“Have you heard the news, Mr. Forrester?” exclaimed
Mrs. Dale, as, two days after the confidential
disclosure of the piazza, he entered the
saloon; “Ah, I see by your look of innocent surprise,
you are still in blissful ignorance.”
“What has happened?” asked Cecil carelessly,
“any thing which serves to break the monotony of
a seaside existence must be a blessing.”
“I do not know whether you will think it so,”
said the lady laughing, “Miss Oriel has eloped with
Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I am glad of it—from my very soul I rejoice at
it,” exclaimed Cecil Forrester, while a dark, vindictive
smile gave a most disagreeable expression to
his usually fine face.
“Why, how strangely you look at me,” replied
Mrs. Dale, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing—when did it all happen?”
“Did you not see her go out with him to ride last
evening? Well, it seems Mr. Beauchamp’s servant
had been privately despatched to the city with their
baggage, and instead of returning the lovers rode
directly to the next town and were married.”
“Why did they give themselves so much trouble?
If Beauchamp had asked the old woman she would
have dropped a curtsy and thanked him for the
offer.”
“There is the mystery of the whole affair; Mrs.
Oriel pretends to be very indignant, but it is easy to
see she is secretly pleased. Miss Oriel has written
a letter to Miss Grey in which she entreats her to
‘break the tidings tenderly to poor Mamma;’ excuses
herself on the plea of irresistible affection;
talks of Mr. Beauchamp’s ardor and her fear of maternal
opposition, and finishes by requesting Ellen to
‘allow his favorite Mrs. Dale to acquaint Mr. Forrester
with her regret at having been the cause of
disappointment and sorrow to him.’ ”
“What the devil does she mean by that?”
“Why to make Ellen jealous of me and distrustful
of you, and thus disappoint both your love and
revenge,” said Mrs. Dale.
“She shall not attain her ends,” exclaimed Forrester
impetuously, “I will tell Ellen the whole
story. I am glad she is actually married to Beauchamp,
and I know the reason he did not want to
ask her mother; he was afraid of inconvenient inquiries.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Only this morning I met here a person who
knows him well. His history is soon told. He was
originally bred a tailor, but, having a soul above buttons,
he cut the shop, and has since been hanging on
the skirts of society in a manner very different from
that intended by his honest old father. His bank stock
and sugar plantation may exist in the regions of the
moon, where all things which unaccountably disappear
from earth are said to be collected, his
negroes are still on the coast of Guinea, and he
really lives by his wits. A run of luck at the gaming-table
or a lucky bet on the race-course enables him
every now and then to pay old debts, and live for a
time like a gentleman until his funds are exhausted,
when he again betakes himself to his vocation.”
“Can this be possible?”
“There is no doubt of it; he is a mere adventurer,
and as Miss Oriel is something very similar, they
are ‘matched as well as paired.’ ”
Cecil Forrester afforded another proof of the truth
of the poet’s line,
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
The following winter saw him the happy husband
of Ellen Grey; while all trace of Mr. and Mrs.
Beauchamp was lost to their view. About two
years later, when business had compelled Mr. Forrester
to visit one of our southern cities, he strolled
into the theatre to get rid of an idle evening, and as
he gazed with listless curiosity on the gorgeous
spectacle of Indian life which occupied the stage, he
was suddenly struck with a familiar tone in the voice
and a familiar expression in the countenance of the
stately queen of the Zenana. He looked again, the
resemblance seemed to grow upon him; he went
round to the stage box, and in that near proximity
to the actress all doubt vanished. He looked upon
the still resplendent beauty of Laura Oriel.
———
BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.
———
I sit beside my window,
And see the crowds go by,
With joy on every countenance,
And hope in every eye,
And hear their blended voices,
In many a shout and song,
Borne by the spring’s soft breezes
Through all the streets along.
And peering through a lattice
Of a humble cottage near,
I see a face of beauty,
Adown which glides a tear,—
A rose amid her tresses
Tells that she would be gay,
But a thought of some deep sorrow
Drives every smile away.
She whom I see there weeping,
Few save myself do know,—
A flower in blooming blighted
By blasts of keenest wo.
She has a soul so gentle,
That as a harp it seems,
Which the light airs wake to music
Like that we hear in dreams.
A common fate is that poor girl’s,
Which many yet must share,—
In the crowd how little know they
What griefs its members bear!
One year ago a radiance
Like sunlight round her played,
Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,—
She was not then betrayed.
There was one of gentle manners,
Who e’er met her with a smile,
And a voice so full of kindness,
That she could not deem it guile,
And her trusting heart she gave him,—
She could give to him no more,—
Oh! daughter of the poor man,
Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er!
’Twere vain to tell the story
Of fear, hope, and joyous passion;
She forgot her father’s station,
He forsook the halls of fashion;
She loved him well—he knew it,—
’Twas a pleasing interlude,
Fitting to enjoy more keenly
Scenes the poor might ne’er intrude.
Hark! the sound of music swelling!—
Now the crowd are rushing by,
Horses prancing, banners flying,
Shouts ascending to the sky!—
There’s a sea of life beneath me,
And his form is there,—
For his fearful sin who spurns him?
On his brow what sign of care?
I see her now—she trembles—
There is phrensy in her eye;
Her blanchéd lip is quivering;
There is no good angel nigh;—
She falls,—the deep-toned bugle
Breaks on the quiet air;
Look to the calm blue heaven—
That sound—her soul—are there!
In the cavalcade she saw him,
In his plumes and armor drest,
And more closely to her bosom
His treasured gifts she prest;
Her eye met his—’twas finished—
Not a word by tongue was spoken;
A cold glance—a look of passion—
And her heart was broken!
How common are such histories,
In the cottage and the hall;
From prison bars how many eyes
Look on life’s carnival!
The joys we seek are phantoms
That fade ere closed the hand
In the dark reached forth to grasp them,
But the brain receives their brand.
———
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
———
(Concluded from page 245.)
The duke saw his wife, and at first seemed willing
to avoid her, but after moving forward a step or two,
he turned back, took her hand in his with an energy
that startled her, and pressing his lips to it, turned
away and hurried on with the guard still surrounding
him.
The duchess stood gazing after him, filled with
strange apprehension. The force with which he
had wrung her hand was still painful, and there was
an expression in his face which made her heart sink
with sad forebodings. What had befallen him?
Where was her daughter—and why did he, who so
seldom forgot the etiquette of his high station, take
leave of her thus, when only going forth for a morning?
As the gentle and yet proud lady stood pondering
these things in her mind, the old counsellor,
whom we have mentioned, returned slowly up the
corridor, and approaching her with touching reverence,
told her all. She thanked him, tried to smile
as she extended her hand—but in the effort her
strength gave way, and she fell pale and helpless on
the stone floor. The old man lifted her in his arms,
and carrying her to the Lady Jane Seymour’s room,
placed her on the bed, and bathed her temples with
water, which he laved from a silver basin with his
hand, till at last he went forth in despair to call
assistance, for she lay upon the glowing counterpane
pale and still, like a draped statue reposing in the
purple gloom which filled the chamber; and for
many long hours the lady who had always seemed
so quiet, proud, and almost void of feeling, remained
as one dead.
It was half an hour before Lady Jane was informed
of her mother’s condition. She was still in her
father’s closet, with her hand locked in that of Lord
Dudley, and her large troubled eyes bent earnestly
upon him, as he spoke to her in a voice so deep, so
earnest and impassioned, that every tone thrilled
through her heart with a power that made it tremble.
“Do not look at me thus. In the name of heaven,
speak to me, Jane. I have not done this; it is no
fault of mine. Do I not love you?—ay, and will
forever! I will follow my father, beseech him,
kneel to him if needs be, and put an end to this
dreadful contest; but speak to me first—my own—my
dearest—say that you will struggle for power to
aid me that—nay, Jane, nay, do not shrink from me;
one kiss—one look, to prove you love me as before,
and I will go at once. All will terminate well—God
bless you!”
As the young man finished his hurried speech, he
lifted the young girl from his bosom, where she had
fallen in utter abandonment to her tenderness and
grief, pressed her forehead with his lips again and
again—then folding her to his heart once more, he
carried her to the chair her father had just occupied,
and placing her within it, was about to leave the
room. Lady Jane put back the long ringlets that
had fallen over her face with both hands, and looked
after him through the tears that almost blinded her.
Then rising to her feet, she tottered toward him with
outstretched arms, and when he turned for a last
look, sprang forward and wound them almost convulsively
round his neck. It was but the paroxysm
of a moment, for scarcely did she feel his clasp
together about her, when she drew gently back,
checked the tears that gushed into her eyes afresh,
and spoke breathlessly, as one whose very heart
was ebbing with the words, as they came laden
with pain to her lips—
“It is in vain, Dudley, all in vain. There have been
words and deeds, this day, between your father and
mine, which must separate us forever. Farewell!”
He would have expostulated, have soothed her
with hopes which had no foundation in his own
mind, for his thoughts were in confusion, and his
heart seemed ready to break with contending feelings;
but as he spoke, her slender fingers wreathed
themselves convulsively around his hand, her face
was uplifted to his for a moment, and she glided
swiftly through the door and along the corridor to
the chamber where her mother was lying, and left
him standing bewildered and in pain, as if a guardian
spirit had been frightened from its brooding place in
his heart.
In an apartment belonging to that portion of the
tower occupied by the sovereigns of England sat a
pale, slender boy reading. The room was furnished
in a style of magnificence, befitting one of high rank
and of habits more elegant and studious than were
usual to the court of Henry the Eighth during his
reign. The books which it contained were richly
bound, and some of them encrusted with jewels; all
had clasps either of silver or of gold, and a portion
were entirely filled with manuscript in the hand-writing
of the late King Henry.
Tall windows cut deep into the massive walls in
one side of the room filled it with light. The massive
stone sills were cushioned with velvet, and
upon the cushions, musical instruments of the most
precious wood and inlaid with gold, had been flung
down, as if their owner had become weary of one
amusement only to seek another. The boy arose
from his easy leathern chair, and moving toward the
window, ran his fingers thoughtfully over the strings
of a lute that lay on the cushion, gazing idly through
the glass at a court below, as he was thus occupied.
After a moment he sauntered back to the chair, took
up the volume of manuscript which he had left open
on a small and curiously carved table standing near
the window, and sinking once more to his seat he
began to read again, but the book seemed to fatigue
him at last, so allowing it to sink, still open, to his
lap, the youth gradually sank to a fit of abstracted
musing, and sat with his head resting on his hand,
and his large eyes fixed dreamily on the face of a
great ebony clock which stood opposite the window,
its burnished face glittering through a whole bower
of carved wood, and its huge pendulum swaying to
and fro with a dull, sleepy motion, well calculated
to continue the state of languid thoughtfulness into
which the youth had fallen.
As King Edward the Sixth—for the boy was no less
a personage—sat musing, thus languid from ill health,
and rendered somewhat more sad than usual from
the manuscript and book which he had been reading,
a page entered, and before he had time to speak,
Lord Dudley, son of the reigning protector, followed
him into the room. The young nobleman looked
pale and much agitated, and Edward himself seemed
a little startled by his abrupt entrance, for he was so
little accustomed to being consulted on matters regarding
the welfare of his kingdom, that any person
thus nearly connected with the Lord Protector became
an object of nervous dread to him; for such
persons seldom interrupted his retirement except to
counsel some change of residence, or dictate regarding
his personal habits, which to a person
naturally shy, and rendered sensitive by illness, was
always a subject to be dreaded, but never opposed.
It was therefore with something of dismay in his
pale features, that Edward received his visiter.
Dudley advanced close to the king’s chair, and
sinking to one knee, pressed his lips reverently to the
slender hand which the royal youth extended with
habitual courtsey, though a languid and deprecatory
smile, rather than one of welcome, stole over his lip.
“My lord,” he said in a voice low and almost
femininely sweet, “I am not well to-day, but if your
good father recommends that we remove to Windsor,
let the household be prepared; he is the best
judge, though in his strong health and great energy
he does sometimes tax our weakness a thought too
far with these sudden removals.”
Edward motioned the young nobleman to arise as
he spoke, and when he still retained a kneeling
posture, looked in his face with something of astonishment.
“My liege,” said Dudley in a respectful and low
voice, “I did not come from my father. Alas, since
he became Duke of Northumberland and Protector
of this realm, there has been little of confidence
between us. I have come to you, my liege, on a
subject dear as my own life, one which I dare not
again intrude upon him, though every feeling of
friendship and honor should make him listen to my
prayer.”
“Of what speak you?” said Edward apprehensively,
while his large eyes wandered from the
young nobleman’s face to other objects in the room,
as if he would gladly have avoided any subject of
interest, “of whom speak you—and of what?”
“I would speak, my liege, of the duke, your highness’
uncle, of his suffering wife and daughter, who
now lie with him, prisoned within these very walls;
I would claim that justice and clemency at your
hands, which I have sought and knelt for in vain, at
the feet of my own father.”
The king sank back into his chair, and passed his
pale hand across his forehead, as if the subject were
not only a painful one but not entirely comprehended
in its full import.
“We know,” he said at length, “that our uncle
has been found or thought guilty of many evil practices
against the good people of our realm, and that
our present able protector has seen it best to imprison
him for a season; but we did not know that our
noble aunt and sweet cousin Jane were the companions
of his captivity. Pray, can you inform us,
my good lord, how this all happened? Of what wrong
has our sweet playmate and cousin been accused,
that she too must be drawn from her home? His
Grace of Northumberland forgets that the same blood
which fills the veins of his king fills hers also; pray
explain, my lord. We have no power to sift all the
evil practices of our government, but even his grace,
your father, must be careful how he deals with one
of our mother’s house.”
The feeble youth became animated with a spirit
which surprised Lord Dudley, as he uttered these
words. A bright flush spread over his cheeks, and
his eyes sparkled with the excitement which sprang
both from disease and a resentful feeling, perhaps the
most violent that ever visited his gentle heart. Naturally
kind and most affectionate in his nature, he had
always clung with fondness to those members of his
family connected with his mother, and, since her
birth, the Lady Jane had been his especial favorite.
It therefore aroused all the strong feelings of royal
pride in his heart to hear that a creature so pure and
delicate had been, through an abuse of power, made
the inmate of a prison. Nor was he better reconciled
to the fact when Dudley informed him that it was
through her own affectionate desire to mitigate the
confinement of her persecuted parent that she had
abandoned all to follow him. The youthful monarch
was touched by an act of devotion such as his own
heart would have prompted, and he questioned Lord
Dudley regarding the arbitrary power by which the
fallen protector had been imprisoned, with a degree
of energy, and an evident determination to know the
exact position of affairs, which astonished as much
as it pleased the anxious nobleman.
Lord Dudley’s was a difficult and painful explanation.
It was scarcely possible to place the proceedings
against the Duke of Somerset in a favorable
light before the young king, without in some degree
exposing the conduct of his own parent to condemnation.
Still he had entered the presence of his
sovereign with a firm resolve to explain all, and
throw himself and his hopes on the generosity of a
mere boy, and an invalid, who had ever been completely
controlled by his guardians, those guardians
the very men whom he was called upon to
brave. It was with faint hopes, that Dudley undertook
this last appeal, when all other efforts to assist
his friends failed, and when he had done speaking,
when he saw the feeble youth lying back in his
chair, pale and exhausted from the emotions which
his narrative had excited, he felt almost condemned,
that any motive could have induced him to disturb
the repose of a being so fragile and sensitive.
“My liege, my kind, gracious master,” said the
young man, starting to his feet as the overpowered
monarch sank back to his chair, faint, pale, and with
his golden lashes quivering upon his thin cheeks as
they closed his eyes; “my gracious king, forgive me
that I have thus intruded—that for any reason I have
disturbed a repose which should be sacred to the
whole nation; but the persecution of a being so fair—so
good—one whom I have long looked upon as my
future wife—who is now suffering and in prison”—
Dudley broke off abruptly, for all at once the hectic
color rushed back into the king’s face, and his
languid blue eyes kindled with the brilliancy of a
spirit, for the first time, thoroughly aroused.
“Were we indeed a king,” he said, “a true, free
king as our father was, and not the invalid child
which men see in us, these things could not happen.
No man would dare to enter the councils of a nation
and cast their leaders into prison without the sanction,
nay, command of his monarch. But, alas! there
is not in the kingdom a being more completely held
in thrall than ourself! Until now, we were scarcely
made aware of the persecution which has been so
ruthlessly urged against our uncle—but it shall not
be! The new duke, thy father, must not thus abuse
the authority with which the council, rather than
ourself, has invested him!”
Edward arose, excited to some degree of strength
by the indignation of his generous heart, and walked
up and down the room once or twice, as if to tranquilize
his spirit, then seating himself once more, he
requested Lord Dudley to explain the cause and all
the particulars of Somerset’s arrest.
It was a difficult task which the young monarch
imposed on his visiter; for Dudley loved his father,
and it was impossible to enter into the desired explanation
without, in some degree, implicating him;
but a sense of justice, and that true love which
brought him to Edward’s presence, urged him to
obedience, and while he so guarded each word as to
cast as little blame as possible on his own parent,
he pleaded the cause of his friends with a degree of
enthusiasm that aroused all the love of justice and
family affection, which were strong and predominating
qualities in the heart of the youthful monarch.
Edward sat perfectly still, shading his eyes with
his small, thin hand, till Dudley had finished speaking;
and even for several moments after, he remained
motionless, and as if lost in thought. At last, he
allowed the hand to drop from his eyes, and looked
up.
“My lord,” he said, in a firm, clear voice, “you
have acted rightly and well in laying this subject before
us. Our reign may be a brief one, but it shall
be marked, at least, by one act of justice. Come
hither again after nightfall. Meantime we will consider
the subject and decide what can best be
done.”
Dudley bent his knee reverently, kissed the pale
hand extended toward him, and left the presence.
As his fine, healthy form disappeared through the
door, and the vigorous footfall of youth and firm
health sounded back from the corridor, Edward
looked after him, smiled very sadly, and sinking
down to his chair, exhausted with the scene, murmured:
“How well he is! how full of life and hope! and
I—” He covered his face with both hands, and tears
trickled through his fingers, till they fell like rain
amid the sables that lined his robe. “And yet,” he
added at last, removing his hands and wiping away
the tears, while a brighter expression stole over his
face, “and yet I have the power to make him happy—and
Jane, my sweet cousin. Let me act while I
have yet strength!”
Edward arose once more, unlocked a miniature
cabinet which stood upon the table, and taking out a
small golden flask, drank off its contents. The potion
seemed to compose and strengthen him; a color
came to his lips, and his eyes had within them that
strange, glittering fire which springs from artificial
excitement. A small branch of twisted ebony, hung
with a cluster of tiny bells, lay upon the table. The
king took it up, and rang the bells till the apartment
seemed haunted in every nook and corner with a
gush of fairy music. As the sound died away, the
door was opened, and a page presented himself, evidently
much astonished at the energy with which his
summons had been rung.
“Go to the lieutenant of the tower,” said Edward,
promptly, as the page advanced to receive his orders.
“Tell him that the king desires his presence without
delay.”
The boy disappeared instantly; and when his companions
in the ante-room crowded near to know why
it was that a sound so full and bold had summoned
him, in place of the faint, silvery tinkle which
usually came from the king’s apartment, he put on
a look of profound mystery, and, after describing the
change which had come upon his royal master, gave
it as his decided opinion, that something very tremendous
and extraordinary was about to happen, but
what the event might be he was not at liberty to inform
them. This much he would, perhaps, venture
to say. The lieutenant of the tower would soon be
ordered to present himself before the king, and after
that something might transpire to surprise them all.
With these profound sayings, the boy departed from
the ante-room, putting on his plumed cap with an
important air, and placing a finger to his saucy red
lips, in token of secrecy, as he looked back in passing
through the door.
After an absence of half an hour, the page returned,
following the lieutenant of the tower, for
whom he ceremoniously held the door opening to
King Edward’s chamber. The lieutenant passed in
to the royal apartment, while his young escort closed
the door after him, dexterously managing to leave it
unlatched, and sufficiently ajar to command, for himself,
a view of all that was passing within, while he
stood toying with his cap, and, as his companions
supposed, retaining his station merely to be within
hearing of the king’s bell.
So little had Edward mingled in the affairs of his nation,
that, for the first time in his life, he addressed an
officer of his kingdom in the man who stood before
him, who stood lost in astonishment at a summons
so strange and unexpected.
Though a little restrained and shy in his manner,
from almost constant illness and seclusion, there was
a degree of quiet dignity about the young king’s
bearing as he extended his hand to raise the lieutenant
from his kneeling posture, that well became his
station and his royal nature.
“We have sent to command your presence, sir
lieutenant, somewhat against our usual habit; having
been informed, to-day, that our uncle, the Duke
of Somerset, with the gentle ladies of his household,
have been placed prisoners under your care. Our
desire is, that they be discharged the tower, at once,
and sent, with all due honor in our own royal barge,
to the duke’s palace on the Strand. You are commanded
to see to this; retaining only, in pledge, the
solemn word of our uncle, that he present himself
before us, his king, in three days, to be confronted
with his accusers, and to answer the charges brought
against him.”
Edward slightly waved his hand, when he finished
speaking, as if he deemed farther conversation or
ceremony unnecessary; and, after thus quietly expressing
his wishes, desired to be alone.
The lieutenant was a shrewd man, who held his
station under favor of Northumberland, and who had
been taught, like most of his fellow subjects, to regard
the king as a mere shadow in his own realm.
He was taken by surprise—so completely deprived
of all presence of mind, by a command totally unexpected,
and most important in its nature, that for a
moment he stood gazing hard upon the floor, completely
at a loss how to act, or what to say. At last,
he cast a furtive look on the young monarch, who
stood tranquilly regarding him, but instantly turning
his eyes away, again bowed almost to the ground,
and said, in a soft, deprecating voice, that he would
mention the king’s desire to the Lord Protector forthwith,
and that he would, doubtless, sign the order
necessary for a release of the noble prisoner.
A fire, like that in the eye of an angry falcon, shot
into the large, blue orbs which Edward fixed upon
his officer. A streak of crimson flashed across his
forehead; his slight figure was drawn proudly up,
and, as his velvet robe, with its heavy facings of
sables, fell back and swept the floor, there was a
majesty in his look which well became a son of
Henry the Eighth. After regarding the confused
lieutenant a second, with a glance, which made that
personage more desirous to leave the room than he
had even been to enter it, the young monarch
turned away, saying, in the same calm and tranquil
tone in which his first command had been given—
“The King of England will write his own orders—wait.”
Seating himself by the table, Edward took up a
pen, and though his fingers trembled with weakness
upon the parchment, wrote and signed an order for
his uncle’s release, the first and last legal document
that his own free will ever originated. After it was
written, he took up a small agate cup, perforated in
the side, and after shaking a quantity of gold dust
over the damp ink, he folded the parchment and held
it toward the still irresolute lieutenant. There was
something in the manner with which all this was
done; so quiet, so firm and full of dignity, that, in
spite of himself, the officer was awed by a feeling
of respect which could not be resisted. Bending his
knee, he reverently took the parchment, pressed his
lips to the hand which extended it, and left the presence,
irresolute how to act, and yet deprived of
sufficient courage to resist the command of his
sovereign.
As the page ran forward to open a door which led
from the ante-room to a corridor, through which the
lieutenant was obliged to pass, he saw, at the farther
extremity, the Duke of Northumberland, now Lord
Protector, moving toward the king’s apartments, followed
by some half dozen retainers whom he left
near the entrance, while he advanced to meet the
lieutenant with a look of surprise and displeasure at
seeing him there. The page observed that when
the duke and his officer met, they conversed earnestly
and with considerable animation together, but in
low voices, and all the time looking suspiciously
around to be certain that no person was within hearing.
They were thus engaged for more than ten
minutes, while the restless page stood, with the door
in his hand, regarding them through a crevice thus
conveniently created to gratify his curiosity.
“Now,” said he, muttering to himself as he softly
swung back the door a little to increase his opportunity
of survey—“now, if I could but steal through
without making these rusty hinges sound an alarm,
it would be rare pastime to creep along the wall and
hear what treason those lofty old fellows are plotting.
It is no light matter, I’ll warrant—see, how
the tall old duke clutches his fingers and bends his
dark forehead over his eyes till one can scarcely see
them, beneath the hoary brows—see, his lips are
pressing hard upon each other like a vice—now is
his turn to speak—nay, if I were master lieutenant
now, beshrew me! but I should get away from that
beautiful old gentleman without waiting to say ‘by
your leave!’ There he stands, looking the king a
thousand times more than my young master yonder,
and I doubt not berating that poor lieutenant, as if he
were a hound. See, how slowly, and with what a
manner he lifts that right hand, holding the finger up,
and shaking it before the poor lieutenant as if it were
the blade of a dagger. Beshrew me! but I must
learn more of this game—the corridor is half in
shadow, and they can but kick me out, like a troublesome
dog, if I am discovered—so be quiet, latch and
hinge, if you can, for once.”
As the boy half muttered, half thought these words,
he gently pushed back the door, and was about forcing
himself through the opening, but a noise, created by
the rusty hinges, was not the only means of betraying
his attempt. A space large enough to admit his
body also served to fling a line of light far into the
dim corridor, which startled the two persons he was
regarding more than a noise could have done. They
both turned and looked keenly toward the door. The
duke uttered a brief sentence and moved on, waving
his hand imperatively to the lieutenant. He also
went down the passage, and passing the group of
attendants in a hurried manner, disappeared through
a door at the opposite extremity, through which the
duke had entered the corridor.
Meantime the page, finding himself in danger of
detection, had escaped to his post near the king’s
chamber. When Northumberland approached, he
arose from the bench on which he had flung himself,
looked up from beneath the feathers of his cap, with
a sleepy yawn, and moved forward to announce the
Lord Protector, rubbing his eyes as he went, and
laughing with silent mischief beneath the concealment
of his drooping plumes. As the duke passed
him at the door, he paused an instant and fixed a
keen glance on his face, which the boy returned by
taking off his cap, and bending his curly head almost
to the ground, while, with the most frank and cheerful
of all voices, he prayed for long life to the noble
Lord Protector.
If Northumberland had any suspicion of the boy
at first, it was half disarmed by that clear voice and
the handsome face sparkling with intelligence lifted
to his. There was something mischievous and yet
affectionate and pleasing in it, which brought a smile
to his own face as, with careless munificence, he flung
a piece of gold into the boy’s cap and entered the
king’s chamber.
The page was not so much elated by the gift but
that he would have been at his old trick of listening
once more; but after advancing a pace into the chamber,
Northumberland turned back, looked at the
urchin with a half smile, and closed the door himself.
A laugh from his companions, who witnessed his
defeat from another end of the room, sent a flood of
crimson over the boy’s face, but shaking his curls
with an air of good-natured bravado, he gave the
golden coin a triumphant toss, which sent it flashing
like a star up into the sunshine which poured through
a neighboring window, and catching it in his hand
again, sprang forward and joined the laugh merrily
as the most gleeful among them. Instantly, the noisy
troop were silenced by a sharp bell-tone from the
king’s chamber.
“Hush!” said the page, balancing the coin on his
finger and eyeing it with a roguish look as he bent
his head to listen. “That was the crusty old duke!
such fellows hate an honest laugh as King Harry did
holy water! they would keep us cooped up here like
a flock of pigeons without the privilege of a coo.
Hark! again, I must keep quiet till the old one is
away, and then we will try a game of chuck farthing
in the corridor, if we can get this shiner changed
into half crowns and farthings.” So, grasping his
fingers over the gold, the page nodded to his companions,
leaving them half terrified by the thoughts
that their merriment had reached—not the king, he
was too good and lenient to chide them for harmless
mirth—but the stern duke, whom they all feared beyond
measure. The page looked back upon them,
as he entered the chamber, tried to smile and seem
courageous, though he was half frightened out of his
wits—and the next instant stood in the presence of
his sovereign, with his bright, black eyes—half concealed
by their long lashes—bent to the floor, and a
brilliant red burning through the ringlets that fell
over his cheek. He seemed the very picture of a
living and healthy Cupid in disgrace.
“What noise was it that reached us but now from
the ante-room?” said the Lord Protector, sternly, as
the boy appeared before him. “Is it with this rudeness
and riot you surround the chamber of our invalid
king? Begone, sirrah! strip off the royal livery at
once and return to your mother, if you have one.”
The boy lifted his face to that of the stern duke
and his cheek dimpled even while it turned white
with fear, a smile was so natural to it. But when
the last cruel words were spoken, the long lashes
drooped over his eyes again and grew heavy with
moisture. He turned away from the face frowning
upon him, and, kneeling at the king’s feet, lifted his
eyes—now full of tears—to those of his master and
said,
“I have no mother.”
Edward’s kind heart was deeply touched by the
sadness with which this was said. He was but a
youth himself, and forgetful of his dignity and of all
but the sweet, pleading face lifted to his, he laid
his thin hand upon the curls which fell back from it,
and would have kissed the forehead, but an exclamation
from Northumberland warned him of the impropriety.
Still the page had seen the impulse and
the generous tears which filled the mild eyes of his
master. His young heart swelled with grateful
affection, and, burying his head in Edward’s robe, he
sobbed aloud.
“Poor boy! he is an orphan like ourself. You
will not send him hence, my lord duke,” said the
young king, turning his face with an anxious and
almost pleading look upon his guardian. “The
offence was not heavy; and see how penitent he is.”
“The offence not heavy, my liege?” replied the
duke harshly, “have I not given orders that no
sound shall disturb your highness’ repose, and notwithstanding
this, am I not distracted almost in my
first private audience by the riotous mirth of this
urchin and his mates?”
“Nay, we have ourself somewhat to blame in this—having
little cause for merriment in our own heart,
and pining here day after day—for, alas! kings have
no companions—it has sometimes been a comfort to
hear the merry laugh of these thoughtless boys—to
know that cheerfulness is not shut out from our presence
forever. That health and laughter—which is
its music—is yet a thing of earth; though, alas! a
blessing which we may witness, but never enjoy.
Shut out the sunshine which smiles through these
windows, the stars which at night time glimmer
through that narrow line of glass, and which we
have learned to read when pain has made our couch
sleepless, till they have become as old friends; break
yon lute, whose music is to this faint heart like the
voice of a good child to its parent, and, above all,
send away the cheerful voices which sometimes fill
the next room, and you have wrested from the King
of England the only fragment of his inheritance that
was ever his.”
The page looked up as his master was speaking,
the tears were checked in his eyes, and he knelt
breathlessly, as one who listened to the voice of an
angel. The proud Northumberland turned his eyes
from the pale, spiritual face of his royal ward, and
bent them on the floor. There was a look of patient
suffering in those features which touched his better
nature; something in the sad, broken-hearted feelings
which filled that voice, which found a passage
to his soul, even through the selfishness and ambition
that encased it. Other thoughts, too, were busy
in his mind. He had a point to carry with the young
monarch—a difficult and doubtful one. His animosity
against the page only arose from resentment, excited
by his conversation with the lieutenant, and some
faint suspicion that he had played the listener while
that conversation was held. A moment’s reflection
convinced him that to have heard any part of his
conference, from the distance at which he had caught
a glimpse of the boy in the corridor, was impossible;
so, resolving to make his concession the means of
obtaining a much greater one from the king, Northumberland
determined to seem won to mercy by
sympathy and regard for his ward.
While these thoughts were passing through the
mind of that crafty man, Edward remained in his
chair, supporting his head with one hand, while the
other still lay caressingly, and half buried amid the
bright ringlets of the kneeling culprit, who gathered
the royal robe between his small hands, and kissed
the glowing velvet with grateful eagerness, while
his bright face was again deluged with tears—such
tears as can only know their birth in a warm, wayward,
and affectionate nature.
“Forgive the pain my zeal in behalf of a health so
precarious has occasioned,” said the duke, advancing
graciously to the king, while his face relapsed
into one of those bland smiles which sometimes
beamed like magic over his proud features. “Heaven
forbid that anything which is dear to your highness,
however faulty, should be condemned by one
whose first aim is to render his king happy! Let
the boy go at once! Far be it from me to desire
his chastisement. Go, sirrah,” he added, taking
hold of the boy’s arm and lifting him from his knees,
but still giving to the action and words a tone of good-natured
encouragement, “go to the ante-room; here
is another piece of gold to repay the fright we have
given you.”
The page stood up; his checks flushed once more
beneath the tears that stained them. He looked upon
the proffered gold, and, with a motion of the head,
betraying both pride and boyish petulance, seemed
about to refuse it, but a glance from his master, and
something in the duke’s eye which awed him,
checked the resentful impulse, and taking the gold,
with half muttered thanks, he knelt once more at
Edward’s feet, kissed the hand which was kindly
extended, and bursting into tears again, left the
chamber.
The moment he reached the ante-room, our page
flung himself on a bench, and burying his face in the
tapestry that cushioned it, sobbed aloud. His companions
gathered about him in dismay, anxious to
learn the cause of his tears; but it was a long time
before he would reply to their questions. At last he
started up, dashed the two pieces of gold on the
stone floor till they rang again, and told his friends
to take them up—fling them into the court below—toss
them for farthings—do anything with them—but
protested that he would never touch them again.
After this ebullition of boyish wrath, he gave a glowing
description of the tyranny which had been practised
upon him by the duke; of the goodness of his
royal master; and of the great danger which had
threatened them all. Whereupon, they jointly and
severally entered into a contract never to laugh again
during the whole course of their lives—a resolution
they persisted in keeping for a full half hour, when
our young hero set them all into convulsions by a
most ludicrous imitation of the protector’s manner as
he took leave of the lieutenant. When this new
burst of merriment died away, the group of youngsters
stood for a while frightened by their own boldness,
and expecting each moment to hear another
summons to the royal chamber; but instead of the
sound they feared, came another which overwhelmed
them with surprise. It was the voice of their royal
master, louder than any one had ever heard it before,
and powerful with strong feeling. The duke’s voice
was also heard, sometimes stern and almost disrespectfully
harsh, again soothing and persuasive, with
something of that cajolery in its tone which one
might expect from the hired nurse of a wayward
child.
While these unusual sounds were continued in the
king’s apartment, the pages gradually drew nearer
to the door, till they could command some broken
sentences of what was passing within. At length
the king’s voice grew fainter and less distinct.
Northumberland now and then uttered a brief sentence,
and his heavy footsteps were plainly heard
as he strode up and down the room. At last a sharp
ringing of the bells sent the listeners to a distant
part of the room, where they stood gazing in each
other’s faces, uncertain whether they ought to obey
the summons or not. Their doubts were speedily
relieved, for the door was flung open and the Duke
of Northumberland appeared, looking pale and much
agitated. He beckoned with his hand, and the page
that we have mentioned so often entered the chamber.
He found the king lying back in his chair, faint
and pale as death; his lips were perfectly bloodless,
and though he seemed insensible, the silken vest
worn beneath his robe was agitated by the quick and
terrible beating of the heart it covered.
With instinctive affection, the page untied the
silken fastenings of his master’s dress, and exposing
the delicate neck and chest, which heaved and throbbed
as if the heart were forcing a passage through,
he commenced chafing it with his hands, till the agitation
became less painful and apparent.
At length, Edward unclosed his eyes and drawing
his doublet together with a trembling hand, tried to
sit up. Northumberland advanced and seemed about
to address him, but he shrank back with a nervous
shudder. After a moment, he got up again and
would have spoken, but his lips only trembled; he
had no strength to utter a word. Northumberland
walked to a window, where he stood some time with
his arms folded, gazing gloomily through the thick
glass. Still the page knelt by his master, chafing his
hands, and folding the robe over his feet with that
kind assiduity which bespoke an affectionate nature.
At length Edward spoke, and the duke turned
eagerly from the window, evidently relieved by this
proof that his late attack would not be immediately
fatal.
“My lord,” said the king, faintly, “you see how
impossible it is that this subject can be discussed
farther. I beseech your grace, have my wishes
obeyed, both regarding your son and all the parties
concerned.”
Again Northumberland’s brow darkened, and he
seemed about to expostulate, but Edward looked him
gravely in the face and added,
“It must be so, my lord duke, or England will not
brook the imprisonment of a protector who, with all
his faults, knew how to respect the rights of his
king.”
The color forsook Northumberland’s face, but
still he frowned and looked unyielding. Edward
arose feebly from his chair, and leaning upon the
shoulder of his page, moved toward an inner bed-chamber.
The duke saw by this movement that all
hope of further conference was cut off, and feeling
himself baffled and forced to act against his wishes
by a mere youth, he once more forgot his usual
crafty composure and the respect due to his
sovereign.
“My liege,” he said, almost imperatively, “this is
requiring too much; I cannot grant it.”
Edward turned so as to face the angry noble, and
while still supported by the page, answered mildly,
but with the same steady will as before,
“My Lord of Northumberland,” he said, “either
our uncle, the Duke of Somerset, returns to his
palace to-morrow as we have directed, or on the
next day he goes there Lord Protector of England.”
With a slight wave of the hand, and with his
features contracted with the pain which his effort
to speak occasioned, Edward turned away and
passed into his bedchamber without waiting for a
reply, which, in truth, Northumberland was unable
to give, so completely was he astounded by what
had already been said.
The page would have called other assistance when
Edward reached his bedchamber, but the invalid prevented
him, and after having the points of his dress
untied, lay down upon the bed, faint and exhausted.
The boy moved about him with that soft, gentle tread
so grateful in the chamber of an invalid. He
smoothed the pillows, drew the counterpane of embossed
velvet over the recumbent monarch, and,
taking some scented woods from a closet, flung them
into a brasier that stood in the fire-place, and nursed
the flame beneath till the chamber was filled with a
soft, drowsy atmosphere, grateful to the sense, and
almost certain to produce tranquil sleep. Then he
would steal once more to the bed, pull back the
voluminous curtains, and bend over the pale form
resting there till his dimpled cheek, so damask and
healthy, almost touched that of the monarch, and the
wreath of his bright curls fell amid the damp masses
of hair which swept over the pillow, in a contrast
that was lovely and yet painful to behold. When
satisfied that his master was asleep, the boy stole
softly from the chamber, as had always been his
habit, to await the time of his waking in the next
room. He started with surprise on seeing it still
occupied by the Duke of Northumberland, who stood
before the window gazing sternly into the court below,
and evidently lost in a train of most unpleasant
thoughts. When the boy entered he started impatiently,
and, clearing the frown from his face with an
effort, crossed the room.
“Tell your master,” he said, addressing the page,
“tell your master that his wishes shall be obeyed—say
that all shall be in readiness by eight this evening;”
and with these words Northumberland left
the royal apartments.
Either the protector’s voice aroused Edward, or
he had not slept, for scarcely was the door closed
when his voice summoned the page to his bedside.
When the duke’s message was repeated to him, a
smile of satisfaction settled on his face, and he sank
into a tranquil slumber. After awhile those usually
quiet apartments were full of bustle and preparation.
Attendants passed in and out; pages were seen running
to and fro with mysterious faces. More than
one laden wherry untied its contents at the tower
stairs, and everything bespoke the approach of some
uncommon event.
One little month had scarcely passed when the
Duke of Somerset, bereft of wealth and station, sat
in a gloomy prison room of the tower, expecting
each moment to be dragged forth to trial, and, perhaps,
an ignominious death. It was a large room,
but so dimly lighted that persons sitting together
looked sallow and careworn in the dusky atmosphere
that filled it. The very sunbeams forced themselves
sluggishly through the high window, as if rusted by
the masses of old iron which blocked their passage,
and were lost, long before they reached the floor, in
a web of ragged and dusty cobwebs, which covered
the ceiling like mouldering tapestry, moth-eaten and
turning to dust where it hung. There, on the gloomy
floor of this desolate place, sat the prisoner, striving
to read by the unhealthy light, which was only sufficient
to make the effort a painful one. He lifted his
eyes to the grating with an impatient exclamation,
and, flinging his book on the floor, began pacing up
and down the stone flags. Instantly a figure started
forward from an inner room and lifted the book;
while the sweet, pale face of Lady Jane Seymour
was raised for a moment to that of her suffering parent,
as he moved rapidly up and down the room.
She laid the book once more upon the flags, and
exerted all her frail strength to move the chair her
father had occupied to a station nearer the window.
This done, she again lifted the ponderous volume
with her two fair hands, smoothed out the dark letter
page which had been doubled in the fall, and bearing
it to the duke, besought him to sit down, while she
read aloud to him.
Somerset paused a moment in his walk, impelled
by the persuasive but sad tones of his child; but
confinement had made him irritable; so, extricating
his disordered cloak from the slight grasp which she
had fixed upon it, he pushed the book from him with
a violence which sent it crashing to the floor again,
and resumed his restless occupation. The book had
fallen upon the flags, with its broad leaves downward,
and crushed beneath the heavy binding, that,
with the ringing of the heavy clasps, as they struck
the stones, brought another person into the room,
but so changed, so thin, and broken-hearted in appearance,
that few persons who had seen the dignified,
proud, and lovely Duchess of Somerset, in her
high estate, could have recognised her as she stood
within the sickly atmosphere of her husband’s dungeon.
The gentle lady moved across the room, her rich,
but now soiled, vestments sweeping the dusty floor
as she passed; while her daughter was patiently
occupied in smoothing the pages which had been
injured in their fall, and in brushing away the dust
which they had gathered, she approached her husband,
placed a hand upon his arm, and looked with
a sad smile into his face.
“The apartment within is less gloomy than this,”
she said; “come and sit with us; you, who never
failed to share the sunshine of life with us, should
not thus brood alone, now that sorrow has befallen
us. Come!”
Somerset turned abruptly from his noble wife, and
to conceal the emotions her sweet, patient manner
had awakened, rather than from continued moodiness
of spirit, he still paced up and down the darkest
part of his dungeon, with all the appearance of continued
irritation, for he was ashamed of the tears
which, in spite of himself, sprang to his eyes on
witnessing his gentle and yet proud wife so fallen
and so patient in her ruin.
The duchess was rendered quick-sighted by affection,
and, speaking in a low voice to her daughter,
the two left the fallen man to the liberty of grief.
The room which they entered was scarcely superior
to the other, but more light was admitted to it; and
where is the spot so dark, or so full of discomfort,
that a loving and intelligent woman cannot give
some domestic charm to it? When the unfortunate
lady and her still more unfortunate child left their
palace home, and besought permission to share the
confinement of a husband and a father, they had
been permitted to bring a few objects of comfort to
cheer the desolation which surrounded him. Several
leathern chairs, and a stool or two, cushioned and
embroidered by the fair beings who selected them
for that reason, stood within the room. Lady Jane
had swept and garnished the stone floor with her
own delicate hands, all unused as they had been to
such menial service. A rude table was there, a few
favorite books lay upon it, and a lute, the companion
of many a happy, childhood hour, was now taken
up by that gentle girl, that its sweet tones might
soothe the moody spirit of the proud man, who
seemed scarcely conscious of her effort to tranquilize
him.
Lady Jane knew that it but mocks a broken spirit
to see anything it loves over-cheerful; so her strain,
though not gloomy, was touching, and a sad one, so
sad that her father, as he walked in the adjoining
room, forgot the selfishness of his sorrow and wept
like a child, that two creatures so gently nurtured
should thus inhabit a prison, and, for his sake, exert
their broken spirits to render it cheerful. After a
while he entered the apartment where they were,
and going up to the duchess he bent down and kissed
her, while his right hand rested on the head of the
young girl sitting at her feet. Lady Jane lifted her
grateful eyes to his face and smiled. When her
father kissed her forehead also fondly, and with the
affection of former times, a swarm of kindly feelings
sprang to her heart; her light fingers touched the
lute again, and a gush of music, not gay, and yet
scarcely sad, filled the dungeon room. It was a
home song, such as they had loved in better days,
and it awoke many pleasant memories; so, amid all
their sorrows, these three persecuted beings sat together
in domestic companionship, almost happy. If
chains were upon them, their love of each other
twisted a few golden links amid the iron which no
human power could wrest away.
The memories which the song awakened gradually
led the conversation to brighter themes, and for
awhile the inmates of that dungeon almost forgot
their present condition. They talked of former days,
and, as they talked, an expression amounting almost
to a smile rose to the face of the father. The sunshine,
too, seemed to partake of their joy, streaming
in more gaily through the narrow window, and playing,
like a wilful but merry child fitfully across the
floor; while a bird—a wanderer from green fields
far away—pausing a moment outside the casement,
poured forth such a gush of music that it thrilled the
inmost hearts of the listeners with joy. Could the
duke have seen them then how would he have
envied them.
But, as the day wore on, their thoughts once more
were brought back to the full consciousness of their
present situation, and again a shadow came over the
souls of the members of that little family, typical
of the sunshine which but just before had been
shining so merrily through the casement, but which
now had vanished, leaving the dungeon room dark
and forbidding.
The gloom of coming night at last gathered thickly
in the dungeon, rendering it still more cold, desolate
and prison-like. The duke still retained his sombre
mood and gazed gloomily on the stone flags at his
feet, while his patient wife sat by his side, her hand
resting in his, and her sweet, low voice now and
then whispering words of endearment, such as her
proud and modest nature had considered too bold at
any time save when the beloved one was in affliction,
or in any place except that miserable dungeon
room. Hers was the love of a true and delicate
nature. And, like the flame of a lamp which, scarcely
seen amid the glare of sunshine, grows brighter and
more vivid when surrounded by darkness, it seemed
the only faithful or bright possession left to the fallen
man. Nay, there was yet another, scarcely less
wretched than himself, or less clinging and affectionate
than the woman who would have comforted
him. That gentle girl, still tireless in her wish to
please, crouched at his feet, and the soft notes of her
lute stole up tremblingly and thrilled amid the darkness
which shrouded them all. She felt that her
father’s thoughts were far from her, that the melody
which sprang from her weary fingers was all unheeded,
and yet she played on, glad that in the darkness
she could weep without being seen. So, as her
hand wandered over the strings, tears streamed
down her pale cheeks, unchecked, and fell upon it
till the fingers were damp as if they had been laved
in a fountain. Sometimes a sob would escape with
the tears, but then came a gush of wilder music and
the voice of her sorrow was concealed by it.
The wife still wound her fingers lovingly in the
prisoner’s hand, grieved that no answering clasp was
given back, and yet chiding herself for selfishness
that she could expect to be thought of at such a time.
The daughter wept on, and still coined her tears into
music. But the husband and father had become
almost unconscious of these efforts; he was like a
caged lion indignant with his keepers, and with his
heart full of the forest where he had once prowled a
king. At last there was a sound of feet mustering
at the prison door. It was about the hour when their
evening meal might be expected. The little group
looked listlessly up when the bolts were withdrawn,
and the glare of a torch fell bright and crimson
through the door. Somerset started to his feet,
while the duchess withdrew her hand, and resuming
her usual air of gentle dignity moved back a pace,
where she stood pale and composed, ready to receive
the lieutenant who, for the first time, entered their
dungeon in person.
“My lord duke,” said the lieutenant, addressing
his prisoner with some embarrassment, but throwing
into his voice and manner that respectful homage
which the fallen protector had scarcely hoped to
witness again; “my lord duke, I am sorry to intrude
on your privacy, or to interrupt the music with
which this gentle lady soothes your prison hours, but
I have orders for your removal to another room.”
“To another room!” exclaimed the duchess,
while her cheek blanched whiter and her voice was
changed with apprehension, “and we, his daughter
Lady Jane and myself, surely, surely, we go also!”
“Not yet, noble lady; the protector has ordered
it otherwise; but I beseech you take it not to heart,
the separation will be a brief one,” said the lieutenant,
bending before the terrified duchess as he spoke.
“Nay, sweet lady, do not weep,” he continued,
turning to Lady Jane, who had dropped her lute to
the floor, and stood directly in the light, with her
hands clasped firmly together and her tearful face
exposed; “it pains me to witness such sorrow for a
cause so groundless. It is but a change of apartments!
A short time and you will doubtless receive
the Lord Protector’s sanction to cheer the noble
duke’s apartments once more; meantime, my orders
are imperative! My lord duke, I trust that you will
not be displeased with the change. Permit me to
lead the way!”
“I will be ready to attend you in a moment,” replied
the duke, “but first grant me a moment’s privacy.
As my return is uncertain, I would take leave
of the duchess and my child without so many witnesses!”
The lieutenant bowed, and withdrawing from the
dungeon, closed the door. Then all the strong affections
of his nature rushed back upon the wretched
duke, for he believed that they were separating him
from his family forever. He tried to speak, but could
not; a rush of feelings, that had weighed down his
heart to apathy before, choked his utterance; a silent
embrace and the clinging arms of his wife were
forced from his neck; another embrace, a blessing
on his child, and before they could cry out or strive
to detain him, the door swung to with a sharp crash,
the light disappeared, and those suffering and helpless
creatures were left alone.
“Mother!” That word arose amid the darkness
faint and broken with tears.
“My child, we are alone!” replied a second
voice, made strong by the agony of parting.
“No, not alone, mother, God is with us!” And,
as she spoke, that noble girl stretched forth her
hands and groped the way to her mother in the darkness.
As she passed the lute, which still remained
on the floor, her garments brushed the strings and a
tone of music stole through the room—a pleasant
tone—and it seemed that an angel had answered to
those trustful words.
The duchess, who had sunk down in agony of
heart, began to weep when she heard the sound, and
so, in that dark and lonesome prison room, those two
helpless beings clung together and comforted each
other.
An hour went by, and once more a sound of heavy
feet was heard outside their dungeon. The bolts shot
back and a flood of light revealed the duchess sitting
in the chair left vacant by her husband. Kneeling
upon the floor, and half lying in her mother’s lap,
was the Lady Jane; her face had been buried in the
vestments of her parent, and she had been praying,
but, as the door opened, her head was thrown back
and a joyful expression filled the soft brown eyes
turned eagerly upon the entrance. It was crowded
with people, and an exclamation of pleasant surprise
burst from the duchess and her daughter when two
females entered the dungeon, each with a heavy bundle
under her arm. In the foremost Lady Jane recognised
her old nurse, and the other had long been
chief tyring-woman to the duchess. Never were
human beings so welcome, never two beings “so
happy without knowing why,” as these old warm-hearted
women.
“There,” said the nurse, holding the Lady Jane
in her arms, and kissing her fondly between the
words; “there, I say, you with the crusty face, roll
in the coffer—that will do!” she added, as one of the
men brought in a good sized coffer, which the
duchess recognised as her own.
“Now,” continued the old woman, still with her
arms around her astonished foster-child, “place that
mirror on the table; softly, man, softly, you are not
wielding your iron bolts now, and that silver frame
is easily bruised if you knock the fillagree work
about after that fashion!—there, set it down, for a
bungler as you are; place the lamp in front; be
careful, knave, you are treading on my lady’s lute—pick
it up!” The man pushed the lute aside with his
foot, and set the lamp down without regard to the
old woman’s order.
“So, you cannot pick up the lute which a noble
lady has fingered, forsooth! Wait a few days, and
we shall see you creeping on your knees for the
honor, instead of standing there with a look as stubborn
as your own iron bars. Go, bring in the case
of essence bottles, if that does not prove too heavy a
task, and then take yourself off, for a clumsy cur; a
pretty serving-man you would make, I trow!”
The man, on whom the old woman’s eloquence
was exercised, seemed very willing to obey her last
command. He brought in the case which she had
desired, and, placing it on the table, left the dungeon
and was about to lock the door, but just as he was
closing it a clear cheerful voice was heard in conversation
with him. After a moment’s delay, the
half-closed door was swung open again to admit a
handsome boy in the king’s livery, who carried a
casket under his arm.
“That was well thought of, my pretty page,” said
the nurse, approaching to take the casket, “but who
has found courage to break the new protector’s seal?
If it was you, boy, I only hope that handsome head
may be firm on your shoulders six weeks hence.
I would as soon have touched a red-hot coal as the
bit of wax sticking to the smallest cabinet in the
palace, and I saw all my lady’s jewels counted and
locked up weeks ago.”
As she spoke, the old nurse allowed the Lady
Jane to escape from her embrace, while she advanced
to the page, and would have taken the casket
from under his arm, but he stepped aside, with a
roguish toss of the head, and dropping on his knee
before the young lady, placed the casket in her hand.
Bewildered, and as one in a dream, she gazed first
upon the casket, then, wonderingly, on the handsome
boy at her feet.
“What means this?” she said at last, looking
doubtfully toward the duchess, who sat gazing upon
the scene with equal wonder. “Our crest is upon
the lid, but underneath are the royal arms of England.”
The duchess arose, and, taking the casket from her
daughter’s hand, touched a spring. The lid flew
open, and, with an exclamation of surprise, the ladies
saw, not their own jewels, but a magnificent suite
of diamonds which had once belonged to Jane Seymour,
the Queen of Henry the Eighth; a young creature
who had perished in giving birth to the present
king—fortunate, perhaps, in being taken from her
earthly state before she had learned how terrible a
thing it was to “outlive her husband’s liking.”
“What means this—whence came the jewels?”
exclaimed both ladies at once, turning their eyes
from the gems that flashed and glowed in the lamplight,
to the boy who had risen from his knees, and,
with his plumed cap, was brushing away the dust
which his vestments had caught from the floor.
“They were entrusted to me by my royal master,
the king,” replied the boy, who paused in his occupation
and gazed upon the casket, as he spoke, fascinated
by the rich hues that played and quivered
about it. “I was bade to deliver them to the Lady
Jane Seymour—to say that the king desired that she
would mingle them with the adornments of her fair
person before she placed herself under the escort of
the lieutenant, who will be here anon to bring farther
orders from the Lord Protector.”
Before the astonished ladies could question him
farther, he had obeyed some signal given him from
the door, and left the dungeon.
It was in vain the noble duchess questioned the
nurse and the tyring-woman. They were too much
elated to gratify the anxiety of their mistress, even if
they had not been as much mystified as herself. All
they could say was, that a messenger had been sent
from the Duke of Northumberland with orders to
convey them to the tower; that they were commanded
to take from the wardrobe, in the palace,
every thing necessary for the toilet of their ladies.
Though scarcely half an hour was allowed them for
a choice, they had filled a coffer, and, with a few
things hastily collected, were hurried into a barge
and so to the dungeon of their mistress, scarcely
realizing how it had all been brought about.
This unsatisfactory information only served to
increase the excitement already produced in the
minds of the prisoners; while their attendants were
busily searching for keys, and smoothing the rich
vestments that had been somewhat roughly crowded
into the coffer, they looked on as people in a dream.
The glare of lights which filled every gloomy angle
of their dungeon; the velvet robes flung in glossy
robes over the armed chair; the jewels, twinkling and
flashing like a cluster of stars, on the table—all
seemed like enchantment, and they looked on with
a strange emotion of hope mingled with foreboding
and almost with affright. Still there was something
in all that had transpired, calculated to encourage
more than to depress. So after a few brief words
of consultation, the mother and daughter sat down
and permitted the two women to adorn their persons
without farther question. The duchess was speedily
arrayed. In spite of her fears, a ray of hope had been
awakened, and her face, before so pale and care-worn,
became almost happy in its expression, save that a
color, far more vivid than was natural to her cheek,
betrayed the anxious fears that struggled against the
more hopeful feeling that had sprung to life in her
heart. She stood by as they wreathed the diamond
tiara amid the tresses of her daughter’s hair, and,
with her own fair hand, put back two or three of the
brown curls where they fell over the young cheek,
which gradually became warm and damask from the
influence of anticipations which she could not entirely
control, and yet which she trembled to encourage.
How beautiful she looked in her robe of
glowing velvet, with the tiara which had once
adorned a queen, shedding its starry brightness amid
her hair and over that pure forehead. Her neck,
always beautiful, now gleamed out with more pearly
whiteness beneath the string of brilliants that shed a
rich light upon it; and, as the old nurse busied herself
with the point lace which draped her rounded
arms, she looked up to her mother, and a sweet, natural
smile came faintly over her face. The mother
did not smile, but a brighter expression lighted up
her eyes, and the two looked almost happy making
their strange toilet in a dungeon. The nurse had
taken that little hand, which trembled in her clasp
with conflicting emotions, and after pressing her lips
upon the rosy palm, was drawing on the snowy
glove with its embroidery of seed pearls, when there
was a sound at the door, as of some person knocking
against it with his knuckles, and, after a moment, the
lieutenant of the tower once more presented himself.
When the duchess advanced eagerly toward him,
demanding a reason for all that had transpired, he
answered with the calm politeness which usually
marked his demeanor, that the Lord Protector
had given orders that they should be removed to another
room.
“But, tell me,” said the lady, almost beside herself
with anxiety, “tell me, is it to the duke—is it
to my husband you conduct us?”
A smile stole up to the lieutenant’s face. It might
be one of irony aroused by the keen anxiety which
she displayed: it might be a sign of admiration for
the two beings that could look so lovely amid the
gloom of a dungeon; but they could not read its
meaning, and he would give no other reply to their
question.
The Lady Jane began to tremble, but she placed her
arm within that of the duchess, and was supported
from the dungeon. Her heart died within her bosom
as she found herself in a long, damp passage, surrounded
by strange faces, and going, she could
scarcely dream where. She looked in her mother’s
face; it had become very pale again, and the arm on
which she leaned shook beneath the weight of hers.
All at once, she felt that the train of her dress had
been lifted from the floor. She looked round, and
there was that handsome little page grasping the
folds of velvet in his small hand, while his bright
face was lifted smilingly to hers. He seemed to
comprehend and pity the anxiety betrayed by the
troubled expression of her face, for drawing close to
her side, he whispered—
“Have no fear, sweet lady, there is nothing of
harm to dread.”
“Sirrah, fall back to your place,” said the lieutenant,
looking sternly over his shoulder.
The boy shrank back, but not till his words had
brought comfort to the heart of Lady Jane, and were
whispered in the ear of her mother.
On they went, through dark passages and gloomy
chambers;—the flambeau carried by their guard,
crimsoning the walls as they passed on, and their
shadows changing, and seeming to dance in fantastic
groups around them as the lights were tossed upwards
and flared in the chill currents of air that
drew down the corridors. At last, they entered a
large room, lighted up and surrounded by a range of
cushioned benches, from which some half dozen
pages arose with great show of respect as the party
entered. The lieutenant and his officers remained
standing at the entrance to the room, while two of
the pages ran forward to an opposite door, which
they held open as if the ladies were expected to pass
through. The duchess turned her eyes on the lieutenant,
uncertain how to act; he bent his head, and
drawing respectfully back, answered her appeal in
a low voice.
“Lady,” he said, “my charge ends here; pass on
to the next room, where the king awaits you.”
The duchess started as she heard this, and grasping
the hand which rested on her arm, whispered—
“Courage, my child, all will be well!”
Though taken by surprise, the noble lady had been
so long accustomed to courts that, in crossing the
ante-chamber, she resumed the quiet and dignified
manner which anxiety had previously disturbed, but
the quick feelings of youth could not be so readily
controlled, and when the duchess presented herself
in King Edward’s apartments, the young creature
leaning on her arm was pale as death beneath all
the warm glow of her jewels, and trembled visibly
with suppressed agitation. The duchess cast a quick
glance over the room. Her husband was there, not
in his prison garments but robed as became his
station, and by his side stood the Duke of Northumberland—though
her heart leaped at the sight, she
remained to all appearance composed and ready to
sustain the dignity of her noble house before the
man who had been its bitter enemy. Lady Jane
also looked up, and recognised her father, with a
thrill of joy such as she had seldom known before,
but instantly the happy glow died from her face, and
almost gasping for breath she clung to the duchess
for support. She had seen another face, that made
her heart tremble as she gazed—a face which had
haunted her soul with a memory which would not
be shaken off, but which in darkness and in sorrow
had clung there as “the scent of roses hangs forever
around the vase which once preserved them.” It
was the face of Lord Dudley—the son of her father’s
enemy. The man whom she had loved with all the
truth and fervency of a pure and most affectionate
heart, but from whom she was separated forever.
Was it strange that her cheek and lips grew white or
that those heavy lashes drooped sorrowfully beneath
the look with which he regarded her? a look which
made her heart turn faint with the memories which
crowded upon it. She could not meet that glance
again. Her father, the highborn and persecuted,
was there, and yet that one look had made her
almost forgetful of his wrongs.
Before these thoughts could fairly pass through
her mind, and while the duchess hesitated at the door
that she might have time to gain something of composure,
the duke of Northumberland arose from
his seat with that air of graceful and proud courtesy
which no man could adopt with so much ease, and
crossing the room, gave his hand to the duchess,
inquired kindly after her health, and requested permission
to lead her before the king, who sat in his
large easy chair looking almost healthful, and made
quite happy in the newly aroused power of conferring
happiness upon others. Edward stood up to
receive the duchess, and when she would have
knelt, he took her hand in his and pressed it affectionately
to his lips.
“His Grace of Northumberland will bear witness
for us,” he said, “how ignorant we have been of
all that you have suffered, and how deeply the knowledge
grieved us when it did come. For our sake
let all be forgotten; if any power is left to our feeble
state, these persecutions shall not happen again.”
The lady, thus kindly addressed, made a grateful reply,
which was somewhat restrained by the presence
of Northumberland. He must have heard all that was
passing, though his face wore the same bland and
tranquil smile with which he had first approached her.
After pressing his lips once more to the fair hand
in his, Edward turned to the Lady Jane, a smile
broke over his pale face, and those large eyes,
usually so regretful and sad in their expression,
now sparkled with pleasant feelings.
“And our sweet cousin,” he said, looking down
upon her lovely face as she sank to his knees, “methinks
the prison fare has added to a beauty which
was bright enough before. Nay, fair one, if you
must do us homage, another hand must raise you.”
As he spoke, Edward had extended his hand as if
to raise the young girl from his feet, but instead of
this he laid it among the rich tresses of her hair,
where it rested pale and caressingly lighted up by
his own princely gift of jewels, and sinking to his
seat again he bent forward and addressed the wondering
girl in a low and earnest voice, smiling as he
spoke, and faintly blushing as he saw that his words
made the warm color deepen and glow in the cheek
that had a moment before looked so cold and pale.
“Nay, do not rise yet,” he said, checking the
modest impulse which prompted the bewildered girl
to seek the shelter of her mother’s side, and as he
spoke, Edward lifted his eyes from the drooping
lashes that began to quiver upon the now red, now
pallid cheeks, and looked expressively toward Lord
Dudley, still keeping his hand upon the young creature’s
head. He felt her start and tremble beneath
his touch as Lord Dudley came eagerly forward, and
though she did not look up, he knew by the trembling
of her red lip and the rosy flood that deluged her
face and neck, that the music of that familiar footstep
had reached her heart.
Dudley returned the young monarch’s smile, as
his hand was removed from its beautiful resting
place, with a look of gratitude, and bending down
he whispered a few words to the Lady Jane as he
raised her from the king’s feet. She cast one timid
glance on his face; it was eloquent with happiness,
so eloquent that her eyes sought the floor again.
The king looked toward the ante-room and gave a
signal with his hand. It was obeyed by our favorite
page, who glided across the room and softly opened
a door leading to the royal oratory. There, within
the gleam of a silver sconce which flooded the little
room as with a stream of moonlight, stood the king’s
chaplain, in his sacerdotal robes, and with a book
open in his hand. Upon the marble step at his feet
lay two cushions of purple velvet fringed and starred
with silver. Lord Dudley led his trembling charge
forward, and they knelt down upon these cushions,
while King Edward and all within the outer room
stood up. A moment, and the deep solemn tones of
the chaplain, as he read the marriage ceremony,
filled the two apartments. The sweet face of Lady
Jane was uplifted, and the pure light fell upon it, as
she made her response in a voice rendered low by
intense feeling—another response, louder and more
firmly uttered—a benediction—and then Lord Dudley
led his bride from the oratory.
“Your blessing, my father,” murmured the half
happy, half terrified young creature, as she knelt
with her lord at Somerset’s feet.
The Duke of Somerset bent down, kissed the
beautiful forehead so bewitchingly uplifted, and
gave the blessing which made his child happy. The
duchess smiled, and wept amid her smiles.
“Ah, Jane,” she murmured, fondly putting back
the ringlets her own hand had arranged, “ah, Jane,
we little thought this evening would end so happily.”
The king stood by, and turned away to conceal the
pleasant tears which filled his eyes.
“One thing more,” he said, “and our slumber
will be sweet to-night;” as he spoke, the royal youth
advanced to “The two Dukes,” where they stood
side by side, and linking their hands together, placed
his own upon them.
“Be friends,” he said, “the kingdom has need of
you both.”
Edward felt their hands beneath his clasped together,
and was satisfied. He was young, full of
generous impulses, and believed that two ambitious
men toiling for the same object could be friends.
———
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
———
At twilight’s soft and gentle hour
When shadows o’er the dull earth creep,
And nature feels the soothing power
Of coming night and balmy sleep—
When the tired laborer hastens home
His wife and little ones to kiss,
And the young beauty anxiously
Awaits love’s hour of dream-like bliss—
When nest-ward hie both bird and bee,
My fondest thought is still for thee!
Again at midnight’s solemn hour,
When eyes are closed and lips are still,
And Silence, like a spirit’s form,
Rests sweetly on each vale and hill,
When Love and Grief sit side by side
Around some sinking sufferer’s bed,
Or Crime in shadow seeks to hide
A form to every virtue dead,—
E’en then in dreams thy form I see,
Or waking fondly turn to thee!
At rosy morn, when like a gleam
From some far brighter sphere than ours,
The sunlight with its golden sheen
Awakes the world and tints the flowers—
When birds their tuneful numbers raise
And chant a welcome to the dawn,
When Nature lifts her voice in praise,
And day, creation-like, is born—
Then, when are hymns from land and sea,
I bow to Heaven and think of thee!
My lonely room—my quiet hours,
No hand to press—no voice to cheer,
No form to meet in Pleasure’s bowers,
No song to melt the soul to tears—
No welcome home with looks of joy,
No gentle song to tell of love,
No day-dreams of our cherished boy,
No child-like eyes to point above—
No hand to soothe the ruffled brow,
Alas! how much I miss thee now!
Pity the wretch, who, doomed to roam
From day to day this lower sphere,
Unloved by any—loving none,
Still wasting on from year to year,
As lonely as some twinkling orb
That trembles in the distant sky,
A watcher mid the hosts of night
With none to share its company—
Unloved while living, and when dead,
With none a heart-wrung tear to shed!
Alas! how cold and desolate
The path of such a one must be,
How dim his hopes—how sad his fate,
How cheerless his lone destiny!
No eye to mark each changing look,
No lip his fever’d brain to press;
No gentle one in whisper low,
With kindly words his ear to bless,—
To point his thoughts from earth to sky,
And paint some bright Futurity!
Why do we live? Affections—ties
That well and form within the breast,
That intertwine our sympathies
With hopes and joys that make us blest—
These point the panting spirit up
To milder realms beyond the skies,
And whisper to the trembling soul
New bliss awaits in paradise!
Oh! what were life with love away,
Where earth its bound—its limit clay!
Then soon return, fond one, return,
Thy greeting shall be kind and true,
Love’s lamp again shall brightly burn,
And life its purest joys renew!
Oh! absence, like the clouds that throw
Thick shadows o’er the summer sky,
But, passing, leave a brighter glow,
A deeper, purer blue on high:
So now I wait the passing gloom,
That light again may gladden home!
Oh! sing unto my soul, my love,
That all-entrancing lay,
Such as the seraphim above
Are singing far away—
It comes as some familiar strain
Once heard in heaven, now heard again.
For sure—as olden sages tell—
We are not all of earth:
The soul, by some mysterious spell,
Has glimpses of its birth;
And memories of things divine
Thrill o’er me at that voice of thine.
They come as half-forgotten dreams
From that eternal land,
The sounds of its celestial streams,
The shores of silver sand,
The angel faces in the air—
Oh! sing, and waft my spirit there!
Zanoni, a Novel. By the Author of “Pelham,” “Rienzi,”
&c. Two Volumes. Harper & Brothers.
A few years ago, in the first volume of “The Monthly
Chronicle,” a tale, or rather the fragment of one, appeared,
professedly from the pen of Bulwer. But the story defied
critical as well as common sense to understand it. It
opened abruptly and closed abruptly. It had, properly
speaking, neither beginning nor end. It was incomprehensible.
By general consent, “Zicci” was regarded as a
freak of the author—its only merit was the novelty of having
no merit at all. After being the jest of the reviewers
for years, this story has been completed, and now lies before
us, under the altered name of “Zanoni.”
The idea of the novel is borrowed from the dreams of the
old Rosicrucians, and of the predecessors of that sect as
far back as the Chaldeans. These visionaries imagined
that man, by a rigid practice of virtue and the sublimation
of every earthly feeling, could attain to a perfect comprehension
of the most hidden secrets of nature—could hold
communion with, and exercise control over, the unseen
powers of the air—and could even preserve human life to
an indefinite extent, by acquiring the means by which it
might be perpetually renovated. The story opens at Naples,
towards the close of the last century. The hero is a
noble Chaldean, who, having attained to the knowledge of
this last secret of his sect while yet in the prime of youthful
manhood, wears now the same aspect as when he gazed
on the stars from his home in Assyria, before the temple
had been built on Mount Zion—before the Greeks had
fought at Marathon—before the builders of the pyramids
had died. To an imaginative mind, such a character possesses
peculiar charms. He comes before us with all the
solemnity of the past, making vivid to us the great deeds of
buried ages. He has seen the army of Alexander on the
Indus. He was in Egypt when Antony’s fleet set sail for
Actium. He remembers when Demosthenes thundered for
the crown, when Cæsar fell in the Senate House, when
Rome was sacked by Attila. For three thousand years he
has gazed on mankind with a face as unchanging as that
of the weird Sphinx of the desert. For ninety generations,
he has survived war, and pestilence, and the slow decay
of the system,—a being mysterious in his subtle power,
wonderful in his awful and majestic beauty. This exemption
from death he has won by the subjugation of every
feeling and passion to the mastery of a PURE INTELLECT.
But still retaining his youth, he retains the capacity to love;
and though, for such a lapse of ages, he has withstood
temptation, he is destined at last to yield to it. He meets
with and loves a beautiful Italian girl. He thus endangers
his earthly immortality; for the moment he yields to earthly
passion, however pure, his intellect becomes clouded, and
he loses the prophetic faculty as well as others of his high
attributes. Conscious of this, and knowing that he will
bring peril and sorrow around the path of Viola by linking
her fate with his, he struggles long against his passion, and
even after yielding to it, endeavors to avert from her head
the dangers which, as consequences of his conduct, thicken
around her. In this Titanic conflict betwixt the intellect
and the heart—in the alternation of the aspirations of the
one and the agonizing throes of the other, lies the burden—as
the old writers would call it—of the novel.
The idea, as thus stated, is simply grand. It has a
unity that overpowers us. Had the author contented himself
with merely developing this idea, omitting every thing
which had no necessary bearing on the dénouement, he
would have produced an almost faultless story. But he
has, in a great measure, failed in carrying out his conception.
He has weakened the effect by diverging from the
burden of the story. As the novel has been circulated in
various cheap forms throughout the country, we shall take
it for granted that our readers have perused the book. This
will save us the necessity of recapitulating the plot as the
basis of our remarks.
The plot is grossly defective in several important particulars.
Many even of the leading incidents have no
bearing on the dénouement. The compact betwixt Zanoni
and the Evil Eye, at Venice, is of this character. The
author’s original intention was to make the condition exacted
from the husband play a prominent part at the crisis;
but he subsequently changed his mind, and brought about
the dénouement by other means, forgetting, however, to
rewrite this scene, so as to adapt it to the altered aspect of
the story. The Evil Eye, when he comes to assert his
rights, is cavalierly dismissed, in a very inartistical manner.
It would have contributed far more to the unity of effect of
which we have spoken, if the author had pursued his original
design, and made the condition exacted from Zanoni,
the sacrifice of his own life, when, at any future period, he
should wish again to preserve the life of Viola. By following
out this plan, Bulwer would have been saved the necessity
of introducing the sanguinary scenes of the French
Revolution; and the crisis would have been brought about
in a far more natural manner than it is at present. The
introduction of Robespierre and his associates is forced;
it renders involved an otherwise simple and effective plot.
We are astonished that an adept in Art, such as Bulwer
professes to be, should have committed a blunder for which,
if he had been a schoolboy, he should have been soundly
whipped. If he intended to enlist and keep up the interest
of his readers in his two chief characters, why has he distracted
the attention by the introduction of The Reign of
Terror, that most real of tragedies, whose horrors exceed
anything that romance can imagine, whose thrilling story
stops the pulsation of the heart for anything less terrible?
The mind should have been left undistracted to contemplate
the stern, Doric self-sacrifice of Zanoni! The author
should not have sacrificed the unity of effect for the dying
struggles of Robespierre, or any other human butcher in
the blood-bespattered shambles of Paris. We can see
what misled Bulwer. Not satisfied with the grandeur of
his original conception of the dénouement, he sought to increase
the interest by the clap-trap effect of rapidly shifting
the perilous incidents in which all the chief actors are
involved. This is a trick he has learned behind the foot-lights,
and not in the study of the great old masters.
There are numerous minor errors in the plot. Glyndon’s
liaison with Floretta does not advance the story, and the
only part she plays in evolving the crisis, is the betrayal of
Viola at Paris. If the plot had been handled properly,
there would have been no necessity for her agency here.
But the desire to paint mere sensual love, in this character,
induced Bulwer to patch her into the tale. He has been
persuaded, from the same reason, to introduce other unimportant
characters we might name. In short, his motley
array of personages reminds us of Burke’s graphic picture
of Chatham’s last piebald ministry, where he compares it
to a piece of mosaic, “here a bit of black stone and there
a bit of white,” and humorously depicts the consternation
of men, who had been all their lives libelling each other,
on finding themselves “pigging together in the same
truckle-bed.” In like manner the robber figures in the
scene. So do Mervale and that worthy shrew his wife.
These are all gross faults; for the necessity of preserving
that oneness and entireness of effect, of which we have
spoken so much, exists in peculiar force in a highly imaginative
work like this. The introduction of supernal agents
is, at all times, a dangerous experiment; and, when they
are introduced, the illusion is to be kept up at every sacrifice.
This can scarcely be done where the reader listens
on one page to the converse of immortal powers, and on
the next to the wrangling of a cross, sleepy wife with a
drunken husband—when we are hurried from the lofty
aspirations of Menjour and Zanoni, to the silly love toying
betwixt Glyndon and Floretta. This brings us to another
error in the author—an error which lies at the very bottom
of all his errors.
The subject is unfit for prose. It properly belongs to the
drama. The true province of the imagination is poetry,
and although this divine faculty may stoop to prose, it can
never truly shine but in the celestial garments of the muse.
We do not deny the impossibility of treating an ideal theme
in prose—we only assert the superior advantages which
poetry affords for the same object. Transitions may be
tolerated in the drama which should be anathematized in
prose. But, above all, poetry would favor the preservation
of the illusion to which we have already referred. The
tone of a story such as Zanoni is, could be better preserved
in poetry. The idea of the tale is inexpressibly grand, and
might have been worked out with terrible effect. The
struggle in Zanoni’s mind betwixt his love for Viola and
his longing for an earthly immortality would have produced,
if evolved by a master hand, a tragedy equal to Manfred,
Faust, we had almost said Prometheus.
But we have said enough under this head. Let us look
at the characters.
Of Zanoni we have already spoken. His character belongs
to a lofty region of the ideal. The conception of
Pisani, also, is highly imaginative. He comes in, at the
opening of the tale, with the same effect with which a fine
overture precedes an opera. He prepares the mind, by his
unearthly music, for the mysteries that are to follow. His
barbican, his solitary life, his dreams of wild figures and
wilder music in the air, entitle him to a high rank in the
ideal. What a grand thought is that which represents him
at the theatre, mechanically performing his part, while all
the time his soul is thinking of his beloved opera, so that
often, unconsciously to himself, he bursts out into its weird
and startling music!
Viola, the impersonation of the purest love, unalloyed by
any sensual feeling—Glyndon, the weak, vacillating, yet
aspiring man—and Menjour, the embodiment of mere intellect,
apart from any influence of the heart, good or bad,
are well drawn characters—of their kind. Their fault is
that they have no individuality. All Bulwer’s personages
partake of this error. There is not, in his numerous novels,
a single personage whom we can look back on as on a real
individual. Falstaff and Nicol Jarvie are so life-like that
it seems as if we had drunk canary with the one, at the
Boar’s Head, and “had a crack” with the other, on the
causeway of Glasgow. Bulwer’s characters have none of
this personal identity—they are only embodiments of certain
passions or peculiarities. His actors are like the
knights of Spencer, mere stalking horses for particular
vices or virtues—or, like a wigmaker’s block, the representative
in turn of the heads of all his customers. Every
personage in Zanoni, without, as we remember, a single
exception, is thus ticketed for a particular vice or virtue,
like passengers in a railroad car. Now, we do not object
to the introduction of these personages if they are
necessary to the plot; but, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Bulwer,
give us something more than mere automatons! Don’t
ask us in to a second Mrs. Jarley’s wax-works!
We have spoken, in terms of high praise, of the character
of Zanoni. We have, however, said that the theme
was more adapted for poetry than prose. Having chosen
prose, the author has erred in calling his book A NOVEL.
Let us be understood. Feeble as is the province of prose
to do justice to so ideal a character as Zanoni, we do not
base our present objection to the book on that ground. It
is one of the inalienable rights of man to show his ignorance,
to make a blunder, or in any other way to play the
fool. This is not the question now. The work before us
purports to be a novel, and nothing but a novel. It might
have been named a romance, a mystery, or the Lord knows
what! But it is put forth as a novel, under the imprimatur
of the writer of “Art in Fiction,” of the man who sets up
to be the high priest of the synagogue! Is it such?
A novel, in the true acceptation of the name, is a picture
of real life. The plot may be involved, but it must not
transcend probability. The agencies introduced must belong
to real life. Such were Gil Blas and Tom Jones,
confessedly the two best novels extant. Whether the title
was properly applied, in the inception, is not the question.
Usage and common sense have affixed a definite meaning
to the word. When authors cease to paint real life they
cease to write novels. The tales may be very good of their
kind, but they are no more novels than a sirloin is a mutton
chop, or than Bulwer is the artist he pretends to be.
Judged by this standard, Zanoni is not a novel. There
are pictures of real life in it; but to paint society, as it is,
was only collateral to the chief aim of the work.
We say nothing of the moral of the story; for all that is
truly noble in Bulwer’s imaginary doctrines of the Rosicrucians
is stolen from the pure precepts of our holy religion.
The English of the author is neither better nor worse
than in his former novels. His language was always inflated,
often bombastic. He personifies as desperately as ever.
His allegories are as plentiful as Sancho Panza’s proverbs,
or as an old maid’s ailings. The same straining after effect,
the same attempts at fine writing which were such glaring
defects in his former novels, are here perceptible. Through
every line, the author looks out, eager, like Snug the joiner,
to tell you he is there.
There are many fine thoughts, nevertheless, in these volumes;
and, on the whole, the book is a valuable addition
to our imaginative literature.
If we have dwelt longer on the faults than on the merits
of “Zanoni,” it is because the latter are more apparent to
the popular eye. We have dealt out, however, even-handed
justice to the book, since the province of a critic is
not that of the state advocate, who argues only on one
side, but rather that of the judge who sums up the case,
and of the jury who are sworn “a true verdict to give
according to the evidence.” With this remark, we leave
“Zanoni” to its fate.
The Poets and Poetry of America, with an Historical Introduction.
By Rufus Willmot Griswold. One vol. Carey
& Hart: Philadelphia.
This is the best collection of the American Poets that
has yet been made, whether we consider its completeness,
its size, or the judgment displayed in its selections. The
volume is issued in a style commensurate with its literary
worth. The paper, type and printing are unexceptionable.
Messrs. Carey & Hart have, in “The Poets and Poetry of
America,” published the finest volume of the season.
The editor begins his selections of American Poets with
Frenau, prefacing them, however, with an historical introduction
evincing considerable research. In this introduction
he shows that, prior to the revolution, the pretenders to the
muse in the colonies scarcely rose to the level of versifiers.
From Frenau downwards, the chain is kept up to the
youngest poet of the day. About eighty-eight authors are
embraced in the body of the work. To the selections from
each author is prefixed a short but clear biography. The
editor has not always been guided, in making his selections,
by the relative merit of the various authors, but, in
cases where the writers have published editions of their
poems, he has been less copious in his extracts, than when
the poet has left his works to take care of themselves.
Thus we have the whole of Dana’s “Buccanier,” of Whittier’s
“Mogg Magone,” of Sprague’s “Curiosity,” and of
Drake’s “Culprit Fay.” Most of C. Fenno Hoffman’s songs
are also included in the collection. But Pierpoint’s “Airs
of Palestine,” are excluded, as are the longer and best
poems of Willis. At the end of the volume is an appendix, in
which about fifty writers, whom the editor has not thought
worthy of a place in the body of his book, figure under the
name of “Various Authors.” Such is the plan of the work.
A word, in detail, on its merits.
We have said that this volume is superior to any former
collection of the American Poets, whether we regard its
size, its completeness, or the taste displayed in the selections.
This is our general opinion of the book. We do
not, however, always coincide with the judgment of the
editor. There are several writers in the Appendix who
have as good claims to appear in the body of the work, as
others who figure largely in the latter more honorable station.
There are many mere versifiers included in the selection
who should have been excluded, or else others who have
been left out should have been admitted. Perhaps the
author, without being aware of it himself, has unduly
favored the writers of New England. Instances of all
these faults will be noticed by the reader, and we need not
further allude to them.
The editor has scarcely done justice to some of our
younger poets, either in his estimate of their genius, or in
his selections from their poems. A glaring instance of this
is the case of Lowell, a young poet, to whom others than
ourselves have assigned a genius of the highest rank. We
would have been better pleased to have seen a more liberal
notice of his poems. We know that, with the exception of
“Rosaline,” better selections might have been made from
his works. A few years hence, Mr. Griswold himself will
be amazed that he assigned no more space to Lowell
than to M’Lellan, Tuckerman, and others of “Οι Πολλοι.”
Holmes is another instance of the injustice done an author
by the editor’s selections. The author of “Old Ironsides”
has written better poems than that, all about the old man,
of whom
“My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady! she is dead
Long ago—
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.”
And again,
“I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here,
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches—and all that,
Are so queer!”
Little more can be said in the way of criticism, unless
we should follow up these remarks by further examples in
detail. For this we have no inclination, since, after all,
the book, as a whole, is one of high merit; and, from the
very nature of the work, it is impossible for an editor to
produce a faultless volume. A thorough analysis of the
book might induce many, whose minds are not comprehensive,
to think it a bad, instead of what it really is, a good
work.
The Two Admirals, a Tale, by the Author of “The Pilot,”
“Red Rover,” &c., &c. Two Vols. Lea & Blanchard:
Philadelphia.
Mr. Cooper, in the book before us, has re-asserted his
right to the rank of the first living American novelist. The
“Two Admirals” is not inferior to the best of his works.
The scenes are described with that graphic force for which
our author is distinguished above all writers of sea-tales.
The two combats betwixt Sir Gervaise Oakes and the
French fleet are told with unusual power. But there is
nothing like character in the tale, and the plot is shamefully
commonplace. Mr. Cooper seems to be aware of his
want of ability to write a story, or paint a character, and
he therefore wisely expends his whole strength on particular
incidents and scenes. In his line he is without a rival
here or in Europe.
The Poetical Works of John Sterling. First American
Edition. One vol. Herman Hooker: Philadelphia.
Every man of taste will rejoice at this collected edition
of the poems of Sterling, the “Archæus” of Blackwood.
To Rufus W. Griswold, the editor, and Herman Hooker,
the publisher, the American public is indebted for this
edition of the works of one of the most pure, delicate,
fanciful, and idiomatic, of the poets of the present day.
Essays for Summer Hours. By Charles Lanman. Second
Edition. Boston: Hilliard, Grey & Co. London: Wiley
& Putnam.
These essays are distinguished by grace, sweetness, and
graphic force of language. The author is a devout lover of
nature in all her moods, but especially in her more quiet
aspects. He has produced a book which will be no discredit
to him.
Tecumseh, or the West thirty years since. A Poem. By
Geo. H. Colton. Wiley & Putnam: New York & London.
Moore & Wiley: Philadelphia.
This book is an elegant specimen of American typography.
Of the merits of the poem we shall not speak until
July, when we trust to have leisure and space for the task.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience.
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious
punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
without note.
A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the
public domain.
[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 6, June 1842, George R. Graham, Editor]
