446

ed to sleep profoundly, little dreading that several officers were in the house. Mrs. Gordon had heard they were in search of John Roy Stewart. She hoped he was far off, but trembled for other guests, and the ready expedient of collecting some young people, and appearing heedlessly merry, she knew would divert suspicion. The officers in place of ransacking the manse, joined the jovial dancers, and went away after supper, convinced that a family so jovial could have no concealments. Some of the company were to sleep at the manse. Mrs. Gordon had then no spare room, except that occupied by her daughter; but she made as many beds as the floor could contain, and the young lady with her cousin were removed to Mr. Grey's room. They undressed. One of them attempted to raise the bed clothes, when John Roy awoke. He had loaded pistols, and his sword unsheathed always beside him when he lay down to rest. Providentially the sword came first to hand, The candle had been extinguished, but a gleam of the moon shewed a female figure in time to avert the fatal thrust. Had Mr. Stewart seized the pistol, it must have been too late to recognize the daughter of his benefactress. The shock of a bare possibility of taking her life, he said, was more overwhelming than all his past misfortunes. She was Mrs. Gordon's only child. I had the particulars from her own lips. Mr. Stewart's and Mr. Hamilton's further adventures shall probably supply another communication, and others will folB. G.

low.

REV. MR. ROMAINE.

Romaine, though a very worthy man, had no small portion of vanity in his composition, as the following anecdote will testify: ---Mr. Jones, of Nayland (in whom the vir tue of Christian humility shone most conspicuously, but who was too orthodox in his opinions for the evangelical part of the community), was walking with his friend over Blackfriars Bridge, when they espied Mr. Romaine on the other side of the way. Jones knew him imperfectly, as he was known by Romaine, but he determined, at all events,on crossing and asking him how he did. The other, however, pretended not to remember him. What!" exclaimed Mr. Jones, "do you not know me, Mr. Romaine ?”- No, Sir," replied he, "neither do I, nor does my Master, know you !”

[VOL. 4

CURIOUS LITERARY CASE.
To the Editor of the Literary Gazette.

SIR,
If you agree with me in thinking that the
following statement deserves to be made
public, you will probably allow it a place in
the pages of your really excellent publica-
tion. I am aware there are few things about
which the world in general are less inter-
as I intend to make no angry accusation,
ested than the squabbles of authors: but
and am conscious that my assertions will be
this letter will not come under the above
irrefragable, I may indulge the hope that
description.

You, and many of your readers, have, perhaps, seen advertised, a work by Walter Scott, entitled the "Border Antiquities of England and Scotland," in 2 vols. 4to. With what justice, however, that gentleman assumes to himself the entire authorship of the work in question, you will be able to judge, when I tell you that very nearly half of it was written by myself. It is not necessary that I should retail the circumstances which induced me to relinquish proceeding with it, after having completed the first volume. It quish it; that Mr. Walter Scott afterwards is enough for my purpose, that I did relincompleted it, and that, upon its publication in an entire form, (for it came out originally in the title page, as the writer of the whole, in quarterly parts) he has placed his name without any intimation to the contrary, in any part of the introductory matter; which, for aught I know to the contrary, is entirely his. Most persons, I apprehend, will consider this proceeding as not quite reconcile

able with candour.

I have been partly tempted to advance this claim, for the sake of mentioning two amusing facts, as connected with the sagacity of periodical critics. During the time that the work was publishing in detached portions, is was reviewed in one of our most viewer, misled, no doubt, by the nature of respectable monthly journals, and the rethe subject, confidently affirmed, from the internal evidence of the style, that it was from the pen of Walter Scott; and when, by an odd coincidence, it afterwards came forth with the name of that gentleman in the title page, I assure you the said reviewer reminded his readers, with no little exultation, of the accuracy of his previous judgment. I need hardly add, that at the time it was thus gratuitously assigned to the pen of Walter Scott, he had not written a line of it.

Similarly unfortunate has been a more recent critic, who, in reviewing the work as Walter Scott's, has perversely enough selected most of his examples from that portion of it which was written by myself, and which are cited as felicitous specimens of Mr. Scott's style.

Now, Mr. Editor, ought I to be angry or pleased at these blunders? They who admire Mr. Scott's prose, as much as they do his poetry, will decide for the latter: but, for myself, it is really so weighty a point, that, without your assistance, I am afraid I cannot make up my mind upon it. thing, however, is indisputable; I have no right to be thankful for the petty larceny he has committed on my property.

One

I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, WM. MUDFORD.

THE EAST-INDIAMAN.

AN anxious, lingering, perilous voyage past,
An India ship hail'd Albion's land at last!
Moor'd in the Downs, her mighty pinion's close
Like some far-flying bird that sought repose;
While, crowding on the deck, a hundred eyes
Turn'd shoreward-flush'd with pleasure and sur-

prise.

That eve they anchor'd, from th' horizon's hem
The virgin Moon, as if to welcome them,
Rose from her rest-but would no more reveal
Than the faint outline of her pale profile :
Tho' soon (as maids forego their fears) she gave
Her orbed brow to kiss the wanton wave:
Till-like a scornful lover, swoll'n by pride
Because too fondly loved to be denied,

The rude wave spurn'd her off, and raised that loud And angry blast which scream'd through sail and shroud,

The live-long night on which my harp is dwelling.
Meanwhile, the swarthy crew, each care dispelling,
Had sported thrice three summer suns away
Since they had cast their anchor in the bay.
O none, save Fortune's step-sons, doomed to roam
The deep, can prize a harbour and a home!
The temperate breeze their sun-bronz'd temples
blessing-

A native shore the gladden'd eye refreshing-
The painted pinnace dancing from the land
Freighted with friends-the pressure of the hand
Whose pulse throbs happy seconds..the warm gush
of blood into the cheek, as it would rush
With the heart's welcome ere the tongue could half
Perform its office...feeling's telegraph!
Impassion❜d smiles, and tears of rapture starting...
Oh, how unlike the tears which fell at parting!
And all were their's...that good ship's gallant crew...
As though each joy which absence rendered due
Were paid in one ght moment: such are known
To those long severed, loving, loved, alone!

A gorgeous freight that broad-sail'd vessel bore...
The blazing diamonds and the blushing ore;
Spices that sigh'd their incense, till the sails
Were fanned along on aromatic gales
From Orient lands. Then marvel not if he
Who there is Chief should look exultingly
Back on the storms he baffled, and should know
The bosom's warmest wildest overflow

While gazing on the land which laugh'd before him...

The smooth sea round the blue pavillion o'er him!
Yet felt he more than ever sprang from these,
For love demanded deeper sympathies;
And long in lonely bower had sigh'd for him
A fond fair Bride, whose infant Cherubina
Oft spirit-clouded from its playthings crept,
To weep beside its mother while she wept.
But O, they met at length! And such sweet days
Already proved as leave a light which plays
Upon the memory when their warmth is gone...
The fount thus treasures sunbeams, and shines on

447

Thro' dusk and darkness. Like some happy mother,
Joy mark'd the hours pursuing one another...
A wreath of buoyant angels! Yet, as they
Wheel'd laughing round, oft sigh'd...to make them
stay!

This was a day of banqueting on board;
And swan-wing'd barks, and barges many-oar'd,
Came crowded to the feast. The young...the gay...
The beautiful...were there. Right merrily
The pleasure boats glide onward...with swift prow
The clear wave curling, till around each bow,
With frequent flash, the bright and feathery spray
Threw mimic rainbows at the sun in play.
The ship is won, the silken chair is lower'd...
Exulting Youth and Beauty bound on board;
And while they wondering gaze on sail and shroud,
The flag flaps o'er them like a crimson cloud.

Young Pleasure kiss'd each heart! from Persia's
Joom

An ample awning spread its purple bloom
To canopy the guests; and vases, wreathed
With deep-hued flowers and foliage, sweetly
breathed

Their incense, fresh as zephyrs when they rove
Among the blossoms of a citron grove :
Soft sounds (invisible spirits on the wing)
Were heard and felt around them hovering:
In short, some magie seem'd to sway the hour,
The wand-struck deck becomes an orient bower!
A very wilderness of blushing roses,
Just such as Love would choose when he reposes.
The pendant orange from a lush of leaves
Hangs like Hesperian gold; and tied in sheaves,
Carnations prop their triple coronals:
The grape, out-peeping from thick foliage falls
Like cluster'd amethysts in deep festoons;
And shells are scatter'd round which Indian moons
Had sheeted with the silver of their beams:
But O, what, more than all, the scene beseems,
Fair, faultless forms, glide there with wing-like

motion.

Bright as young Peris rising from the ocean!

Eve darkened down and yet they were not gone ;
The sky had changed the sudden storm came on!
One way'd on high a ruby-sparkling bowl...
Youth, passion, wine, ran riot in his soul:
"Fill to the brim," he cried," let others peer-
Their doubtful path to Heaven....my heaven is here;
This hour is mine, and who can dash its bliss?
Fate dare not darken such an hour as this!"...
Then stoop'd to quaff...but (as a charm were thrown)
His hand, his lips, grew motionless as stone :
The drunkness of his heart no more deceives...
The thunder growls, the surge-smote vessel heaves;
And, while aghast he star'd, a hurrying squall
Rent the wide awning, and discovered all !
Across their eyes the hissing lightning blazed...
The black wave burst beside them as they gazed;
And dizzily the thick surf scattered o'er them;
And dim and distant loom'd the land before them;
No longer firm the eternal hills did leave
Their solid rest, and heaved, or seemed to heave!
O, 'twas an awful moment...for the crew
Had rashly, deeply drank, while yet they knew

No ruling eye was on them...and became
Wild as the tempest! peril could not tame➡
Nay, stirred their brutal hearts to more excess ;
Round the deserted banquet-board they press.
Like nien transformed to fiends, with oath and yell:
And many deemed the sea less terrible

Than maniaes fiercely ripe for all, or aught,
That ever flashed upon a desperate thought!

[VOL. 4

groan..

Nor woman shrank, nor woman wept alone.
Some, as a bolt had smote them, fell...and some

Stared haggard wild...dismay had struck them dumb.
There were of firmer nerve, or fiercer east,
Who scowl'd defiance back upon the blast....
Half scorning in their haughty souls to be
Thus pent and buffeted. And tenderly,
Even then, to manly hearts fair forms were drawn,
Whose virgin eyes had never shed their dawn
Before soft, beautifully shy...to flush

A Lover's hope; but, as the Dove will rush
Into the school-boy's bosom to elude
The swooping goshawk...woman, thus subdued,
Will cling to those she shunned in lighter mood...
The soul confess emotions but conceal'd...
Pure, glowing, deep, tho' lingeringly revealed:
That true camelion which imbibes the tone
Of every passion-hue she pauses on!

O, 'tis the cheek that's false..so subtly taught
It takes not of its colour from the thought;
But, like volcanic mountains veiled in snow,
Hides the heart's lava, while it works below!

And there were two who loved, but never told
Their love to one another: years had rolled
Since Passion touch'd them with his purple wing,
Tho' still their youth was in its blossoming.
Lofty of soul, as riches were denied,

He deemed it mean to woo a wealthy bride:
And (for her tears were secret) coldly she
Wreath'd her pale brow in maiden dignity.
Yet each had caught the other's eye reposing
And, far as looks disclose, the truth disclosing

But when they met, pride check'd the soul's warm sigh,

And froze the melting spirit of the eye...
A pride in vulgar hearts that never shone:
And thus they loved, and silently loved on.
But this was not a moment when the head

Could trifle with the heart! the cloud which spread.
Its chilling veil between them, now had past...
Too long awaking...but they woke at last!
He rush'd where clung the fainting fair one...songht
To soothe with hopes he felt not, cherished not:
And, while in passionate support he prest,
She raised her eyes...then swiftly on his breast
Hid her blanched cheek.as if resigned to share
The worst with him...nay, die contented there!
That silent act was fondly eloquent ;

And to the youth's deep soul, like lightning, sent
A gleam of rapture.exquisite yet brief
As his (poor wretch) that in the grave of grief,
Feels Fortune's sun burst on him, and looks up
With hope to Heaven...forgetful of the cup,
The deadly cup his shivering hand yet strain'd...
A hot heart-pang reminds him...it is drain'd!
Away with words! for when had true love ever
A happy star to bless it ?....Never, never.
And oh, the brightest after smile of Fate
Is but a sad reprieve, which comes...too late.

1

He'll tear thee should'st thou cross him at his prey,
One only trust survives, a doubtful one-
Bat O, how cherished, every other gone :
"While hold our cables, fear not."-As he spoke
A sea burst o'er them, and their cables broke!
Then, like a lion bounding from the toil,
The ship shot through the billow's black recoil:
Urged by the howling blast-all guidance gone—
They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on-
Nor dared to question where, nor dared to east
One asking look-for that might be their last.

What frowns so steep in front-a cliff? a rock ?
The groaning vessel staggers in the shock...
The last shriek rings . .

... Hark! whence that voice they hear
Loud o'er the rushing waters-loud and near?
Alas, they dream-'tis but the ocean roar-
Oh no, it echoes from the swarming shore-
Kind Heaven, thy hand was there: with swelling
bound

The vast waves heaved the giant hull aground;
And, ebbing with the turning tide, became,
Like dying monsters, impotent and tame.
Wedged in the sand, their chafing can no more
Than lave her sides, and deaden with their roar
The clamorous burst of joy. But some there were
Whose joy was voiceless as their late despair.
Whose heaven-ward eyes, clasped hands, and

A Deity, sweet WOMAN, and be worshipped.
Ford.

GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,

And her breath hath lost all its faint perfume, And the gloss hath dropped from her golden hair, And her forehead is pale, though no longer fair :

And the Spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that played on her lip hath fled,
And every grace hath now left the dead.

Like slaves they obeyed her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour:
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrank from the tone of her last sad sigh :---
And this is Man's fidelity.

Tis Woman alone, with a firmer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more; and soothe, and bless
Man in his utter wretchedness.

W.

NO. 12.]

[VOL. IV.

LETTER SECOND.

Lausanne, August 25, 1817.

AFTER the death of Robespierre,

Madame de Staël was enabled to return to France. During some years, however, she divided her time between Paris and Switzerland. Bonaparte at last made himself master of the world, and banished her to the estate of Coppet. Being at this time engaged in travel, I was removed from her for a considerable period. I read, however, the works which she published during the interval. These had increased my desire of again seeing her; for they all expressed the most striking opinions, and developed the social system to which new ages are inviting us.

At last, in the autumn of 1808, I was able to quit Italy and to return to Switzerland. I pursued my journey without stopping, in order the more quickly to reach Coppet. Approaching the hospitable mansion, where the foreigner was ever sure of a kind reception, I was surprised to find the avenue filled with carriages. The abode of the exiled is seldom distinguished by what M. de Chateaubriant would in the present case have called the pomp of exile.

Following the crowd, I arrived at the Chateau and entered it with a sort of dread of so great an assemblage. I proceeded into the vestibule, looking for 31 ATHENEUM, vol. 4.

some one to announce me, but could find nobody at leisure to do it. One ser

vant was running towards a wing of the

house with a casque and a lance-another was calling for help to raise up a pillar which had fallen, and a third, half clad, asked in a theatrical tone for knots of ribbands which he had mislaid.

I soon discovered, without much help from the imagination, that they were preparing for a theatrical representation; and I felt that in the state of matters, I should be hardly noticed, even were I presented, and resolved to profit by the politeness of the servants, who invited me to walk in.

I at last entered the great gallery where the stage was erected, and in which nearly 300 persons, of all nations, were already assembled. These were communicating their conjectures to each other, as to the nature of the performance, in different languages, previous to the rising of the curtain.

I thus learnt that Madame de Staël had written the piece which was about to be performed. This redoubled my curiosity. When the curtain rose, the stage represented an eastern hall, and a group of young Israelites filled the scene. They were preparing for a festival, of which they were practising the dances. In the middle of them I recognised the daughter of Madame

de Staël. She was still a child, but of the most perfect beauty and the most charming simplicity.

The play was called The Shunamite. The subject, though taken from the Bible, was so handled as at once to avoid profanity and levity. Every thing in it was distinguished by antique and noble simplicity.

Madame de Staël performed the part of the widow of Shunam. As happens in the present day, this mother was vain of the talents of her daughter; and, as in the present day, she was aware of the danger of her vanity without endeavouring to conquer it. Her sister, who was of a more humble disposition, blamed that vanity towards which the human heart is so indulgent, but to no purpose; for the Shunamite dwelt ever upon her daughter, and the spectators partook of

her delusion.

In order to make a striking example, Heaven, which condemns maternal vanity as well as every other, deprived the child of life. We beheld her grow pale in the midst of the festival they were celebrating on her account. The shawl which she held dropped from her hand her mother pressed her to her heart, but in vain: the eyes of her child were closed for ever.

The young maidens re-appeared in the second act. Arrayed in mourning they surrounded the bier on which their companion was laid. The unfortunate mother reproached Heaven with her death, but took no reproach to herself. Neither resigned nor submissive, her grief was that of a woman under the influence of passion. Her sister was engaged in prayer at the foot of the bier, expressing her resignation to the will of Heaven.

In the middle of this scene the prophet Elijah entered. Being gifted with the power of working miracles, his presence seemed to inspire even the spectators with confidence.

The prophet shewed this impious mother how the anger of heaven had fallen upon her, but that her repentance could disarm it. While thus under the influence of hope, Elijah disclosed to

[VOL. 4

the Shunamite the mystery of the immortality of the soul. This secret is common in our days, and affects us but slightly; but it had been unheard of at the period when the Eternal deigned, for the first time, to reveal it. This unfortunate mother, who conceived her child to be annihilated, learnt that she still existed, and that we can by no means die.

To attest this mystery Elijah approached the bier. The whole audience looked to the prophet, and the child which he wished to restore to life. We thought we heard her breathe. She raised her hand, then her face, and at last opened her eyelids. She had just begun to live again, and we had been present at one of those great scenes by which our Creator has judged it proper to teach us our destiny. The impression we received from it must have resembled that which they of old had the happiness to experience.

The Shunamite is one of the most remarkable dramatic compositions which has appeared in any language. It belongs to no school, and is neither romantic nor classical. It paints with fidelity the sentiments which our imagination ascribes to the Bible; and that without either overcharging or diminishing them. It awakens in the soul all the religious feelings, without shocking any of them.

After the close of the performance, when the spectators were departing, a singular picture presented itself. A hundred carriages arrived in a line. While waiting for my own, I listened to the remarks of the crowd around me. Many of them were still absorbed in emotion; but the majority had already got rid of it, and were eyeing the bustle which surrounded them. The French exclaimed, "Who could possibly have expected to see such a crowd of company in Switzerland-we really had no idea of it;" the ladies of Lausanne were full of enthusiasm ; those of Geneva were complaining of the fatigue they had experienced; and the Germans were so much affected, that it was necessary to support them into their carriages.