Part 3

"_November 18._--My dearest love, * * * I was very glad to hear a very nice account of you and my dear babies. * * * I shall finish my little Claude on Thursday; and then I shall have something to do to some of Sir George's pictures, that will take a day or two more, and then home. * * * I sent you a hasty shabby line by Southey, but all that morning I had been engaged on a little sketch in Miss Southey's album of this house, which pleased all parties here very much. Sir George is loath to part with me. He would have me pass Christmas with him, and has named a small commission which he wished me to execute here; but I have declined it, as I am desirous to return. Sir George is very kind, and I have no doubt meant this little picture to pay my expenses. I have worked so hard in the house, that I never went out of the door last week, so that I am getting quite nervous. But I am sure my visit here will be ultimately of the greatest advantage to me, and I could not be better employed to the advantage of all of us, by its making me so much more of an artist. * * * The breakfast bell rings. I now hasten to finish, as the boy waits. I really think seeing the habits of this house will be of service to me as long as I live. Every thing so punctual. Sir George never looks into his painting-room on a Sunday, nor trusts himself with a portfolio. Never is impatient. Always rides or walks for an hour or two, at two o'clock; so will I with you, if it is only into the square. I amuse myself, every evening, making sketches from Sir George's drawings about Dedham, &c. I could not _carry_ all his sketch-books. * * * I wish I had not cut myself out so much to do here; but I was greedy with the Claudes."

In his next letter to his wife, Constable deplores the facility with which he allowed his time to be consumed by loungers in his painting-room--an evil his good-nature to the last entailed on him. Mrs Constable in one of her letters had said:--"Mr **** was here nearly an hour on Saturday, reading the paper and talking to himself. I hope you will not admit him so often. Mr ****, another lounger, has been here once or twice."

"_Cole-Orton Hall, November. 21st._--My dearest love, I am as heartsick as ever you can be at my long absence from you, and all our dear darlings, but which is now fast drawing to a close. In fact, my greediness for pictures made me cut out for myself much more work than I ought to have undertaken at this time. One of the Claudes would have been all that I wanted, but I could not get at that first, and I had been here a fortnight before I began it. To-day it will be done, with perhaps a little touch on Saturday morning. I have then an old picture to fill up some holes in. But I fear I shall not be able to get away on Saturday, though I hope nothing shall prevent me on Monday. I can hardly believe I have not seen you, or my Isabel, or my Charley, for five weeks. Yesterday there was another very high wind and such a splendid evening as I never before beheld at this time of the year Was it so with you? But in London nothing is to be seen, worth seeing, in the NATURAL way.

"I certainly will not allow of such serious interruptions as I used to do from people who devour my time, brains and every thing else. Sir George says it is quite serious and alarming. Let me have a letter on Sunday, my last day here, as I want to be made comfortable on my journey, which will be long and tiresome, and I shall be very nervous as I get near home; therefore, pray let me have a good account of you all. I believe some great folks are coming here in December, which Sir George dreads, as they so much interfere with his painting habits; for no artist can be fonder of the art."

"_November 25th._--My very dearest love, I hope nothing will prevent my leaving this place to-morrow afternoon and that I shall have you in my arms on Thursday morning, and my babies; Oh, dear! how glad I shall be. I feel that I have been AT SCHOOL, and can only hope that my long absence from you may ultimately be to my great and lasting improvement as an artist, and indeed in every thing. If you have any friends staying with you, I beg you will dismiss them before my arrival."

We have already said we have no intention of going through the meagre incidents in the life of Constable. He was elected an Academician in 1829 after the death of his wife, which took place the year before. Much as he was pleased at the attainment of the honour, he could not help saying, "It has been delayed till I am solitary and cannot impart it." He could not add with Johnson, "until I am _known_ and do not _want it_;" for probably no painter of equal genius was at that time less generally known in his own country. Two days before, he writes, "I have just received a commission to paint a _mermaid_ for a _sign to an inn_ in Warwickshire! This is encouraging, and affords no small solace after my previous labours on landscape for twenty years."

His death took place in 1837.

"On Thursday the 30th of March, I met him at a general assembly of the Academy; the night, though very cold, was fine, he walked a great part of the way home with me. The most trifling occurrences of that evening remain on my memory. As we proceeded along Oxford Street, he heard a child cry on the opposite side of the way: the griefs of childhood never failed to arrest his attention, and he crossed over to a little beggar girl who had hurt her knee; he gave her a shilling and some kind words, which, by stopping her tears, showed that the hurt was not very serious, and we continued our walk. Some pecuniary losses he had lately met with had disturbed him, but more because they involved him with persons disposed to take advantage of his good feelings, than from their amount. He spoke of these with some degree of irritation, but turned to more agreeable subjects, and we parted at the west end of Oxford Street, laughing. I never saw him again alive.

"The whole of the next day he was busily engaged finishing his picture of Arundel Mill and Castle. One or two of his friends who called on him saw that he was not well, but they attributed this to confinement and anxiety with his picture, which was to go in a few days to the Exhibition. In the evening he walked out for a short time on a charitable errand connected with the Artists' Benevolent Fund. He returned about nine o'clock, ate a hearty supper, and, feeling chilly, had his bed warmed--a luxury he rarely indulged in. It was his custom to read in bed; between ten and eleven he had read himself to sleep, and his candle, as usual, was removed by a servant. Soon after this, his eldest son, who had been at the theatre, returned home, and, while preparing for bed in the next room, his father awoke in great pain, and called to him. So little was Constable alarmed, however, that he at first refused to send for medical assistance. He took some rhubarb and magnesia, which produced sickness, and he drank copiously of warm water, which occasioned vomiting, but the pain increasing, he desired that Mr Michele, his near neighbour, should be sent for, who very soon attended. In the mean time Constable had fainted, his son supposing he had fallen asleep. Mr Michele instantly ordered some brandy to be brought; the bed-room of the patient was at the top of the house, the servant had to run down-stairs for it, and before it could be procured life was extinct; and within half an hour of the first attack of pain.

"A _post-mortem_ investigation was made by Professor Partridge, in the presence of Mr George Young and Mr Michele, but, strange to say, the extreme pain Constable had suffered could only be traced to indigestion, no indications of disease were any where discovered, sufficient, in the opinion of those gentlemen, to have produced at that time a fatal result. Mr Michele, in a letter to me, describing all he had witnessed, says, 'It is barely possible that the prompt application of a stimulant might have sustained the vital principle, and induced reaction in the functions necessary to the maintenance of life.'

"Constable's eldest son was prevented from attending the funeral by an illness brought on by the painful excitement he had suffered; but the two brothers of the deceased, and a few of his most intimate friends, followed the body to Hampstead,[3] where some of the gentlemen residing there, who had known Constable, voluntarily joined the procession in the churchyard. The vault which contained the remains of his wife was opened, he was laid by her side, and the inscription which he had placed on the tablet over it,

'Eheu! quam tenui e filo pendet _Quidquid in vitâ maxime arridet!_'

might will be applied to the loss his family and friends had now sustained. The funeral service was read by one of those friends, the Rev. T. J. Judkin, whose tears fell fast on the book as he stood by the tomb."

MAHMOOD THE GHAZAVIDE.[4]

BY B. SIMMONS.

I.

Hail to the morn that reigneth Where KAFF,[5] since time began Allah's eternal sentinel, Keeps watch upon the Sun; And through the realms of heaven, From his cold dwelling-place, Beholds the bright Archangel For ever face to face! KAFF smiles--the loosen'd morning On Asia is unfurl'd! Sind[6] flashes free, and rolls a sea Of amber down the world! Lo! how the purple thickets And arbours of Cashmere Beneath the kindling lustre A rosier radiance wear! Hail to the mighty Morning That, odorously cool, Comes down the nutmeg-gardens And plum-groves of Cabool! Cold 'mid the dawn, o'er GHAZNA, The rivall'd moon retires; As on the city spread below, Far through the sky's transparent glow, A hundred gold-roof'd temples throw Their crescents' sparkling fires.

II.

The Imam's cry in Ghazna Has died upon the air, And day's great life begins to throng Each stately street and square. The loose-robed turban'd merchants-- The fur-clad mountaineers-- The chiefs' brocaded elephants-- The Kurdmans' group of spears-- Grave men beneath the awning Of every gay bazar Ranging their costly merchandise, Shawl, gem, and glittering jar-- The outworn files arriving Of some vast Caravan, With dusky men and camels tall, Before the crowded khan;-- All that fills kingly cities With traffic, wealth, and din, Resounds, imperial Ghazna, This morn thy walls within.

III.

All praise to the First Sultan, MAHMOOD THE GHAZNAVIDE! His fame be like the firmament, As moveless and as wide! MAHMOOD, who saw before him Pagoda'd Bramah fall-- Twelve times he swept the orient earth From Bagdad to Bengal; Twelve times amid their Steppes of ice He smote each Golden Horde[7]-- Round the South's sultry isles twelve times His ships resistless pour'd; MAHMOOD--his tomb in Ghazna For many an age shall show The mighty mace with which he laid DU'S hideous idol low. True soldier of the Prophet! From Somnauth's gorgeous shrine He tore the gates of sandal-wood, The carven gates divine; He hung them vow'd, in Ghazna, To Allah's blest renown-- Trophies of endless sway they tower, For unto earth's remotest hour What boastful man may hope the power Again to take them down?

IV.

All praise to the First Sultan, Mahmood the Ghaznavide! His wars are o'er, but not the more His sovereign cares subside: From morn to noontide daily In his superb Divan He sits dispensing justice Alike to man and man. What though earth heaves beneath him With ingot, gem, and urn, Though in his halls a thousand thrones Of vanquish'd monarchs burn; Though at his footstool ever Four hundred princes stay; Though in his jasper vestibules Four hundred bloodhounds bay-- Each prince's sabre hafted With the carbuncle's gem, Each bloodhound's collar fashion'd From a rajah's diadem?-- Though none may live beholding The anger of his brow, Yet his justice ever shineth To the lofty and the low; O'er his many-nation'd empire Shines his justice far and wide-- All praise to the First Sultan, Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

V.

The morn to noon is melting On Ghazna's golden domes; From the Divan the suppliant crowd, The poor, the potent, and the proud, Who sought its grace with faces bow'd, Have parted for their homes. Already Sultan Mahmood Has risen from his throne, When at the Hall's far portal Stands a Stranger all alone,-- A man in humble vesture, But with a haughty eye; And he calls aloud, with the steadfast voice Of one prepared to die-- "Sultan! the Wrong'd and Trampled Lacks time to worship thee, Stand forth, and answer to my charge, Son of Sebactagi! Stand forth!"---- The brief amazement Which shook that hall has fled-- Next moment fifty falchions Flash round the madman's head, And fifty slaves are waiting Their sovereign's glance to slay; But dread Mahmood, with hand upraised, Has waved their swords away. Once more stands free the Stranger, Once more resounds his call-- "Ho! forth, Mahmood! and hear me, Then slay me in thy hall. From Oxus to the Ocean Thy standards are unfurl'd Thy treasury-bolts are bursting With the plunder of the world-- The maids of soft Hindostan, The vines by Yemen's Sea, But bloom to nurse the passions Of thy savage soldiery. Yet not for them sufficeth The Captive or the Vine, If in thy peaceful subjects' homes They cannot play the swine. Since on my native Ghazna Thy smile of favour fell, How its blood, and toil, and treasure Have been thine, thou knowest well! Its Fiercest swell thine armies, Its Fairest serve thy throne, But in return hast thou not sworn Our _hearths_ should be our own? That each man's private dwelling, And each man's spouse and child, Should from thy mightiest Satrap Be safe and undefiled? Just Allah!--hear how Mahmood His kingly oath maintains!-- Amid the suburbs far away I deemed secure my dwelling lay, Yet now two nights my lone Serai A villain's step profanes. My bride is cursed with beauty, He comes at midnight hour, A giant form for rapine made, In harness of thy guards array'd, And, with main dint of blow and blade, He drives me from her bow'r, And bars and holds my dwelling Until the dawning gray-- Then, ere the light his face can smite, The felon slinks away. Such is the household safety We owe to thine and thee:-- Thou'st heard me first, do now thy worst, Son of Sebactagi!"

VI.

What tongue may tell the terror That thrill'd that chamber wide, While thus the Dust beneath his feet Reviled the Ghaznavide! The listeners' breath suspended, They wait but for a word, To sweep away the worm that frets The pathway of their Lord. But Mahmood makes no signal; Surprise at first subdued, Then shame and anger seem'd by turns To root him where he stood. But as the tale proceeded, Some deadlier passion's hue, Now flushing dark, now fading wan, Across his forehead flew. And when those daring accents Had died upon his ear, He sat him down in reverie Upon the musnud near, And in his robe he shrouded For a space his dreadful brow; Then strongly, sternly, rose and spoke To the Stranger far below-- "At once, depart!--in silence:-- And at the moment when The Spoiler seeks thy dwelling next, Be with Us here again."

VII.

Three days the domes of Ghazna Have gilded Autumn's sky-- Three moonless nights of Autumn Have slowly glided by. And now the fourth deep midnight Is black upon the town, When from the palace-portals, led By that grim Stranger at their head, A troop, all silent as the dead, With spears, and torches flashing red, Wind towards the suburbs down. On foot they march, and midmost Mahmood the Ghaznavide Is marching there, his kingly air _Alone_ not laid aside. In his fez no ruby blazeth, No diamonds clasp his vest; But a light as red is in his eye, As restless in his breast. And none who last beheld him In his superb Divan Would deem three days could cause his cheek To look so sunk and wan. The gates are pass'd in silence, They march with noiseless stride, 'Till before a lampless dwelling Stopp'd their grim and sullen guide. In a little grove of cypress, From the city-walls remote, It darkling stood:--He faced Mahmood, And pointed to the spot. The Sultan paused one moment To ease his kaftan's band, That on his breast too tightly prest, Then motion'd with his hand:--

"My mace!--put out the torches-- Watch well that none may flee: Now, force the door, and shut me in, And leave the rest to me." He spoke, 'twas done; the wicket Swung wide--then closed again: Within stand Mahmood, night, and Lust-- Without, his watching men. Their watch was short--a struggle-- A sullen sound--a groan-- A breathless interval--and forth The Sultan comes alone. None through the pitchy darkness Might look upon his face, But they _felt_ the storm that shook him As he lean'd upon that mace. Back from his brow the turboosh He push'd--then calmly said, "Re-light the torches, enter there, And bring me forth the dead." They light the torches, enter, And bring him forth the dead-- A man of stalwart breadth and bone, A war-cloak round him spread. Full on the face the torches Flash out----a sudden cry (And those who heard it ne'er will lose Its echo till they die,) A sudden cry escapeth Mahmood's unguarded lips, A cry as of a suffering soul Redeemed from Hell's eclipse. "Oh, Allah! gracious Allah! Thy servant badly won This blessing to a father's heart, 'Tis not--'tis NOT my son! Fly!--tell my joy in Ghazna;-- Before the night is done Let lighted shrine and blazing street Proclaim 'tis not my son! 'Tis not Massoud, the wayward, Who thus the Law defied, Yet I deem'd that none but my only son Dared set my oath aside: Though my frame grew faint from fasting, Though my soul with grief grew wild, Upon this spot I would have wrought stern justice on my child. I wrought the deed in darkness, For fear a single ray Should light his face, and from this heart Plead the Poor Man's cause away. Great Allah sees uprightly I strive my course to run, And thus rewards his servant---- _This dead_ is not my son!"

VIII

Thus, through his reign of glory, Shone his JUSTICE far and wide; All praise to the First Sultan, MAHMOOD THE GHAZNAVIDE

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART XIX.

"Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in the pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

SHAKSPEARE.

Change is the master-spirit of Europe, as permanency is of Asia. The contrast is in the nature of things. However the caprice, the genius, or the necessities, of the sitter on the throne may attempt to impress permanency on the habits of the West, or mutability on those of the East, his success must be but partial. In Europe we have a perpetual movement of minds, a moral ocean, to which tides and currents are an operation of nature. But the Caspian or the Euxine is not more defined by its limits of rock and mountain, or more inexorably separated from the general influx of the waters which roll round the world, than the Asiatic mind is from following the free course, and sharing the bold and stormy innovations, of Europe.

But the most rapid and total change within human memory, was the one which was now before my eye. I felt as some of the old alchymists might feel in their laboratories, with all their crucibles heating, all their alembics boiling, all their strange materials in full effervescence; and their eyes fixed in doubt, and perhaps in awe, on the powerful and hazardous products about to result from combinations untried before, and amalgams which might shatter the roof above their heads, or extinguish their existence by a blast of poison.

I had left Paris Democracy. I found it a Despotism. I had left it a melancholy prey to the multitude; a startling scene of alternate fury and dejection; of cries for revenge, and supplications for bread; of the tyranny of the mob, and the misery of the nation. I now found it the most striking contrast to that scene of despair;--Paris the headquarters of a military government; the Tuileries the palace of a conqueror; every sound martial; the eye dazzled every where by the spoils of the German and Italian sovereignties; the nation flushed with victory. Still, the public aspect exhibited peculiarities which interested me the more, that they could never have appeared in older times, and probably will never return. In the midst of military splendour there was a wild, haggard, and unhappy character stamped on all things. The streets of the capital had not yet felt the influence of that imperial taste which was to render it an imperial city. I saw the same shattered suburbs, the same deep, narrow, and winding streets, the same dismal lanes; in which I had witnessed so often the gatherings of the armed multitude, and which seemed made for popular commotion. Mingled with those wild wrecks and gloomy places of refuge, rather than dwellings, I saw, with their ancient ornaments, and even with their armorial bearings and gilded shields and spears not yet entirely defaced, the palaces of the noblesse and blood-royal of France, the remnants of those ten centuries of monarchy which had been powerful enough to reduce the bold tribes of the Franks to a civilized slavery, and glittering enough to make them in love with their chains. If I could have imagined, in the nineteenth century, a camp of banditti on its most showy scale--a government of Condottieri with its most famous captain at its head--every where a compilation of arms and spoils, the rude habits of the robber combined with the pomp of military triumph--I should have said that the realization was before me.