Ye where shelter and a shield, And the haughty Gesler fell Bathes the world, as once with water, And the renovated earth Wins a second, glorious birth! Ther refulgence, beaming bright GEORGE FITZGIBBON. A SKETCH. *K* with It has often struck me, that we might read a newspaper much benefit to ourselves, even if we only perused the list of Births, Marriages, &c. therein contained, did we seriously reflect on the immensity of heartfelt woe or joy a few simple words record; and never so forcibly has this opinion been brought to my mind, as when taking up an old newspaper the other day, the following announcement caught my eye. "Died on Sunday last, aged 24, George, the only son of Edward Fitzgibbon, Esq., of Henley Hall." Poor Fitzgibbon, he was one of my dearest schoolfellows, and distant as is the time when boys we played together, it is with no little feeling of melancholy, I revert to his early death. George was one of those who are generally termed pretty boys, without possessing a very manly or effeminate cast of countenance, there was that expression of sweetness which never fails to attract, and win the admiration of casual observers. He was always sickly, or rather ailing, and the extra care which the wife of our kind tutor bestowed on him, often made him the object of envy, among those who loved him less than I did. Being remarkably smart, and gifted with a retentive memory, he found little difficulty in working his way to the top of his class, which although it contained the elder and more advanced boys in the school, also contained not a few thick-headed dolts. About the time of our entering upon Virgil together; it was at about the close of the war in 1816, while things were scarcely settled; Fitzgibbon was taken from the school and entered the Navy. I recollect the pride that beamed in his mother's eye, when he made his first appearance in his uniform, and singular as it may appear, I had then a kind of foreboding, that the hope evinced in that glance would never be realized. For two or three years after this I lost sight of him. It is very seldom that school-friendships continue in existence after the individuals have launched into the world, and have been engaged in the toils, the business, or the pleasures of life. The clashing of interests, the coolness which acquaintance with the world flings over the warm gushing feelings of youth, opposite pursuits, opposite professions separate those who have been the most united in their earlier years, and characters who had anticipated much and lasting pleasure from each others' society, perhaps, once severed, never meet again on the great stage of human affairs. Like an angle, however, though far apart their course may be, there is a point where their thoughts meet, and that point is the time when their hopes were bounded by the play-ground, and their enjoyment comprised in some childish sport. The next time I met Fitzgibbon was at an Election Ball, held at the county town of -, I had left London for the purpose of settling some business for my father, the adjusting of which had delayed me rather longer than I had projected when starting. He was there, his naval uniform had been doffed, and I understood from himself, that finding the profession not at all suited to his constitution, he had relinquished every hope of renown, and was now merely enjoying himself until something more congenial presented itself to him. I noticed, in the course of the few hours I had the opportunity, that he seemed to pay particular attention to decidedly the most beautiful girl in the room, and I fancied that his attentions were not unmarked or rejected by her; and I was not far wrong in my conjecture. She was the daughter of Sir Everard Courtenay, and was entitled to a very large fortune on the death of an old aunt, and adding to her beauty every accomplishment, had become the object of attraction to all the beaux, and was the toast of every society, for miles round the country. Fitzgibbon had met her and her father at the house of a mutual friend, and a casual acquaintance soon ripened into the most affectionate attachment, before either had expressed, or even formed a thought of love. Here again he escaped from my observation, except once, when he called upon me in London, to inform me of his being just about to start for Paris, where he expected to meet Sir Everard and his lovely daughter Clara, to whom he hoped, immediately on his coming of age, to be united. This was the last time I saw him, but the remainder of his career, so different from what had been anticipated, was related to me by another of our class-fellows, who had had the opportunity of witnessing its termination. He had gone to Paris, but not finding the Courtenays there, after lingering in that pleasure-multiplying capital, had proceeded to Marseilles with the intention of proceeding to Sicily, which they had originally intended to visit; here also no tidings of the party he most wished to meet reached him, and with no little chagrin and disappointment he returned to England. But almost immediately on his landing, he learned that Sir Everard had followed him to Paris, and he resolved to retrace his steps. He once more reached the capital of France, but he found the doors which he expected would have almost flown open to give him admittance, closed against him, and a letter, signed by the idol of his affections, begging in the most earnest terms to cease his attentions, yet denying that her sentiments towards him were changed, without accounting for the apparent inconconsistency, almost drove him to desperation. Every attempt at an interview proved abortive, and every letter he sent was returned unopened. Irritated and perplexed, without a friend in whom he could confide; and with almost too much pride to confess even to his father, to whom he wrote weekly, the disappointment he had met with, poor Fitzgibbon fostered with his sorrow the seeds of a consumption, to which he had at a very early period of his life appeared predisposed. But the truth at length burst upon him. Sir Everard had fallen a victim to the knaves who frequent the Salons of Paris, and his whole fortune, with that of his daughter, had been lost by him at the Ecarté table. Unable to bear with fortitude this reverse, and cursing his own folly at being the dupe of a set of villains, who had thus plundered him of all, had robbed his child, and reduced them both to beggary, he had persuaded her to write the letter, (indeed she required but little intreaty), and as soon as he could arrange his few affairs, he left Paris, for what place no one could tell. In vain were Fitzgibbon's enquiries, from place to place he wandered during two or three years, more like a disembodied spirit in search of rest than aught human; and when at length he flung himself despairing into the arms of his parents; it was but to learn the destruction of his hopes, and the shipwreck and loss of the Courtenays, in a dreadful storm off the western coast of England. After this news never did he smile again, until that moment, when his last breath pronounced the name of Clara, and his pure soul winged its flight from its carthly tenement, for the mansions of enduring peace and felicity. Brief and uninteresting as this outline may be, it has often brought to my mind the conviction that there are many of us, whose happiness, while it does in some measure depend upon our selves, is frequently regulated and controlled by circumstances over which we have no power, and that in many instances where we would blame others for imprudence, had we been placed in the same situation, it might have been our fatality to have acted in the same manner. Before I left England I visited Merton church-yard, and forgot not to shed a tear to the memory of my old school-fellow. *K.* CONVICT SKETCHES. "The Convict Ship." A golden cloud on a purple sky, Exiles, from country and kindred's wept, Their woes unheeded, and their fate unwept. Ah! thus it is that the fairest things, Rob us of Hope's imaginings! Onward she comes; and the setting sun The well-known time when their narrow cell, Ah! there they mingle--they whose crimes To whom no spot upon earth is dear; Who have left behind them a hated name, Of scorn unheeded, and reckless shame; Hark! the soft breath of twilight bears, To storms that in sunshine smiles begin! Hark again! there comes across the sea, That leads the light-hearted seamen's mirth, A monarch may over a blazing pile The moon is risen, the stars are bright, On the boundless ocean's swelling breast! Now is the time when those spirits awake, To the light of remembrance ever turns; They utter the vow that knows no stain; And breathe the prayers that an exile may, Though from honor and happiness far away, And sigh to the hope that soon they may, Unbound by infamy's galling chain, And the fever of bondage never burns. To bear the rack of remorse and shame, |