Part 3

Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu! Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue!

We have only space to add that the poetical pieces are very numerous, and those by Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd, Delta, and William Kennedy, merit especial notice.

The elegant embossed binding is similar to that of last year, which we mentioned to our readers, and which we think an improvement on the silken array.

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THE BIJOU.

Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the _Bijou_ will doubtless occupy a different place in public favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second title is an Annual of Literature and the _Fine Arts_, and from the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence. The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his Family,--is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master, whose pictures may be called the _mosaic_ of painting. The Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so successful; although it should be considered that little space is allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: still the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the _scrappers_, this print will form a companion to the Mountain Daisy, from the _Amulet_ for the present year. There are, too, some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and of, no common interest at home--as Clisson, the retreat of Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli--all of which are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well managed.

In the _prose_ compositions we notice some of intense interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of Reinspadte--both of German origin. There is too, a faithful historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon.

THE SLEEPERS.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep. On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep:

A holy thing from heaven, A gracious dewy cloud, A covering mantle, given The weary to enshroud.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly drooping head, The long hair's willowy flow!

Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you, Unto Life's dim faded track.

Her soul is far away, In her childhood's land perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance.

Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves:

A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:-- Long may her sojourn be In the music-land of dreams!

Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled. Each lost one still more fair-- Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

Miss Landon has contributed more to the "Bijou" than to any other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase the value and variety of our columns.

THE FEAST OF LIFE.

I bid thee to my mystic Feast, Each one thou lovest is gathered there; Yet put thou on a mourning robe, And bind the cypress in thy hair.

The hall is vast, and cold, and drear; The board with faded flowers is spread: Shadows of beauty flit around, But beauty from each bloom has fled;

And music echoes from the walls, But music with a dirge-like sound; And pale and silent are the guests, And every eye is on the ground.

Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; 'Tis from their native element The cup is filled--it is of tears.

What! turnest thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine; And askest for a purple robe, Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.

In vain, the veil has left thine eyes, Or such these would have seemed to thee; Before thee is the Feast of Life, But life in its reality!

We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the antique school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of George Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, this piece, and the admirable composition of the History of Sir Thomas More and his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the Bijou from all other publications of its class, and are characteristic of the good taste of Mr. Pickering, the proprietor. Altogether, the Bijou for 1829 is very superior to the last volume, and, to our taste, it is one of the most attractive of the Christmas presents.

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THE WINTER'S WREATH.

This is a _provincial_, but not a first appearance in London; the present being the fourth "_Wreath_" that has been entwined for the lovers of song and sentiment. It is culled from Liverpool, (next to our own metropolis) the most literary city in the empire; but many of its flowers have been gathered from our metropolitan parterre. Thus, in addition to the respected names of Roscoe, Currie, and Shepherd, (of Liverpool), we have among the contributors those of Hemans, Bowring, Howitt, Opie, with Mitford, Montgomery, and Wiffen. The editorship has passed into different hands, and "the introduction of religious topics has been carefully avoided" as unsuited to a work of elegant amusement.

The plates are twelve in number, among which are _Lady Blanche and her Merlin_, after Northcote (rather too hard in the features); an exquisite _View of the Thames near Windsor_, after Havell; _Medora and the Corsair_, after Howard; the _Sailor Boy_, by Lizars; and a beautiful _Wreath_ Title-page, after Vandyke. All these will bear comparison with any engravings in similar works.

The Wreath contains 132 pieces or flowers, some of them _perennials_--others of great, but less lasting beauty--and but few that will fade in a day. Among those entitled to special distinction, in the _prose_ department, are an Italian Story, of considerable interest; the Corsair, a pleasing sketch; and Lough Neagh, a tale of the north of Ireland. One of the _perennials_ is a Journey up the Mississippi, by Audubon, the American naturalist. Kester Hobson, a legendary tale of the Yorkshire Wolds, which turns upon a lucky dream, will probably set thousands dreaming--and we hope with the same good effect--viz. half-a-bushel of gold. "A Vision," by the late Dr. Currie, is a successful piece of writing; Le Contretems is a pleasant tale enough, with a sprinkling of French dialogue. Next is a well-told historiette of the eventful times of the Civil Wars.--The Memoir of a young Sculptor can scarcely fail to awaken the sympathy of the reader. The introduction of the paper on Popular Education, in what the editor himself calls "a work of elegant amusement like the present," is somewhat objectionable, and the writer's sentiments will be very unpalatable to a certain party. The Ridley Coach is a sketch in the style of Miss Mitford, who has contributed only one article, and that in verse. Mrs. Opie has a slight piece--The Old Trees and New Houses--but our prose selection is, (somewhat abridged)--

THE LADY ANNE CARR,

_BY THE AUTHOR OF "MAY YOU LIKE IT."_

Have you not sometimes seen, upon the bosom of dark, stagnant waters, a pure, white water-lily lift up its head, breathing there a fresh and delicate fragrance, and deriving its existence thence--yet partaking in nothing of the loathsome nature of the pool, nor ever sullied by its close contact with the foul element beneath?

It is an honest simile to say that the gentle Anne Carr resembled that sweet water-lily. Sprung from the guilty loves of the favourite Somerset and his beautiful but infamous wife, she was herself pure and untainted by the dark and criminal dispositions of her parents. Not even a suspicion of their real character had ever crossed her mind; she knew that they had met with some reverse of fortune,--for she had heard her father regret, for her sake, his altered estate. She knew this, but nothing more: her father's enemies, who would gladly have added to his wretchedness, by making his child look upon him with horror, could not find in their hearts, when they gazed on her innocent face, to make one so unoffending wretched. It is a lovely blindness in a child to have no discernment of a parent's faultiness; and so it happened that the Lady Anne saw nothing in her father's mien or manner, betokening a sinful, worthless character.

Of her mother she had but few and faint recollections. Memory pictured her pale and drooping, nay gradually sinking under the cureless malady which brought her to her grave at last. She remembered, however, the soft and beautiful smiles which had beamed over that haggard countenance, when it was turned upon her only child--smiles which she delighted to recognise in the lovely portrait, from which her idea of her mother was chiefly formed. This portrait adorned her own favourite apartment. It had been painted when the original was as young and happy as herself; and her filial love and fond imagination believed no grace had been wanting to make all as beautiful and glorious within.

As the Lady Anne grew up to womanhood, the sweetness of her disposition and manners began to be acknowledged by those, who had seen without astonishment her extraordinary beauty; and many persons of distinction, who would hold no kind of fellowship with the Lord Somerset, sought the acquaintance of his innocent daughter for her own sake.

The most beloved friend of the Lady Anne was the Lady Ellinor G----, the eldest daughter of the Earl of G----: and with her, Lady Anne often passed several months in the year. A large party of young ladies were assembled at G---- Castle; and it happened that a continual rain had confined the fair companions within doors the whole summer afternoon. They sat together over their embroidery and various kinds of needlework, telling old tales of fearful interest--the strange mishaps of benighted travellers--stories of witchcraft, and of mysterious murder.

The conversation turned at last to the legends belonging to a certain family; and one circumstance was mentioned so nearly resembling, in many particulars, the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, that the Lady Ellinor, scarcely doubting that some slight suspicion of her parents' crimes had reached the ears of the Lady Anne, determined to change the subject at once. She proposed to her fair friends that they should ramble together through the apartments of the castle; and she called for the old housekeeper, who had lived in the family from her childhood, to go along with them, and asked her to describe to them the person and manners of Queen Elizabeth, when she had visited at the castle, and slept in the state apartment; always since called, The Queen's Bedchamber.

Led by their talkative guide, the careless, laughing party wandered from one chamber to another, listening to her anecdotes, and the descriptions she gave of persons and things in former days. She had known many of the originals of the stately portraits in the picture gallery; and she could tell the names, and the exploits of those warriors in the family, whose coats of mail and glittering weapons adorned the armoury. "And now," said the Lady Ellinor, "what else is there to be seen? Not that I mean to trouble you any longer with our questions, good Margaret, but give me this key, this key so seldom used," pointing to a large, strangely shaped key, that hung among a bunch at the old housekeeper's side. "There!" she added, disengaging it herself from the ring, "I have taken it, and will return it very safely. I assure you. This key," she said, turning to her young companions, "unlocks a gallery at the end of the eastern wing, which is always locked up, because the room is full of curious and rare treasures, that were brought by my father's brother from many foreign lands."

They enter.--"This may be a charming place," said one of the youngest and liveliest of the party, "but see, the rain has passed away, and the sun has at last burst out from the clouds. How brightly he shines, even through these dull and dusty windows!" She gave but a passing glance to the treasures around her, and hastened to a half open door at the end of the gallery. Some of her companions followed her to a broad landing place, at the top of a flight of marble stairs. They were absent but a few minutes, and they returned with smiles of delight, and glad, eager voices, declaring that they had unbolted a door at the bottom of the staircase, and found themselves in the most beautiful part of the gardens. "Come!" said the young and sprightly girl, "do not loiter here; leave these rare and beautiful things until it rains again, and come forth at once with me into the sweet, fresh air."

The Lady Ellinor and her friend the Lady Anne were sitting side by side, at the same table, and looking over the same volume--a folio of Norman chronicles, embellished with many quaint and coloured pictures. They both lifted up their faces from the book, as their merry companions again addressed them. "Nay, do not _look_ up, but rise up!" said the laughing maiden, and drawing away the volume from before them, she shut it up instantly, and laid it on another table; throwing down a branch of jessamine in its place.

"Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara," replied the Lady Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, "we have been prisoners all the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy. Come, come! my sweet Anne, _you_ are not wont to be the last," turning to her friend, who lingered behind. "Oh!" cried Lady Anne, "I am coming, I will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up my troublesome hair." As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement. The wind fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again. The word _murder_ caught her eye; her feelings were still in a state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had just been listening. Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions--of all but the appalling story then before her.

But these feelings were soon lost in astonishment, and horror so confounding, that for awhile she lost all power of moving, or even of thinking. Still her eyes were fixed upon the words which had pierced her heart:--she could not force them away. Again and again, struck with shame and horror, she shrunk away;--again and again, she found herself forced by doubt, by positive disbelief, to search the terrible pages. At last she had read enough--quite, quite enough to be assured, not that her father--her mother, had been _suspected_, but that by the law of the land they had been convicted, and condemned to death as foul, adulterous murderers;--the murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury!

The Lady Ellinor returned alone into the gallery, "You little truant!" she cried, "why so long? you said you would soon be with the foremost. I thought you must have escaped me, and have sought you through half the garden, and you are here all the while!"

No voice replied: not a sound was heard; and the Lady Ellinor had already returned to the door of the gallery to seek her friend elsewhere, when something fell heavily to the ground.

She flew back; and in one of the receding windows, she found the Lady Anne lying senseless in a deep swoon. Throwing herself on the ground beside her, she raised her tenderly in her arms, and not without some difficulty, restored her to herself. Then laying her head upon her bosom, she whispered kind words. "You are ill, I fear, my own Anne, who has been here? What have you seen? How so changed in this short time? I left you well and smiling, and now--nay, my dear, dear friend, do not turn from me, and look so utterly wretched. Do not you see me! What can be the matter!" The Lady Anne looked up in her friend's face with so piteous and desolate a look, that she began to fear her reason was affected.

"Have I lost your confidence? Am I no longer loved?" said the Lady Ellinor. "Can you sit heart-broken there, and will not allow me to comfort you? Still no answer! Shall I go? Shall I leave you, my love? Do you wish me absent?" continued she in a trembling voice, the tears flowing over her face, as she rose up. Her motion to depart aroused the Lady Anne. "Ellinor! my Ellinor!" she cried, and throwing herself forward, she stretched forth her arms. In another moment she was weeping on the bosom of her friend. She wept for a long time without restraint, for the Lady Ellinor said nothing, but drew her nearer and nearer to her bosom, and tenderly pressed the hand that was clasped in hers.

"I ought not to be weeping here," at length she said, "I ought to let you leave me, but I have not the courage, I cannot bear to lose your friendship,--your affection, my Ellinor! Can you love me? Have you loved me, knowing all the while, as every one must? To-day--this very hour, since you left me, I learned:--no I cannot tell you! Look on that page, Ellinor, you will see why you find me thus. I am the most wretched, wretched creature!"--here again she burst into an agony of uncontrollable grief.

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Who can describe the feelings of the Lady Anne--alone, in her chamber, looking up at the portrait of her mother, upon which she had so often gazed with delight and reverence! "Is it possible?" said she to herself, "can this be she, of whom I have read such dreadful things? Have all my young and happy days been but a dream, from which I wake at last? Is not this dreadful certainty still as a hideous dream to me?"

She had another cause of bitter grief. She loved the young and noble-minded Lord Russell, the Earl of Bedford's eldest son; and she had heard him vow affection and faithfulness to her. She now perceived at once the reasons why the Earl of Bedford had objected to their marriage: she almost wondered within herself that the Lord Russel should have chosen her; and though she loved him more for avowing his attachment, though her heart pleaded warmly for him, she determined to renounce his plighted love. "It must be done," she said, "and better now;--delay will but bring weakness. _Now_ I can write--I feel that I have strength." And the Lady Anne wrote, and folded with a trembling hand the letter which should give up her life's happiness; and fearing her resolution might not hold, she despatched it by a messenger, as the Lord Russel was then in the neighbourhood; and returned mournfully to her own chamber. She opened an old volume which lay upon her toilette--a volume to which she turned in time of trouble, to seek that peace which the world cannot give.

Lady Ellinor soon aroused her by the tidings that a messenger had arrived with a letter from her father, and she descended in search of him.

"Oh, why is this? why am I here?" exclaimed the Lady Anne, as trembling and almost sinking to the ground--her face alternately pale and covered with crimson blushes, she found herself alone with the Lord Russell. "You have received my letter, might not this trial have been spared? my cup was already sufficiently bitter--but I had drunk it. No!" she continued gently withdrawing her hand which he had taken, "Do not make me despise myself--the voice of duty separates us. Farewell! I seek a messenger from my father." "I am the messenger you seek," replied he, "I have seen the Lord Somerset, and bring this letter to his daughter."

The letter from the Earl of Somerset informed his daughter that he had seen the Earl of Bedford, and had obviated all obstacle to her union with the Lord Russell; that he was going himself to travel in foreign parts; and that he wished her to be married during a visit to the Earl and Countess of Bedford, whose invitation he had accepted for her.

"Does not your father say, that in this marriage his happiness is at stake?" said the Lord Russell, gently pressing her hand. The Lady Anne hung down her head, and wept in silence. "Are you still silent, my dearest?" continued he, "then will I summon another advocate to plead for me."

He quitted the apartment for a moment, but soon returned with the Countess of Bedford, who had accompanied him to claim her future daughter-in-law. The Lady Anne had made many resolutions, but they yielded before the sweet and eloquent entreaties that urged her to do what, in fact, she was all too willing to consent to.

They were married, the Lord Russell and the Lady Anne Carr; and they lived long and happily together. It was always thought that the Lord Russell had loved not only well, but wisely; for the Lady Anne was ever a faithful wife, and a loving, tender mother. It was not until some years after her marriage, that the Lady Russell discovered how the consent of the earl of Bedford had been obtained. Till then, she knew not that this consent had been withheld, until the Earl of Somerset should give his daughter a large sum as her marriage portion:--the Earl of Bedford calculating upon the difficulty, nay almost impossibility, of his ever raising this sum.

But he had not calculated upon the devotion of the wretched father's love to his fair and innocent child: and he was astounded when his terms were complied with, and the money paid at once into his hands. He could no longer withhold his consent; nor could he refuse some admiration of this proof of a father's love for his child. The Lord Somerset had, in fact, sold his whole possessions, and reduced himself to an estate not far removed from beggary, to give his daughter the husband of her choice.

It was the Lady Anne Carr, of whom Vandyke painted an exquisite and well-known portrait, when Countess of Bedford. She was the mother of William Lord Russell; and died heart-broken in her old age, when she heard of the execution of her noble and first-born son.

This is, perhaps, one of Mr. Tayler's most successful pieces; it has more breadth (if we may use such a term) than he is wont to employ, the absence of which from his writing, we have more than once had occasion to regret.

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TIME'S TELESCOPE.

Our old friend Time has this year illustrated his march, or object-glass, with a host of _images_ or _spectra_--that is, woodcuts of head and tail pieces--to suit all tastes--from the mouldering cloister of other days to the last balloon ascent. The Notices of Saints' Days and Holidays, Chronology and Biography, Astronomical and Naturalist's Notices, are edited with more than usual industry; and the poetry, original and selected, is for the most part very pleasing.

As we have a running account with Time's Telescope, (who has not?) and occasionally illustrate our pages with extracts during the year, we content ourselves for the present with a quotation from an original article, by "a correspondent from Alveston," possessing much good feeling and a tone of reflection, to us very pleasing:--

THE INFLUENCE OF A FLOWER.