The scene that ensued I will not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say

I retired that night with a whirl of strange emotions at my heart. Was

it Love?

* * * * *

A SONG.

BY J. R. LOWELL.

Violet! sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet

Even yet

With the thought of other years,

Or with gladness are they full,

For the night so beautiful,

And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved one of my youth thou wast,

Of my merry youth,

And I see,

Tearfully,

All the fair and sunny past,

All its openness and truth,

Ever fresh and green in thee

As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love

Grown colored like the sky above,

On which thou lookest ever,

Can it know

All the woe

Of hope for what returneth never,

All the sorrow and the longing

To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining

For the sky

Dims thine eye,

Or for the stars so calmly shining;

Like thee let this soul of mine

Take hue from that wherefor I long,

Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,

Not satisfied with hoping—but divine.

Violet! dear violet!

Thy blue eyes are only wet

With joy and love of him who sent thee,

And for the fulfilling sense

Of that glad obedience

Which made thee all which Nature meant thee!

* * * * *

COUSIN AGATHA.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

“O what a goodly outside falsehood hath.”—Shakspeare.

“I have been thinking, Henry, that I should like to invite cousin Agatha

to spend the winter with us: what do you say to my plan?”

“Really, Alice, I can say nothing about it, since I know nothing of the

lady.”

“Oh, I had forgotten that you had never seen her; she is only distantly

related to us, but being left an orphan at an early age, she became an

inmate of our family and continued to reside with us until she married.

Agatha is several years my senior, and entered society while I was yet

in the school-room; she married rather in opposition to the wishes of my

parents, as they approved neither of the profession nor the character of

her husband, who was an officer in the army, and known to be a man of

dissolute habits. Poor thing! she has fully paid the penalty of her

folly during seven years of poverty and discomfort. Her husband has been

sent from one frontier station to another, until the health of both was

destroyed, and at the time of his death they were both at Sackett’s

Harbor.”

“Then she is a widow?”

“Yes, her vile husband died about a year since, and cousin Agatha is

released from bondage, but reduced to actual penury. I received a letter

from her yesterday, the first she has written since my marriage, and she

alludes most touchingly to her desolate condition as contrasted with my

happiness.”

“And that letter, I suppose, induced you to think of inviting her to

spend the winter with us?”

“It did, Harry; for I felt as if it was almost selfish in me to be so

happy when my early friend was pining in loneliness and poverty.”

“I love the kindliness of feeling which prompts you to such acts, dear

Alice, but, to confess the truth, I would rather relieve your cousin’s

distresses in any other way.”

“But there is no other way of doing so, Henry—she would not accept

pecuniary aid from us: why do you object to her visit?”

“Because we are so happy that I dread any interruption to the calm

current of our life.”

“Thank you, dear Harry, I cannot find it in my heart to scold you for

your selfishness,” said the young wife, as she laid her hand on her

husband’s arm; “but really,” she continued, “Cousin Agatha would be the

last person in the world to disturb our tranquillity. She is full of

gentleness and sentiment; a creature of warm and affectionate impulses,

and she would delight in adding to our enjoyments. You know my health

will confine me to the house this winter, and you may find the long

evenings hang heavy upon your hands.”

“Not in your society, Alice.”

“I am glad you think so, Harry; but when I am languid and dispirited

from indisposition, you would find cousin Agatha a charming companion;

besides, she would relieve me from some of the cares of house-keeping.”

“Well, my dear, you offer so many good reasons in favor of her coming,

that I can find no argument against it, but I have a sort of a

presentiment that she will not be agreeable.”

“Oh, Harry, how can you think so? if you could see her you would change

your opinions very soon, for her picturesque appearance would charm your

artistical taste.”

“Is she very beautiful?”

“No, but she is just the person to please a painter, for there is so

beautiful a combination of light and shade in her face. She has those

grey eyes which, when fringed with long, dark lashes, are so full of

varied expression, and her hair, black as the raven’s wing, falls in

heavy natural ringlets that put to shame the skill of a _coiffeur_.”

“May she not be altered since you saw her, Alice?”

“True, I had forgotten that more than five years have passed since we

last met; but, even if her person has changed, her heart, I am sure, has

not, and when you know her you will thank me for my pertinacity in thus

wringing your reluctant consent to her visit.”

“If you think it will add to your enjoyments, Alice, invite her by all

means.”

Alice Wentworth had been a wife scarcely two years, and her married life

had been a scene of uninterrupted happiness. Nothing would have induced

her to risk the disturbance of her tranquillity, but remembering the

companion of her early years as one who had been the confidant of all

her childish joys and sorrows, she looked upon her presence as the

completion of her plans of enjoyment. Her husband’s scruples she

naturally attributed to unfounded prejudice which an acquaintance with

her cousin could not fail to overcome, and, therefore, following the

dictates of kindly feeling, she determined to cheer the bereaved widow

by an affectionate letter of invitation.

Some three weeks after she had despatched her missive, at an early hour,

on a cold autumnal morning, a carriage drove up to the door, and a loud

ring announced the expected guest. Alice had not yet finished her

morning toilet, and Mr. Wentworth hastened down to receive the lady; but

scarcely had he got through the awkwardness of a self-introduction when

his wife entered, full of impatience to embrace her early friend. During

the mutual raptures of their meeting, he had leisure to scrutinize the

new inmate of his family, and certainly his impressions were any thing

but favorable. Cousin Agatha had taken a violent cold, her countenance

was disfigured by a swollen cheek, and her eyes were bleared and

inflamed by a severe attack of influenza, while the effect of steamboat

slumbers and a steamboat toilet did not tend to the improvement of her

appearance. Indeed Harry Wentworth could scarcely refrain from laughter

when he contrasted his wife’s enthusiastic description with the reality

before him. But Alice, with ready hospitality, conducted her cousin to

her apartment, and to that room the wearied traveller, overcome with

illness and fatigue, was confined during the several succeeding days.

“When will your friend be presentable, Alice?” asked Mr. Wentworth one

evening as he threw himself upon a sofa, after tea, “since she has been

here you have not sat with me a half hour, for your whole time seems

devoted to nursing.”

“I hope she will be well enough to meet you at dinner to-morrow, Harry;

the swelling has left her face and she begins to look like herself. What

amuses you so much?” she asked, as her husband burst into a loud laugh.

“I was thinking of the force of contrast, Alice; you are an excellent

painter, dear, but you draw your tints too exclusively from fancy; who

could have recognized your _picturesque beauty_ with soft _grey eyes_

and _raven curls_ in the dowdyish looking woman with red nose and redder

eyes whom I welcomed as cousin Agatha?”

“For shame, Harry, you ought not to judge of her by her appearance at

that time.”

“Perhaps not; but first impressions are the most durable, and I shall

never see any beauty in your cousin, for even if she should hereafter

appear to advantage when dressed for display, I shall never forget how

she looked in her travelling dishabille; one thing you may be sure of,

Alley, you will never have cause to be jealous of your _picturesque_

cousin.”

“I don’t mean to be jealous of any one, Harry, but I shall be much

mistaken if you do not learn to admire cousin Agatha.”

“Then you may prepare yourself for a disappointment, Alice; I do not

think I should feel perfectly satisfied with any one who had thus broken

in upon our tranquil happiness, and even if I were disposed to like your

cousin elsewhere she would not please me in our quiet home. Besides, I

was disappointed in my idea of her personal beauty, and her manners

appeared to me abrupt and inelegant.”

“Harry, you never were more mistaken in your life.”

“Well, well—it will be difficult to convince me of my error.” A slight

rustle at the door was heard as Mr. Wentworth finished his ungallant

speech, and the next moment cousin Agatha entered.

“I thought I would endeavor to make my way to the drawing-room instead

of depriving you any longer of the society of your husband, dear Alice,”

said she as she languidly sank into the softly-cushioned chair which Mr.

Wentworth drew forward for her accommodation. Of course the usual

congratulations followed, and as the invalid dropped the heavy shawl

from her shoulders, Alice glanced towards her husband in the hope that

he would not fail to observe the symmetry of her petite figure. He was

too great an admirer of beauty to fail in such notice, yet still he

could see little to claim admiration in her face. Her complexion was not

clear; her mouth, though well formed and adorned with superb teeth, was

large, and her eyes were dim from recent illness, while her curls were

hidden beneath one of those fairy fabrics of gossamer and ribbon which

often display the taste of the wearer at the expense of a crowning

beauty. But, ere the evening had expired, Mr. Wentworth was forced to

acknowledge that he had formed too hasty an opinion of her manners, for,

whatever _brusquerie_ he might have observed on the morning of her

arrival, he was certainly struck now by the easy elegance and graceful

dignity of her deportment.

From this time cousin Agatha laid aside the character of an invalid,

and, quietly taking her place at the table and fireside, seemed to have

no other wish than to make herself useful. Devoted in her attentions to

Alice, she took little notice of Mr. Wentworth except to receive his

courteous civility with profound gratitude. He was nothing more to her

than the husband of her friend, and while she exhibited the deepest

interest in the development of Alice’s mind and feelings, she seemed

scarcely to observe the fine taste, the elegant scholarship, and the

nobleness of sentiment which characterized Mr. Wentworth. Alice suffered

no small degree of mortification from this evident coldness between

those whom she was so anxious to behold friends. She could not bear to

find Agatha so totally blind to the perfections of her beloved Henry,

and she was almost as much annoyed at her husband’s indifference to the

graces of her cousin.

“You are pained because I do not sufficiently admire your husband,

Alice,” said Agatha, one day, when they were alone, “but surely you

would not have me estimate him as highly as you do?”

“I would not have you love him quite as well, but I would have you

appreciate his exalted qualities.”

“My dear coz,” said Agatha, with a slightly sarcastic smile, “do not, I

pray you, make it one of the conditions of our friendship that I should

see through your eyes. Mr. Wentworth is a fine scholar, a tolerable

amateur painter, and a most ardent lover of his pretty wife; is that not

sufficient praise?”

Alice felt uncomfortable, though she could scarcely tell why, at this

and similar remarks from cousin Agatha. She had been accustomed to

consider her husband a being of superior worth and endowments, but there

was something in her cousin’s manner of uttering commendation of him,

which seemed to imply contempt even while it expressed praise. In the

innocence of her heart, Alice several times repeated cousin Agatha’s

sayings to her husband, and they were not without their effect upon him.

The self-love which exists, more or less, in every heart, was by no

means a negative quantity in the character of Mr. Wentworth. He knew his

wife overrated his talents, but he loved her the better for her

affectionate flattery, and cousin Agatha’s apparent ignorance of his

character mortified and vexed him. He began to think that his prejudices

had prevented him from showing himself in a proper light, and his

wounded vanity led him to redouble his attentions to his guest.

Heretofore he had never thought of her except when in her company; but

now, the certainty that she was as yet blind to his merits, made her an

object of interest. He was not a very vain man, but his wife’s idolatry

had gratified even while he was fully aware of its extravagance, and he

was proportionably annoyed by the perfect coldness with which cousin

Agatha regarded him. She seemed to think him a very good sort of a man,

but not at all superior to the common herd, and he was determined to

convince her of her mistake. Agatha had succeeded in her first

design:—she had aroused him from the torpor of indifference.

Cousin Agatha was a most invaluable assistant to a young housekeeper,

for she had a quick hand, a ready invention, and exquisite taste, so

that whether a pudding was to be concocted, a dress trimmed, or a party

given, she was equally useful. Alice had learned the duties of

housekeeping theoretically and was now only beginning to put them in

practice, as every young wife must do, for whatever she may know in the

home of her childhood, she still finds much to be learned in organizing

and arranging a new household. Cousin Agatha, on the contrary, had been

trained from her childhood to _do_ all these things, for the dependent

orphan had early learned to earn her bread by her own usefulness. In the

course of her married life she had been compelled to practice the

thousand expedients which pride and poverty teach to a quick-witted

woman, and it is not surprising, therefore, that her skill should far

surpass that of the gentle and self-distrusting Alice. Doubting her own

knowledge only because Agatha was near to advise, the young wife applied

to her on all occasions, until at length the regulation of domestic

affairs was entirely in her hands, and Alice was left only to assist in

the execution of Agatha’s plans. Cousin Agatha was always busied in some

pretty feminine employment. She had very beautiful hands, and her long

taper fingers were always engaged in some delicate needle-work or an

elegant piece of tapestry. Did it ever occur to you, my fair reader,

that a pretty hand never appears to such advantage as when busied with

the needle? The piano extends the fingers until the hand sometimes

resembles a bird’s claw;—the pencil or the pen contracts it until half

its beauty is concealed; but needle-work, with the various turnings and

windings necessary to its accomplishment, displays both hands in

perfectly natural positions and in every variety of grace. This fact was

not unknown to cousin Agatha; she had no accomplishments, but she was

rarely seen without the tiniest of gold thimbles upon her slender

finger.

Slowly and by scarcely perceptible degrees, Agatha seemed to learn the

full value of the prize which her friend had drawn in the lottery of

life. His fine talents seemed to dawn upon her with daily increasing

vividness, his amateur sketches became more and more characterized by

genius, his musical taste developed itself surprisingly, and, ere many

weeks had elapsed, Alice had the satisfaction of repeating to her

husband many a heart-warm compliment breathed into the ear of the happy

wife by cousin Agatha in her hours of confidential communing with her

friend. Nor was Mr. Wentworth slower in discovering the latent charms of

his guest. Restored to her former health, and associating as the guest

of Mrs. Wentworth, in a pleasant circle of society, cousin Agatha threw

aside the weeds of widowhood, and appeared in all the attractive

coquetry of tasteful and becoming dress. Her luxuriant tresses were once

more allowed to shadow her low feminine brow, and fall upon her graceful

neck, or, if bound up in conformity with fashion, the very restraint was

studiously arranged in such a manner as to display their rich

redundancy. Her grey eyes sometimes seemed actually flashing with light,

and again were filled with the soft liquid lustre of intense

sensibility; and then her smile, displaying her brilliant teeth and

lighting up her whole face, had the effect of a sudden sunbeam upon a

darkened landscape. The charm of Agatha’s face was its vivid and varied

expression; the grace of her person was the effect of long and carefully

studied art. Not a look, not a gesture, not even a movement of her

fringed eyelids, but was the result of frequent practice. There was a

perfection of grace in her attitudes that seemed like Nature’s self. Her

head always assumed a pretty position, her curls always seemed to drop

in their proper place, her drapery always fell in becoming folds, and no

one observed that she was particular in avoiding cross lights,

especially careful not to face a broad glare of sunshine, and remarkably

fond of placing herself at the arm of a sofa, so as to obtain a fine

back ground for the exhibition of her attitudes. Harry Wentworth

wondered how he could ever have thought her ugly. And then her

manners:—what could be more gentle, more feminine, more fascinating

than the tenderness of her tones and the sweetness of her deportment?

She seemed to look upon gentlemen as if she felt all a woman’s

helplessness, and was willing to consider man as a “_chevalier sans peur

et sans reproche_,” born to be her natural protector. There was

something so pleading in the soft eyes which she lifted to the face of

the sterner sex, that few could resist their charm, and actually Harry

Wentworth was not one of those few.

Long before the time fixed for the termination of Agatha’s visit, Alice

had urged her to prolong her stay, and, when Mr. Wentworth added his

earnest entreaties, she was induced to promise that she would set no

other limit to its duration than such as circumstances might create. But

as week after week fleeted by, Alice began to doubt whether she had

acted wisely in making this request. She was ashamed to acknowledge even

to herself the feeling, but, somehow or other, she was not quite as

happy as she had been before cousin Agatha’s coming. She attributed it

to the nervous irritability from which she was now suffering, and

endeavored to think that when she should once more recover her health,

she would find her former enjoyment in Agatha’s society. But Agatha

sometimes made such singular remarks;—they were uttered with the utmost

simplicity and _naïveté_, her smile was full of sweetness, her tones

like the summer breeze when she spoke, and yet the import of her words

was excessively cutting and sarcastic. There was often an implied

censure in her manner of replying to Alice—not in the words themselves,

but rather in their application, which the young wife, sick and

dispirited, felt perhaps too keenly. Alice was uncomfortable and yet she

scarcely could tell why. A shadow was resting upon her path, and she

felt, although she saw it not, that there was a cloud in her sunny sky.

The idea that she was no longer absolutely essential to her husband’s

comfort sometimes crossed her mind. During the many hours which she was

obliged to spend in her own apartment, she found that Henry was fully

occupied with his game of chess, or his favorite book in company with

cousin Agatha, and though it seemed only a realization of her own

wishes, yet she was not prepared to find herself so entirely thrown into

the back-ground of the family picture.

At length Alice became a mother, and in the new emotions awakened in her

bosom, she forgot her vague feelings of discomfort. Mr. Wentworth was

too proud and happy to think of anything but his boy, and when Alice

beheld him bending over their cradled treasure with a feeling almost of

awe as well as love, she wondered how she could ever have felt unhappy

for a moment. Cousin Agatha seemed to share in all their joy, and in the

presence of the father she fondled and caressed the child as gracefully

as possible.

“Do you not think, Alice,” said she one day, as she sat with the babe

lying on her lap, while Wentworth bent fondly over it, “do you not think

your sweet little Harry resembles poor Charles Wilson?”

“No, indeed I do not,” exclaimed Alice, quickly, while the blood mounted

to her pallid cheek and brow.

“Well, I certainly see a strong likeness; there is the same peculiar

dimple in the chin, which neither you nor Mr. Wentworth have, and even

the color of his eyes reminds me of Charles,” said cousin Agatha.

“His eyes are like his father’s,” said Alice, “and nothing is more

common than to see in the face of a child a dimple which entirely

disappears in later life.”

“Well, Alice, dear, I did not mean to awaken any painful reminiscence by

my remark; I did not know you were so sensitive on the subject.” These

words were uttered in the blandest tones, and the sweet smile which

accompanied them was as beautiful as a sunbeam on a troubled sea; but

Alice felt both pained and vexed. Agatha had recurred to the only

unpleasant recollections of her whole life, and she could not determine

whether it had been done by design, or was merely the result of

thoughtlessness. The remark had not been without its effect upon Mr.

Wentworth. He saw with surprise the evident vexation of his wife at the

mention of Charles Wilson’s name, and while he feared to ask an

explanation from her in her present feeble state of health, he

determined to satisfy his curiosity by appealing to cousin Agatha.

“Did you never hear of Charles Wilson?” exclaimed Agatha, in great

apparent surprise, when, a few hours afterwards, he asked the question.

“Never until I heard you mention him,” was the reply.

“Then I ought not to tell you anything about him, because I cannot

betray the confidence of a friend.”

“But as a friend I entreat you to tell me.”

“It is impossible, Mr. Wentworth:—what Alice has thought best to

conceal I certainly will not disclose: strange that she should not have

told you; there certainly ought to be the most perfect confidence

between husband and wife.”

“Agatha, you have excited such a painful interest in the secret,

whatever it is, that I must know it.”

“You will not betray me to Alice if I tell you?”

“Certainly not, if secrecy be the only condition on which I can learn

the truth.”

“And you promise not to think harshly of poor Alice?”

“It would be strange if I should think other than well of one whose

purity of heart is so well known to me.”

“Well, then,” replied the insidious woman, with a slight, a very slight

sneer on her lip, “since you have such undoubting faith in your wife

there can be no harm in telling you. But really we are making a great

affair of a very trifling occurrence. Charles Wilson was a clerk to

Alice’s father, and while she was yet at school, he made love to her in

the hope of enticing her into a clandestine marriage. Alice was only

about fifteen, and like all girls of her age was delighted with a first

lover. He lived in the house with, us, and of course enjoyed many

opportunities of meeting her, so that before we knew anything about it,

an elopement was actually planned. I happened to discover it, and as my

duty required, I made it known to her parents. The consequence was that

Wilson was dismissed and Alice sent to boarding-school; I dare say she

has thanked me for it since, though then she could not forgive me. You

look pained, Mr. Wentworth. I hope my foolish frankness has not made you

unhappy. I really thought it such a childish affair that I felt no

hesitation in alluding to it to-day, supposing that Alice had lost all

sensitiveness about it, and I was never more surprised than by her

evident agitation. However, I confess I was wrong; I ought to have known

that an early disappointment is not easily forgotten even in the midst

of happiness.”

“How long since this happened?” asked Mr. Wentworth.

“Just before I was married—I suppose about eight years ago; I wonder

Alice did not tell you the whole story, but she is such a timid creature

that I suppose she could not summon courage enough to be perfectly frank

with you.”

Wentworth made no reply, but the poisoned arrow had reached its mark.

His confidence in his wife was shaken; he had not been the first love of

her young heart,—she had loved and been beloved,—she had plighted her

faith even in her girlhood, and the creature whom he believed to be as

pure in heart as an infant, had narrowly escaped the degradation of a

clandestine marriage with an inferior. He was shocked and almost

disgusted; he felt heartsick, and even the sight of his child, connected

as it now was with the similitude of the early lover, was painful to

him. He recalled a thousand trifling circumstances which would pass by

unheeded but for cousin Agatha’s kind attempts to explain Alice’s

meaning, and all now corroborated his suspicions of his wife’s perfect

sincerity. The more he discussed the matter with Agatha, the more

dissatisfied did he become with Alice; and in proportion as she fell in

his estimation the frank and noble character of Agatha arose. There was

a high-toned sentiment about her, a sense of honor and an intensity of

feeling which added new charms to her expressive countenance and

graceful manners. Wentworth was not _in love_ with Agatha, but he was a

little _out of love_ with his wife, and the constant presence of such a

fascinating woman, at such a moment, was certainly somewhat dangerous.

More than once he caught himself regretting that Alice was not more like

her cousin, and long before Alice was well enough to leave her

apartment, he had become quite reconciled to her absence from the

drawing-room. Alice felt his increasing neglect, but she dared not allow

herself to attribute it to its true cause. Cousin Agatha was so kind, so

attentive to her, and studied so much the comfort of Mr. Wentworth, that

she almost hated herself for the growing dislike which she was conscious

of feeling towards her.

One day, about two months after the birth of her babe, Alice, who had

been suffering from a slow fever, felt so much better that she

determined to surprise her husband by joining him at dinner. Wrapping a

shawl about her, she slowly proceeded down stairs, and finding the

drawing-room door partly open, entered so silently as not to disturb the

occupants of the apartment. Mr. Wentworth was lying on a sofa, while

cousin Agatha sat on a low ottoman beside him, with one hand threading

the mazes of his bright hair, while the other was clasped in his. The

face of Agatha was hidden from her, but the wretched wife beheld the

eyes of her husband upturned towards it with the most vivid expression

of fondness and passion. Her very soul grew sick as she gazed; she

turned to glide from the room and fell senseless on the threshold. Weeks

had elapsed ere she recovered her consciousness. The sudden shock which

her weakened nerves had sustained, produced inflammation of the brain,

and for many an anxious day her husband watched beside her sick bed,

dreading lest every hour should be her last. She lay in a state of

stupor, and her first signs of returning consciousness was the shiver

that ran through her frame when the voice of cousin Agatha struck upon

her ear.

Mr. Wentworth was conscience-stricken when, aroused by the sound of her

fall, he had beheld Alice lying lifeless on the floor. He uttered not a

word of enquiry, but he readily divined the cause of her condition, and,

as he bore her to her apartment, he almost hated himself for the brief

delirium in which his senses had been plunged. He could not be said to

love Agatha, but her fascinations had not been without their effect upon

his ardent nature. He did not attempt to analyse his feelings, but

yielding to the spell which enthralled him, abandoned himself to the

enjoyment of her blandishments. Hour after hour had he spent in

listening to the false sentiment which fell from her lips in the most

honied accents,—evening after evening had he consumed in attending her

to parties of pleasure,—day after day had been bestowed on the

completion of her portrait, while Alice was left to the solitude of her

sick room. But now, when he beheld her stricken down at his very feet,

the scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and his infidelity of heart

appeared to him in all its true wickedness. The toils which the

insidious Agatha had woven about him were broken as if by magic, and his

wife, his long-suffering, wronged Alice was dearer to him than all the

world beside. He watched by her with all the kindness of early

affection, and well did he understand her abhorrent shudder at the

presence of Agatha. His devoted attention and the _adieus_ of cousin

Agatha, who now found it necessary to terminate her visit, had no small

share in restoring Alice to convalescence.

Alice was slowly regaining health and strength; the faint tint of the

wild-rose was once more visible on her thin cheek, and her feeble step

had again borne her to the room so fraught with painful remembrances.

But far different were the feelings with which she now revisited that

neglected apartment. Cousin Agatha was gone,—she was once more alone

with her husband, and with true womanly affection she willingly forgot

his past errors in his present tenderness. But there were some things

yet to be explained before perfect confidence could exist between them.

The serpent had been driven from their Paradise, but its trail had been

left on many a flower;—the shadow of distrust still lay dark upon the

pleasant paths of domestic peace, and yet both shrunk from uttering the

mystic word which might chase its gloom forever. But the moment of

explanation came. A letter from cousin Agatha was placed in the hands of

Alice, and repressing the shudder with which she looked upon it, she

proceeded to peruse it; but scarcely had she read three lines, when,

with an exclamation of surprise, she handed it to her husband, and

telling him it interested him no less than herself, begged him to read

it aloud. It was as follows:

“My sweet Cousin,

“I write to repeat my thanks for the exceeding kindness and

hospitality which I received while an inmate of your family. I

feel especially bound to do this, because, as I am on the point

of embarking for France, I may be unable for several years to

offer my acknowledgments in person. You are doubtless surprised,

but you will perhaps be still more so when I tell you that I am

going to join _my husband_. Our marriage took place more than a

year since, but we thought it prudent to conceal it both on

account of my then recent widowhood, and because my husband was

not then of age. His guardian was opposed to his union with your

penniless cousin, and he was sent off on a European tour to

avoid me; but we were secretly married before his departure, and

as he has now attained his majority, he has written to me to

meet him in Paris, where I hope to find that domestic felicity

which I failed to derive from my former unhappy connection. By

the way, my dear Alice, I fancied, when I was at your house,

that there was some little coldness existing between you and

your husband. I sincerely hope that I was mistaken, and that it

was my love for you which rendered me too observant of the

little differences which frequently occur in married life. I

think Mr. Wentworth was piqued about your early engagement with

Charles Wilson; you had better explain the matter to him and he

will probably find as little cause for his jealousy as, I assure

you, there was for yours. Don’t pout, dear Alice, you certainly

_were_ a little jealous of me, but I only flirted harmlessly

with your husband _pour passer le temps_; and perhaps a little

out of revenge. I wanted to try whether a ‘_little dowdyish

red-nosed woman_’ could have any attractions for him.”

“By Jupiter! she must have been listening at the door when I was

discussing the subject of her ill-looks just after her arrival,”

exclaimed Mr. Wentworth.

“Yes, and mortified vanity will account for her well-practised

seductions, Harry,” said Alice; “but let us hear the end of this

precious epistle.” Mr. Wentworth resumed:

“I hope he has fallen into his old habits again and is as fond

and lover-like as I found him on my arrival. One piece of advice

I must give you, my sweet Alice; do not trust him too much with

those who have greater powers of fascination than his little

wife, for believe me, he possesses a very susceptible nature. Do

not be such a good spouse as to show him my letter. Remember I

write to you with my usual impudent frankness. Kiss little Harry

for me and remember me most kindly to your amiable husband.

“Ever your devoted friend and cousin,

“Agatha.”

“P.S. Can I send you any _nicknackery_ from Paris? I shall be

delighted to be of service to you.”

“Well, that is as characteristic a letter as I ever read,” exclaimed

Wentworth as he flung it on the table; “how adroitly she mingles her

poison with her sweetmeats; and how well she has managed to affix a

sting at the last: I wonder whom she has duped into a marriage.”

“Some foolish boy, doubtless, for she speaks of him as being just of

age, while she will never again see her thirtieth summer,” said Alice;

“but what does she mean Harry about my early engagement with Charles

Wilson? He was a clerk to my father.”

“She told me a long story Alice about a proposed elopement between you

and this said Charles Wilson which had been prevented by her

interference.”

“Good Heavens! Harry how she must have misrepresented the affair. Wilson

was in papa’s employ and probably fancied it would be a good speculation

if he could marry his employer’s daughter. He became exceedingly

troublesome to me by his civilities, and finally made love to me in

plain terms, when I communicated the whole affair to cousin Agatha, and

begged her to tell papa of it, because I was such a child that I was

ashamed to tell him myself. She did so, and Wilson was dismissed; but I

was then only a school girl.”

“You seemed so agitated when she recurred to the subject that I readily

believed her story.”

“I was vexed, Harry, because she insinuated that there was a likeness

between our dear boy and that vulgar fellow.”

“How I have been deceived by a fiend in the form of an angel,” exclaimed

Wentworth; “we should have been saved much suffering if she had never

entered our doors.”

“Indeed we should, Harry, and I shall never cease to reproach myself for

my folly in introducing such a serpent into our Elysium.”

“Your motives were kind and good, Alice; and though it has been to you a

severe lesson in the deceitfulness of the world, and to me a still more

painful one in the deceitfulness of my own heart, yet, I trust, that to

both of us it may not be without its salutary influences.”

* * * * *

TO HELEN IN HEAVEN.

I think of thee by night, love,

In visions of the skies,

When glories meet the sight, love,

That dazzle mortal eyes—

I think a waving cloud, love,

A golden cloud I see,

A half transparent shroud, love,

That moveth like to thee!

I hear a voice of singing,

A sound of rushing wings,

A joyous anthem ringing

As if from silver strings,

A chorus loudly swelling,

A low sweet voice alone—

And I know thou hast thy dwelling

Beneath the eternal throne.

A. A. J.

* * * * *

AN APPENDIX OF AUTOGRAPHS.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

In our November and December numbers we gave _fac-simile_ signatures of

no less than _one hundred and nine_ of the most distinguished American

_literati_. Our design was to furnish the readers of the Magazine with a

_complete_ series of Autographs, embracing a specimen of the MS. of

_each of the most noted among our living male and female writers_. For

obvious reasons, we made no attempt at classification or

arrangement—either in reference to reputation or our own private

opinion of merit. Our second article will be found to contain as many of

the _Dii majorum gentium_ as our first; and this, our third and last, as

many as either—although fewer names, upon the whole, than the preceding

papers. The impossibility of procuring the signatures now given, at a

period sufficiently early for the immense edition of December, has

obliged us to introduce this Appendix.

It is with great pleasure that we have found our anticipations

fulfilled, in respect to the _popularity_ of these chapters—our

individual claim to merit is so trivial that we may be permitted to say

so much—but we confess it was with no less surprise than pleasure that

we observed so little discrepancy of opinion manifested in relation to

the hasty critical, or rather gossiping observations which accompanied

the signatures. Where the subject was so wide and so necessarily

_personal_—where the claims of more than one hundred _literati_,

summarily disposed of, were turned over for re-adjudication to a press

so intricately bound up in their interest as is ours—it is really

surprising how little of dissent was mingled with so much of general

comment. The fact, however, speaks loudly to one point:—to the _unity

of truth_. It assures us that the differences which exist among us, are

differences not of real, but of affected opinion, and that the voice of

him who maintains fearlessly what he believes honestly, is pretty sure

to find an echo (if the speaker be not mad) in the vast heart of the

world at large.

[Illustration: signature of Chas. Sprague]

The “Writings of Charles Sprague” were first collected and published

about nine months ago, by Mr. Charles S. Francis, of New-York. At the

time of the issue of the book, we expressed our opinion frankly, in

respect to the general merits of the author—an opinion with which one

or two members of the Boston press did not see fit to agree—but which,

as yet, we have found no reason for modifying. What we say now is, in

spirit, merely a repetition of what we said then. Mr. Sprague is an

accomplished _belles-lettres_ scholar, so far as the usual ideas of

scholarship extend. He is a very correct rhetorician of the old school.

His versification has not been equalled by that of any American—has

been surpassed by no one, living or dead. In this regard there are to be

found finer passages in his poems than any elsewhere. These are his

chief merits. In the _essentials_ of poetry he is excelled by twenty of

our countrymen whom we could name. Except in a very few instances he

gives no evidence of the loftier ideality. His “Winged Worshippers” and

“Lines on the Death of M. S. C.” are _beautiful_ poems—but he has

written nothing else which should be called so. His “Shakspeare Ode,”

upon which his high reputation mainly depended, is quite a _second-hand_

affair—with no merit whatever beyond that of a polished and vigorous

versification. Its imitation of “Collins’ Ode to the Passions” is

obvious. Its allegorical conduct is mawkish, _passé_, and absurd. The

poem, upon the whole, is just such a one as would have obtained its

author an Etonian prize some forty or fifty years ago. It is an

exquisite specimen of mannerism without meaning and without merit—of an

artificial, but most inartistical style of composition, of which

conventionality is the soul,—taste, nature and reason the antipodes. A

man may be a clever financier without being a genius.

It requires but little effort to see in Mr. Sprague’s MS. all the

idiosyncrasy of his intellect. Here are distinctness, precision, and

vigor—but vigor employed upon _grace_ rather than upon its legitimate

functions. The signature fully indicates the general hand—in which the

spirit of elegant imitation and conservatism may be seen reflected as in

a mirror.

[Illustration: signature of Cornelius Mathews]

Mr. Cornelius Mathews is one of the editors of “Arcturus,” a monthly

journal which has attained much reputation during the brief period of

its existence. He is the author of “Puffer Hopkins,” a clever satirical

tale somewhat given to excess in caricature, and also of the

well-written retrospective criticisms which appear in his Magazine. He

is better known, however, by “The Motley Book,” published some years

ago—a work which we had no opportunity of reading. He is a gentleman of

taste and judgment, unquestionably.

His MS. is much to our liking—bold, distinct and picturesque—such a

hand as no one destitute of talent indites. The signature conveys the

hand.

[Illustration: signature of CharlesHoffman]

Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is the author of “A Winter in the West,”

“Greyslaer,” and other productions of merit. At one time he edited, with

much ability, the “American Monthly Magazine” in conjunction with Mr.

Benjamin, and, subsequently, with Dr. Bird. He is a gentleman of talent.

His chirography is not unlike that of Mr. Matthews. It has the same

boldness, strength, and picturesqueness, but is more diffuse, more

ornamented and less legible. Our _fac-simile_ is from a somewhat hurried

signature, which fails in giving a correct idea of the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Horace Greely]

Mr. Horace Greely, present editor of “The Tribune,” and formerly of the

“New-Yorker,” has for many years been remarked as one of the most able

and honest of American editors. He has written much and invariably well.

His political knowledge is equal to that of any of his

contemporaries—his general information extensive. As a _belles-lettres_

critic he is entitled to high respect.

His MS. is a remarkable one—having about it a peculiarity which we know

not how better to designate than as a _converse_ of the picturesque. His

characters are scratchy and irregular, ending with an _abrupt taper_—if

we may be allowed this contradiction in terms, where we have the

_fac-simile_ to prove that there is no contradiction in fact. All abrupt

MSS., save this, have square or _concise_ terminations of the letters.

The whole chirography puts us in mind of a _jig_. We can fancy the

writer jerking up his hand from the paper at the end of each word, and,

indeed, of each letter. What mental idiosyncrasy lies _perdu_ beneath

all this, is more than we can say, but we will venture to assert that

Mr. Greely (whom we do not know personally) is, _personally_, a very

remarkable man.

[Illustration: signature of Prosper M. Wetmore]

The name of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore is familiar to all readers of

American light literature. He has written a great deal, at various

periods, both in prose and poetry, (but principally in the latter) for

our Papers, Magazines and Annuals. Of late days we have seen but little,

comparatively speaking, from his pen.

His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz-Greene Halleck, but is by no means so

good. Its clerky flourishes indicate a love of the beautiful with an

undue straining for effect—qualities which are distinctly traceable in

his poetic efforts. As many as five or six words are occasionally run

together; and no man who writes thus will be noted for _finish_ of

style. Mr. Wetmore is sometimes very slovenly in his best compositions.

[Illustration: signature of Henry W.]

Professor Ware, of Harvard, has written some very excellent poetry, but

is chiefly known by his “Life of the Saviour,” “Hints on Extemporaneous

Preaching,” and other religious works.

His MS. is fully shown in the signature. It evinces the direct,

unpretending strength and simplicity which characterize the man, not

less than his general compositions.

[Illustration: signature of William B O. Peabody]

The name of William B. O. Peabody, like that of Mr. Wetmore, is known

chiefly to the readers of our light literature, and much more familiarly

to Northern than to Southern readers. He is a resident of Springfield,

Mass. His occasional poems have been much admired.

His chirography is what would be called beautiful by the ladies

universally, and, perhaps, by a large majority of the bolder sex.

Individually, we think it a miserable one—too careful, undecided,

tapering, and effeminate. It is not unlike Mr. Paulding’s, but is more

regular and more legible, with less force. We hold it as undeniable that

no man of _genius_ ever wrote such a hand.

[Illustration: signature of Epes Sargent]

Epes Sargent, Esq., has acquired high reputation as the author of

“Velasco,” a tragedy full of beauty as a poem, but not adapted—perhaps

not intended—for representation. He has written, besides, many very

excellent poems—“The Missing Ship,” for example, published in the

“Knickerbocker”—the “Night Storm at Sea”—and, especially, a fine

production entitled “Shells and Sea-Weeds.” One or two Theatrical

Addresses from his pen are very creditable _in their way_—but the way

itself is, as we have before said, execrable. As an editor, Mr. Sargent

has also distinguished himself. He is a gentleman of taste and high

talent.

His MS. is too much in the usual clerk style to be either vigorous,

graceful, or easily read. It resembles Mr. Wetmore’s but has somewhat

more force. The signature is better than the general hand, but conveys

its idea very well.

[Illustration: signature of W. Allston]

The name of Washington Allston, the poet and painter, is one that has

been long before the public. Of his paintings we have here nothing to

say—except briefly, that the most noted of them are not to our taste.

His poems are not all of a high order of merit; and, in truth, the

faults of his pencil and of his pen are identical. Yet every reader will

remember his “Spanish Maid” with pleasure, and the “Address to Great

Britain,” first published in Coleridge’s “Sybilline Leaves,” and

attributed to an English author, is a production of which Mr. Allston

may be proud.

His MS. notwithstanding an exceedingly simple and even boyish air, is

one which we particularly admire. It is forcible, picturesque and

legible, without ornament of any description. Each letter is formed with

a thorough distinctness and individuality. Such a MS. indicates caution

and precision, most unquestionably—but we say of it as we say of Mr.

Peabody’s, (a very different MS.) that no man of original genius ever

did or could habitually indite it under any circumstances whatever. The

signature conveys the general hand with accuracy.

[Illustration: signature of Alfred B Street]

Mr. Alfred B. Street has been long before the public as a poet. At as

early an age as fifteen, some of his pieces were published by Mr. Bryant

in the “Evening Post”—among these was one of much merit, entitled a

“Winter Scene.” In the “New-York Book” and in the collections of

American poetry by Messieurs Keese and Bryant, will be found many

excellent specimens of his maturer powers. “The Willewemoc,” “The Forest

Tree,” “The Indian’s Vigil,” “The Lost Hunter” and “White Lake” we

prefer to any of his other productions which have met our eye. Mr.

Street has fine taste, and a keen sense of the beautiful. He writes

carefully, elaborately, and correctly. He has made Mr. Bryant his model,

and in all Mr. Bryant’s good points would be nearly his equal, were it

not for the sad and too perceptible stain of the imitation. That he has

imitated at all—or rather that, in mature age, he has persevered in his

imitations—is sufficient warrantry for placing him among the men of

talent rather than among the men of genius.

His MS. is full corroboration of this warrantry. It is a very pretty

chirography, graceful, legible and neat. By most persons it would be

called beautiful. The fact is, it is without fault—but its merits, like

those of his poems, are chiefly negative.

[Illustration: signature of R Penn Smith]

Mr. Richard Penn Smith, although, perhaps, better known in Philadelphia

than elsewhere, has acquired much literary reputation. His chief works

are “The Forsaken,” a novel; a pseudo-auto-biography called “Colonel

Crocket’s Tour in Texas;” the tragedy of “Caius Marius,” and two

domestic dramas entitled “The Disowned,” and “The Deformed.” He has also

published two volumes of miscellanies under the title of “The Actress of

Padua and other Tales,” besides occasional poetry. We are not

sufficiently cognizant of any of these works to speak with decision

respecting their merits. In a biography of Mr. Smith, however, very well

written by his friend Mr. McMichael of this city, we are informed of

“The Forsaken,” that “a large edition of it was speedily exhausted”—of

“The Actress of Padua,” that it “had an extensive sale and was much

commended”—of the “Tour in Texas,” that “few books attained an equal

popularity”—of “Caius Marius,” that “it has great capabilities for an

acting play,”—of “The Disowned” and “The Deformed,” that they “were

performed at the London theatres, where they both made a favorable

impression”—and of his poetry in general, “that it will be found

superior to the average quality of that commodity.” “It is by his

dramatic efforts,” says the biographer, “that his merits as a poet must

be determined, and judged by these he will be assigned a place in the

foremost rank of American writers.” We have only to add that we have the

highest respect for the judgment of Mr. McMichael.

Mr. Smith’s MS. is clear, graceful and legible, and would generally be

called a fine hand, but is somewhat too clerky for our taste.

[Illustration: signature of O. W. Holmes]

Dr. Oliver Wendel Holmes, of Boston, late Professor of Anatomy and

Physiology at Dartmouth College, has written many productions of merit,

and has been pronounced, by a very high authority, the best of the

humorous poets of the day.

His chirography is remarkably fine, and a quick fancy might easily

detect, in its graceful yet picturesque quaintness, an analogy with the

vivid drollery of his style. The signature is a fair specimen of the

general MS.

[Illustration: signature of G. W. Doane]

Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, is somewhat more extensively known in his

clerical than in a literary capacity, but has accomplished much more

than sufficient in the world of books to entitle him to a place among

the most noted of our living men of letters. The compositions by which

he is best known were published, we believe, during his professorship of

Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in Washington College, Hartford.

His MS. has some resemblance to that of Mr. Greely of “The Tribune.” The

signature is far bolder and altogether better than the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Albert Pike]

We believe that Mr. Albert Pike has never published his poems in book

form; nor has he written anything since 1834. His “Hymns to the Gods,”

and “Ode to the Mocking Bird,” being printed in Blackwood, are the chief

basis of his reputation. His lines “To Spring” are, however, much better

in every respect, and a little poem from his pen, entitled “Ariel,” and

originally published in the “Boston Pearl,” is one of the finest of

American compositions. Mr. Pike has unquestionably merit, and that of a

high order. His ideality is rich and well-disciplined. He is the most

_classic_ of our poets in the best sense of the term, and of course his

classicism is very different from that of Mr. Sprague—to whom,

nevertheless, he bears much resemblance in other respects. Upon the

whole, there are few of our native writers to whom we consider him

inferior.

His MS. shows clearly the spirit of his intellect. We observe in it a

keen sense not only of the beautiful and graceful but of the

picturesque—neatness, precision and general finish, verging upon

effeminacy. In force it is deficient. The signature fails to convey the

entire MS. which depends upon masses for its peculiar character.

[Illustration: signature of James McHenry]

Dr. James McHenry, of Philadelphia, is well known to the literary world

as the writer of numerous articles in our Reviews and lighter journals,

but, more especially, as the author of “The Antediluvians,” an epic poem

which has been the victim of a most shameful cabal in this country, and

the subject of a very disgraceful pasquinade on the part of Professor

Wilson. Whatever may be the demerits, in some regard, of this poem,

there can be no question of the utter want of fairness and even of

common decency which distinguished the Phillipic in question. The writer

of a _just_ review of the “Antediluvians”—the only tolerable American

epic—would render an important service to the literature o his country.

Dr. McHenry’s MS. is distinct, bold and simple, without ornament or

superfluity. The signature well conveys the idea of the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of R. S Nichols]

Mrs. R. S. Nichols has acquired much reputation of late years, by

frequent and excellent contributions to the Magazines and Annuals. Many

of her compositions will be found in our pages.

Her MS. is fair, neat and legible, but formed somewhat too much upon the

ordinary boarding-school model to afford any indication of character.

The signature is a good specimen of the hand.

[Illustration: signature of Rich^{d} A Locke]

Mr. Richard Adams Locke is one among the few men of _unquestionable

genius_ whom the country possesses. Of the “Moon Hoax” it is

supererogatory to say one word—not to know _that_ argues one’s self

unknown. Its rich imagination will long dwell in the memory of every one

who read it, and surely if

the worth of any thing

Is just so much as it will bring—

if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary composition in

any degree by its _effect_—then was the “Hoax” most precious.

But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We have seen—nay more—we

have heard him read—verses of his own which would make the fortune of

two-thirds of our poetasters; and he is yet so modest as never to have

published a volume of poems. As an editor—as a political writer—as a

writer in general—we think that he has scarcely a superior in America.

There is no man among us to whose sleeve we would rather pin—not our

_faith_ (of that we say nothing)—but our _judgment_.

His MS. is clear, bold and forcible—somewhat modified, no doubt, by the

circumstances of his editorial position—but still sufficiently

indicative of his fine intellect.

[Illustration: signature of RW Emerson.]

Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of gentlemen with whom we

have no patience whatever—the mystics for mysticism’s sake. Quintilian

mentions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once said to a pupil

“this is excellent, for I do not understand it myself.” How the good man

would have chuckled over Mr. E! His present _rôle_ seems to be the

out-Carlyling Carlyle. _Lycophron Tenebrosus_ is a fool to him. The best

answer to his twaddle is _cui bono?_—a very little Latin phrase very

generally mistranslated and misunderstood—_cui bono?_—to whom is it a

benefit? If not to Mr. Emerson individually, then surely to no man

living.

His love of the obscure does not prevent him, nevertheless, from the

composition of occasional poems in which beauty is apparent _by

flashes_. Several of his effusions appeared in the “Western

Messenger”—more in the “Dial,” of which he is the soul—or the sun—or

the shadow. We remember the “Sphynx,” the “Problem,” the “Snow Storm,”

and some fine old-fashioned verses entitled “Oh fair and stately maid

whose eye.”

His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible and irregular—although

sufficiently bold. This latter trait may be, and no doubt is, only a

portion of his general affectation.

[Illustration: signature of G C Verplanck]

The name of Gulian C. Verplanck has long been familiar to all American

readers, and it is scarcely necessary to say more than that we coincide

in the general view of his merits. His orations, reviews, and other

compositions all evince the cultivated belles-lettres scholar, and man

of intellect and taste. To high genius he has about the same claim as

Mr. Sprague, whom in many respects he closely resembles.

His chirography is unusually rambling and school-boyish—but has vigor

and precision. It has no doubt been greatly modified by adventitious

circumstances, so that it would be impossible to predicate anything

respecting it.

* * * * *

“DORCHESTER.”

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “ATALANTIS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” ETC.

[“Dorchester” was a beautiful little country town on the banks

of the river Keawah, now Ashley, about twenty miles from the

city of Charleston, in South Carolina. It was chiefly settled by

New Englanders. For a time it flourished and became a market

town of some importance. The planters of the neighborhood were

generally persons of substance, who lived in considerable state,

and exercised the virtues of hospitality in an eminent degree;

but with the war of the Revolution, in which it suffered

greatly, it began to decline, and its only remains now are the

ruins of its church and the open walls of the old British fort.

From a memorandum which I made during a visit to the spot in

1833, I take the following:—“The fort made of tapis—works

still in considerable preservation—the wood-work alone

decayed—the magazine in ruins—and the area overgrown with plum

trees. The church still standing—the steeple shattered by

lightning, and the wooden interior torn out—the roof beginning

to decay at the ends of the rafters. It will probably fall in

before very long.” This prediction was not permitted to be

verified. The fabric, I learn, has since been utterly destroyed

by an incendiary. Dorchester was distinguished by several

actions of partisan warfare during the Revolution It was, by

turns, a military depot of the Carolinians and the British.

These particulars will explain the little poem which follows.]

Not with irreverential thought and feeling I resign

The tree that was a chronicle in other days than mine;

Its mossy branches crown’d the grove, when, hastily array’d,

Came down the gallant partisan to battle in the shade;

It saw his fearless eye grow dark, it heard his trumpet cry,

When, at its roots, the combat o’er, he laid him down to die;

The warm blood gushing from his heart hath stain’d the sod below—

That tree shall be my chronicle, for it hath seen it flow!

Sweet glide thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks

The mossy oak and mossy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;

They crown thee in a fitting guise, since, with a gentle play,

Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak’st thy lonely way:

Thine is the Summer’s loveliness—thy Winter too hath charms,

Thus sheltered in thy mazy course beneath their Druid arms;

And thine the recollection old, which honors thy decline,

When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine.

But Dorchester is thine no more, its gallant pulse is still,

The wild cat prowls among its graves and screams the whippoorwill,

A mournful spell is on its homes, where solitude, supreme,

Still, coaching in her tangled woods, dreams one unbroken dream:

The cotter seeks a foreign home,—the cottage roof is down,

The ivy clambers all uncheck’d above the steeple’s crown;

And doubly gray, with grief and years, the old church tott’ring

stands,

Ah! how unlike that holy home not built with human hands!

These ruins have their story, and, with a reverent fear,

I glide beneath the broken arch and through the passage drear;

The hillock at my feet grows warm—beneath it beats a heart

Whose pulses wake to utterance, whose accents make me start;

That heart hath beat in battle, when the thunder-cloud was high,

And death, in every form of fate, careering through the sky;

Beside it now, another heart, in peace but lately known,

Beats with a kindred pulse, but hath a story of its own.

Ah! sad the fate of maiden whose lover falls in fight,

Condemned to bear, in widowhood, the lonely length of light;—

The days that come without a sun, the nights that bring no sleep;

The long, long watch, the weariness, the same, sad toil—to weep!

Methinks, the call is happiness, when sudden sounds the strain

That summons back the exiled heart of love to heaven again;—

No trumpet-tone of battle, but a soft note sweetly clear,

Like that which even now is heard when doves are wooing near.

* * * * *

THE TWO DUKES.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

One church and three dwelling houses, occupied by bishops, had already

been torn down to supply material for the magnificent palace which the

Duke of Somerset was erecting for himself in the Strand,—a sacrilege

which the populace were beginning to feel and resent, in a manner which

threatened some disturbance to the public peace. A rumor went abroad

that the Duke’s workmen had received his commands to repair to

Westminster on a certain day, in order to pull down the Church of St.

Margaret’s, and add its materials to those already so boldly wrested

from their sacred purposes.

The gray of a summer’s morning was yet hanging over the city, when a

large number of workmen, each wearing the Lord Protector’s badge,

gathered in detached parties about the Abbey. These men had been

employed in the destruction of St. Mary’s Church but a few days before,

and their coarse vestments were torn and covered with the lime and dust

which they had brought from the ruin, a mark of their late sacrilegious

employment, which brought upon them many a bitter taunt and frowning

look from the wayfarers, even before they entered the parish of

Westminster. So great was the manifestation of public resentment, that

each band of workmen, as it went along, drew close together, and

exhibited the pickaxes, crowbars, and other heavy tools of iron with

which they were armed, like soldiers compelled on an irksome duty, but

resolute to perform it. These men gathered slowly around the Abbey, and

waited for a larger body of working-men, who were expected to leave

their employment in the Strand and come to their assistance in a force

and number that might awe the people into quiet submission to the

injustice of their lord.

The morning wore on, but they still lingered about the church, trifling

with their heavy tools and talking together with some degree of anxiety,

for the expected aid had not yet arrived, and each instant the streets

and angles about the Abbey became more and more thronged with sullen and

discontented men, all with lowering brows and flashing eyes, bent

menacingly upon them.

Still the crowd increased. Men hurried to and fro eagerly and with

cloudy looks. The workmen gradually gathered in a close phalanx about

the little church, whispered anxiously together, and brandished their

tools with a faint show of defiance, yet seemed afraid or reluctant to

level them against the sacred pile which stood among that mass of eager

human beings in the cool morning light, quiet and tranquil as the spirit

of holiness that brooded over its altar.

Though the persons gathered about St. Margaret’s were considerable in

numbers, they were not yet condensed into a form that could justly be

termed a mob. The streets were alive, but not yet blocked up with

people. Men, and even women, might pass to and fro on ordinary business

without much fear of injury or interruption, but with a certainty of

being jostled and pushed about by the scattered stream of human life

that flowed toward the cathedral.

While the neighborhood of St. Margaret’s was in this unusual state, two

females, followed by more than an equal number of serving-men, each with

the Lord Protector’s badge upon his sleeve, came suddenly round a

corner, and, before they seemed aware of it, were encompassed by the

crowd, through which it seemed each instant more difficult to make a

free passage. The two females were muffled in their mantles, with the

hoods drawn so closely that it was difficult to distinguish their

features, or gather an idea of their station, save by a certain air of

dignity and refinement which hung about the shorter of the two, and

which no vestments could entirely conceal. Both this lady and her

companion seemed bewildered and terrified by the rush of human beings

with which they had become so strangely mingled. At first they attempted

to retrace their steps, but the street through which they had come was

now blocked up by a company of more than two hundred working-men, who

were coming up from their employment on the Strand, to assist in the

destruction of St. Margaret’s. When thus convinced that all hopes of

retreat were cut off, the female who had seemed most anxious to escape

the crowd, put forth a white and trembling hand from beneath her mantle

and drew the hood still more closely over her face, while the other in

her fright allowed the drapery to fall back from her head and exposed

the features of an elderly woman slightly wrinkled, and at the moment

pale as a corpse with apprehension. Her sharp black eyes were keen with

terror, and her wrinkled hands shook in a way that rendered the effort

to draw her hood forward one of considerable difficulty. The servitors

who followed these bewildered persons were but little annoyed by the

position which seemed so painful to them, but one, a tall insolent man,

held up his arm that all might see the Lord Protector’s badge, and

ordered those immediately around him to make way for a noble lady of the

Duke’s household to pass. He spoke loud and arrogantly, but the muffled

female grasped his arm, and while her words came gaspingly from excess

of fear, muttered—

“Dost thou not see how these men lower and frown upon us already?

Hearest thou not my noble father’s name bandied from lip to lip, and

each time with a curse coupled with it? Take down thy arm, good

Richard—muffle the sleeve within thy cloak and let us struggle forward

as we are best able.”

The serving-man hastened to obey this direction, and wrapped his arm in

the short cloak which had been allowed to float back from his shoulder.

This act was performed the more promptly as a score of burning eyes had

flashed back a stern admonition of danger when challenged by the

Somerset badge thus ostentatiously uplifted in their midst. Even as it

was, the man’s temerity might have been followed by violent

consequences, but that a deeper and more general object of resentment

presented itself in the body of workmen that had made its way up from

the Strand through the cross street which our little party had left but

a moment before, and now flung itself impetuously into the excited

crowd. The moment these men were seen pushing their way towards their

brethren gathered about St. Margaret’s, shouting defiance and pushing

the citizens about with their heavy iron-tools, the spirit of discord

broke loose like a wild beast from his cage. A hoarse shout thundered

through the air. The hitherto stern and silent multitude swayed round

and plunged forward, a mass of enraged, reckless, human life, eager to

trample down the body of men who came among them armed to do sacrilege

on the holy temple of their worship. When the first fierce cry of their

onset swept over the females whose movements we have recorded, the one

whose features were yet concealed grasped her companion’s arm, and,

shrieking with affright, sprang wildly on one side, forcing a passage to

the steps of a dwelling-house, where she sunk at the foot of a granite

pillar, panting like a wounded fawn beneath the drapery which still

concealed her person. Her attendants strove to follow her but were swept

away by the rushing multitude, and, spite of their struggles, forced

into the _mêlée_ raging between the citizens and the Somerset workmen.

These men fought their way valiantly. Keeping in a compact body they

resolutely cleared a path through the unarmed mob with their heavy

crowbars and pickaxes, which proved most effective weapons of defence.

The people goaded to fury by opposition rushed madly upon them, strove

to wrest away their weapons by brute force, and when that failed tore up

the pavement and hurled the massive stones furiously into their midst.

Many were wounded, more than one dropped down dead, crushed beneath the

deadly missiles which filled the air. The sweet breath of morning was

made terrible by the groans and cries and harsh sounds of hot-blooded

men, goaded to fury and fierce with a thirst for strife, which

threatened to deluge the torn pavements with blood and carnage.

The band of workmen which had already reached St. Margaret’s at first

essayed to aid their companions but it was impossible even to penetrate

the mob of citizens which separated the two parties, and they returned

to their station before the church, which the mob, in its blind

eagerness to attack the larger and more obnoxious party, had left almost

entirely at their mercy. Still their numbers were small, and the enraged

people so near at hand that but the lifting of an implement of

destruction would have placed them in imminent peril. So they remained

inactive, contenting themselves with a hope that Somerset, the Lord

Protector, would hear of the riot and come to his people’s rescue. Still

the fight raged on, the workmen were driven back, step by step, to a

cross street whence they had emerged, and which their numbers choked up,

forming a solid front, narrow and compact, which the assailants found

impossible to break and difficult to contend against, as few had the

hardihood to come within the sweep of those heavy iron bars which were

never wielded but they crushed some human being to the earth. While the

workmen maintained this position the assailants were compelled to abate

the fury of their attack. The scene of strife too had been considerably

removed from the first place of encounter.

The young female, who is the especial object of our interest, crouched

at the base of the granite pillar where she had sought refuge,

shuddering and sick with fear, amid this tumult of strife and terrible

passions raging about her. She heard the shrieks and howling cries of

the multitude as they struggled together, heard them tear up the

pavement with curses, and felt the air tortured into unnatural currents

as the heavy stones whirled fiercely over her head. Still she neither

shrieked nor moved a limb, but clung with a shuddering clasp to the

pillar, helpless and almost stupefied with terror. While the fight raged

fiercest about her she remained unnoticed, for even there, amid that

throng of men tugging at each other’s throats and wrangling like wild

animals together, females were to be seen fighting and eager for

strife—the most relentless among the throng. In this terrible mingling

of sexes and strife of angry passions, a helpless and prostrate female,

shrinking from a scene too horrible even for her imagination, might well

have been overlooked. All were too fiercely occupied to offer her

protection or insult. But as the scene of strife became more distant the

dense crowd around her was scattered, and more than one of the rude

persons who hang about the skirts of a riotous mob from idle curiosity

or in hopes of plunder, observed the deathly stillness of her position.

There was a delicacy in the small white hand and rounded arm which clung

to the pillar, exposed by the falling drapery and flung out in beautiful

relief upon the stone as if a limb of exquisite sculpture had been

chiselled there. But the persons who gazed were too rude for thoughts of

beauty though so strangely betrayed. A cluster of brilliants that blazed

on one of the fingers, and the rich drapery that lay in a picturesque

heap over her whole person, conveyed hopes of rich plunder, and many a

covetous eye twinkled with expectation that when the crowd were drawn to

a distance she might be left helpless and exposed to their rapacity. At

last an artisan or mechanic of the lowest order ascended the steps where

she had sought refuge, and, apparently heedless of her presence, sat

down on the opposite side of the pillar, so near that his dusty leathern

jerkin almost touched the arm still wound immovably around it. He now

uncovered his head and wiped the perspiration from a low and

disagreeable forehead with the sleeve of his jerkin, pushed back a mass

of coarse hair that had fallen over his eyes, and was about replacing

his cap, when a flash of sunshine fell upon the cluster of brilliants

which gemmed one of the fingers just in a range with his eye. A look of

coarse delight came to his repulsive features, a cunning avaricious joy

disagreeable beyond description. He cast an eager look upon the throng,

which was still great, and toyed with his cap, waving it up and down

with both hands carelessly as if to cool his face when any person seemed

especially regarding him. At last, when the general attention was drawn

another way by a party of horsemen coming at a hard gallop down the

street, he, as if by accident, held his cap so as to conceal his face

from the multitude, and drew back slowly till the pillar half concealed

him, then, softly removing the hand from its clasp on the stone, he drew

the ring away quick as lightning, and grasping it in his rough palm

allowed the little hand to fall down cold and lifeless upon the step.

“Plunder from the dead is free to the first comer,” he muttered,

replacing his cap, “a woman completely killed or in a swoon is the same

thing, and one or the other state belongs to this dainty lady, I take

it.”

As he muttered these words, the plunderer sauntered with a heavy idle

swagger down the steps, and would have mingled with the crowd, but at

that moment an elderly man, evidently the servitor of some noble family,

paused by the steps, glanced at the recumbent figure, and hastily

inquired who the person was, and why no assistance had been rendered.

The artisan, to whom he addressed himself as the nearest person, was

suddenly taken with a decided and absorbing interest in the struggle

that still raged farther down the street, and, when the question had

been thrice repeated, only withdrew his attention long enough to declare

that he was quite ignorant regarding the lady so strangely situated,

and, in truth, had observed her for the first time when pointed out by

the worshipful questioner.

The new comer ran hastily up the steps, flung back the mantle which had

fallen over her face, and revealed the features of a young girl, pale as

death, and lying cold and lifeless close to the pillar. A flood of rich

chestnut-brown hair had broken loose, and the string of rough emeralds

that had confined it lay broken and scattered among the folds of her

dress. The man seemed to recognize those sweet features, for he turned

pale, and an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. “She is

dead!” he cried in a voice of keen emotion—“her hands are cold as ice.

What shall I say to my poor lord—who will dare tell him?”

“Then she has taken leave within a short space of time,” muttered the

artisan, who stood with his back toward the pillar, gazing intently afar

off, as if he had some heavy stake which the contest would decide. “I

can swear that her hand trembled as I pulled off the ring.”

“For the love of heaven, is there no one here who will call assistance!”

exclaimed the new comer, kneeling down and raising the senseless lady

with his arm.

“Can I do anything?” inquired the artisan, gruffly, as if aroused to a

consciousness that the fainting lady required some attention.

“Thank you, good friend, yes—run, I beseech you for the nearest leech,

or rather look out my Lord Dudley, who has just ridden by; say to him

that a lady whose welfare is dear to him, has swooned in the street, and

is in danger from the mob. Go, good man, go at once, or I fear me our

blithesome lady will never smile again!”

“Nay,” said the artisan, who had fixed a greedy eye on the emeralds

scattered over the lady’s dress. “As I may not know the Lord Dudley when

he is found, had you not better leave the poor lady to me while you seek

him out yourself; the more especially as you may see that her mouth is

red again, and there is a tear breaking through the thick eye-lashes

that were so black and still when you first uncovered her face. The air

has done her good. Leave her to me, and by the time you come back with

the gentleman you wot of she will be well again. Truly, my jerkin is

none of the cleanest,” he added in reply to a glance which the other had

cast on his mean raiment, “nor my face much to your liking, I see; but I

shall not run off with your dainty trouble there, not being fool enough

to cumber myself with anything of womankind, be she gentle or simple, so

you can trust me.”

There was something in the artisan’s manner more than in his

appearance—and that was suspicions enough, that rendered the person he

addressed reluctant to trust a being so helpless to his charge. He

hesitated and was deliberating how to act, when the multitude came

rushing back to their old station near the church, shouting fiercely and

uttering terrible imprecations on the Duke of Somerset, who had sent a

large body of armed men up the Thames, who had landed at the foot of

Westminster Bridge, resolute to support his artisans in the destruction

of St. Margaret’s. It was the first charge of this party, as it joined

the body of workmen, which still defended the passage up St. Margaret’s

street, that sent the crowd rushing back upon the church. The small band

of horsemen which had just passed, wheeled suddenly round and came back

almost by compulsion, for their way was entirely blocked up by the

populace, and behind were the Somerset men, urged to fierce resentment,

and goading them on to madness.

The leader of this equestrian band—for it evidently belonged to neither

of the contending parties—was a young and remarkably handsome man, who

seemed entangled with the crowd by accident, and only desirous of

continuing his morning ride in tranquillity. The magnificent trappings

of his black charger—the jewelled buckle which fastened the plumes on

his cap, leaving a fine open forehead and a mass of light curling hair

exposed to view. The short cloak of dark green velvet bordered with

gold—the slashed and pointed doublet and hose underneath, betrayed him

as one of the brightest and most noble ornaments of the young King

Edward’s court, and were all in striking contrast with the rude mob from

which he was deliberately striving to extricate himself. He was followed

by a number of retainers well mounted, and all wearing his family badge;

yet it was not till they were forced to retrace their way and made some

slight commotion in the crowd in wheeling their horses, that the

tumultuous populace seemed to recognize them. But when the leader was

known, those men not actively engaged in the fight, pressed back to give

him way, and greeted him with uncovered heads—a few flung their caps in

the air, calling out for those in advance to make room for the Lord

Dudley; others took up the cry, and then went up a loud eager shout of

“A Warwick! a Warwick! room, room for a Warwick!” Thus sounding a

defiance to the Somerset battle-cry, that rang so fiercely up from the

distance.

This recognition by the mob seemed to annoy the object of their clamor

beyond measure. He lifted his hand with an imperative motion, in a vain

effort to silence their noisy greeting; but when he saw that this was

mistaken for encouragement, and that his family name rang louder and

with more joyous acclamation above all the tumult, he bent his noble

head to the multitude with forced resignation, and strove more

resolutely to retreat from a scene, which from many causes, filled him

with anxiety and regret. More than once his high spirit was so chafed by

the notice which he had unwillingly obtained, that nothing but

compassion for the multitude seemed to prevent him giving a free rein to

the noble beast which shook his head, champed angrily his tightened bit,

and curveted with impatience among the mass of human beings that

scarcely gave his hoofs free play upon the pavement.

The two men whom we left near the young female, who was just returning

to animation, were interrupted in their discussion by these two sources

of renewed commotion which we have just related, and when the cry of “a

Warwick, a Warwick,” swept by, the last comer, who was still supporting

the lady, started to his feet, placed a hand over his eyes to shade them

from the sun, and looked earnestly over the sea of human heads rising

and falling and flowing by, like the motion of a forest when the wind

sweeps over it. All at once he uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and

rushing down the steps, forced his way to the young horseman who was now

almost opposite the place he had occupied. Pushing eagerly through the

crowd which surrounded the struggling charger, he seized him by the bit,

as the only means of attracting the rider’s attention in a scene where

his voice was exerted in vain; but so great was the tumult that even

this method proved ineffectual, and it was not till he had flung the

beast almost upon his haunches that he was recognized by the anxious

nobleman. The young man bent his head, for the eager face of his

retainer startled him, though the words he would have uttered were swept

away by the thousand fierce sounds that filled the air. At last, by the

aid of gesture and such broken words as reached his master’s ear, the

man made himself understood. The horseman started upright in his

stirrups, cast a keen look toward the spot pointed out by his attendant,

and, heedless of all former caution, plunged his spurs into the restless

charger, which reared and plunged with a violence that sent the people

back upon each other, and cleared a space of some yards about him.

Regardless of consequences, the nobleman scarcely gave his horse time to

recover himself, but urged him through the frightened crowd with an

impetuosity that sent a shower of sparks about his hoofs when they

struck upon the lower-most of the stone flags where the lady had taken

shelter.

The young man sprang from his saddle, and pushing aside the artisan who

still hung about her, took the now partially recovered lady in his arms,

and in a voice of hurried and anxious affection inquired it she were

hurt, and multiplied questions one upon another, mingling them with

broken expressions of tenderness, which she could only answer by sobs

and the profuse tears that rushed over her burning cheeks. She seemed

entirely overcome with joy at his presence, and the intense shame

arising from her extraordinary situation. All his questions only served

to make her weep the more bitterly; but she clung nervously to his hand,

trembling between the pleasure of his protection and the fear that he

might condemn her, and besought him, in broken tones, to take her home,

to forgive her, but, above all things, to help her away from the mob of

coarse rough faces that were gazing upon her humiliation.

“Nay, compose yourself,” said Dudley, in those low and persuasive tones

best calculated to allay her nervous excitement, “are you not safe with

me? you are too feeble to move yet. In a little time I trust that we may

pass in safety, but—”

“Forgive me, my lord,” interrupted the man who had informed his master

of the lady’s plight. “If her ladyship can find strength to walk, had we

not better remove her at once to a place of safety? It is yet possible

to make our way round the corner, and so into the Park.”

The Lord Dudley looked upon the crowd and shook his head.

“See, my lord,” said the man still more earnestly, “the people are

becoming more turbulent than ever—in less than five minutes the space

between this and the church will be crowded full again.”

“I fear she is too weak for the attempt,” replied Dudley, looking down

with tender anxiety into the sweet troubled face lifted with an

expression of timid confidence to his.

“Oh, no, I am quite strong now; I can walk very well if you are with

me,” said the young girl; but her pale and trembling lips belied the

words as she turned her back to the people and strove with unsteady

hands to gather the scattered masses of her hair beneath the hood, which

scarcely served to conceal its rich beauty, dishevelled and loose as it

was. “See, I am quite ready,” she added, wrapping the mantle about her,

and gathering courage beneath the concealment of its folds, and clinging

to the young nobleman’s arm she stood terrified, it is true, but willing

to submit herself to his guidance.

“My poor bird, how it pants and trembles beneath my arm,” murmured

Dudley. And amid all the annoyance of his position, his heart thrilled

with a sense of the protection which it gave to the object of his love;

but the feeling gave way to one of keen anxiety; for the populace were

by this time assailed so fiercely by the Somerset men that it was giving

way before them, and rapidly condensing itself around the Abbey, which

threatened soon to become the scene of contention.

“What can be done? which way shall we go?” said Dudley, appealing to his

attendant.

The man looked around and gravely shook his head. “I see no plan of

escape unless we struggle through the crowd,” he replied despondingly,

“and yet there is but your lordship and my humble self to protect the

Lady Jane, and the press threatens to be great.”

The artisan who had made a show of holding Dudley’s horse, while he

concealed the ring and as many of the jewels which had dropped from the

lady’s hair as he could purloin during the short time that she had been

left alone with him, in the sleeve of his jerkin—now slipped the bridle

over his arm, and came up the steps so far as its length would permit.

“If I might advise, fair sir,” he said, doffing his cap, and concealing

a large emerald that had before escaped him, with his foot, as he spoke.

“If I might make bold to give an opinion, three stout men are enough to

cover the retreat of one woman any day. Your gallant self and my

worshipful friend here, to say nothing of the man before you, who lacks

not both tough bone and sinew in a fair fight, and the noble horse,

which I take it, is worth at least two men, having a fine knack, as I

but now witnessed, of scattering a crowd with his hoofs. Well now, fair

sir, supposing you mount this noble nag and push a way through the

crowd, while my worshipful friend and humble self follow at his heels

with the lady between us. Oh, this does not jump with the lady’s humor,

I see,” continued the man without breaking the thread of his speech, as

the Lady Jane drew closer to her companion and murmured in an affrighted

voice, “no, no Dudley—keep you with me or I shall die with terror

else.”

Dudley answered by a gentle pressure of the arm clinging to his, and the

man went on, as we have said, regardless of the interruption.

“Well, if she does not fancy the cut of my face, perhaps the black

charger there will have better taste. Shall I mount and clear a path for

you? It is not often that I sit on a crimson saddle with housings of

velvet and gold—but there is an old saying or a new one, it matters not

which, that if you ‘put a beggar on horseback he will ride’—I must not

say exactly where in the presence of this lady, but to such a journey a

passage through this crowd of hooting scoundrels would be child’s

play—shall I mount, fair sir? you see the fight is getting nearer and

there will be hot work anon.”

As the man finished speaking, he dropped his sheepskin cap quite by

accident, and displayed considerable awkwardness in picking it up again.

For a person rather shabbily dressed he certainly was somewhat

fastidious in replacing it jauntily on one side of his head; but in the

process a large emerald was sent, with a dexterous movement of the

fingers, flashing down the sleeve of his jerkin, which probably had some

connection with this elaborate display of taste.

At any other time Dudley would have rebuked the fellow’s boldness, but

he was too anxious for thoughts of station or dignity, and turning from

the rude speaker to his attendant, he demanded earnestly if his plan

were practicable. Before the person addressed could reply, an immense

paving stone was hurled by his temple, and, tearing off the artisan’s

cap in its progress, was dashed to pieces against the granite pillar

which had so long sheltered the Lady Jane Saymore. A shriek burst from

her pale lips, and every face in that little group turned white as

death. After a moment the artisan took up his cap, and thrusting his

hand through a hole cut in it by the stone, tried to convince himself

and those about him, by a broad laugh, that he was a man of decided

courage and not to be daunted by trifles that could drive the blood from

a nobleman’s cheek; but his voice died in the miserable attempt, and he

slunk down to the horse’s head again, for the moment subdued into

silence.

“For the love of heaven, let us be gone,” said Lord Dudley, terrified by

the danger which threatened the object of his love. “Mount, fellow; and

if you clear a way for this lady, you shall have gold”—

Before he could finish the sentence, the artisan sprang to a seat on the

gorgeous saddle, and striking his mutilated cap down upon his head with

one hand, drew up the bridle, and shouting, “Make room for the noble

Dudley—a Warwick, a Warwick,” plunged into the crowd.

Dudley threw his arm firmly round the Lady Jane, and directing his

attendant to keep close on the other side, followed his strange

conductor, who proved an excellent guide; for in his appeal now to the

people in behalf of their favorite noble, now to the Somerset men as one

of their number, he succeeded in forcing a passage for the party till

they had almost reached the front of St. Margaret’s; but here their

position became more dangerous than ever, for a detachment of the

Somerset men, after a desperate struggle to force a passage through the

body of people, had found the way across a corner of the park and along

Prince’s street, almost within a stone’s throw of the church, before

their movement was discovered by those resolute on its defence. It was

in vain the artisan pleaded for a passage now, his voice was overwhelmed

by the roar. He was raised considerably above the crowd, and was among

the first to discover this new difficulty. He arose in the saddle, cast

a crest-fallen look over the sea of human heads that surrounded him,

then bending backwards, he addressed the young lord and his companion in

a voice that was less steady than he would gladly have rendered it—

“To the church, my lord—to the church at once! The street is choked, as

far as I can see—is choked up with Somerset men; but they are mistaken

if they hope to reach St. Margaret’s; here are stout angry fellows

enough to keep them at bay till Michaelmas. Seek shelter for the lady,

fair Sir, before they all see as much as I do, for there will be bloody

work there, or I am no reader of men’s faces.”

There was no time for parley or delay, the pale craven face of the

artisan bore witness to the truth of what he said. Lord Dudley clasped

his companion more firmly, and forced his way with almost supernatural

strength toward the church. The artisan would gladly have sought the

shelter which he had so wisely recommended to his noble companion; but

the horse had become restive under a strange guidance, and before his

head could be turned toward St. Margaret’s, the mob had discovered the

Somerset workmen, and closed round him with a violence that rendered a

change of direction impossible. It was in vain that he waved his cap,

shouted Lord Dudley’s name, and craved a free passage. His voice was

overwhelmed in the roar and rush of a conflict more dreadful than had

been witnessed that day. The people saw the spoilers almost upon their

consecrated ground, and they fought like lions to protect the sacred

rest of their dead and the altar of their worship. It was a just cause,

but the strife a terrible one indeed. So great was the press, that our

artisan found the motion of his horse cramped and almost prevented. His

limbs were crushed against the noble animal till the pain became almost

insupportable. He would gladly have dismounted and have taken his chance

with the throng, but so dense was the sea of human beings crowding upon

him, that there was not an inch of space through which he might hope to

reach the ground. So horse and rider were violently borne forward at the

mercy of the crowd, and exposed to the shower of missiles that now

darkened the air.

Meantime Dudley and his companions had reached the door of St.

Margaret’s; but it was closed, and a company of armed men stood

resolutely before it. The little band of workmen, which had kept its

station there till within the last hour, had at length deserted their

post, terrified by this guard of armed men added to the mob which they

had so long braved. Despairing of escape they had clambered, each as he

best might, up the gothic windows and rough stone work of the little

church, and were now crouching in groups on the roof, and striving to

conceal themselves behind the small turrets or steeples that surmounted

its four corners, afraid of being detected by the populace, who were

each moment becoming more and more exasperated by their brethren.

“In the name of heaven, good friends, allow me to find shelter for this

lady within the church,” exclaimed Lord Dudley, as pale and fearfully

agitated he turned in despair from the bolted door which he had reached

in spite of the pikes presented by the self-constituted guard, “I am a

friend to the people, and this lady”—

“Is his sister,” interrupted the attendant hastily, well knowing that

her true title would harden the men’s hearts against her, though she was

almost lifeless, and only kept from sinking at their feet by the strong

arm of her noble protector.

“But, even our church may soon be no place of safety,” said one of the

men, “a few minutes and this building where our parents

worshipped—where our children were baptised—may be a heap of ruins

like those of St. Mary. Our holy altar stones may be made into door

steps for the Duke of Somerset’s fine palace—yes, our chancels sacked

to yield stones to flag his wine-cellars, while the bones and sacred

dust of our fathers are cast into the street, and scattered to the four

winds of heaven.”

Dudley felt the gentle being, who clung to him for safety, tremble and

shrink, as if this angry speech had been levelled at her alone.

“I know that the people have suffered some wrong,” he said, in a mild

but unsteady voice, for he was painfully agitated, both by his late

struggle with the crowd, and the torture which the man’s impetuous

speech was inflicting on his gentle charge. “But let me beseech you,

unclose the door, my—my poor sister is well nigh sinking to the earth

with fatigue and terror.”

Still the men remained obstinate, not only refusing to open the door,

but guarding it with a close row of levelled pikes. The sound of fierce

strife, which now arose with appalling violence, within a few roods of

the church, seemed to fill them with cold and stubborn bitterness. At

last, when a loud and terrible cry swept over them—a cry of triumph

from the Somerset men, mingled with a yell of defiance from the mob, in

which Somerset, the Lord Protector’s name, was winged by shouts and

curses through the dense air, the man who had spoken before turned

almost menacingly on the young nobleman.

“Did I not tell you,” he exclaimed, “this is no place for a lady? If we

cannot guard our dead, how can your charge be safe? Hear that shout—the

Duke of Somerset is himself coming up from the river to reinforce his

band of pillagers. A curse light upon his sacrilegious head for this

day’s work—a curse on him and his!”

“Oh no, no; do not curse him!” exclaimed the Lady Jane, starting from

Dudley’s arm, and flinging the hood back from her pale face with a wild

impulse—“he does not know—he has not thought how dreadful all this is:

you do not dream how kind he is. In pity—for sweet mercy’s sake, do not

curse my father!”

“Her father,” exclaimed the men almost simultaneously, and with menacing

looks; “her father!”

Lord Dudley drew the young girl back to his side, pulled the mantle

almost roughly over her face, and turned sternly upon the men.

“Behold,” he said, with a flashing eye, “behold the effect of your cruel

delay; my poor sister is driven stark mad at last.”

The speech, and the pale steadfast features of the young man, had the

desired effect. The guard did not open the door, it is true, but their

manner was more subdued, and they consulted in a low voice together.

“And if we unlock the church, what warrant have we that you are not a

partisan of the Duke’s?” said the leader, glancing suspiciously at the

young nobleman’s rich vestments; “you may be of his household, nay, his

son, for aught we know.”

“You have the word of a Warwick, and this proof that the pledge is not

given without right,” said the young man, flinging aside his velvet

cloak, and displaying the family crest, set in brilliants, on his

sword-hilt. “Now, sirs, let me pass! I have no share in this broil, and

would gladly have escaped from it unknown.”