her loveliness has no dress like this. She has no hues equal to the play
of colors on these walls and columns of ice, extending far as the eye can
reach down the ravine, and towering in more than colossal grandeur. The
water is in treble volume, and force and voice; and as it rolls its white
folds of spotless foam down the valley, it reminds one of the great white
throne of the Revelations, and this wavy foam the folds of the robe that
filled the temple.'
'It is inexpressibly, oppressively beautiful, Sear Leaf!'
'Speaking of Revelation, how accurate is the description in Manfred of
this scene!'
'Let me hear it:'
'It is not noon; the sun-bow's rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
O'er the crags headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,
The giant steed to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the apocalypse.'
'Well, Madam, why are you silent? Shall we go?'
'No. I could stay here till nightfall. I was thinking of the lines
succeeding those you have repeated:
----'No eyes
But mine now drink the sight of loveliness,''
'Am I nobody?'
'We are alone here. How many of the light of heart, in youth and strength
and beauty, climbed these rocks, shouted in these old woods, and gathered
the summer flowers along these banks--and passed away! Where are they now!
Some who wrote their names in the traveller's book in this cottage, have
them now written by others on their tombstone. One I knew well, who, full
of health and beauty, passed up this wild ravine, who has faded like the
flowers she culled, and is now in her father's house, to pass in a few
more days to heaven. And of all the rest, did we know their history, what
a picture would it give of life!'
'You are thoughtful for one so young.'
'Are not twenty years enough to make one a moment thoughtful? Tell me now,
thou of the gray head, of what art _thou_ thinking?'
'Of earth's fairest scene, blent with her fairest daughter.'
'Bravo! For what fair lady on your native mountains did you frame that
compliment twenty years ago?'
'Madam!'
'Well?'
'It is time to return.'
G. P. T.
THE RUINS OF BURNSIDE.
Sadly, amid this once delightful plain,
Stern ruin broods o'er crumbling porch and wall,
And shapeless stones, with moss o'ergrown, remain
To tell, Burnside, the story of thy fall:
These ancient oaks, although decaying, green,
Like weary watchers, guard the solemn scene.
Where cowslip cup and daisy sweetly bloomed,
Hemlock and fern, in rank luxuriance spread;
Where rose and lily once the air perfumed,
Wild dock and nettle sprout, no fragrance shed:
And here no more the throstle's mellow lay
Awakes with gladsome song the jocund day.
O'er yon church wall the ivy creeps, as fain
To shield it from thy withering touch, Decay;
No pastor ever more shall there explain
The sacred text, nor with his hearers, pray
To the Eternal Throne for grace divine;
Nor sing His praise, nor taste the bread and wine.
And here of yore the parish school-house stood,
Where flaxen-pated boys were taught to read;
At merry noon, in wild unfettered mood,
They rushed with boisterous glee to stream or mead;
The care-worn teacher homeward wends his way,
And freer feels than his free boys at play.
Yon roofless cot, which still the alders shade,
While all around is desolate and sere,
Perchance the dwelling of some village maid,
Who fondly watched her aged parents here;
And with her thrifty needle, or her wheel,
Earned for the lowly three the scanty meal.
Close by yon smithy stood the village inn,
Where farmers clinched each bargain o'er a glass;
And oft, amid mirth's unrestricted din,
Would Time with softer foot, and swifter pass.
The husband here his noisy revel kept,
While by her lonely hearth the good wife wept.
At lazy twilight, 'neath yon ancient elm,
The village statesmen met in grave debate,
And sagely told, if at their country's helm,
How bravely they would steer the ship of state
From treacherous quicksands or from leeward shore,
And all they said, betrayed their wondrous lore.
I've seen the thoughtless rustic pass thee by;
In thee, perhaps, his ancestors were bred,
And, at my question, point without a sigh,
Where calmly rest thy unremembered dead;
I asked thy fate, and, as he answered, smiled,
'Thus looked these ruins since I was a child.'
Methinks, Burnside, I see thee in thy prime,
When thou wert blessed with innocent content,
Thy robust dwellers, prodigal of time,
Yet still with cheerful heart to labor went;
Nor envied lordly pomp, with courtly train,
Of empty rank and fruitful acres vain.
Methinks I see a summer evening pass,
When thou wert peopled, and in sinless glee
Methinks the lusty ploughman and his lass
Dance with unmeasured mirth, enraptured, free,
While seated from the joyous throng apart,
The blind musician labors at his art.
Though fancy, wayward as the vagrant wind,
May picture scenes of unambitious taste,
Yet vainly now, we look around to find
Thy early beauty mid this dreary waste;
Unmourned, unmissed, thus in thy fallen state,
Thou art an emblem of the common fate!
Before the stern destroyer all shall bow,
And sweet Burnside, like thine, 'twill be my lot
To lie a ruin, tenantless and low,
By friends unmentioned, and by foes forgot:
As earth's uncounted millions I shall be--
No mortal think, no record speak of me!
KENNETH ROOKWOOD.
CORONATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.
BY THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT.
There is one great and peculiar characteristic in all the movements of
JOHN BULL. A more gullible epitome of the human race does not exist. Let
the case be right or wrong, only apply to him an inflammatory preparation,
through the medium of a little exaggerated truth, and his frame is
prepared to receive the largest dose of monstrous improbabilities that can
possibly be administered; and till he has had his 'full swing' in the
expression of his outraged feelings and boiling indignation, you might as
easily attempt to check the mighty torrent of Niagara. John, however, is a
free agent, and on the truest principles of freedom will hear but one side
of the question as long as his prejudices continue; and after all, I
believe it may fairly be put down to an honest impulse in favor of the
oppressed, and a determination that no man, however elevated in rank,
shall be screened from that equal justice which England delights in
according. But the scales of justice, though equally balanced in the
courts, get so bruised and bespattered in the minds of the fickle
multitude, that time alone will bring them to their proper equilibrium.
Let us travel back to the impeachment of the DUKE OF YORK, in the case of
the celebrated MRS. CLARK. To attempt to palliate the acts of His Royal
Highness was to commit an overt act of treason against the sovereign
people; to admit his indiscretions, but deny his guilty participation, or
even knowledge of the peculations committed in his name, would expose one
to the reputation of being either a fool or a madman. The sage counsellors
of the city, those bright constellations immortalized in all ages, not
only set the noble example of awarding the freedom of the city to the
immortal Colonel Wardle for his wholesale calumnies, but services of plate
poured in from all parts; and even a portion of the legislators of Great
Britain were offering up their humble adoration at the shrine of an
accomplished courtezan. What was the result? Reflection gradually
triumphed; all the gross and filthy exaggerations were sifted through the
dirty channels which had given rise to them; a sober judgment at length
was given; and the Duke, though not freed from the responsibility of
having been betrayed into great errors, was honorably and universally
acquitted of all intentional wrong. From that moment a more popular prince
was not in existence; and with the exception of those human infirmities
'which flesh is heir to,' few men descended to the grave more really
beloved. The chief of the gang of persecutors, Colonel Wardle, shrunk into
miserable retirement, and died 'unwept, unhonored, and unsung.'
This, however, was nothing when compared with the mighty fever of
excitement produced in the public mind by the arrival of QUEEN CAROLINE in
England. Here was political diet to satisfy the cravings of all parties; a
stepping-stone to popularity in which all ranks participated. The peer,
the lawyer, the church-warden, down to the very skimmings of the parish;
sober rational people; the class so honorably prized in England, the
middle class, also became enthusiasts in the cause of the 'most virtuous
Queen that ever graced these realms.' The independent voters of
Westminster; the illustrious class of donkey-drivers; the retailers of
cats'-meat; all, all felt a noble indignation at the treatment of 'KEVEEN
CAROLINE.' Days that if allotted to labor would have increased the
comforts of their homes and families, were freely sacrificed to
processions in honor of Her Majesty. Addresses poured in from every parish
in the vast metropolis; representatives of virtuous females were hired,
all dressed in white--sweet emblem of their purity! Perhaps England was
never nearer the brink of engulphing ruin. The high Tory aristocracy
almost stood alone at this momentous period. The public sentiment took but
one tone at the theatres; and 'GOD save the QUEEN' was continually called
for. At Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane an occasional struggle was made
against the popular cry, but it was speedily drowned in clamor. The trial
commenced, and an unfortunate witness appeared on behalf of the crown, who
obtained the universal cognomen of '_Non mi Ricordo_.' This added fuel to
the fire; and the irritation of the public mind was roused into phrenzy by
the impression that perjured witnesses were suborned from foreign
countries to immolate the Queen upon the altar of vengeance. If the
Queen's counsel had been satisfied with allowing the evidence for the
prosecution to remain uncontradicted, and suffered the case to stand upon
its own merits, Her Majesty must have been acquitted; but 'by your own
lips I will condemn you' was made too manifest in the defence. The
division left so small a majority, that ministers wisely abandoned any
farther prosecution of the case. I heard most of the speeches of the
defence; and it was curious to observe the different modes of argument
adopted. BROUGHAM was an advocate, pleading eagerly a doubtful cause;
DENMAN was the enthusiastic defender of a Queen conscious of her
innocence, and setting all personal considerations at defiance. The public
feeling, no longer fed by an opposing power, calmly settled down, and men
began to wonder at the cause of their phrenzy. The innocence of the Queen
did not appear so manifest, as the unwise and heartless treatment she
experienced. 'A widowed wife, a childless mother;' these were powerful
enough to excite the deepest sympathy; and certainly a much harder lot
could not have befallen the humblest of her sex. Theatres are very
commonly the touchstones by which one may discover the bearing of the
public mind; and Her Majesty, by way of proving it, visited all the minor
theatres, which were densely crowded upon each attendance. A play was then
commanded at the two Theatres Royal. The effect produced at Drury-Lane I
do not recollect; but it is certain that the announcement at Covent-Garden
reduced rather than increased the receipts. The pit was but moderately
attended, and the boxes nearly deserted. This was a touchstone from which
there was no escaping; and it was really a mortifying scene to witness the
utter neglect with which majesty was received. But alas! the bitter cup of
mortification was to be drained to the very dregs; and the Queen's own
rashness, or the bad advice of wrong-headed counsellors, hastened the
catastrophe.
A short period had elapsed, when the public attention was gradually
directed toward THE CORONATION. The court papers teemed with descriptions
of the expected magnificence. The length of time that had intervened
between the coronation of George III. and the intended pageant of George
IV., excited all the feeling of novelty. The known magnificence of the
King, his undisputed taste, and his gallant, princely bearing, all kept
attention on the _qui vive_. The unfortunate Queen, who obstinately
rejected all compromise, remained in the country; and like an ignis
fatuus, disturbed the serenity of men's minds, and kept alive a feeling of
anxiety. Mr. Harris, the manager and one of the proprietors of
Covent-Garden, was gifted with a tact always ready to take advantage of
scenes of passing interest. He lost no time in reviving the second part of
Henry IV., with all the splendor of the coronation. The champion on this
occasion excited much more interest than all the beauties of SHAKSPEARE,
and the theatre was nightly crowded to suffocation. The whole company of
performers paraded in the procession; and though a member of the peerage,
I cannot exactly call to mind the title I bore; which, however, with my
accustomed good fortune, I exchanged for a real character at the real
coronation. Having the honor of being known most particularly to the Earl
of Glengall, he with the greatest kindness made me his page upon that
memorable occasion. This certainly was a very distinguished mark of his
friendship, for only one Esquire was allotted to each peer, and the
greatest interest was made to obtain those appointments.
The eventful morning came; and London presented at day-break crowds of
carriages of every description, and its floating population pouring in
dense masses to every point that possessed the slightest degree of
interest. Lord Glengall, in order to avoid the misery of passing through
crowded streets, and of being every moment impeded in his course, engaged
apartments in Lambeth, at Godfrey and Jule's, the boat-builders, where he
slept the night preceding. His lordship had appointed me to breakfast with
him there, at six o'clock on that eventful morning; I was resolved to be
in time, and at half past two, A. M., I left my home and fell in with a
line of carriages on my way toward Westminster bridge. I found that many
of them had been there from twelve the preceding night; peers and
peeresses in their robes, gently moving, not hastening, to the desired
spot. After waiting some two hours with exemplary patience, and finding my
case entirely hopeless, I wisely took the precaution of driving to the
water-side at Chelsea, for the purpose of procuring a boat. As it is
possible that some of the distinguished artists of the day may wish to
convey my appearance to posterity, I will give a description of my dress;
and I shall also feel greatly obliged, if at the same time they will
select the best-looking portrait of me for the likeness: a scarlet tunic,
embroidered with gold-thread; a purple satin sash, with a deep gold
fringe; a ruff _à la Elizabeth_; white satin pantaloons; shoes with
crimson rosettes; black velvet hat and feathers. My hair, not naturally
curling, had been put in graceful _papillote_ the preceding evening. As I
write in the reign of Queen VICTORIA, the reader will readily believe that
people are not much in the habit of walking about the streets in such a
costume. Imagine therefore my arrival at the watermen's landing very soon
after five o'clock in the morning; a splendid sun pouring, if not
absolutely a flood of light, yet its lovely beams upon my person. Crowds
of little girls and boys instantly gathered on the spot, receiving me with
small voices but loud huzzahs, as I descended from the carriage. A boat
was immediately ordered; but as there were several at the landing, all but
the one engaged naturally felt the cruelty of not being permitted to come
in for their share of extortion on such an occasion.
'I say, Sir,' said one of the unwashed, 'them's a pretty pair of red
ribbands in your shoes; I want just such a pair for my little 'un at
home.'
I knew there was only one way of dealing with them; I therefore put on one
of my blandest smiles, and gently replied: 'Well, my good fellow, if you
will give me your address, I will send you a pair to-morrow.' This settled
the affair in good humor, and I was suffered to reach the boat without
farther annoyance. We had put into the stream but a short distance, when I
encountered a boat-full of roysterers; for old father Thames was thickly
studded on this occasion with boats of all classes; when one turned to
another in the boat and cried out in the most lugubrious accents, which
did not fail to excite shouts of laughter:
'I say, Bill, is that 'ere feller a man or a voman?'
I thought now I had fairly passed my ordeal and might go on in peace; but
no; we were obliged to pull in near shore, as we were rowing against tide.
Milbank was crowded, and from the midst of the polite assemblage a gentle
female voice cried out:
'My eyes! Tom! if there isn't one of Astley's riders!'
I at length arrived at my place of appointment, and had a good hearty
laugh at breakfast over my little annoyances. While engaged in that
interesting meal, the shouts of the people passed across the water. It was
occasioned by the arrival of the Queen, who was refused admittance to the
Abbey. Almost all parties blamed her for the attempt, nor did she produce
the sensation she had evidently calculated upon. It was like trying to
renew a lost game, when all interest had subsided. It was the final blow
to all her ambitious aspirations, which speedily ended, where all our
vanities must end, in the silent grave. I wish it to be perfectly
understood that I have no idea of entering into a rivalry with Hume, in
giving another History of England; but as these events of stirring
interest passed within my own time, and of which I was a close observer, I
trust the introduction will not appear misplaced; taking into
consideration that I profess to give my general reminiscences, and not
simply to confine them to my profession. Perhaps it would be wise on my
part to drop a veil over the gorgeous spectacle; for like a visit to the
Falls of Niagara, the most enlarged description a prudent person ought to
indulge in, would be simply, 'I have seen the Falls;' so if I were to show
my prudence, I should say, 'I saw the Coronation.' But how is it possible
to refrain from giving expression, however slight and sketchy, to scenes
of such unexampled magnificence?
We crossed the river at seven o'clock, and had the advantage of passing
through the private residence of one of the principal officers of the
House of Commons, and marched on to Westminster Hall without impediment. I
had a distinct ticket for the Abbey where I had no duty to perform; and
indeed throughout the day it was purely nominal. I had therefore all the
advantages of passing and repassing at my own will and discretion, and of
paying visits to the Palace-Yard to different friends who had secured
places to witness the procession. On first entering that most magnificent
of halls, it was impossible not to be struck with its gigantic proportions
and superb embellishments. Galleries were erected for the peeresses,
foreign ambassadors, and the most distinguished visitors. Admirable
arrangements were also made for that portion of the public who had been so
fortunate as to procure a Lord Chamberlain's ticket. Costume also was
strictly attended to here, no gentleman being admitted save in full
court-suit or military uniform; and the ladies of course shone in all the
splendor that gave grace to their lovely forms, and added a native lustre
to all the artificial aids which gave such light and brilliancy to the
glowing scene.
The monotony of the early part of the morning was relieved by the absurd
evolutions of the gentlemen from the cinque-ports who had the privilege of
carrying the Canopy of the Cloth of Gold over His Majesty. If truth may be
told on state occasions, it must be said that they did not perform their
movements with much grace. They were not regularly disciplined troops, but
fairly occupied the position of the 'awkward squad.' It had the effect,
however, of exciting a good deal of merriment; indeed I have seldom seen a
rehearsal produce such striking effects. The high and imposing ceremonies
of the Church, partaking largely of the grand and mystic formula which
belonged to our cathedral service before the Reformation, and which again
bids fair, at least partially, to occupy its altars, impressed upon the
vast and brilliant assemblage gathered beneath the Gothic roof a mingled
feeling of royalty and devotion, which was in former days the very essence
of chivalry, and which seemed to have taken new growth in this advanced
age, from the associating link of ancient costume, which met the eye at
every turn. The austere and solemn silence of the place was lost in the
mingled feelings which occupied all hearts; and as the lofty chants of the
church swelled into divine melody, a half-breathing, a solemn, suppressed
emotion, spoke deeply to the heart of other realms above. It is impossible
to hear the loud swell of the organ and exquisite melody of the varieties
of the human voice harmoniously blended, and bursting forth together in
one loud and glorious song of praise, without feeling that our destiny is
more than earthly. It should be taken into consideration that there is a
vast multitude on the outside, who are really getting impatient for their
part of the pageant. It is true, those who have secured places in the
different splendid pavilions erected in the immediate vicinity of the
platform, are more at their ease, and with the aid of long purses can
indulge in all the luxuries so amply provided by liberal caterers; but
still 'fair play' is our motto; and we will at once throw open the
abbey-doors and marshal forth the most brilliant _cortége_ that ever
issued from its sacred walls; the herb-woman, Miss Fellows, and her
attendants, strewing the path with flowers, blending the red rose and the
white together, symbolical of the fact, that 'no longer division racked
the state,' but that unreserved allegiance was due to the monarch before
them. The excitement of the morning with respect to the QUEEN had not
entirely subsided; and some few greetings must have caught the KING'S ear,
that were not expressive of unbounded loyalty; but these formed a very
slight proportion of the people. LORD CASTLEREAGH came in also for his
share of these unseemly greetings; but his noble glance and really
majestic appearance; his smile, not of disdain, but which marked an
unflinching firmness of resolve; speedily converted their anger into
applause. THE DUKE OF YORK and PRINCE LEOPOLD excited great interest by
their dignified and elegant deportment. The KING, as he passed up the
hall, was greeted with the most enthusiastic cheering and the waving of
handkerchiefs from the élite of both sexes; but he appeared oppressed and
worn down with fatigue, in which doubtless anxiety had its portion. His
Majesty then retired to an apartment prepared for his reception, to take
some repose during the royal banquet.
The long tables running down the hall on each side were covered with rich
damask; triumphal arches and every ingenious device that could by
possibility bear upon the pageant, were lavishly placed upon the tables,
splendidly ornamented with artificial flowers, rivalling the goddess Flora
herself. The entrance to the hall was a grand Gothic archway; but one of
the most singular effects produced, was by the numerous chandeliers in
_ormolu_ hanging from the lofty roof, sending forth myriads of little
twinkling stars, that essayed to dim the light of the sun, who here and
there sent in his beams through the narrow loopholes and windows of the
hall, to catch a glimpse of the splendid ceremonies. The banquet
commenced; and it was not a little amusing to see the city authorities
maintain their charter by commencing a most formidable attack upon the
turtle and the viands which were so profusely spread over the table. Not a
moment was lost. Triumphal arches quickly assumed the appearance of
shapeless ruins, and wines from every quarter of the globe paid a heavy
duty upon being deposited in the city vats!