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pletely under her hand, as the pianist his keys ; a home where they proved apt scholars in the and, forgetful of herself-giving the most earnest I knowledge of luxury and manners.

On their reand appreciative attention to others—she seemed turn to Clonmel, two young girls of singular to desire no share in the happiness of the hour, beauty, they became at once the attraction of a except that of making each, in his way, show to dashing English regiment newly stationed there, advantage. If there was any impulse of her and Margaret was soon married to an officer by mind, to which she gave way with a feeling of the name of Farmer. From this hasty concarelessness, it was to the love of humor in her nection, into which she was crowded by busy and Irish nature, and her mirthfulness, at such mo- ambitious friends, sprang all the subsequent ments, was most joyously unrestrained and natural. canker of her life. Her husband proved to be

In 1835, when we first saw Lady Blessington, liable to temporary insanity, and, at best, was she confessed to forty, and was then exceedingly cruel and capricious.

Others were kinder and handsome. Her beauty, it is true, was more in more attentive. She was but sixteen. Flying pose and demeanor than in the features of her from her husband, who was pursuing her with a face, but she produced the full impression of great pistol in his hand to take her life, she left her beauty. Her mouth was the very type of fresh- home, and, in the retreat where she took refuge, ness and frankness. The irregularity of her nose was found by a wealthy and accomplished officer, gave a vivacity to her expression, and her thin who had long been her admirer, and whose“ proand pliant nostrils added a look of spirit which tection” she now fatally accepted. was unmistakable, but there was a steady pene With this gentleman, Captain Jenkinson, she tration in the character of her eye which threw a lived four years in complete seclusion. His resingular earnestness and sincerity over all. Like turn to dissipated habits, at the end of that time, Victoria, Tom Moore, the Duke of Wellington destroyed his fortune and brought about a separaand Grisi, she sat tall—her body being longer in tion ; and, her husband, meantime, having died, proportion than her limbs-and, probably from she received an offer of marriage from Lord Bles some little sensitiveness on this point, she was sington, who was then a widower with one daughseldom seen walking. Her grace of posture in ter. She refused the offer, at first, from delicate her carriage struck the commonest observer, and, motives, easily understood ; but it was at last seated at her table, or in the gold and satin arm- pressed on her acceptance, and she married and chair in her drawing-room, she was majestically went abroad. elegant and dignified. Of the singular beauty of Received into the best society of the continent her hands and arms, celebrated as they were in at once, and, with her remarkable beauty and her poetry and sculpture, she seemed at least uncon- husband's enormous wealth, entering upon a most scious, and used them carelessly, gracefully and brilliant career, she became easily an accomplished expressively, in the gestures of conversation. At woman of the world, and readily supplied for herthe time we speak of, she was in perfect maturity self, any deficiencies in her early education. It of proportion and figure, but beginning, even then, was during this first residence in Paris that Lord to conceal, by a peculiar cap, the increasing ful Blessington became exceedingly attached to Count ness under her chin. Her natural tendency to Alfred D'Orsay, the handsomest and most talented plethora was not counteracted by exercise, and young nobleman of France. Determined not to when we saw her last, two years ago, she was be separated from one he declared he could not exceedingly altered from her former self, and had live without, he affianced his daughter to him, evidently given up to an indolence of personal persuaded his father to let him give up his comhabits which has since ended in apoplexy and mission in the army, and fairly adopted him into death.

his family to share his fortune with him as a son. There is an ignorance with regard to the early They soon left Paris for Italy, and at Genoa fell history of this distinguished woman, and a degree in with Lord Byron, who was a friend of Lord of misrepresentation in the popular report of her Blessington's, and with whom they made a party, life in later years, which a simple statement of for residence in that beautiful climate, the delightthe outline of her career will properly correct. ful socialities of which are well described in her Her death takes away from her friends the free-“ Conversations." dom of speaking carelessly of her faults, but it A year or two afterwards, Lord Blessington's binds them, also, to guard her memory as far as daughter came to him from school, and was martruth can do it, from injustice and perversion. ried to Count D'Orsay at Naples. The union

Lady Blessington's maiden name was Margaret proved inharmonious, and they separated, after Power. She was born in Ireland, the daughter living but a year together. Lord Blessington died of the printer and editor of the Clonmel Herald, soon after, and, on Lady Blessington's return to and up to the age of twelve or fourteen (as we England, the count rejoined her, and they formed once heard her say) had hardly worn a shoe or but one household till her death. been in a house where there was a carpet.

At It was this residence of Lord Blessington's this age of her girlhood, however, she and her widow and her son-in-law under the same roof sister (who was afterwards Lady Canterbury) he, meantime, separated from his wife, Lady Har· were fancied by a family of wealthy old maids, riet D'Orsay—which, by the English code of apto whom they were distantly related, and taken to pearances in morals, compromised the position of

12

CCLXXI.

LIVING AGE.

VOL. XXII.

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Lady Blessington. She chose to disregard public Tell out the goodness, the greatness, the grace,
opinion, where it interfered with what she delib- That follow their footsteps in every place?
erately made up her mind was best, and, disdain- Tell it out, thou, the first cradle of man,
ing to explain or submit, guarded against slight Tell how fair commerce, and just-dealing might,

Teeming with millions, serene Hindostan-
or injury, by excluding from her house all who Have blest thee with peace, and adorned thee with
would condemn her, viz. :-her own sex. Yet

light! all who knew her and her son-in-law, were satisfied that it was a useful, and, indeed, absolutely Boundless Australia, help of the age, necessary arrangement for himher strict busi- Lo! thy vast continent, silent and sad,

And heirloom of hope on Futurity's page, ness habits, practical good sense, and the pro- With the song of the Saxon has learnt to be glad; tection of her roof, being an indispensable safe- Rejoicing to change the wild waste and the fen guard to his personal liberty and fortunes—and Into wide-waving harvests and cities of men! that this need of serving him, and the strongest and most disinterested friendship, were her only Mighty. Columbia, Star of the West,

See, 't is a world by the Saxon possest! motives, every one was completely sure who knew Glorious and glad, from the north to the south, them at all. By those intimate at her house, in- Your millions praise God with an Englishman's cluding the best and greatest men of England, Lady Blessington was held in unqualified respect, And all love a land where at home they would be, and no shadow even of suspicion, thrown over her England, England, the home of the free! life of widowhood. She had many entreaties from her own sex to depart from her resolve and inter- Her beacon is blazing, her flag is unfurled ;

Dotted about on the width of the world, change visits, and we chanced to be at her house, Not a shore, not a sea, not a deep desert wild, one morning, when a note was handed to her from But pays its mute homage to Energy's childone of the most distinguished noble ladies of Eng- Not a realm, not a people, or kingdom, or clan, land, making such a proposal. We saw the re- But owns him the chief of the children of man! ply. It expressed, with her felicitous tact, a full appreciation of the confidence and kindness of the And the dark Caribbean its tropical smiles,

The foaming Atlantic hath rendered its isles, note she had received, but declined its request, And Southern Pacific those many-hued flowers, from an unwillingness to place herself in any And Europe's mid-ocean these temples and towers, position where she might, by the remotest possi- Their tribute the seas of old India bring, bility, suffer from doubt or injustice. She perse And Borneo is proud of her new British king! vered in this to the end of her life, a few relatives Yes! for dear Britain, the mother of Men, and one or two intimates of her continental ac- Rules all, under God, by the sword and the pen : quaintance being the only ladies seen at her She is the Delphi, the heart of the earth, house. When seized with her last illness, she The rock-rushing spring of humanity's worth, had been dining with Count D'Orsay's sister, the And, if two hemispheres prosper, the cause beautiful Duchess de Grammont.

Lies in old England's religion and laws !

Yes! for her realm is the Goshen of light;
We have been favored with proofs of the following The wings of these angels have scattered the night!
poems, which will appear in the July No. of the Anglo-Duteous and daring, as beauteous and strong,
Saxon.

They are helpers of right and avengers of wrong,

Fair in their souls as their eyes and their locks,
NON ANGLI SED ANGELI.

Stout in their hearts as their oaks and their rocks!
IN ILLUSTRATION OF THE ANGLO-SAXON MAP IN THE
INTRODUCTORY NUMBER.

ALFRED.
PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY," &c.

(BORN AT WANTAGE, IN BERKSHIRE, A. D. 849.) Ho! ye swift messengers out of the north,

WRITTEN A.D. 1849.
Mercy's ambassadors-haste to go forth!
Speedily let your broad sails be unfurled,

BY THE AUTHOR OF " PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY," &c.
Winging your errand all over the world,

Come, every true-born Englishman--come, AngloWafting your message of peace

and goodwill,

Saxons all!
Brotherhood, godliness, science,

and skill!
I wake a tune to-day to take and hold

your

hearts

in thrall; Ye are the salt of the earth, and its health

I sing the king—the Saxon king—the glorious and Ye are its gladness, its wisdom, and wealth

the great, Ye are its glory! O Britain, thy sons,

The root and spring of everything we love in church Thy stout Anglo-Saxons, thy resolute ones,

and state. Ever triumphant on every shore, Are only triumphant for good evermore!

'T is just a thousand years to-day-oh, years are

swift and briefMinisters bright of the bounties of God,

Since erst uprose in majesty the day-star of our Where is the land by these angels untrod?

chief. Tell it out, Africa, China, and Scinde,

Since Wantage bred a wondrous child, whom God And Isles of the Sea and the uttermost Inde,

hath made the cause 'Tell out their zeal, and their grandeur of soul, Of half the best we boast in British liberties and From the sands of the line to the snows of the pole ! laws.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF

blue eye,

ing well

Last-born of royal Ethelwolf, he left his island | They claim it, and they claim thee too, their father home,

and their king! Ulysses-like, to study men and marvels in old O, mighty shade! behold the crowds who claim thy Rome;

sheltering wing! And, thence in wrath returning, overthrew the Thou hast o’ershadowed, like an Alp, the half of · pirate Dane,

this broad earth; And, young as Pitt, at twenty-two began a hero's And where thy shadow falls is light and Angloreign.

Saxon worth! Oh! Guthran swore, and Hubba smote, and sturdy The stalworth love of freedom with religion well

The the daring, the cheerfulness, the pride, Hinguar stormed, And still like locusts o'er the land the red maraud

allied, ers swarmed ;

The trust in God forever, and the hope in man for But Alfred was a David to scatter every foe,

timeThe shepherd, psalmist, warrior, king, unblamed These characters they learnt of thee, and stand like in weal and woe.

thee sublime ! Aye, hiding with the herdsman, or harping in the Where'er thy gracious children come, a blessing

there they bring; camp, Or earnestly redeeming time beneath the midnight The sweet securities of home around that place they Jamp;

fling; Or ruling on his quiet throne, or fighting in the fen,

Warm Comfort, and pure Charity, and Duty's bright Our Alfred was indeed an Agamemnon, king of

And Enterprise, and Industry, are stars upon that men!

sky. Unshrinking champion of the right, in patriot Stout Husbandry amid those fields with soft Constrength he stood ;

tentment meets, Declare it, three score fields of fight, and mark it And honest Commerce, early up, is stirring in those down in blood !

streets; Unflinching chief, unerring judge, he stoutly held And all the glories of the sword and honors of the

the helm; Tell out those thirty years of praise, all Albion's Make us the wonder of the world, the cynosure of

pen happy realm

men! A Solomon for wisdom's choice, that he loved learn- And, hark! upon my harp and tongue a sweeter

note of praise Let Oxford chimes with grateful voice from all their How should a Saxon leave unsung what best he turrets tell ;

loves always ? A Numa and Justinian too, let every parish sound O dearer, deeper, nobler songs to thrill the heart His birthday on the merry bells through all the and mind, country round.

The crown of womanhood belongs to English

womankind! A Nestor, while in years a youth, he taught as Plato taught;

Young maiden, modest as the morn yet glowing

like the noonA Constantine, a Washington, he fought as Scipio True wife, in placid tenderness a lustrous silver

foug A Wellington, his laurelled sword with Peace was Dear mother, loving unto death and better loved glory-gilt,

than lifeAnd Nelson's earliest wooden walls of Alfred's oaks Where can the wide world match me such a mother, were built!

maid, or wife? Oh, gallant Britons ! bless the God who gave you Fair Athelwytha, Alfred's own, is still your spirits’

such a princeHis like was never known before, nor ever hath The faithful, the courageous, the tender, the serene,

queen, been since ;

The pious heroine of home, the solace, friend, and The fountain of your liberties, your honors, and

nurse,

The height of self-forgetfulness, the climax of all The mountain of your sturdy strength, the Ophir

verse ! of your wealth.

And now, great Alfred's countrymen and country. And now arouse thee, royal ghost! in majesty look

women all, round;

Victoria ! Albert! graciously regard your minstrel's On every shore, in every clime, thy conquering sons call !

Up, royal, gentle, simple folk! up, first, ye men of By kingdoms and dominions, by continents and

Berks, isles,

And give a nation's monument to Alfred's mighty The Anglo-Saxon realm is fifty hundred thousand works! miles !

In Anglo-Saxon majesty, simplicity, and strength, Aye, smile on us and bless us in thy loftiness of O, children! build your father's tomb for very love

shame at length; The name of Anglo-Saxon is all other names above! The birthday of your king hath dawned a thousand By peoples and by nations, by tribe, and sept, and years this day, clan,

It must not die before you set your seal to what I Troo hundred millions claim it in the family of man! say.

moon

your health,

are found.

masse.

soe.

Aug. 21. Saturday.—Oh heaven! can it be | lay of even a few hours when father, in his sickpossible ! am I agayn at Forest Hill? How nesse, was wanting me, that I took leave of my strange, how joyfulle an event, tho' brought about husband with less affection than I mighte have with teares !--Can it be, that it is onlie a month shewn, and onlie began to find my spiritts lightsince I stoode at this toilette as a bride ? and lay en when we were fairly quit of London with awake on that bed, thinking of London? How its vile sewers and drains, and to breathe yo long a month! and oh! this present one will be sweete, pure morning ayre, as we rode swiftlie alle too short.

along. Dick called London a vile place, and It seemeth that Ralph Hewlett, shocked at my spake to Ralph concerning what they had seene teares and ye alteration in my looks, broughte of it over nighte, whence it appeared to me, that back a dismall report of me to deare father and he had beene pleasure-seeking more than, in mother, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie. father's state, he ought to have beene. But Dick Thereupon, Richard, with his usuall impetuositie, was always a reckless lad ;—and oh, what joy, on prevayled on father to let him and Ralph fetch reaching this deare place, to find father had onlie me home for a while, at leaste till after Michael- beene suffering under one of his usual stomach at

tacks, which have no danger in them, and which How surprised was I to see Dick enter! My Dick had exaggerated, fearing Mr. Milton woulde arms were soe fast about his neck, and my face not otherwise part with me; I was a little prest soe close to his shoulder, that I did not for shocked, and coulde not help scolding him, though a while perceive yo grave looke he had put on. I was y gainer ; but he boldlie defended what he At y last, I was avised to ask what broughte him called his “stratagem of war," saying it was soe unexpectedlie to London ; and then he hemmed quite allowable in dealing with a Puritan. and looked at Ralph, and Ralph looked at Dick, As for Robin, he was wild with joy when I and then Dick sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. Milton arrived ; and hath never ceased to hang about me. woulde spare me to go home till after Michael. The other children are riotous in their mirth. masse, and father had sent him on purpose to say Little Joscelyn hath returned from his foster

Mr. Milton lookt surprised and hurte, and mother's farm, and is noe longer a puny child — sayd, how coulde he be expected to part soe soone 't is thought he will thrive. I have him conwith me, a month's bride? it must be some other stantly in my arms or riding on my shoulder; and time ; he intended to take me himselfe to Forest with delight have revisited alle my olde haunts, Hill yo following spring, but coulde not spare time patted clover, &c. Deare mother is most kind. now, 'nor liked me to goe without him, nor The maids as oft call me Mrs. Molly as Mrs. thought I shoulde like it myself. But my eyes Milton, and then smile and beg pardon. Rose said I shoulde, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and Agnew have been here, and have made me and lookt hurt; and there was a dead silence. promise to visit Sheepscote before I return to Then Dick, hesitating a little, sayd he was sorrie London. The whole house seams full of glee. to tell us my father was ill; on which I clasped my hands and beganne to weepe ; and Mr. Milton, Monday.-It seemes quite strange to heare changing countenance, askt sundrie questions, Dick and Harry singing loyal songs and drinking which Dick answered well enough; and then said yo king's health after soe recentlie hearing his M. he woulde not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a soe continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a father I soe dearlie loved, if he were sick, though lad of Robin's age, coming in and out at his will, he liked not my travelling in such unsettled times doing aniething or nothing ; instead of being ever with soe young a convoy. Ralph sayd they had at his taskes, and looking at meal-times as if he brought Diggory with them, who was olde and were repeating them to himselfe. I know which steddy enough, and had ridden my mother's mare I like best. for my use; and Dick was for our getting forward A most kind letter from Mr. Milton, hoping father a stage on our journey the same evening, but Mr. is better, and praying for news of him. How can I Milton insisted on our abiding till the following write to him without betraying Dick? Robin and I morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave rode, this morning, to Sheepscote. Thoughte me leave to stay a month, and gave me money, Mr. Agnew received me with unwonted gravetie. and many kind words, which I coulde marke He tolde me he had received a letter from my Jittle, being soe overtaken with concern about dear husband, praying news of my father, seeing I had father, whose illness I feared to be worse than sent him none, and that he had writ to him that Dick said, seeing he seemed soe close and dealt in father was quite well, never had been better. dark speeches and parables. After dinner, they Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. Milton was went forth, they sayd, to look after y horses, labouring under some false impression. I tolde but I think to see London, and returned not till him trulie, that Dick, to get me home, had exsupper.

aggerated a trifling illness of father's, but that I We got them beds in a house hard by, and was guiltlesse of it. He sayd Dick was inexcusstarted at early dawn.

able, and that noe good end coulde justisie a man Mr. Milion kissed me most tenderlie agayn and of honor in overcharging yo truth ; and that, since agayn at parting, as though he feared to lose me; I was innocent, I should write to my husband to but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook yo de- clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and (

mean to do sne, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet | avised to ask whether I had anie commission countrie life! I was made for you, and none wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr. other. This riding and walking at one's owne Milton that since we should meet soe soone, I free will, in yo fresh pure ayre, coming in to ear- need not write, but woulde keep alle my news for lie, heartie, wholesome meals, seasoned with our fire-side. Robin added, “Say, we cannot harmlesse jests—seeing fresh faces everie daye spare her yet," and father echoed the same. come to ye house, knowing everie face one meets But I begin to feel now, that I must not proout of doores-supping in the garden, and remain- long my stay. At leaste not beyond father's ing in the ayre long after the moon has risen, birthday. My month is hasting to a close. talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing—if this be not joyfullnesse, what is ?

Sept. 21.-Battle at Newbury-Lord Falkland For certain, I woulde that Mr. Milton were slayn. Oh, fatal loss ! Father and mother going here ; but he would call our sports mistimed, and off to my lady; but I think she will not see them. throw a damp upon our mirth by not joining in it. Aunt and uncle Hewlett, who brought y® news, Soe I will enjoy my holiday while it lasts, for it can talk of nothing else. may be long ere I get another—especiallie if his and father's opinions get wider asunder, as I 22.-Alle sadnesse and consternation. I am think they are doing alreadie. My promised weary of bad news, public and private, and feel spring holiday may come to nothing.

less and less love for y® puritans, yet am forced

to seem more loyal than I really am, soe high Monday.—My husband hath writ to me strange- runs party feeling just now at home. lie, chiding me most unkindlie for what was noe My month has passed ! fault of mine, to wit, Dick's falsitie ; and wondering I can derive anie pleasure from a holiday so Sept. 28.-A most displeased letter from my obtayned, which he will not curtayl, but will on husband, minding me that my leave of absence noe pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr. hath expired, and that he likes not the messages Milton presumeth somewhat too much on his mar- he received through Ralph, nor ye unreasonable ital authoritie, writing in this strayn. I am noe and hurtfulle pastimes which he finds have beene mere child neither, nor a runaway wife, nor in making my quiet home distastefulle. Asking, such bad companie, in mine own father's house, are they suitable, under circumstances of nationall where he firste saw me ; and, was it anie fault of consternation to my owne party, or seemlie in soe mine, indeed, that father was not ill? or can I young a wife, apart from her husband ?

To conwish he had been? No, truly !

clude, insisting, with more authoritie than kindThis letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear nesse, on my immediate return. father, seeing me soe dulle, askt me if I had had With tears in my eyes, I have beene to my bad news. I sayd I had, for that Mr. Milton father. I have told him I must goe. wanted me back at y® month's end. He says, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my husband lightlie, Oh, that must not be, I must at all events was soe very angry. He rejoyned, What, angry stay over his birthdaye, he could not spare me with my sweet Moll ? and for spending a few days sooner ; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe with her old father ? Can it be? hath it come to then-I am content enoughe.

this alreadie ? I sayd, my month had expired. To change yo current of my thoughts, he hath He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to renewed ye scheme for our visit to Lady Falkland, staye over Michaelmasse, till his birthday ; he which, weather permitting, is to take place to- knew Dick had named it to Mr. Milton. I sayd, morrow. 'T is long since I have seen her, soe I Mr. Milton had taken no notice thereof, but had am willing to go ; but she is dearer to Rose than onlie granted me a month. He grew peevish and to me, though I respect her much.

said “ Pooh, pooh !” Thereat, after a silence of

a minute or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. Wednesday. The whole of yesterday occu- He took me by yo two wrists and sayd, Doe you pyde with our visitt. I love Lady Falkland well, wish to go? I burst into teares, but made noe yet her religious mellanchollie and presages of answer. He sayd, That is answer enough-how evil have left a weight upon my spiritts. To- doth this puritan carry it with you, my child ? and daye, we have a family dinner. The Agnews snatched his letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that, come not, but the Merediths doe; we shall have and would have drawn it back ; but father, when more mirthe if less wit. My time now draweth heated, is impossible to controwl ; therefore, quite soe short, I must crowd into it alle yo pleasure Ideaf to entreaty, he would read y letter, which can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me, was unfit for him in his chafed mood ; then, holdsaying, “ Poor Moll must soon return to London.”|ing it at arm's length, and smiting it with his Never was creature soe petted or spoylt. How fist-Ha ! and is it thus he dares address a was it there was none of this before I was mar- daughter of mine? (with words added, I dare not ried, when they might have me alwaies ? ah, write)—but be quiet, Moll, be at peace, my child, therein lies the secret. Now, we have mutuallie for he shall not have you back for awhile, even tasted our losse.

though he come to fetch you himself. The madRalph Hewlett, going agayn to town, was) dest thing I ever did was to give you to abis

He sayth,

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