“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 objectcouldbe friends.
THE ABSENT WIFE.
———
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
———
At twilight’s soft and gentle hourWhen shadows o’er the dull earth creep,And nature feels the soothing powerOf coming night and balmy sleep—When the tired laborer hastens homeHis wife and little ones to kiss,And the young beauty anxiouslyAwaits 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 sideAround some sinking sufferer’s bed,Or Crime in shadow seeks to hideA 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 gleamFrom some far brighter sphere than ours,The sunlight with its golden sheenAwakes the world and tints the flowers—When birds their tuneful numbers raiseAnd 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 roamFrom day to day this lower sphere,Unloved by any—loving none,Still wasting on from year to year,As lonely as some twinkling orbThat trembles in the distant sky,A watcher mid the hosts of nightWith none to share its company—Unloved while living, and when dead,With none a heart-wrung tear to shed!Alas! how cold and desolateThe 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—tiesThat well and form within the breast,That intertwine our sympathiesWith hopes and joys that make us blest—These point the panting spirit upTo milder realms beyond the skies,And whisper to the trembling soulNew 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 throwThick 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!
At twilight’s soft and gentle hourWhen shadows o’er the dull earth creep,And nature feels the soothing powerOf coming night and balmy sleep—When the tired laborer hastens homeHis wife and little ones to kiss,And the young beauty anxiouslyAwaits 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 sideAround some sinking sufferer’s bed,Or Crime in shadow seeks to hideA 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 gleamFrom some far brighter sphere than ours,The sunlight with its golden sheenAwakes the world and tints the flowers—When birds their tuneful numbers raiseAnd 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 roamFrom day to day this lower sphere,Unloved by any—loving none,Still wasting on from year to year,As lonely as some twinkling orbThat trembles in the distant sky,A watcher mid the hosts of nightWith none to share its company—Unloved while living, and when dead,With none a heart-wrung tear to shed!Alas! how cold and desolateThe 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—tiesThat well and form within the breast,That intertwine our sympathiesWith hopes and joys that make us blest—These point the panting spirit upTo milder realms beyond the skies,And whisper to the trembling soulNew 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 throwThick 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!
At twilight’s soft and gentle hourWhen shadows o’er the dull earth creep,And nature feels the soothing powerOf coming night and balmy sleep—When the tired laborer hastens homeHis wife and little ones to kiss,And the young beauty anxiouslyAwaits love’s hour of dream-like bliss—When nest-ward hie both bird and bee,My fondest thought is still for thee!
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 sideAround some sinking sufferer’s bed,Or Crime in shadow seeks to hideA form to every virtue dead,—E’en then in dreams thy form I see,Or waking fondly turn to 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 gleamFrom some far brighter sphere than ours,The sunlight with its golden sheenAwakes the world and tints the flowers—When birds their tuneful numbers raiseAnd 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!
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!
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 roamFrom day to day this lower sphere,Unloved by any—loving none,Still wasting on from year to year,As lonely as some twinkling orbThat trembles in the distant sky,A watcher mid the hosts of nightWith none to share its company—Unloved while living, and when dead,With none a heart-wrung tear to shed!
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 desolateThe 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!
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—tiesThat well and form within the breast,That intertwine our sympathiesWith hopes and joys that make us blest—These point the panting spirit upTo milder realms beyond the skies,And whisper to the trembling soulNew bliss awaits in paradise!Oh! what were life with love away,Where earth its bound—its limit clay!
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 throwThick 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!
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!
SONG.
Oh! sing unto my soul, my love,That all-entrancing lay,Such as the seraphim aboveAre singing far away—It comes as some familiar strainOnce 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 divineThrill o’er me at that voice of thine.They come as half-forgotten dreamsFrom 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!A. A. I.
Oh! sing unto my soul, my love,That all-entrancing lay,Such as the seraphim aboveAre singing far away—It comes as some familiar strainOnce 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 divineThrill o’er me at that voice of thine.They come as half-forgotten dreamsFrom 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!A. A. I.
Oh! sing unto my soul, my love,That all-entrancing lay,Such as the seraphim aboveAre singing far away—It comes as some familiar strainOnce heard in heaven, now heard again.
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 divineThrill o’er me at that voice of thine.
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 dreamsFrom 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!
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!
A. A. I.
A. A. I.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Zanoni, a Novel. By the Author of “Pelham,” “Rienzi,” &c. Two Volumes. Harper & Brothers.
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 aPURE INTELLECT. But still retaining hisyouth, he retains the capacity tolove; 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 theburden—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 thedénouement, 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 theburdenof 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 thedénouement. The compact betwixt Zanoni and theEvil 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 thedénouementby other means, forgetting, however, to rewrite this scene, so as to adapt it to the altered aspect of the story. TheEvil 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 isforced; 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 thedénouement, 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’sliaisonwith 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. Thetoneof 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, asingleexception, 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 bookA 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 theimprimaturof 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.