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- Herausgeber: Lady Caroline Lamb
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
Lady Caroline Lamb (13 November 1785 – 25 January 1828) was a British aristocrat and novelist, best known for her affair with Lord Byron in 1812. Her husband was William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, who later became Prime Minister. However, she was never the Viscountess Melbourne because she died before Melbourne succeeded to the peerage; hence, she is known to history as Lady Caroline Lamb. She was the only daughter of Frederick Ponsonby, 3rd Earl of Bessborough and Henrietta, Countess of Bessborough, and related to other leading society ladies, being the niece of Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, and cousin (by marriage) of Annabella, Lady Byron (font:Wikipedia)
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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Glenarvon
Caroline Lamb
Les passions sont les vents qui enflent les voiles du vaisseau: elles le submergent quelquefois, mais sans elles il ne pourrait voguer. Tout est dangereux ici-bas, et tout est necessaire.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23,
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
Chapter 31.
Chapter 32.
Chapter 33.
Chapter 34
Chapter 35.
Chapter 36
Chapter 37.
Chapter 38.
Chapter 39.
Chapter 40.
Chapter 41.
Chapter 42.
Chapter 43.
Chapter 44.
Chapter 45.
Chapter 46.
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49.
Chapter 50.
Chapter 51.
Chapter 52.
Chapter 53.
Chapter 54.
Chapter 55.
Chapter 56.
Chapter 57.
Chapter 58.
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61.
Chapter 62.
Chapter 63.
Chapter 64.
Chapter 65
Chapter 66.
Chapter 67.
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70.
Chapter 71.
Chapter 72.
Chapter 73.
Chapter 74.
Chapter 75.
Chapter 76.
Chapter 77.
Chapter 78.
Chapter 79,
Chapter 80,
Chapter 81,
Chapter 82.
Chapter 83.
Chapter 84.
Chapter 85.
Chapter 86.
Chapter 87.
Chapter 88.
Chapter 89,
Chapter 90.
Chapter 91.
Chapter 92.
Chapter 93.
Chapter 94.
Chapter 95.
Chapter 96.
Chapter 97.
Chapter 98.
Chapter 99.
Chapter 100.
Chapter 101
Chapter 102.
Chapter 103.
Chapter 104.
Chapter 105.
Chapter 1.
In the town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived a learned physician of the name of Everard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, misled by a fine but wild imagination, which raised him too far above the interests of common life, had squandered away his small inheritance; and had long roved through the world, rapt in poetic visions, foretelling, as he pretended, to those who would hear him, that which futurity would more fully develop.—Camioli was the name he had assumed.
It was many years since Sir Everard last beheld his brother, when one night Camioli, bearing in his arms Elinor his child, about five years of age, returned, after long absence, to his native town, and knocked at Sir Everard’s door. The doctor was at the castle hard by, and his lady refused admittance to the mean-looking stranger. Without informing her of his name, Camioli departed, and resolved to seek his sister the Abbess of Glenaa. The way to the convent was long and dreary: he climbed, therefore, with his lovely burthen to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, and sought temporary shelter in a cleft of the mountain known by the name of the “Wizard’s Glen.” Bright shone the stars that night, and to the imagination of the aged seer, it seemed in sleep, that the spirits of departed heroes and countrymen, freed from the bonds of mortality, were ascending in solemn grandeur before his eyes;—Glenarvon’s form appeared before him—his patron! his benefactor!—he spoke of times long past, of scenes by all forgot, pointed with a look of despondency to his infant son!—“Who shall protect the orphan that is destitute?” he cried—“who shall restore him to the house of his fathers?”
From visions so wild and terrible, the soft sweet voice of his child awoke Camioli—“How cold and dreary it is, dear father; how lone these hills. I am weary unto death, yet I fear to sleep.”
“My comforter, my delight, my little black-eyed darling,” said the Bard, (enveloping her in his long dark mantle,) “I will soon take you to a place of safety. My sister, the Abbess of Glenaa, lives in the valley beneath the mountain: she will protect my Elinor; and, in her mansion, my child shall find an asylum. I shall leave you but for a short time; we shall meet again, Elinor;—yes, we shall meet again.—Continue to live with St. Clara, your aunt: obey her in all things, for she is good: and may the God of Mercy avert from you the heaviest of all my calamities, the power of looking into futurity.”—He spoke, and descending the rugged mountain path, placed his Elinor under the protection of his sister the Abbess of Glenaa, and bidding her farewell, walked hastily away.
The morning sun, when it arose, shone bright and brilliant upon the valley of Altamonte—its gay castle, and its lake. But a threatening cloud obscured the sky, as Camioli raised his eyes, and turned them mournfully upon the ruined priory of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls of Belfont.—“Woe to the house of Glenarvon!” he said. “Woe to the house of my patron and benefactor! Desolation and sorrow have fallen upon the mighty.—Mourn for the hero who is slain in battle. Mourn for the orphan who is left destitute and in trouble. . . . Bright shone the sun upon thy battlements, O Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade thee a last adieu. Cold are thy waters, Killarney; and many a tree has been hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair fountain Glenaa, since the hour in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is that of the widow who is bereft of every joy . . . Mourn for the house of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute!—No mother—no companion of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering smile.—There is not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land; or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!”
Thus sang the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills, and the wind whistled through the arches and colonnades of the Castle of Belmont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—“Woe to the house of our patron,” said the frenzied old man, as with bitter tears he departed:—“even in this moment of time, the fairest star of Belfont sets forever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead in a foreign country; and stranger hands alone perform her obsequies.” He spoke, and looked, for the last time, upon the land that he loved, then turned from it as if for ever . . . Previous, however, to his departure from Ireland, Camioli again sought his brother, (who was then an inmate in the family of the Duke of Altamonte,) for the purpose of commending Elinor to his care.
Castle Delaval, the property of that nobleman, was situated in a valley sheltered from every keen blast by a dark wood of beach and fir. The river Elle, taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, flowed through the park, losing by degrees the character of a mountain torrent, as it spread itself between rich and varied banks in front of the castle, till it joined the sea beyond the Wizard’s Glen, The town of Belfont stands close upon the harbour, and from one of the highest cliffs, the ruins of the convent of St. Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be seen, whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, raising their lofty summits, capped with snow, soar above the clouds.
The abbey of Belfont, and the priory of St. Alvin, both the property of the Glenarvon family, were row, in consequence of the forfeiture of the late Earl of that name, transferred to Lord de Ruthven, a distant relation. The deserted priory had fallen into ruin, and Belfont abbey, as yet unclaimed by its youthful master, and pillaged by the griping hand of its present owner, exhibited a melancholy picture of neglect and oppression.—No cheerful fires blaze in its ancient halls; no peasants and vassals feast under its vaulted roofs.—Glenarvon, the hero, the lord of the demesne is dead: he fell on the bloody field of Culloden: his son perished in exile: and Clarence de Ruthven, his grandson, an orphan, in a foreign land, had never yet appeared to petition for his attainted titles and forfeited estates.—Of relations and of friends he had never heard.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
