.