A Book For The Young by Sarah French

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Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave. She had brought a splendid
wedding dress for Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing the
plain white muslin she had herself prepared.

A union founded on such a basis, could not fail to bring as much real
happiness as mortals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, could
expect. Frederic Eardly passed many years of usefulness in his native
place, aided, in many of his good works, by his amiable wife. But
though blessed with many earthly comforts, they were not without their
trials, they had a promising family, but two or three were early
recalled; and in proportion to their affection for these interesting
children, was their grief at the severed links in the chain of earthly
love. The mother, perhaps, felt more keenly than the father, but both
knew they were blessings only lent, and they bowed submissively.

Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wrote
repeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or ten
years afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on her
death-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenth
birth-day. She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but the
letter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors
into which she had fallen, and their sad results. She had, it would
seem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone,
and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly,
and once more had she injured the peace of others. Farther she might
have gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a most
virulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beauty
was gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past. Her affliction
was most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had her
life been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct.

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, if
possible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters'
principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts to
direct their steps aright, might be crowned with success. Her prayers
were heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellent
mother.

LINES, ON SEEING IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, "THE WATERLOO WALTZ."

BY A LADY.

A moment pause, ye British fair
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue,
And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo?
Awful was the victory,
Chastened should the triumph be;
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay;
How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly view,
E're evening closed on Waterloo.

See the Highland Warrior rushing
Firm in danger on the foe,
Till the life blood warmly gushing
Lays the plaided hero low.
His native, pipe's accustomed sound,
Mid war's infernal concert drowned,
Cannot soothe his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuirassier,
See the foaming charger flying
Trampling in his wild career,
On all alike the dead and dying,
See the bullet through his side,
Answered by the spouting tide,
Helmet, horse and rider too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire;
Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth,
Oh shivered be the recreant lyre,
That gave the base idea birth;
Other sounds I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz the warriors knew,
When they closed on Waterloo.

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adopted
the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan.
They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who
surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river
suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four
feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity
equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called
the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than
prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction
which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the
fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm
with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his
unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied
Romille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and with
despair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootless
Bene," to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, had
befallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow."

The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. But
bootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though
imperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayer
avails not?

--_Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven_

Lady! what is the fate of those
Whose hopes and joys are failing?
Who, brooding over ceaseless woes,
Finds prayer is unavailing?
The mother heard his maddening tone,
She marked his look of horror;
She thought upon her absent son,
And answered, "endless sorrow."

How fair that morning star arose!
And bright and cloudless was its ray;
Ah! who could think that evening's close,
Would mark a frantic mother's woes,
And see a father's hopes decay?

Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern
Hath stopped thee in thy mad career;
And thou, who hast made thousands mourn.
Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear,
And long, in helpless grief, deplore
Thy only child is now no more.

Long ere the lark his matin sung,
Clad in his hunting garb of green,
The brave, the noble, and the young,
The Boy of Egremont was seen!
Who in his fair form could not trace,
The youth was born of high degree;
He was the last of Duncan's race,
The only hope of Romille.

In his bright eye the youthful fire
Was glowing with unwonted brightness;
Warm in friendship, fierce in ire,
Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.
His mother marked his brilliant cheek,
And blessed him as he onward past;
Ah! did no boding feeling speak,
To tell that look would be her last.
He held the hound in silken band,
The merlin perched upon his hand,
And frolic, mirth and wayward glee
Glanced in the heart of Romille.

And oft the huntsman by his side,
Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear,
Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
And bade him, for more sakes than one,
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.

Where the wild stream's eternal strife,
Wake the dark echoes into life,
Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes,
Lost in its everlasting foam;
And swift the channeled water rushes,
With ceaseless roar and endless storm;
And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high,
Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky;
And o'er the dim and shadowy deep,
Yawning, presents a deathful leap.
The boy has gained that desperate brink,
And not a moment will he think
Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears
That are entwined in his young years.

The old man stretched his arms in air,
And vainly warned him to forbear:
Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay,
And mark the dread abyss beneath;
Destruction wings thee on thy way,
And leads thee to an awful death.

He said no more, for on the air
Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on his ear, and all was o'er;
For midst the waves' eternal flow,
The boy had sank to rise no more.

When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky,
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap,
And by this fatal check he drew
Death on himself and master too.

But those wild waves of death and strife
Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
Though he was reft of light and life,
And sunk in death to rise no more.

And he was gone! his mother's smile
No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct; no more thy name
Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.

Thou art the last! with thee shall die
Thy proud descent and lineage high;
No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.

Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.

But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,
And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.

--EMMA TUCKER.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dim obscurity around him!
Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me, weary: while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness,
I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights,
Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death
I feel press heavy on my vitals;
Slow sapping the warm current of existence;
My moments now are few! e'en now
I feel the knife, the separating knife, divide
The tender chords that tie my soul
To earth. Yes, I must die, I feel that I _must_ die
And though to me has life been dark and dreary
Though smiling Hope, has lured but to deceive,
And disappointment still pursued its blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me,
As I contemplate the grim gulf,--

The shuddering blank, the awful void futurity.
Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme,
Romantic schemes and fraught with loveliness;
And it is hard to feel the hand of death
Arrest one's steps; throw a chill blast
O'er all one's budding hopes, and hurl one's soul
Untimely to the grave, lost in the gaping gulf
Of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence,
And who will think of Henry? ah, none!
Another busy world of beings will start up
In the interim, and none will hold him
In remembrance. I shall sink as sinks
A stranger in the crowded streets of busy London,
A few enquiries, and the crowds pass on,
And all's forgotten. O'er my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar with their ears,
Recall my vanished memory. I had hoped
For better things; I hoped I should not leave
This earth without a vestige. Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh, world! no more of thy desires,
No more of hope, that wanton vagrant hope;
Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul,
With emulative haste, looks to its God,
And prunes its wings for heaven.

--KIRKE WHITE.

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing an
account of the embarkation of a few detachments to join their
respective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India. It
was written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was not
only an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings of
the morning. As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurring
at the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for the
Crimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded on
facts, which alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by parallel
facts and circumstances.

Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and took
a bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retired
early to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martial
music; and ever delighting in the "soul-stirring fife and drum," I
jumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; I
therefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witness
what, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation.

It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in full
splendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected back
all its dazzling effulgence. The river was studded with shipping, and
to add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had just
anchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I could
easily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not only
in the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of the
hundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting their
return. With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled.
How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years,
nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a few
hours to clasp him to the maternal breast. Here, too, might be
pictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wife
and children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheeks
pallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropical
climate. Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams of
affluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their native
land. I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixty
years, braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to
_endure_ life, not to _enjoy_ it. He told me, he had left England at
the early age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out grown his young
friendships. Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place of
those domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed to
take root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his young
breast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than the
interest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East India
Company's Service. On his departure, he earned no parent's blessing
for him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept and
prayed. As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler,
like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what was
passing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, who
only three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which she
now returned, to join her husband,--the long affianced of her early
choice. For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, but
it was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in the
school of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place.

But the Blue Peter,[1] gently floating in the scarcely perceptible
breeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for a
far different purpose. It told not of restoring the fond husband to
his wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; it
was, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties;
for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be borne
many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they hold
dear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not
all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore their
spirits to their wonted tone.

[1] A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail.

There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted of
about one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though only
recruits, were particularly soldier-like in appearance. There was
throughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, which
seemed to say, "Away with private feelings! we go on glory's errand,
and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!" Yet to
fancy's eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face. We might
trace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, that
would say, "With the deportment of the _hero_, we have the feelings of
the _man_. One young officer was there, belonging to a different
regiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiable
weaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize the
husband or the father. He had not even pains of the lover to contend
with. Glory was indeed _his_ mistress, the all absorbing ruling
passion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not of
aught, but glory!"

Panting to distinguish himself with his corps, he would gladly have
annihilated time and space to have reached it, without spending so
many tedious months in making the voyage. Led away by his military
ardor, he thought not of his anxious parents; little recked he of his
mother's sleepless nights, and how her maternal fears would fancy
every breeze a gale, and every gale a storm, while he was subject to
their influence.

Among those waiting to embark, was one who had just parted from his
wife and children; care and anxiety had set their marks on him. He was
a man of domestic habits, and was now, perhaps, to be severed for
years, from all that gave any charm to life; but the fiat for
separation had gone forth, and was inevitable! Soon would immense
oceans roll between them; their resources, which, while they were
together, were barely sufficient for their wants, were now to be
divided; and the pang of parting, severe enough in itself, was
sharpened by the fear that poverty and privation might overtake them,
ere he could send remittances to his family.

A post chaise now came in sight, when an officer stepped forward, as
it drove to the water's edge, and assisted a lady to alight from it.
Her eyes were red with weeping and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely
able to support her sinking frame. Her husband, for such I found he
was, who had gone towards the vehicle, showed little less emotion than
herself, which he, however, strove hard to suppress. These were
parents, whom each successive wave would bear still further from their
lovely offspring, towards whom their aching hearts would yearn, long
after their childish tears had ceased to flow. They, poor little
things, knew not the blessings they were about to lose, but their fond
and anxious father and mother could not forget, that they had
consigned them to strangers, who might or who might not be kind to
them, and who had too many under their care, to feel, or even show the
endearing tenderness that marks parental love.

In regimental costume, also, stood one, quite aloof, and from his
history, (which I afterwards learnt,) I found that his position on the
beach corresponded with that in which he stood in the world--alone;
cared for by none, himself indifferent to all around him; every
kindlier affection had withered in his breast. He was careless whither
he went or what became of him. Yet was he not always so, for he had
known a parent's and a husband's love. His now blighted heart had
often beaten with rapture, as the babe, on which he doted, first
lisped a father's name, taught by a mother, whose smile of affection
was, for years, the sun that gladdened his existence. But these bright
visions of happiness had all flown; that being whom he had so fondly
loved had dishonoured him, and neglected his boy, and on his return,
he found one in the grave, the other living in infamy.

Among the soldiers, I noticed one, on whom not more than nineteen
summers had shone; nay, less than that. His light and joyous heart
seemed bounding with delight, as he witnessed the busy scene that met
his wondering eyes. An aged woman stood near him, whose blanched and
withered cheek but ill accorded with the cheerful look of her
light-hearted thoughtless son. She took his hand, and sobbed out, "Oh,
George, my poor boy, little thought I to see the day when I should be
thus forsaken; I did hope you would now have staid with me, and been a
comfort in my old days."

"Hush, hush! grand-mother, the boys are all looking at you. Come, now,
don't be blubbering so foolishly, I shall soon come back again."

"Come back again, boy! afore that day comes, these poor old bones will
be mouldering in the dust. But God's will be done, and may his
blessings be upon you; I know there must be soldiers, but oh, 'tis
hard, so very hard, to part with one's only child. Oh, after the care
I have taken to bring you up decently, to lose you thus; and how I
worked, day and night, to buy you off before, and yet you listed
again, though a month had not passed over your head. God help me,"
said she sighing, "for even this trial could not be without God's
will, for without that, not a sparrow could fell to the ground. But
stay, do wait a bit longer," said she, catching him by the belt, as he
was manifesting a restless impatience to join the busy throng.

"You will promise to write to me, George, you will not forget that?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, mother, I'll write."

The sergeant now began to call the muster roll, and the poor old
creature's cheek grew whiter still as the lad exclaimed:

"Now, mother, I must fall into the ranks; good bye, good bye."

"May God Almighty preserve thee, my child; you may one day be a parent
yourself, and will then know what your poor old grandmother feels this
day."

The lad had by this time passed muster, and was soon after on board.
The afflicted grand-mother stood, with her eyes transfixed on the
vessel, gazing on her unheeding boy, who, insensible to the agonizing
feelings that rent her breast, felt not one single throe of regret,
his mind being entirely engrossed in contemplating the bright future,
which the sergeant, who enlisted him, had drawn.

Captain Ormsby, who commanded the detachment, was a man of feeling; he
had particularly noticed the poor woman's distress.

"Be comforted," said he, "I will watch over the lad, for your sake,
and will try and take him under my immediate charge, and if he behaves
well, I may be able to serve him. I will see that he writes to you."

"Heaven bless and reward your honour," she exclaimed, "surely you are
a parent yourself. Oh, yes, I knew it," said she, as she saw him wipe
off the starting tear. "May God spare you such a trial as has this day
been my lot."

"Thank you, thank you, my good woman," said he hardly able to speak.

She had touched a tender chord, and its vibration shook his very
frame, for he had in the last few days, taken leave of four motherless
girls, pledges of love by a wife whom he had fondly loved, and of whom
he had been suddenly bereaved. Well might he feel for this poor
wretch, for _he_ had known parting in all its bitterness.

A soldier and his wife stood side by side, apparently ready to embark,
whose looks told unutterable things; they both seemed young, but their
faces betokened the extreme of agony. The name of Patrick Morgan being
called, the distracted wife clung to her husband, uttering the most
piercing and heartrending cries.

"Sure, and what'll become of me," cried she, "will you then lave me,
Pat, dear, lave your own poor Norah to die, as, sure I will, when you
go in that big ship? Oh, my dear Captain, and where will I go if your
honour isn't plazed to go without him this time? Oh, do forgive me,
but do not, oh, do not, in pity, part us. Sure, an' its your honours
dear self as knows what it is to part from them ye loves; an' so you
thought, when ye tuk lave of the dear childer, t'other day, an' saw
the mother's swate face, God rest her sowl, in the biggest of 'em, for
sure they're like, as two pays in a bushel, only one is little an'
t'other big, barring she's in heaven. Sure, and if your honour's self
had to bid 'em good bye over agin you'd, may be, think how hard it was
for me to stay behind when Pat goes."

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