صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

For me-my days are gone.

No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare
Chaplets to bind my hair,

As I was wont: oh! 'twas for you alone.

But, on bier I'll lay

Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,

And, like a broken flower, gently decay.


London Magazine.


JOHN ANDREW GORDIER was born at Jersey, in the early part of the 18th century. He was a respectable and wealthy young man, of inoffensive life, and correct manners. Having been attached for several years to a beautiful and accomplished young woman, in the island of Guernsey, he had surmounted those difficulties which always increase and strengthen the passion of love, and the day for leading his mistress to the altar was at length fixed. The impatience of love, on such an occasion, need not be described; hours were years, and a few leagues ten thousand miles. The land of promise at length appears; he leaps on the beach, and without waiting for refreshment, or his servant and baggage, sets out, alone and on foot, for that house which he had so often visited. The servant, who quickly followed, was surprised at being informed that his master had not yet arrived. Having waited, in anxious expectation, till midnight, the apprehensions of the lady and her family were proportionate to the poignancy of their feelings, and the circumstances of the case: messengers were sent, at the dawn of day, to examine and inquire in different quarters, but without success. After days of dreadful suspense, and nights of unavailing anxiety, the corpse of the unfortunate Gordier was at length discovered in a cavity among the rocks, disfigured with many wounds; but no circumstance transpired on which

to ground a suspicion, or even hazard a conjecture, concerning the perpetrator of so foul a murder. The regret of both families, for a good young man, thus cut off in the meridian of life and expectation, by a cruel assassin, was increased by the mystery in which it was enveloped; the anguish of the young lady was not of a species which relieves itself by external sorrow, and loud lamentation; she never shed a tear, "but let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought." Her virtues and her beauty having excited general admiration, the family, after a few years, was prevailed on to permit Mr. Galliard, a merchant of the island, to become her suitor; in hope that a second lover might gradually withdraw her attention from the lamented catastrophe of her first. In submission to the will of her parents, but with repeated and strong declarations that she never would marry Galliard, he was occasionally admitted; but the unhappy woman found it difficult to suppress a certain involuntary antipathy which she always felt whenever he approached her. Such was the ardour of passion, or such the fascinating magic of her charms, that repulse only stimulated desire, and Galliard persisted in his unwelcome visits, frequently endeavouring, but in vain, to prevail on the unfortunate lady to accept a present from his hands. It was remarked by her friends, that he was particularly urgent to present her with a beautiful trinket of expensive workmanship, and valuable ma terials, which she positively and firmly refused: adding, with a correctness of sentiment, and propriety of conduct, not always observed by women on such occasions, that it was base, dishonourable, and mean, to receive favours from a man whose hand she would never accept. But Galliard, by earnestness, assiduity, and by exciting pity, the common resource of artful men, had won over the mother to second his wishes; in her desire to forward his suit, she had, during the night, tied the trinket in question to her daughter's watch-chain, and forbade her, on pain of maternal displeasure, to remove this token of unaccepted love. The health of the fair mourner

had been considerably impaired by her sufferings, and the mother of the murdered man, who had ever regarded her with the tenderest affection, crossed the sea to visit her, and offer every consolation in her power, and what in such cases is always the most soothing consolation, to mingle tears with hers. The sight of one so nearly related to her first, her only love, called forth a thousand melancholy ideas in her mind; she recounted many little incidents, which lovers only consider as important, to the old lady, who fondly inquired into and anxiously obtained every minute particular concerning her beloved son. It was during one of these conversations that the afflicted female sunk in a convulsion on the floor; and while her relations were conveying her towards a sofa, their terror was considerably augmented, by observing that the eyes of Mrs. Gordier were instantaneously caught by the glittering appendage to the lady's watchchain, that well-known token of her son's affection, which, with a loud voice, frantic gesture, and disordered countenance, she declared her son had purchased, as a gift for his mistress, previous to his last departure from Jersey. With a dreadful look, in which horror, indignation, wonder, and suspicion were alternately mingled, she repeated this extraordinary circumstance, as well as the agitated state of her feelings would permit, to the victim of affliction, during the interval of a short recovery. The moment the poor sufferer understood that the splendid toy she had hitherto so much despised was once in the possession of Gordier, the intelligence seemed to plant new daggers in her heart; she made an effort to press it to her lips: her eyes for a moment exhibited the wild stare of madness stung to its highest pitch, by the envenomed dart of horrible conviction; then crying out, "Oh! murderous villain!" she expired in the arms of an attendant. After such a discovery it seems scarcely necessary to unfold the circumstances of this mysterious assassination. Galliard, enamoured of, and envying Gordier the possession of his mistress, had evidently way-laid him from the port, murdered, and plundered him of the trinket; hoping that after his


death he might possess a jewel far more precious. being charged with the crime, he denied it, but with evident confusion and equivocation; and while the injured family were despatching a messenger for the officers of justice, he confirmed their suspicions by suicide, and an impious letter left in his apartment.




I AM one of those unfortunate parents, who, as my wife observes, are blest, but as experience tells me, are curst, with a son who is cleverer than his father. I was born to a considerable estate in Hampshire; and although I make the observation, was considered as a youth of rising genius and ability, being known all over the country for the superior way in which I smoked hams, cured bacon, and held the plough. I early imbibed an aversion to literature, from the appearance of our village curate, who was a poet and a philosopher, but throve so much worse on these qualities than our family did on bacon, that I determined never to introduce a book into our cottage, except the Art of Cookery, and the Prayer Book. I kept this vow until my son attained the age of fourteen years, and as I often boasted to my neighbours, knew neither how to write nor read. One unhappy evening, when I had invited the learned curate to try the goodness of my new-made wines, and cream cheeses, the conversation turned on the subject of education. "I vow," said our guest to my wife, " you should send your son William to the grammar-school at Winchester; it was there I picked up my learning;" and your leanness too, thought I. No, no, Mr. Curate, William shall never, during my lifetime, be guilty of knowing how to write or read verses, or any such stuff. I have heard of your poets and philosophers," I added, casting a glance at my reverend friend's length of face, and scantiness of apparel," and never shall my son lose


the ruddiness of his cheek, or the peace of his mind, for all the talent that a year's schooling can bring." The subject was now dropped for some time, until again resumed by the policy of the curate, who was my wife's agent in this concerted scheme. "Pray, good folks," said he, addressing us all, "who wrote the Psalms?" "Proverbs," cried I, with a cunning look of intelligence; "Revelations," screamed my wife; Job," roared my daughter; "Moses," shrieked my sister; "David," whined my son. "Well done, my boy," exclaimed the curate; and after a few well-feigned hysterics on the part of my wife, to which my children furnished a chorus, I was prevailed upon to send William to Winchester.


A sad alteration has since taken place in our family; my poor boy has returned from school, but so altered both in person and manner, that even the acute instinct of parental affection can scarcely recognize him. His cheeks, which were once as red as the sun at mid-day, and as broad, Mr. Editor, as a Christmas ham, are now wan and pale; and to aggravate, if possible, my distress, he actually exults in the change, and tells me that red cheeks are completely out of fashion; and that a poet should always be like a Daddy Longlegs. "An author, sir," said he, "should be as thin as the poet of old, who was compelled to put lead in his pockets, lest he should be blown away by the violence of the wind." "Ah! Will,” said I, "the brass in your face will supersede the necessity of wearing lead in your pocket;" and pleased, for an instant, at the only joke I ever brought forth that was not still-born, resumed awhile my wonted mirth and good humour.


It was but the other day, Mr. Editor, that I met my son at the door, drenched to the skin, and disfigured with mud: on inquiring into the cause of his disaster, he informed me that he had been endeavouring to imitate the character of a shepherd, in Pope's Pastorals. Pope's Pastorals," I exclaimed, "what are you going to desert the religion of your ancestors, and turn Catholic, you unnatural heretic?" No, father," said he, with a rueful smile," Pope was a poet, who wrote verses

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