UNITED STATES OF AMERICA / vk WASHINGTON, D. C. *T B19574 DEATH'S DOINGS: CONSISTING OF NUMEROUS ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS, IN Vtvm antr $rosc, THE - FRIENDLY CONTRIBUTIONS OF VARIOUS WRITERS ; PRINCIPALLY INTENDED AS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THIRTY COPPER-PLATES, DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY R. DAGLEY, Hostou: CHARLES EWER, No. 141, WASHINGTON-STREET. DUTTON AND WENTWORTH—PRINTERS. . 1828. DEATH'S DOINGS. PRINTED BY DUTTON AND tyENTWOUTJI, KXCHANGE-STRKET.....BOSTON. ^ « THE I'iiBTCK, Blifl Conslstiny of nunifroux Thr friendly Contributions ofvarian Wntrn; PRINCIPALLY INTEND Kl> AS ILLlTSTRATIOKSop TH3 RTY PliATRS, from, designs IBT Ko Dacbi. k. y9 Author or select Gems from, the anteciue.Jcc. "But GoE forbid.'that a thief should die. ''* Without his share of Out laws' So I.nimbly whipt my cackle out, A',A soon tied, up his claws, I \\-a| judge, myself, and jury, and all And solemnly tried die cause. J Hood. FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS. VOL II. _sTOFTH£ORAr£;-—. BOSTON. CHARLES EWER No. 141 WASHINGTON St. DEATH'S DOINGS: COVSlSTIXr, OF NUMEROUS ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS, Vtvut atiti |3rose, THE FRIENDLY CONTRIBUTIONS OF VARIOUS WRITERS; PRINCIPALLY INTENDED AS ILLUSTRATIONS OK THIRTY COPPER-PLATES, DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY R. DAGLEY, AUTHOR OF " SELECT GEMS FROM THE ANTIQUE," &c. VOI,. II. FROM THK SECO.VU LONDON EDITION, WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS. Boston: CHARLES EWER, N>> 141, WASHINGTON STREET. DUTTON AND WENTWORTH--Pit I NTKU*. 182S. IBD \%2% V. <2- * 233 THE LAST BOTTLE. An' if it be the last bottle, Death is quite wel- come ; for then life hath run to the very dregs and lees, and there is nothing more in it which can be called enjoyment. Ah, whither have ye sped, ye jo- vial Hours, which on bright-winged glasses, far dif- ferent from yon sandy remembrancer, floated away so blissfully; as the bird poised high in air, the trouble of the ascent over, glides without effort or motion, through the brilliant pleasures of yielding space. How ye sparkled and ran on, like gay crea- tures of the element gifted with more than magic powers. Beautiful and slight ephemera, fragile as you seemed, what mighty loads of cares did you easily bear off in your aerial flight! Ponderous debts which might weigh nations down ; the griefs of many loves, enough to drown a world ; the false- hoods of friends, the malice of enemies; anxieties, fears, troubles, sorrows—all vanished as drinking ye proceeded in your mistic dance ! I picture ye in my 30 234 death's doings. fancy, now, ye Hours, as sparkling, joyous, and ex- quisite insects, flitting past with each a burden of man's miseries on his shoulders sufficient to break the back of a camel, and borne from the lightened hearts of your true worshippers. But, alas ! alas! for all things mortal—we must come to the last at last. Yet let the grim tyrant approach at any time, sith it must be so, and at what time can he approach when we should less regard his frown. Like the un- conscious lamb, which " licks the hand just raised to shed its blood," we play with his bony fingers as he presents the latest draught; and, let his dart be dipped in the rosy flood, we die feeling that wine gives to Death itself a pang of joy. Herodotus must have been wrong when he told us that the Maneros of the Egyptians was a mournful and wail- ing song; and Plutarch's is the best authority, for he says it was a joyous chant. So believed the merry party assembled in our faithful picture : their round of song, of toast, of cheer, of laughter, and of shout, was such as Plutarch paints of the wisdom of antiquity, when the figure of a dead man was shown to the convivial souls, and they melodiously joined the chorus— THE LAST BOTTLE. 235 Behold that breathless corpse ; You'll be like it when you die : Therefore drink without remorse, And be merry, merrily. Ai-lun, Ai-lun, Ai-lun * quo' he! Our only night, no sky light, drink about, quo' we. Time, they tell us, waits for no man ;— tSLitne anS Cine 5For no man Wat. But here we can make Death himself a waiter, while the cup is drained and the jocund catch goes round. Hark, whose voice among the happy set is that which sings— While here we meet, a jovial band, No Son of Discord's impious hand Dare fling the apple, fire the brand, To mar our social joy: Free, as our glorious country free, Prospering in her prosperity, With wine, and jest, and harmony, We Pleasure's hours employ. But lo, he whose face is half concealed by that arm uplifted with the sparkling glass, he has drank till * Literally in the Greek, " Behold that corpse ; you will resemble it after your death : drink now, therefore, and be merry."—(See He- rodotus and Plutarch, on the Egyptian Maneros, passim). The fine chorus of Ai-lun, " He is dwelling with the night," is, we trust, pa- thetically rendered. 236 death's doings. the tender mood of philosophy steals over his melt- ing soul. His maudlin eye would moisten with a tear at a tale of sorrow or a plaintive air; and it is thus he gives vent to his soothing melancholy sen- sations— Death comes but once, the philosophers say, And 'tis true, my brave boys, but that once is a clencher: It takes us from drinking and loving away, And spoils at a blow the best tippler and wencher. Sing Ai-lun, though to me very odd it is, Yet I sing it too, as my friend quotes Herodotus. And Death comes to all, so they tell us again, Which also I fear, my brave boys, is no fable; Yet the moral it teaches, to me is quite plain: 'Tis to love all we can and to drink all we'er able. Sing, again, Ai-lun, though to me odd it is; But 'tis Greek, very good I hope, and comes from Herodotus. The old Trojan himself tucks his napkin under his arm, the whetting of his scythe is forgotten, and he wishes (miserable sinner), that, instead of sand, his double glass were wetted full with burgundy. How it would refresh and revivify his dry ribs! how it would re-create and beautify his filthy skeleton form! but he must do his thankless office, while he listens to that third glee which he with a plumed bonnet trolls forth:— THE LAST BOTTLE. 237 Let the sparkling glass go round, The sparkling glass where care is drowned; For while we drink, we live, we live ! Let the joyous roof ring with the measure, The sweetest of the muses' treasure That Music's voice can give. Thus crowned, the present beams with pleasure, The memory of the past is lighter, The prospect of the future brighter— And while we drink, we live, we live. Chorus.—We live, we live, we live, we live, For while we drink, we live, we live. Another cork is drawn. At the smacking sound cares, fears, pains, fly from the unruffled soul of man, as wild fowl fly from the placid lake at the re- port of the fowler's gun. The undulating agitation of the instant,—the centric, concentric, elliptic, pa- rabolic, and every imaginary shape into which its glancing bosom is broken, ripples and sparkles with light, and all then gently subsides into smoothness and serenity.—The calm is delicious, and the bowl becomes more and more brimmed with inspiration as the flood within it ebbs. "Whose turn is it now to entertain us ? What, Square-cap! thou hast stood or rather sat the brunt of many a deep-drenched ta- ble ; the words of discretion must flow from thy lips so often steeped in the fountains of truth and wis- dom. Oracle of the holy well—the " Trine, trine, trine," of Rabelais drops from them as emphatically as upon the ear of the weary Panurge :— 238 death's doings. Alexander and Caesar have vanished away; And Plato and Cicero now are but clay; The brave, and the learned, and the good, and the wise, All come to the same simple close of" Here lies." Then let us employ Our moments in joy— And before the sure end make the best use of Time. 'Twere folly to pine O'er generous wine, Since sadness is madness, and gloom is life's crime, "Trine, trine, trine,"*—I speak, French words and French wines are far better than Greek. Look along the bright board, like a river it flows With a liquid whose sparkling no water e'er knows; While the banks are with friends in good fellowship crowned, Who bathe deep in the stream and ne'er fear being drowned, 'Tis Bacchus' hour, So let him out-pour All his treasures, while we make the best use of Time; Friendship and wine Are union divine, And when drunk, mortal drunk, mortal man is sublime ! " Trine, trine, trine,"—I speak, French words and French wines are far better than Greek. Encore, encore—no more, no more: the last measure * When the oracle of the Holy Bottle was pronounced by the trink- ling of the drops which fell from it, quoth Panurge, "Is this all that the Trismigistian Bottle's words mean ? In truth I like it extremely, it went down like mother's milk."—"Nothing more," returned Bacbuc, " for trinc is a Panomphean word, that is, a word understood, used, and celebrated by all nations, and signifies Drink.—See Rabelais for this adventure of Pantagruel and Panurge. the last bottle. 239 is full, the last verse is sung, the last cork has left the neck of the last bottle open. The gloomy assas- sin strikes—He who has been so often dead drunk, what is he now ? At the next meeting there was one chair empty, one jolly dog absent—-Ai-lun. And what said his disconsolate companions—they missed him, they mourned, they lamented, no doubt: —aye, and they joked too. One said he had never paid any debt till he paid the debt of Nature ; an- other remarked that he was just wise enough to pre- fer a full to an empty bottle ; and the third wrote his epitaph over the third bottle per man:— HABEAS CORPUS ! HIC JACET J Here lies William Wassail, cut down by the Mower; None ever drank faster or paid their debts slower— Now quiet he lies as he sleeps with the Just. He has drank his Last Bottle, and fast, fast he sped it o'er, And paid his great debt to his principal Creditor ; And compounded with all the rest, even with Dust. W. J. 240 THE BACCHANALIANS. Whilst Reason rules the glass, and Friendship flings Its Claude-like tint o'er life's convivial hours, Heart towards heart with generous fervour springs, And Fancy wreaths the social board with flowers. But, when the glass o'er prostrate Reason rules, And all Ebriety's dull vapours rise, Lost in the mist, the wisest, changed to fools, Take thorns for flowers, and whips for social ties. Look now on yon bibbers—how wildly they laugh And exult o'er the poison they fearlessly quaff; Their mirth grows to madness, and loudly they call On the waiter;—he enters—Death waits on them all: They jest at his figure ;—'tis meagre and bare, But soon his " pale liv'ry" the proudest shall wear. THE BACCHANALIANS. 241 That last fatal bottle the mischief shall work ; Their last vital breath shall be drawn with that cork: Its odour is fetid—it smells of the dead, 'Tis a type of their fate, for their spirits have fled: The glass of hilarity reels in their hand, But there is another glass—flowing with sand ; Its grains are fast falling—they trickle—no more : Those glasses are drained—the carousal is o'er. H. D. 31 242 ELIXIR VITJE. "Wine does wonders every day." From the time when the juice of the grape was first concocted into beverage, to the present day— the day of Charles Wright, of champagne celebrity —wine has ever been lauded as one of Nature's most valuable gifts to man. It is the true aurum potabile, the genuine elixir vitce, invigorating the heart, inspiring the fancy, and recalling to the veins of age the genial glow of youth. Accordingly, many, very many, are the excellent sayings that have been uttered in commendation of this generous liquor ; and many, very many, too, are the good things, the bright thoughts, the flashes of wit and eloquence it has suggested; for when, indeed, has it ever proved ungrateful ? Not unfrequently has the bottle been the Helicon whence bards have drawn inspiration, if not immortality : it has also been compared to the fountain of youth, or to that wonder-working caul- elixir vnm. 243 dron in which Medea* re-animated with fresh vigour and vitality the aged limbs of her parent, infusing into his veins a warmer, fuller current. Nevertheless, although the bacchanalian be steeped in his all-potent liquor as deeply as possi- ble, and although he be rendered proof against all the cares and anxieties that beset us in this mortal passage,—though he bear a " charmed life," and daily inhale new vigour from " tired nature's sweet restorer," balmy wine; like him who was dipped in the waters of Styx, he is not all invulnerable, there being ever some little spot assailable by the fatal dart of the grisly spectre. Death, indeed, pays not much respect to the bon vivant; and, regardless of him as the professed toper may appear, or sel- dom as he sings a memento mori over his bowl, or utters one in the form of a toast, it must be ac- knowledged that he more often rehearses the final scene of life than his fellow mortals, by getting * Stripped of its allegorical veil, the fable of Medea is nothing more than the record of some of those magnificent achievements of certain of the medical profession, which we find so eloquently narrated in those pithy compositions, hight advertisements, according to the unpoetical matter-of-fact spirit of modern times, so different from that of antiquity •> not but there may be, and undoubtedly is, a considerable degree of both fancy and invention in those productions. 244 death's doings. dead-drunk, thus anticipating, as it were, that state of insensibility, that utter oblivion of sublunary things, that characterizes Death. As the bee extracts sweetness from the vilest plants, so does the moralist collect lessons of wis- dom and deep reflection from scenes that seem ca- pable of furnishing little instruction of this nature. We may be pardoned, therefore, if we prose a little on that truly poetical and classical subject, a bac- chanalian* group, when the competitors having in- dulged in unsparing libations to the genius loci—the deity of the banqueting-room, sink in oblivious re- pose and death-like insensibility. Here the full tide * For the benefit of those who delight to indulge in bold etymolo- gical speculations, and supply the pedigree of words from conjecture, we will here record an anecdote that may elucidate the origin of this epi- thet :—" So, I hear, Mrs. Simkins, that your good man had quite a bac- chanalian party the other evening," remarked an acquaintance to the spouse of a retired cheesemonger. " I would have you to know, sir," returned the lady, all her injured dignity lighting up her face in the most glowing, picturesque manner imaginable—quite in the style of a sunset, by Claude—" I would have you to know, sir, that Mr. Simkins is above such low doing. Bacca and ale party, indeed !—no, we can afford to treat our friends with wine, quite as well as our neighbours." This reminds us of an exceedingly whimsical dealer in the "Indian weed," who put up at his door, instead of the usual figure of a High- lander, one of Bacchus, as the god Bacco, and who always used the choice Italian oath Corpo di Bacco, which he said meant the fraternity or corps of tobacconists. ELIXIR VITjE. 245 of existence that so lately animated the joyous cir- cle, and raised them above the ordinary pitch of mortality, is stopped ; the jest, the repartee, the witticism, the quaint remark, the pun, the anecdote —the enthusiastic toast, and the rushing torrent of words supplied by the grape-god, whose bottle in- spires louder eloquence than Pieria's fount;—all are now hushed, and succeeded by silent torpidity; so closely have the actors in this mystery or morality, adhered to the progressive course marked by Na- ture herself, who, from the midst of health and life, prepares decay and dissolution. If we gaze on these fallen heroes of the bottle, we shall perceive that some have quite drained their glasses, while others have fallen victims to stupor and insensibi- lity, the bright liquor still sparkling before their eyes. So far we might not seldom derive a moral lesson from a not particularly moral subject. But there are occasions when Death literally takes his place at the festive board, and mars the merriment of the hour devoted to joy, " with most admired disorder." He does not stand upon the form of coming, well knowing that he cannot be denied. He is the dun that comes to demand the payment of the great debt 246 death's doings. of nature, and against him all subterfuges, however ingenious, are unavailing. Scorning and setting at naught all form and etiquette, he intrudes in spite of porter or groom of the chambers. Nevertheless, he will occasionally use a little finesse and strata- gem, although certain of being able to gain forcible admission—vi et armis. Here he comes in the dis- guise of a boon companion, for a while to entertain the company with his erudition in oenology; and descant most learnedly on the pedigrees of wines, showing himself deeply learned in the lore of a Hen- derson, and quite aufait in the science of the draw- ing-room,—that is, the room where they draw corks; which, by the by, in the opinion of a great many con- noisseurs, is the finest style of drawing ever in- vented—at least so it is held by those practitioners who operate as bottle dentists, and pique them- selves on the skill with which they extract their teeth, and drain their veins—not of blood, but of the generous and potent ichor, for which they are so esteemed. But whether the liquor he proffers be claret or champagne,—" that might create a soul be- neath the ribs of death,"—or whether it be eau-de-vie itself, it becomes a fatal poison, if Death takes upon himself to act the part of cup-bearer. If, however, wine do sometimes prove a poison, it must be ac- elixir vitje. 247 knowledged to be infinitely the most agreeable of any mentioned or not mentioned in any treatise on toxicology, and by far the most palateable and gene- rous way of committing suicide yet discovered. Many have declaimed vehemently, if not elo- quently, against the "sweet poison of misused wine," attributing to it the most pernicious effects on the human frame; forgetting that the mischief is occasioned, not by the quality of the medicine, but by the excess of the dose. In other words, the fault lies in the patient himself, which is, we presume, in- variably the case whenever any infallible nostrum works not the desired cure. If wine has hurried many out of the world sooner than they would other- wise have departed, so has physic, and more espe- cially that sort of physic that has professed to ac- complish the most miraculous effects, and remove all disorders. Indeed, to do these universal pana- ceas justice, they do most effectually remove every complaint by despatching the patient himself into the other world; and this is, perhaps, one reason why we hear of so few failures in those wonder- working drugs that promise to protract existence to an antediluvian length of days. 248 death's doings. To those who like to indulge in fanciful compari- sons, the festive table, covered with well-freighted decanters, shows itself like a calm sea on which stately ships and rich argosies are sailing along in gallant trim, fearing neither storms, nor shoals, nor rocks ; but steer their way among goodly dishes laden with luscious fruits, that stud the bright ex- panse like so many fertile islands, and form an ar- chipelago of sweets. And, to continue the simile, how many goodly promontories and capes do we discern around! Yonder is a fiery proboscis that serves as a flaming beacon—a moral light-house to warn the inexperienced : not far from this, a mouth that expands itself like some capacious haven. Continuing our course, we come to a nose, a jutting promontory with a mole at its extremity rivalling that of Genoa. There a snowy head meats the eye, reminding us of Etna;—there a face with an eruption that marks it at once, by its fiery appearance, as Ve- suvius : yet as men are not deterred from approach- ing that mountain, so neither is our bon-vivant scared from his crater—in plain prose, his glass—by the fiery glare of his own countenance ; or perhaps its reflection serves only to lend a deeper ruby tint to his wine. Let us not be accused of being too elixir vit^:. 249 fantastic and obscure in'our allegorical picture ; for surely the image is natural enough. Life itself has been compared to a voyage, and hence many, interpreting the expression somewhat too literally, have actually steered their course through a Red Sea of port and claret; sailed across a Pacific Ocean of burgundy and champagne ; navi- gated a Rhine whose stream has been genuine Rhe- nish ; and cruized up and down a gulf of choice Malaga ; visiting alternately Madeira and the Cape ; now touching at the Canaries and now at Oporto or Lisbon;—in short, circumnavigating the whole globe, and studying the geography of different regions, while their bottles circulated round the polished ex- panse of the mahogany dining-table, that reflected their sunny faces on its countenance. In wine they fancied they had discovered the nectar of the im- mortals—a Lethe for all the cares and anxieties of human existence. And most assuredly the liquor with which they deluged themselves was often not very dissimilar in its effect from that attributed to that fabled stream; for many have drank till they have forgotton their creditors, their families, and even themselves. It is not, therefore, surprising that they should not have recollected, that, let them 32 250 death's doings. steer with what skill they might,—however they might be favoured with fair breezes and prosperous gales, and escape tempests and squalls, they must finish their voyage in the Dead Sea. When Death officiates as Butler, as we here see him, and draws the cork, it is from the waters of that horrid lake he pours out the nauseous beverage that all are compelled to drain from his hand. At his bidding the wine-bibber must visit other shades than those whither he has often so willingly repaired to partake of the inspiring glass, heedless of the ominous name. The Shades!—what a memento mori in that awfully-sounding word, which is nevertheless daily uttered by so many with so much gaiety! Hardly do they seem to reflect that the grisly spec- tre will ere long summon them from the wine-vault to that narrow vault where, instead of finding a ban- quet for their thirsty palates, they must themselves afford a banquet to the worm ; to those shades where they themselves will be as shadows, where their glass will be broken, their bottle emptied, no more to be replenished; and their revelry silenced for ever. W. H. L. 251 THE SHADES. [Allusion havingbeen made in the foregoing article to the well-known " Shades" at the foot of old London Bridge, but which shady retreat will, ere long, be swept away, that its site may form a part of the entrance to the new one, we take the opportunity of insert- ing the following trifle, as a memento of that favourite resort, where, like good citizens, we have often paid our devoirs to Bacchus and at the same time admired, with feelings natural to an English- man, the wealth and commerce of the world borne majestically along on the bosom of" Old Father Thames."] I sing not of Shades which they tell of below, Where Pluto and Proserpine reign ; But I sing of the Shades whither wine-bibbers go, Where a stream of Oporto doth constantly flow— A Lethe to wash away pain. The Lethe of Tartarus, poets declare, Oblivious virtues possess'd; But the Lethe we mean, metamorphoses care,— It inspires us to love and to cherish the Fair, And warms e'en the Anchoret's breast. 252 weath's doings. The sons of gay Bacchus their nectar here quaff— And Sorrow, that " thirsty old soul," With the children of Momus, delighted, will laugh, And swear that he ne'er was so happy by half As when up to his chin in the bowl. Wine, wine is the balm that assuages our pains ; Come, fill—and the glasses push round ; It cherishes love—so, take courage, ye swains, And drink while a drop of the cordial remains— For without it no bliss can be found. Grim Death for a while shall his dart lay aside, And even old Time shall stand still, While mortals, enjoying the rich rosy tide, Shall laugh at " dull Care,"—and, with true civic pride, Of wine, like the gods, take their fill. Oh, haste to the Shades, then, where wine-bibbers meet, Oh, haste to that fav'rite resort, Where, in wet or dry weather, in cold or in heat, All care is forgot in a snug elbow seat, When of port you have drank a full quart. M. THE WAURlvURo 253 DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. " Aye, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume On a proud and fearless brow! I am the lord of the lonely tomb, And a mightier one than thou! "Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief! Bid her a long farewell! Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief— Thou comest with me to dwell! " Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, Thy steed o'er the breezy hill; But they bear thee on to. a place of sleep, Narrow, and cold, and still!" " Was the voice I heard thy voice, O Death ? And is thy day so near ? Then on the field shall my life's last breath Mingle with Victory's cheer! 254 death's doings. "Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, Above me as I die, And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky. " High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, When the minstrel names that spot; And the eyes I love shall weep my fall— Death ! Death ! I fear thee not." " Warrior ! thou bearest a haughty heart, But I can bend its pride! How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of Victory's tide ? " It may be far from thy steel-clad bands, That I shall make thee mine ; It may be lone on the desert-sands, Where men for fountains pine! " It may be deep amidst heavy chains, In some strong Paynim hold— I have slow dull steps, and lingering pains, Wherewith to tame the bold !" death and the warrior. 255 " Death! Death! I go to a doom unbless'd, If this indeed must be ! But the cross is bound upon my breast, And I may not shrink for thee ! " Sound, clarion, sound!—for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine; I bow my soul to the will of heaven, O Death! and not to thine!" F. H. 256 THE WARRIOR. It came upon the morning wind One loud and thrilling tone, And distant hills sent forth their voice,— The trumpet-call was blown. And sterner grew each stately brow As that war-blast pass'd by, And redder grew each warrior cheek, Brighter each warrior eye. But other cheeks grew pale to hear, And other eyes grew dim ; Woman shares not man's battle joy— That joy is all for him. The same blast lights the glance of flame, Darkens the martial frown ; At which a woman's rose-lip fades,— At which her heart sinks down. THE warrior. 257 Proudly that trumpet sweeps thy hills, Land of the sword and shrine, It calls the soldier of the cross To fight for Palestine. It roused one tent, which stood apart Within the barrier made By many a green and creeping shrub And one tall palm-tree's shade. It roused a warrior and his bride— His bride ! What doth she there ? Oh, rather ask, when led by love, What will not woman dare ? Said I, her timid nature was Like her cheek's timid hue ; But fearful though that nature be, She hath her courage too. Go ask the fever couch, the cell Of guilt; she hath no part In courage of the head and hand, She hath that of the heart. 33 258 death's doings. 'Tis this has brought that gentle one From her fair Provence bower, Where in her husband's halls she dwelt, Nurs'd like a lovely flower. That trumpet-call, it roused them both From a sweet dream of home, Roused him to hopes that with such sound To gallant spirits come. And she,—at least she hid the fears That clouded her fair brow — Her prayers had guarded him in fight, Might they not guard him now ? She armed him, though her trembling hand Shook like a leaf the while ;— The battle had his onward glance, But she his lingering smile. She brought the blue and broidered scarf, Her colours for his breast; But what dark dreary shape has brought His helm and plumed crest ? the warrior. 259 Fell shade ! they see, they heed thee not, Thou of the noiseless wing, The viewless shaft, the sudden call— O Death, here is thy sting. The lips would close in pious hope, The eyes in willing sleep, But for the tears, the bitter tears, That love is left to weep. 'Tis evening—and the blood-red west Has not so deep a red, As hath that slaughter-field where lie The dying and the dead. 'Tis midnight—and the clang of steel, The human shout and cry, Are silent as if sleep and peace Were upon earth and sky. The strife is past like other storms, Soldier and chief are gone, Yet lightly falls a woman's step— What doth she there alone ? 260 death's doings. 'Tis she ! the Provence Rose; oh, well Such name beseems her now, The pale and stony dead around Wear not more ghastly brow. Woe for her search—too soon she finds Her valiant knight laid low ; Thou fatal helm, thou has betrayed His head to the life-blow. One blasting gaze—one loud wild shriek,— She sinks upon his breast: O Death! thou hast been merciful,— For both, both are at rest. L. E. L. 261 THE WARRIOR'S FAREWELL. I. The Warrior's soul is kindling now With wildly-blending fires, He fondly breathes each raptured vow That faithful love inspires; But not those whispered words alone Arrest the Maiden's ear, A prouder strain—a loftier tone, Awakes the throb of fear ! II. They hear the war-notes on the gale, Before the tent they stand, His form is clad in glittering mail, The sword is in his hand; Her scraf around his arm is twined, For love's remembering spell. Ah ! would that kindred skill could bind The links of life as well! 262 death's doings. III. The battle-steed is waiting nigh, Nor brooks his lord's delay; And eager troops are trampling by, And wave their banners gay. Nor boding dream, nor bitter care, In that proud host are found, While echoing through the startled air The cheerful trumpets sound. IV. The Maid, with mingled pride and grief, Faint hopes, and withering fears, Still gazes on the gallant Chief Through dim impassioned tears. He sees but Victory's golden wreath, And love's unfading flame, Nor thinks how soon the form of Death May cross the path of fame! V. " A last farewell—a last embrace, And now for glory's plain /" Those parting accents left a trace Of phrensy on her brain. THE WARRIOR'S FAREWELL. 263 And when the Warrior's helm was brought To crown his forehead fair, Alas ! the shuddering Maiden thought 'Twas Death that placed it there! D. L. R. 264 THE VOLUNTEER. The clashing of my armour in my ears, Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe To dig my grave." The Lover's Progress. 'Twas in that memorable year France threaten'd to put off in Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each To be a British coffin,— To make sad widows of our wives And every babe an orphan. When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, And heads were dredg'd with flour,— I listed in the Tailors' Corps Against the battle hour; A perfect Volunteer,—for why ? I brought my " will and pow'r." THE VOLUNTEER. One dreary day—a day of dread, Like Cato's—overcast,— About the hour of six, (the morn And I were breaking fast),— There came a loud and sudden sound That struck me all aghast! A dismal sort of morning roll That was not to be eaten ; Although it was no skin of mine But parchment that was beaten, I felt tattooed through all my flesh Like any Otaheitan. My jaws with utter dread enclos'd The morsel I was munching, And terror lock'd them up so tight, My very teeth went crunching All through my bread and tongue at once, Like sandwich made at lunching. My hand that held the teapot fast, Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er The cup in one long eddy, Till both my hose were mark'd with tea As they were mark'd already. 34 266 death's doings. I felt my visage turn from red To white—from cold to hot, But it was nothing wonderful My colour changed I wot, For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot. And looking forth with anxious eye From my snug upper story, I saw our melancholy corps Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seem'd very loth To axe the way to glory. The captain march'd as mourners march, The ensign too seem'd lagging, And many more, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging; Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging. But while I watch'd, the thought of Death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men That soon might be March dust. THE VOLUNTEER. 267 Quoth I, " Since Fate ordains it so, Our coast the foe must land on ;"— I felt warm beside the fire I cared not to abandon ; And homes and hearths are always things That patriots make a stand on. " The fools that fight abroad for home," Thought I, " may get a wrong one ; Let those that have no homes at all Go battle for a long one." The mirror here confirmed me this Reflection by a strong one. For there, where I was wont to shave And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his cronies, No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies. A horrid sight it was, and sad, To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery, And then begin to clap My helmet on—Ah, me! it felt Like any felon's cap ! 268 death's doings. My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest; My epaulettes like coffin plates ; My belt so heavy press'd, Four pipeclay cross-roads seemed to lie At once upon my breast. My brazen breastplate only lack'd A little heap of salt To make me like a corpse full dress'd, Preparing for the vault, To set up what the Poets calls My everlasting halt. This funeral show inclin'd me quite To peace :—and here I am! Whilst better Lions go to war, Enjoying with the Lamb A lengthen'd life, that might have been A Martial epigram. T. H. 269 THE RIVAL DEATHS. A BATTLE SCENE. It was at Agincourt! and proudly waved The gory bannerols ; and falchions fell, From either host, right greedily; while groans And imprecations deep, foul oaths and prayers The clangour swell'd!—Thus Goldsmith's page de- clares. But, spite of things unseemly; spite of legs, From hip-bones torn, of arms where legs should be, Quick-sighted wights, that love of laughter plagues, 'Mong bloody trunks, will cause for grinning see. In front of Henry's knights a warrior stood, Perfum'd and whisk'rified, with val'rous ribands strew'd, For ribands gave (my chronicler doth hold) A wondrous sight of soul to men of old : They fought for silken knots and ladies' eyes; For broken limbs we seek another prize ; 270 death's doings. And though so many boast of glorious scars, For trophies such, alone, few covet wars. Our Gallic Baron was of high descent: To Clovis traced ; his blood still farther went; For Pharamond, he oft persisted in, Was " ligne ignoble" and " moderne origine." De sa mere* not a word, save Pistol's jest, Or Falstaft's broader hint, that told the rest. Talbot swore loud; his blade stern Bedford drew; The warrior bow'd, and thus: " ecouiez tous /f Mon Isabelle, I declare, Is de fairest of de fair! Qui me dedit, quHl avance! Vive Isabelle et la FRANCE !"t He scarce, thrice bowing, this great nasal spoke, When angry Warwick's mace his nasum^ broke: In scented rills now ran the purple tide, And scarf alike and precious ribands dyed. * Poor girl! to be mated, so hasty was she, She forgot there were banns, and a pastor, and fee. fList, all of you! \ Who says nay: behold my lance ! Praise my love, and honour FRANCE ! § His nose. THE RIVAL deaths. 271 One soothing thought, at least, his mistress calmed— Long ere the baron fell, he was embalmed. To the grave now consign'd with the gifts of his queen, O'er the warrior's remains a contention arose; And the combatants both were the strangest of foes, Sith neither had flesh or an eye to be seen.* The first, in the kingdom of Albion held sway, And his pow'r not a monarch on earth could control; The next through the regions of Gaul took his prowl, And claw'd up all mortals that came in his way. ALBION. " He is mine, by the laws of my land, I protest, For I claim'd the fair mould in the which he was cast, Beyond a full score of long years that are past, When the baron, his sire, in Britain was blest." GAUL. " And he's mine, by the bones of a trillion of dead! Mort ou vif Jest a mot que le drole appartient.f * The rival Deaths: Albion and Gaul. f Full of life and of musk, or of maggots, he's Mine! 272 death's doings. Will you steal from a parent the child it has bred? C'est du pere, et tout seul, qu'un garcon nous pro- vient .'"* ALBION. » From the mother he springs!" GAUL. » Point du tout, c'est du pere .'"t ALBION. « Take thy bones to thy care ; Else, thou leanest of things, I shall break them, I swear!" GAUL. " De mes os, beau Luron, Jeferai mon affaire; II mefaut le baron, Quelqu' en soit le salaire !"X * To the fathers the boys all your sages assign. f " From the father the heir!" \ 'Bout my bones, my jolly buck, Are ye sure of your good luck ? But the body I shall take, Even were my bones at stake! THE RIVAL DEATHS. 273 Then, prattling and battling, the rattling grew loud; Your Briton with cuffs and your Galic with kicks ; 0 ! never were wrestlers so rich in fine tricks, As these quarrelsome Deaths for a chap in a shroud! Alas! what dreadful woes from trifles spring! For oris, a dog is wroth;—for less, a king. There's death in nods, and death in tennis-balls ;* Let but a mistressf pout, yon nation falls. On couch of sable down, great Pluto napp'd; Black sheets of spiders' web the god enwrapp'd; And bats and owls about his temples flapp'd, To keep him cool: no barking at the porch; No light from furnace blaze, or Gorgon torch; The Cyclops stood asleep with hammers up, And Vulcan, stretch'd, had quafTd his nectar cup, When in the champions rush'd. Oh, plaguy hap! How hard so soon to break such kindly nap! " Swiftly, bid Minos to the council speed!" The monarch cried. " Let all our victims bleed ; Whirl, whirl your racks and spits; your caldrons fill; Give Albion flesh; bring blood for Gaul to swill: * Tennis-balls were sent by the Dauphin of France to Henry V. of England, to mock him as a child unfit for Avar. t Madame de Maintenon often altered the resolutions of Louis XIV. 35 274 DEATH'S DOINGS. No friends have we, By land or sea, So zealous, sure, with sword and ball to slay, As England, first, no doubt! and France the gay." AUX DAMES. Now, my gentlest of readers, to you let me state What became of the baron's poor carcass at last; Not a word shall escape on the quibbles that pass'd, So well it is known you detest a debate. His brains, to be short, in sweet lavender boil'd, Where decreed as pomatum for Proserpine's hair; His soul, it was prov'd an immortal affair, Then left on red coals for its sins to be broil'd. To carnivorous Britain, the judges declar'd, Should all but the bones of the warrior be given; Tho' for smell had he never from England been driven, None with Gaul to contest for the morsel had dar'd. But touching the ribands there seem'd much ado, As though 'twas a case so perplexing to settle;— Should not satin for shackles outvalue rough metal, To fetter, Fair Readers, such sinners as you? M. de L. V. THE (£ILllTTT(Q)ITo 275 THE APOPLECTIC. A TALE. This metaphor each rustic knows,— Frail man is like the flower that blows At morn : before the beam of day, In air the dew-drop melts away, The evanescent blossom fades ; And, long before the mellow shades Of even cover tower and tree, And all the varied scenery Like a pale shroud, it withering lies Before the mower's scythe and dies. Death is the mower ; and who can Deny his mastery o'er man ? Fond man! who eyes the coming hour As if already in his power, O'erlooking all that lies between The foreground and the distant scene; Or, drawing large from Fancy's store, Bids fairy landscapes spread before 276 death's doings. His raptured gaze, till he believe All real, and himself deceive. Too late, he finds the dazzling gleam Reflects nor lake, nor glittering stream; The mead, the forest, flowery glade, The rocky dell the dark cascade, The gelid fount, the mystic grot, And all on that romantic spot And rich imaginative scene Vanished as though they ne'er had been. Tom Dewlap thought time made for him, So used it to indulge his whim; And, equally, believing all The good on this terrestrial ball Created for his soul delight, Lived but to please his appetite. His sire, (Tom was an only son), Had Fortune's choicest favours won; A careful citizen, who knew Man may with toil all things subdue; That pence grow shillings, and these rise To pounds in purses of the wise : A man, who thought the world was made But as materials for trade. He fell, as other mortals fall, And Tom became the heir of all THE apoplectic. 277 His cash, his lands, his bonds, his stock, Which greatly weakened the shock To the heir's nerves; and the old man Had measur'd out his mortal span. As the pent torrent sleeps in rest, Reflecting from its lucid breast, Scarce rippled by the sighing breeze, The sky, the clouds, rocks, banks, and trees; But, in a moment, burst the mound, It rolls in thunder o'er the ground ; In circling eddies boils afar, Involving in the wat'ry war Fields, gardens, cottages; till, wide Spreading a lake from side to side, It sinks, exhales, or scarcely fills The scanty channels of some rills: To wealth, like water, bursts the cords That bind it in the miser's hoards ; And, though beneath his Argus' eye, The counted ingots safely lie, Yet, spite of all his sleepless care, They will be scatter'd by his heir. Tom knew this fact, and thought it just That wealth should circulate, and must: 278 death's doings. The only truth, at Brazen-nose, Which in his mem'ry would repose ; And, now, like philosophic wight, He proved it practically right, For this, he hired cooks, who knew Not the old-fashioned roast and stew; But how to concentrate a leg Of beef in compass of an egg ; The essence from a ham express; Display a turbot in full dress; Make perigot and lobster-pie, And tickle oysters till they cry, With the excess of ecstasy, " Come eat me! eat me ! or I die." Such were Tom's cooks; his table owned Their excellence, and deeply groaned With their productions, formed to make The dullest appetite awake. Philosophers may boast of mind; Wits of the wreaths by Fancy twined; Churchmen discourse of Paradise Prospective for the good and wise ; Heroes of Fame, kings of their power,— Enough for Tom that blissful hour, When steaming viands graced the board That owned him as its bounteous lord. THE apoplectic. 279 Death, like a cormorant, stood by, Watching these doings silently : Smiled forth a smile of grim delight, Like lightning flash at dead of night, And, cogitating on the way That should secure Tom as his prey, Resolved the masquerader's art To try, and chose a waiter's part. He something of the craft had seen At civic festivals, I ween; And, like his friends assembled there, Death thinks of business ev'ry where. Besides, he had improved his skill In varying the modes to kill; Studied attentively the books Of Kitchener and other cooks; And found the contents of a cruet As well as sword or pill would do it. Of pill he knew the power, for he Had dwelt with an apothecary, And, often, been within the walls Of many famous hospitals. He could a nervous fibril prick To sap life's citadel with tick ; Rupture a vessel in the brain The apoplectical to gain ; 280 death's doings. And cherish the bright crimson streak That paints the hectic maiden's cheek, Like the wild rose-bud's vermil bloom Warming the marble of the tomb. With these acquirements Death stood by, And watch'd Tom's doings eagerly. 'Twas near the close of a bright day, In infancy of lovely May, Tom sat, half dozing, in his chair, Alike devoid of thought and care ; Dreaming of what he had designed, A dinner suited to his mind, A cod's head dressed as head should be, Chef-d'ouvre of good cookery. He, too, expected, as his guest, A friend of kindred soul and taste, A man exact.—Tom eyed the door ;— He gave two minutes and no more: His watch proclaimed the moment gone, His maxim was to wait for none : The bell the summons spoke; were placed The chairs, the head the table graced Swallowed a dinner-pill, and in The napkin tuck'd beneath the chin, Tom look'd as joyous and elate As monarch in the pride of state. THE APOPLECTIC. But had he seen, through his disguise, The spectre form of Death arise; The naked skull, the sockets void, The lipless mouth from side to side, The hollow ribs, the fleshless legs, Tom, spite of his poor gouty pegs, Had fled; and left, for once at least, The much-anticipated feast. Nor saw, nor thought he danger nigh. Death ranged the sauces in his eye ; Extolling this,—none could that match, Burgess, nor Harvey, nor Corrach. Tom knew the whole, but smiled to find His man such skill and taste combin'd ; Then picked, with practised hand, each bit His palate critical to hit; Mingled the sauce; and then—ah ! then, Sad destiny of mortal men, Whose hopes, while yet they blossom, die ; Whose joys like rainbow colours fly; Whose expectations, still, appear Like shadows of things coming near Which ne'er arrive, an airy train Pictured by Fancy on the brain.— Ah ! then—what means that vacant stare ? Why sinks Tom backwards in his chair ? 36 282 death's doings. Why start his eyeballs from his head ? His face with purple is o'erspread That snorting sound! is he asleep. Those gurgles in his bosom deep; That sob convulsive; that long pause ; That deep-fetched breath, the last he draws, And those contortions, all declare A deed of Death is doing there. A.T. T 283 THE COMPLAINT OF THE STOMACH. I fear, said the Stomach, addressing the Brain, That my efforts to serve you will soon be in vain; For such is the weight you compel me to bear, And such are the labours that fall to my share, That, unless in your wisdom you lighten the load, My strength must soon fail,—I shall drop on the road. ****** Then the cargo of viands in flesh, fowl, and fish, Which serve as a whet to some favourite dish, With the compound of peppers and sauces to aid, Or rather to force on the market a trade— Are really too much for my delicate frame ; And to burden me thus is an absolute shame. But I do not complain, altho' hard is my case, As many would do, were they put in my place, Nor am I so senseless as not to perceive, That some other members have reason to grieve ; 284 death's doings. There's your legs and your feet, that once bore you about, Are now useless as logs, with the dropsy or gout; And your hands are so feeble, you scarcely can pass To your neighbour the bottle, or fill him a glass.— And further the Stomach had gone on to state, When the Tongue,'tis imagined, took up the debate. " Did you speak to the Brain ?" said a low piping voice; (It was just before dinner), I much should rejoice To find such a being you wot of, my friend, But he and his measures have long had an end ; A nondescript substance now fills up the space In that once intellectual thought-breeding place. By some 't'as been thought that your chymical skill (Which now, it is known, has the power to kill), And your fumes have destroyed all the power of thinking, So that no sense remains but of eating and drinking. What is said in the Bible has long been forgot, Of the passage which told, there was ' Death in the pot.'— But the sauce is preparing to season the fish; When too late 'twill be found, there is Death in the dish." *£^§*^v&£: THE H (TlYTTi, R:~5 * 285 DEATH AND THE HUNTER. Her beams all rosy the morning flings O'er valley and hill, where music rings,— But 'tis not the sky-bird's song so sweet, Nor the wood-thrush that cheers the fawn's retreat; It is not the nightingale's tuneful spell That swells the wild depths of the forest along, For she to our isle hath bid farewell, And sung to the groves her parting song— Shed their last blossoms the weeping shapes, When through the forest's lone arcades, Sighed the last echo of her lay, As to fairer climes she winged her way, Where brighter moons and richer flowers Illume and deck her gorgeous bowers. And now,—no thrilling midnight song Is heard the desolate woods among, Save the voice of the ruffian winds that rove With lawless force abroad, and rend The rich-tinted wreaths from bower and grove, That beneath their gusty tyranny bend ; 286 death's doings. While as in their might and their wrath they roam, They fright the dove from her ravaged home. And now,—no harmony by day Is heard, save the redbreast's pensive lay; His warbled dirge-notes o'er the grave Where summer, wrapped in rose-leaf shroud, Sleeps while the wintery tempests rave, Till the sun in splendour waxes proud, And to life the spell-bound goddess wakes, Who, as onward, rejoicing, her path she takes, Pomp, beauty, and odours, and riches showers, Turning our clime into Eden's bowers! What music floats then on the early gale Down Autumn's long-withdrawing vale ? It is the shrill and mellow horn That wakes the echoes of the morn, And with it come the hunter's yell, And death-cry in harmonious swell, Of the dew-snuffing hounds from far, With all the rout of sylvan war. Heart-buoyant as the amber-coloured cloudlet rent By the wanton winds 'mid the firmament; With cheek of the morn, and joy-lighted eye That rivals the tint of the sunny sky : DEATH AND THE HUNTER. 287 And merry as the lark that floats embowered In that cloudlet, with gold so splendidly showered, The gay youthful hunter backs his steed And urges him with headlong speed O'er moorland, heath, wilds mountainous, Nor fears down rugged steeps to rush, The antlered king of the shades to chase, Whose swiftness long maintains the race. Hark, the fierce halloo through the forest resounds! As full in sight the wild stag bounds; Then darts away, like a beam of light, While the hunters pursue like a thunder-cloud of night! Caps high are waved to cheer the glad rout, While the valleys re-echo with their hoarse savage shout. But here is one of that motley crew On a shadowy steed of ghastly hue, 'Tis Death on his pale horse who follows the throng, But joins not the laugh, the shout, or the song. Ha! who lies there with blood-streaming wound ? The young hunter his courser hath dashed to the ground! With that sad groan fled his last breath— Thy human game is won, O Death ! 288 death's doings. On, on his gay companions speed, They heard not his fall, they saw not his steed Beside his master groaning lie, Lingering out life in agony! Rose cloudless the hunter's moon that night, As the horse and his rider together lay ; On the blood-stained stones fell her pale light, That trembled at the crimson hue, Now blended with the evening dew, While paler than that pale moon-ray The hunter youth at morn so gay, Stretched his cold limbs, forgetful quite Of the merry chase and the banquet night! Silence reigned round that lonely place, Far, far away were the sons of the chase; Amid the hall in noisy glee At feast and tipsy revelry. Far, far away was the maid of truth, Who fondly loved that hunter youth; She gazed on the radiant star of night, She thought on her lover, and chid his stay, She watched the clouds in their lofty flight As they crossed the moon in dim array; Then sadly told the lingering hour, As the clock struck slow from the village tower! DEATH AND THE HUNTER. 289 Ah! little did she think that moon, To the night-wearied pilgrim so rich a boon— On the gore-clotted locks of her lover were flinging Its pitying beam, as cold he lay, With death-glazed eye by his " gallant gray," While round him the shadowy woods were ringing With the dirge of the screech-owl, whose frightful tones Where mingled with the dying courser's groans! 37 290 THE FATAL GATE. Stay—stay—young Nimrod! reign thy steed, For there is one who mocks thy speed; I see him on thy path obtrude;— Pursuer! thou hast been pursued. Expert thou art, and strong thy horse, But what avails or skill or force ? That hoof of horn is cased in steel— An arrow pierced Achilles' heel. Then pause awhile, the peril shun, Tempt not yon bar—Fate lurks beneath; Infatuate fool!—the deed is done; That gate hath proved the gate of Death. H. D. 291 THE HUNTER'S LEAP. Tom Headlong was a lover of the chase— We want a stronger name than that of lover— His day was but a long-continued race, The only plan Tom had to get time over, Who thought Life's movements nothing had to boast, Unless its rate was that of going post. His conversation had no other course Than that presented to his simple view; Of what concerned his saddle, groom, or horse, Beyond this theme he little cared or knew: Tell him of beauty, and harmonious sounds, He'd show his mare, and talk about his hounds. Oh, fam'd Pythagoras! would but thy plan Of transmigration find belief in many, 'Twould check at least some cruelty in man, To think he must become the brute, if any Had suffered from him in its worldly station, For then he'd fear a just retaliation. 292 death's doings. But this, you'll say, is nothing but digression- Contrivance to prolong a simple tale— Or else to make a figure in expression, A sort of make-weight if your story fail,— So, to be brief, we'll use no more delay, But put the mighty Hunter on his way. The gallant bay that Headlong mounted, then, Would something have to urge in its defence, If in its course of speed it fail'd, and when It barely cleared the mound, the dyke, the fence, That in its hoof a nail was pressing sore, And damped its ardour, though it could no more. But now the scent is gaining on the wind, The sounds of sylvan war are on the ear; The generous courser, never left behind, Springs to the cry,—his rivals in the rear Follow, but where his onward pace is bent, As if to yield the palm they gave consent. Awhile the efforts of the generous steed (Cheer'd by the hounds and hunter's loud halloo), Sustained the conflict with his wonted speed,— And now the distant game is in his view ; But here a check, a momentary pause ; And for the leap, the hunter bridle draws. THE HUNTER'S LEAP. 293 Nor slack the gallant bay—his chest he bears In act to spring, when now the topmost bar Strikes the pain'd hoof—and vainly now he rears— His efforts fail,—he falls—and distant far The prostrate rider feels (with parting breath And shortened sobs) the icy hand of Death. The merry sportsmen pass him by, And deem some stunning blow Has laid him,—so they let him lie, While on they cheering go. But none take warning by his fate, Though Death upon the leap should wait. Simon Surefoot. 294 CHILDE THE HUNTER. (By the Author of " Dartmoor.") Few roam the heath, e'en when the sun The golden sun is high ; And the leaping, laughing streams are bright, And the lark is in the sky. But when upon the ancient hills Descends the giant cloud, And the lightning leaps from Tor to Tor, And the thunder-peal is loud :— Heaven aid that hapless traveller then Who o'er the wild may stray, For bitter is the moorland storm, And man is far away. Yet blithe the highland hunter leaves His cot at early morn, And on the ear of Winter pours The music of his horn:— childe the hunter. 295 The eye of highland hunter sees No terrors in the cloud; His heart quakes not at the lightning flash Nor the thunder long and loud ! Yet oft the shudd'ring peasant tells Of him in days of yore, Who in the sudden snow-storm fell— The Nimrod of the moor! And when the Christmas tale goes round By many a peat fireside, The children list, and shrink to hear How Childe of Plymstoke died. The lord of manors fair and broad,— Of gentle blood was he,— Who loved full well the mountain chase And mountain liberty. Slow broke the cheerless morn—the cloud Wreathed every moorland hill; And the thousand brooks that cheer'd the heath In sunny hours, were still. 296 death's doings. For Winter's wizard spell had check'd Their all-rejoicing haste; And flung a fearful silence o'er The solitary waste. When Childe resolved with hound and horn, To range the forest wide ; And seek the noble red-deer where The Plym's dark waters glide. Of sportsmen brave, who hunted then The leader bold was he, And full in the teeth of the dread north wind He led that company. They rous'd the red-deer from his lair, Where those dark waters glide ;— And swifter than the gale he fled Across the forest wide. With cheer and with shout, the jovial rout The old Tor hurried by ; And they startled the morn, with the merry horn And the stanch hound's echoing cry. childe the hunter. 297 The moorland eagle left his cliff— The hawk soar'd far away— And with that shout and cheer they scar'd The raven from his prey. They followed through the rock-strew'd glen;— They plung'd through the river's bed ;— And scal'd the hill-top where the Tor Uplifts his hoary head. That gallant deer with an arrow's speed Launch'd by an archer strong, O'er hill and plain—through brake and fen Bore still his course along. Now through the flashing stream he darts, The wave aside he flings;— Now o'er the cataract's bright arch With fearless leap he springs! And many a chasm yawning wide With a desperate bound he clears ;— Anon like a shadow he glances by The rock of six thousand years ! 38 298 death's doings. But now swift sailing on the wind The bursting cloud drew near; And there were sounds upon the gale, Might fill the heart with fear ! And one by one, as fast the clouds The face of heav'n deform, Desert the chase and wildly shun The onset of the storm. And some there were, who deem'd they heard Strange voices in the blast;— And some—that on the shudd'ring view, A form mysterious pass'd;— Who rode a shadowy courser, that A mortal steed might seem ;— But left no hoof-mark on the ground, No foam upon the stream! 'Twas fancy all;—yet from his side, The jovial crew are gone ; And Childe across the desert heath Pursues his way—alone. childe the hunter. 299 He threaded many a mazy bog,— He dashed through many a stream ;— But lost—bewilder'd—check'd his steed, At evening's latest gleam. For far and wide the highland lay One pathless waste of snow, He paus'd—the angry heav'n above, The faithless bog below. He paus'd!—and soon through all his veins Life's current feebly ran ; And—heavily—a mortal sleep Crept o'er the dying man:— The dying man—yet Love of Life In this his hour of need, Uprais'd the master's hand to spill, The heart-blood of his steed! And on th' ensanguin'd snow that steed Hath stretched his noble form ; A shelter from the biting blast— A bulwark to the storm:—> 300 death's doings. In vain—for swift the bleak wind pil'd The snow-drift round the corse; And Death, his victim struck within The disembowell'd horse. Yet one dear wish—one tender thought Came o'er that hunter brave ;— To sleep at last in hallow'd ground, And find a Christian grave— And ere he breath'd his latest sigh, And day's last gleam was spent, He with unfaltering finger wrote His bloody * testament. *iHf)t (feme tfiat fgnties an* fiting* tnc tonrg grata Ctie lanoss of J|?v»;misto&e f>e glial &aUe. A tradition has existed in the Moor, and is noticed by several au- thors, that John Childe, of Plymstock, a gentleman of large posses- sions, and a great hunter, whilst enjoying that amusement during an inclement season, was benighted, lost his way, and perished through cold, near Fox Tor, in the south quarter of the forest; after taking the precaution to kill his horse, and, for the sake of warmth, to creep into its bowels, leavinga paper denoting that whoever should bury his body should have his lands at Plymstock. Childe had previously declared his intention to bestow his lands on the church wherein he might be buried, and these circumstances com- childe the hunter. 301 ing to the knowledge of the monks of Tavistock, they eagerly seized the body and were conveying it to that place; but learning, on the way, that some people of Plymstock were waiting at a ford to intercept the prey, they cunningly ordered a bridge to be built out of the usual track, thence pertinently called Guile Bridge, and, succeeding in their object, became possessed of, and enjoyed the lands until the dissolution, when the Russel family received a grant of them, and it still retains them. In memory of Childe a tomb was erected to him in a plain a little below Fox Tor, which was standing about fifteen years since, when Mr. Windeatt, having received a new take or allotment, in which the tomb was included, nearly destroyed it, by appropriating some of the stones for building and door steps! (Its form is correctly preserved in one of the vignettes belonging to the poem Dartmoor). The whole, when perfect, wore an antique and impressive appearance. The author of this note found the socket and groove for the cross, and part of the cross itself, during an excursion in the south quarter of the moor, in the summer of 1824 The socket had been sunk into the ground by some friendly hand, and the remains of the cross placed in it; but as it was near the road side leading from Cadaford Bridge to Ivy Bridge, he took the cross out, and placed it by the side of the groove, to prevent the too probable mischief which its prominent situa- tion might occasion to it from any Visigoth who might be disposed still further to injure the venerable remains. N. t. c. 302 THE ALCHYMIST. Toiling from eve to morn, and morn to eve, Himself deceiving—others to deceive, Behold the Alchymist! On dreams intent, The better portion of his life is spent; Though disappointed ever,—still the same, He calmly lays on accident, the blame; Nor palsied form, pale face, and sunken eye, Can to his firm opinions give the lie. Existence wanes amid these dreary sports, His only friends are crucibles, retorts; Jealous of fame—yet certain to excel, He labours lonely in his secret cell; What shadowy form doth now his bellows ply, And smiles a ghastly smile on Alchymy ! 'Tis Death!—th' elixir's spilt—and lost the prize, And in the folly of his life he dies. J. J. L. THE ALCTJYMIST. 303 CONTENTMENT, THE TRUE ALCHYMY OF LIFE. Ages roll on ; but man, unchanging still, O'er Mammon's furnace bends with ceaseless care Fans it with sighs, and seeks, with subtlest skill, The mystic stone;—yet never finds it there. What if possest ?—its price is faded health ; Death comes at last, and speaks these words of Fate :— " If all were gold, then gold no more were wealth!" Too fatal truth !—and learnt, alas ! too late. Contentment! angel of the placid brow! Thine is the bright and never-fading gem— The stone of true philosophy, which thou Hast placed beyond the regal diadem. 304 death's doings. Sweet Alchymist! for thee how few will spurn Wealth's glittering chains, though happier far to hold That hallowed talisman whose touch can turn Life's seeming ills to more than Fortune's gold. Thine is the Eldorado of the heart: The halcyon clime of cloudless peace is thine: Angel! to me that sacred gift impart, And let me ever worship at thy shrine. H. D. 305 ALCHYMY. "To solemnize this day, the glorious Sun Stays in his course, and plays the Alchymist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glitt'ring gold." Shakspeare. " [An explosion within.] " Subtle.—God, and all Saints, be good to us! What's that ? Face.—O, Sir, we are defeated! All the works Are flown infumo: ev'ry glass is burst— Furnace and all, rent down !—As if a bolt Had thunder'd thro' the house. Retorts, receivers, pellicans, bolt-heads, All struck in shivers! [Subtle falls down.] Help, good Sir! Alas, Coldness and Death invade him !" Ben Jonson's Alchymist. Alchymy, the pretended art of prolonging life by a panacea, of transmuting the baser metals into gold, and other wonders, affects also the highest an- tiquity ; it is however probably the fruit of igno- rance, grafted upon the remains of ancient chymistry 39 306 death's doings. about the time of the revival of learning in Europe. Its evil was in giving birth to some of those bubbles by which knavery is ever preying upon folly and avidity: its good has been the fortuitous discove- ries to which we owe the progress of medicine, chy- mistry, and the arts—a Lavoisier, a Cavendish, and a Davy! If still there is any one who aims at the alkahest, universal solvent, or elixir of life,—if he would ob- tain the philosopher's stone which transmutes the metals, or if he would discover the elements of mat- ter, let him not apply to Sir Humphrey for his elec- tro-chymical apparatus which severed the alkalis,— nor seek, with safety in the midst of danger, the ex- plosive mines of the earth by the light of his Davy, —nor tempt the ocean in search of these wonders sheathed and shielded by his Protectors:—let him not trouble himself with the salt, sulphur, and mer- cury of the Adepti* Above all, let him not seek the aid of Aureolus Philippus Paracelsus Theo- phrastus Bombastus de Hoenheim,\ for they will all * The Alchymists have a tradition, that there are always twelve Adepti, or possessors of the philosopher's stone, panacea, &c.; and that, as frequently as they are exploded by Death, their places are supplied by new Adepts. f Paracelsus boasted of being able, by his elixir proprietatis, to pro- ALCHYMY. 307 equally fail him; while there is one so rich and knowing in hermetic art, that the elements, the philosopher's stone, and the alkahest, are all at his finger's ends,—one (the sole hope of the alchymist) who can analyze all, transmute all, and dissolve all! —The greatest of chymists!—the Davy of Davys ! OLD DAVY!! Accordingly, in the design before us, the artist has introduced the Alchymist at his furnace, anxiously watching his crucible, while the elixir of life is run- ning out, and Death, unperceived, is blowing the coals, holding in his hand the powder of projection which is about to consummate by an explosion the deluded Alchymist and his vain endeavours. long the life of Man to the age of Methusalah,—nor is this wonderful in one who declared he held conversation with Galen and Avicenna at the gates of Hell, and obtained secrets in physic from the Devil him- self.—Nevertheless, Death, envious of his power, overturned his elixir, and took him off in revenge, at a little more than 40 years of age, that he might not depopulate by his art the grim empire of the King of Terrors. His followers believe, however, " that he is not dead, but still lives in his tomb, whither he retired," (like Johanna Southcot, and like her too,) "weary of the vices and follies of mankind!" Notwithstanding all the extravagances of Paracelsus the world is indebted to him for many useful discoveries; and it is still a question whether himself or Carpue, a name again to be associated with a Harvey, an Abernethy, and a Hunter, first introduced mercury into medicine. 308 death's doings. But who, let us seriously inquire, and what, is this all-potent Alchymist, Death ? " Death is Life, and Life is Death," said Euri- pides ; and so said Plato, and so said the Eastern Sages. If then Death be Life, as the wise and vir- tuous of all ages have believed, the question recurs, what is Life ? Life, says the Beauty, is admiration and gay at- tire ;—it is dice and dash, says the Spendthrift;—it is gain, says the Merchant and the Miser; it is power, says the Prince. Yet the Alchymist looks for it in an elixir. But Death dethrones the Prince —breaks the Merchant and Miser—out-dashes the Spendthrift and the Belle, and spills the elixir of Life. Life is action, says the Cricketer;—it is a feast, says the Glutton;—it is a bubble says the Philoso- pher : but Death bursts the Philosopher's bubble, gormandizestheGlutton, and bowls out the Cricketer. It is fees, says the Physician;—it is judgment and execution, says the Judge ;—it is all vanity, says the Parson : but Death humbles the Parson's vanity, ALCHYMY. 309 executes the Judge and his judgments, and takes fee of the Physician and his Patients too! Thou art then a very Proteus, Death, at once a Miser, a Merchant, and a Prince,—thou art a Game, a Glutton, and a Bubble,—thou art Justice to the in- jured, a Physician to the sick, and a humbler of Va- nity,—thou art Master of the Ceremonies of Life, sporting with it in every form, and we have sported with thee ! Thus, view them however we may, Life and Death are endless paradoxes ; the love of the one, and the fear of the other, are unquestionably imprinted in our nature for wise purposes—they gain and lose strength,—they rise and fall—and in all their move- ments they dance together. That these passions, however useful and neces- sary, relatively to our natural state, are equally vain and fallacious in an absolute and moral sense, has long been admitted by the philosopher: and that they may be so to common sense, we have only to consider that it is as natural to die as to be born— that Death and Life are merely figurative of the two general relations, being and cessation ; and that 310 death's doings. Death, in particular, the grim King of Terrors, is only a personification—the Pluto of the Poets—an animated skeleton, or anatomie vivante of the ima- gination ; so that, as we cannot paint white without black, we cannot represent Death without Life. If however these passions are ever so vain and il- lusive, their effects are no less actual and certain, and of difficult mastery : it eminently deserves our concern, therefore, that we should so cultivate and control them, that we may continue life with enjoy- ment, and quit it without regret; and since it is a fact, that man loves and desires only good, and fears only ill,—so long as life is a good he loves it, and when it becomes an evil he loathes it. The sum of our aim then is, that as evil is but the consequence of ill action, and we dread not Death nor desire Life for themselves, we have only to act well, that we may live without fear, and die without despair. These impressions are accordingly strongest in early life, and, when our course is right, they appear to decline as we advance, and to become ultimately feeble and extinct; so that by degrees, beautifully suited to a virtuous progress, Heaven disengages us altogether from the love of Life and the fear of Death. ALCHYMY. 311 Having disposed of the great Transmuter and his elder children, let us turn our eye, ere we close, to the more recent offspring of the Plutonic family, many of whom are no less worthy of celebrity than their elder brethren, and of whom, particularly de- serving of record, are Goldman, formerly of the King's Mews,—Peter Woulfe, of Barnard's Inn, and the renowned Sigismund Bcestrom, (with whose pre- fixes and affixes we are not acquainted, but) whose father was (as he averred) physician to Frederic the Great. There are yet living those who mourn the memory of Bsestrom, who, alas! having consumed all the gold he could lay his hands on in search of the philosopher's stone,—finished his projection a debtor in the King's Bench. As to------------, he consumed his coals at an apartment in the Mews, which he enjoyed through royal bounty, and where, deeply engaged one night amid his retorts and athanors by the glim- mer of a small lamp, a luckless wight of a chimney- sweeper, or as some say a stoaker, crept in unper- ceived, and peeped over the old man's shoulder, who, happening to turn round, and seeing, as he imagined, the Devil at his elbow, became so alarmed, that he never recovered the shock, but died—and with him, perhaps, one of the last of the Adepti. 312 death's doings. We say perhaps ? For the ashes of Alchymy are still hot. That it should yet occupy ardent imagi- nations amid the gloom, poverty, and oppression of the forests of Germany, is not so astonishing, as that it should still have votaries in the metropolis of Britain, where the light shines upon the free, and so many easier ways of making gold are known, and that there should be still found persons of reputed understanding who are willing to be deluded by men, wretchedly poor, who profess the art of making gold! But imagination has ever been the tyrant of the mind, exciting enthusiasm, of which knavery takes advantage, and folly is the food it feeds on. *#* Those who would enter further into the history of Alchymy may consult Boerhave ; and for later information, " A Sketch of the History of Alchymy," by Mr. Brande, in the New Annual Register for 1819. G. F. ACABJBMIC lO^OE1 i 30 313 ACADEMIC HONOURS. Under the shadow of green laurel leaves The poet marcheth, with unfaltering breath; And from the glory which his fancy weaves Draws strength, which tincteth the wan cheeks of Death: Under the shadow of the laurel green The soldier smileth ; and wayfaring men Piercing the desert with proud looks are seen, And hoary seamen face wild waves again: But chief, 'midst hopes untried, with fear afar, The young pale scholar seeks some dim renown, Misled by influence of deceitful star, To where Death hides behind the laurel crown: Alas, grey age and pallid youth the same! All leave fair truth, to clutch the phantom—Fame! Barry Cornwall, 40 314 THE MARTYR STUDENT. (By the Author of'" Dartmoor..") " O what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son! Yes! she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit,— She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit." Byron, List not Ambition's call, for she has lur'd To Death her tens of thousands, and her voice, Though sweet as the old syren's, is as false! Won by her blandishments, the warrior seeks The battle-field where red Destruction waves O'er the wild plain his banner, trampling down The dying and the dead;—on Ocean's wave Braving the storm—the dark lee-shore—the fight— The seaman follows her, to fall—at last In Victory's gory arms. To Learning's sons She promises the proud degree—the praise Of academic senates, and a name That Fame on her imperishable scroll THE MARTYR STUDENT. 315 Shall deeply 'grave. O, there was one who heard Her fatal promptings—whom the Muses mourn And Genius yet deplores! In studious cell Immur'd, he trimm'd his solitary lamp, And morn, unmark'd, upon his pallid cheek Oft flung her ray, ere yet the sunken eye Reluctant clos'd, and sleep around his couch Strew'd her despised poppies. Day with night Mingled—insensibly—and night with day ;— In loveliest change the seasons came—and pass'd— Spring woke, and in her beautiful blue sky Wander'd the lark—the merry birds beneath Pour'd their sweet woodland poetry—the streams Sent up their eloquent voices—all was joy And in the breeze was life. Then Summer gemm'd The sward with flowers, as thickly strewn as seem In heaven the countless clustering stars. By day The grateful peasant pour'd his song,—by night The nightingale ;—he heeded not the lay Divine of earth or sky—the voice of streams— Sunshine and shadow—and the rich blue sky; Nor gales of fragrance and of life that cheer The aching brow—relume the drooping eye And fire the languid pulse. One stern pursuit— One master-passion master'd all—and Death Smil'd inly as Consumption at his nod Poison'd the springs of life, and flush'd the cheek 316 death's doings. With roses that bloom only o'er the grave; And in that eye, which once so mildly beam'd, Kindled unnatural fires! Yet hope sustain'd His sinking soul, and to the high reward Of sleepless nights and watchful days—and scorn Of pleasure, and the stern contempt of ease, Pointed exultingly. But Death, who loves To blast Hope's fairest visions, and to dash, In unsuspected hour, the cup of bliss From man's impatient lip—with horrid glance Mark'd the young victim, as with flutt'ring step And beating heart, and cheek with treach'rous bloom Suffus'd, he press'd where Science op'd the gates Of her high temple. There beneath the guise Of Learning's proud professor, sat enthron'd The tyrant—Death :—and as around the brow Of that ill-fated votary, he wreath'd The crown of Victory—silently he twin'd The cypress with the laurel;—at his foot Perish'd the "Martyr Student !" N. T. C. 317 THE ACADEMIC ASPIRANT. With form attenuated by disease, With paly cheek, and bloodless lip, he stands The victim of his worth. All save the eye Hath sadly changed;—that undismayed yet gleams The noble beacon of a noble soul! Consumption shakes the tendons of his life, And holds a fevered revel in his heart;— He heeds it not—but as his body wastes, The spirit gathers greater strength, and sheds On the admiring world supernal light. Renown, on its swift pinion, blazons forth The glory of his name, and sages hail And praise him—fairest lips recite his verse, And nations arm them when he sings of war. Alas, that eloquence will soon be mute— That harp, unstrung, shall lose its loveliness, Nor know its own sweet sound again. No more Shall woman's eye behold its light approach,— No more her dulcet voice (by passion taught), 318 death's doings. To her young soul shall whisper dreamy love And make her startle even at herself. Love and its light are now evanishing ; Life and its bliss do tremble at the Shade That stands before him. He beholds it not— See, in its sallow hand is held a wreath Of laurel leaves, so fresh, they seem to mock That withering grasp. A smile is on his cheek— His eye looks dark with thought—his dreams are of The coming time—and Hope is bright within— Slowly the wreath now falls—the hand of Death Hath placed the fadeless verdure on his brow, And he is not of life. 319 ACADEMIC PURSUITS. " There's honour for you!"—Shdkspeare. Like you such grinning honour ? You will pro- bably answer, No. Why, then, before you engage in the widely-different, but no less hazardous war- fare of words and arguments, propositions and dis- quisitions, reply and rejoinder, with the long train of important etceteras, do, my young and sanguine friend, take a peep into a pericranium—examine the filmy texture of the brain, and the cobweb character of those fibres which compose its substance ; from thence descend to the region of the stomach, and view the connexion of its digestive powers, which, as well as the brain, depend upon the quiet opera- tion of thought,—which the hurry of passion, the ardour of pursuit, or the no less dangerous tendency of rigid and intense application, may destroy—and you may perhaps be inclined to pause upon the ad- venture, to examine your strength for the combat, to weigh the chances of the game, and to look a 320 death's doings. little more minutely at the nature of the trophies you expect to carry away ; and then, having taken a cool and deliberate view of the question, you may venture to ask—Can I sit quietly down under these laureled honours, to the enjoyment of books, " friendship, and retired leisure ?" Retired leisure! where is it to be found ? Not in this bustling, cheating, and worrying world. No ? not even " stalled theology" will now allow it. We do not live in monkish times ; there are duties to be performed, there are hungry expectants,—enemies to be watched, vigilant to observe omissions, and ready to mark or make lapses in your conduct. In short, the path to preferment has not been Macadamized ; but, on the contrary, such deep ruts have been made by the jostling and jumbling of every sort of vehicle on the road, that, through the haste of some, and the tardiness of others, not one in ten arrives at his Living in a whole skin, or, at least, without having been in imminent danger of destruction. I see you smile ;—you have been at Oxford,—have some skill in driving, and can quarter the road with any four- in-hand whip among them. Well, sir! take your own course ; but remember, if you attain to a mitre, it will not be decorated like that of a Leo, but plain, ACADEMIC PURSUITS. 321 cumbrous, and heavy, like the disproportioned and enormous caps of our grenadiers. You must toil under its pressure. Again you smile.—Oh, the church is not your aim?—it is literature,—polite literature ; aye, that is quite another thing—I see you are viewing a garland in imagination, made up of the flowers of literature, and feasting upon the fruits in the same Barmecide way. To be sure, there are a few thorns in that passage to fame and fortune ; which, in the shape of critics, catch at you as you pass, till you arrive ragged and stript at the end of your journey. But should the contrary of this happen, you have nothing to do but to reach the mansion of your bookseller, the haven where you would be—and present yourself to the porter at the gate—a sort of Castle-of-Indolence-man, but only so in appearance; for he will first look narrowly at your dress, and if it has come off without many rents from the aforesaid thorns, he will let you into the hall or entry, and, according to your appearance, will desire you to take a chair, or, perhaps, refresh- ment ; but have a care of this, and remember what is said in the Proverbs about "deceitful meat." Here you will undergo a sort of craniological exami- nation. Your skull must serve various purposes; will the osfrontis do for a battering-ram ?—can it be 41 322 death's doings. levelled with advantage against church or state ?- has it the organ of forgetfulness sufficiently marked for a convenient oblivion of what you advance one day to be denied on the next ? These, with various other powers and capabilities, will be carefully noted; and last, and not the least of his enquiries will be (but this will be managed aside), whether your skull will make a good drinking cup, and whe- ther its shape and texture are best suited to hold port, claret, or champagne. What! you are grin- ning still, and you don't believe a word of this ? You can get an introduction to Mr. M----y; aye, it may be so,—or to the King's Bench,—or to Bedlam, _or ******* * Well—there I'll leave you. Proteus. ■ i TJHLE EMIPIKIC, 323 THE EMPIRIC. Quacks ! high and low—whate'er your occupation— I hate ye all!—but, ye remorsless crew, Who, with your nostrums, thin the population, A more especial hate 1 bear tow'rds you— You, who'er regardless if you kill or cure,— Who lives, or dies—so that of fees you're sure! "What!" saith the moralist, "are any found So base, so wondrous pitiful ?"■—" Aye, many:— In this metropolis vile Quacks abound, Who'd poison you outright, to get a penny ;— Monsters ! who'd recklessly deal death around, Till the whole globe were one vast burial-ground !" "Rail on! abuse us, Sir!" cries Doctor Pill: " While you're in health it all sounds mighty clever; But if, perchance, again you're taken ill, / shall be sent for just the same as ever; When groaning with the gout, or teas'd with phthisic, You'll gladly call me in, and take my physic!" 324 death's doings. " Save me, kind friends, from Doctor Pill, I pray! And try to find an honest one and skilful— Like Doctor Babington or Surgeon Wray, Who none can charge with blunders weak or wilful; But let no Quack approach my humble bed, To feel my pulse, and shake his empty head!" Rather would I " throw physic to the dogs;" For, oh! through Quacks, what ills from physic flow! It saps our vitals—all our functions clogs— And makes our lives a scene of pain and woe: Alas ! what tortures patients undergo, None but the suff'ring quack-duped patients know! And if, by chance, you 'scape their murderous fangs, Gods ! what a fuss they make about your cure! But if, worn out with agonizing pangs, You die—why, then, the malady was sure To kill!—in truth, 'twas wonderful, they'll say, That Death 50 long could have been kept away I See yon poor wretch ! mere effigy of man! Jle'dfaith!—and all their " grand specifics" tried; For while he trusted to the charlatan, He little thought grim Death was by his side : And yet to him the Tyrant prov'd a friend, By bringing all his torments to an end. the empiric. 325 Oh, bounteous Nature ! friend of human kind ! Who every heartfelt joy of life dispenses, To their best interests were not mortals blind, Or would but rightly use their boasted senses, They'd gratefully obey thy wise commands, Nor trust their lives in sordid Emp'rics' hands. Hygeia, hail! I'll drink at thy pure spring, Where Temperance and Exercise preside ; And, while life's dearest boon thy handmaids bring, Though from the wine-press flow the purple tide, The tempting goblet from my lips I'll fling, Scorning the gifts by luxury supplied. Hail! then, Hygeia, hail! " thee, goddess, I adore," For, blest with health, I'm rich,—though scanty be my store ! S. M. 326 THE MEN OF PHYSIC ; AN EASTERN TALE. (By the Author of " Glances from the Moon.") It happened that a certain absolute and capri- cious despot of an eastern province, on perceiving, after afew years' domination, that the number of his subjects had considerably decreased, instead of in- stituting a cautious inquiry into the possible causes of this lowered population, determined to lay the whole charge, the wonder, and the mischief, on the professed practisers of what was there termed the healing art, but, according to his princely suspi- cion, the art of poisoning and destroying. Long did he cherish, whether warranted or otherwise doth not clearly appear, this peculiar sentiment, strengthened by progressive observation, and now matured into immoveable conviction: and, indeed, as his pro- vince had neither been lately desolated by war, vi- the men of physic. 327 sited by pestilence, nor reduced by famine, it be- comes possible—just possible I mean—that the no- tion which this prince had conceived of the blunder- ing ways and means exercised by the men of Physic, might not have proved so fallacious or unjust, as, on first hearing, it should seem to threaten: the less so, because the class of these physician, or leeches, was the only one which had escaped the late ex- amples of extraordinary fatality; a phenomenon which was referred, for its solution, to the commonly believed fact, that the physician exerciseth not his art upon himself.—But, let that pass. And now, whether sanctioned by a rational proba- bility of a successful result, or not—whether right or wrong—he determined to put the matter at issue to one grand and decisive experiment. He published an edict, ordering every practitioner of the medical craft, of whatever degree, to quit the province in the course of ten days. Remonstrance had been vain: it was the mandate of despotic authority: no appeal remained; obedience was prompt and universal; not one professor, not a single minister of physic, dared to hold back and linger within the lines of de- markation after the expiration of the period limited by the edict. 328 death's doings. Now, when the news of this extraordinary decree had reached and crept into the ear of Death, his jaws were presently screwed into a contemptuous grin, while meditating his purpose. " Opposition to my power," he said, " has always proved vain in the result, though whilom ridiculously obstinate and con- tentious. This prince shall quickly understand how unequal is the contest which he appears rash enough and weak enough to wage with a power, known by universal experience to be paramount and irresis- tible." Thus muttered the Destroyer. Hence we pass on to the expiration of that mea- sure of time sufficient for the ascertaining whether the expectations of the prince were well founded and supported. Twelvemonths had now elapsed, when, on a nu- merical comparison of deaths with those of the pre- ceding year, they were found in a ratio greatly di- minished, calculating for the lessened number of souls occasioned by the absence of the leeches. The discontent of the people against their prince, and their alarm for themselves, changed into reverence the men of physic. 329 and composure. His pride and self-gratulation rose in proportion—perhaps something out of proportion, a mistake committed occasionally even by sove- reigns—to flattery and applause : but this prince had never enjoyed the privilege of reading the poetic works of Robert Burns, where, amidst numerous pithy hints for the correction of self-misunderstand- ing, he might have dropped upon, and profited by, the following stanza:— "Oh, would some power the gifty gee us, To see ourselves as others see us ; It wad frae many a blunder free us, And silly notion; And airs in gait and dress would lea' us, And, e'en, devotion." But, so it was; time was moving on smoothly and kindly between prince and subject; each conciliated more to each, and all partaking of that increase of pleasurable feelings which is wont to accompany and improve a condition of bodily and mental health. Thus might this happy province—happy in its de- livery from the leeches—have become the asylum ol health, and the promise of longevity ; but—give me buts and ifs, as a bold man was wont to say, and I'll fight the D----; but,—that the dark malignant spirit 42 330 death's doings. of the man whose "bones are marrowless," urged at length by the bitterness of disappointment into deadly wrath at the decrease of funerals and of mourners, where his depredations had long proved so extensive and so frequent, determined to bestir himself for the recovery of his business. " I have," muttered Death, as he stalked the ground, which shrank and blackened at his tread, " two considerations to resolve : first, what promises to furnish the surest plan for the restoration of the wonted, full, and gloomy callings of my office; se- condly, by what measures I shall most easily and speedily, succeed in it. Touching the first consider- ation," said Death, " I perceive it admits of instant decision. The effects of the decree, by which I find that the leeches were my supporters, my most effec- tive friends, serve to teach me that the decree must be unconditionally reversed; the men of physic must be recalled ; they must be reinstated in all their pri- vileges and immunities, and be let loose as hereto- fore upon the inhabitants of the province—of the capital, more especially—in the unbridled exercise of their accustomed practices. The man of dry and naked bones received that sensation of sullen grati- fication, when reflecting upon his plan, which no the men of physic. 331 other man could feel. A half-formed smile would have passed over his ghastly countenance, signifi- cant of anticipated success, but it was repulsed and chased away from a visage so hostile to its charac- ter, by a withering and rigid grin which admitted not a glimpse of relaxation. Still this resolution extended and embraced the first and easiest division, only, of what he intended to perform: the object of his more arduous consider- ation remained behind, viz.: the adoption of means sure and effectual for the execution of this purpose. It was not till after a long-protraced interval that thus the Destroyer counselled with himself. " I have held a long and vast communion with the sons of men who walk this earth, and all who have disappeared from it were removed by me. This is not all: known it is to me, by ages of experience and the use of observation, that the passion of fear is among the strongest felt by mortals, and that of no- thing are they so horribly affraid as of my threaten- ings and my power to enforce them. How is this ? that the man who has courage to contemn and to op- pose the requisitions of justice ; to admit and to en- courage the foulest offences against the charities of 332 death's doings. humanity and the consciousness of moral obligation; to cherish the corruption of, and to perpetrate the blackest crimes against, the fellowship of men ! that the same identical man of flesh and blood, on whom the fear of me is so deeply impressed, should ever fail to tremble while thinking upon the crimes, the outrages, the murders he may have committed ? All this must be left to the discussion of wiser skulls than mine. " By my life," said Death, " it is most worthy of marvel and recordance, that one and the same man shall dare to commit and brave the most atrocious wickedness, no less in the face of all the world than in the secret chambers, and yet shake with horror at an accidental change of feeling in his mortal frame, not occasioned by any guilty deed that he hath done, but resulting inevitably from the estab- lished laws and conditions of that animal economy, ordained to experience the enjoyments of health and the inflictions of disease ; to live, and think, and act, while the movements of the nice and wonderful ma- chine are in perfect harmony and correctness ; to languish, and finally to decay, when these are inter- rupted and gradually stopped. THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 333 " Yes, the solution of a mystery like this must be submitted to the philosophers ; enough for me, that the dread of my approach is uppermost amidst mortal fears, and that few would be found, who, when the hour of decision should arrive, would refuse to compromise, on any terms, for a longer beholding the light of the sun and of all the natural objects which it illumines and presents: yet to what do these amount, in comparison with the animated and social nature, with the world of kindred, of relatives, and friends ? " Fortunate for my commanding thraldom, man- kind are not conscious that the ' fear of death,' ab- stractedly considered,' is most in apprehension ;' or that, ' imagination's fool and error's wretch, man makes a death which nature never made, then on the point of his own fancy falls, and feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.' No, no—the Prince, nursed and wrapped in the splendour and luxuries of a gay and rich metropolis, has not been conversant with disquisitions of this sort; if he ever thinks upon, he also shudders at the contemplation of my blow." Death paused.—This was the time for taking up what he had proposed for the second consideration of his subject, viz.: the mode to be adopted for se- 334 DEATH'S DOINGS. curing the completion of his plan. It required not a protracted rumination. Death knew the certainty of his power, and he resolved on its early application. It was amidst the lone " and witching time of night, when church-yards yawn," that, personified, " ut ejus est mos," in the attire of a human skeleton, he made his way to the palace and the dormitory of his royal enemy, as he does to the cot and pallet of the poor. He beheld the prince stretched in the blandishments and the wonted security of sleep; in " the perfumed chamber," " beneath the canopy of costly state." Directly he stalked up; the hard and bony tread awaked the sleeping prince, and he be- held the horrid figure placed before him, holding a dimly-burning taper in his left hand, while in his right, elevated as if to strike, was poised the shaft which never fails, and which now threatened the ex- ecution of a fatal purpose. Confounded by the spectacle, he made an effort to spring up ; but the first effect of fear is debility : he fell backward, yet with outstretched arms and clasped hands, shrinking from the dreadful object of his vision—" I come," said the horrible appear- ance—fixing upon his victim the dismal cavities THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 335 where eyes had been—" I come, armed as at all times, to strike and to destroy. But even beneath the shaft, and within the grasp of Death, conditions of mercy may exist. Mark !—I come unto the despot, who, with violence and injustice, has ex- pelled from their establishments and their homes, the men of physic, my ministers and agents, and to offer him one or the other of two things : will he consent to recall and to reinstate the said men of physic or leeches, never again to be by him dis- turbed, or forbidden to cultivate and to use their arts; or will he prefer that this uplifted hand dis- charge the arrow which he beholds, thus winged for its deadly mission, and ready to fulfil it ? Your re- solve !—speak !—answer, even now—or—" The prince observed the arm rising higher, and drawing a little backward: a moment, and it might be too late; in agony of haste he called out,—" Hold! spare me, spare me! I will execute thy commands: I will in- stantly recall the leeches ; I will do whatever thou demandest: I will do it now, even now." Death lowered his arm, and proceeded :—" Promises, at a moment like this, have often been found faithless, and have dissolved < into thin air;' therefore, giv- ing to the prince a scroll—" look upon that; unfold and read: be instant—bind thy soul, as the words 336 death's DOINGS. therein point out, to the prompt execution of my pleasure." Here he began to raise his hand of bone, still armed with the deadly missile :—" Hold! hold !" the prince ejaculated; " I swear as this scroll requires." WThat was written therein has never been divulged. Death well knew that flesh and blood dared not to violate the oath. He was ac- cordingly satisfied ; and now, under the guise in which he had stalked into the royal chamber, he abandoned it, in malignant triumph that his purpose had succeeded, and that the recommencement and augmentation of his harvest awaited only the return of the doctors ; more especially of those who should occupy their stations and exercise their crafts in the metropolis. It is there he stands in gloomy watch, or stalks about in cynic grin, delighted with the hurry, dexterity, and sleight-of-hand visits paid by the doctor to his catalogue of patients, agreeably to the situations of their residences; many of whom, after hours of languor, distress, and pain, are now startled into being from their pittance of merciful un- consciousness, by the outrageous but fashionable violence, the storm of knocking raised at the door of the wretched patient's residence, by one of Death's subordinate agents, who drops from the fore or aft of the doctor's chariot, and having done all this wanton the men of physic. 337 and inhuman mischief, throws open the door for the descent, and then the introduction of that which is to follow. Thus it is manifest that Death may be detected in the personification of an outside or an inside passenger; on the box or in the chariot. The question may be asked,—what place does not Death occupy,—what person of the drama can he not assume and fill ? We have seen him blinding the eyes of physicians and their patients, and con- verting medicines into poisons. We may also trace this sly and rapacious fellow more insidiously intro- ducing poisons into the wholesome nutriment of life, into our viands and our drinks. For the former, gaze upon that alarming row of red and fiery-looking metal, with which our shelves, whether in kitchen or elsewhere, are so frightfully supplied ! The metal is copper, poisonous and deadly, as many wise housekeepers and cooks are at length beginning to believe; but which, still, in defiance of the sun, or by taking advantage of the tenderer light of moon or taper, they continue to use, because peculiarly con- ducive, in their opinions, to the good colouring and preservation of pickles and of conserves. For the latter, namely, our drinks, behold and examine the professed malt and hop decoctions of our public 43 338 death's doings. breweries—malt and hops! pshaw!—vinegar and bullock's blood. Once more, look, and look closely when you are about it, to your cider and perry mills, lest you should purchase your hogshead of either of these liquors from a mill, in the construction of which the metal of lead, another of Death's minis- ters, has been largely employed, and which, when acted upon by the juices of the fruits, communicates to the liquor a poisonous quality. The effects of this carelessness, or obstinacy, have been long and seriously felt in cider counties; in the county of De- vonshire more particularly, producing therein that painful disease, known by the appropriate term, Devonshire Colic, terminating in Palsy. But the time would fail, were we to attempt to show this Man of Bones in all his asserted places of domina- tion, or to bolt him from his secret lurking-holes. We will leave him for the time being, in his awful and favourite retreat, an English wine-vault, the de- pot of foreign wines* There he sits, enthroned upon *We sincerely hope this sentence cannot be construed into a libel, though, after what has lately taken place, we confess we have some qualms about it; but this we can conscientiously aver, that however well it may be thought to apply to some of these " depots of foreign wines," our esteemed contributor had no " wine-merchant" in particu- lar in his eye, when he wrote the article. This apologetic explanation will therefore, we trust, shield us from any action for damages!—Ed. the men of physic. 339 a cask of fiery sherry, which, among other pernicious combinations, he dispenses far and wide, adminis- tering all of them more or less largely as his caprice may choose to delight itself in a larger or scantier accumulation of victims. We will proceed no further in the pursuit of a topic and a theme which would remain interminable; neither would it prove fair nor charitable to cast the Bony Man in no other character than that which, to the bulk of mankind, represents him most unwel- come, cruel, and severe. By certain of the sons of men he has been received not only with resignation and composure, but his approach has been hailed as a boon and a deliverance. Besides, he possesses such traits, or perhaps faculties, in his composition, as might challenge our approbation and our re- verence. In the class of these we desire to rescue from oblivion his acknowledged impartiality; his frequent prevention of greater evil than he brings; his endurance of perpetual labour; his just claim to universality; his courage; snatching away the mo- narch, surrounded by his life guards, just as a Ben- gal tiger springs into a little company of men seated at their social meal upon the turf, and, seizing on his victim, drags him to the jungle. 340 death's doings. We must recount, because it evinces an honour- able and lofty sentiment, that, as he stalked away after his midnight visit to the prince whom he had terrified into an instant and shaking submission, a voice was heard through the palace, and by the sen- tinels, as, invisibly, he moved along:—" Coward and slave, who has consented to sell thy people's pleasant health, the term of their life, with all its consolations and enjoyments; their title, it might have been, to longevity;—that thou thyself mightst be suffered to crawl, in infamy and abhorrence, a little longer between heaven and earth!!!—It well nigh grieves me that I permitted the wretch to out- live his meanness and his baseness. " But wherefore—I desire to ask and to be an- swered—wherefore are the sons of men so hostile to my charter, and so fearful of its exercise ?—A charter, too, of which I myself foresee and dread the expiration ?" Can none develop and explain this mystery ? %?tet THE MISER 341 THE LOST TREASURE. Idol of all, the world's imperial lord, Thou peerless bullion dug from sleeping earth, As sways the despot o'er his fettered horde, So thousands bow the minions of thy worth :— To groans and midnight tears thou givest birth, Enchanting master of the frown and smile; Alike creator of our woes and mirth, The nurse of cloudy hate, and venomed guile, Diffusing mantling grandeur on the tumid vile ! Thou yellow slave of Eastern rifled mine, There gleams from thee a long unweakened charm; A fatal essence is for ever thine That time's corroding changes cannot harm; The same magnetic spell in every form— A dumb memorial of the ages fled, When, love for thee, woke up the civic storm;— For thee, the pulsing breast was gored and red, And savage warriors trampled on the piling dead: 342 death's doings. There is a moral on thy graven face, When, damp before us, from thy burial-ground, With eager ken, we scan the fading trace Of some triumphant record, crusted round; Or regal brow, with braiding garland bound. Where now is he, the image of thy rust ? The tyrant, perhaps, that made the war-whoop sound, And vanquished cities rear his sculptured bust---- Like thee, disfigured remnant of his wormy dust! In burning zones, and far exotic clime, Where gorgeous nature daunts the lifted eye,— The daring Briton wastes his lusty prime, Apart from native hills, and genial sky: The dripping tears of love—th' unbosomed sigh, The farewell pang prophetic—all forgot! When, flushed, his pluming spirit longs to fly From thrifty ease and patrimonial spot— And slow return with wealth and fevered veins his lot! With sinking cheek, pale lip, and pensive glance, And locks that pine upon their heated brow, Alone, with pauseful step, and mute advance, Behold a martyred genius passing now! THE LOST TREASURE. 343 His eyes still flashed,—but mournful shadows throw Betraying sadness round his inward gloom :— The soul is lit, inspired,—but poor, and low, No gold creative to resist his doom, Like sunshine's fading light, he weakens to the tomb. On clotted turf, within a murky vale, The blood-red dagger in his quaking hand, His guilty visage hued by moonlight pale,— The murderer bodes—as if Remorse's wand Had fixed him there. Upon the still brigand, The victim opes his eyes—which then reclose, While from his wounds the bubbling streams expand: For gold, thus, oft the wasted life-spring flows— For thee, vile ore, howmany woo the grave's repose! A long farewell endears the faithful soul, And warmer kindness will spring up from woe,— But spelling gold perverts the heart's control, And finds a parent for the infant's foe ! Malignant guile, the darksome traitor's blow, The death-bed curse, and lip of venomed scorn,— The sternest pangs enduring hearts can know, Are but the deeds of gold :—and years unborn, Shall bring thine endless victims, that for thee shall mourn. 344 death's doings. But see ! thy abject slave :—a lurking fear, Spreads o'er his face a dark prevailing shade; Wakeful, though scowled his gaze:—that icy sneer, Before whose chill a baby smile would fade,— Is th' intense pride of treasure unbetrayed : Few are his words—in them the wily tone Conveys reserveful dread ;—as if it bade The miser fear himself:—his wealth once known, 'Twould seem departed, though it still remained his own! A miser's heart is like the damp cold tomb, Embalming but the noisome ;—dark abode Of blighted feeling and of selfish gloom :— And yet 'tis not repose; a burdening load Of teasing dreams, at home, and on the road, From risen morn till eve—prevent his rest: One haunting thought, the self-inflicted goad— Is ever at his soul. With heavy breast And pulsing terror, is his canvass pillow pressed ! This beauteous world, and its enchanting scene, The silken clouds of morn, and moony night, The tinted fruits, and meadow's matchless green,— Its flowers and streams—for him yield no delight!— The sunbeams warm his brow, and bless his sight, THE LOST TREASURE. 345 The breezes kiss his lips—but he's the same :— As if his mind was darkened o'er with blight, And Nature quite unfelt—a gloomy frame Where all, but avarice, is motionless and tame. And has he bliss ?—'tis buried in the ground! No kindly ease is bought above : vile, mean, Blank to the eye, and deaf to sorrow's sound, With unpartaking modes and bilious spleen, He crawls his way—unsought and seldom seen:— Strange homage this, that Fancy gets For her delusions! E'er since time hath been, Hearts weave their own deceits:—the miser frets, But bears the willing thraldom while his soul re- grets ! With lowering front, and dim withdrawing eye, Suspiciously he creeps :—his morbid glance Turned round on heaven and earth most fretfully;— Disturbing fears, as near his steps advance To see the buried gold—and hopeful trance,— Attend him with their phantoms.—Eachlimb shakes, And tremulous, the chills of dubious chance Thrill through his person:—till again he takes Another glutting stare,—oh! how his bosom aches! 44 346 death's doings. The spot is gained :—beneath a tree decayed His treasure's hid. Upon its topmost bough A raven sits—foreboding hope betrayed. Here, on the ground, the miser kneeling now, Digs up the turf:—but list! the shrieking vow And arms infuriate raised—the torture's trace— Proclaim the heap is gone!—no tears can flow, But inward anguish maddens in grimace, While Death, with mocking purse, grins in his mar- tyr's face. R. M. 347 DEATH AND THE GAY CHARIOTEER. The sun, in splendour, was setting bright, And the west was sheeted in ruby light, The hymn of the woodland choir was singing, And the winds o'er the forest their incense flinging, The grove its leaves of gold was waving, The mountain its summit in glory bathing, The flowers for day's departure weeping, And the wolf in his cave yet soundly sleeping, When young Cytheron, e'en as Hylas fair, With cheek of the damask rose, and hair In darkly beauteous ringlets flowing, And lip like the piony richly glowing, With a smile like summer's morn, and eye That no maiden could look on without a sigh, Met Comus, as on he journeyed, gay And thoughtless, life's primrose-scattered way. Comus invited the youth to spend the night At his magic palace of pomp and delight, 348 death's doings. To rest himself after the toils of the day, And chase the tardy-footed hours away With banquet and song, and care-killing glee, Music, and wine, and jollity. Young Cytheron, regardless of what might betide, Turned joyous to follow his laughing guide, Who led him on through a solemn wood, Where tall colonnades of cedar stood, And verdant palms in long array, That shone with the tints of departing day ; While the dew-brightened flowers caught the sun's last smile, And rivalled the pomp of the evening sky, Where a pageant of mountain, lake, and isle, In glory unearthly met the eye ! Amid the forest, sweetly embowered, Where seats of green moss, with roses showered, And each fragrant hyacinthine bed Was o'er-canopied with the rich web Of tissued blossoms, in nature's loom Wove gorgeous, and bright with radiant bloom. The gleams of an alabastrian pile, With pillared form of classic style, death and the gay charioteer. 349 Shone down the opening vista far, Like the softened light of Neptune's star ; When the midnight winds part the fleecy cloud, And she walks forth in her beauty and splendour proud. It was the bright magic palace reared By Pleasure, to ensnare the idle and vain,— A temple it seemed with glory ensphered, But Death dwelt there in her fatal train! Young Cytheron before the portal stood,— Then entered with enraptured eye, When round him poured a rainbow flood Of dazzling light, while harmony Angelic came on his ravished ears, Rich-toned as the music of the spheres! The palace court with pillars was hemmed Of flaming carbuncle, and gemmed The tesselated floor, save where Bloomed bowers of myrtle, and orange, and lime, Pomegranates, and aloes, that gave to the air The exquisite odours of Araby's clime. These bowers, rich with the rose of Cashmere, Of a thousand birds were the blessed haunt, 350 death's doings. Whose plumes did like clustered gems appear As they warbled their wild melodious chant. Now forth from the inner palace came, Whose walls outshone the sapphire flame,— A lady, who leant on a damsel fair, That for beauty might e'en with Calypso compare! Intemperance was the portly dame, And Wantonness the damsel's name, Whose eye shot forth such thrilling fires As fill'd young Cytheron with fond desires; Her form is voluptuous, her cheek outglows The blush of young Venus as from the deep she first rose. They welcomed glad Cytheron, and smiling led To an arbour with roses fresh-blooming spread, Acanthus, and myrtle, and luscious woodbine, And o'erhung with the fruit-empurpled vine. There on couches of emerald and Tyrian die, In pomp and luxurious ease they lie, While the lady Intemperance in her cup of gold Pressed the musky clusters that o'er them hung, And gave to her guest * The magic draught made him proud and bold, death and the gay charioteer. 351 And joyous,—then soft airs were sung, By attendant virgins fair and young; And the fountains their rainbow streams out-flung And music breathed from harp and lute, From sacbut, theorbo, and flute; While youths and maidens, bright as the Hours, Danced along the green arcade of bowers That, torch-lit, showed like Eden's shades When angel shapes thronged its moonlight glades. Again the chalice of gold the youth drains, Which flowed like fire through his glowing veins ! Then dallies with the damsel on beds of roses, Till wearied with sport in her arms he reposes. Whence summoned by music to the banquet-hall, He feasts high on his lordly stall. O what a proud display was there, Of thronging chivalry and ladies fair! Of richest viands, wines, fruits, and flowers, That deck young Summer or Autumn's bowers, Amid that gorgeous hall of might, Where the columns, formed of jewels rare, Seemed each a shaft of sunny light! But what grim unbidden guest sits there, With eyeless sockets and ribs all bare, 352 death's doings. And grinning so hideously upon The laughter-loving Cytheron ? 'Tis Death ! who marks him for his prey, Long ere the close of another day ! 'Tis dawn,—come, rouse thee, who didst rejoice And sport with the young loves and pleasures, The harp and the viol have ceased their voice, And the lute its soft preluding measures; Arise with the lark and the dappled fawn, And brush the dews from the cowslip lawn ; Mount the proud seat of thy glittering car, Which in silvery splendour beams afar; Pleasure hath harnessed thy horses, all eager to run, Fiery and swift as the steeds of the sun! " Ah, this is life, happiness, splendour, and glee ; Mount, mount, my sweet damsel, and journey with me." But, ah! that grim king, who sat at the feast, Hath followed the track of thy chariot wheel; He heeds not the cry of anguish for rest, Nor the sorrows that time will never heal, Nor the captive's sigh for sweet release, Nor the exile's prayer for the dark grave's peace; No,—he follows thee, thou gay and vain, And all thy schemes of pride will mar, DEATH AND THE GAY CHARIOTEER. 353 He takes the wheel from thy splendid car And hurls thee prostiate on the plain! Nature heeds not thy parting groan No more than thou didst the beggar's moan; The skylark amid the full sun-blaze is singing, While down the lone valley thy death-shriek 1 ringing! Ah ! what are worldly pomp and glory ? An empty shadow, a noisy story! While earthly pleasure is a fleeting dream, And honour but the meteor's gleam! J. F. P. 45 354 THE FOREBODING; A SKETCH. " Loathed Melancholy."—Milton. " If you please, Sir Henry, the curricle is quite ready." " Very well," replied the master to his servant; " bring me my boots, and desire her maid to ac- quaint your mistress that the carriage is waiting." The footman left the library, and Sir Henry Buck- ingham, going to the window which commanded a view of his noble park, exclaimed to himself, "This will be a glorious day for our drive ! the sun will be tempered by those troops of soft clouds which are sailing about so quietly, throwing their grave sha- dows on the earth—the air is mild—last night's rain has filled the herbage with fragrance ; and the trees seem to rest, after the refreshing shower, in motion- less and satisfied repose. All is as I could wish it THE FOREBODING. 355 to be, for my dear wife's sake, to whose spirits the airing will certainly be beneficial. This open, smiling, gentle scene, upon which I cannot look and despair, must assuredly infuse something of its healthiness into her mind. Here he paused in his soliloquy; but whether to brood on the comfort of the thought, or to examine its validity, was not at first apparent. It was soon, however, evident, that the feeling was one of mis- giving, for his meditations again finding words, he said: " Yet why do I flatter myself thus ? The influence of spring could not save her from the attack of the mind-sickness which weighs her down, neither will the laughing summer drive it away. My unhappiness, I fear, is irremediable ! What avail my many worldly advantages,—fortune, youth, health, the possession of her whom I so long have loved? Darkness is thrown over all by one misfortune, which is the more miserable, because, being cause- less, I know not what to do to insure a remedy." Here a female servant entered the library with a request that Sir Henry would step into his lady's 356 death's DOINGS. room, which, with a sigh laden with wretched an- ticipation, he obeyed. Lady Buckingham was a confirmed ennuyee. The two first years of her marriage passed happily and even joyously; but the last twelve months had been characterized by great and mysterious depression,— a constant but undefined fear of some impending ca- lamity, which shook her innocent heart to its very centre. Every change alarmed her. The seasons, in their diversity, approached like portents; and the coming-on of dawn, no less than the deepening shadows of evening, filled her with intolerable tre- mour. During the noon, either of night or day, she seemed to enjoy some little respite from her ap- prehensions, for then the hours appeared to pause; but she could not divest herself of the dread that every obvious change was only the prologue of an unutterable tragedy. In vain her affectionate hus- band tried to reason her out of these fears—in vain he expatiated on the simplicity of her character, on the whiteness of her conscience, and on her duty to be thankful to her Creator for the worldly blessings he had been pleased to bestow on her. She ac- knowledged the reasonableness of all this, and then, after a struggle, sank again into her dejection, as THE FOREBODING. 357 though some invisible demon were practising upon her his numbing spells! Her very beauty was tainted with this melan- choly ; but still she was a lovely creature,—pale, indeed, and too thin for the perfection of faminine grace, though from the outline of her figure it was evident that nature had intended to fashion her shape in the full luxury of womanhood. Her voice was sweet beyond expression ; and formerly her words were simple, gentle, timid, and even girlish; and from the charm of their innocent spell it was not possible to escape. Alas! this part of her cha- racter was now fearfully altered by the over-inform- ing tyranny of her distemper, which had, as it were against her will, lifted her mental faculties out of their simplicity, perplexed them with " thick-coming fancies," and, by a painful process, filled them with premature knowledge and the command of lofty elo- quence ! Her eyes were ever restless, glancing hi- ther and thither with eager scrutiny ; but in other respects she was lethargic. Sir Henry, on entering her room, found that his wife had not yet risen, and that she had been weep- ing. "Why, my dear," said he, "I expected you 358 death's DOINGS. would have been ready to accompany me in the little airing we spoke of last night, and now I find you dejected and in tears. For heaven's sake, arouse yourself in time from this melancholy, or it will gather strength in proportion as you yield to it, until at last you will be its abject slave. " I am that already," she replied; " I am the victim of a throng of hideous fears, which scare away my wits. I do not dare to leave my bed ; and (jeer me as you may) I must tell you that I am warned by my evil genius,—nay, smile not, for the fiend of destiny haunts me—that my death, and your's too, will be the consequence of my accompa- nying you this morning." " Nothing, my dear," replied Sir Henry, " can be more unreal (I should say, ridiculous, did I not respect even your weakness) than these fears. They are the offspring of ill health, to which you reduce yourself by persisting in so sedentary a life. You must not be offended, if, for once, I employ the au- thority of a husband, and require that you forthwith prepare yourself for exercise and fresh air. Come, let me woo thee in the words of the oriental song: 4 Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. the foreboding. 359 For, lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the tur- tle-dove is heard in our land.' " The heartfelt kindness of this solicitation was not lost on the lady, who, after a struggle with her ap- prehensions, arose, and dressed herself for the morn- ing ride, and joined her husband in the library. That the exercise might be more efficacious, Sir Henry extended the drive farther than he had at first contemplated, and, when about ten miles from home, called at the house of a friend, with whom he and his lady were prevailed on to partake of an early dinner. The jaunt and the cheerful society seemed to have a beneficial influence on the spirits of the hypochondriac. They returned in the evening. Twilight was coming on, and, as it deepened, gigantic clouds were observed lifting themselves uncouthly above the horizon, and congregating in sullen masses. This was succeeded by weak flashes of lightning, accompanied by heavy sultriness, and an unnatural quiet. The leaves of the trees, which had rustled 360 death's doings. pleasantly during the day, were now still; the shal- low brooks, which had made music with their fresh rippling, seemed now like stagnant pools; the cat- tle crouched together and became mute. Mean- while the lightning grew stronger, though still not blue or forked, or attended by thunder. Darkness at length ensued ; and, of a sudden, there came a blast of air like a mighty whirlwind, which tore the branches from the heavier trees, and bent the light ones till their tops swept the ground, even as though they were bowing in worship of the Angel of the Storm ! The whole earth appeared to stagger ; when a terrific dart of lightning ran, like a huge serpent, down the sky, making rifts in the dense clouds, and affording awful revelations of the interior heaven. This was instantly succeeded by a stunning and continued peal of thunder, and a descent of rain, like the beginning of another deluge. The light- ning now was incessant ; sometimes appearing to dash broad floods of light with force upon the ground, and at others to throw a blue and ghastly illumina- tion against the several masses of the clouds, which had assumed the grand forms of mountains and pyra- mids and colossal temples! What a frightful hour must this have been for our the foreboding. 361 poor afflicted lady! It shook even the strong'nerves of her husband; whose agitation was increased, when, on looking round at his wife, he perceived she had fainted. O! how he blamed his pertinacity in urging her to take the excursion. There was, how- ever, no time for reflection: his presence of mind and skill were required in the management of his horses; for death seemed inevitable, should they, by becoming wild, get beyond his control. He, there- fore, merely drew his lady's cloak nearer about her, and concentrated his attention on the reins, which he held with a strong and wary hand, and thus driving through the terrors of the night, he at length reached his own gates in safety. The lady was restored sooner than the fears of Sir Henry allowed him to expect. She passed a calm night of refreshing sleep, and in the morning, which was fine and bright, talked over, with cheerfulness, the danger of the preceding evening. This unlooked- for amendment of her spirits continued for some time, and gave her husband reason to indulge in con- fident hopes of her settled recovery. Her former distemper furnished a theme even for raillery, dur- ing which she not only manifested no signs of impa- 46 362 death's doings. tience, but even joined in the pleasantry, and won- dered at her own delusion. Alas ! this was not of long duration. A relapse came on; and one morning at breakfast, after a long silence, she suddenly burst out as follows : " O! my husband, I have had a ghastly dream, which weighs upon me like the announcement of fate, and will not be shaken off. That fearful ride! The memory of it has haunted me all night. Some of its terrors, indeed, were diminished; but then, others more fatal, more tremendous, more madden- ing were substituted. Methought we were, as then, in that open carriage—it was broad day, clear, cloudless, and with a deep blue sky. Every thing seemed happy, and you and I enjoyed to the full the blessed tranquillity. As I looked about me, how- ever, I became gradually aware of a minute stain in the lower atmosphere, like a blot, which moved near and around us, now here, now there, in a strange manner. I endeavoured once or twice to push it aside ; but at this, it only seemed to hang closer to my eyes. I was about to call your attention to it, when, of a sudden, it swelled into size and shape, the foreboding. 363 and I beheld, flying at my side, a bony spectre,— the king of terrors—Death! The horses had an in- stinctive recognition of the phantom, for they moaned dismally, their nostrils were dilated, the whole of their frame was seized with convulsive shudderings, and they struggled as though to escape from the trammels of the harness. I was distracted with terror, when the gaunt and execrable monster, touching me, whispered in my ear, ' Thou art mine —this night shalt thou sleep in my everlasting cave!' As it said this, the hateful thing shifted its position, and when I turned round I saw it had crouched under one of the wheels, which it lifted up, and threw the carriage over the brink of a deep preci- pice. I shrieked aloud, and, as I fell, the demon, with a laugh of exultation, caught me in his arms, and bore me into the darkness of the chasm." " Do not distress yourself so, my dear," said Sir Henry; " forget this vain dream—forget it, I be- seech you. Your spirits shall no more be put to a trial so severe as that which you had to encounter the other night; for I plainly see, in spite of the ap- parent cheerfulness which subsequently elevated you, that the recollection of the tempest has been en- 364 death's doings. gendering these hideous phantasms. You shall not again trust yourself in that vehicle." " And yet," she replied, " my spirits were relieved by the former excursion, notwithstanding my reluc- tance to engage in it; and it may be, that the storm which seemed so full of danger, but, in the event, was so harmless, served to convince me of the vanity of my alarms. I shall always be under the dominion of this dream if I do not prove its fallacy. For this purpose, I will make a strong effort, and beg you to take me again with you in that very carriage and along that very road, and I shall doubtless return home liberated from the haunting terror." " I congratulate you, from my heart, on your re- solution," said Sir Henry, embracing his wife. "We will go, and, as you say, you shall have abundant demonstration of the groundlessness of your dread." To puther determination in practice was, however, as she had premised, a painful effort on the part of the lady. She trembled as she stepped into the car- riage, and dropped into her seat, with the desperate air of one obliged to submit to some extreme cala- the foreboding. 365 mity. With such a white face and forced compo- sure, did Tell level the arrow against the apple on his dear boy's head; and so looked Brutus as he as- sumed the judgment-seat to pronounce sentence of death on his son! It was a lovely day, with fresh airs breathing about, and a sky deeply blue like that of the South. In the course of the journey, they turned, they scarcely knew how it happened, into a lane in which they did not recollect to have ever been before. It was a solitary spot; the road was exceedingly un- even, and the swaying of the carriage to and fro was occasionally not without danger. They had pene- trated the avenue so far that it was not advisable to return; yet, although the way was so uncouth, they could hardly fear an accident, as the horses were known to be steady, and the mid-day light was so strong and clear. Presently they came to a break in the hedge on one side, and this shewed them that they were on the brink of a sudden descent into a deep dell. The lady shuddered violently as she saw this ; but Sir Henry, in an attempt to re-assure her, said: " There is nothing here to fear, although it must 366 death's doings. be confessed this pit looks ugly enough. You know I am an approved good charioteer, and, see, yonder we shall have the fence again. Cheer up, my love." He had no sooner said these words than a large bird darted out from the opposite hedge with a rush- ing noise across the eyes of the horses, who, taking fright thereat, pulled different ways, and grew ut- terly unmanageable. The lady had only time to shriek out, " See the horses! the dream, the dream!" —when the carriage rolled on one side, and then was precipitated over the edge of the steep. Some peasants, who accidentally strayed into that unfrequented place the same evening, found the car- riage among briers and underwood, at the bottom of the dell, the horses mangled and dying, and the hus- band and wife folded in each others' arms, dead and cold! C. O. BIB AT R §> R 'N