138 1829. [IN 1829 my father edited "The Gem"-bearing on its title-page the couplet For this, besides the Preface, he wrote "The Farewell," to a picture by A. Cooper-"Hero and Leander" to one by H. Howard—and a prose sketch entitled "May Day," illustrated by F. P. Stephanoff. But the most important of his contributions was "The Dream of Eugene Aram," which made a considerable impression at the time. I find the following passage in a letter from Bernard Barton. "Thy own Poem of Eugene Aram' is the gem of the Gem; and alone worth the price of the book. I thank the 'Gazette' critic for quoting that entire, as I shall cut it out and save it." Sir John-then Mr.-Bowring, one of the old "London" contributors, and an intimate friend of my father's, writes "I have read that Aram story, which I will put by the side of the very grandest productions of poetical conception."] PREFACE IT is with some diffidence that I come forward as the editor of an annual, and present myself in a fraternity already so numerous. Indeed I feel something of the shrinking spirit of that urbane person recorded by old Howell, who, standing at the threshold of Paradise, and seeing a great many strange faces, said, "Gentlemen, if I intrude here, I am ready to walk out again." I cannot, without some natural misgivings, put my raw unpractised skill in the management of such a miscellany against the mature judgment and experience of veteran, conductors, with whom taste and discrimination have had time to become habits of body. Accustomed to select only from my own portfolio, I cannot guess what sort of a compiler I may prove of the writings of others; but I have done my best to secure a good parade by engaging as many as I might of the literary giants, and enrolling none who were not at least a head taller than mediocrity. On looking over the names—with their associations-that grace my muster roll, I confess I entrust the issue, with a very slight anxiety, to those merciful judges, the reviewers, and that vast unpacked jury, "my partial public." To Sir Walter Scott-not merely a literary feather in my cap, but a whole plume of them-I owe, and with the hand of my heart acknowledge, a deep obligation. A poem from his pen is likely to confer on the book that contains it, if not perpetuity at least a very Old Mortality. To the rest of the contributors, though many are particular friends, I can only offer a general acknowledgment. In spite of the proverbial facility of thanks, I feel it difficult to speak in adequate terms of their kindness; but they have enabled me to string together a rosary of genius and talent, which I shall frequently tell over with pride and pleasure. It is proper to mention in this place that the merit due for the selection and character of the embellishments of this work, is attributable to the taste and judgment of A. Cooper, Esq., the Royal Academician, who has kindly taken that department under his able and especial care. With such auspices I feel assured that the plates will be found worthy of the enlightened gusto that prevails in these days for works of graphic art. I am desired by the proprietor to express his grateful sense of the liberality and kindness of the artists who have permitted him to make use of their paintings; and at the same time, to return his thanks-in the best line manner -to the engravers, whose exertions have entitled them to the most honourable mention. And now, having adjusted all the preliminaries, I commend this little volume, a year old, to the start; and if the aged ones carry weight, as they ought to do, and hitherto have done, I shall look with confidence to its running a good race, and being at least "well placed by the judges." ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER. WHY, Lover, why Such a water rover ? For coming half seas over? Why, Lady, why So in love with dipping? Come all over dripping? Why, Cupid, why Make the passage brighter? Were not any boat Better than a lighter? Why, Madam, why So intrusive standing? Must thou be on the stair When he's on the landing? THE FAREWELL. TO A FRENCH AIR. FARE thee well, Gabrielle ! Whilst I join France, With bright cuirass and lance ! Trumpets swell, Gabrielle ! War horses prance, And Cavaliers advance! In the night, Ere the fight, In the night, I'll think of thee! And in pray'r, Lady fair, In thy pray'r, Then think of me! Death may knell, Gabrielle ! Where my plumes dance, By arquebuss or lance! Then farewell, Gabrielle ! Take my last glance ! Fair Miracle of France! 142 A MAY-DAY. I KNOW not what idle schemer or mad wag put such a folly in the head of my Lady Rasherly, but she resolved to celebrate a May-day after the old fashion, and convert Porkington Park-her Hampshire Leasowes-into a new Arcadia. Such revivals have always come to a bad end: the Golden Age is not to be regilt; Pastoral is gone out, and Pan extinctPans will not last for ever. But Lady Rasherly's fête was fixed. A large order was sent to Ingram, of rustic celebrity, for nubbly sofas and crooked chairs; a letter was despatched to the Manager of the P―h Theatre, begging a loan from the dramatic wardrobe; and old Jenkins, the steward, was sent through the village to assemble as many male and female, of the barndoor kind, as he could muster. Happy for the Lady, had her Hampshire peasantry been more pig-headed and hoggishly untractable, like the staple animal of the county: but the time came and the tenants. Happy for her, had the goodnatured manager excused himself, with a plea that the cottage hats and blue bodices and russet skirts were bespoke, for that very night, by Rosina and her villagers: but the day came and the dresses. I am told that old Jenkins and his helpmate had a world of trouble in the distribution of the borrowed plumes: this maiden turning up a pug-nose, still pugger, at a faded bodice; that damsel thrusting out a pair of original pouting lips, still more spout-like, at a rusty ribbon; carroty Celias wanted more roses in their hair, and dumpy Delias more flounces in their petticoats. There is a natural tact, however, in womankind as to matters of dress, |