from the pirates, and had thus escaped the massacre which befell
indiscriminately his messmates, had come forth from his hiding place,
and related the story of their capture. I will give it, adding other
matters in their place, as I learnt them subsequently from the inmates
of the cabin. The brig was a coaster, and had left the Havanna a few
days before, having for passengers an English gentleman of large fortune
with his daughter and her personal slaves. They had been becalmed the
preceding evening under the lee of the neighboring island, and, as the
night was a fine one, their passengers had remained on deck until a late
hour, the daughter of Mr. Neville amusing herself with singing on her
own guitar, or listening to the ruder but yet dulcet music of her
slaves. At length they had descended to the cabin, but, within a few
minutes of their retirement, a large crank boat, pulled by some twenty
armed piratical ruffians, had been seen coming towards the brig. Escape
was impossible, and defence was useless. The feeble though desperate
resistance made by the crew of a half dozen men, was soon overcome. Mr.
Neville had headed the combat, and, when the ruffians gained possession
of the deck, had retreated to the cabin, barricading the entrance on the
inside. But the pirates, headed by their leader, although baffled for a
while, had eventually broke through this defence and poured into the
cabin; but not until several of their number had been wounded by the
desperate parent, who, fighting like a lion at bay, had even fired
through the door on his assailants, after they had shattered it and
before it was finally broken in. At length the ruffians had gained an
entrance; and a dozen swords were levelled at Mr. Neville, who still
endeavored to shield his daughter. He fell—and God knows what would
have been the fate of that innocent girl, if we had not at the instant
reached the brig. The ruffian leader was forced to leave his prey and
hasten on deck. The reader knows the rest.
When morning dawned we were still abreast of the island. By this time,
however, a light breeze had sprung up and the schooner had been brought
to under the quarter of The Arrow. My superior heard with emotion of the
death of his lieutenant, and expressed his determination of carrying the
pirates into the neighboring port at once, and delivering them up for
trial. He gave up his own cabin temporarily to the afflicted daughter,
and sympathized with her sorrow as if she had been his own child. The
remains of her parent were not consigned to the deep, but allotted, on
the following day, a place in consecrated ground. But I pass over the
events immediately succeeding the capture of the pirates. Suffice it to
say that, after a delay of three or four days in port, we found it would
be impossible to have the pirates brought to trial by the tardy
authorities under a month. As my presence was deemed necessary on that
event, and as my superior was unwilling to delay his cruise for so long
a period, it was determined then that The Arrow should pursue her
voyage, calling again at the port to take me up in the course of a month
or six weeks. The next day, after this arrangement, she sailed.
* * * * *
SONNETS.
BY W. W. STORY.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Fixed, as if nothing ever could o’erthrow
Its infinite faith, and firm as it had stood,
Stemming life-long misfortune’s sapping flood,
Is the brave head of Michael Angelo.
No smile, no fear, that noble face doth show:
A sublime purpose o’er it seems to brood,
In which no mean thought ever did intrude,
No busy interest hurry to and fro—
A will so stern, that nothing can abate,
Fastens the mouth. The anxious abstract eye,
Beyond earth’s gloomy shadow’s lowering nigh,
Beholds great angels in the distance wait—
And on those features, seamed with many a line,
Love seems like sunlight on rude cliffs to shine.
RAFFAELLO.
Thou wouldst seem sorrowful, but that we knew
That mild, fair brow, that serious seeking eye,
Where the pale lightnings of emotion lie,
Were caught from earnest striving to look through
These shadows that obscure the mortal view—
This hazy distance of humanity,
Far dawnings of the Beautiful and True,
And those divine thoughts that can never die.
Thy mouth, so tender and so sensitive—
Full and unrigid—formed as if to part
With each emotion—seemeth tuned by Art,
Like harp-strings, with each wandering breath to live;
And that same apostolic light is thine
Which made thy Christ and Mother so divine.
* * * * *
TO FLORENCE.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
Dear Florence! young and fair thou art,
Thy cheeks are like the rose’s heart—
The sweet, red rose, that’s newly born,
When from the faintly dappled sky,
Looks out the laughing glance of morn.
Alas! dear one, I can but sigh
To think how many years divide
Thy happy turn of life and mine!
A river rolleth deep and wide
Between my destined path and thine.
Still unto thee my fancy flies,
With thee my thoughts and visions dwell,
And from thy soft, celestial eyes
Comes sunshine to my hermit-cell.
I love thee! nay—turn not away!
I dare not hope—’twere worse than vain
To cherish in my heart a ray
Of feeling fraught with grief and pain.
All but thy image I resign;
With that I cannot part—it glows
With hues so lovely, so divine.
That though upon my head the snows
Of Age were cast, I yet should trace
The lines of thy enchanting face;
Still would thy form, instinct with grace,
Before me rise, and I should see,
In all things bright some types of thee!
* * * * *
THE TWO DUKES.
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
(Continued from page 144.)
A still more important scene than that which we have described in Lady
Jane Seymour’s chamber was passing in the Lord Protector’s closet. A
portion of those noblemen forming his council had been hastily summoned
to assist in the examination of Lord Dudley, who was brought up from his
prison in the new and damp rooms, near the Strand, where he had spent a
night of discomfort, which by no means reconciled his proud spirit to
the degradation heaped upon it. Though a member, and most powerful one,
of his own council, the Lord Protector had neglected to summon the Earl
of Warwick to the examination of his son, and Dudley was far too anxious
for a good understanding between his own father and the family of his
betrothed, to solicit his interference, or even send news of his arrest
to the haughty earl. He dreaded the fiery indignation with which the
intelligence might be received, and even felt a sensation of relief when
he found his father’s seat vacant at the tribunal before which he was so
ignominiously arraigned. He was sensible that the Earl of Warwick, as
well as the duke, was willing to avail himself of any excuse which might
terminate the contract existing between himself and the Lady Jane. His
affection for the sweet girl was both sincere and ardent, and though he
felt the insult offered by her father with the irritation of a proud,
sensitive spirit, he suffered still more deeply from a consciousness
that she was a sharer in his trouble, and that the proceedings to which
he was an unwilling party were not only a degradation to his manhood but
liable to separate him from the object of his affections forever.
With these indignant and conflicting feelings the young nobleman
presented himself before the Lord Protector and the few councillors whom
he had gathered to his assistance—men who seemed but ill at ease in the
position which they held, and were in truth far more anxious to appease
the duke than to join him in rash measures against a family which had
already rendered itself fearful throughout the kingdom by the might of
its power. The artisan was there, craven and abject, yet with something
of insolence in his manner; but whether he was brought forward as a
witness or a prisoner the proud young man did not deign to inquire;
under any circumstances to be so associated was a cruel insult which
made the blood tingle in his veins. It was with a firm lip and an eye
darkling with subdued excitement that Lord Dudley placed himself before
the council table to be questioned like a criminal by the man he had
loved almost as a father. The duke seemed touched by some regretful
feelings, and a flush came up to his forehead as he encountered the
proud glance which was bent upon him by the prisoner. At another time he
would have shrunk from mingling the pure name of his child with an
investigation so strange in its nature—with questions which might even
endanger the honor of his name, but this consideration was lost in his
dislike of the Earl of Warwick—a man whom he feared and hated almost as
much as he could fear and hate mortal being. Ambition was the leading
characteristic of both—such ambition as at last rendered their strife
for power like the struggle of two gladiators in mortal combat. They
were bold combatants, and hitherto the strife had been a quiet and
subtle one. Now a kingdom was looking on. Somerset had sprung into the
arena, struck the first blow, and he was well aware that his station and
power depended on the victory which he was contending for—that Warwick
must be driven from the council of the nation or himself from the
protectorship. He little knew how still and subtle had been the windings
of his enemy, and with how deep a triumph he received the news of his
son’s arrest. We have said that Dudley had caught one glimpse of his
betrothed on his way to the council, and for her sake he condescended to
answer, with haughty calmness, the questions propounded by her father.
His account of the share he had taken in the St. Margaret’s riot was
simple, and given in few words.
He had sallied forth, as usual, on his morning ride with the ordinary
number of attendants and without the most remote suspicion that any
disturbance was threatened. He described the manner in which he had
become entangled with the crowd, but avoided all mention of the Lady
Jane till called upon by her father to state how she came under his
protection. He explained all about the condition in which he had found
her—the struggle with which she was conducted through the crowd—their
entrance to the church and every thing that transpired till the poor
girl was exposed to public outrage by the violence of her own parent.
There was truth and dignity in the young man’s statement, which, against
his will, convinced the duke of his injustice. But he had already
proceeded too far, and he felt that to leave the charge against his
prisoner unsubstantiated was to make himself still more unpopular with
the people, and fling a fearful power into the hands of his rival.
Family affection, his daughter, everything was forgotten in the strife
to maintain his tottering power, and though his eye quailed and his brow
crimsoned as he perpetrated the insult, that cringing artisan was called
forward to disprove the solemn statement of a high born and honorable
man.
Lord Dudley turned very pale and drew back with a stern brow and folded
arms as the wretch gave his infamous story. The artisan had enough of
low born cunning to see that any statement, calculated to implicate the
noble youth, would be received as an atonement for the base fraud which
he had committed, and persisted in the assertions that he had previously
made. When the jewels and the ring were produced he turned, like a
coward hound, from the stern glance fixed on him by the young noble, but
still in a tone of low bravado, asserted that the ring had been given by
the Lady Jane, and that Lord Dudley had rewarded his exertions in
bringing them together with the emeralds.
Lord Dudley shut his teeth hard and folded his arms more tightly, as if
to repress an impulse to smite the worm where he stood, but turning his
flashing eyes from the miscreant to the Duke of Somerset he once more
forced himself to composure. The artisan proceeded to substantiate his
evidence by assertions regarding the manner and words of the lady, and
was going on adding falsehood to falsehood, when the gentle girl, whom
he so cruelly aspersed, opened the door and glided into the room. She
moved forward to a chair which stood directly in front of the wretch,
and grasping the back with her hand, stood regarding him with a look of
calm and almost solemn indignation. So noiseless was her entrance that
she had been more than a minute in the room before those assembled there
became conscious of her presence. As the perjured man lifted his eyes in
uttering a sentence, they met the rebuke of that calm glance and quailed
beneath it. He faltered in what he was saying and shrunk back to avoid
the frown of her innocent presence. When the duke saw his child standing
before him, her robe hastily girt round her person, her hair wound in a
heavy web over her head, and her sweet face bearing upon each feature
evidence of late and bitter suffering, he started to his feet with an
exclamation of displeasure and would have demanded the cause of her
intrusion, but the change which had fallen upon her was so great that he
stood gazing upon her face, lost in a degree of astonishment that had
something of awe in it. He could scarcely believe that the face so calm,
so pale and resolute, was that of his quiet and child-like daughter. The
fountains of a resolute and noble heart had been troubled for the first
time, and their overflow left upon her face an expression that never
left it again—the impress of such thoughts and feelings as exalt and
strengthen the heart they wring. The Lady Jane had become suddenly
capable of acting for herself.
“Father,” she said, turning her large eyes from the perjurer to his
judge, “Father, I have heard enough to prove how base a thing may be
dared even in the presence of a parent; that man has spoken falsely, the
ring which you hold was taken from my finger when I lay helpless, and so
terrified that I was almost unconscious of the loss, and only remember
now as in a dream that a strange grasp was on my hand, a wrench that
pained me; then I fainted and forgot all till my mother spoke of the
ring a few moments since in my chamber. The emeralds my Lord Duke—” she
hesitated a moment and her eyes filled as if with regret that she had
uttered so cold a tittle, “the emeralds—my father, were not Lord
Dudley’s but my mother’s gift, and I bound my hair with them yesterday
morning when I went forth according to your command to take the air;
they must have broken loose from my head, for behold here is a proof
that they were my own and not Lord Dudley’s.”
As she spoke the Lady Jane unbound the rich masses of her hair, which
had not been smoothed since the previous day, and disentangled a
fragment of the emerald band which still sparkled within it. They were
broad smooth gems linked together with its delicate chain work of gold,
and each with a fanciful device cut upon its surface. One of those which
the duke held, still remained firm in its setting, a link or two of the
chain adhered to it, and those links corresponded in size and
workmanship with the fragment which Lady Jane had taken from her hair.
“Still,” said the Duke of Somerset, willing to exculpate his daughter,
but determined at all hazards to make good his charge against Dudley,
“still does this in no way clear the prisoner from his participation in
the riot. We saw him with our own eyes amid the mob, we—”
The duke broke off suddenly, for as the last words left his lips, the
closet door was flung open and a tall man, almost regally arrayed, and
of imperious presence, entered the room. He cast one quick glance at the
Lord Protector, from under his eyebrows, and moving tranquilly to a
chair by the council table sat down.
“Go on, my lord duke; I am rather late, but do not let my entrance
disturb these august proceedings,” he said, blandly, though there was a
slight trembling of the voice which told how tumultuous were the
passions concealed beneath all that elaborate and courteous display of
words.
The Duke bowed stiffly, and his face was crimson to the temples. Lord
Dudley grew pale and red by turns, half disposed to approach his father,
and as yet uncertain that he was aware of the position in which he was
placed before the council. The Lady Jane trembled visibly and grasped
the chair against which she stood for support, while the councillors
looked in each other’s faces confused and at a loss how to act.
All this time Warwick sat with his elbow resting on the table,
supporting his chin with the palm of his bent hand, and gazing with a
doubtful smile, quietly into the duke’s face, as if they had been the
best friends on earth.
“Go on, my lord duke, go on,” he said slightly waving his right hand,
“Pray do not allow my late and abrupt entrance to interrupt the flow of
your grace’s eloquence.”
“Excuse me,” replied the duke, rising from his seat, “this subject must
be a painful one, alike to your Lordship and myself. We scarcely
expected the Earl of Warwick would choose to meet us in council this
morning.”
“And therefore did not summon him to the examination of his son and
heir. It was kindly managed, my lord duke, very kindly; be assured the
earl of Warwick will not forget this delicacy. Nor will the king, whom I
left but now, so deeply impressed with the generous care which your
grace bestows on the honor of my humble house, that he has summoned such
noblemen of your council as were deemed worthy of the generous silence
with which your grace has honored me, to meet him at Somerset House,
where, with permission, I will have the pleasure of conducting my son.”
There was cool and cutting irony in this speech which would have lashed
the exciteable protector to fury, but for the startling intelligence
which it conveyed, regarding the young king. This so over-powered him
that he sat pale and with gleaming eyes gazing on the composed and
smiling features of the earl, speechless and for a moment bereft of all
presence of mind.
Without seeming to notice the effect his speech had made on the
protector, Warwick arose, threw back his velvet cloak with a careless
toss that exposed the sable facings, and smoothing the folds over his
shoulder with elaborate care, as if no deeper thought than that of
personal appearance entered his mind, approached Lord Dudley and taking
his arm seemed about to conduct him from the room without further
ceremony.
“My Lord of Warwick,” exclaimed Somerset starting to his feet and
suddenly finding voice, “that young man is a prisoner under arrest for
treason, and shall not leave this presence save with a guard of armed
men.”
“This young man is my prisoner, under the king’s warrant, and he not
only leaves this room without other guard than his father’s arm, but
denies the right of any man here, to question or retain him.”
The Earl of Warwick turned as he spoke, and for the first time that day,
all the haughty fire of his soul burst into the usually quiet but fine
black eyes, which dwelt upon the Lord Protector’s face.
“What—what means this? am I to be braved at my own council table? I—”
The Earl of Somerset broke off, for so intense was his rage, that words
were denied him, and specks of foam rushed up to his white lips in their
place.
“No, my lord duke,” replied Warwick, once more recovering the composure
which he seldom lost, even in moments of the deepest excitement, “not at
your own council table; that no longer exists. The council of this
nation is sitting now at Somerset House, and _I_ preside there by a
choice of the majority, and by desire of King Edward.”
The Duke of Somerset fell back in his chair as if a sudden blow had
stunned him, and shading his pale face with his scarcely less pallid
hand, remained motionless and silent. The Lady Jane sprang to his side,
flung her arm around his neck, and as Lord Dudley broke from the hold
which Warwick placed on his arm, she put him calmly away with her
disengaged hand. Then lifting her face to the earl, she said, “Your work
is done. Leave my father to those who love him.” For one moment a shade
of feeling swept over Warwick’s face, but it was instantly banished, and
a courteous inclination of the head was all the reply he made. After a
moment he turned to the few councillors still retaining their seats in
silent consternation, and invited them in the name of King Edward and
their colleagues, sitting at Somerset House, to join himself and son
there.
There was a brief and whispered consultation around the board; then all,
save one man arose, casting furtive glances at the fallen protector, as
if they were anxious to escape from his presence unnoticed. The duke
lifted his head, and a smile of mingled bitterness and pain passed over
his pale features as he saw this movement of his friends. The Lady Jane
too, blanched a little whiter and lifted her large clear eyes with an
expression of painful astonishment, as if her generous nature could
scarcely force itself to believe the selfishness with which she was
surrounded.
With cringing and noiseless steps, those men whom Somerset had deemed
his true and tried friends, those that would cling to him through good
and through evil report—had glided from his presence and stood in the
corridor, consulting together in whispers and waiting anxiously for
Warwick to come forth, that they might offer him their support unchecked
by the presence of the fallen noble to whom, in his prosperity, they had
cringed with servile spirits, ready to kneel at any shrine which
possessed stepping stones for their own ambition.
One man there was, a gray-haired and frank old nobleman, poor and proud,
of a high name, but dignified in his poverty, who had never cringed to
the protector or flattered him in the plenitude of his power, but who
put away the hand which his antagonist extended as he passed round the
table and knelt down by the fallen duke, with a true homage which had
more of feeling in its silence than hours of protestation could have
conveyed. The duke had leaned forward to the table, and one hand was
pressed over his eyes, the other hung nervelessly by his side, and the
quivering lips of that brave old man—for he was braver in his moral
strength than a thousand battle heroes, went to his heart. One large
tear forced itself through his fingers, and dashing it away, the Duke of
Somerset arose a more dignified man in his adversity than he had ever
been in prosperity.
“My Lord of Warwick,” he said, “this is your hour of triumph—how
obtained your own heart can best reply.”
“No, your grace’s rashness is my answer,” interrupted Warwick, with a
bland and courteous inclination, “but I have no time for cavil and
recrimination. The king is waiting, and methinks there has been enough
of high words for a lady’s presence. Lady Jane, we should all crave
pardon for discussing state affairs in so gentle a presence. Permit my
son to lead you from the room.”
The young girl looked up and hesitated, then drawing nearer to the duke,
she said very mildly—
“My father will permit me to stay. That which concerns him cannot be
improper for his daughter to witness.”
The earl seemed embarrassed by her refusal, but after a moment resumed
his usual composed manner.
“Forgive me,” he said, “if I am compelled to perform the first duty of
my office in a manner which might have been avoided,” and stepping to
the door, the Earl of Warwick beckoned with his hand to some persons in
the corridor. Instantly three men, whom Somerset knew, entered the
closet, and there at his own council table, and in the presence of his
child, arrested him for treason.
A death-like stillness reigned throughout the room for the duration of a
minute after the warrant was read. Until this moment Dudley had remained
inactive, confused and uncertain how to interfere in a scene which
seemed passing before him like a wild dream, but now he stepped forward
firmly and with the air of a man resolved to act from his own honest
impulses at all hazards.
“My lord,” he said, addressing his father, “you will not proceed to such
extremities against an old friend.”
Warwick looked in his son’s face, and a slight sneer curled his lip as
he muttered, “old friends, indeed—well.”
“I am certain,” resumed Dudley, “your own honorable heart must revolt at
an act so cruel. If the Duke of Somerset has offended the king let his
majesty find some other person than the Earl of Warwick to proceed
against him, lest those who deem that there is little of friendly
feeling between the houses of Somerset and Warwick, may impute other
motives than a love of justice to the prosecution.”