The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 538, March 17, 1832

The fertilizing properties of an individual in the chemical stage of his existence, seem only to have been fully recognised since the memorable battle of Waterloo; the fields of which now annually wave with luxuriant corn-crops, unequalled in the annals of "the old prize-fighting ground of Flanders." I have no doubt, however, that the cerealia of La Belle Alliance would have been much more nutritive if the top-dressing which the plain received during the three days of June, 1815, had not been robbed of its stamina by London dentists, who carried off the soldiers' teeth in hogsheads; and by Yorkshire bone-grubbers, who freighted several transports with the skeletons of regiments of troopers, as well as troop-horses, to be ground to dust in Kingston-upon-Hull, and drilled with turnip seed in the chalky districts of the North and West Ridings of Yorkshire. The corn of Waterloo is thus cheated of its phosphate of lime; but the spirits of Cyrus the Great and Numa the Wise, who had a fair knowledge of the fructifying capabilities of the "human form divine," must rejoice in beholding how effectually the fertilizing dust pushes the young Globes, Swedes, and Tankards into their rough leaves, that bid defiance to that voracious "Yorkshire bite" the turnip fly.

BIRTH SONG

ANGEL OF WELCOME

 
Hail, new-waked atom of the Eternal Whole,
Young voyager upon Time's rapid river!
Hail to thee, Human Soul,
Hail, and for ever!
 

CHORUS OF CHERUBIM

 
A life has just begun!
A life has just begun!
Another soul has won
The glorious spark of being!
Pilgrim of life all hail!
He who at first called forth,
From nothingness the earth;
Who piled the mighty hills, and dug the sea,
Who gave the stars to gem
Night like a diadem,
Thou little child, made thee!
Young creature of the earth,
Fair as its flowers, though brought in sorrow forth,
Hail, all hail.
 

ANGEL OF WELCOME

 
The Heavens themselves shall vanish as a scroll;
The solid Earth dissolve; the Sun grow pale,
But thou, oh Human Soul,
Shalt be immortal. Hail!
 

CHORUS OF CHERUBIM

 
A life has just begun!
A life has just begun!
Another soul has won
The glorious spark of being!
Oh young immortal, hail!
He before whom are dim
Seraph and cherubim;
Who gave the archangels strength and majesty,
Who sits upon Heaven's throne,
The Everlasting One,
Oh blessed child, made thee!
Fair creature of the earth,
Heir of immortal life, though mortal in thy birth,
Hail, all hail.
 

DIRGE OF DEATH

ANGEL OF DEPARTURE

 
Shrink not, oh Human Spirit,
The Everlasting Arm is strong to save.
Look up—look up, frail nature, put thy trust
In Him who went down mourning to the dust,
And overcame the grave.
 

CHORUS OF MINISTERING SPIRITS

 
'Tis nearly done,
Life's work is nearly done,
Watching and weariness and strife.
One little struggle more,
One pang and it is o'er,
Then farewell life.
Farewell, farewell, farewell.
Kind friends, 'tis nearly past,
Come, come and look your last.
Sweet children, gather near,
And that last blessing hear,—
See how he loved you, who departeth now.
And, with thy trembling step, and pallid brow,
Oh most beloved one
Whose breast he leant upon,
Come, faithful unto death,
And take his latest breath.
Farewell—farewell—farewell.
 

ANGEL OF DEPARTURE

 
Hail, disenthralled spirit;
Thou that the wine-press of the field hast trod:
On, blest Immortal, on, through boundless space,
And stand with thy Redeemer face to face,
And bow before thy God.
 

CHORUS OF MINISTERING SPIRITS

 
'Tis done—'tis done;
Life's weary work is done;
Now the glad spirit leaves the clay,
And treads with winged ease
The bright acclivities
Of Heaven's crystalline way;
Joy to thee, Blessed one.
Lift up, lift up thine eyes,
Yonder is Paradise;
And this fair shining band
Are spirits of thy land;
And these, that throng to meet thee, are thy kin,
Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin.
Bright spirit, thou art blest.
This city's name is Rest;
Here sin and sorrow cease,
And thou hast won its peace,
Joy to thee, Blessed One.
 

New Monthly Magazine.

NOTES OF A READER

BONINGTON

Mr. Allan Cunningham has completed his fifth volume of the Lives of the most eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. It contains Jameson, Ramsey, Romney, Runciman, Copley, Mortimer, Raeburn, Hoppner, Owen, Harlow, and Bonington; all sketched in the author's most felicitous style. The memoir of Bonington is of peculiar interest, since all our readers must recollect the premature death of that promising artist. Mr. Cunningham observes of his last days:

"I know not whether Bonington was at all aware in these days that a visible decay had come upon him, and that in the regretful opinion of many he was a man marked out for an early grave: whatever he might feel or surmise, he said nothing, but continued to employ his pencil with all the ardour of the most flourishing health. He rose early and studied late; nor did he allow any piece to go hastily from his hand. The French, who are quick in discerning and generous in acknowledging merit, not only applauded his works from the outset, but watched his progress and improvement, and eagerly compared the marine paintings of the young Englishman with the standard works of the artists of their own country. M. Gros, who, it seems, had for some unrecorded reason closed his atelier against him, was so touched by his fine works, that he ere long recalled him with commendations; and, in the presence of his pupils, said, he considered it an honour to have him in his studio. A more moderate style of rapture was to be expected from his own countrymen; nevertheless, cold as English approbation of talent may seem, his works were welcomed here as few works of art have been welcomed. His extreme modesty was somewhat against his success: he was fearful of being thought presuming and forward; and has been known to shrink from introductions to men of rank and talent, from a doubt of his own deservings. A letter to me from Mrs. Forster, a lady distinguished by her own talent as well as from being the daughter of Banks the sculptor, contains the following passage:—'When Bonington visited England, in 1827, I gave him a letter of introduction to Sir Thomas Lawrence, but he returned to Paris without having delivered it. On my inquiring why he had not waited on the President, he replied,—"I don't think myself worthy of being introduced to him yet, but after another year of hard study I may be more deserving of the honour." The following spring he went to London with his pictures; those which brought him such well merited fame. He carried a letter from me to Sir Thomas, which he presented, and was received into his friendship; but, alas! it was of short duration; for the great success of his works, the almost numberless orders which he received for pictures and drawings, together with unremitting study, brought on a brain fever, from which he recovered only to sink in a rapid decline.' All other accounts concur with that of Mrs. Forster, in attributing his illness to the accumulation of pressing commissions: he viewed the amount with nervous dismay; he became deeply affected; his appetite failed; his looks denoted anguish of body and mind; a quick and overmastering consumption left him strength scarcely sufficient to bring him to London, where he arrived about the middle of September, 1828. The conclusion of his career was thus related to Mrs. Forster by Sir Thomas Lawrence:—'Your sad presage has been too fatally verified; the last duties have just been paid to the lamented Mr. Bonington. Except in the case of Mr. Harlow, I have never known, in my own time, the early death of talent so promising, and so rapidly and obviously improving. If I may judge from the later direction of his studies, and from remembrance of a morning's conversation, his mind seemed expanding in every way, and ripening into full maturity of taste and elevated judgment, with that generous ambition which makes confinement to lesser departments in the art painfully irksome and annoying.

 
"But the fair guerdon when we hope to find
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life'"
 

Having not quite finished his 27th year, he died calmly on the 23rd of September, 1828, and was interred in the vault of St. James's Church, Pentonville, in the presence of Lawrence, and Howard, and Robson, and the Rev. J.T. Judkin,—himself a skilful painter—an ardent admirer and steadfast friend.

"Bonington was tall, well, and even to appearance, strongly formed. 'His countenance,' says the French biographer, 'was truly English; and we loved him for his melancholy air, which became him more than smiles.' The memory of his person will soon wear away; but it will fare otherwise with his fame. He lived long enough to assert his title to a high place amongst English landscape-painters, and had produced works which bid fair to be ranked permanently with the foremost. They are not numerous, but for that very reason they will, perhaps, be the more prized. A series of engravings amounting to some four and twenty, has been published by Carpenter, from pictures of this artist, some in his own possession, some in the galleries of the Marquess of Lansdown, the Duke of Bedford, and other patrons of art. The best of these are the landscapes; and of the landscapes, the worthiest are of mingled sea and land—pieces distinguished by great picturesque beauty, and singular grace of execution. His practice was to sketch in the outline and general character, and then make accurate studies of the local light-and-shade, and colour. His handling was delicate and true, and his colouring clear and harmonious. It cannot, however, be denied, that he wants vigour and breadth; that his more poetic scenes are too light and slim; and his express copies from nature too literal and real. He was a softer sort of Gainsborough, with more than his grace, and with not a little of his taste for scattering happy and characteristic groups among landscape scenes—but, it must be added, with only a far-off approach, to the strength of that great master. That, had his life been prolonged, he would have risen to very high distinction, cannot be doubted. It was his generous dream, we are told, to acquire a competency by painting commissions, and then dedicate his time and pencil to historical compositions,—a dream which many artists have dreamed; but his works have little of the epic in them. Nature gave him good advice, when she directed his steps to the surf-beat shore, and bade him paint the swelling tide, the busy boats, fishermen drying their nets, and the sea-eagle looking from the rock upon his wide and, to him, fruitful dominion."