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SHAKSPEARE'S WOMEN.

Beyond me and above me, far away
From colder poets lies a Innd Elysian—

The haunted land where Shakspcare's ladies

stray

Through shadowy groves and golden glades of vision;

And there I wander oft, us poets may,
Cooling the fever of a hot ambition,

'Mong ghostly shades of palaces divine,

And pray at Shakspeare's soul as at a shrine 1

Fair are those ladies all, some pure ns foam,
And sadder some than earthly ladies are;
From Juliet, calm and beautiful as home,

Whose love was whiter than the morning star,
To Egypt, when the rebel lord of Rome
Lolled at her knee and watched the world from

far-
Selling his manhood for a woman's kiss,
But fretting in the heyday of his bliss.

There Portia argues love against the Jew,
With quips and quiddities of azure eyes;

Fidelc mourns for Posthumus untrue,
And wanders homeless under angry skies;

There white Ophelia moans her ditties new,
Sad as the swan's weird music when it dies;

There roaming hand in hand, as free as wind,

Walk little Cclia and tall Rosalind.

And slender Julia walks in man's attire, Praising her own sweet face which Proteus wrongs;

Miranda, isled from kisses, strikes the lyre
Of her own wishes into fairy songs;

And stainless Hero, flashing into fire,

Chides with her death the lie her lore prolongs;

With buxom Beatrice, whose heart denies

The jest she still endorses with her eyes!

Shipwrecked Marina wanders through the night, Blushing at sound, and trembling for the morn,

And blue-eyed Constance rises up her height To fortify her hope with words of scorn;

The lass of Florizcl in tearful plight,

Still seeks her hope in labyrinths forlorn;

And high upon a pinnacle, 1 see

Cordelia weeping at the wild king's knee!

And in the darkest corner of the land

Walks one with blacker brows and looks of

pain.

Heart-haunted by the shade of past command— The pale-faced queen, who sinned beside the

Thane;

And still she moans, and eyes a bloody hand That once was lily-white without a stain; Bobbed of the strength which helped the Thane

to climb. When growing with the grandeur of his crime.

But in the centre of a little hall,

Roofed by a patch of sky wkh stars and moon, Titania sighs a love-sick madrigal,

Throned in the red heart of a rose of June; And round about, the fairies rise and fall

Like daisies' shadows to an elfin tune; Behind them, plaining through a citron grove, Moves gentle Hcnnia, chasing hope and love.

I dream in this delicious land, where Song

Epitomized all beauty and all love, Familiar as my mother's face, the throng

Of ladies through its-shady vistas move;
Time listens to the Borrow they prolong,

And Fancy weeps beside them, and above
Broods Music, wearing on her golden wings
The darkness of sublime imaginings.
Oh, let me, dreaming on in this sweet place,

Draw near to Shakspeare's soul with reverent

eyes, Let me dream on, forgetting time and space,

Pavilioned in a golden paradise, Where smiles are conjured on the stately face,

And true-love kisses mix with tears and sighs; Where each immortal lady still prolongs The life our Shakspcarc calcntured in songs. And in the spirit's twilight, when I feel

Hard-visagcd Labor recommending leisure, Let me thus climb to fairy heights and steal

Soft commune with the shapes all poets treasure; Wrapt up in luscious life from head to heel,

Swimming from trance to trance of speechless

pleasure,

And now and then, not erring, dream of bliss
Whose brimful soul runs over in a kiss!

All the Year Hound.

THE GOLDEN YEAR. Come, sunny looks, that in my memory throng;

Come! bring back some happy afternoon; Come! for your gentle presence is the song

Without which nature hums n lonely tune. O light feet, tread the narrow path once more I

Come to my cry, fair forms, and, resting near. On the dear rocks where you have sat before,

A little while renew the golden year. Conic to this spot, whence we so oft have viewed

The gleam of waves, rock-broken, round the

bay, Come once more, or wild grasses will intrude,

And clasp their hands across the narrow way; Come, for the place is fair as land of dream,

And through the rushes, winds hum mournfully, As if just moved in slumber, and the stream

Siill struggles through its cresses to the sea.

'Tis vain to call; I once the strain have heard,

That lacked no note to make the tune complete, Once, wakened hy the touch of some kind word,

I found a garden fair, with flowers sweet; There, plucking fruits from many a drooping bough,

I stayed, untroubled by foreboding doubt; Once have I passed the golden year, and now

I see it far back, like a star going out. The daisies of the golden year are dead, .

Its sunsets will not touch the west again, Its glories are removed, its blessings fled,

And only fully known when sought in vain; The same sweet voices I shall never hear,

For the fair forms that once my pathwaj

crossed Are gone, with waters of the golden year

That now are mingled in the sea and lost. —All tht Year Round.

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Shoet Articles. — Death of William Wilson, 782. Death of Marlborough, 803. Short Portrait of Queen Anne, 809. The Envelope Business, 812. Genealogy of the Prince of Waifs, 824. Curious Nest Building, 824.

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FAIRY LORE. Glad were the children when their glowing

faces

Gathered about us in the winter night, And now, with gleesome hearts iu verdant

places, We see them leaping in the summer light;

For they remember yet the tales we told them Around the hearth, of fairies long ago,

When they could only look out to behold them, Quick dancing, earthward, in the feathery snow. .

But now the young and fresh imagination
Finds traces of their presence everywhere,

And peoples with a new and bright creation
The clear blue chambers of the sunny air.

For them the gate of many a fairy palace
Opes to the ringing bugle of the bee,

And every flower-cup is a golden chalice,
Wine-filled, in some grand elfin revelry.

Quaint little eyes from grassy nooks are peering;

Each dewy leaf is rich in magic lore;
The foam-bells, down the merry brooklet steer-
ing,
Are fairy-freighted to some happier shore.

Stern theorists, with wisdom overreaching
The nim of wisdom, in your precepts cold,

And with a painful stress of callous teaching,
That withers the young heart into the old,

What is the gain if all their flowers were perished,

Their vision-fields forever shorn and bare, The mirror shattered that their young faith cherished, Showing the face of tilings so very fair 1

Time hath enough of ills to undeceive them, And cares will .crowd where dreams have

dwelt before; Oh, therefore, while the heart is trusting, leave

them

TheiWiappy childhood and their fairy lore! —All the Year ftound.

From The Gem.

LOVE'S REPROACH.—A RUSTIC PLAINT. BY JAMES j; Knm: y, ESQ.

Deah Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad,

Where'er you go, God bless you;
You'd better speak than wish you had,

If love for me distress you.
To me, they say, your thoughts incline,

And possibly they may so:
Then, once for all, to quiet mine,

Tom, if you love me, say so.

On that sound heart and manly frame

Sits lightly sport or labor, Good-humored, frank, and still the same,

To parent, friend, or neighbor: Then why postpone your love to own

For me, from day to day so, And let me whisper, still alone,

"Tom, if you love me, say so "?

How oft when I was sick, or sad

With some remembered folly.
The sight of you has made me glad,—

And then most melancholy!
Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good

Upon my spirit prey so?
By you it should be understood—

"Tom, if you love me, say so."

Last Monday, at the cricket-match,

No rival stood before you,
In harvest-time, for quick despatch

The farmers all adore you;
And evermore your praise they sing,

Though one thing you delay Bo
And I sleep nightly murmuring,

"Tom, if you'love me, say so."

Whate'er of ours you chance to seek,

Almost before you breathe it,
I bring with blushes on my cheek,

And all my soul goes with it.
Why thank me, then, with voice so low,

And faltering turn away so 1
When next you come, before you go,

Tom, if yon love me, say so.

When Jasper Wild, beside the brook,

Eesentful round us lowered, I oft recall that lion-look

That qucllpd the savage coward. Bold words and free you uttered then:

Would they could find their way so, When these moist eyes so plainly mean,

"Tom, if you love me, say so."

My friends, 'tis true, are well to do,

And yours are poor and friendless; Ah, no! for they are rich in yon,

Their happiness is endless. You never let them shed a tear,

Save that on you they weigh so; There's one might bring you bettor cheer;

Tom, if you love me, say so.

My uncle's legacy is all'

For you, Tom, when yon choose it;
In better hands it cannot fall,

Or better trained to use it
I'll wait for years; but let me not

Nor wooed nor plighted stay so;
Since wealth and worth make even lot;

Tom, if yon love me, say so.

From The Athenaeum.

On the Relation* of Alexander Pope with the Duchess of Jfarlborough and the Duchess of Buckinghamshire; and on the Character and Characteristics of Atossa. In 1854 we took advantage of a lull in the publishing world, and ventured by way of experiment, to try our critical skill on an advertisement—the announcement of a forthcoming edition of Pope's Works to be edited by John Wilson Croker. That edition, so long expected, has been delayed, almost beyond hope, by the death of the editor. We are pleased now to hear that it will certainly be amongst the issues of the coming season. Delay, however, has not been without its advantages — the announcement in 1854 of " one hundred and fifty unpublished letters" has enlarged its golden promise, and the last number of the (Quarterly speaks of "more than three hundred unpublished letter?." In other respects, too, good has! resulted from delay. Mr. Carruthers has liberally declared that the publication of the papers in the Athencewm constituted "an era on Pope history." We are willing to believe that they did good service, pioneer fashion. But some questions then raised have not yet been decided; and amongst them one seriously affecting the moral character of the poet—did he, or did he not, receive a thousand pounds from the Duchess of Marlborough, to suppress the character of Atossa? We think it well therefore to revert to this subject before the new edition is issued.

We do not mean to enter again on the evidence; that has been fully considered, j We heretofore proved that the story was first published anonymously, and after the established fashion, with an "it is said." We proved, as we thought, that Warton and Walpole merely re-echoed the story with such " circumstantialities " as time adds as a matter of course; and that Mr. Rose's pencilling was a mere indication of what might have been referred to—whether fact or falsehood. We propose on this occasion to show, not merely that the anecdote is untrue, but that it could not be true, and that the character of Atossa was not meant for the Duchess of Marlborough at all, but for the Duchess of Buckinghamshire. This is a new light altogether—new to us as to others —a result of that spirit of doubt and consequent research which have done more, in the last ten years, to clear up the Pope history and mystery than all the trusting labors of editors in the preceding century. Some of the letters to which we shall have occasion to refer are yet in manuscript; but they are now all in the possession of Air. Murray, and will therefore appear in the forthcoming edition of Pope's Works.

As a starting-point in our inquiry, we will considerlhe personal relations of the several parties.

Pope for many years belonged to the same political party as the Dachess of Buckinghamshire, and was in open and avowed hostility to the Marlboroughs. He was under, friendly obligations to the Duke and subsequently to the Duchess of Buckinghamshire. We infer from a letter of Jacob Tonson to Pope, among the Homer MSS., that Pope received the profits of the splendid edition of the duke's works, printed after the duke's death at the expense of the duchess. It was natural and proper that it should be so, for Pope selected, arranged, and prepared the work for publication;—the duchess received literary help, and Pope the reward for literary labor. We find Pope, on more than one occasion, on a friendly visit to the duchess ; and in 1725 he was the active and confidential friend in the famous prosecution of Ward—a fact which appears to have been overlooked by the biographers, although the following letter from the duchess to Pope, also among the Homer MSS., is proof:—

"Sr.—I am much obliged to Lord Hurcour for his friendly assistance in helping my son against the variety of injustices which we meet with from AYard. There is nobcjdy who can be obliged whose gratitude is so useless as a woman's and a child's; but I'll answer for the first having a great share of it, and I hope the other wiH ;ilv,;ii show the same disposition. I am always, S'., y. faithful, humble serv.' K. B.

"I have wrote to Lord Trevor, who has ap-, pointed a meeting at our house, and hopes to have the business heard this sessions. I expect you to-morrow."

Again:—

"This is first to tell yon that I hope you found your mother in very good health, and mado your peace with the old woman for staying abroad Bo long. She will probably describe you by the Gadder as she did Mr. Compton by the Proser.

"I know 'tis unnecessary, but I desire yon to say nothing of what you know of Mr. Sheffield's Jbcing at present not well in my favor, except to my Lord Bathurst, in case he mentions it, because I have many reasons to have the particular circumstances as little spoke on as possible, and not the man at all, at least for some time. —I am ever, Sr. y. most humble servt.'

"K. B."

These friendly relations continued up to November, 1728, when Pope thus wrote to Lord Bathurst:—

"The Duchess of Buckingham is at Leigh's. . . . The writings to my mother and mo she has signed. You will rejoice, I know, with mo that what you so warmly solicited and contributed to, for my future case is accomplished. If I live these hundred yean I shall never fancy,

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even in my jealous old age, that I live too long upon you and her. And if I live but'one year it would better please me to think an obclisqno might be added to your garden, etc."

Pope and the duShess, as we shall show, soon after quarrelled, so that the flattering "Character of Katherine late Duchess of Buckinghamshire and Normanby," published in 1746 as "By the late Mr. Pope," must have been written about or before this time. Whether really written by Pope, or compiled, as he said, from the manuscript of the duchess, there is, we think, internal evidence that it was written many years before her death. Pope distinctly says so in his letter to Moyser. It must, therefore, have been subsequently adapted to circumstances, for reference is therein made to the loss of "all her children," which was not true until after the 31st of October, 1735, when her son Edmund died, and it concludes with an account of the death of the duchess herself.

The cause of quarrel is a mystery; but the date, within moderate limits, it is not difficult to determine. On the 9th of July [1732] Pope thus wrote to LordBathurst:—

"There is one woman at least that I think you will never run after, of whom the town rings with a hundred stories, why she run, and whither she is run. Her sober friends are sorry for her, and truly so am I, whom she cut off from the number of them three years ago. She has dealt as mysteriously with you as with me formerly; both which are proofs that wo are both less mad than is requisite for her to think quite well of us."

This "one woman " was, beyond all doubt, the Duchess of Buckinghamshire, who thought it necessary, in consequence of the gossip with which the town rang, to inform the minister, Sir Robert Walpole, why and whither she had run, which she did on the 6th of June, 1732, by a letter from Boulogne :—

"I left England, sir, with ' no other precipitation than was occasioned by my having some accounts to state and pass with Mr. Arthbornott.'"

She then informs him that she had been taken ill at Boulogne,—and adds—

"This has given me the lucky opportunity of hearing, something quick, the silly reports somehow spread concerning a thing done by everybody at their pleasure,—I mean taking a journey to Paris."

She begs AValpole to take notice of her explanation to the queen or not, as he shall decide,—

"in case any of these nonsensical storys, or any v others, have reached her ears, or whether ray \ coming away in the manner 1 did has happened

o be represented or taken in a light any way requires being set right." (Coxe's Walpote, Hi126.)

The following is the account of Pope's quarrel with the duchess, which he whisaered in a letter to Moyser, as if in anticipation of the publication of the "Character," and of its being attributed to him. This letter Warburton fortunately stumbled on, when, after Pope's death, the "Character" was published and was so attributed:—

"There was another Character irritten of Ber Grace by herself (with what help I know not), but she shewed it me in her blots, and pressed me, by all the adjurations of friendship, to give her my sincere opinion of it. I acted honestly and did so. She seemed to take it patiently, and upon many exceptions which I mndc, engaged me to take the whole, and to select ont of it just as much as I judged might stand and return her the copy. I did so. immediately she picked a quarrel iritli me, and ice never taw each oilier in Jive or six years."

We have now clear evidence not only of the quarrel, but that it took place in or about July, 1729. This brings us to, and helps to explain, an incident in Pope's life not known to his biographers.

In 1729-30, Edward Caryll married the daughter of Pope's friend and neighbor, Mr. Pigot; and the following is an extract from a letter of Pope of the 12th of February, in which he sent his congratulations to Caryll's father:—

"I could not see Mr. Pigot as yet; but this day I have received from him, by the post, the letter yon mentioned as baring been given to yon to deliver into my own hands. The content* of that letter are so extraordinary that I must desire you fairly to tell me, who gave it you; and if, instead of your giving it to Mr. Pigot, he did not give it to you."

On the 10th of May Pope again adverts to the subject:—

"A very odd adventure has lately befallen me, in consequence of the letter you sent me enclosed to Mr. Pigot which contained a note for £100, and it gives me a great curiosity to know what person put it into your hands. I soon found out the original plotter, but nm at a loss for the instruments made use of, which this may give me some light into."

On the 16th of June Pope continues his questioning:—

"I can't help telling you, as well as I love von, that I am ready to take it ill (and the more ill the more I lovo you) your silence and evasion of my question, who it was that put into your hands the letter which contained a Bank Bill for £100? I found out, as I told you, the original plotter, and returned the bribe back, as an honest man ought, with the contempt it deserved, by

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