صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

with respect to the establishment of parochial seminaries," and which fell stillborn from the press. He therefore retorted with some acrimony, until, from less to more, Miss Mally ordered him to keep his distance; upon which he bounced out of the room, and they were never afterwards on speaking terms. Saving, however, and excepting this particular dogma, Miss Mally was on all other topics as liberal and beneficent as could be expected from a maiden lady, who was obliged to eke out her stinted income with a nimble needle and a close-clipping economy. The conversation with Mr Snodgrass was not, however, lengthened into acrimony; for immediately after the remark which we have noticed, she proposed that they should call on Miss Isabella Todd to see Rachel's letter; indeed this was rendered necessary by the state of the fire, for after boiling the kettle she had allowed it to fall low. It was her nightly practice after tea, to take her evening seam, in a friendly way, to some of her neighbours' houses, by which she saved both coal and candle, while she acquired the news of the day, and was occasionally invited to stay supper.

On their arrival at Mrs Todd's, Miss Isabella understood the purport of their visit, and immediately produced her letter, receiving, at the same time, a perusal of Mr Andrew Pringle's. Mrs Pringle's to Miss Mally she had previously seen.

LETTER XXIV.

MY DEAR BELL,-Since my last we have undergone great changes and vicissitudes. Last week we removed to our present house, which is exceeding ly handsome and elegantly furnished; and on Saturday there was an insurrection of the servants, on account of my mother not allowing them to have their dinners served up at the usual hour for servants in other genteel houses. We have also had the legacy in the funds transferred to my father, and only now wait the settling of the final accounts, which will yet take some time. On the day that the transfer took place, my mother made me a present of a twenty pound note, to lay out in any way I thought fit, and in doing so, I could not but think of you; I have, therefore, in a box which she is sending to Miss Mally Glencairn, sent you an evening dress from Mrs Bean's, one of the most fashionable and tasteful dressmakers in town, which I hope you will wear with pleasure for my sake. I have got one exactly like it, so that when you see yourself in the glass, you will behold in what state I appeared at Lady's route.

Ah! my dear Bell, how much are our expectations disappointed! How often have we, with admiration and longing wonder, read the descriptions in the newspapers of the fashionable parties in this great metropolis, and thought of the Grecian lamps, the ottomans, the promenades, the ornamented floors, the cut glass, the coup d'œiul, and the tout ensamble. Alas! VOL. VIII.

[blocks in formation]

I went with the Argents; the halldoor was open, and filled with the servants in their state liveries; but although the door was open, the porter, as each carriage came up, rung a peal upon the knocker, to announce to all the square the successive arrival of the guests. We were shewn up stairs to the drawing-rooms. They were very well, but neither so grand nor so great as I expected. As for the company, it was a suffocating crowd of fat elderly gentlewomen, and misses that stood in need of all the charms of their fortunes. One thing I could notice— for the press was so great, little could be seen-it was, that the old ladies wore rouge. The white satin sleeve of my dress was entirely ruined by coming in contact with a little, round, dumpling duchess's cheek-as vulgar a body as could well be. She seemed to me to have spent all her days behind a counter smirking thankfulness to bawbee customers.

When we had been shewn in the drawing-rooms to the men for some time, we then adjourned to the lower apartments, where the refreshments were set out. This, I suppose, is arranged to afford an opportunity to the beaux to be civil to the belles, and thereby to scrape acquaintance with those C

whom they approve, by assisting them to the delicacies. Altogether, it was a very dull well-dressed affair, and yet I ought to have been in good spirits, for Sir Marmaduke Towler, a great Yorkshire baronet, was most particular in his attentions to me-indeed so much so, that I saw it made poor Sabre very uneasy. I do not know why it should, for I have given him no positive encouragement to hope for any thing; not that I have the least idea that the baronet's attentions were more than common-place politeness, but he has since called. I cannot however say, that my vanity is at all flattered by this circumstance. At the same time, there surely could be no harm in Sir Marmaduke making me an offer, for you know I am not bound to

accept it. Besides, my father does not like him, and my mother thinks he's a fortune-hunter; but I cannot conceive how that may be, for, on the contrary, he is said to be rather extravagant.

Before we return to Scotland, it is intended that we shall visit some of the watering places; and perhaps, if Andrew can manage it with my father, we may even take a trip to Paris. The doctor himself is not averse to it, but my mother is afraid that a new war may break out, and that we may be detained prisoners. This fantastical fear, we shall, however, try to overcome. But I am interrupted. Sir Marmaduke is in the drawing-room, and I am summoned.-Yours truly, RACHEL PRINGLE.

When Mr Snodgrass had read this letter, he paused for a moment, and then said, dryly, in handing it to Miss Isabella: "Miss Pringle is improving in the ways of the world." The evening by this time was far advanced, and the young clergyman was not desirous to renew the conversation; he therefore almost immediately took his leave, and walked sedately towards Garnock, debating with himself as he went along, whether Dr Pringle's family were likely to be benefited by their legacy. But he had scarcely passed the minis ter's carse, when he met with Mrs Glibbans returning. Mr Snodgrass! Mr Snodgrass!" cried that ardent matron from her side of the road to the other where he was walking, and he obeyed her call. "Yon is no sic a black story as I thought; Mrs Craig is to be sure far gane, but they were married in December; and it was only because she was his servan' lass, that the worthy man didna like to own her at first for his wife. It would have been dreadful had the matter been as I jealoused at the first. She gaed to Glasgow to see an auntie that she has there, and he gaed in to fetch her out, and it was then the marriage was made up-which I was glad to hear-for, oh, Mr Snodgrass, it would have been an awfu' judgment had a man like Mr Craig turnt out no better than a Tam Pain or a Major Weir. But a''s for the best, and Him that has the power of salvation can blot out all our iniquities--so good night-ye'll have a lang walk.

THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD, &c.*

OUR readers can scarcely have forgotten a very splendid poem, entitled "Paris," which was published about the year 1815, and which attracted, at the time of its publication, no inconsiderable share of the applause to which its merits, both of purpose and execution, entitled it. It was known, we believe, soon after, that Mr Croly was the author of this poem; and the public were at that time prepared to place his name high up a

mong contemporary poets. But if any one attribute were to be permitted to give name to this age of our literature, perhaps it would be no other than that of FERTILITY. Nothing is more certain, than that an author of this time, if he would keep his ground, must shew his possession of this attribute, and take care, by frequent appeals, to remind all men of his merits and of his claims. The truth is, that Mr Croly's beautiful poem of

* The Angel of the World; an Arabian Tale: Sebastian; a Spanish Tale: with other Poems. By the Rev. George Croly, A.M. London: John Warren. 1820.

1

[ocr errors]

"Paris" had been begun to be forgotten; and it was high time that both he and it should be recalled to the public eye by some such fresh and forcible demonstration of existence as may be found abundantly in the volume now before us. WE are well aware, that the period of Mr Croly's poetical silence has not been a period of indolence; but this is not the time for expressing all that we feel concerning the services he has been rendering to his country, and the literature of his country too, during the last year. He may rest assured, that the day will come when none of his many merits shall be suffered to sleep in the oblivion of thanklessness. It is with his poetry alone that we are at present concerned.

"The Angel of the World," which stands first in the new volume, is a beautiful paraphrase on one of the most graceful fictions of the Koran. The angels, Haruth and Maruth, had, it seems, spoken uncharitably concerning mankind—and expressed, in the regions above, great contempt for those temptations which are, and have long been found, most efficacious for overthrowing the resolution of terrestrial virtue. That they might have their own fearless purity put to the proof, the two proud Angels were sent down to dwell for a season on the earth, and to mingle with those that it inherit. A WOMAN was sent to tempt them, and they fell. Her charms won them first to drink of the forbidden fruit of the grape; and after that fall, all others were easy. They stained their essence with the corruptions of sense, and betrayed to mortal ears "the words that raise men to Angels."

In order to simplify, and thereby increase the interest of this story, our poet has contented himself with narrating the seduction of one Angel only; but he has wisely adhered, in all other respects, to the original of the legend. With infinite splendour of language, he describes "the Angel of the World" as tabernacled within a lofty tower near the city of Damascus, there listening to the petitions of the Children of Earth. A variety of temptations appear in different human shapes, and are stedfastly resisted. At last comes the moment of peril. The form arose the face was in a veil, The voice was low, and often check'd with sighs;

The tale it utter'd was a simple tale;
A vow to close a dying parent's eyes,
Had brought its weary steps from Tripolis;
The Arab in the Syrian mountains lay,
The caravan was made the robber's prize,
The pilgrim's little wealth was swept away,
Man's help was vain. The voice here sank
in soft decay.

"And this is Earth!" the Angel frowning
said,

And from the ground he took a matchless

gem,

And flung it to the mourner, then outspread
His mighty pinions in the parting beam;
The pilgrim started at the diamond's gleam,
Look'd up in pray'r, then, bending near the
throne,

Shed the quick tears that from the bosom

stream,

And tried to speak, but tears were there alone;

The

pitying Angel said, "Be happy and be gone."

The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip First dawn'd: then glow'd the young cheek's deeper hue.

Yet delicate as roses when they dip
Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew.
Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living

blue;

Half shaded by the curls of glossy hair, That turned to golden as the light wind threw

Their clusters in the western golden glare. Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze Was at his look dropp'd instant on the

ground;

But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze,
Her bosom heaved above its silken bound,
As if the soul had felt some sudden wound.
He looked again; the cheek was deadly pale;
The bosom sank with one long sigh profound;
Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil,
And one still press'd her heart-that sigh
told all its tale.

She stoop'd and from the thicket pluck'd a flower,

Kiss'd it with eager lip, then with faint hand Laid it upon the bright step of the bower Such was the ancient custom of the land. Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd,

The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet; Yet even that sweet slight boon, 'twas Heaven's command,

He must not touch, from her though doubly No

sweet,

earthly gift must stain that hallow'd judgment-seat.

The flower still lay upon the splendid spot, The Pilgrim turn'd away as sinote with shame;

Her eye a glance of self-upbraiding shot, That pierced his bosom like a shaft of flame. The humbled one pronounced and bless'd

his name,

[blocks in formation]

food;

Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude, Victim of visions that life's purpose steal, Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued, Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal;

Bright Spirit was it thine that mortal woe to feel?

The Angel takes up the flowerand, in spite of a warning thunderpeal, followed by a terrible storm of the desert, permits his dangerous visitant to remain in his bower. He listens to her song, and then comes another warning from heaven, attended with equal success.

The Angel knew the warning of that storm; But saw the shuddering Minstrel's step draw near,

And felt the whole deep witchery of her form,

Her sigh was music's echo to his ear;
He loved-and true love ever banished fear.
Now night had droop'd on earth her raven

wing;

But in the arbour all was splendour clear; And like twin spirits in its charmed ring Shone, that sweet child of earth, and that

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

He knew his ruin, but his soul was quell'd; He shudder'd-gazed upon her cheek again, Press'd her pale lip, and to the last that cup did drain.

The Enchantress smiled, as still in some sweet dream,

Then waken'd in a long, delicious sigh,
And on the bending Spirit fixed the beam
Of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye.
The undone Angel gave no more reply
Than hiding his pale forehead in the hair
That floated on her neck of ivory,

And breathless pressing, with her ringlets fair,

From his bright eyes the tears of passion

and despair.

The convulsions on earth, sea, and sky, which follow the draining of the guilty cup, satisfy the Angel that his doom is sealed. The temptress, however, faints by his side, and he thinks of nothing but her.

The Angel cheer'd her, "No! let Justice wreak

Its wrath upon them both, or him alone." A flush of love's pure crimson lit her cheek; She whisper'd, and his stoop'd ear drank the

tone

With mad delight; "Oh there is one way,

one

To save us both. Are there not mighty words Graved on the magnet throne where Solomon Sits ever guarded by the Genii swords,

To give thy servant wings like her resplendent Lord's?"

This was the Sin of Sins! The first, last crime,

In earth and heaven, unnamed, unnameable; This from his gorgeous throne, before all time,

Had smitten Eblis, brightest, first that fell; He started back." What urged him to rebel !

What led that soft seducer to his bow'r! Could she have laid upon his soul that spell, Young, lovely, fond; yet but an earthly flow'r ?"

But for that fatal cup, he had been free that

[blocks in formation]

stream;

He felt her clasp his knees in agony; He spoke the words of might, the thunder gave reply!

Away! away! the sky is one black cloud, Shooting the lightnings down in spire on spire.

Now, round the Mount its canopy is bow'd,

A vault of stone on columns of red fire.
The stars like lamps along its roof expire;
But thro' its centre bursts an orb of rays;
The Angel knew the Avenger in his ire!
The hill-top smoked beneath the stooping
blaze,

The culprits dared not there their guilty eyeballs raise.

And words were utter'd from that whirling sphere,

That mortal sense might never hear and live. They pierced like arrows thro' the Angel's

ear;

He bow'd his head; 'twas vain to fly or strive.

Down comes the final wrath: the thunders give

The doubled peal,-the rain in cataracts

[blocks in formation]

Whose love had lost him Paradise, was gone; He dared not see her corpse !-he closed his eyes;

A voice burst o'er him, solemn as the tone Of the last trump,-he glanced upon the skies,

He saw what shook his soul with terror, shame, surprise.

Th' Enchantress stood before him; two broad plumes

Spread from her shoulders on the burthen'd

air;

Her face was glorious still, but love's young blooms

Had vanish'd for the hue of bold despair; A fiery circle crown'd her sable hair; And, as she look'd upon her prostrate prize, Her eyeballs shot around a meteor glare, Her form tower'd up at once to giant size; "Twas EBLIS, king of Hell's relentless sovereignties.

The tempter spoke-" Spirit, thou might'st have stood,

But thou hast fall'n a weak and willing slave. Now were thy feeble heart our serpents' food, Thy bed our burning ocean's sleepless wave, But haughty Heaven controuls the power it gave.

Yet art thou doom'd to wander from thy sphere,

Till the last trumpet reaches to the grave ;* Till the Sun rolls the grand concluding year; Till Earth is Paradise; then shall thy crime be clear."

[ocr errors]

warn

Our readers, after perusing these specimens, will agree with us in thinking, that Mahomet's beautiful ing against wine" has been treated in a style worthy of its beauty. Mr. Croly, however, may do well to devote himself henceforth to subjects of more directly human interest. It is only playing with his strength to lavish so much splendour on a story, the chief merit of which, after all he has done, must be admitted to lie in the first conception.

There is another poem in the volume, against the subject of which nothing can be said, but we are afraid, in its execution, Mr Croly has indulged himself in very culpable haste and negligence-faults, of which comparatively few traces can be discovered in "the Angel of the World." This is the tale of "Sebastian," a fine romantic sketch of Spanish adventure, breathing, throughout, all the rich and passionate spirit of the land where its scene is laid. It is a pity that the young poet had not bestowed more pains on this production, for the story is very happy; and here and there there do occur particular passages ela

« السابقةمتابعة »