On their re

turn to Clonmel, two young girls of singular beauty, they became at once the attraction of a dashing English regiment newly stationed there, and Margaret was soon married to an officer by the name of Farmer. From this hasty connection, into which she was crowded by busy and ambitious friends, sprang all the subsequent canker of her life. Her husband proved to be liable to temporary insanity, and, at best, was cruel and capricious. Others were kinder and more attentive. She was but sixteen. Flying from her husband, who was pursuing her with a pistol in his hand to take her life, she left her home, and, in the retreat where she took refuge, was found by a wealthy and accomplished officer, who had long been her admirer, and whose “ protection" she now fatally accepted.

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 knowledge of luxury and manners. and appreciative attention to others—she seemed to desire no share in the happiness of the hour, except that of making each, in his way, show to advantage. If there was any impulse of her mind, to which she gave way with a feeling of carelessness, it was to the love of humor in her Irish nature, and her mirthfulness, at such moments, was most joyously unrestrained and natural. In 1835, when we first saw Lady Blessington, she confessed to forty, and was then exceedingly handsome. Her beauty, it is true, was more in pose and demeanor than in the features of her face, but she produced the full impression of great beauty. Her mouth was the very type of freshness and frankness. The irregularity of her nose gave a vivacity to her expression, and her thin and pliant nostrils added a look of spirit which 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 Blessome 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 the time we speak of, she was in perfect maturity of proportion and figure, but beginning, even then, to conceal, by a peculiar cap, the increasing fulness under her chin. Her natural tendency to plethora was not counteracted by exercise, and when we saw her last, two years ago, she was exceedingly altered from her former self, and had evidently given up to an indolence of personal habits which has since ended in apoplexy and death.

woman of the world, and readily supplied for herself, any deficiencies in her early education. It was during this first residence in Paris that Lord Blessington became exceedingly attached to Count Alfred D'Orsay, the handsomest and most talented young nobleman of France. Determined not to be separated from one he declared he could not live without, he affianced his daughter to him, persuaded his father to let him give up his commission in the army, and fairly adopted him into 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 truth can do it, from injustice and perversion.

daughter came to him from school, and was married to Count D'Orsay at Naples. The union proved inharmonious, and they separated, after living but a year together. Lord Blessington died soon after, and, on Lady Blessington's return to England, the count rejoined her, and they formed but one household till her death.

Lady Blessington's maiden name was Margaret Power. She was born in Ireland, the daughter of the printer and editor of the Clonmel Herald, and up to the age of twelve or fourteen (as we once heard her say) had hardly worn a shoe or 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 roofsister (who was afterwards Lady Canterbury) | he, meantime, separated from his wife, Lady Harwere 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 LIVING AGE. VOL. XXII. 12

CCLXXI.

Lady Blessington. She chose to disregard public | Tell out the goodness, the greatness, 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, Teeming with millions, serene Hindostaning to explain or submit, guarded against slight Tell how fair commerce, and just-dealing might, 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 satis

IN ILLUSTRATION OF THE ANGLO-SAXON MAP IN THE
INTRODUCTORY NUMBER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY," &C.
Ho! ye swift messengers out of the north,
Mercy's ambassadors-haste to go forth!
Speedily let your broad sails be unfurled,
Winging your errand all over the world,
Wafting your message of peace and goodwill,
Brotherhood, godliness, science, and skill!

Ye are the salt of the earth, and its health-
Ye are its gladness, its wisdom, and wealth-
Ye are its glory! O Britain, thy sons,
Thy stout Anglo-Saxons, thy resolute ones,
Ever triumphant on every shore,
Are only triumphant for good evermore!

Ministers bright of the bounties of God,
Where is the land by these angels untrod?
Tell it out, Africa, China, and Scinde,
And Isles of the Sea and the uttermost Inde,
Tell out their zeal, and their grandeur of soul,
From the sands of the line to the snows of the pole !

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;

Oh! Guthran swore, and Hubba smote, and sturdy The energy, the daring, the cheerfulness, the pride, The stalworth love of freedom with religion well allied,

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 y long a month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short.

masse.

soe.

sweete, pure morning ayre, as we rode swiftlie 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 y 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 attacks, 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 y 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 y 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, changing countenance, askt sundrie questions, which Dick answered well enough; and then said he would not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a father I soe dearlie loved, if he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled times with soe young a convoy. Ralph sayd they had brought Diggory with them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden my mother's mare for my use; and Dick was for our getting forward a stage on our journey the same evening, but Mr. Milton insisted on our abiding till the following morn, and would not be overruled. And gave me leave to stay a month, and gave me money, and many kind words, which I coulde marke little, being soe overtaken with concern about dear father, whose illness I feared to be worse than Dick said, seeing he seemed soe close and dealt in dark speeches and parables. After dinner, they went forth, they sayd, to look after y horses, but I think to see London, and returned not till supper.

Monday. It seemes quite strange to heare Dick and Harry singing loyal songs and drinking y° king's health after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a lad of Robin's age, coming in and out at his will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of being ever at his taskes, and looking at meal-times as if he were repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best.

A most kind letter from Mr. Milton, hoping father is better, and praying for news of him. How can I write to him without betraying Dick? Robin and I rode, this morning, to Sheepscote. Thoughte Mr. Agnew received me with unwonted gravetie. He tolde me he had received a letter from my husband, praying news of my father, seeing I had sent him none, and that he had writ to him that father was quite well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. Milton was labouring under some false impression. I tolde him trulie, that Dick, to get me home, had exaggerated 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 justifie a man Mr. Milton kissed me most tenderlie agayn and of honor in overcharging y 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 y de- clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and 【

mean to do soe, 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 y 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 out of doores-supping in the garden, and remaining in the ayre long after the moon has risen, talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing-if this be not joyfullnesse, what is?

For certain, I woulde that Mr. Milton were here; but he would call our sports mistimed, and throw a damp upon our mirth by not joining in it. Soe I will enjoy my holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere I get another-especiallie if his and father's opinions get wider asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised spring holiday may come to nothing.

Monday. My husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for what was noe fault of mine, to wit, Dick's falsitie; and wondering I can derive anie pleasure from a holiday so obtayned, which he will not curtayl, but will on noe pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr. Milton presumeth somewhat too much on his marital authoritie, writing in this strayn. I am noe mere child neither, nor a runaway wife, nor in such bad companie, in mine own father's house, where he firste saw me; and, was it anie fault of mine, indeed, that father was not ill? or can I wish he had been? No, truly!

This letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear father, seeing me soe dulle, askt me if I had had bad news. I sayd I had, for that Mr. Milton wanted me back at y month's end. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must not be, I must at all events stay over his birthdaye, he could not spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then-I am content enoughe.

To change y current of my thoughts, he hath renewed y scheme for our visit to Lady Falkland, which, weather permitting, is to take place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seen her, soe I am willing to go; but she is dearer to Rose than to me, though I respect her much.

But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my stay. At leaste not beyond father's birthday. My month is hasting to a close.

Sept. 21.-Battle at Newbury-Lord Falkland slayn. Oh, fatal loss! Father and mother going off to my lady; but I think she will not see them. Aunt and uncle Hewlett, who brought y news, can talk of nothing else.

22. Alle sadnesse and consternation. I am weary of had news, public and private, and feel less and less love for y puritans, yet am forced to seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party feeling just now at home. My month has passed!

Sept. 28.-A most displeased letter from my husband, minding me that my leave of absence hath expired, and that he likes not the messages he received through Ralph, nor y unreasonable and hurtfulle pastimes which he finds have beene making my quiet home distastefulle. Asking, are they suitable, under circumstances of nationall consternation to my owne party, or seemlie in soe young a wife, apart from her husband? To conclude, insisting, with more authoritie than kindnesse, on my immediate return.

With tears in my eyes, I have beene to my father. I have told him I must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my husband was soe very angry. He rejoyned, What, angry with my sweet Moll? and for spending a few days with her old father? Can it be hath it come to this alreadie? I sayd, my month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to staye over Michaelmasse, till his birthday; he knew Dick had named it to Mr. Milton. I sayd, Mr. Milton had taken no notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a month. He grew peevish and 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 y 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 y pleasure I deaf to entreaty, he would read ye 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 this