Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836

Title Page, Preface and Contents

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Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836 compiled by Peter J. Bolton

PREFACE.

Table of Contents

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Hindoo Mother | 4

The Hindoo Mother

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THE HINDOO MOTHER. Artist: H. Melville - Engraved by: E. J. Portbury

THE

DRAWING ROOM SCRAP-BOOK.

THE HINDOO MOTHER.

VIGNETTE.

SHE leaves it to the sacred stream, She leaves it to the tide, Her little child—her darling one, And she has none beside.

She used to sit beneath the palm, Her boy upon her knee; And dreaming of the future years, That were his own to be:

She saw him with a stately steed, The sabre in his hand; His pistols gleaming at his waist, The foremost of his band:

She saw him with his father’s smile, Beside some maiden dear; She smiled to hear familiar words! Alas! and is he here?

The light has vanished from her day, The hope gone from her heart; The young, the bright, and the beloved, Oh! how could he depart?

No more his sunny smile will make Her own, her household light; No more will her sweet voice be heard, Above his sleep at night.

Her heart and home are desolate, But for one dearest tie; But for the father of her child, She would lay down and die.

The tide rolls on beneath the moon, Down to the mighty main; To-morrow may the mother seek, And seek her child in vain.

Of the custom represented in the engraving, Mrs. Belnos gives the following interesting description:—"Hindoos of high caste burn their dead; but if unable to do so from poverty, are forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having performed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead are too great for any but the rich. When the infant of a poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she lays it for some time on a piece of mat, or on the sands; she stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires a few paces back, where she sits down watching for the turn of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it; at intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great distance) in the following words:—"Oh! my child! who has taken thee, my child! I nourished thee and reared thee, and now where art thou gone! take me with thee, Oh! my child, my child! thou play'dst around me like a gold top, my child! the like of thy face I have never seen, my child! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The infant continually called me mah, mah, (mother, mother;) the infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap! my child his father never stayed at home since he was born, my child! my child! but bore him continually in his arms for men to admire. What has become now of that admiration! Evil befall the eyes of men! Oh! my life, say mah again, my child, my child! My arms and my lap feel empty, who will fill them again? Oh! my sweet burden, my eye-sight has become darkened, now that thou hast vanished from before it!"

Immolation of a Hindoo Widow

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A SUTTEE. PREPARING FOR THE IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW. Artist: Capt. Grindlay - Engraved by: J. Redaway

IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW.

Gather her raven hair in one rich cluster, Let the white champac light it, as a star Gives to the dusky night a sudden lustre, Shining afar.

Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom, Until the breathing air around grows sweet; Scatter the languid jasmine’s yellow blossom Beneath her feet.

Those small white feet are bare—too soft are they To tread on aught but flowers; and there is roll’d Round the slight ankle, meet for such display, The band of gold.

Chains and bright stones are on her arms and neck; What pleasant vanities are linked with them, Of happy hours, which youth delights to deck With gold and gem.

She comes! So comes the Moon, when has she found A silvery path wherein through heaven to glide. Fling the white veil—a summer cloud—around; She is a bride!

And yet the crowd that gather at her side Are pale, and every gazer holds his breath. Eyes fill with tears unbidden, for the bride— The bride of Death!

She gives away the garland from her hair, She gives the gems that she will wear no more; All the affections, whose love-signs they were, Are gone before.

The red pile blazes—let the bride ascend, And lay her head upon her husband’s heart, Now in a perfect unison to blend— No more to part.

The Lily of the Valley

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THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. Artist: Frank Stone - Engraved by: C. E. Wagstaff

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

"A fair young face—yet mournful in its youth— Brooding above sad thoughts."

It is the last token of love and of thee! Thy once faith is broken, thou false one to me. I think on the letters with which I must part; Too dear are the fetters which wind round my heart.

Thy words were enchanted—and ruled me at will; My spirit is haunted, remembering them still. So earnest, so tender—the full heart was there; Ah! song might surrender its lute in despair.

I deemed that I knew thee as none ever knew; That 'twas mine to subdue thee, and thine to be true. I deemed to my keeping thy memory had brought The depths that were sleeping of innermost thought.

The bitter concealings life’s treacheries teach, The long-subdued feelings the world cannot reach— Thy mask to the many was worn not for me; I saw thee—can any seem like unto thee?

No other can know thee as I, love, have known; No future will show thee a love like mine own. That love was no passion that walketh by day, A fancy—a fashion that flitteth away.

’Twas life’s whole emotion—a storm in its might— ’Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night. It swept down life’s flowers, the fragile and fair, The heart had no powers from passion to spare.

Thy faults but endear’d thee, so stormy and wild; My lover! I fear’d thee as feareth a child. They seemed but the shrouding of spirit too high, As vapours come crowding the sunniest sky.

I worshipped in terror a comet above; Ah! fatal the error—ah! fatal the love! For thy sake life never will charm me again; Its beauty forever is vanish’d and vain.

Thou canst not restore me the depth and the truth Of the hopes that came o’er me in earliest youth. Their gloss is departed—their magic is flown, And sad and faint-hearted I wander alone.

’Tis vain to regret me—you will not regret; You will try to forget me—you cannot forget. We shall hear of each other—oh! misery to hear Those names from another that once were so dear!

What slight words will sting us that breathe of the past, And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to last. The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead, But the iron has enter’d the soul where they fed.

Like others in seeming, we’ll walk through life’s part, Cold, careless, and dreaming,—with death in the heart. No hope—no repentance; the spring of life o’er; All died with that sentence——I love thee no more!

Scenes in London:—Piccadilly

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SCENES IN LONDON:—PICCADILLY.

The sun is on the crowded street, It kindles those old towers; Where England’s noblest memories meet, Of old historic hours.

Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct, Tradition’s giant fane, Whereto a thousand years are linked, In one electric chain.

So stands it when the morning light First steals upon the skies; And shadow’d by the fallen night, The sleeping city lies.

It stands with darkness round it cast, Touched by the first cold shine; Vast, vague, and mighty as the past, Of which it is the shrine.

’Tis lovely when the moonlight falls Around the sculptured stone Giving a softness to the walls, Like love that mourns the gone.

Then comes the gentlest influence The human heart can know, The mourning over those gone hence To the still dust below.

The smoke, the noise, the dust of day, Have vanished from the scene; The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray O'er the park's sweeping green.

Sad shining on her lonely path, The moon’s calm smile above, Seems as it lulled life’s toil and wrath With universal love.

Past that still hour, and its pale moon, The city is alive; It is the busy hour of noon, When man must seek and strive.

The pressure of our actual life Is on the waking brow; Labour and care, endurance, strife, These are around him now.

How wonderful the common street, Its tumult and its throng, The hurrying of the thousand feet That bear life's cares along.

How strongly is the present felt, With such a scene beside; All sounds in one vast murmur melt The thunder of the tide.

All hurry on—none pause to look Upon another’s face: The present is an open book None read, yet all must trace.

The poor man hurries on his race, His daily bread to find; The rich man has yet wearier chase, For pleasure’s hard to bind.

All hurry, though it is to pass For which they live so fast— What doth the present but amass, The wealth that makes the past.

The past is round us—those old spires That glimmer o’er our head; Not from the present is their fires, Their light is from the dead.

But for the past, the present’s powers Were waste of toil and mind; But for those long and glorious hours Which leave themselves behind.

Warkworth Hermitage

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WARKWORTH HERMITAGE, NORTHUMBERLAND. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: M. J. Starling

WARKWORTH HERMITAGE.

THE lonely cavern, like a chapel carved, Is situate amid the lonely hills; The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock; And by the altar is a cenotaph. In marble there a lovely lady lies; An angel, with a welcome at her side, A welcome to the soul he beareth heaven. And near a warrior stands—the desolate! The wide earth only holds one tomb for him. Such must have been his history, who first Cut this sad hermitage within the rock: Some spirit-broken and world-weary man, Whose love was in the grave—whose hope in heaven. Yet a fine nature must have been his own; A sense of beauty—and a strong delight In the brave seeming of the visible world, Whose loveliness is like a sympathy. Winds the fair river through the vale below, With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods Hang the far summits with their changeful shade. In the soft summer fields are many flowers, Which breathe at evening on the scented wind. Still the wild cherry-trees are growing round, Which first he planted,—yet he loved the world— The bright—the beautiful—the glorious world— But loved it as those love who love on earth, Only the hope that looketh up to heaven.

Warkworth Hermitage is situated about half a mile above Warkworth Castle, on the brink of the Coquet river. This venerable retreat is probably the best preserved and the most entire work of its kind now remaining in the kingdom. It contains three apartments, all of them formed by excavation of the solid rock, and impends over the river clothed in a rich mantle of ancient trees, remains of the venerable ruins which in olden times sheltered the inmates of this romantic solitude. Mr. Grose, in his Antiquities, "ventures to call the three apartments, by way of distinction, the chapel, the sacristy, and antechapel."

The chapel is eighteen feet in length, by about seven and a half in width and height; and is beautifully modelled in the Gothic style of architecture. The sides are adorned with neat octagon pillars, branching off to the ceiling, and terminating in small pointed arches at the groins. At the east end is a plain altar, ascended by two steps; and behind is a little niche, in which was probably placed the crucifix.

The sacristy is a plain oblong apartment, running parallel with the chapel. The remains of an altar may still be seen at the east end, at which mass was occasionally performed. Between this room and the chapel is a small opening, whence the hermit might make confession, and behold the elevation of the host. Near this opening is a door leading into the chapel, and over it a small escutcheon with all the emblems of the passion—the cross—the crown of thorns—the nails—the spear—and the sponge. On the south side of the altar is a cenotaph supporting three figures; the principal one being that of a female, over whom an angel is hovering; the remaining figure is a warrior, in an erect position, at the lady's feet.

The beautiful ballad by Bishop Percy, in which he has recorded the traditional history of this hermitage, is familiar to the readers of English poetry.

The Astrologer

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THE ASTROLOGER. Artist: George Clint - Engraved by: S Davenport

THE ASTROLOGER.

Alas! for our ancient believings, We have nothing now left to believe; The oracle, augur, and omen No longer dismay and deceive.

All hush’d are the oaks of Dodona; No more on the winds of the north, As it sways to and fro the huge branches, The voice of the future comes forth.

No more o’er the flow'r-wreathed victim The priest at the red altar bends: No more on the flight of the vulture The dark hour of vict'ry depends.

The stars have forgotten their science, Or we have forgotten its lore; In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight, We question of fortune no more.

O folly! to deem that far planets Recorded the hour of our birth; Too glorious they are, and too lovely, For the wo and the weakness of earth.

Now the science of fate is grown lowly, We question of gipsies and cards; ’Tis a question how much of the actual The fate of the vot'ry rewards.

’Tis the same in all ages; the future Still seems to the spirit its home; We are weary and worn with the present. But happiness still is to come.

The Snowdrop

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THE SNOWDROP.

Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring-time is seen.

The lime-tree’s tender yellow, The aspen's silvery sheen, With mingling colours mellow The universal green. Now solemn yews are bending Mid gloomy firs around; And in long dark wreaths descending, The ivy sweeps the ground.

No sweet companion pledges Thy health as dew-drops pass; No rose is on the hedges, No violet in the grass. Thou art watching, and thou only, Above the earth’s snow tomb; Thus lovely, and thus lonely, I bless thee for thy bloom.

Though the singing rill be frozen, While the wind forsakes the west; Though the singing birds have chosen Some lone and silent rest; Like thee, one sweet thought lingers In a heart else cold and dead, Though the summer’s flowers, and singers, And sunshine, long hath fled:

’Tis the love for long years cherished, Yet lingering, lorn, and lone; Though its lovelier lights have perished, And its earlier hopes are flown. Though a weary world hath bound it, With many a heavy thrall; And the cold and changed surround it, It blossometh o’er all.

The Hindoo Girl’s Song

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THE HINDOO GIRL’S SONG.

This song alludes to a well-known superstition among the young Hindoo girls. They make a little boat out of a cocoa-nut shell, place a small lamp and flowers within this tiny ark of the heart, and launch it upon the Ganges. If it float out of sight with its lamp still burning, the omen is prosperous; if it sinks, the love of which it questions, is ill-fated.

Float on—float on—my haunted bark, Above the midnight tide; Bear softly o’er the waters dark The hopes that with thee glide.

Float on—float on—thy freight is flowers, And every flower reveals The dreaming of my lonely hours, The hope my spirit feels.

Float on—float on—thy shining lamp, The light of love, is there; If lost beneath the waters damp, That love must then despair.

Float on—beneath the moonlight float The sacred billows o’er: Ah, some kind spirit guards my boat, For it has gained the shore.

Horse-Shoe Falls, Niagara

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HORSE-SHOE FALLS, NIAGARA. ENTRANCE TO THE CAVERN ON THE ENGLISH SIDE. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: R. Sands

HORSE-SHOE FALL, NIAGARA.

In the centre of the Fall, a vast body of water rushes in an unbroken sheet; but towards the extremities, the fluid mass is shivered by rocky projections into minute particles, assuming a variety of forms, and radiant with prismatic hues. The volume of air carried down by the waters in their descent, so greatly diminishes the sustaining power of the element, that only substances of the greatest buoyancy will float in the chasm beneath. The spectator can advance to a great distance behind the cascade, by traversing a ledge of rock connected with the overhanging cliff; and having arrived at the customary limit, a scene of wonderful and fearful interest displays itself before him. A curtain of waters separates him from the world, a rocky canopy rises far above his head; "his feelings are those of a prisoner, but never, surely, was there so magnificent a dungeon!"

The concussion of the waters at Niagara strikes less forcibly on the ear than might be supposed; within a very short distance of the Falls, conversation may be maintained without any great exertion of the voice. The sounds of the cataract combine with none other; they would be heard amid the roaring of a volcano, and yet do not drown the chirping of a sparrow.

The view of the Falls represented in the engraving, derives much additional interest from an event detailed in the following extract from the Literary Gazette, May 9th, 1835:—

"A recent letter from New York announces the fall of the Table rock, at the Falls of Niagara. This immense mass of stone was on the Canada side of the river, projecting so as to afford the spectator a front view of the Horse-Shoe Fall. It was considerably undermined, and fissures on the surface had, for some time past, indicated the disruption. A larger mass was detached two or three years back, by the total fall of the most favourable position for viewing the magnificent appearance presented by that stupendous fall of waters."

The Indian Girl

THE INDIAN GIRL.

She sat alone beside her hearth— For many nights alone; She slept not on the pleasant couch Where fragrant herbs were strewn.

At first she bound her raven hair With feather and with shell; But then she hoped; at length, like night, Around her neck it fell.

They saw her wandering mid the woods, Lone, with the cheerless dawn, And then they said, "Can this be her We called ‘The Startled Fawn’?"

Her heart was in her large sad eyes, Half sunshine and half shade; And love, as love first springs to life, Of every thing afraid.

The red leaf far more heavily Fell down to autumn earth, Than her light feet, which seemed to move To music and to mirth.

With the light feet of early youth, What hopes and joys depart! Ah! nothing like the heavy step Betrays the heavy heart.

It is a usual history That Indian girl could tell; Fate sets apart one common doom For all who love too well.

The proud—the shy—the sensitive,— Life has not many such; They dearly buy their happiness, By feeling it too much.

A stranger to her forest home, That fair young stranger came; They raised for him the funeral song— For him the funeral flame.

Love sprang from pity,—and her arms Around his arms she threw; She told her father, "If he dies, Your daughter dieth too."

For her sweet sake they set him free— He lingered at her side; And many a native song yet tells Of that pale stranger’s bride.

Two years have passed—how much two years Have taken in their flight! They’ve taken from the lip its smile, And from the eye its light.

Poor child! she was a child in years— So timid and so young; With what a fond and earnest faith To desperate hope she clung!

His eyes grew cold—his voice grew strange— They only grew more dear. She served him meekly, anxiously, With love—half faith—half fear.

And can a fond and faithful heart Be worthless in those eyes For which it beats?—Ah! wo to those Who such a heart despise.

Poor child! what lonely days she pass’d, With nothing to recall But bitter taunts, and careless words, And looks more cold than all.

Alas! for love, that sits at home, Forsaken, and yet fond; The grief that sits beside the hearth, Life has no grief beyond.

He left her, but she followed him— She thought he could not bear When she had left her home for him, To look on her despair.

Adown the strange and mighty stream She took her lonely way; The stars at night her pilots were, As was the sun by day.

Yet mournfully—how mournfully!— The Indian look’d behind, When the last sound of voice or step Died on the midnight wind.

Yet still adown the gloomy stream She plied her weary oar; Her husband—he had left their home, And it was home no more.

She found him—but she found in vain— He spurned her from his side; He said, her brow was all too dark, For her to be his bride.

She grasped his hands,—her own were cold,— And silent turned away, As she had not a tear to shed, And not a word to say.

And pale as death she reached her boat, And guided it along; With broken voice she strove to raise A melancholy song.

None watched the lonely Indian girl,— She passed unmark'd of all, Until they saw her slight canoe Approach the mighty Fall!

Upright, within that slender boat They saw the pale girl stand, Her dark hair streaming far behind— Uprais’d her desperate hand.

The air is filled with shriek and shout— They call, but call in vain; The boat amid the waters dash'd— ’Twas never seen again!

The Rush-Bearing at Ambleside

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THE RUSH-BEARING AT AMBLESIDE, WESTMORLAND. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. Redaway

THE RUSH-BEARING AT AMBLESIDE.

SUMMER is come, with her leaves and her flowers— Summer is come, with the sun on her hours; The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough, And the dove in the thicket, make melody now. The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool.

We seek not the hedges where violets blow, There alone in the twilight of ev’ning we go; They are love-tokens offered, when heavy with dew, To a lip yet more fragrant—an eye yet more blue. But leave them alone to their summer-soft dream— We seek the green rushes that grow by the stream.

Away from the meadow, although the long grass Be filled with young flowers that smile as we pass; Where the bird’s eye is bright as the sapphires that shine When the hand of a beauty is decked from the mine. We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers, But we seek the green rush in the dark forest bowers.

The cowslip is ringing its fairy-like chime, Sweet bells, by whose music Titania keeps time; The rose-bush is covered with cups that unfold Their petals that tremble in delicate gold. But we seek not their blossoms in garlands to blend, We seek the green rush where the willow-trees bend.

The green rush, the green rush, we bear it along To the church of our village with triumph and song; We strew the cold chancel, and kneel on it there, While its fresh odours rise with our voices in prayer. Hark the peal from the old tower in praise of it rings, Let us seek the green rush by the deep woodland springs.

In the olden time, when the churches were strewn with rushes, the ceremony of changing them was a yearly religious festival. The custom, once universal, now lingers only in some of the remote northern districts. There, bunches of rushes, gaily ornamented, attended by banners and music, are still borne in triumph by the young people of the village. Last remains of that pastoral poetry which once characterised "merrie England."

The Young Destructive

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THE YOUNG DESTRUCTIVE. Artist: C. Wrankmore - Engraved by: W. C. Wrankmore

THE YOUNG DESTRUCTIVE.

In truth, I do not wonder To see them scatter’d round; So many leaves of knowledge— Some fruit must sure be found.

The Eton Latin Grammar Has now its verbs declin’d; And those of Lindley Murray Are not so far behind.

Oh! days of bread and water— How many I recall, Past—sent into the corner; Your face towards the wall.

Oh! boundaries of Europe! Oh! rivers great and small! Oh! islands, gulfs, and capitals! How I abhorr'd ye all!

And then those dreadful tables Of shillings, pence, and pounds! Though I own their greater trouble In after life abounds.

’Tis strange how memory lingers About those early hours; And we talk of happy childhood, As if such had been ours.

But distance lends enchantment To all we suffer’d then; Thank Heaven, that I never Can be a child again!

Fishing Boats in the Monsoon

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BOMBAY HARBOUR, - FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON. Artist: Clarkson Stanfield R. A. - Engraved by: E, Goodall

FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON.

The western coasts of India abound with a great variety of fish, of excellent quality; and a considerable population in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of catching the fish is as follows: piles or stakes, of considerable size and length, are sunk and secured at certain distances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles out to sea; these are driven or forced down by fastening boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This operation is further assisted at the same time by a number of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine productions.

Burn yet awhile, my wasting lamp, Though long the night may be; The wind is rough, the air is damp, Yet burn awhile for me.

The peepul tree beside our door, How dark its branches wave; They seem as they were drooping o’er Its usual haunt, the grave.

Why was it planted here to bring The images of death? Surely some gladder tree should spring Near human hope and breath.

O dove that dwellest its leaves among, I hear thee on the bough; I hear thy melancholy song, Why art thou singing now?

All things are omens to the heart That keeps a vigil lone, When wearily the hours depart, And yet night is not flown.

I see the lights amid the bay, How pale and wan they shine; O wind, that wanderest on thy way, Say which of them is mine.

A weary lot the fisher hath Of danger and of toil, Over the wild waves is his path, Amid their depths his spoil.

I cannot hear the wind go by Without a sudden fear; I cannot look upon the sky, Nor fear that storms are near.

I look upon the sunny sea, And think of rocks below; Still present are the shoals to me O’er which my love must go.

I cannot sleep as others sleep, Night has more care than day; My heart is out upon the deep, I weep—I watch—I pray.

Ah, see a speck the waves among, A light boat cuts the foam, The wild wind beareth me his song, Thank God, he is come home.

The Montmorency Waterfall and Cone

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THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL & CONE, NEAR QUEBEC. Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: Sam. Lacey

THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL AND CONE.

When the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies considerably, in different seasons; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply of water to the Falls—the spray, of course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its surface, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises from the dashing of the water against its face, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual action produces enormous icicles."—"The formation of this cone may serve to explain the origin of glaciers."

"To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top of the cone to the plain below."

WE do not ask for the leaves and flowers That laugh as they look on the summer hours; Let the violets shrink and sigh, Let the red rose pine and die: The sledge is yoked, away we go, Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow.