The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 340, Supplementary Number (1828)

He wound his arms round the gentle pleader; and, almost ashamed that the father and the husband in his heart, should make him calculate between his own life and that of the gallant crew, he told her, that the tempest raged too tremendously for him to dare stemming it. But she laughingly repulsed his caresses, accusing his fondness for her as the inducement of his assumed apprehensions; and being too long accustomed to the rashness of her own people, in braving every weather, to believe any plea of positive danger, she still persisted; saying she must have a silk handkerchief that night from yon ship, or she should think he loved his sound sleep better than he did his fond Berea.

The enthusiastic love which still warmed the faithful husband's breast, and a third signal of distress from the struggling vessel, mastered his better judgment, and, seizing his canoe, he dashed into the foaming waves and boldly stemmed their fury to the object of his mission. The overjoyed crew, as they heard his voice hailing them through the storm, cast out a rope, by which they hoisted him into their cracking ship. The most rapturous acknowledgments from the captain, greeted him as soon as he jumped on the deck; and the eager seamen called him their deliverer. He was happy! he said, he was happy in the achievement of what he had done; he had obeyed the wish of his beloved Berea, and he had survived the lashing surge. He was happy, in the confidence that he should rescue the gallant vessel he came to take under his control. But that hour of happiness was his last. He took the helm in his hands; he gave the requisite directions to the seamen, for the management of the ship; and he soon steered her out of the dangers of the bay, till she rode in safety on the main ocean. He then asked for a boat to carry him on shore, for his canoe had been crushed by an accident. But the wind still blowing hurricanes, they would not venture the loss of one of their boats: and during the hot contentions between him, and the ungrateful chief of the vessel he had preserved, they were driven out far to sea; whence his swimming arm, had he plunged into the boisterous deep, could have been of no use to him. Indignation, despair, overwhelmed him. None appeared to understand the nature of his feelings; all pretending to wonder that a European born, should not be grateful to any occasion that would carry him away from a savage country like that. In vain Laonce remonstrated; in vain he talked of his wife and children; the captain and his sailors laughed, promised him better of both sorts among his kindred whites; and when he cursed their hardened hearts and cruel treachery, they laughed again, and left him to his misery. At last, when the protracted hurricane subsided, and the vessel's log-book proved that she had been driven several degrees leeward of the Society Isles, abandoned to a sullen despair, he ceased to accuse or to reproach; he ceased even to speak on any subject, but cast himself into his lonely berth during the day, that he might not be irritated to continued unavailing madness, by the sight of the ingrates who had betrayed him. To his straining eyes, nothing but the silvery line of the starlit sea was on that distant horizon; but his heart's vision pierced farther, and he beheld the sleepers in that home;—no, not the sleepers! His disconsolate, his despairing wife, tearing her bright locks, and beating the tender bosom he must no longer clasp to his own. His children—"Oh! my babes!" cried he, and the cry of a father's heart for once pierced the obdurate bosom of the captain, who, in that moment, had happened to come upon the deck to examine the night. To ease his Otaheitan benefactor, he declared he had thus carried him off, to share in the honour of his expected discoveries. The unhappy chief, in then answering him, begged, that if he had, indeed, any spark of honesty towards him, he would prove it, by obeying his wish in one thing at least; and that was, to set him on shore on the first European settlement they should fall in with. "Do this," said he, "and I may yet believe you have honour. For honour is a man's own act; a discovery is fortune's; and for its advantages, did I stay, I should not have to thank you. But I want none such. Set me on shore, and there I will follow my own destiny."

To this poor request, the iron-souled commander of the vessel, at last consented; and in the course of some weeks after, Laonce was landed on the coast of Kamschatka. His secret intent was to lie in wait for the possibility of some ship touching at the port where he was set ashore, that might be bound to the track of his beloved islands; but not uttering a word of this, to the reprobate wretch who had torn him thence, he simply bade him "farewell! and to use his next pilot better;" so saying, they parted for ever. But weeks and months passed away, and no vessel bound for the South Seas, showed itself in that distant latitude; and its gloomy fogs, and chilling atmosphere, its pale sky, where the sun never shone for more than three or four hours in the day, seemed to wither up his life with his waning hopes! In no way did it resemble the land he had left; the warm, and the genial heavens of the home he was yet bent to find again;—and he left Kamschatka for some more propitious port; but, like Sinbad the Sailor, he wandered in vain. A cruel spell seemed set on him, or on the spirit of adventure; for in no place could he hear of a vessel going the way of his prayers. At last he arrived, by a most tedious and circuitous journey at Moscow, with a design to lay his case before the young and ardent Alexander, the then Emperor of Russia; with the hope that his benevolence, and a sense of what he had done for the vessel which had betrayed him, would incline his majesty to make some effort to return him to his island, and his family.

That this hope was not vain, the character of the good Alexander, since proved by a life of undeviating promptness to all acts of humanity, may be a sufficient voucher. But whether the homeward-bound chief, found, on his setting his foot again upon the ground whence he had been so cruelly rifled; and whence, indeed, the innocent confidence, the playful bravery of his fond wife, had urged him; whether he found his cherishly-remembered home, yet standing as he left it; and her, still the tender and the true to his never-wandered heart; and whether his children sprang to his knee, to share the parental caress; and the people around, raised the haloo of joy to the returned son of their king!—whether these fondly-expected greetings hailed his arrival, cannot be absolutely told; for the vessel that took him out, was to make the circuit of the globe, ere it returned; hence, from that, and other circumstances, the facts have never reached the narrator of this little history, of what was really the meeting between Laonce and his Berea; of the young chief, and the natives he had devotedly served! But can the faithful hearts of wedded love, doubt the one; or manly attachment suspect the other? For the honour of human nature, we will believe that all was right; and, in the faith of a humble Christian, we will believe, that "he who shewed mercy, found mercy!"; That he is now restored to his island-home, and to his happy, grateful family!

Among the poetical contributions are The Angels' Call, and Woman and Fame, by Mrs. Hemans; Carthage, and Stanzas, by T.K. Hervey; the Chapel on the Cliff, by W. Kennedy; all entitled to high praise. A Christian's Day, by Miss A.M. Porter, is a sweet devotional composition. The extract from one of Mr. Atherstone's unpublished books of the Fall of Nineveh, maintains the high opinion already formed of the published part. Mr. C. Swain has two beautiful pieces. We have only room to name those gems of the poetry, viz. Wearie's Well, and another beautiful ballad, by W. Motherwell; and some exquisite lines by the Rev. G. Croly; and to quote the following:—

CHANGE

BY L.E.LThe wind is sweeping o'er the hill;It hath a mournful sound,As if it felt the differenceIts weary wing hath found.A little while that wandering windSwept over leaf and flower;For there was green for every tree,And bloom for every hour.It wandered through the pleasant wood,And caught the dove's lone song;And by the garden-beds, and boreThe rose's breath along.But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps;No rose is opening now—No music, for the wood-dove's nestIs vacant on the bough.Oh, human heart and wandering wind,Go look upon the past;The likeness is the same with each—Their summer did not last.Each mourns above the things it loved—One o'er a flower and leaf;The other over hopes and joys,Whose beauty was as brief.

We congratulate the editor and the public on the past success of the Amulet, especially as it proves that a pious feeling co-exists with a taste for refined amusement, and that advantageously. There is nothing austere in any page of the Amulet, nor anything so frivolous and light as to be objectionable; but it steers in the medium, and consequently must be acceptable to every well-regulated mind. Indeed, many of the pieces in the present volume may be read and re-read with increased advantage; whilst two only are unequal to the names attached to them.

THE GEM

Edited by Thomas Hood, Esq

The present is the first year of the Gem, which, as a work of art or literature, fully comes within the import of its title. It is likewise the first appearance of Mr. Hood as the editor of an "annual," who, with becoming diffidence, appears to rely on the "literary giants" of his muster-roll, rather than on his individual talent. Notwithstanding such an editorship must have resembled the perplexity of Sinbad in the Valley of Diamonds, Mr. Hood's volume is almost unexceptionably good, whatever he may have rejected; and one of the best, if not the best, article in the whole work, has been contributed by the editor himself. Associated as Mr. Hood's name is with "whim and oddity," we, however, looked for more quips, quirks, and quiddities than he has given us, which we should have hailed as specially suited to the approaching festive season, and from their contrast with the contents of similar works, as more likely to attract by their novelty and humour.

The embellishments of the Gem, fifteen in number, have been selected by A. Cooper, Esq. R.A. The Death of Keeldar is a beautiful composition by Mr. Cooper, and is worthy of association with Sir Walter Scott's pathetic ballad. The Widow, by S. Davenport, from a picture by R. Leslie, R.A. is one of the most touching prints we have yet seen, and every one is capable of estimating its beauties, since its expression will be sure to fasten on the affections of the beholder. May Talbot, by J.C. Edwards, from a painting by A. Cooper, is admirable in design and execution. Of the Temptation on the Mount, engraved by W.R. Smith, after Martin, we have spoken in our accompanying Number; but as often as we look at the plate, we discover new beauties. It is a just idea of "all the kingdoms of the earth;" the distant effect is excellent, and the "exceeding high mountain" is ably represented. The faces in the Painter's Study are decidedly superior to the rest of the print. The Fisherman's Daughter, from a painting by Bone, is pleasing; and Venice, with the Embarkation of the Doge, is a stirring scene of pageantry and triumph.

Among the poetry is the Painter's Song, a pleasing composition, by Barry Cornwall, who has also The Victim, a dramatic sketch of twenty pages. Stanzas by Horace Smith, Esq. are a pleasant satire upon the little vanities of great people. We give the Dream of Eugene Aram in full, although it consists of nearly two pages of small type.:—

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

BY T. HOOD, ESQ

[The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.]

'Twas in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school:There were some that ran and some that leapt,Like troutlets in a pool.Away they sped with gamesome minds,And souls untouch'd by sin:To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in:Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran,—Turning to mirth all things of earth,As only boyhood can;But the Usher sat remote from all—A melancholy man!His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessed breeze—For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease:So he lean'd his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees!Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,Nor ever glanc'd aside—For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide:Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.At last, he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strain'd the dusky covers close,And fixed the brazen hasp;"O God, could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!"Then leaping on his feet upright,Some moody turns he took,—Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook,—And, lo! he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book!"My gentle lad, what is't you read—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic page,Of kings and crowns unstable?"The young boy gave an upward glance,—"It is The Death of Abel."The Usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain,—Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again;And down he sat beside the lad,And talk'd with him of Cain;And, long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;Of lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves.And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod,—Ay, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God!He told how murderers walk the earthBeneath the curse of Cain,—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain:For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain!"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,Their pangs must be extreme,—Wo, wo, unutterable wo,—Who spill life's sacred stream!For why? Methought, last night, I wroughtA murder in a dream!"One that had never done me wrong—A feeble man, and old:I led him to a lonely field,The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife—And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my foot,But lifeless flesh and bone!"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I fear'd him all the more,For lying there so still:There was a manhood in his look,That murder could not kill!"And, lo! the universal airSeem'd lit with ghastly flame,—Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame:I took the dead man by the hand,And call'd upon his name!"Oh, God, it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain!But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,The blood gush'd out amain!For every clot, a burning spot,Was scorching in my brain!"My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul I knewWas at the Devil's price:A dozen times I groaned—the deadHad never groan'd but twice!"And now from forth the frowning sky,From the heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:—'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!'"I took the dreary body up,And cast it in a stream,—A sluggish water, black as ink.The depth was so extremeMy gentle boy, remember thisIs nothing but a dream!"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanish'd in the pool—Anon I cleansed my bloody handsAnd wash'd my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins youngThat evening in the school!"Oh, heaven, to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer.Nor join in evening hymn:Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,'Mid holy cherubim!"And peace went with them one and all,And each calm pillow spread—But Guilt was my grim chamberlainThat lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains round,With fingers bloody red!"All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep—My fever'd eyes I dared not close,But stared aghast at Sleep;For Sin had render'd unto herThe keys of hell to keep!"All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime,With one besetting horrid hint,That rack'd me all the time,—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime!"One stern, tyrannic thought, that madeAll other thoughts its slave;Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave,—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave!"Heavily I rose up,—as soonAs light was in the sky.—And sought the black, accursed poolWith a wild, misgiving eye;And I saw the dead in the river bed,For the faithless stream was dry!"Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dewdrop from its wing;But I never mark'd its morning flight,I never heard it sing;For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing."With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran,—There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began:In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,I hid the murdered man."And all that day I read in school,But my thought was other where:As soon as the mid-day task was done,In secret I was there;And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!"Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep,For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep;Or land or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep!"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones!Ay, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh—The world shall see his bones!"Oh God, that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again—again, with a dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake."And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mould allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul,—It stands before me now!"The fearful boy looked up, and sawHuge drops upon his brow!That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin eyelids kiss'd,Two stern-fac'd men set out from Lynn,Through the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walked between,With gyves upon his wrist.

Mr. Planché's versification of the homely proverb—Poverty parts good company—will create many good-natured smiles, and run counter with Mr. Kenney's To-morrow. Some of the minor pieces are very pleasing, especially two by Hartley Coleridge, Esq.

We confess we do not admire the taste which dictated Mr. C. Lamb's Widow; it is in every respect unworthy of the plate, and the feelings created by the two are very discordant. We love a joke, but to call a widow's sables a perpetual "black joke," disgusts rather than pleases us. The Funeral of General Crawford, by the author of The Subaltern is an affecting incident; and Nina St. Morin, by the author of May You Like It, is of the same character. Catching a Tartar, by Mansie Wauch, and the Station, an Irish Story, are full of humour; and May Day, by the editor, abounds with oddities. Thus, "the golden age is not to be regilt; pastoral is gone out, and Pan extinct—pans will not last for ever;" "horticultural hose, pruned so often at top to graft at bottom, that from long stockings they had dwindled into short socks;" "the contrast of a large marquee in canvass with the long lawn;" "Pan's sister, Patty, the wags called Patty Pan," &c. One of the finest stories in the Gem is the Rival Dreamers, by Mr. Banim; and curious enough, this is the third Annual in which we have met with the same legend. The present version is, however, the best narrative, which such of our readers as know the O'Hara Family will readily believe. We could abridge it for our present space; but it would be injustice to the author to pare down his beautiful descriptions; and we will endeavour to give place to the tale in a future Number. The Last Embarkation of the Doge of Venice is interesting; almost every incident connected with that huge pleasure-house is attractive, but one of the present, the Marriage of the Sea, is well told. The Shearmen's Miracle Play smacks pleasantly of "the good old times" of merry England. Miss Mitford has contributed two of her inimitable sketches—Harry Lewington and his Dog, and Tom Hopkins—the latter an excellent portrait of "the loudest, if not the greatest man" in the little town of Cranley. We must give the village lion, in little:—

TOM HOPKINS

At the time of which I speak, Tom Hopkins was of an age somewhat equivocal; public fame called him fifty, whilst he himself stuck obstinately at thirty-five; of a stout active figure, rather manly than gentlemanly, and a bold, jovial visage, in excellent keeping with his person, distinguished by round, bright, stupid black eyes, an aquiline nose, a knowing smile, and a general comely vulgarity of aspect. His voice was hoarse and deep, his manner bluff and blunt, and his conversation loud and boisterous. With all these natural impediments to good company, the lowness of his origin, recent in their memories, and the flagrant fact of his residence in a country town, staring them in the face, Mr. Tom Hopkins made his way into almost every family of consideration in the neighbourhood. Sportsmanship, sheer sportsmanship, the qualification that, more than any other, commands the respect of your great English landholder, surmounted every obstacle.

With the ladies, he made his way by different qualities; in the first place he was a character, an oddity, and the audacity of his vulgarity was tolerated, where a man only half as boisterous would have been scouted; then he was gallant in his way, affected, perhaps felt, a great devotion to the sex, and they were half amused, half pleased, with the rough flattery which seemed, and probably was, so sincere.

His house was an ugly brick dwelling of his own erection, situate in the principal street of Cranley, and adorned with a green door and a brass knocker, giving entrance into a stone passage, which, there being no other way to the stable, served both for himself, and that very dear part of himself, his horses, whose dwelling was certainly by far more commodious than their master's. His accommodations were simple enough. The dining-parlour, which might pass for his only sitting-room,—for the little dark den which he called his drawing-room was not entered three times a year; the dining-room was a small square room, coloured pea-green with a gold moulding, adorned with a series of four prints on shooting, and four on hunting, together with two or three portraits of eminent racers, riders, hunters, and grooms. Guns and fishing-rods were suspended over the mantelpiece; powder-horns, shot-belts, and game-bags scattered about; a choice collection of flies for angling lay in one corner, whips and bridles in another, and a pile of books and papers,—Colonel Thornton's Tour, Daniel's Rural Sports, and a heap of Racing Calendars, occupied a third; Ponto and Carlo lay basking on the hearth-rug, and a famous little cocking spaniel, Flora by name, a conscious favourite, was generally stretched in state on an arm-chair.

Here, except when the owner was absent on a sporting expedition, which, between fishing, shooting, hunting, and racing, did, it must be confessed, happen pretty often; here his friends were sure to find a hearty welcome, a good beef-steak,—his old housekeeper was famous for cookery!—and as much excellent Port and super-excellent Madeira—Tom, like most of his school, eschewed claret and other thin potations—as their host could prevail on them to swallow. Many a good fellow hath heard the chimes at midnight in this little room.

In the present sheet we are only able to include Notices of four of the nine Annuals, exclusive of the Juvenile Presents, which we reserve for a "select party." Our notice of the Winter's Wreath is in type, but must stand over for the present, as well as those of the Keepsake, Anniversary, Bijou, and Friendship's Offering, which will freight another Supplementary Sheet, to follow very shortly. We prefer this method to passing over the merits of these works with mere commendatory generalities. It does not require a microscopic or a critical eye to distinguish their beauties; but we hope the means we have adopted for the present gratification of our readers will be such as to induce them to look for the appearance of our SECOND SUPPLEMENT, as well as to prove ourselves worthy of the encore. Like some comic singers, we will endeavour to keep up the entertainment by "variations."