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Updated: June 18, 2025
Not one, not even her father, knew the amount of money she had saved, or that, when she had accumulated enough, she intended going East and to Europe. She felt her powers and dreamed of a future on stages far finer than the Albion's. Once she had thought her father could help her.
For example, Warner, a contemporary of Shakespeare, wrote a long poem called "Albion's England," which had an immense contemporary popularity, and is not without a certain value still to the student of language. In this I find a perfect specimen of what is called a conceit. Queen Eleanor strikes Fair Rosamond, and Warner says, Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lips that bled.
The poem touched first on what was so prominent a feature in the history of Europe in the poet's youth the evil of unrighteous and the good of righteous war, identifying the last with the successes of England when Napoleon was overthrown. Such is Albion's fame and glory, Let rescued Europe tell the story Then the measure changes to a plaintive strain.
Many are the unanswered questions asked about them, for the poet says: "Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!
A year later found them cutting the waves from Hawaii for America, the New Albion of Drake's discovery, forgotten by England until Spain's activity stimulated memory of the pirate voyage. A swashing swell met the ships as they neared America. Phosphorescent lights blue as sulphur flame slimed the sea in a trail of rippling fire; and a land bird, washed out by the waves, told of New Albion's shore.
It has been customary to describe the Thracian Wonder, a play of uncertain authorship, as founded upon the story of Curan and Argentile in Warner's Albion's England, a metrical emporium of historical legend very popular at the close of the sixteenth century. The narrative in question was later expanded into a separate work by one William Webster, and published in 1617.
Yet a nobler meed than gold Waits for Albion's children bold; Great Eliza's virgin hand Welcomes you to Fairy-land, While your native Naiads bring Native wreaths as offering. Simple though their show may be, Britain's worship in them see.
Brave children of a noble race, Guard well the altar and the hearth; And never by your deeds disgrace The British sires who gave you birth. What though your bones may never lie Beneath dear Albion's hallow'd sod, Spurn the base wretch who dare defy, In arms, his country and his God!
The fortress, too, was changed indeed. Those mighty walls before whose steep sides the bravest fell back baffled and beaten, were now a mass of ruin and decay; the muleteer could be seen driving his mule along through the rugged ascent of that breach to win whose top the best blood of Albion's chivalry was shed; and the peasant child looked timidly from those dark enclosures in the deep fosse below, where perished hundreds of our best and bravest.
"I know she is no fit mate for a Haughton and an innate feeling causes me to wish most fervently that she, with the golden dollar bequeathed to her, had never set foot on proud Albion's shores." "They are in the corridor, dear; make the best of her for your dear uncle's sake," said her god-mother, breathlessly.
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