Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1835

Title Page

Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835 compiled by Peter J. Bolton

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PREFACE.

Introduction

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INTRODUCTION.

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AND has my heart enough of song To give these pictured lines The poetry that must belong To what such art designs? The landscape, and the ruined tower, The temple’s stately brow— Methinks I never felt their power As I am feeling now. 2. For now I find in foreign scenes What foreign scenes can be, And truth with fancy intevenes, To bring them home to me. A few short miles, a few salt waves, How strange a change there came— Our lives as separate as our graves; Is then our kind the same? 3. Ah, yes; a thousand sympathies Their general birth-place find, And nature has a thousand links To beautify and bind. I deeply felt that song should make One universal link, Uniting, for each other’s sake, All those who feel and think. 4. The poet’s lovely faith creates The beauty it believes; The light which on his footstep waits He from himself receives. His lot may be a weary lot, His thrall a heavy thrall, And cares and griefs the crowd know not, His heart may know them all. 5. But still he hath a mighty dower— The loveliness that throws Over the common thought and hour The colours of the rose. A loveliness like that sweet ray I marked this very morn, When the first smile of early day Amid the east was born. 6. Fair Paris caught the crimson hue — Well may I call it fair, With its pure heaven of softest blue, Its clear and sunny air— Soft fell the morning o’er each dome That rises mid the sky; And, conscious of the day to come, Demand their place on high.

7. Round the Pantheon’s height was wrought A web of royal red; A glory as if morning brought Its homage to the dead. And Notre Dame’s old gothic towers Were bathed in roseate bloom, As Time himself had scattered flowers Over that mighty tomb. 8. For tomb it is—those arches hide Six centuries below: A world of faith, and pomp, and pride, Our days no longer know. The streets around wore those soft hues That flit on rosy wings, The meanest lane drank those pure dews The angel morning brings. 9. They lasted not—too soon they soil— The common day began With all the grief, the care, the toil, That morning brings to man. But still it was a lovely light That vanished from the scene; ’Twas much, when past away from sight, To think that it had been. 10. All things are symbols, and we find, In this glad morning prime, The actual history of the mind In its own early time. So to the youthful poet’s gaze A thousand colours rise; The beautiful which soon decays, The buoyant which soon dies. 11. So does not die their influence. His spirit owns the spell; Memory to him is music—hence The magic of his shell. He sings of general hopes and fears, A universal tone; All weep with him, for in his tears They recognise their own. 12. True, that with weariness and wo The fairy gift is won, And many a glorious head lies low, Ere half its race be run; And many a one whose lute hangs now High on the laurel tree, Feels that the cypress’s dark bough A fitter home would be— 13. And turns away from many a smile. And many a word of praise; And with a lonely heart the while Regrets the price he pays. For fame is bought by feverish nights, By sacrifice and pain; The phantasie of past delights Still haunts the poet’s strain.

14. Though he may bid, with charmed voice, His own wild heart be still, And in lull’d silence sleep, his choice It is not at his will. His fate is song, and for that song Doth glory track his way; A thousand hearts to him belong, Won by his gentle lay. 15. ’Tis his upon the landscape's bloom A deeper spell to cast; ’Tis his, beside the ruined tomb, To animate the past. And let him think, if his own sphere Too visionary seem, Life’s dearest joy, and hope, and fear, What are they each?—a dream.

Paris. L. E. L.

Preface

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PREFACE.

I have again the pleasant task of presenting another volume to the public;—pleasant with the remembrance of former, and the hope of future encouragement.

The character of the present work is more various than that of its predecessors. Perhaps, as it does not belong to my share in the contents, I may be permitted to point attention to the beauty and novelty of the coloured frontispiece. The music introduced is also a new feature; but I may safely leave Mr. Russel’s songs to make their own welcome.

May I, while offering a fourth volume of the Drawing-Room Scrap Book to my readers, venture to rely on a continuance of that favour, at once the source and the reward of a writer’s anxiety and exertion.

L. E. L.

Table of Contents

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction | 2

Etty's Rover

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ETTY’S ROVER. Artist: T. A. Woolnoth - Engraved by: T. Woolnoth

THE

DRAWING-ROOM SCRAP BOOK.

ETTY'S ROVER.

(VIGNETTE.)

THOU lovely and thou happy child, Ah, how I envy thee! I should be glad to change our state, If such a thing might be.

And yet it is a lingering joy To watch a thing so fair, To think that in our weary life Such pleasant moments are.

A little monarch thou art there, And of a fairy realm, Without a foe to overthrow, A care to overwhelm.

Thy world is in thy own glad will, And in each fresh delight, And in thy unused heart, which makes Its own, its golden light

With no misgivings in thy past, Thy future with no fear; The present circles thee around, An angel’s atmosphere.

How little is the happiness That will content a child— A favourite dog, a sunny fruit, A blossom growing wild.

A word will fill the little heart With pleasure and with pride; It is a harsh, a cruel thing, That such can be denied.

And yet how many weary hours Those joyous creatures know; How much of sorrow and restraint They to their elders owe!

How much they suffer from our faults! How much from our mistakes! How often, too, mistaken zeal An infant’s misery makes!

We overrule, and over-teach, We curb and we confine, And put the heart to school too soon, To learn our narrow line.

No; only taught by love to love, Seems childhood’s natural task; Affection, gentleness, and hope Are all its brief years ask.

Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child, With careless heart and eye; Enjoy those few bright hours which now, E’en now, are hurrying by;

And let the gazer on thy face Grow glad with watching thee, And better, kinder;—such at least Its influence on me.

Sassoor, in the Deccan

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VIEW OF SASSOOR, IN THE DECCAN. Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: E. Challis

SASSOOR, IN THE DECCAN.

The plate represents a temple to Mahadeo, surrounded by inferior shrines. The Hindoos usually place some religious building at the confluence of two streams: and when the accompanying view was taken, there were some cultivated gardens, and groves of beautiful trees. Still, I believe, few Indian residents but will admit the truth of the feeling which the following lines endeavour to express.

It is Christmas, and the sunshine Lies golden on the fields, And flowers of white and purple, Yonder fragrant creeper yields.

Like the plumes of some bold warrior, The cocoa tree on high, Lifts aloft its feathery branches, Amid the deep blue sky.

From yonder shadowy peepul, The pale fair lilac dove, Like music from a temple, Sings a song of grief and love.

The earth is bright with blossoms, And a thousand jewelled wings, ’Mid the green boughs of the tamarind A sudden sunshine flings.

For the East, is earth’s first-born, And hath a glorious dower, As Nature there had lavished Her beauty and her power.

And yet I pine for England, For my own—my distant home; My heart is in that island, Where’er my steps may roam.

It is merry there at Christmas— We have no Christmas here; ’Tis a weary thing, a summer That lasts throughout the year.

I remember how the banners Hung round our ancient hall, Bound with wreaths of shining holly, Brave winter’s coronal.

And above each rusty helmet Waved a new and cheering plume, A branch of crimson berries, And the latest rose in bloom.

And the white and pearly misletoe Hung half concealed o’er head, I remember one sweet maiden, Whose cheek it dyed with red.

The morning waked with carols,* A young and joyous band Of small and rosy songsters, Came tripping hand in hand.

And sang beneath our windows, Just as the round red sun Began to melt the hoar-frost, And the clear cold day begun.

And at night the aged harper Played his old tunes o’er and o’er; From sixteen up to sixty, All were dancing on that floor.

Those were the days of childhood, The buoyant and the bright; When hope was life’s sweet sovereign, And the heart and step were light.

I shall come again—a stranger To all that once I knew, For the hurried steps of manhood From life’s flowers have dash’d the dew.

I yet may ask their welcome, And return from whence I came; But a change is wrought within me, They will not seem the same.

For my spirits are grown weary, And my days of youth are o’er, And the mirth of that glad season Is what I can feel no more.

This is one of those pretty customs that yet remain at a due distance from London—London, that Thalaba of all observances. I remember once being awakened by a band of children coming up the old beech avenue, singing carols with all their heart. The tune was monotonous enough, and as to time, I will say nothing on the subject. Still the multitude of infant voices, and the open air, and the distance, gave a singularly wild and sweet effect to the chant of the childish company. The words, which I subjoin, had a practical tendency.

Ivy, holly, and misletoe, Give me a penny, and let me go.

Hindoo and Mahommedan Buildings

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HINDOO AND MAHOMMEDAN BUILDINGS. Artist: David Roberts - Engraved by: Geo. Baxter

HINDOO AND MAHOMMEDAN BUILDINGS.

[FRONTISPIECE.]

"The Engraving represents a splendid sculptured Portico of a Temple dedicated to Mahadeo, at Moondheyra in Guzerat. This elaborate and magnificent specimen of the best age of Hindoo architecture, has been in ruins since the invasion of Alla o Deen, surnamed Khoonee, or the Bloody. Tradition inscribes to his intolerant spirit the destruction both of this noble edifice and numerous other religious buildings in Guzerat. This temple is so gigantic that the natives ascribe its erection to a deity, and say, that it was built by Ram some thirty lacks of years ago. The most unpretending insist on an antiquity of five thousand years."

History hath but few pages—soon is told Man's ordinary life, Labour, and care, and strife, Make up the constant chronicle of old.

First comes a dream—the infancy of earth, When all its untried powers Are on the conscious hours Warm with the light that called them into birth.

'Tis but a dream—for over earth was said An early curse—time's flood Rolls on in tears and blood; Blood that upon her virgin soil was shed.

Abel the victim—Cain the homicide, Were type and prophecy Of times that were to be, Thus reddened from the first life's troubled tide.

See where in great decay yon temple stands, Destruction has began Her mockery of man, Bowing to dust the work of mortal hands.

What are its annals—such as suit all time Man's brief and bitter breath, Hurrying unwelcome death, And something too that marks the East's bright clime.

For mighty is the birthplace of the sun, All has a vaster scale Than climes more cold and pale, Where yet creation's work is half begun.

Her conquests were by multitudes,—the kings Who warred on each vast plain, Looked on a people slain, As amid conquest's customary things.

Her wealth—our gold is one poor miser's store, Her pomp was as the night, With glittering myriads bright, Her palace floors with gems were covered o'er.

Her summer's prodigality of hues, Trees like eternal shrines, Where the rich creeper twines, And all lit up with morn's most golden dews.

'Tis a past age—the conqueror's banner furled, Droops o'er the falling tower; Yet was the East's first hour The great ideal of the material world.

The beautiful—the fertile and the great, The terrible—and wild, Were round the first-born child Of the young hour of earth's imperial state

And yet the mind's high tones were wanting there, The carved and broken stone Tells glories overthrown; Religions, empires, palaces are—where?

Such annals have the tempest's fire and gloom; They tell of desperate power, Famine and battle's hour, War, want, disorder, slavery, and the tomb.

Not such the history that half redeems The meanness of our clay; That intellectual sway Which works the excellence of which it dreams.

Fall, fall, ye mighty temples to the ground; Not in your sculptured rise Is the real exercise Of human nature's highest power found.

'Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil, 'Tis in the gifted line, In each far thought divine, That brings down heaven to light our common soil.

'Tis in the great, the lovely, and the true, 'Tis in the generous thought, Of all that man has wrought, Of all that yet remains for man to do.

Honister Crag, Cumberland

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HONISTER CRAG, CUMBERLAND. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. Floyd

HONISTER CRAG,—CUMBERLAND.

"In this wild and picturesque glen a skirmish took place between the Elliotts and the Græmes, in which the young leader of the Scottish clan was slain, though his party were victorious. They buried him in an opening on the hillside; and every clansman brought a fragment of rock, to raise a rude monument to his honour. On the summit of the pile they placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, that neither friend nor foe should pass irreverently the youthful warrior's grave."

Not where the green grass hides His kindred before him; Not where his native trees Droop to deplore him; But in the stranger's land Must we bestow him. Leave there his sword and shield, That all may know him.

Never was fairer youth, Never was bolder; Who would have met his sword A few summers older? Ne'er will our chieftain's line Yield such another; Who can, amid us all? Tell it his mother.

Long Lonkin

The country in this part is filled with traditions that record, and ballads that celebrate anecdotes of the predatory warfare then so general. The following ballad was communicated to me by a friend, who has the usual vivid memory of childhood on subjects connected with its early impressions. Not only has it never been published, but it is so curious and quaint, that I cannot resist its insertion here. At least, it is illustrative of the wild scenery haunted by yet wilder memories.

LONG LONKIN.

The lord said to his ladie, As he mounted his horse, Beware of Long Lonkin That lies in the moss.

The lord said to his ladie As he rode away, Beware of Long Lonkin, That lies in the clay.

What care I for Lonkin, Or any of his gang, My doors are all shut, And my windows penn'd in?

There were six little windows, And they were all shut, But one little window, And that was forgot.

* * * * * * * * * * * * And at that little window Long Lonkin crept in.

Where's the lord of the hall? Says the Lonkin; He's gone up to London, Says Orange to him.

Where are the men of the hall? Says the Lonkin; They are at the field ploughing, Says Orange to him.

Where are the maids of the hall? Says the Lonkin; They are at the well, washing, Says Orange to him.

Where are the ladies of the hall? Says the Lonkin; They are up in their chambers, Says Orange to him.

How shall we get them down? Says the Lonkin; Prick the babe in the cradle, Says Orange to him.

Rock well my cradle, And be-ba my son; You shall have a new gown When the lord he comes home.

Still she did prick it, And be-ba she cried; Come down, dearest mistress, And still your own child.

Oh! still my child Orange, Still him with a bell; I can’t still him, ladie, Till you come down yoursell.

Hold the gold bason For your heart’s blood to run in; * * * * * * * * * * * *

To hold the gold bason, It grieves me full sore; Oh, kill me, dear Lonkin, And let my mother go.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Orphan Ballad Singers

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THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS. Artist: W. Gill - Engraved by: J. Romney

THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS.

Oh, weary, weary are our feet, And weary, weary is our way; Thro' many a long and crowded street We've wandered mournfully to-day. My little sister she is pale She is too tender and too young To bear the autumn's sullen gale, And all day long the child has sung.

She was our mother's favourite child, Who loved her for her eyes of blue, And she is delicate and mild, She cannot do what I can do. She never met her father's eyes, Although they were so like her own; In some far distant sea he lies, A father to his child unknown.

The first time that she lisped his name, A little playful thing was she; How proud we were,—yet that night came The tale how he had sunk at sea. My mother never raised her head; How strange, how white, how cold she grew! It was a broken heart they said— I wish our hearts were broken too.

We have no home—we have no friends, They said our home no more was ours; Our cottage where the ash-tree bends, The garden we had filled with flowers. The sounding shells our father brought, That we might hear the sea at home; Our bees, that in the summer wrought The winter's golden honeycomb.

We wandered forth mid wind and rain, No shelter from the open sky; I only wish to see again My mother's grave, and rest and die. Alas, it is a weary thing To sing our ballads o'er and o'er; The songs we used at home to sing— Alas, we have a home no more!

St. Mawgan Church & Lanhern Nunnery, Cornwall

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ST. MAWGAN CHURCH & LANHERN NUNNERY, CORNWALL. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. LePetit

ST. MAWGAN CHURCH & LANHERN NUNNERY, CORNWALL.

The old Mansion of Lanhern belonged to the Lords Arundell, of Wardour. It was given in 1794 by Henry Eighth, Lord Arundell, as an asylum for a convent of English Theresian nuns, who had migrated from Antwerp, in consequence of the invasion of the French. The sisterhood, or rather their successors, still continue secluded in the old and lonely house now called the Lanhern Nunnery.

It stands amid the sheltering boughs, A place of peace—a place of rest, Where the veiled virgin's hourly vows By prayer and penitence are blest. The sunshine rests upon the walls More golden than the common day, And there a stiller shadow falls Than rests on life's tumultuous way.

Alas! why should this quiet place Bring fancies of unrest to me; Why looks forth that beloved face I seem in every place to see? Ah, what may not those walls conceal! The sunshine of that sainted shrine Might from its inmost depths reveal Some spirit passionate as mine;

Some one condemned in youth to part From all that made her youth so dear, To listen to her beating heart, In shame—in solitude and fear: To know no hope before the grave, To fear there is no hope beyond, Yet scarcely dare of heaven to crave Forgiveness for a faith too fond:

To feel the white and vestal veil Grow wet and warm with worldly tears, To pass the midnight watching pale, Yet tremble when the day appears: Prostrate before the cross to kneel, With eyes that may not look above; How dare the delicate to feel The agony of earthly love?

Oh! misery, for the young heart doomed To waste and weep its youth away, To be within itself entombed, And desperate with the long decay! Yes, misery! but there may be A yet more desperate despair; There is a love whose misery Mocks all those cells may soothe and share.

There the pale nun at least can keep One treasured and unbroken dream; The love for which she wakes to weep, Seems ever what it once could seem. She knows not time's uncharming touch Destroying every early hue; The false!—she dreameth not of such— Her love is still the deep, the true.

Not so the love of common life, 'Tis coloured by the common air; Its atmosphere with death is rife, A moral pestilence is there. Fevered—exacting—false and vain, Like a disease, it lingers on, Though all that blest its first sweet reign, Its morning dew and light, are gone.

Such is the actual life of love, Such is the love that I have known; Unworthy of the heaven above— Dust, like the earth where it has grown. Ah! better far alone to dwell, Dreaming above the dearest past, And keeping in the silent cell, Life's best illusions to the last.

The River of the Water of Life

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RIVER OF THE WATER OF LIFE. Artist: H. Melville - Engraved by: R. Brandard

THE RIVER OF THE WATER OF LIFE.

[PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.]

Oh, glittering river,—doth the willow stoop O'er thy blue depths? or do the lilies droop, Watching the shadow of each ivory blossom, So soon to sink in thy unquiet bosom?— Does the bright heaven make of thy tide its glass? Do the dark clouds above thy mirror pass? Do thy banks echo to the shepherd's song? Do human feet pass restlessly along? They do:—upon those mystic waves of thine Time finds a symbol, and Faith sets its sign. Thus does Time's flood roll silently away— Losing the sunshine of its earlier day. The songs that floated o'er its waves are fled, Its green leaves fallen, and its flowers dead. Then Faith steps forth, and promises, "Once more That stream will rise, but on another shore. The seraph's harp will be its music there; Immortal flowers will light the immortal air. Each human lip that drinks of that bright wave Drinks to the Cross's triumph o'er the grave." Life to thy river is a far course given, But both its birthplace and its home are heaven.

The Coquette

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THE COQUETTE. Artist: S. Williamson - Engraved by: W. Miller

THE COQUETTE.

She danced upon the waters, Beneath the morning sun, Of all old Ocean's daughters The very fairest one. An azure zone comprest her Round her white and slender side, For her gallant crew had drest her Like a beauty and a bride.

She wore her trappings gaily, As a lady ought to do, And the waves which kissed her daily Proud of their mistress grew. They clung like lovers round her, And bathed her airy feet; With white foam wreaths they bound her, To grace her, and to greet.

She cut the blue wave, scorning Our dull and common land; To the rosy airs of morning, We saw her sails expand. How graceful was their drooping Ere the winds began to blow, While the gay Coquette was stooping To her clear green glass below!

How gallant was their sweeping, While they swelled upon the air; As the winds were in their keeping, And they knew they were so fair! A shower of spray before her, A silvery wake behind, A cloud of canvass o'er her, She sprang before the wind.

She was so loved, the fairy, Like a mistress or a child; For she was so trim and airy, So buoyant and so wild. And though so young a rover, She knew what life could be; For she had wandered over Full many a distant sea.

One night, 'twas in September, A mist arose on high; Not the oldest could remember Such a dense and darkened sky: And small dusk birds came hovering The gloomy waters o'er; The waves mocked their sweet sovereign, And would obey no more.

There was no wind to move them, So the sails were furled and fast, And the gallant flag above them Dropped down upon the mast. All was still as if death's shadow Were resting on the grave; And the sea, like some dark meadow, Had not one rippling wave:

When the sky was rent asunder With a flood of crimson light, And one single burst of thunder Aroused the silent night. 'Twas the signal for their waking! The angry winds arose, Like giant captives breaking The chain of forced repose.

Yet bravely did she greet them, Those jarring winds and waves; Ready with scorn to meet them, They who had been her slaves. She faced the angry heaven, Our bold and fair Coquette; Her graceful sides are riven, But she will brave it yet.

Like old oak of the forest, Down comes the thundering mast; Her need is at the sorest, She shudders in the blast. Hark to that low quick gushing! The hold has sprung a leak; On their prey the waves are rushing, The valiant one grows weak.

One cry, and all is quiet, There is not sight nor sound; Save the fierce gale at its riot, And the angry waters round. The morn may come with weeping, And the storm may cease to blow; But the fair Coquette is sleeping A thousand fathoms low.

Scene in Kattiawar

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SCENE IN KATTIAWAR, TRAVELLERS & ESCORT. Artist: C. Stanfield - Engraved by: E. Smith

SCENE IN KATTIAWAR.

"The north-western portion of Guzerat is inhabited by a warlike and robber race; hence travellers need an escort. This is sometimes given by the native chieftains. More frequently the merchant hires a guard. The annexed plate represents the halt of such a party. The shelter afforded by the ruined temples and tombs, occasion such resting places to be usually made in their vicinity."

I have a steed, to leave behind The wild bird, and the wilder wind: I have a sword, which does not know How to waste a second blow: I have a matchlock, whose red breath Bears the lightning's sudden death: I have a foot of fiery flight, I have an eye that cleaves the night. I win my portion in the land By my high heart and strong right hand.

The starry heavens lit up the gloom That lay around Al Herid's tomb; The wind was still, you might have heard The falling leaf, the rustling bird; Yet no one heard my footstep fall, None saw my shadow on the wall: Yet curses came with morning's light, Where was the gold they hid at night? Where was the gold they loved so well, My heavy girdle best could tell?

Three travellers crost by yonder shrine; I saw their polished pistols shine, And swore they were, or should be mine. The first, his head was at my feet; The second I was glad to greet; He met me like a man, his sword, Damascus true, deserved its lord; Yet soon his heart's best blood ran red: I sought the third—the slave had fled.

I have a lovely mountain bower, Where blooms a gentle Georgian flower; She was my spear's accustomed prize, The antelope hath not such eyes. Now my sweet captive loves her lot, What has a queen that she has not? Let her but wish for shawls or pearls, To bind her brow, to braid her curls; And I from east to west would fly, Ere she should ask and I deny. But those rich merchants must be near, Away, I cannot linger here; The vulture hovers o'er his prey, Come, my good steed—away!—away!

Speke Hall, Lancashire

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SPEKE HALL, LANCASHIRE. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: E. Challis

SPEKE HALL.

Oh, fair old House—how Time doth honour thee, Giving thee what to-day may never gain, Of long respect and ancient poesy; The yew-trees at thy doors are black with years, And filled with memories of those warlike days, When from each bough was lopped a gallant bow; For then the yew was what the oak is now, And what our bowmen were, our sailors are. How green the ivy grows upon the walls, Ages have lent their strength to those frail boughs, A venerable wreath upon the past, Which here is paramount;—the past, which is Imagination's own gigantic realm.

Jahara Baug, Agra

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JAHARA BAUG, - AGRA. Artist: T. S. Boys - Engraved by: W. J. Cooke

JAHARA BAUG, AGRA.

THE HISTORY OF SHAH DARA'S FLIGHT AND DEATH.

Agra was Shah Jehan's city of residence. It was from its walls that he witnessed the overthrow of Prince Dara, his eldest son. The Jahara Baug is one of the gardens adjoining the river.

It was the lovely twilight-time went down o'er Agra's towers, And silent were her marble halls, and tranquil were her bowers; The crimson colours of the rose were melting on the air, And from the ivory minarets arose the evening prayer.

The snowy herons to the roofs were flocking for the night, The columns and the cupolas were bathed in purple light; And the large lilies on the stream grew fairer in their hue, As they flung up each silver cup to catch the falling dew.

Filled with the sweet good-night of flowers that sigh themselves to sleep, Along the quiet river's side, the shadowy gardens sweep; While fair and pale, like some young girl who pines with early love, The young moon seems as if she feared to take her place above.