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And poor Rosa, without thinking she was doing speak of making a fortune, when only paid thir. any harm, felt particularly proud in announcing teen pence, or, at most, two shillings a-visit.” to her most intimate friend that her young mis- “ But Dr. Snell keeps his carriage, and has tress had got a lover ; her intimate friend an- built a fine house," I timidly rejoined. nounced it to the whole town; and the whole town, anxious to ascertain the truth of the report, in the country, has married a rich wife, and is
“ Yes, my dear, because he is the first operator offered their congratulations to my father and
old enough to be Uliner's father. But a young mother wherever they went. They both positively denied it, but nobody believed them; and student is another affair, and the sooner you formy mother began to have serious suspicions of get him the better.” the state of the case, when the same story was
“My dear kind mother, do not say so," I rerepeated to her by my grandmother, who had heard plied, bursting into tears ; we are both very it from Rosa, whilst they were knitting and chat- young, let us at least hope." ting together during my mother's absence in her “ No, Lisa,” she said, taking my hand tenderly Gesellschaft.
in hers, “I would comfort you if I could, but She was very thoughtful for several days, but I there is no hope. Your father has a rich friend only imagined she shared in my anxiety as to my to whom he has long promised you, and he will appearance at our first winter ball.
never hear of any one else for your husband. than a dozen times admired my clear, white But do not cry, dearest Lisa, I too had a first muslin dress, and the roses for my hair, and love, whom I was obliged by family reasons to thought the time would never arrive for Ulmer to give up--and yet-you see-I have been very tell me how well I looked in them ; when, the happy with your father." evening before this important assembly, as I sat I looked at my poor mother, and in spite of working a pair of slippers as a new-year's gift for her faded cheek and lustreless eye, I felt, for the my brother, my mother suddenly broke silence by first time, that she had once had young feelings asking me if any young man had yet offered to like my own. But they had been crushed ; and escort me to the ball ?
the broken heart, which had been capable of the Yes, mother," I replied, “ Ulmer is coming tenderest sympathies and the most devoted atto fetch me."
tachment, had been left to learn, by habit, to sup I knew there was nothing wrong in this, for port with meekness a conventional marriage, unit was only in accordance with a universal custom,
hallowed by a unity of sentiment or one of
tastes. and yet I blushed deeply. “I feared so,” was her soft reply, and she then again continued her
Her eyes were full of tears. Though her long knitting in silenco.
attention to the petty cares of her household, “Mother,” I ventured to say at length, “ you nobler pursuit, had deadened both her thoughts
without even the occasional refreshment of any don't seem to like Ulmer so well as formerly ; yet and her feelings, she could not assist to sacrifice no one speaks ill of him.”
her daughter as she had been sacrificed without “I know nothing against him, dearest Lisa,"
self-reproach. Yet she knew it must be done, she replied; “ but your father does not like him and she succeeded at length in persuading me for his daughter's husband, and he is very angry of the folly of attempting to resist my father's that all the town speaks of him as your lover ; will. I sent my brother to Ulmer, to tell him yet you have never told me a word of this !”
what had passed ; to forbid his coming to escort My dear, dear mother, you never asked me me to the ball, or dancing with me on the followanything till now," I returned, “ and Ulmer ing evening. Few women who have ceased to thought, as we are so young, we had better let dance think of going to a ball in my native town, our attachment remain a secret till his studies and mothers rarely accompany their daughters to and examinations are over.”
such assemblies, to which a partner's escort, or “Yet everybody knows it except your parents,” that of a male relative, is sufficient. My father went was the reply. But, indeed, my child, I was with me that night ; but still Ulmer found means wrong never to think of such a thing, when I once unobserved to approach me, and to erknew you were so much together ; for your father change a few hurried words. It was for the last will never consent to your marrying a young man
time. of a country family, and whose parents have I learnt, a month afterwards, that instead of nine other sons and daughters to divide their in- pursuing the medical profession, he had been sudheritance with him."
denly invited to join a relative, who had a large “ But Ulmer is very clever, and will make a
cotton manufactory in the neighbourhood of fortune,” I ventured to observe.
Naples. I have heard once since, that he has Perhaps so, when you are an old woman,” grown suddenly rich ; but it was only when it she said ; “ but a physician without an inheritance
was too late for any change of his fortunes to in. must be a clever man indeed, to keep a wife and
fluence mine. children as you have been brought up, not to
Such was the termination of my first love!
BY GEORGE GILFILLAN, AUTHOR OF A “GALLERY OF LITERARY PORTRAITS."
The subject of the following sketch seems a | the Donnes, Withers, and Quarleses, of the signal example of the intimate relation which seventeenth century. What is peculiar to himself sometimes exists between original genius, and a is a certain carol, light in air and tone, bat proshrinking, sensitive, and morbid nature. We found in burden. Hence his little lyrics such as see in all his writings the struggle of a strong in- Oriana," "Mariana at the Moated Grange," the tellect to “turn and wind the fiery Pegasus,” of “ Talking Oak,” the “ May Queen”—are among a most capricious, volatile, and dream-driven ima- his most original and striking productions. They gination. Tennyson is a curious combination tell tales of deep tragedy, or they convey lessons of impulse, strength, and delicacy approaching of wide significance, or they paint vivid and comto weakness. Could we conceive, not an Eolian plete pictures, in a few lively touches, and by a harp, but a grand piano, played on by the swift few airy words, as if caught in dropping from the fingers of the blast, it would give us some image sky. By sobs of sound, by half hints of meaning, of the sweet, subtle, tender, powerful, and change- by light, hurrying strokes on the ruddy chords fal movements of his verse, in which are wedded of the heart, by a ringing of changes on certain artificial elegance, artistic skill, and wild, impe- words and phrases, he sways us as if with the tuous impulse. It is the voice and lute of Ariel ; united powers of music and poetry. Our readers but heard not in a solitary and enchanted is- will, in illustration of this, remember his nameland, but in a modern drawing-room, with beau- less little song, beginning tiful women bending round, and moss-roses
“ Break, break, break, breathing, in their faint fragrance, through the
On thy cold gray crags, O sea !!” half-opened windows. Here, indeed, lies the
which is a mood of his own mind, faithfully renparadox of our author's genius. He is haunted, dered into sweet and simple verse. It is in comon the one hand, by images of ideal and colossal
position no more complicated or elaborate than a grandeur, coming upon him from the isle of the house built by a child, but melts you, as that Syrens, the caves of the Kraken, the heights of house would, were you to see it after the dear inIda, the solemn cycles of Cathay, the riches of fant's death. But than this he has higher moods, the Arabian heaven ; but, on the other hand, his and nobler, though still imperfect aspirations. In fancy loves, better than is manly or beseeming, his “Two Voices,” he approaches the question of the tricksy elegancies of artificial life-the white all ages-Whence Evil? And if he, no more than sofas " of his study—the trim walks of his gar- other speculators, unties, he casts a soft and melden—the luxuries of female dress—and all the low light around this Gordian knot. tiny comforts and beauties which nestle round an
is no fancy piece, but manifestly a transcript English parlour. From the sublime to the snug, from his own personal experience. He has sunk and vice versa, is with him but a single step into one of those melancholy moods incident to This moment toying on the carpet with his cat, his order of mind, and has become “aweary of he is the next soaring with a roe over the valley the sun,” and of all the sun shines upon--espeof diamonds. We may liken him to the sea-shell
cially of his own miserable idiosyncracy. There which, sitting complacently and undistinguished slides in at that dark hour a still small voice : how amid the commonplace ornaments of the mantel different from that which thrilled on Elijah's ear piece, has only to be lifted to give forth from its in the caves of Horeb! It is the voice of that smooth ear the far-rugged boom of the ocean
awful lady whom De Quincey calls Mater tenebrabreakers. In this union of feminine feebleness and imaginative strength, he much resembles John rum, our lady of darkness. It hints at suicide as
the only remedy for human woes. Keats, who at one time could hew out the vast figure of the dethroned Saturn,“quiet as a stone,”
« Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be ?" with the force of a Michael Angelo, and, again, with all the gusto of a milliner, describe the And then there follows an eager and uneasy undressing of his heroine in the “Eve of St. interlocution between the “dark and barren Agnes.” Indeed, although we have ascribed, voice," and the soul of the writer, half spurning, and we think justly, original genius to Tenny- and half holding parley with its suggestions. son, there is much in his mind, too, of the imita- Seldom, truly, since the speech by which Despair tive and the composite. He adds the occasional | in Spenser enforces the same sad argument, did langour, the luxury of descriptive beauty, the misanthropy breathe à more withering blight feminine tone, the tender melancholy, the grand over humanity and human hopes ; seldom did aspirations, perpetually checked and chilled by unfortunate, by a shorter and readier road reach the access of morbid weakness, and the manner the conclusion, “there is one remedy for all,” isms of style which distinguish Keats, to much of than in the utterances of this voice. Death in the simplicity and the philosophic tone of Words- it looks lovely; nay, the one lovely thing in the worth, the peculiar rhythm and obscurity of universe. Again and again the poet is ready to Coleridge, and a portion of the quaintness and yield to the desire of his own heart, thus seconded allegorizing tendency which were common with | by the mystic voice, and, in the words of one who
This poem often listened to the same accents to “lie down a heart that has been disappointed, of an ambilike a tired child, and weep away this life of tion that has been repressed, of an intellect that care.” But again and again the better element has wrestled with doubt, difficulty, and disease. of his nature resists the temptation, and beats In Locksley Hall, for instance, he tells a tale of back the melancholy voice. At length, raising unfortunate passion with a gusto and depth of himself from his lethargy, he rises, looks forth-feeling, which (unless we misconstrue the mark it is the Sabbath morn, and, as he sees the peace of the branding iron) betray more than a ficful multitudes moving on to the house of God, titious interest in the theme.
It is a poem and as, like the Anciente Mariner, he “blesses breathing the spirit, and not much inferior to them unaware,” straightway the spell is broken, Byron's “Dream,” in all but that clear concenthe "dull and bitter voice is gone," and, hark ! tration of misery which bends over it like a bare “ A second voice is at his ear,
and burning heaven over a bare and burning deA little whisper, silver-clear,"
sert. Locksley Hall, again, is turbid and oband it gives him a hidden and humble hope, which The wind is down, but the sea still runs high.
scure in language, wild and distracted in feeling. spreads a quiet heaven within his soul. Now he You see in it the passion pawing like a lion who can go forth into the fields, and
has newly missed his prey, not fixed as yet in a " Wonder at the bounteous hours,
marble form of still and hopeless disappointment. The slow result of winter showers,
The lover, after a season of absence, returns to You scarce can see the grass for flowers."
the scene of his early education and hapless All nature calls upon him to rejoice, and to the love, where of yore he cye of his heart, at least, the riddle is read.
Wandered, nourishing a youth sublime Nay, we put it to every heart if this do not, more With the fairy tales of science, and the long result
of time,'' than many elaborate argumentations, touch the core of the difficulty. “Look up,” said Leigh A feeling, cognate with, and yet more impeHunt to Carlyle, when he had been taking the rious than those his high aspirations, springs up darker side of the question, and they had both in his mind. It arises in spring like the crest of come out under the brilliance of a starry night, a singing bird. It is the feeling of love for Amy “ look up, and find your answer there !” And his cousin, sole daughter of her father's house although the reply failed to convince the party and heart. The feeling is mutual, and the curaddressed, who, looking aloft at the sparkling rent of their true love flows smoothly on, till inazure, after a pause, rejoined, with a deep sigh, terrupted by the interference of relatives. Thus and in tones we can well imagine, so melancholy far he remembers calmly; but here recollection and far withdrawn, “Oh! it's a sad sight;" yet, strikes the fierce chord of disappointment, and apart from the divine discoveries, it was the true he bursts impetuously forthand only answer. The beauty, whether of Tennyson's fields—where we "scarce can see the
• O, my cousin, shallow-hearted. O, my Amy, mine no grass for flowers,"--or of Leigh Hunt's skies,
0, the dreary, dreary moorland. O, the barren, bar" whose unwithered countenance is young as on
ren shore." creation's day,” and where we find an infinite answer to our petty cavils-is enough to soothe, glance down her future history, he predicts that
Darting then one hasty and almost vindictive if not to satisfy, to teach us the perfect patience she shall lower to the level of the clown she of expectancy, if not the full assurance of faith.
has wedded, and that he will use his victim & Tennyson, in some of his poems as well as this, little better than his dog or his horse. Nay, she reveals in himself a current of thought tending to
will become wards very deep and dark subjects. This springs
“Old and formal, suited to her petty part ; partly from the metaphysical bias of his intellect, and partly from the morbid emotions of his heart.
With her little hoard of maxims, preaching down a
daughter's heart." And yet he seems generally to toy and trifle with such tremendous themes, to touch them lightly and But himself, alas! what is to become of him? hurriedly, as one might hot iron, at once eager and Live he must-suicide is too base a back door out reluctant to intermeddle with them. Nevertheless, of existence for his brave spirit. But what to do there is a perilous stuff about his heart, and upon with this bitter boon of being ? There follow some his verse lies a "melancholy compounded of wild and half-insane stanzas expressive of the ammany simples.” He is not the poet of hope, orbitions and uncertainties of his soul. It is the of action, or of passion, but of sentiment, of pen- Cyclops mad with blindness, and groping at the sive and prying curiosity, or of simple stationary sides of his cave. He will hate and despise all wonder, in view of the great sights and mysteries women, or, at least, all British maidens. He of Nature and man. He has never thrown him- will return to the orient land, whose “ larger self amid the heats and hubbub of society, but constellations” saw a father die. He will, in his remained alone, musing with a quiet but obser- despair, take some savage woman who shall rear vant eye upon the tempestuous pageant which is his dusky race. But no—the despair is momensweeping past him, and concerning himself little tary—he may not mate with a squalid savage ; with the political or religious controversies of his he will rather revive old intellectual ambitions, age. There are, too, in some of his writings, and renew old aspirations, for he feels within mild and subdued vestiges of a wounded spirit, of him that the "crescent promise of his spirit has
ī not set.” It is resolved-but, ere he goes, let out the sentiments of millions of thankful hearts.
every ray of remaining love and misery go forth We feel in it what a noble thing was the Arabian in one last accusing, avenging look at the scene mind-like the Arabian soil, “all the Sun's?of his disappointment and the centre of his woe. like the Arabian climate, fervid, golden--like the " ITowsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locks- Arabian horse, light, elegant, etherial, swift as ley Hall.
the wind. “0, for the golden prime of good HaNow, for me, the woods may wither ; now, for me, the roun Alras-chid!” O for one look ---though it roof-tree fall.
were the last—of that Persian maid, whom the Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath poet has painted in words vivid as colours, pal
and holt; (ramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunder- pable almost as sense. Talk of enchantment! bolt.
The “ Thousand-and-one Nights" is one enchantLet it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain, or hail, or fire, ment-more powerful than the lamp of Alladin, or snow,
or the Open Sesame of Ali Baba. The author, For a mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.”
were he one--not many—is a magician—a genii And thus the ballad closes, leaving, however, --greater than Scott, than Cervantes, equal to with us the inevitable impression that the unfor- Shakespere himself. What poetry, passion, patunate lover is not done with Locksley Hall nor thos, beauty of sentiment, elegance of costume, its bitter memories, that Doubting Castle is not ingenuity of contrivance, wit, humour, farce, indown, nor giant Despair dead—that the calls of terest, variety, tact in transition, sunniness of the curlews around it will still resound in his spirit, dream-like wealth of imagination, inciears, and the pale face of its Amy, still unutter- dental but precious light cast upon customs, manably beloved, will come back upon his dreams-ners, history, religion-everything, in short, that that the iron has entered into his soul--and that can amuse or amaze, instruct or delight, the his life and his misery are henceforth commen- human spirit! Like the Pilgrim's Progress-surate and the same.
devoured by boys, it is a devout study for bearded Among the more remarkable of Tennyson's men. poems, besides those already mentioned, are “The Tennyson has expressed, especially, the moonPoet," “ Dora,
," “Recollections of the Arabian light voluptuousness of tone and spirit which Nights,' Enone,” “The Lotos Eaters," "Ulys- breathes around those delicious productions, as $s, “ Godiva ;” and “ The Vision of Sin. well as the lavish magnificence of dress and de. * The Poet" was written when the author was coration, of furniture and architecture, which Foung, and when the high ideal of his art was were worthy of the witch element, the sunny clijust dawning upon his mind. It is needless to mate, and the early enchanted era, where and say that his view of the powers and influences of when they were written, But we doubt if he petry is different with what prevails with many mates adequately with that more potent and in our era. Poetry is, with him, no glittering terrible magic which haunts their higher regions, foil to be wielded gaily on gala days. It is, or as in the sublime picture of the Prince's daughter ought to be, a sharp two-edged sword. not fighting with the Enchanter in mid air, or in the a baton in the hand of coarse authority—it is a mysterious grandeur which follows all the Advenmagic rod. It is not a morning flush in the sky tures of Aboulfaouris. With this, too, indeed, he of youth, that shall fade in the sun of science—it must have sympathy ; for it is evident that he is a consuming and imperishable fire. It is not a abundantly fulfils Coleridge's test of a genuine mere amusement for young love-sick men and lover of the Arabian Nights. “ Do you admire," women-it is as serious as death, and longer said the author of Kubla Khan to Hazlitt, “the than life. It is tuned philosophy-winged science Thousand-and-one Nights ?” No; was the an-fact on fire—"truth springing from earth”
“That's because you don't dream.” But high thought-voluntarily moving harmonious surely, since the “noticeable man, with large numbers. His “ Poet” is “ dowered with the grey eyes,” awoke in death from his long lifehate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love,” | dream, no poet has arisen of whom the word were and his words " shake the world."
more true than of Tennyson, whether in reproach The author, when he wrote “ The Poet," was or commendation, asleep or awake-“Behold fresh from school, and from Shelley, his early this dreamer cometh." idol. Ere writing “ Dora” he had become con- In " Enone," we find him up on the heights of versant with the severer charms of Wordsworth ; Ida, with the large foot-prints of gods and godand that poem contains in it not one figure or desses still upon its sward, and the citadel and lower—is bare, literal, and pathetic as the book town of Troy, as yet unfallen, as yet unassailed, of Ruth. Its poetry is that which lies in all visible from its summit. Here the poet sees a natural life, which, like a deep quiet pool, has vision of his own—a vision which, recorded in only to be disturbed in the slightest degree to verse, forms a high third with Wordsworth's send up in dance those bells and bubbles which Laodamia" and Keats's “Hyperion,” in the clasgive it instantly ideal beauty and interest, and lo! sical style. Less austere and magnificent than the the pool becomes a poem!
poem of Keats, which seems not so much a torso His “Recollections of the Arabian Nights" is of earthly art as a splinter fallen from some other a poem of that species which connects itself per- exploded world--less chaste, polished, and spiri. petually, in feeling and memory, with the original tual, than Laodamia, that Elgin marble set in work, whose quintessence it collects. It speaks Elysian light, it surpasses both in picturesque
distinctness and pathetic power. The story is of luxurious repose, and seems, to apply his own essentially that of“ Locksley Hall,” but the scene words, a perfect poem in “perfect rest," “ Ulysses? is not the flat and sandy moorland of Lincolnshire, is the incarnation of restlessness and insatiable but the green gorges and lawns of Ida. The de- activity. Sick of Ithaca, Argus, Telemachus, ceived lover is Enone, daughter of a River God. and (sub rosa) of Penelope too, the old muchShe has been deceived by Paris, and her plaint is enduring Mariner King, is again panting for un
Melancholy, her song as that of a tried dangers and undiscovered lands. disappointed woman-melodious, as that of an
"My purpose holds, aggrievod goddess. It is to Ida, her mother To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths mountain, that she breathes her sorrow. She
Of all the western stars, until I die." tells her of her lover's matchless beauty of her Tennyson, with his fine artistic instinct, saw that yielding up her heart to him of the Deities the idea of Ulysses at rest was an incongruous descending to receive the golden apple from his thought, and has chosen rather to picture him hands-of his deciding it to Venus, upon the journeying ever onwards toward Infinity or promise of the “fairest and most loving wife in DeathGreece"-of his abandonment of Enone, and of " It may be that the gulphs will wash us down her despair. Again and again, in her agony, she
It may be, we shall reach the happy isles, cries for Death ; but the grim shadow, too busy
And see the great Achilles, whom we know.” in hewing down the happy, will not turn aside at And with breathless interest, and a feeling apher miserable bidding. Her despair at last be- proaching the sublime, we watch the grey-headed comes fury ; her tears begin to burn ; she will Monarch stepping, with his few aged followers, arise ; she will leave her dreadful solitude into the bark, which is to be their home till death, "I will rise, and go
and stretching away toward Eternity. And every Down into Troy, and, ere the stars come forth, heart and imagination cry out after him—“Go, Talk with the wild Cassandra; for she says
and return no more.” A fire dances before her, and a sound
“ Godiva” is an old story newly told a delicate Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not; but I kaow
business delicately handled—the final and illumiThat, wheresoe'er I am, by night and day
nated version of an ancient and world-famous All earth and air seems only burning fire.”
tradition. Its beauty is, that, like its heroine, it And fancy follows Enone to Ilium, and sees the is “clothed on with chastity.” It represses the two beautiful broken-hearted maidens meeting, imagination as gently and effectually as her naked like two melancholy flames, upon one funeral virtue did the eye. We hold our breath, and pile, mingling their hot tears, exchanging their shut every window of our fancy, till the great sad stories, and joining, in desperate exultation, ride be over. And in this trial and triumph of at the prospect of the ruin which is already female resolution and virtue, the poet would have darkening, like a tempest, round the towers and us believe that Nature herself sympathised—that temples of Troy. It is pleasant to find from such the light was bashful, and the sun ashamed, and productions that, after all, the poetry of Greece is the wind hushed, till the great pilgrimage was not dead--that the oaks of Delphos and Dodona past—and that, when it ended, a sigh of satishave not shed all their oracular leaves--that the faction, wide as the circle of earth and heaven, lightnings in Jove's hand are still warm and the proclaimed Godiva's victory. snows of Olympus are yet clear and bright,
The “ Vision of Sin” strikes, we think, upon a shining over the waste of years that Mercury's stronger, though darker, chord than any of his feet are winged still—and still is Apollo's hair other poems. There are in it impenetrable obunshorn—that the Mythology of Homer, long scurities, but, like jet black ornaments, some may dead to belief, is still alive to the airy purposes of think them dearer for their darkness. You canpoetry--that, though the “ dreadful Infant's not, says Hazlitt, make "an allegory go on all hand” hath smitten down the gods upon the fours.” A vision must be hazy-a ghost should capitol, it has left them the freedom of the Par- surely be a shadow. Enough, if there be a meannassian Hill; and that a Wordsworth, or a ing in the mystery, an oracle speaking through Tennyson, may even now, by inclining the ear of the gloom. The dream is that of a youth, who is imagination, hear the River God plunging in seen riding to the gate of a palace, from which Scamander-Enone wailing upon Ida---Old
" Came a child of Sin, Triton blowing his wreathed horn ; for never was And took him by the curls, and led him in." a truth more certain than that
He is lost straightway in mad and wicked revel, " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."
tempestuously yet musically described. MeanWe had intended to say somethingof his “ Lotos- while, unheeded by the revellers, a “vapour, eaters,” but are afraid to break in upon its charmed (the mist of darkness!) heavy, hueless, formless, rest—to disturb its sleepy spell--to venture on cold," is floating slowly on toward the palace. that land “in which it seemed always afternoon At length it touches the gate, and the dream
or to stir its melancholy, mild-eyed inhabitants. changes, and such a change! We will pass it by, treading so softly that the
" I saw “blind mole may not hear a footfall.” We must A grey and gap-toothed man, as lean as Death, beware of slumbering, and we could hardly but
Who slowly rode across å withered heath, be dull on the enchanted ground.
And lighted at a ruined inn.” Whilethe “Lotos-eaters” breathes the very spirit | And lighted there, he utters his bitter and blasted