“Hark! the warning toneDeepens—its word isdeath!”Mrs. Hemans.
“Hark! the warning toneDeepens—its word isdeath!”Mrs. Hemans.
“Hark! the warning tone
Deepens—its word isdeath!”
Mrs. Hemans.
The large hall clock in Lisle’s house had told the hour of eleven, after the marriage described in the last chapter, and some fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed since the departure of the guests, when the reader is invited into a small upper chamber, in a remote wing of the mansion. It was rather comfortless than otherwise in its whole aspect, and its grated windows, and long distance from any adjoining room—being surrounded entirely by galleries—suggested the idea of a place of confinement. It was one of those small rooms, common in large buildings at that period, and scarcely more suitable in its arrangements for an occupant than the waste halls and galleries which led to it. Some hasty preparations had been made for the prisoner’s accommodation. Arras had been tacked up, and a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been long unused, and a rude pallet placed in one corner.
Seated before a table in this chamber, was a person of something less than fifty years of age. He was dressed in plain black velvet, slashed with satin, and on his cloak, which was thrown back, glittered a star belonging to the order of the garter. His hair, thick and black, was slightly sprinkled with gray, and arranged in the custom of the day with scrupulous exactness. His mustaches were large and curled upward, and his pointed beard was of that formal style, so frequently seen in the portraits of that reign. His face was oval and handsome: the features being regular, notwithstanding that his full brown eyes seemed rather dull as he sat in thought; and a peculiar expression ofexceeding melancholy rested upon his countenance. This look of melancholy was not relieved by the marks of any strong ruling passion or principle, nor much indication of individuality of character. Yet withal, it might not have escaped observation, that in the whole aspect there was not wanting a certain air of cold resolution, almost at variance with the mildness of the brow. This person was of the middle height, strongly made, and showing in his entire appearance a dignity denoting the highest birth.
Before him on the table lay the miniature of a lovely child, and a large Book of Common Prayer open beside it. He sat gazing upon the picture, until a tear ran slowly down his cheek. It was that of a blooming boy, the bright face shaded by clustered ringlets, and the whole countenance beaming with youthful hope and beauty.
“Sweet child,” he said audibly, “may you ascend the throne of the Stuarts under better auspices than I have done! Heaven in its mercy grant that you may never suffer the fate of your wretched father! Or if, at least, such hour of trial ever come upon you, may you not know what it is to be thus alone in your affliction, and separated from all you love on earth—shut out from the sweet sympathies of wife, children and home, while your rank and dignity as King of England is trampled upon, and you are imprisoned and tried by your own people!”
His softened mood seemed suddenly to give place to more angry feelings, as, rising up, and the dullness of his eyes brightening to a keen flash, he exclaimed:
“Let this court continue the mockery of its sitting; let it arraign me day by day, as a traitor, tyrant, and murderer. Am I not Charles Stuart, heir to a mighty line of sovereigns, and shall I stoop to acknowledge its authority, rather than resign myself to whatever fate its villainy may impose on me? Methinks already my doom could hardly be aggravated: yon matted floor—those wooden chairs—those grated windows—this narrow room—surely a prison were no worse. Yet perchance—but it cannot—no, itCANNOTbe, that the base Cromwell will dare incite them to shed my blood.”
At this moment the door opened, and Alice Heath entered the apartment.
“Who is it intrudes upon me at this unseasonable hour?” angrily exclaimed the king, turning round and facing his fair visiter, who approached him, and dropped upon her knee.
“Spare your displeasure, sire!” she said, in the most soothing voice, “I am General Lisle’s daughter, but I come to you as a subject and a friend.”
“Rise, maiden,” said the king, “and talk not of being subject to an imprisoned and belied monarch. Charles Stuart is hardly now a sovereign in name.”
“Nevertheless, I would perform my duty by acknowledging him as such,” replied Alice, taking his hand, and then rising. “But it is not merely to admit his title, that I come to him at this hour of the night. I come to beg him to sacrifice his pride as the owner of that same dignity, and stoop to plead his cause for the saving of his life. Know, my liege, that to-morrow, unless you consent to relax your pertinacious refusal to plead your cause, the Court sign the warrant for your execution. I am ignorant whether or not you be all that my father and your enemies believe; but if you be, you are then the less fit to meet death.”
“Death! And has it come to this?” exclaimed Charles, setting his teeth, and rapidly pacing the room for some moments, without replying to his gentle visiter, or even heeding her presence.
At length she ventured to approach him.
“I have told you in what alone lies your hope of averting this awful sentence, my lord. I pray you to reflect upon it this night. A little sacrifice of pride—the mere utterance of a few humble words—”
“Sacrifice of pride! utterance of humble words! thou knowest not, girl, of what you speak. Charles Stuart cannot stoop so far, even though it be to save his life. Spirits of my royal ancestors,” added he, “spare me from a weakness which would make you blush to own me as your descendant.” And he covered his face with his hands.
“If it is permitted to a subject to own the feeling for her king, I compassionate your unhappy case most deeply,” said Alice, taking his passive hand, while her tears were falling fast.
A few moments silence prevailed, which Alice interrupted.
“Can I not induce you,” said she at length, “to value the precious boon of your life above the foolish pride of which we were speaking? Think, my lord, how sweet is existence, and all its precious ties of pleasure and affection—and she pointed to the miniature on the table—how awful is a violent death, and how lonely and dark and mysterious the tomb. Cannot the consideration of all these things move your purpose?”
“I thank you, sweet maiden, for your noble intention, and may God reward you for your words and wishes of goodness,” replied Charles, much touched by her tone of deep interest, “but my resolution is fixed.”
“Can you suggest nothing then, yourself, my liege, less displeasing to you? Have you no powerful friend whose influence I might this night move in your behalf?”
“Nay, it cannot be,” replied the king, after pondering a moment upon her words. “Charles Stuart is deserted on all hands, and it is the Lord’s will that he shall die. I begin to look upon it already with resignation. Yet the first intimation came upon me like the stroke of a thunderbolt. Private assassination I have long dreaded; but a public execution I had never dreamed of. Nevertheless, be it so. I shall meet death like a man and a king.”
“Then, farewell, since my visit is futile, and the Almighty be your support and comfort in your added affliction,” said Alice, as again kissing his hand, and bathing it with tears, she withdrew.
Left alone, the king remained for some time in deep thought. All anger and weakness appeared to have passed from his mood, and the remarkable expression of melancholy which we have before described, deepened on his face to a degree scarce ever seen except upon canvas. Not less heightened, however, was that coldly resolute air likewise previously alludedto—so that if evidently sad, it might likewise have been seen that Charles Stuart was also determined unto death.
What were his reflections in view of the announcement he had just received from the lips of Alice Heath, and which he saw no means of averting short of sacrificing the dignity with which his rank as sovereign of England invested him, we will not attempt to conjecture. None who have not been in his situation can form any thing like an adequate conception of his state of mind; and it were sacrilege to attempt to invade the sanctuary of the human soul in such hour of agony.
Whatever his cogitations were, they were of limited duration. For, after sitting thus for a considerable time, Charles pushed back his chair, and falling upon his knees before the table, he drew the Book of Prayer toward him, and clasping his hands upon it, read aloud:
“The day of thy servant’s calamity is at hand, and he is accounted as one of them that go down to the pit. Blessed Lord, remember thy mercies; give him, we beseech thee, patience in this his time of adversity, and support under the terrors that encompass him; set before his eyes the things which he hath done in the body, which have justly provoked thee to anger, and forasmuch as his continuance appeareth to be short among us, quicken him so much the more by thy grace and Holy Spirit; that he, being converted and reconciled unto thee, before thy judgments have cut him off from the earth, may at the hour of his death depart in peace, and be received into thine everlasting kingdom, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
Rising, he slowly disrobed, and throwing himself upon the bed, soon sunk into a placid slumber. Strange! that sleep of the prisoner in the prospect of death. The excitement of suspense—the palpitation of hope not altogether dead—these banish rest; but when the feverish perturbation caused by expectation departs, and the mind has nothing to feed upon but one dark and fearful certainty, it turns to seek forgetfulness in sleep.
——
With my own power my majesty they wound;In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,So doth the dust destroy the diamond.Charles Stuart’s Majesty in Misery.
With my own power my majesty they wound;In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,So doth the dust destroy the diamond.Charles Stuart’s Majesty in Misery.
With my own power my majesty they wound;
In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.
Charles Stuart’s Majesty in Misery.
Sardanapalus.——Answer, slave! how longHave slaves decided on the doom of kings?Herald.—Since they were free.Byron’s Sardanapalus.
Sardanapalus.——Answer, slave! how longHave slaves decided on the doom of kings?Herald.—Since they were free.Byron’s Sardanapalus.
Sardanapalus.——Answer, slave! how long
Have slaves decided on the doom of kings?
Herald.—Since they were free.
Byron’s Sardanapalus.
All London was astir. The excited populace filled every street and alley of the vast city. The report that sentence of death was that day to be passed upon Charles Stuart, rung on every tongue, and the popular feeling ran mainly in favor of his condemnation. All business was suspended; and from an early hour crowds were wending their way to Westminster Hall, where the trial was about to be brought to a close.
That specimen of perfect architecture—which modern art is not ashamed to take as a model, but vainly seeks to imitate—had been fitted up with great regard to the smallest details, for this most remarkable occasion. This had been done in order to invest the ceremonial of the trial with all the pomp and dignity becoming the delegates of a great nation, sitting in judgment upon their monarch, and trying him for a breach of the trust committed to his care—the weal and peace of the people. Benches covered with blue velvet were arranged at the upper end for the accommodation of the judges; and within the bar were strewn thick carpets and cushions. A splendid chair, to correspond with the benches, was placed for the use of the firm and subtle Bradshaw, who had the honor or disgrace, according as it may be deemed, of presiding over the court. He was seated before a table covered with crimson drapery—his fine countenance betokening that decision for which he was remarkable—attired in costly dress, and supported on either hand by his assessors.
The galleries were filled to suffocation with spectators; and the main body of the building was thronged with a vast concourse of people, while a regiment of armed soldiery was in attendance, with pieces loaded and ready for use in case any tumult should arise. The Puritan party, now no longer timid or wavering, took no pains to conceal their sense of coming victory, and even Cromwell, usually so guarded in every outward observance, took his seat without the bar, with a look of conscious triumph. A profound stillness prevailed as the judges entered. Fifty-nine only out of the one hundred and thirty-three had been able to summon sufficient resolution to be present. With sad and solemn, though severe and determined countenances, these severally seated themselves, apparently filled almost to a sense of oppression, with the responsibility devolved on them, but seeming not the less resolved to act according to their determination previously agreed upon. Among these were Lisle and Heath, the latter of whom was perhaps the only commissioner whose countenance wanted something of the resolute bearing we have described. They had scarcely taken their seats when the rumbling noise of an approaching vehicle was distinctly heard. The previous silence if possible deepened, and for some moments the multitude, as if moved by one mighty impulse, almost ceased to breathe. Not a hand was in motion—not an air stirred—and scarce a pulse beat, as the ponderous door slowly revolved upon its hinges, and the regal prisoner entered. He cast a look of blended pride and sorrow upon the judges, as he walked up to the bar, surrounded by a guard. But he made no token of acknowledgment or reverence, nor did he remove his velvet cap, as he took the seat prepared for him.
The names of the judges were called over. Bradshaw then arose, and in a silvery and ringing tone, which made his declamation peculiarly impressive, while a shade of deepening pallor was perceptible on his countenance, addressed the court.
He deviated from the usually calm and temperate manner he was accustomed to assume, and became warm and impassioned. As he went on, his rich voice swelled on the air with a clear, distinct intonation, that fell deeply and artfully into the ears of the listeners.He was evidently bent as much on appealing to those without the bar, as to the judges. With the consummate skill of a rhetorician he first drew the picture of the serf-like slavery of the people, dependent upon the will or caprice of the king. He next pointed out the liberty to which, by a just sentence passed against its tyrant, the nation would be restored. Although a studied simplicity of language pervaded in general his remarks, yet, at times, some striking or brilliant metaphor would, as it were, accidentally escape him, which was speedily followed by a loud roar of applause, evincing its full appreciation by his hearers. He then turned to the prisoner in the following words:
“Charles Stuart, King of England, it is now the fourth time that you have been arraigned before this tribunal. On each occasion you have persisted in contemning its authority, and denying its validity—breaking in upon its proceedings with frivolous and impertinent interruptions—frequently turning your back upon the judges—nay, sometimes even laughing outright at the awful charges which have been preferred against you. Since its last convention, witnesses have appeared to prove conclusively that you took up arms against the troops commissioned by the Parliament. Once again, therefore, you are called upon in the name of your country and your God, to plead guilty or not guilty of tyranny, treason and murder.”
No change whatever took place in the king’s countenance at hearing these words. When they had ceased, he slowly rose, his head still covered, and made answer:
“I acknowledge not the authority of this court. Were I to do so, it were to betray the sacred and inviolable trust confided to me in the care of the liberties of the British people. Your delegation, to be legal, should have come alike from the individual voice of the meanest and most ignorant boor of this realm, as from the high and cultivated hypocrites who have empowered you. Should I ratify such an authority—in the eyes of the law not better founded than that of pirates and murderers—I would indeed be the traitor ye would brand me. Nay, let me rather die a martyr to the constitution. But before ye proceed to pronounce the judgment ye threaten, I demand, by all those rights of inheritance which invest me as a monarch, with a majesty and power second only to the Omnipotent, to be heard before a convention of both houses of Parliament; and, whether or not ye refuse me, I adjure ye, the so-called judges of this court, as ye each hope to be arraigned at no unlawful or incompetent bar at the final judgment, to pause and reflect before ye take upon ye the high-handed responsibility of passing sentence upon your king.”
He resumed his seat, and after a few moments’ intense quiet, William Heath arose, and suggested that the court would do well to adjourn for a brief season for the purpose of taking into consideration the request of the prisoner.
The expediency of this suggestion was acceded to, and they withdrew and remained for some fifteen or twenty minutes in conference.
On their return, after a few moments’ consultation with some of the older judges, Lisle among the rest, Bradshaw, taking a parchment from the table, turned to the king with these words:
“Charles Stuart, you have in your request to be heard before Parliament, as well as in other language addressed by you some moments since to this honorable court, given a fresh denial of its jurisdiction, and an added proof of your contempt. It has already, by such contumacy on your part, been too long delayed, and must now proceed to pass judgment against you. You have been proven a traitor to England in waging war against her Parliament, and in refusing to plead in your own behalf, or endeavoring to invalidate such proof, justice has no alternative but to demand your death. The following warrant has therefore been agreed upon by your judges, who will presently affix their signatures thereunto. ‘We, the Commissioners appointed by the Commons to sit in trial on Charles Stuart, King of England, arraigned as a traitor, tyrant and murderer, having found these charges amply substantiated, do for the glory of God, and the liberties of the British people, hereby adjudge him to death.’ ”
He ceased: the members of the court had risen during the reading of the warrant, to testify their concurrence, and the fatal document was now circulated among them to receive their various signatures. It was observed to be written in the chirography of Cromwell.
Throughout the remarks of Bradshaw, Charles had remained with his eyes fixed upon the ground; but while the warrant was being read, he raised them and cast them upon Cromwell, who was standing without the bar. Brief as was this glance, it seemed to convey some momentous truth, for Cromwell became at first scarlet, and then pale as death. Instantly, however, he turned away, and began coolly to unfold the plaits of a white cambric handkerchief, and appeared only occupied with that object.
As soon as the warrant had been passed around to receive the signatures, and Bradshaw had resumed his seat, Charles arose, and with more of dignity than contempt in the act, he turned his back upon the judges—as though his pride would prevent their observing whatever effect their sentence had upon him.
The profound silence which had heretofore prevailed among the crowd, here gave way to loud hisses, and expressions of contempt and disgust; while the soldiers, instigated by the Roundheads, uttered exclamations of “Justice!” “Justice!”
Charles, on hearing the cries of these latter, turned mildly toward them, and casting on them a look of pity, said, in a tone of voice, which, though not loud, was yet sufficiently distinct to be heard by all within the bar:
“I pity them! for a little money they would do as much against their commanders.”
The proceedings closed; and under a strong escort, and amid the shouts of the populace, the noble prisoner was conducted out of the hall. As he proceeded, various outrages were put upon him. With a kingly majesty superior to insult, he received these indignities, as though he deemed them unworthy to excite any emotion within him, save what his sorrowfuleye indicated, that of pity for the offenders. Some few, in the midst of the general odium, endeavored to evince their continued allegiance. But their faint prayer of “God save the king!” was drowned in the swelling cries of “Down with the traitor!” “Vengeance on the tyrant!” “Away with the murderer!” One soldier, who was intentionally or inadvertently heard humming the national air of his country, was stricken to the ground by his officer, just as the king crossed the threshold of the door.
“Poor fellow,” said Charles, “methinks his punishment was greater than his offence.”
——
Will nothing move him?The Two Foscari.
Will nothing move him?The Two Foscari.
Will nothing move him?
The Two Foscari.
The streets of a crowded metropolis, which, with their noise and clamor, their variety of lights, and the eternally changing bustle of their hundred groups, offer, by night especially, a spectacle which, though composed of the most vulgar materials, when they are separately considered, has, when they are combined, a striking and powerful effect upon the imagination.
At a late hour on the following night, when London presented such a scene as we have described, two persons were winding their way to the Palace of Whitehall. One was an individual of the male sex, in whom might have been seen, even through the gloom, a polished and dignified bearing, which, together with his dress—though of the Puritanic order—declared him a gentleman of more than ordinary rank. His companion was a delicate woman, evidently like himself of the most genteel class, but attired in the simplest and plainest walking costume of the times. She leaned on his arm with much appearance of womanly trust, although there was an air of self-confidence in her step, suggesting the idea of one capable of acting alone on occasion of emergency, and a striking yet perfectly feminine dignity presiding over her whole aspect.
“I have counseled your visiting him at this late hour,” said the gentleman, “because, as the only hope lies in striking terror into his conscience, the purpose may be best answered in the solitude and silence of a season like this. Conscience is a coward in the daylight, but darkness and night generally give her courage to assert her power.”
“True, William,” replied Alice Heath, (for she it was, and her companion, as the reader is aware by this time, was her husband,) “true—but alas! I fear for the success of my visit; the individual of whom we are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and therefore to him she is a coward at all times. Hast thou not read what my poor dead grandfather’s old acquaintance has written about a man’s ‘making such a sinner of his conscience as to believe his own lies’?”
“I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and ever correct in your judgment, you have penetrated rightly into the singular character we are alluding to. I wot it were hard for himself to say how far he has been actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious motives, in the hand he has had in the sentence of the king. Nevertheless, you would believe his conscience to be not altogether dead, had you seen him tremble and grow pale yesterday in the court, during the reading of the warrant, (which, by the way, he had worded and written with his own hands,) when Charles Stuart raised his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that he knew him for the instigator, and no unselfish one either, of his doom. The emotion he then testified, it was, which led me to hope he may yet be operated upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking effect. It is true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that in being arraigned and tried, an example has been made of him. But having from the first anticipated this result, except for your father, Alice, I would have had no part in the matter, being entirely opposed to the shedding of his blood. All ends which his death can accomplish have already been answered; and I devoutly pray that the effort your gentle heart is now about to make for the saving of his life, may be blessed in procuring that merciful result.”
At this moment they paused before the magnificent structure known as the Palace of Whitehall, and applied for admission. Vacated some time since by the king, it was now occupied by his rival in power, the aspiring Cromwell; and although the hour was so late, the vast pile was still illuminated. Having gained speedy access to the main building, the visiters were admitted by a servant in the gorgeous livery of the fallen monarch. Heath requested to be shown to an anteroom, while Alice solicited to be conducted without previous announcement to the presence of his master. After a moment’s hesitation on the part of the servant, which, however, was quickly overcome by her persuasive manner, he conducted her through various spacious halls, and up numerous flights of stairs, till pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he knocked gently. As they waited for an answer, the accents of prayer were distinctly audible. They were desired to enter; the servant threw open the door, simply announcing a lady. Alice entered, and found herself alone with Cromwell.
The apartment was an anteroom attached to the spacious bed-chamber formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously furnished with all the appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal with-drawing room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order around the room; magnificent vases of porcelain decorated the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel of Michael Angelo stood in the niches; and pictures in gorgeous frames hung upon the walls.
There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded lamp, standing upright, in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been interrupted, stood the occupant. For an instant—as she lingered near the door, and looked upon his figure, which bore so strongly the impress of power, and felt that on his word hung the fate of him for whom she had come to plead—she already feared for the success of her mission, and would fain almost have retracted her visit. But remembering the accents of prayer she had heard while waiting without, she considered that her purposed appeal was to the conscience of one whom she had just surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to advance.
“May I pray thee to approach, and be seated, madam, and unfold the object of this visit,” said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the result of his surprise, as he waved his visiter to a chair. “At that distance, and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of the lady who so inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her presence.”
Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering him her hand, said, “It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General Lisle.”
Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and exchange his first ungracious greeting for something of a more cordial welcome.
With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once declaring the purpose of her visit.
“General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, “you stand high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the main instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation over the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now surrounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his vacation of these princely premises, and your succession thereunto, renders you scarcely capable of being a disinterested advocate for his death—since, by it, you become successor to all the pomp and power formerly his. Have you asked yourself the question whether no motives of self-aggrandisement have tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this act of religion?”
“Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam,” said Cromwell, deadly pale and trembling violently; “it is written—”
“Excuse me,” said Alice, interrupting him; “you think it uncourteous and even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with a question such as I but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at stake, and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a race of kings. Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die an awful and a violent death; your voice has condemned him—your voice can yet save him. If it be your country’s weal that you desire, that object has been already sufficiently answered by the example of his trial; or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of Hosts that you place yourself at the head of Britain in his place, be assured that he who would assert his power by surrounding himself with a pomp like this, is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to lead his people through the wilderness, a sharer in the common lot, and a houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, therefore, what must be the doom of him at the final judgment, who—for the sake of ambition and pride—in order that he might for the brief space of his life enjoy luxury and power—under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views the act with horror and detestation—stains his hands with parricidal blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul’s, if not for mercy’s sake, I entreat thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles Stuart’s sentence to be remitted.”
As she waxed warm in her enthusiasm, Alice Heath had risen and drawn close to Cromwell, who was still standing, as on her entrance, and in her entreaty, she had even laid her hand on his arm. His tremor and pallor had increased every moment while she spoke, and though at first he would have interrupted her, he seemed very greatly at a loss, and little disposed to reply.
After a few moment’s hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said, “Go to, young woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge raised up for the redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord hath permitted to be condemned to the axe. As my soul liveth, and as He liveth who will one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my hand against the decree of the Almighty. Truly —”
“Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she perceived he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointlessharangues “nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the conscience whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the disorder of your frame. Have its pleadings—for to them I look and not to any eloquence of mine own—been of no avail? Will it please you to do aught for the king?”
“Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he was occasionally wont to do, “a man like me, who is called to perform great acts in Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities. Think you not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the body. And think you that when we must remove some prime tyrant that the instruments of his removal can at all times view their part in his punishment with unshaken nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the inspiration under which they have felt and acted? Must they not occasionally question the origin of that strong impulse which appears the inward answer to prayer for direction under heavenly difficulties, and in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the responses of truth with the strong delusions of Satan. Would that the Lord would harden my heart even as he hardened that of —”
“Stop, sir,” said Alice, again interrupting him ere his softened mood should have passed away, “utter not such a sacrilegeous wish. Why are the kindly sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless it be to prevent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather encourage them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the many traits of nobleness in his character which might be mentioned with enthusiasm, ay, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed.”
“The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in his service—none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites. To be brief—it waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is but todistress us both. Charles Stuart must die—the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.”
As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and when he lifted up his head, the expression of his features told Alice that the doom of the king was irrevocably fixed.
“I see there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke these words in a tone of decision which left her no further encouragement, and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to close the interview lost upon her. “No hope!” she repeated, drawing back. “I leave you, then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not plead thus in vain for mercy at the bar of God.”
So saying, she turned, and rejoining her husband who remained in waiting for her, they returned together to Lisle’s house.
[To be continued.
THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys
THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys
THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
Thefine picture which our artist has given us for this number of our Magazine, is a spirited representation of a scene in the lives of those men of violence and murder who, setting at defiance both human and divine laws, wrest from the unarmed or overpowered traveler, amid the mountainous districts of Europe, the means of subsistence they are too idle to obtain through honest industry. To their secret retreat the band of robbers have been traced by armed soldiers, whose approach they are anxiously watching. The wife of the robber-chief is by his side.
By songs, stories, and pictures, much false sympathy has been created in the minds of the unreflecting for “bold brigands,” who are represented too often as possessed of chivalrous feelings and generous sentiments, while a charm is thrown about their wild and reckless lives which is altogether unreal. Love, too, a often brought in to give a warmer and more attractive color to the pictures thus drawn. The roving bandit is represented as loving passionately and tenderly some refined, pure-hearted, and high-souled woman, who, in turn, pours out for him her heart’s best affections.
Different from all this is the hard and harsh reality of the bandit’s life. He is no man of fine feelings and generous sympathies, but a selfish and cruel-minded villain; and between him and the woman, who, as his wife, shares his life of exposure and violence, there can be no gentle passages of affection, for these are only born of love laid upon the solid foundations of virtuous respect.
The real truth on this subject, Dumas has given in a Calabrian story. A body of soldiers had pursued a band of mountain robbers, in Calabria, and hemmed them in so effectually that, with all the passes guarded, escape seemed impossible. From this dilemma the chief determined to relieve his men, as they had refused to surrender, although promised pardon if they would give up their leader. The only possible way of escape was by crossing a deep chasm, so wide, that even the supple chamois could not make the fearful leap in safety. To reach this point, it was necessary to go along a narrow pass, near which sentinels had been placed. The movement was made at night. The chief of the robbers had a wife, and she had a babe at her bosom. For days they had been without food, except such roots as they dug from the ground, and the want of nourishment had dried the fountain of life in the mother’s breast, and the babe pined and fretted with hunger. As the little band moved silently along the narrow path, in which, if discovered by the soldiers, their destruction would be inevitable, the suffering babe began to cry. Instantly it was seized by the father, swung in the air, and its brains dashed out against a tree. For a moment the mother stood like a statue of horror, then gathering the mutilated remains of her murdered babe in her apron, she followed the retreating party.
Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm was passed, and they were beyond the reach of danger. All, then, after procuring some food, lay down to sleep, except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This sad duty performed, she returned to the spot where her husband and his companions lay in deep slumber. It was not difficult for her topersuade the tired and sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she alone remained awake. Then stealthily approaching the spot where the father of her dead babe lay, she placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled the trigger. The ball passed through his heart!
Here we have something of the reality attending the life of a “bold brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer is incapable of such a sentiment as the true love of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist represents a pirate or robber as loving faithfully and tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted woman, the reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such things are contrary to the very nature of things. They never exist in real life. True love of woman is an unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of these men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of others, as to commit robbery and murder. How, then, are they capable of loving any thing out of themselves? It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send forth sweet water.
BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II.
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BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.
———
Resaca de la Palma.
Resaca de la Palma.
Onceagain was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fifeCalled our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary nightHad traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene ofPalo Alto’sfight —For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field,They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay —Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a manAnd a father, sent them back before the onward march began —When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain —We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wingsFlapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charmOver the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our wayWe would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little storeTaking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advanceDaring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance,And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles;But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a standBetween us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1]the bristling chapparal,With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,WhenRidgelythundered with his guns up from the distant rear,And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal: —Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes,With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonetFlashed around, as desperate men in the deadlymêléemet.Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout ofMay,And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:Ridgely’svoice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,MayandInge, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene —Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,May, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallantIngeled on the men,Loud hurraing: but a crash! andIngeclutched wildly at his rein —And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.All in vain: another instant!Maywas riding o’er the wall,Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless forceCame the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse; —As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,GeneralLa Vegayielded, and the battery was won.But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,SawResaca de la Palma’sbloody battle lost and won!
Onceagain was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fifeCalled our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary nightHad traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene ofPalo Alto’sfight —For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field,They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay —Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a manAnd a father, sent them back before the onward march began —When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain —We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wingsFlapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charmOver the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our wayWe would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little storeTaking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advanceDaring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance,And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles;But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a standBetween us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1]the bristling chapparal,With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,WhenRidgelythundered with his guns up from the distant rear,And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal: —Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes,With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonetFlashed around, as desperate men in the deadlymêléemet.Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout ofMay,And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:Ridgely’svoice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,MayandInge, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene —Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,May, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallantIngeled on the men,Loud hurraing: but a crash! andIngeclutched wildly at his rein —And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.All in vain: another instant!Maywas riding o’er the wall,Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless forceCame the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse; —As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,GeneralLa Vegayielded, and the battery was won.But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,SawResaca de la Palma’sbloody battle lost and won!
Onceagain was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fifeCalled our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary nightHad traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene ofPalo Alto’sfight —For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.
Onceagain was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife
Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:
We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night
Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene ofPalo Alto’sfight —
For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,
Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.
All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field,They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay —Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.
All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field,
They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.
One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay —
Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;
But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,
Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.
When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a manAnd a father, sent them back before the onward march began —When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain —We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.
When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man
And a father, sent them back before the onward march began —
When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,
Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain —
We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,
While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.
As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wingsFlapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charmOver the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.
As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,
We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,
While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wings
Flapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,
Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charm
Over the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.
Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our wayWe would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little storeTaking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.
Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our way
We would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;
He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,
And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:
So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little store
Taking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.
Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advanceDaring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance,And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles;But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a standBetween us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.
Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advance
Daring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance,
And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,
Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles;
But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a stand
Between us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.
On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1]the bristling chapparal,With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.
On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.
While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;
But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1]the bristling chapparal,
With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;
And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,
Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.
The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.
The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,
With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,
And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,
Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;
But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,
Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.
But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,WhenRidgelythundered with his guns up from the distant rear,And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!
But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,
WhenRidgelythundered with his guns up from the distant rear,
And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,
And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;
And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,
While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!
By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal: —Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes,With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonetFlashed around, as desperate men in the deadlymêléemet.
By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal: —
Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;
And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes,
With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!
All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet
Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadlymêléemet.
Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout ofMay,And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:Ridgely’svoice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,
On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,
Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout ofMay,
And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:
Ridgely’svoice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —
Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,
As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,MayandInge, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene —Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,May, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallantIngeled on the men,Loud hurraing: but a crash! andIngeclutched wildly at his rein —And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.
As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,
MayandInge, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene —
Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,
May, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallantIngeled on the men,
Loud hurraing: but a crash! andIngeclutched wildly at his rein —
And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.
All in vain: another instant!Maywas riding o’er the wall,Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless forceCame the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse; —As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,GeneralLa Vegayielded, and the battery was won.
All in vain: another instant!Maywas riding o’er the wall,
Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;
Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless force
Came the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse; —
As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,
GeneralLa Vegayielded, and the battery was won.
But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,SawResaca de la Palma’sbloody battle lost and won!
But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,
And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;
When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,
And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.
All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,
SawResaca de la Palma’sbloody battle lost and won!