Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)», страница 5
The Bijou
Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the Bijou will doubtless occupy a different place in public favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second title is an Annual of Literature and the Fine Arts, and from the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence. The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his Family,—is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master, whose pictures may be called the mosaic of painting. The Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so successful; although it should be considered that little space is allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: still the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the scrappers, this print will form a companion to the Mountain Daisy, from the Amulet for the present year. There are, too, some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and of, no common interest at home—as Clisson, the retreat of Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli—all of which are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well managed.
In the prose compositions we notice some of intense interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of Reinspadte—both of German origin. There is too, a faithful historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon.
THE SLEEPERS
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep.
On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep:
A holy thing from heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,
A covering mantle, given
The weary to enshroud.
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
Revere the pale still brow,
The meekly drooping head,
The long hair's willowy flow!
Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back,
From the world unseen by you,
Unto Life's dim faded track.
Her soul is far away,
In her childhood's land perchance,
Where her young sisters play,
Where shines her mother's glance.
Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;
A harmony profound
Of woods with all their leaves:
A murmur of the sea,
A laughing tone of streams:—
Long may her sojourn be
In the music-land of dreams!
Each voice of love is there,
Each gleam of beauty fled.
Each lost one still more fair—
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
Miss Landon has contributed more to the "Bijou" than to any other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase the value and variety of our columns.
THE FEAST OF LIFE
I bid thee to my mystic Feast,
Each one thou lovest is gathered there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread:
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from each bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is filled—it is of tears.
What! turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seemed to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!
We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the antique school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of George Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, this piece, and the admirable composition of the History of Sir Thomas More and his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the Bijou from all other publications of its class, and are characteristic of the good taste of Mr. Pickering, the proprietor. Altogether, the Bijou for 1829 is very superior to the last volume, and, to our taste, it is one of the most attractive of the Christmas presents.
The Winter's Wreath
This is a provincial, but not a first appearance in London; the present being the fourth "Wreath" that has been entwined for the lovers of song and sentiment. It is culled from Liverpool, (next to our own metropolis) the most literary city in the empire; but many of its flowers have been gathered from our metropolitan parterre. Thus, in addition to the respected names of Roscoe, Currie, and Shepherd, (of Liverpool), we have among the contributors those of Hemans, Bowring, Howitt, Opie, with Mitford, Montgomery, and Wiffen. The editorship has passed into different hands, and "the introduction of religious topics has been carefully avoided" as unsuited to a work of elegant amusement.
The plates are twelve in number, among which are Lady Blanche and her Merlin, after Northcote (rather too hard in the features); an exquisite View of the Thames near Windsor, after Havell; Medora and the Corsair, after Howard; the Sailor Boy, by Lizars; and a beautiful Wreath Title-page, after Vandyke. All these will bear comparison with any engravings in similar works.
The Wreath contains 132 pieces or flowers, some of them perennials—others of great, but less lasting beauty—and but few that will fade in a day. Among those entitled to special distinction, in the prose department, are an Italian Story, of considerable interest; the Corsair, a pleasing sketch; and Lough Neagh, a tale of the north of Ireland. One of the perennials is a Journey up the Mississippi, by Audubon, the American naturalist. Kester Hobson, a legendary tale of the Yorkshire Wolds, which turns upon a lucky dream, will probably set thousands dreaming—and we hope with the same good effect—viz. half-a-bushel of gold. "A Vision," by the late Dr. Currie, is a successful piece of writing; Le Contretems is a pleasant tale enough, with a sprinkling of French dialogue. Next is a well-told historiette of the eventful times of the Civil Wars.—The Memoir of a young Sculptor can scarcely fail to awaken the sympathy of the reader. The introduction of the paper on Popular Education, in what the editor himself calls "a work of elegant amusement like the present," is somewhat objectionable, and the writer's sentiments will be very unpalatable to a certain party. The Ridley Coach is a sketch in the style of Miss Mitford, who has contributed only one article, and that in verse. Mrs. Opie has a slight piece—The Old Trees and New Houses—but our prose selection is, (somewhat abridged)—
THE LADY ANNE CARR,
By the Author of "May you like it."
Have you not sometimes seen, upon the bosom of dark, stagnant waters, a pure, white water-lily lift up its head, breathing there a fresh and delicate fragrance, and deriving its existence thence—yet partaking in nothing of the loathsome nature of the pool, nor ever sullied by its close contact with the foul element beneath?
It is an honest simile to say that the gentle Anne Carr resembled that sweet water-lily. Sprung from the guilty loves of the favourite Somerset and his beautiful but infamous wife, she was herself pure and untainted by the dark and criminal dispositions of her parents. Not even a suspicion of their real character had ever crossed her mind; she knew that they had met with some reverse of fortune,—for she had heard her father regret, for her sake, his altered estate. She knew this, but nothing more: her father's enemies, who would gladly have added to his wretchedness, by making his child look upon him with horror, could not find in their hearts, when they gazed on her innocent face, to make one so unoffending wretched. It is a lovely blindness in a child to have no discernment of a parent's faultiness; and so it happened that the Lady Anne saw nothing in her father's mien or manner, betokening a sinful, worthless character.
Of her mother she had but few and faint recollections. Memory pictured her pale and drooping, nay gradually sinking under the cureless malady which brought her to her grave at last. She remembered, however, the soft and beautiful smiles which had beamed over that haggard countenance, when it was turned upon her only child—smiles which she delighted to recognise in the lovely portrait, from which her idea of her mother was chiefly formed. This portrait adorned her own favourite apartment. It had been painted when the original was as young and happy as herself; and her filial love and fond imagination believed no grace had been wanting to make all as beautiful and glorious within.
As the Lady Anne grew up to womanhood, the sweetness of her disposition and manners began to be acknowledged by those, who had seen without astonishment her extraordinary beauty; and many persons of distinction, who would hold no kind of fellowship with the Lord Somerset, sought the acquaintance of his innocent daughter for her own sake.
The most beloved friend of the Lady Anne was the Lady Ellinor G–, the eldest daughter of the Earl of G–: and with her, Lady Anne often passed several months in the year. A large party of young ladies were assembled at G– Castle; and it happened that a continual rain had confined the fair companions within doors the whole summer afternoon. They sat together over their embroidery and various kinds of needlework, telling old tales of fearful interest—the strange mishaps of benighted travellers—stories of witchcraft, and of mysterious murder.
The conversation turned at last to the legends belonging to a certain family; and one circumstance was mentioned so nearly resembling, in many particulars, the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, that the Lady Ellinor, scarcely doubting that some slight suspicion of her parents' crimes had reached the ears of the Lady Anne, determined to change the subject at once. She proposed to her fair friends that they should ramble together through the apartments of the castle; and she called for the old housekeeper, who had lived in the family from her childhood, to go along with them, and asked her to describe to them the person and manners of Queen Elizabeth, when she had visited at the castle, and slept in the state apartment; always since called, The Queen's Bedchamber.
Led by their talkative guide, the careless, laughing party wandered from one chamber to another, listening to her anecdotes, and the descriptions she gave of persons and things in former days. She had known many of the originals of the stately portraits in the picture gallery; and she could tell the names, and the exploits of those warriors in the family, whose coats of mail and glittering weapons adorned the armoury. "And now," said the Lady Ellinor, "what else is there to be seen? Not that I mean to trouble you any longer with our questions, good Margaret, but give me this key, this key so seldom used," pointing to a large, strangely shaped key, that hung among a bunch at the old housekeeper's side. "There!" she added, disengaging it herself from the ring, "I have taken it, and will return it very safely. I assure you. This key," she said, turning to her young companions, "unlocks a gallery at the end of the eastern wing, which is always locked up, because the room is full of curious and rare treasures, that were brought by my father's brother from many foreign lands."
They enter.—"This may be a charming place," said one of the youngest and liveliest of the party, "but see, the rain has passed away, and the sun has at last burst out from the clouds. How brightly he shines, even through these dull and dusty windows!" She gave but a passing glance to the treasures around her, and hastened to a half open door at the end of the gallery. Some of her companions followed her to a broad landing place, at the top of a flight of marble stairs. They were absent but a few minutes, and they returned with smiles of delight, and glad, eager voices, declaring that they had unbolted a door at the bottom of the staircase, and found themselves in the most beautiful part of the gardens. "Come!" said the young and sprightly girl, "do not loiter here; leave these rare and beautiful things until it rains again, and come forth at once with me into the sweet, fresh air."
The Lady Ellinor and her friend the Lady Anne were sitting side by side, at the same table, and looking over the same volume—a folio of Norman chronicles, embellished with many quaint and coloured pictures. They both lifted up their faces from the book, as their merry companions again addressed them. "Nay, do not look up, but rise up!" said the laughing maiden, and drawing away the volume from before them, she shut it up instantly, and laid it on another table; throwing down a branch of jessamine in its place.
"Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara," replied the Lady Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, "we have been prisoners all the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy. Come, come! my sweet Anne, you are not wont to be the last," turning to her friend, who lingered behind. "Oh!" cried Lady Anne, "I am coming, I will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up my troublesome hair." As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement. The wind fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again. The word murder caught her eye; her feelings were still in a state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had just been listening. Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions—of all but the appalling story then before her.
