A Literary Sandwich: being a collection of miscellaneous writings

Front matter

i LITERARY SANDWICH: BEING % Collection of Pkellanams fMrithtgs, BY J. BAXTER LAN GLEY, M.R.C.S AUTHOR OF THE LIFE AGENTS VADE MECUM, PUBLISHED BY SUBSCRIPTION, 1855. LONDON: JOHN DARTON AND CO., HOLBORN HILL. 185 5. DEDICATION. As sulphuric acid to baryta, so is calamity the test of false friendship. The sourness of some of my fortunes has discovered moral baryta, which, under the test, falls away; and what was poison before, becomes innocuous. My sulphuric acid, moreover, has obliterated the name once inscribed upon this page (as most worthy) but leaves — unaltered by the test — that of one to whom thousands, who know him not, ought to be grateful. TO S. P. ROBINSON, ESQ., I heartily dedicate these samples of my brain-work — the poor but sole acknowledgment I can make for his manly yet considerate friendship, and as a small token of my sincere respect and gratitude. July, 1864.

Preface

. What a title! "Literary Sandwich!" Don't be hasty, dear subscribers. It is not easy to find a name for one's book, after clever men have galloped through every edition of every dictionary before us — title-hunting. " 011a Podrida," "Miscedany," &c, &c, have been worn threadbare. But "what's in a name?" says the young Shaksperian. In reply I would say, " a name is a word of character," and gives a tone where it does not express one. "Ah!' retorts a fair friend, "but ' Sandwich ' smacks of the kitchen;" — so does Olla Podrida, and less elegantly, for, being translated, it stands for " odds-and-ends soup." The following pages were supposed to contain some information — Bread ; something to strengthen our hopes and aspirations — Meat; flavoured with the Salt of speculation, the Pepper of passion, &c. Thus, as Editor of the " Modern Receipt Book," I have cooked the " Sandwich."

The writings here collected are very " miscellaneous ;" but are only published as samples of brain-work, for they form a small portion ofthe author's scribblings. But one dramatic work out of several is presented, and none of the author's many comic writings have been inserted. Having been educated for the church, and possessing an ineradi cable dislike to its duties, as well as a want of belief in its doctrines, I have found myseU in the condition of a man who, being about to go a journey on land, under a tropical sky, is burdened with the equipments -which might be desirable in a marine excursion to the Esquimaux ; and a desperate struggle of adaptation has been going on, which has exhausted the energies of my life and has ended in disappointment. A chequered life of adventure — I had almost VI.

PREFACE.

. written romance — has fatally impressed itseU upon these pages, which, if they are deficient in homogeniety, are representative of the history of the writer. This is explanation, not excuse for what foUows. Frank MeanweU and Murray are stories founded upon fact. In the former, real characters now Uving are brought upon the scene ; and copies of the original vdlanous letters which reveal the plot, are in the possession of the author : the halo and ved of fiction, however, is thrown over the parties — yet, though the flies can only be seen indistinctly through the amber, I trust it wiU preserve them for the pubUc eye awhile. I have never been rich enough in money or influence to get my Plat represented publicly, though many of the leading actors of the day have expressed in writing their opinion that it would certainly succeed on the stage.

I have other dramas on the stocks, but have little heart to finish them. If " The Fortune Hunters " were condemned, I should burn to vindicate myself by producing a better play — if it were approved, the success would stimulate me to new effort in the same du-ection. As it is, I have neither failure or success to urge me to proceed. I contemplate pubUshing a small volume of Essays hereafter, as I have much material in hand : samples of these are to be found in the People's Journal. I wait however, to see to what extent the public wdl tolerate my compositions, before I try its patience further. I cannot expect, in appealing to my friends, to hear the whole truth from so Umited and prejudiced a jury. But there are in the world those who will seize the opportunity to do me a great service by the severity of their criticism ; and I shaU not measure the value of the lesson by the motives which stimulate its production.

Whatever may be the verdict, I shaU receive it with equanimity, for I cannot forget that some of my happiest hours have been spent in composition, and that in tribulation and distress the habit of writing has ever been of great comfort to me. From the real world of selfish struggles, and envyings, and heart-burnings, from preface. vu. the actual world as it is, we ascend upon the wings of contemplative thought to the world as it ought to be — the ideal. Thus can we, " amidst the rush of the busy world," catch a foretaste of the calm hereafter ; of that "silent land" from whose bosom come no voices, because aU is buried in a complete repose of satisfaction — "Wrapt up in measureless content." This experience must tempt me to write whether I have readers or no ; but the pleasure of composition is doubled where the writer feels that he has uttered that which is not only true of himself, but which finds an echo in the universal heart, as testified by the approval of others.

In the words of Aristotle : "EiptjKa, aKrjKoaTf "(X(Te Kpivare. J. BAXTER LANGLEY. INDEX. Come Along ! 3 Go On ! * The Young Poet's Sigh 5 The Lost Star.. 6 The Last Letter 7 Her Last Words 8 Her Spirits' Teaching 8 Oh ! don't you remember the time 10 To Memory 11 The Struggling Heart 12 Love and Neglect 12 The Three Students 13 Last Lines of Chenier 13 A Night in May 14 The Nightingale 15 The Storm 16 Linton 17 To my Godmother 19 Song 20 Impromptu 20 Lines to an Absent Friend 20 Childhood .. .. : 21 A Birth-Day Ode 23 Scrap to an Angry Friend 23 Sympathy 24 The Poor Man's Thanksgiving 25 Song 26 The Sleeping Friar 27 Lines for Music 27 The Noviciate 28 In Memoriam 28 More or Less ■ ■ 28 Faithful though Forgotten 30 So Hastily 30 Farewell ! 31 To Mary 32 To the same 32 To a Spinner on his Birthday 33 Lines on the Death of a Beautiful Lady 33 Frank Meanwell, or Mistaken Purposes 37 Recollections of the Hospitals 174 The Fortune Hunters POEMS dial; gold; POEMS Cane along!

The shade creeps forward on the Come along ! The hour approaches for the trial Whether wrong Leagued with might ShaU conquer right, Or claims of justice brook denial ; Come along ! The flag of Uberty unfold ; — Come along ! Who wishes to be free, be bold, — In purpose strong ! For bright and high The orient sky The Ught of freedom streaks with Come along ! The wind is singing merrdy AU nature's song ; It sings the song of Uberty ; — Come along ! The stream is preaching The same teaching, And bursts its barriers to be free ; Come along ! b Come to the solemn-voiced sea ; Come along ! Hark ! she lisps the words, " Be free !" It is her song Upon the strand Of every land ; — Unchained and fetterless, like me ; Come along ! ($0 on! Go on ! Go on ! No moments wait To help the right ; Be strong in faith, and emulate The virtues of the good and great, With aU thy might- Go on !

Go on ! Go on ! The skies may lower, The storm may burst ; Unshaken in the trial hour, Good purposes shaU give thee power To brave the worst — Go on ! Go on ! Go on ! Thou canst not teU Thy mission here : Whate'er thou doest, labour well, Nor let a doubt within thee dwell, Or coward fear — Go on ! Go on ! Go on ! 'Tis never late To act thy part ; Thy stem resolves shall conquer Fate, And springs of happiness create Within thy heart ! — Go on ! Go on ! Go on ! No guerdon seek For thy reward ; But whde heroic, be thou meek, And from thy heart, and from thy cheek, Be pride debarr'd : Go on ! Go on ! Go on ! Thy Master's ear, And constant eye, Observe each groan, each struggling tear He, 'midst the shadows dark and drear, Is standing by — Go on ! Go on ! Go on ! Thy onward way Leads up to Ught : The morning now begins to grey, Anon the cheering beams of day ShaU chase the night : Go on !

Go on ! Go on ! Oh, doubt it never — This strife with wrong Is fated not to last for ever, But tf we boldly make endeavour, Will cease ere long ! — Go on ! Cfee foiing f oefs _§ig|. [A FRAGMENT, 1837.] Athirst for glory and poetic fame, How often is my heart thus dark and sad ! How often do I sigh for that bright flame Which Homer's melody immortal made, Or warmed of old the string of Pindar's lyre Or gave to Sappho's liquid notes their fire ! and The consciousness of thought, that longs to soar To bright Olympus and the muses' fount, — To breathe the air which naiads breathed of yore. And sing inspired upon the sacred mount, — Bums in my soul and longs to break the chain Which hangs athwart my lyre to check its strain. Unworded thoughts ! I cannot rise and sing. Though lovely visions o'er my spirit roU ; Yet, Uke a captive bird with broken wing.

Sunward I gaze, tiU beauty fiUs my soul, And my lone heart one last loud song awake. As harp-strings left alone in sounding break. Clje lost Star.* Where do I see thee not ? When night has spread Her dewy cloak, and closed each eye, Thyvision hovers round my bed. Smiling — and I, too, wish to die. I see thee in each lovely face, Each wreathed cloud, each flower of spring : Whate'er is beautiful bespeaks thy grace, Which was the sum of every lovely thing. Where do I hear thee not r In every sound When solitude has welcom'd me — The very winds that sigh around, Recal thy voice's harmony. I hear thee in the gushing song Of buds, their woodland anthems singing : When prattling brooklets Usp along, Thy music -voice seems in my fancy ringing. • Those words have been set to a graceful and expressive melody by my talented accomplished friend, Alexander Gordon Henderson, When do I love thee not ?

Heart ! answer — When ? Let my deep desolation say How, for the hour in which we meet again, Each moment in my soul I pray. I love thee ever, for my heart's thy throne, My thoughts are with thee in the tomb : Ah, why must I live on so sad and lone ? — Without thee here, save memory, all is gloom. per fast fetter. We meet no more ! I send the token Which as a pledge of love I cherish'd ; When this heart-utterance is spoken, The passion which it breathes has perish'd. Sweet thoughts about the trinket hang Of days, alas ! that now are o'er, But though it costs a bitter pang, I send it back : We meet no more ! We meet no more ! This tear-stain' d letter Bears words which would perforce be spoken, A torrent which no power could fetter, The wailings of a fond heart broken. Ah ! whde I write, Uke rising ocean, Come memories of days of yore ; But aU is fled, save my devotion, Which breathes its last : We meet no more !

We meet no more ! Perhaps the sentence Has now no sadden' d sound for thee ; But when, in after years, repentance Comes, with gentle thoughts of me, Those words wdl teU how strong the feeling Which, fountain-like, with tears gush'd o'er ; And while its passion was revealing, Despairing wrote — " We meet no more ! " fer fast fflfok* Her hazel eyes were glazing o'er ; Her Ups, so pale, could smtfe no more ; And on her high and marble brow The clear blue veins meander'd now. The Uttle hand I oft' had press'd A faded violet caress' d; Sweet flower ! the latest lovely thing She gather'd on the banks of spring. Athwart the couch on which she lay Was pour'd the sun's dechning ray ; And aU about her sainted head It seem'd that angel wings were spread. We loved, — but wicked Ups had wove A doubt between us and our love ; False friends had play'd a cruel part, And broken was her gentle heart.

Upon me, as I stood to gaze, Was turn'd that gentle dying face ; And giving me the violet, She softly breathed — " Forgive, forget !" Whene'er I see the earth in spring, Enrobed in many a lovely thing, About each flower there lingers yet, Those haUow'd words — " Forgive, forget !" |jer Spirit's feejnnig. They deck'd her forth in flowers, companion flowers, That, Uke her, had been pluck'd in beauty's bloom ; They wreathed her head in garlands from the bowers Where we had sung in hours that knew no gloom. • These words have been set to music by the celebrated composer, George Linley, Esq, The ballad will be published shortly. Pale as a Uly, lay she in her shroud, Looking too beautiful for touch of death ; And when to kiss her Uttle hand I bow'd, Her blue Ups seem'd to thank me without breath.

On that dear breast whose heart was pulseless now, I bent my head, my arms around her cast, I press'd her cold white fingers to my brow, And pray'd to heaven that hour might be my last. A calm came o'er me : then her music voice, In sweet, low accents feU upon my ear — Bidding me live, and in her love rejoice, For stiU she loved, and would be ever near. Anon she smded, and, with her hazel eye HaU fill'd with tears, a moment gazed on mine ; — " By that deep love," she said, " for which I die, Forget the past, and make the future thine !" She press'd my hand, and sweetly fed asleep. As morning dawn'd upon me dreaming there, I knew that she was dead, but ceased to weep — Her spirit's teaching echoed in my ear. In after years, stiU ever, day by day, When heartless friends from sorrow stood aloof, Her presence cheer'd me on my upward way, And smded approval, or wept soft reproof.

Together walk'd we, loving, hand in hand — An angel and a mortal side by side ! Link'd to each other by no earthly band, But those sweet words she utter'd when she died. At last, one brighter day, she smded divine, As she had smiled when first her spirit fled, And, pausing, placed another hand in mine — " No longer dream — but love again," she said. Esq. She left me ; but another, with soft eyes, Look'd into mine, and warm'd my fading heart ; My buried love I saw beside me rise, And live again, my angel's counterpart ! " ®{j sjott't pu remember tlje % inte . " Oh don't you remember the time When you gathered the cowshps for me, And I trembled to see you up-climb To the nest in the old apple tree ? Yes, I feel that you cannot forget, From yomlips I need ask no reply, For the light of old happiness yet Shines out, like a star, from your eye.

Oh ! don't you remember the time When we had a great festival day, And you brought me your eariiest rhyme, And crowned me the " Queen of the May." Yes, I feel that you cannot forget, From your lips I need ask no reply-, For the light of old happiness yet Beams out, like a star, from your eye. Oh ! don't you remember the time When, after an absence of years, We met, 'neath the shade of the Urne, And you whisper'd your hopes and your fears ? Yes, I see that you cannot forget ; From your Ups I need ask no reply, For the Ught of old times lingers yet, And beams, like a star, from your eye. These words have been arranged to a charming melody by E. J. I.odor, And don't you remember the time When we sat by the river alone, And we heard the beUs distantly chime, And you said : — But that time is aU gone, And I see that you do not forget ; From your Ups I need ask no reply, For the light of old happiness yet Shines out through the tear in your eye Id lil'emory.

Oh ! Memory, how great thy power, To cheer, delight, console ; To while away the lonely hour, In soft deceit of soul ! 'Tis thine, when voices sound again, As some endearing tone, To wake the murmurs of that strain Long past — for ever gone ! Our thoughts around the festive hearth How often thou dost call To some dear friend — the soul of mirth, Now absent from it all ! The forest walk, the upland path, Each tree, each rock, each flower. HaU of its sweet attraction hath By virtue of thy power. Garner of the immortal mind ! The past is stored in thee, For comfort or for curse design'd, To all eternity. %\t Struggling f eart. Oh heart, be stiU ! or break, or cease To beat with aU this wdd emotion, Whose throbbings every hour increase, And sweep my sptfit as the storms the ocean. Sad heart ! how can I bear thy weight ?

O'ercharg'd with hopes, and joys, and fears, Of love immeasurably great, And waken'd memories of bygone years. Oh heart, be stdl ! — No ! no ! beat on, — Love on, though loving thus is death ; Wake memories of days by-gone, As long-lost flowers on the newturned heath. foue ani. Heglert. [AFTER THE PERSIAN.] A flower was growing in a garden, and the sunshine of spring-time dwelt thereon ; Its leaves were verdant, its shoots luxuriant, and its blossoms were sou to the sight ; Its petals were turned to the beams, for their Use was bound up in the continuance thereof; But at night the blossoms drooped, and the leaves wept tears of dew, TiU the sun arose again, and forth came its beauties, as a bride from her chamber. But, lo ! it fell upon a day, that clouds and darkness veded the orb of Ught, And chiding winds and frosts came harshly o'er the tender plant ; So the flower withered and faded, and had well nigh died.

And then the sunshine burst forth, but it withered the floweret the more ; The sunshine came too late — the tender plant dried up and died. — I saw it and considered : — " Type of my heart, oh flower, meet emblem thou ! For the sunshine of affection denied no longer hath its power To quicken this sad heart, that has withered in the night-time of neglect!" Cjte Cjnte Students. [FROM THE GERMAN.] There came three students o'er the Rhine, And said to the hostess — " Bring us wine. — Where is that beautiful daughter of thine ?" In the eye of the hostess sweU'd a tear, As she answer'd — " The wine shaU soon be here, But my daughter lies on her funeral bier." The students sought the inner room, Where the daughter lay in funeral gloom — A rose, death-wither'd in fuU bloom. The first, he clasp'd his hands, and cried — " Oh, Marie, tf thou hadst not died, I had been happy by thy side !

" The second came and raised the pall — " Oh Marie, dearest, hear my cad ; Stdl, stiU my heart thou dost enthral ! " The third, he kiss'd the lips so blue, And whisper'd — " Marie, fond and true, I love thee now and ever too !" fast fines of Q^euier.* [FROM THE FRENCH.] As the last beam of light and the peace-wooing gale In summer's fair evenings a moment delay To struggle with darkness ere night spreads her veil, So at foot of the scaffold my lyre I essay. • Andre Joseph Chenier, a French poet of progressionist principles, guillotined in 1794. Perhaps the dread moment approaches me now, While the finger of time round its circle has gone ; Perhaps sixty minutes the dial may show — Then pause ; oh ! too like it my course may be run. Perhaps whde these numbers still wait on my tongue The slumber of death o'er the poet may hang, The verse stid unfinish'd remain, and the song Unsung and unknown as the poet that sung.

Alas ! ere the haU of the verse is complete, I hear through the corridors, pacing without, . The dtdl, measured tread of the murderous feet Recruiting for death : — 'Tis my name that they shout, And the echoes repeating shall sing through the gloom A long murniur'd requiem over my tomb. % lijlit in m. The primrose shuts her yedow eye — The lark no longer soars on high — Pink eve scarce blushes in the sky, Or tints the hdl. From new-born flowers, Uke censers sou, A fragrant incense loads the air, With grateful Nature's evening prayer Heaven's arch to fiU. Except the busy cricket's note, Or babbling streams where swadows float. Or heron's cry from brake remote, Or blackbird's trdl, Or wind's low sigh — aU murmurs hush : The bird of eve, the spotted thrush, Sits sleeping in her nested bush, And all is still.

Esq. %\t ligjttingale.* Hark ! Hark ! What wild melody startles the air ? 'Tis the nightingale wooing his mate to repair To the bank of the cowslip its sweetness to share. TriU lil ! Trill lu ! Thus does he woo, The long night through : — " Come, my love, — come, my love, taste the dew, Where in golden cups it waits for you. From the bright, garish south to my leaf-shaded home, Deck'd with cuckoo flowers, daisies and violets bloom, — Where unseen we can nestle, — my sweetest bird, come. By the murmuring rdl, — Trill Id ! TriU lu ! Thus wid I woo, The long night through. Come, my love, — come, my love, taste the dew, Where in cowslip cups it waits for you. The breath of the hawthorn floats fresh on the breeze ; Young leaflets are chanting the joy of the trees. Oh ! why dost thou linger, sweet bird, o'er the seas, When the stars are still, TriU lil !

TriU lu ! In the heavens' dark blue Come, my love, — come my love, thus will I woo, In our bed of violets gemmed with dew." • These words have been arranged to brilliant descriptive music, by J. Macfarren. Published by Houlston and Stoneman, London, price ls. tsbe Storm. How calm is the night ! Not a murmuring breeze. In its whispering flight. Refreshes the trees : The faded leaves droop on the boughs in despair, Unable to sigh in the hot, thirsty air. Now darkens the sky Where the ruby sun set ; His gorgeous canopy Is hung with jet : The winds pipe their coming, the aspen leaves stir, And a duU, hoUow moaning is made by the fir. Heavy drops faU around, With a plash through the leaves ; And a low, distant sound Wakes the birds in the eaves : Wide, wide o'er the skythe dim shadows are whirling.

Like squadrons of darkness black banners unfurling. Than wild fancies quicker. That fitfidly come. The fork'd lightnings flicker From out the deep gloom : The storm blows his trumpet — space thrdls with the blast Heaven answers in echoes, and Earth stands aghast. With a roar and a crash O'er the wood and the plain Tlie storm squadrons dash ; And the far-spreading main, Uprising like Alps, in waves crested high, In fury defiance loud hurls to the sky. sinton. [KENT.] Linton ! thy valley spreading at my feet — Where nature's varied charms appear to meet — WiU linger on my brain for many a day, And be a heart-picture when fer away ! The distant Medway basking in the sun Seemed Uke a molten sdver stream to run ; Or Uke a snowy girdle cast aside by chance By some fair nymph engaged in festal dance.

Ten thousand odours from the vaUey sprung Where busy hop-pickers thencarols sung ; And homeward wending the high-laded wain Dragged a broad stream of scent along the lane. 'Whde pensively I gazed upon the scene And wondered what ingratitude could mean, A robin, perched upon a berried elder tree, Made thanksgiving for beauty, for himseU and me. Far off, along the green embroidered plain, The monster engine drew his thundering train, Leaving, to mark his passage through the trees, A white steam-pennon curUng in the breeze ; And farther stdl, towards the foaming sea, Hamlets and towns the traveller might see — TiU azure distance, mingling earth and sky, Defied his power and tired his charmed eye. Upon a grassy rising, near the wood, The church, like some grey beacon, massive stood ; And from its Uchened beU-tower on the hill Seemed ever preaching " Peace:" — all was so still.

Go to the chancel, whoso has a heart, And learn deep knowledge from the sculptor's art ; Silent behold where, on his couch of pain, That youth so calm and beautiful is lain : Mark how the lips, which seem to move with breath Are eloquent of faith and hope in' death ; c Note weU how placidly the eyehds fold So sleep-Uke ; and the hand of classic mould How aU -resistless it appears to Ue : The statue teaches " None need fear to die." Others in sculptured elegance are there — The old, the young, the manly, and the foir ; But none so exquisite and fuU of truth As that calm statue of the dying youth. Be mine to die with such calm hopes of bhss — May my last end be Ukened unto his ! Behind the church a solemn avenue Appeared to form the background to the view ; And, as 'twas fitting, o'er the ancient trees Autumnal tints had spread by slow degrees ; — Red leaves blushed here, and there a golden bough Told how the summer's warmth was fading now : And scattered leaves lay on the graves hard by-, As if they came with feUow-dead to Ue.

The crimson-niantled sun now sinks to rest Behind the mountains in the glowing west, Whde on that grassy knod reclined, I scan The beauties spendthrift Nature spreads for man. The hastyprattle of the moss-bound rid Makes music as it whispers down the hid ; And grateful vespers from each brake and tree Are sung with God-taught minstrelsy. The darkening valley seems to find a voice, And hid and forest, rock and stream, rejoice, As peace and twilight, hand in hand, come on, And hovering, drop their dewy kisses down. The fearful hare steals forth from out her form To find in each crisp leaf some new alarm : Grey rabbits peep out from the fern close by, And, stamping, con me with a doubtful eye : The wood-pigeon wads out her plaintive " coo," While owls iu hoarser accents shout "halloo": I Night's choristers arouse the chilly air, And wake the echoes through the woods afar The moon arises, and the scene's replete With all that's musical, sublime and sweet.

There is a harmony the birds among — There is sweet music on an infant's tongue ; And in the dashing of the white-robed sea There is a startling witchery. Through the far blue upon a stdly night, Murmur the choruses of orbs of light : In melody the wind its language tells, As through the leafy boughs its cadence sweUs ; Yes ! and in aU this world's created things Not one is good but in its nature sings, And to the harmonious whole its music brings. so mir iusjmotljer, ON RECEIPT OF A PACKET OF ROSE-LEAVES [AFTER THE ANTIQUE.] She sent me rose-leaves, stdl of odour, Blushing like the western sky ; And when I thought how much I owed her I said, like them, that blush should I. But blushing nought avads to pay The debt of gratitude I owe ; Then, rose-like, let me use my day A beauteous life around to show.

And when I'm gathered may my leaves For others keep a fragrancy, And be preserved like goodly sheaves That in autumnal garners be. c Song How vain 'tis to grieve at one's lot ! We cannot recaU what is past ; Why sigh for the hours that are not, While the present is flying so fast ? Though clouds may o'ershadow the sky And dim the bright sun for an hour, They break into rainbows and lie Like pearls on each elegant flower. Oh ! thus may ouilife pass away ! Though ouihearts for a moment be sad, Let Hope be the sun to our day, The star-light to gleam through ouishade And banish all sighing and care, If Friendship its happiness lend; Forget the sad name of despair In the antidote found in a friend. Impromptu. As round the rose the honeysuckle twines, As on the olive rest the pUant vines, So constant lovers to each other fly For comfort and sweet svmpathv : And when rude blasts the honeysuckle tear From its support, — those very winds shall bear Thc fragrance of the creeper to the rose ; — As parted lovers hear each others' vows. fines to an jpsent Jfrienb.