STREET MUSICIANS.
When I returned to the Locanda della Grande Europa, when I had ordered a good Pranzo, I was so sad at heart that I could not eat,—and that means a great deal. I seated myself before the door of the neighboring Botega, refreshed myself with an ice, and said within myself:
“Capricious Heart! thou art now forsooth in Italy—why singest thou not like the lark? Perhaps the old German Sorrows, the little serpents, that hid themselves deep within thee have come with us into Italy, and are making merry now, and their common jubilee awakens in my breast that picturesque sorrow, which so strangely stings and dances and whistles? And why should not the old sorrows make merry for once? Here in Italy it is indeed so beautiful, suffering itself is here so beautiful,—in these ruinous marble palaces sighs sound far more romantically, than in our neat brick houses,—beneath yon laurel trees one can weep far more voluptuously, than under our surly, jagged pines,—and gaze with looks of far sweeter longing at the ideal cloud-landscapes of celestial Italy, than at the ash-gray, German work-day heaven, where the very clouds wear the looks of decent burghers, and yawn so tediously down upon us! Stay then in my heart, ye sorrows! Nowhere will you find a better lodging. You are dear and precious to me; and no man knows better how to father and cherish you, than I; and I confess to you, you give me pleasure. And after all, what is pleasure? Pleasure is nothing else than a highly agreeable Pain.”
I believe that the music, which, without my taking note of it, sounded before the Botega, and had already drawn round itself a circle of spectators, had melo-dramatically accompanied this monologue. It was a strange trio, consisting of two men, and a young girl, who played the harp. One of the men, warmly clad in a white shaggy coat, was a robust fellow, with a dark-red bandit-face, that gleamed from his black hair and beard, like a portentous comet; and between his legs he held a monstrous bass-viol, upon which he sawed as furiously, as if he had thrown down a poor traveller in the Abruzzi, and was in haste to fiddle his windpipe in two. The other was a tall, meagre graybeard, whose mouldering bones shook in their thread-bare, black garments, and whose snow-white hair formed a lamentable contrast with his buffo song and his foolish capers. It is sad enough, when an old man must barter for bread the respect we owe to his years, and give himself up to buffoonery; but more melancholy still, when he does this before or with his own child! For that girl was the daughter of the old Buffo, and accompanied with the harp the lowest jests of her gray-headed father; or, laying her harp aside sang with him a comic duet, in which he represented an amorous old dotard and she the young coquettish inamorata. Moreover the girl seemed hardly to have passed the threshold of childhood; as if the child, before it had grown to maidenhood, had been made a woman, and not an honest woman. Hence that pallid, faded look, and the expression of nervous discontent in her beautiful face, whose proudly rounded features as it were disdained all show of compassion;—hence the secret sorrowfulness of the eyes, that from beneath their black, triumphal arches flashed forth such challenges;—hence the deep mournful voice, that so strangely contrasted with the laughing, beautiful lips, from which it fell;—hence the debility of those too delicate limbs, around which a short, anxious-looking robe of violet-colored silk, fluttered as low as it possibly could. In addition to this, gay, variegated satin ribbands flaunted from her faded straw hat, and emblematic of herself, her breast was adorned with an open rose-bud, which seemed rather to have been rudely torn open, than to have bloomed forth from its green sheath by its own natural growth. Still in this unhappy girl, in this Spring which Death had already breathed upon and blasted,—lay an indescribable charm, a grace, which revealed itself in every look, in every motion, in every tone. The bolder her gestures became, the deeper grew my compassion; and when her voice rose from her breast so weak and wondrous, and as it were implored forgiveness; then triumphed in my breast the little serpents, and bit their tails for joy. The Rose likewise seemed to look at me imploringly; once I saw it tremble and grow pale,—but at the same moment rose the trills of the girl so much the more laughingly aloft, the old man wooed still more amorously, and the red comet-face murdered his viol so grimly, that it uttered the most terrifically droll sounds, and the spectators shouted more madly than ever.
* * * *
The little harper must have remarked, that while she was singing and playing, I looked often at the rose upon her breast; and as I afterwards threw upon the tin plate, with which she collected her honorarium, a piece of gold, and not of the smallest, she smiled slily, and asked me secretly, if I wanted her rose.
* * * *
Think no evil, dear reader. It had grown dark, and the stars looked so pure and pious down into my heart. In that heart itself, however, trembled the memory of the dead Maria. I thought again of that night, when I stood beside the bed, where lay her beautiful, pale form, with soft, still lips—I thought again of the strange look the old woman cast at me, who was to watch by the dead body, and surrendered her charge to me for a few hours—I thought again of the night-violet, that stood in a glass upon the table, and smelt so strangely. Again I shuddered with the doubt, whether it were really a draft of wind, that blew the lamp out?—or whether there were a third person in the chamber!
Reisebilder, Vol. 3.
——
The minor poems of Heine, like most of his prose writings, are but a portrait of himself. The same melancholy tone,—the same endless sigh,—pervades them. Though they possess the highest lyric merit they are for the most part fragmentary;—expressions of some momentary state of feeling,—sudden ejaculations of pain or pleasure, of restlessness, impatience, regret, longing, love. They profess to be songs, and as songs must they be judged, and as German Songs. Then these imperfect expressions of feeling,—these mere suggestions of thought,—this “luminous mist,” that half reveals, half hides the sense,—this selection of topics from scenes of every day life, and in fine this prevailing tone of sentimental sadness, will not seem affected, misplaced nor exaggerated. At the same time it must be confessed that the trivial and common-place recur too frequently in these songs. Here, likewise, as in the prose of Heine, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen in vain for the spirit-stirring note—for the word of power—for those ancestral melodies, which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe in our ears forever-more the voices of consolation, encouragement and warning. Heine is not sufficiently in earnest to be a great poet.
TO ONE DEPARTED.
———
BY EDGAR A. POE.
———
Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea—
Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o’er that one bright island smile.
For ’mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee; and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
DRAWN BY T. HAYTER. ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD, N.Y.
THE YOUNG WIDOW.
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A MINIATURE.
By the splendor of thine eyes,
Flashing in their ebon light
As a star across the skies
On the sable noon of night!
By the glory of that brow,
In its calm sublimity,—
With thee, or away, as now,
I worship thee!
Sorrow has been thine, alas!
Once thou wert a happy bride;
Joy is like a brittle glass:
It was shivered at thy side.
Shall I love thee less for this?
Only be as true to me,
And I’ll glory in the bliss,
The bliss of thee!
Are thy lashes wet with tears?
Canst thou never more be gay?
Chase afar these foolish fears—
I will kiss thy dread away!
We are parted—’till we meet,
Time shall pass how wearily!
Yet I’ll make each hour more fleet
By thoughts of thee!
In the solitude of night,
In the tumult of the day,
By the gloamin’ fire’s light,
In the mazy dance and gay,
By the silver-sounding streams,
Underneath the rustling tree,
In my waking, or in dreams,
I’ll think of thee!
When in ev’ry flower cup
Fairies dance the night away,
When the queenly moon is up,
Moving on her stately way,
When the stars upon the shore
Silence e’en the sounding sea—
Ever till we part no more,
I’ll think of thee!
A. A. I.
THE FRESHET.
A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE.
———
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
———
March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain,
Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds,
And ceaselessly the drenching rain
Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds;
The deep snows melt, and swelling rills
Pour through each hollow of the hills;
The river from its rest hath risen,
And bounded from its shattered prison;
The huge ice-fragments onward dash
With grinding roar and splintering crash;
Swift leap the floods upon their way,
Like war-steeds thundering on their path,
With hoofs of waves and manes of spray
Restrainless in their mighty wrath.
Wild mountains stretch in towering pride
Along the river’s either side;
Leaving between it and their walls
Narrow and level intervals.
When Summer glows, how sweet and bright
The landscape smiles upon the sight!
Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie
With the rich carpets of the rye,
The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there,
Shed honied fragrance on the air;
In long straight ranks, the maize uprears
Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears,
The yellow melon, underneath,
Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath:
Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass,
There, the potato-plant’s green mass;
All framed by woods—each limit shown
By zigzag rail, or wall of stone;
Contrasting here, within the shade,
The axe a space hath open laid
Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down,
Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown;
There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black,
Shows the red flame’s devouring track;
The fire-weed shooting thick where stood
The leafy monarchs of the wood:
A scene peculiar to one land
Which Freedom with her magic wand
Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless
With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.
The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare
Of sunset lights the misty air,
The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng
Of broken ragged clouds along,
From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung
Through all the hours, its grating tongue,
The raftsman sallies, as the gray
Of evening tells the flight of day:
And slowly seeks with loitering stride,
His cabin by the river-side.
As twilight darkens into night,
Still dash the waters in their flight,
Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast,
Shoot like the clouds before the blast.
Beyond—the sinuous channel wends
Through a deep narrow gorge, and bends
With curve so sharp, the drilling ice,
Hurl’d by the flood’s tremendous might,
Piles the opposing precipice,
And every fragment swells the height;
Hour after hour uprears the wall,
Until a barrier huge and tall
Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell
To overwhelm the obstacle:
They bathe the alder on the verge,
The leaning hemlock now they merge,
The stately elm is dwindling low
Within the deep engulfing flow,
Till curb’d thus in its headlong flight,
With its accumulated might,
The river turning on its track,
Rolls its wide-spreading volumes back.
Slumbers the raftsman—through his dream
Distorted visions wildly stream,
Now in the wood his axe he swings,
And now his sawmill’s jarring rings;
Now his huge raft is shooting swift
Cochecton’s white tumultuous rift,
Now floats it on the ebon lap
Of the grim shadow’d Water Gap,
And now it’s tossing on the swells
Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells,
The rapids crash upon his ear,
The deep sounds roll more loud and near,
They fill his dream—he starts—he wakes!
The moonlight through the casement falls,
Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks,
The floods sweep round his cabin-walls,
Beneath their bounding thundering shocks,
The frail log fabric groans and rocks;
Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver,
The walls like blast-swept branches quiver,
His wife is clinging to his breast,
The child within his arms is prest,
He staggers through the chilly flood
That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood,
On, on, he strives—the waters lave
Higher his form with every wave,
They steep his breast, on each side dash
The splinter’d ice with thundering crash
A fragment strikes him—ha! he reels,
That shock in every nerve he feels,
Faster, bold raftsman, speed thy way,
The waves roar round thee for their prey,
Thy cabin totters—sinks—the flood
Rolls its mad surges where it stood:
Before thy straining sight, the hill
Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still,
Falter not, falter not, struggle on,
That goal of safety may be won,
Heavily droops thy wife with fear,
Thy boy’s shrill shriekings fill thine ear;
Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling
Yon cedar branches for thy cling.
Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past,
The wish’d for goal is won at last,
Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now
Is resting on the hill’s steep brow:
Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending,
Each heart’s warm incense is ascending,
Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer
Oh, finds it not acceptance there?
MARCHES FOR THE DEAD.
———
BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC.
———
A march for the Dead—the dreamless Dead
Of the tomb and the chancel aisle,
Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread
Waves round in the holy pile:—
Let the chimes be low as the awful breath
Of the midnight winds that creep,
With a pulse as faint as the step of Death,
O’er the chambers of the deep,
When the stars are in a solemn noon
Like o’er-wearied watchers there,
And a seraph-glory from the moon
Floats down through the sleeping air.
A march for the Dead—the lovely Dead
Whose voices still we hear,
Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully
Around a brother’s bier:
Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours—
And their words still cheer the soul—
And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs,
Where the tides of Being roll.
Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre,
Let its notes to feeling true,
Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire,
But, still, as chastened too:
And Sorrow there will incline her head,
While Hope sits fondly by—
With one hand pointing to the Dead,
The other to the sky.
A march for the Dead—the holy Dead—
They hallowed every sod
Like the rainbows resting on our earth—
But soaring towards God.
But, oh! what a diapason there
From the thrilling chords should start!
Like the lightning leaping from its lair
To wither Nature’s heart?
Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand
Unveils his giant form,
And strikes, with all his cloudy band,
The organs of the storm?
Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad
As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,—
For why should the heart of man be sad
When he thinks of these? Of these?
A march for the Dead—the awful Dead—
Like mountain peaks, sublime,
Which show, as they rise, some River’s length,
They mark the stream of Time.
How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb,
With the earthy worm revelling there—
While the grim, hairless skulls from the terrible gloom
Are gleaming so ghastly and bare.
Solemn and slow, with many a wail between,
Harp give thy song the deepest, grandest flow,
While yonder moon, so dim, so cold, serene,
Lights up the burial march of those below:
And from afar the billows of the Main
Send forth their long-drawn, melancholy moan—
Most fitting chorus, for this fearful strain
Breathed in the Temples of the Night alone.
A march for the Dead—the mighty Dead,
Whose mind like oceans hurl’d
Along the trembling Alps, have shook
A myriad-peopled world.
They were the links of that mighty chain,
Which the heaven unites to man,
Since first from its realm the morning strain
Of the minstrel-stars began:
And along them have flashed for six thousand years
A flame to this lowly sod,
(Oh! holier far than the light of the spheres,)
From the mighty heart of God!
Yet once more, oh! Bard—yet once more re-illume
The song-god’s olden fire,
And shed o’er the depths of the terrible tomb
The beauty of the lyre.
Give its full notes abroad—let its anthem ring out
Through the aisles of the blue-beaming air—
Wild, joyous and loud as the rapturous shout
When a great host of angels are there,
And the Heavens are all glad and wide-arching above.
Kiss the far-distant hills, like the warm lips of Love,
When she cradles the stars and the earth on her breast,
While the waters lie still in their sleep,
And the banners of Evening, unfurl’d in the west,
Pavilion her Deity’s sleep.
It is well!—
Lo, the spell!
It shakes every shroud!
How they rise!—How they rise!—
The Great and the Proud—
Each a God, as you see by their glorious eyes!
’Tis a terrible throng!—
And Thought from her Pyramid splendidly bows
And sits like a glory-wreathed crown on their brows,—
As they thunder along.
Hurry on! Hurry on!—ye have not lived in vain
As we see by each radiant head!—
Oh, minstrel still utter that sonorous strain—
’Tis the march of the mighty—the Dead!
THE TWO DUKES.
———
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
———
(Continued from page 82.)
The princely pile, known as Somerset House, remains even to this day unfinished, and at the time of our story was, with the exception of one block, scarcely raised above its foundations. The large square court and every empty space, for many rods around its site, were cumbered with building materials. Piles of rude stone—beds of newly made mortar—window-sashes, with the lead and rich glass that composed them, crushed together from the carelessness with which they had been flung down—cornices with the gilding yet fresh upon them—great fragments of carved oak—beams of timber with flags of marble, and even images of saints, broken as they were torn from their niches, lay heaped together promiscuously and with a kind of sacrilegious carelessness. That block of the building, which runs parallel with the river, alone was completed, while that portion of the square, which forms its angle on the strand, was built to the second story so far as the great arched entrance. But all the rest was only massed out by a line of rough stones sunk into the earth, and in places almost concealed by the heaps of rubbish which we have described.
Notwithstanding the unfinished state of his palace the Lord Protector had taken possession of that portion already completed, and from the sumptuous—nay, almost regal magnificence of its adornments, seemed determined to rival his royal nephew and king, in state, as he had already done in power.
We have been particular in describing the Lord Protector’s residence, for, at the time our story resumes its thread, it contained the leading personages who rendered themselves conspicuous in the St. Margaret’s riot.
Once more the gray of morning hung over the city of London, a faint hum of voices and the sound of busy feet rose gradually within its bosom. With the earliest glimmer a host of workmen came to their daily toil upon the palace, and were seen in the yet dim light swarming upon the heaps of material gathered in the court, and creeping, like ants drawn from their mound, along the damp walls and the scaffolding that bristled over them.
Though the hum and bustle of busy life swelled and deepened in the streets the light was not yet strong enough to penetrate the masses of heavy velvet which muffled three tall windows of a chamber overlooking the Thames, and a slope of rich, but trampled sward that rolled greenly down to its brink. So thick and deeply folded were the curtains that it was broad day in the streets, though the sun had not yet risen, before sufficient light penetrated the chamber to draw out the objects which it contained from the deep tranquil gloom that surrounded them. By degrees a soft, warm light came stealing through a fold or two of the crimson drapery as if a shower of wine were dashed against them, very faint and rich it was, but sufficient to reveal a mantelpiece of clouded marble surmounting an immense fire-place at one end of the room—tall chairs of dark wood, heavily covered with cushions of crimson leather enveloped with gold, standing in solemn magnificence around, and a massive bed supported by immense posts of ebony, each carved like the stems of a great vine twisted together and coiling upward to the ceiling, where they branched off and twined together, a superb cornice of foliage cut from the polished wood, and intermingled with clusters of fruit so roundly carved that they seemed ready to break loose from the rich workmanship of tendrils and leaves which bedded them. The broad footboard was carved to a perfect net-work; its glittering black only relieved by the Somerset crest exquisitely emblazoned in the centre. The head was surmounted by a slab of broad ebony even more elaborately wrought than the other, more nicely touched and interworked like a specimen of Chinese ivory. In the centre, just over the pillows, a basket of golden apples gleamed through the delicate dark tracery, which seemed to prison it, and caught the first faint light that struggled through the windows. As this light deepened and grew stronger within the room, a counterpane of purple velvet sweeping over the bed began to glow, as if the grapes above were red, and had been shaken during the night over the lovely girl who lay in an unquiet slumber beneath it. The counterpane was disturbed and lay in purple waves over the bed—for the Lady Jane Seymour had started up more than once during the morning, and after gazing wildly about in the dim light, sunk to her pillow again, in that state of unquiet drowsiness, which is neither wakefulness nor repose. Now and then, as she seemed most soundly asleep, her lips moved with restless murmurs, and her fair brow was knitted as if in pain beneath the crushed lace of her night-coif. She was lying thus with closed eyes, and yet scarcely asleep, when a door opened, and the old woman who had escaped from the riot on the previous day, stole softly into the chamber, bearing in her arms a bundle of green rushes and a basket of flowers—humble things, but fresh and with the night dew yet upon them. She laid her burthen on the floor, and approaching the bed on tipt-toe, bent down and kissed the small hand which crept out from a fold of the counterpane, as if the beautiful sleeper had been half aware of her approach. More than once did the kind nurse bend over and caress her charge, but timidly and as if fearful of arousing her. At length she went to her basket, took a bunch of wild violets from the blossoms it contained and laid them upon the pillow. A faint smile beamed over that fair face as the perfume stole over it, and Lady Jane murmured softly as one who received pleasure in a dream.
The nurse hurried away, and untying her rushes, began to scatter them over the oaken floor. After casting down a few of the flowers upon the fragrant carpet, she selected others to fill an antique little vase which stood on a table richly wrought, like everything in the chamber, and surmounted by a mirror which hung against the wall, in a frame of ebony and gold, twined and drawn heavily together. The light was yet very dim, so the good nurse cautiously drew back a fold of the window-curtain. A sun-beam shot through and broke over the steel mirror plate, as if a golden arrow had been shivered there. A flood of light, more than she had intended to admit, filled the chamber and completely aroused the Lady Jane. She started up in her couch, gazed wildly upon her nurse, who stood almost terrified by what she had done, with the half filled vase suspended over the table, and then bending her head down upon her hand, seemed lost in thought, which ended in a fit of weeping.
“Nurse,” she said at last, but without lifting her face.
The old woman set down her vase, and moving to the bed drew the young girl to her bosom, and putting back her night-cap, affectionately smoothed the bright hair gathered beneath it, with her hand.
“Tell me all that happened, good nurse,” said the Lady at length, “I know that something is wrong, that I have been in strange places, and amid a host of people, but it all seems very long since, and strange, like the dreams that haunt one in sickness.” She paused awhile, very thoughtfully, and resumed what she was saying.
“You were with me, and I remember now! they whirled you away in the crowd. There was a little evil looking man came to me after that. He rode by them. The church! the altar! that window! and Lord Dudley in the grasp of rude soldiers! Nurse—tell me, where is the Duke? where is my father? I must see my father! Go to him, and say that his daughter has been ill, very ill, and would speak with him before he rides forth for the morning. Go quickly, I am very well, and can robe myself.”
As she uttered these hasty directions, the Lady Jane flung back the bed-drapery, and springing to the floor, snatched a robe from the chair to which it had been flung on the previous night, and thrusting her arms into the loose sleeves, began eagerly and with trembling fingers, to knot the silken cord which bound it to her waist. All at once her hands dropped from the task, and her exalted features contracted with a sudden and most painful thought.
“Do not go,” she said in a stifled voice, but without lifting her face, “It was my father who bade them tear the church down upon me. It was he who flung Lord Dudley back among those bad men. Do not go.”
The nurse, who had seemed reluctant to perform the mission desired of her, returned, and taking up her young lady’s slippers, knelt down to place them on her feet, which were heedlessly pressing the chill floor, but putting the good woman gently aside, Lady Jane began to pace slowly up and down the apartment, sweeping the rushes with her loose robe, and crushing beneath her small white feet, the wild blossoms that had been scattered among them. At length she stopped suddenly and clasping her hands, turned a look full of wild anguish upon the good woman, who stood meekly by the bed, with the rejected slippers in her hand.
“Did you think that my father would ever have cursed me?” she said. “That he would revile the bravest and most noble being in all England, before a mob of riotous men; that he would let them seize him and trample me to the earth; me, his youngest child—who loved him so.”
“Nay, sweet Lady—you have been ill, and all this is a feverish fancy. You should have seen with what tenderness my Lord The Duke, bore you up from the barge, in his own arms, and would not rest till we brought him word that you were safe in bed here, and asleep,” replied the nurse.
Lady Jane shook her head and smiled sadly. “It was no dream,” she said, “dreams are of the fancy, but such things as happened yesterday, sink into the soul, and will not pass away.”
“And yet,” replied the dame, “it was but now the Lord Duke took such care of your repose, my gentle Lady, that he forbade the workmen wielding a hammer or crowbar in the court, lest your rest might be disturbed too early. I met him scarcely ten minutes since, on the way to his closet, where he is about to examine my Lord Dudley, and that strange looking man who was brought here on his lordship’s horse, while the brave young gentleman came by water with a pack of soldiers at his heels. The Duke, your father, was in haste, but he took occasion to inquire after your welfare, and bade me observe that no one entered this chamber, or disturbed you in the least, till you were quite restored.”
Lady Jane took the slippers from her attendant’s hand, and hastily thrusting her feet into them, began to arrange her dress once more.
“Said you that Lord Dudley was with my father now?” she enquired, turning from the steel mirror, before which she was hurriedly twisting up her hair.
“He may not have left his prisoner in the new rooms near the arch yet,” replied the dame, “but I heard the Duke give orders that he should be brought out directly with that fellow in the sheep-skin cap. If we were but on the other side, nothing would be easier than to see them with the guard, filing through the court.”
“And has my father gone so far? Lord Dudley imprisoned in our own dwelling with a felon knave like that?” murmured Lady Jane, folding her arms and looking almost sternly upon the floor, “alas, what is his offence, what is mine, that a parent, once so good and kind should deal thus cruelly with us!” Tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke, and advancing to the nurse she took her arm, and moved resolutely toward the door.
“Whither are you going my lady?” said the nurse, turning pale with apprehension.
“To my father,” replied Lady Jane calmly, “I would learn the nature of my offence, and if accusation is brought against my affianced husband I would stand by his side. Do not turn pale and tremble, nurse, I am not the child which I went forth yesterday, though but a day older; intense suffering is more powerful than time, and I almost think that my youth has departed forever. Let us go!”
“I dare not,” replied the old woman, “the duke has forbidden it.”
“Am I also a prisoner, and in my father’s house?” demanded the lady, “well, be it so! When the falcon is caged the poor dove should but peck idly against her wires,” and sitting down the unhappy girl folded her arms on the dressing-table, where she wept in bitterness of heart. The noise of heavy feet passing along the corridor to which her chamber opened aroused her.
“It is the soldiers with Lord Dudley in charge,” said the nurse in reply to her questioning look, “I will go and see.” The good woman arose and softly opening the door looked out. Lady Jane gazed after her with intense earnestness. When she stepped into the passage and the sound of low voices came into the room the anxious young creature could restrain herself no longer, for the tones were familiar and made her heart thrill, burthened as it was with sorrow. She moved eagerly toward the door, and, as it was swung open by the returning nurse, caught one glance of Lord Dudley’s face. It was stern and pale as death. He saw her and tried to smile, but the rude voice of a soldier bade him move on; he was hereby excited and the effort was lost in a proud curve of the lips, which chilled the unhappy young creature who gazed so breathlessly upon him. It was the first time that she had ever seen a shadow of bitterness on those lips, for her presence had always a power to bring sunshine to them in his sternest mood.
“Oh, what changes has one day brought,” she murmured, burying her face once more upon the table, “my father’s curse upon me—Dudley, my Dudley, estranged. My mother—alas! when has the morning dawned that her kiss failed to greet me. Now, on this wretched day,” she broke off, locked the small hands which covered her face more firmly together, and again murmured, “Heaven help me, for I am alone!”
“No, not alone—is your old nurse of no account? If they have made her your jailor is she not a kind one?” said the good-hearted attendant, bending over her weeping charge. “Come, take heart, lady-bird, dark days cannot last forever; the stars, so beautiful and bright, are sometimes lost in black clouds, but they always find a time to shine out again. The duke cannot intend to deal harshly with you or he would never have appointed your own fond old nurse keeper to your prison. Besides, Lord Dudley will be set free directly; he bade me tell you that a messenger had been sent to the staunch old earl, his father, and that another night would not find him submitting to insult and confinement like the last.”
Lady Jane ceased to weep, but still remained sad and thoughtful; she was troubled and grieved by the absence of her mother. It seemed as if every thing she loved had deserted her, save the good old nurse. But she was naturally a cheerful light-hearted creature, and storms must sweep over such hearts again and again before hope is entirely driven forth. She was even smiling with some degree of her old mischievous playfulness at the pompous way in which the good nurse flourished her badge of office, a huge key which had not yet been put in requisition, when the door was pushed gently open and a lady of mature but delicate loveliness entered the room. She was very pale. Her eyes, naturally dark and mild, were full of troubled light, and flushed a little, as if she had just been weeping. Her morning robe was slightly disordered, and the head dress of jewels and velvet, which ornamented, without concealing her beautiful hair, was placed a little too much on one side, a sure sign of agitation in one usually so fastidious regarding her toilet.
Lady Jane was still listening with a languid smile to the well-intended prattle of her nurse, and the door opened, so quietly that she was not apprised of her approach, till the duchess stood close by her side.
With a glad exclamation, and like an infant pining for its mother’s presence, she started up with an affectionate impulse, and flung her arms around the lady, then bending her head back, and looking fondly in her face, murmured—
“Dear mother, have you come at last?”
The duchess bent her face to that of the affectionate creature clinging to her neck, but there was constraint in the action, and no kiss followed it. Her daughter felt this as a repulse, and gently unclasping her hands, stood without support, looking with a kind of regretful fondness in the face which had never dwelt frowningly on her before.
“Oh! mother, how can you look upon me thus—how have I deserved it!” she said at last, striving to check the tears which would spring to her eyes; “How is it that every one turns coldly from me. You, my kind and gentle mother,—you, that have never sent me to rest without a blessing, who scarce would let the light kiss my forehead till your lips had pressed it in the morning. You are growing distrustful like the rest. I did not think a mother’s love would chill so easily—that my mother could even find it in her heart to look harshly on her child. Nay, mother,—dear, dear, mother, do not weep so—I did not think to grieve you thus deeply. Why do your lips tremble? Why do you wring my hand so? What wrong have I done? I entreat you tell me all—my heart will break unless you love me as of old.”
The duchess was much affected, but still maintained the severity of manner which she had brought into the room, though it evidently cost her a strong effort to resist the appeal of her child. She sat down upon the bed, and, drawing Lady Jane before her, took the small hands, clasped together, in both hers, and looked searchingly into the soft brown eyes that met her gaze, not without anxiety, but still with a trustful fondness that would have disarmed a firmer heart than that which beat so full of generous and affectionate impulses in the bosom of that noble lady.
“Jane,” she said at last, glancing at the slender fingers locked in her own, “where is the ring which I gave you on the duke’s last birth-day?”
Lady Jane started at the question, and withdrawing her hand, cast a quick glance upon it, and then turned anxiously to the old woman.
“My careful nurse here, must have taken it from my finger as I slept,” she said, doubtingly.
The old woman shook her head, and Lady Jane turned earnestly to her mother, perplexed alike by the loss of her ring, and the strange effect which it produced on the duchess.
“When did you wear it last?” enquired the lady.
The young lady mused for a few moments, and then mentioned the previous day as that when she remembered to have seen it on her finger.
“Ay, I remember well,” said the nurse. “It was on my lady’s hand when she lifted it to chide Richard for his outcry in the crowd. Just then I was carried off by the mob, and jostled about till it seemed a miracle that I ever reached the barge again. I mind now that Richard saw the ring also, for when we all met at the landing, and sat waiting, hour after hour, in hopes that some blessed chance would direct the poor lady how to find us, I would have gone back in search of her, but he forbade me, saying, that no harm would befall a lady of her high condition while she carried on her fingers the power to purchase protection; so, when the night closed in, we rowed down the river, just in time to see the sweet child borne to her chamber, more dead than alive, with the ill-treatment she had received.”
The duchess turned her eyes earnestly on the nurse as she spoke, but if she thought to detect anything but an honest spirit of truth in those withered features, her scrutiny was unrewarded.
“How chanced it,” she said, turning again to her daughter, “how chanced it that you were entangled in the mob near St. Margaret’s, when you went forth to enjoy the morning breeze upon the river?”
Lady Jane looked surprised at the question, but answered it without hesitation.
“It was very early,” she said, “and the air blew chill on the water, so I bade the men pull up at Westminster Bridge, intending to take a walk in the Park, and return home, but as we were crossing up from the river, the crowd came upon us, and in my terror I was separated from my attendants and sought shelter as I best could.” Lady Jane then proceeded to inform her mother of the events which we have already described in two previous chapters; but she had been so dreadfully terrified that her narrative was confused, and though it possessed all the simplicity and force of truth, the disappearance of the ring still appeared a mystery, for she could in no way account for the manner in which it had left her possession, but stood pale and utterly overwhelmed with astonishment when informed of the charge brought against her by the artisan.
“And did my father believe this of me?” she said, turning to the duchess in the anguish of an upright spirit unjustly accused. “I could not suspect any one I loved of a base thing! Yet has my father, whom I honored and worshipped so, not only condemned but reviled me in the presence of my affianced husband, and all on the word of a base man, more despicable far, than the rudest workman who breaks stone in his court yonder.”
There was a newly aroused pride in the young girl’s bosom that gave dignity to the words she uttered. A rich color broke over her cheek, and, for the first time, those soft eyes kindled with indignation as they fell upon her mother.
“Let me go,” she continued, “let me stand face to face with my accuser. It is not well that the daughter of a noble house—the cousin of an English Monarch, should be tried and condemned, without hearing, on the word of a base varlet picked up amid the dregs of a mob.”
The Duchess gazed upon the excited young creature before her with mingled feelings of surprise, regret, and, perhaps, some little share of anger, that she could so easily depart from the humility of her usual deportment, for though a fond parent, she had even been rigid in her exactions of deference and respect from her children. The love of a mother is very powerful, but the pride of a high born English-woman, educated for her station, is, perhaps, the strongest feeling of her nature. The duchess felt the truth of all that her daughter had said, but she felt its boldness also, and her nice feelings were shocked by it.
“Your father had other reasons for doubting the integrity of Lord Dudley—for it would seem that this strange outbreak is occasioned as much by his imprisonment as your own,” said the lady in a tone of grave reproof, dropping her daughter’s hand. “We have good cause to fear that the earl, his father, has been tampering with the young king, and that he is using all secret means to supplant my noble lord in the power and station which he now fills. He has left no means untried to gain popularity in the city. That Lord Dudley has dared to appear against the Lord Protector, heading a mob almost in open rebellion, is proof that evil exists, and is spreading through the court. My lord has taken prompt measures, and in this should not be arraigned by his own child. If the Lord of Warwick and his son are still loyal to the Protector let them prove it before the king. But from this hour it is the duke’s pleasure that the contract existing between the two houses be at an end forever.”
Lady Jane stood perfectly motionless and pale as marble when her mother finished speaking, but after a moment she moved across the room and glided through the door without speaking a word, and, as if unconscious of the presence she had left.
“Poor young lady,” muttered the nurse, wiping her eyes and casting a look, which would have been reproachful but for awe, upon the duchess—“her heart was almost broken before, but this will be the death of her.”
“Peace, good dame, peace,” said the Duchess of Somerset, in her usual calm and dignified manner. “My daughter must learn to make sacrifices when the honor of her house is concerned. From the first I acquitted her of all wrong intention regarding the diamond, and I deeply grieve at the annoyance it has produced both to her and us. But regarding Lord Dudley and his alliance with your young mistress—it can never be thought of again. Let it be your duty, good dame, as the most cherished attendant of my child, to reconcile her to the change.”
With these words the Duchess of Somerset left the chamber just in time to see the Lady Jane disappear from the extreme end of the corridor which led to the duke’s closet.
(To be continued.)
TO ISA IN HEAVEN.
———
BY THOMAS HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D.
———
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven!
—Young.
Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!
If thou wert dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return,
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!
I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!
I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!
Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!
I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of the birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.
Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul’s dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!
Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!
And so it is,
And so it ever more must be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!
It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!
MAY EVELYN.
———
BY FRANCES OSGOOD.
———
Beautiful, bewitching May! How shall I describe her? As the fanciful village-poet, her devoted adorer, declared;—“The pencil that would paint her charms should be made of sunbeams and dipped in the dewy heart of a fresh moss-rose.” Whether this same bundle of beams and fragrant rose-dew would have done full justice to her eloquent loveliness, I cannot pretend to say—having never attempted the use of any brush less earthly than are made of hog’s bristles, nor any color more refined than a preparation from cochineal. Her eyes were “blue as Heaven,” the heaven of midsummer—when its warm, intense and glorious hue seems deepening as you gaze, and laughing in the joyous light of day. Her hair, I could never guess its true color; it was always floating in such exquisite disorder over her happy face and round white shoulders—now glistening, glowing in the sunshine, like wreaths of glossy gold, and now, in shadow, bathing her graceful neck with soft brown waves, that looked like silken floss, changing forever and lovely in each change. Blushes and dimples played hide and seek on her face. Her lip—her rich sweet lip was slightly curved—just enough to show that there was pride as well as love in her heart. She was, indeed, a spirited creature. Her form was of fairy moulding, but perfect though “petite!” and her motions graceful as those of the Alpine chamois.
Reader, if I have failed in my attempt to convey to you an image of youthful grace, beauty and sweetness, I pray you repair my deficiency from the stores of your own lively imagination, and fancy our dear May Evelyn the loveliest girl in the universe.
And now for her history. Her father, of an ancient and noble family, had married, in early life, a beautiful but extravagant woman, who died a few years after their union, leaving him with two lovely children and an all but exhausted fortune. On her death he retired from the gay world, and settled with his infant treasures in Wales, and there, husbanding his scanty means, he contrived to live in comfort if not in luxury. There, too, brooding over the changes of human life—the fallacy of human foresight, and the fickleness of human friendship, he became “a sadder and a wiser man.” His two beautiful children, Lionel and May, were the idols of his heart, and well did they repay his love.
May’s first serious trouble arose from hearing her father express one day his desire to purchase for Lionel a commission in the army. The boy was high-spirited and intelligent, and had cherished from childhood an ardent desire for military life; but there was no possibility of raising sufficient money for the purpose, without sacrificing many of their daily comforts.
At this time May was just sixteen; but there was in her face a childlike purity and innocence, which, combined with her playful simplicity of manner, made her appear even younger than she was. She hated study, except in the volume of nature; there indeed she was an apt and willing pupil. Birds and streams and flowers were her favorite books; but though little versed in the lore of her father’s well-stored library—she had undoubted genius, and whenever she did apply herself, could learn with wonderful rapidity.
The only science, however, in which she was a proficient, was music:—for this she had an excellent ear and, when a mere child, ere her father’s removal to Wales, had been under the tuition of a celebrated master. Her voice was rich, sweet and powerful, and her execution on the guitar, piano and harp, was at once brilliant and expressive. She had, also, a pretty talent for versifying, and often composed music for words, which, if not remarkable for power or polish, were certainly bewitching when sung by their youthful authoress.
During most of the day, on the morning of which Mr. Evelyn first mentioned his wishes with regard to Lionel, the sunny face of our heroine was clouded with sorrowful thought; but towards evening, as her father sat alone in his library, the door suddenly opened, and May, bounding in, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm, exclaimed—“Papa! papa! I have just thought—I know what I’ll do!—I’ll be a governess.” Her father gazed at her in astonishment.
“A governess, May! What can have put such an idea into your head? Why should you be a governess?”
“Oh! for Lionel, you know. I can soon earn enough to buy his commission.”
“And it is this then, my child,” said Mr. Evelyn, tenderly, “that has so repressed your usual spirits!” But while he spoke seriously, he could scarcely repress a smile at the thought of the wild, childlike being before him, transformed into a staid, dignified teacher.
During the six weeks following, the devoted girl deprived herself of all her usual outdoor amusements, and, with wonderful energy applied, under her father’s guidance, to study. At the end of that time, she laughingly declared that she knew a little of everything; but still her passion for birds and flowers was far greater than for books.
Ere the six weeks had well expired, she heard from some young friends, who were on a visit to Wales, from London, that the earl of —— was in want of a governess for his four children. She begged them, on their return, to mention her. This they did, and with youthful exaggeration extolled her talents to the skies.
The Earl understanding that she was the accomplished and amiable daughter of an aged naval officer, saw, in his mind’s eye, a learned lady of a certain age, who would, perhaps, prove a mother in kindness and usefulness to his orphan children, and gladly acceded to the desire of his young friends, that he should make trial of her.
The poor things were not aware what a little ignoramus they were recommending; for the youthful Lionel, who, sometimes took a peep into the library, and stared in surprise at the various apparatus for study, had boasted all over the village in which they resided, that his sister knew everything under the sun, and had mentioned, in corroboration of this sweeping declaration, that she was always poring over French, Spanish, Greek or Latin books. This, her enthusiastic young friends, who, by the way, had only known her a fortnight, took care to make the most of—and the result was, that May was considered, by the Earl, as a most fitting instructress for his children, and dreaded by them as a prim and severe restraint upon their hitherto unchecked amusements.
——