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3IIRI A 31, 
 
 AND 
 
 JOANNA OF NAPLES, 
 
 OTHER PIECES IN VERSE AND PROSE. 
 
 -<{ OF C/gpVs 
 
 o-/ 
 
 LOUISA J.'llALL. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 WM. CROSBY AND H. P. NICHOLS, 
 
 111 Washington Street. 
 
 1850. 
 
T5I771 
 
 |433/^^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
 
 E. B. HALL, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 METCALF AND COMPANY, 
 
 PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MIRIAM: A DRAMATIC POEM ...... 1 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT . . . . . .115 
 
 TO MY mother's MEMORY 132 
 
 OMNIPRESENCE ........ 134 
 
 THE PEARL-DIVER's SONG 136 
 
 ON FOR EVER ........ 139 
 
 BANNOCKBURN . . 141 
 
 THE SICKLY BABE ....... 145 
 
 MY WATCH 147 
 
 JUSTICE AND MERCY 150 
 
 LINES ON CHANNING 152 
 
 THE baby's COMPLAINT 154 
 
 JOANNA OF NAPLES 157 
 
 ELIZABETH CARTER ........ 349 
 
 THE SILVER BELL 397 
 
MIRIAM 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM 
 
THE REVEREND 
 
 ALEXANDER YOUNG, 
 
 FORMERLY HER PASTOR, AND ALWAYS HER FRIE.ND, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING PAGES 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY AND GRATEFULLY 
 INSCRIBED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following sketch was begun in the summer 
 of 1825, and finished in the summer ensuing. It 
 was commenced in the indulgence of an early pro- 
 pensity for beguiling leisure hours by the pen, and 
 was completed for the entertainment of a small cir- 
 cle of friends. The author has been repeatedly 
 urged to publish it ; but as it never formed any part 
 of her plan to attempt a regular tragedy, and as she 
 is fully aware of its deficiencies even as a dra- 
 matic poem, she has allowed it to slumber in the 
 safe obscurity of manuscript for a longer period than 
 is prescribed by Horatian authority, though without 
 obeying the other portion of the Roman critic's 
 injunction. It is with great self-distrust that she is 
 at last persuaded to submit it to the fearful ordeal 
 of publication ; feeling that, if neglect or severe crit- 
 
 1* 
 
b MIRIAM. 
 
 icism should decide the time spent in its composi- 
 tion to have been ill employed, she must hencefor- 
 ward conscientiously resign pursuits that have till 
 now lent a charm to many a solitary hour. The 
 lapse of years has already cooled her imagination, 
 and taught her that exertions whose tendency might 
 be more practical and useful would now interest her 
 feelings more deeply. She gives this early effort to 
 the press by the advice of those whose judgment — 
 if unbiased by friendship — she must highly re- 
 spect. If warned by the result to abstain in future 
 from similar attempts, she will submit with defer- 
 ence to the injunction. 
 
 It may not be unnecessary to state, that although 
 the characters in the following scenes are imaginary, 
 the author aimed at an illustration of the state of 
 things which actually existed when Christianity was 
 struggling, almost for life, under the persecution of 
 triumphant Heathenism. 
 
 May \st, 1837. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The author of Miriam deeply regrets having 
 given her early production to the press in 1837, 
 without such *re vision as her respect for the public 
 demanded. Many errors of carelessness, especially 
 in rhythm, bore testimony to its having been writ- 
 ten without a thought of publication ; and when 
 at last she yielded to solicitation, and in a tempo- 
 rary access of courage gave up her manuscript to 
 a friend, the state of her eyesight forbade a delib- 
 erate examination of its pages. It would have 
 been advisable to have waited a few months ; — 
 in that case probably the work would never have 
 emerged from privacy. Her dread of publication 
 would have returned upon her with fresh strength, 
 as she again contemplated some graver faults, which 
 
8 MIRIAM. 
 
 are so interwoven Avith the very texture of the 
 poem as to be incurable. The voice of criticism 
 has pronounced upon them no censures so severe 
 as those her own judgment long since whispered. 
 Whilst acknowledging the justice of these strict- 
 ures, — in all instances kindly expressed, — she has 
 been induced, by the unlooked-for commendations 
 that have greeted her little work, to put forth a 
 second edition ; but this she has not done, without 
 first attempting, in the following pages, to repair 
 whatever errors were susceptible of correction. 
 
 September 20/h, 1838. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Thraseno, an aged Syrian, — a Christian. 
 
 Miriam, his daughter. 
 
 EuPHAS, his son. 
 
 Piso, a noble Roman, a persecutor of the Christians. 
 
 Paulus, his son. 
 
 Christians. 
 
 Scene. — Borne. 
 Time. — One night, from sunset to sunrise. 
 
MIRIAM 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Garden of Thraseno, at J?07?ie. — Thraseno, Euphas. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 My father, markest thou ? along the west 
 The golden footsteps of departed day- 
 Are fading fast ; in yonder dusky sky, 
 Yon far and boundless vault, one lonely star 
 Is faintly twinkling forth. The perfumed air 
 Of evening, sighing 'mid the drooping leaves 
 And closing flowers, breathes fresh. It is the hour. 
 At early nightfall were we bidden forth. 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 Ay ! in the dim and silent hour of dusk, 
 As if to do some deed that conscious day 
 Might blush to look upon, must we steal forth 
 To bear the sacred dust of him we loved 
 To its ignoble rest. In some drear cave, 
 
12 MIRIAM. 
 
 Some dark and subterraneous abode, 
 
 Hid from the common light and air of heaven, 
 
 Haunt of the barking wolf or coiling snake, 
 
 Our temples and our sepulchres must rise ; 
 
 And there, beneath the torches' ghastly glare. 
 
 Few, sad, and fearful, must the pious meet 
 
 To raise in tones subdued the solemn hymn. 
 
 Breathe with white, quivering lips the voice of prayer, 
 
 And bend the trembling knee unto the One, 
 
 The pure and living God ! and wildly start 
 
 When sighs the breeze along the cavern's roof, 
 
 And sways the torch-light's red and fitful blaze. 
 
 Is this to worship thee, O God ! with thoughts 
 
 That mount imperfect and are half weighed down 
 
 By dread of earthly dangers ? with stern eyes 
 
 Glancing around, lest unawares the foe 
 
 Burst on our simple rites, and quench in blood 
 
 The flame just kindling on thine altars fit. 
 
 Meek, holy hearts ! 
 
 Enter Miriam. 
 EUPHAS. 
 Sister ! thy cheek is pale. 
 Though all day long a deep and hectic tinge 
 Hath sat in brightness on one crimsoned spot. 
 Lending unearthly radiance to thine eyes. 
 But telling sadly of the waste within. 
 Fair as thou wast, sweet sister, ne'er till late • 
 
MIRIAM. 13 
 
 The rose halh glowed upon thy pure, pale cheek ; 
 
 And I have watched the strange and boding flush 
 
 Mounting and kindling wildly there at times, 
 
 And fading then unto a deathly white. 
 
 Until I feel too well that not as yet 
 
 Is it the bloom of health or happiness. 
 
 And thy dark eyes that flash unwonted fires ! 
 
 The glow, — the flash, — my sister, speak too plain 
 
 A fevered blood, or bosom ill at ease. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Has thy young eye, my brother, learnt so well 
 To read the soul's deep workings in the face ? 
 And have thy sixteen summers taught thee thus 
 To trace the secrets of a heart as pure, 
 Though not perchance as open and as blest, 
 As thine ? 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 My child ! how can there be a grief 
 In that young heart of thine, a secret woe. 
 Thy father and thy brother may not share ? 
 Around thee I have marked the shadow fall,. 
 And hourly gazed upon thy wasting form, 
 Until my heart grew sick, yet did not dream 
 That other clouds than those which overhang 
 Thine injured sect were brooding on thy soul, 
 Once the pure mirror of a father's smiles. 
 Can it be so } It is as if a cloud 
 
 2 
 
14 MIRIAM. 
 
 From the deep bosom of a peaceful lake 
 Should rise, and sullen hang upon its face, 
 Hiding it from the bright and smiling skies. 
 O, say, my child, there is no secret grief, 
 No canker sorrow eating at the core 
 Of my sweet bud. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 My father ! I am ill. 
 A weight is on my spirits, and I feel 
 The fountain of existence drying up. 
 Shrinking I know not where, like waters lost 
 Amid the desert sands. Nay, grow not pale ! 
 I have felt thus, and thought each secret spring 
 Of life was failing fast within me. Then 
 In saddest willingness I could have died. 
 There have been hours I would have quitted you. 
 And all that life hath dear and beautiful, 
 Without one wish to linger in its smiles : 
 My summons would have called a weary soul 
 Out of a heavy bondage. But this day 
 A better hope hath dawned upon my mind. 
 A high and pure resolve is nourished there, 
 And even now it sheds upon my breast 
 That holy peace it hath not known so long. 
 This night, — ay, in a few brief hours, perchance, — 
 It will know calm once more — (or break at once !) 
 
 [Aside 
 
MIRIAM. 15 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 And is this all, my child ! all thoii wilt trust 
 
 To loving hearts, wherein thou art enshrined 
 
 The best, most precious of all earthly things, 
 
 And second held to nothing, — save our faith ? 
 
 And must we look on thee as on a book 
 
 Close sealed, yet full of hidden mysteries 
 
 That may affect our dearest happiness ? 
 
 Miriam ! it is not well. Dark mystery 
 
 Doth hang round nothing pure, — save God alone ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O, no ! it is not well. A voice within 
 
 Full oft hath whispered me, " It is not well." 
 
 And yet 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 " And yet " ! — I dare not question thee. 
 A nameless fear is pressing on my soul. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Speak, Miriam ! Seest thou not the gathering shade 
 Upon our father's brow ? — O, speak ! although 
 Each word in scorching flame should grave itself 
 Upon the hearts that love thee with full trust. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Euphas ! what deemest thou I have to tell ? 
 
 A wild and terrible suspicion sits 
 
 Within thy troubled eye. And can it be 
 
 That hearts so young and pure can dream of things 
 
16 MIRIAM. 
 
 So horrible ? My father ! yon bright stars 
 Are o'er us with their quiet light ; the dews 
 Are falling softly from the cloudless sky ; 
 The cool and fragrant breath of evening waves 
 Our rustling vine-leaves ; — yet not one of these 
 Is purer than the bosom of thy child. O father ! 
 Brother ! — ye do believe me ? 
 
 EUPHAS. ' 
 
 Do I not ? 
 I could not live, and doubt thy truth. 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 I know, 
 I know, my child, that thou art innocent 
 As native purity and steady faith 
 Can make the heart of frail and erring man. 
 But why should darkness hang around the steps 
 Of one that loves the light .? Why wilt thou not 
 Let in the beams of day upon thy soul, 
 To mingle with the kindred brightness there .'' 
 
 MIEIAM. 
 
 Urge me not now. I cannot, — cannot yet. 
 Have I not told you that a starlike gleam 
 Was rising on my darkened mind ? When Hope 
 Shall sit upon the tossing waves of thought, 
 As broods the halcyon on the troubled deep, 
 Then, if my spirit be not blighted, wrecked. 
 Crushed, by the storm, I will unfold my griefs. 
 
MIRIAM. 17 
 
 But until then, — and long it will not be ! — 
 Yet in that brief, brief time my soul must bear 
 A fiercer, deadlier struggle still ! — Ye dear ones ! 
 Look not upon me thus, but in your thoughts, 
 When ye go forth unto your evening prayers, 
 O, bear me up to Heaven with all my grief. 
 Pray that my holy courage may not fail. 
 Mark ye my words ? 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 Miriam, come with us ! 
 I have beheld thee sick, and sorrowful, 
 But never thus. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Father ! I cannot go. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Know'st thou last night the long-tried Stephen went 
 Unto his peaceful rest ? and we this eve 
 Are bidden to the humble burial, 
 Shrouded in night, of him whose virtues claimed 
 At least such tribute from a Christian heart. 
 Sweet sister ! come thou forth with us. I know 
 Thou wouldst not slight the poor remains of him 
 Whose spotless life thou didst revere and love. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 A ripe and goodly sheaf hath gently fallen. 
 Let peace be in the good man's obsequies ; 
 I will not carry there a troubled soul. 
 
18 MIRIAM. 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 VVhere wouldst thou seek for peace or quietness, 
 If not beside the altar of thy God ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Within these mighty walls of sceptred Rome 
 
 A thousand temples rise unto her gods, , 
 
 Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, 
 
 Graced with the proudest pomp of earth ; their shrines 
 
 Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades, 
 
 Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms. 
 
 Instinct with grace and godlike majesty, 
 
 Their ever-smoking altars, white-robed priests. 
 
 And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. 
 
 And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers ascend 
 
 To greet the unconscious skies, in the blue void 
 
 Lost, like the floating breath of frankincense. 
 
 And find no hearing or acceptance there. 
 
 And yet there is an Eye that ever marks 
 
 Where its own people pay their simple vows. 
 
 Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness. 
 
 Scourged by a stern and ever-watchful foe. 
 
 There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer 
 
 Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet, 
 
 Although it stir not more the sleeping air 
 
 Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. 
 
 Think'st thou, my father, this benignant God 
 
 Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away 
 
MIRIAM. 19 
 
 From the poor sinful creature of his hand, 
 
 Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer ? « 
 
 Think'st thou He will not hear me, should I kneel 
 
 Here in the dust beneath his starry sky. 
 
 And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to him. 
 
 Making an altar of my broken heart ? 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 He will ! it were a sin to doubt it, love. 
 
 But yet — must then the funeral hymn arise, 
 
 And thy melodious voice be wanting there ? 
 
 Wilt thou alone of all our little band 
 
 Believe me, child, caprice and idle whim 
 Are born of selfishness, and aptly nursed 
 In youthful minds, where sin of deeper dye 
 Would shrink from entering at open gates, 
 Awed by the light of purity within. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 That voice is chiding me ! that eye is stern ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 He keenly feels each pang that he inflicts. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Dear father ! hear me, then, since I must speak ! 
 
 This evening hath its task, a task of tears. 
 
 And strange and spirit-crushing agony ; 
 
 And here, even here, before yon stars have set. 
 
 It must be wrought ! Wilt thou not leave me, then ? 
 
 Eyes such as thine, my father, must not see 
 
20 MIRIAM. 
 
 The strugglings of my soul with evil things. 
 
 But they shall see me, and in triumph too, 
 
 When, by the strength that God this night hath given, 
 
 I greet thee next in innocence and peace, 
 
 x\nd proudly tell thee how the battle went. 
 
 Thou mayst not, canst not, aid me ; but alone — 
 
 (Nay, not alone, O God !) — my spirit must 
 
 Be disciplined, and wrung, and exercised, 
 
 Until I am, my father, what I was, — 
 
 A child that had no secrets for thy ear. 
 
 Wilt thou not go without me, this one night ? 
 
 I tell thee on this boon my peace depends : 
 
 Peace ! nay, far more ! more than all earthly peace ! 
 
 Wild as I seem, my sire, trust me this once, 
 
 And when the dawn next gilds yon lofty shrine, 
 
 Girt with its triple row of statues fair, 
 
 It shall not greet one marble brow or cheek 
 
 More tranquil or more pure than will be mine ! 
 
 THRASENO. 
 
 Then on this promise, love, will I go forth. 
 
 Thy bud of life hath blown beneath mine eye ; 
 
 I cannot look on thee, and dream that guile 
 
 Or guilt is on that lip, or in that heart. 
 
 But with a saddened soul, and with a tear 
 
 I cannot check, my child, I thus impress 
 
 My parting kiss upon thy brow. Farewell ! 
 
 God reads thy mystery, — though I may not. 
 
 May He be with thee in thy solitude ! [Exit. 
 
MIRIAM. 21 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Best, best of fathers ! fare thee well ! — thy thoughts, 
 
 Thy prayers, I know are with me still, and may 
 
 Bestead me in the trial which draws nigh. 
 
 My brother ! must I turn to thee with tears 
 
 To claim the one poor boon of solitude } 
 
 Look ! the bright west is fading ; in the east 
 
 The rising moon uprears her blood-red disk, 
 
 As if a distant city were in flames 
 
 Upon yon dun horizon's utmost verge. 
 
 Why lingerest thou } Why lookest thou on me 
 
 With such a fixed, sad, monitory gaze .-' 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Sister ! I too go forth, but with a weight 
 
 Pressing upon my heart. Would I knew more, — 
 
 Or less ! These strange and sad presentiments 
 
 Are not the coinage of a sickly mind, 
 
 An idle fancy, prone to dream of ill. 
 
 Things that these eyes have seen have left behind 
 
 Their deep, enduring shadows on my soul. 
 
 I could not quit thee now, were there not yet 
 
 Within my heart an ever-springing hope, 
 
 A confidence that hath grown slowly up. 
 
 Even from my birth around my heart-strings twined, 
 
 Which whispers still of peace and purity. 
 
 And lets me think of naught but holiness 
 
 Whene'er I gaze on thee. Slowly, alas ! 
 
22 MIRIAM. 
 
 Doubt and suspicion rise in brothers' hearts. 
 Thou weepest, Miriam ! wilt thou, then, relent, 
 And let me bide with thee this dreadful eve ? 
 If its dire task be good 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Euphas ! away ! 
 And quickly too ! — (Great God ! my Paulus comes, — 
 And should they meet !) — O, I conjure thee, boy ! 
 Ay, in the dust, and on my knees, implore 
 That .jhou wilt leave me instantly ! — Go noio. 
 If there is aught in thy poor sister's voice, — 
 Her supplication, — that may win one boon ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Sister, I go ! — I would have warned thee more. 
 Thou wilful one ! — but God be with thee now ! — 
 
 Temptations that are sought Nay, look not thus ! 
 
 But, O, be not too bold in innocence ! 
 
 A young, confiding heart at once locked up, — v- 
 
 A self-reliance that rejects such aid 
 
 As from a loving brother's hand Nay, then ! 
 
 I cannot answer tears ! — Shouldst thou repent 
 
 Farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Repent ! not till my bleeding heart 
 Forget the faith for which it yields its all ! — 
 Great God ! the hour is come, and how unfit 
 Is in her native weakness thy poor worm 
 
MIRIAM. 23 
 
 To meet its agony ! I feel the peace, 
 The holy resolution I had nursed, 
 Dying away within me, and my prayers, 
 I fear, — I fear, — have not been heard ! — Now,^ Father ! 
 God of yon sparkling heaven ! leave me not now 
 Unto the sole support of human strength ! — 
 Was it my fancy ? — was it but the breeze. 
 That sudden showered the rose-leaves in its sport ? 
 O, no ! — he comes, — and life seems failing me ! 
 Enter Paulus. 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Chide me not, love, although the moon hath risen. 
 
 And melts her way along those fleecy clouds. 
 
 Climbing midway unto her zenith point. 
 
 My father gives this night a stately feast, 
 
 Graced with the presence of Rome's proudest lords ; 
 
 And there, within the long and lofty hall, 
 
 O'ercanopied with silver tissue, lit 
 
 By myriads of golden lamps, that, fed, 
 
 With scented oils, pour light and fragrance round. 
 
 Listless I lay, engarlanded with flowers, — 
 
 And roving, in my rapt and secret thoughts. 
 
 Hither, where thou in perfect loveliness 
 
 Sat'st like a Dryad, 'neath the open sky. 
 
 Waiting thy truant lover : till at last, 
 
 Weary and sick of all that met my gaze. 
 
 Heedless of guests or frowning sire, I rose. 
 
24 MIRIAM. 
 
 And, swifter than the young and untamed steed 
 
 FHes with the wind across his own free plains, 
 
 I sped to her from whom alone I learned 
 
 All that my spirit ever knew of love. 
 
 And what that love is, Miriam, thou canst tell, 
 
 Since for thy sake I lay my laurels down 
 
 To wreathe the myrtle round these unworn brows, 
 
 Careless of warlike fame and earth's renown. — 
 
 But how ! thy cheeks — thy very lips — are pale ! 
 
 By moonlight paler than yon marble nymph 
 
 Reclining graceful o'er her streaming urn. 
 
 Turn hither, love, and let thy Paulus read 
 
 If grief or anger sit upon thy brow. 
 
 Thy silence, thine averted glances, strike 
 
 With dread unspeakable my inmost soul. 
 
 No word of welcome ? — Gods ! what meaneth this ? 
 
 Never, except in dreams, have I beheld 
 
 Such deep and dreadful meaning in thine eye, 
 
 Such agony upon thy quivering lip ! 
 
 Speak, Miriam ! breathe one blessed word of life ; 
 
 For in the middle watch of yester-night 
 
 Even thus I saw a dim and shadowy ghost 
 
 Standing beneath the moon's uncertain light. 
 
 So mute, — so motionless, — so changed, — and yet 
 
 So like to thee ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 My Paulus ! 
 
MIRIAM. 25 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 'T is thy voice ! 
 Praised be the gods ! it never seemed so sweet. 
 Say on ! my spirit hangs upon thy words. 
 What blight hath stricken thee since last we met ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 A blight that is contagious, and will fall 
 Perchance upon thy fairest, dearest hopes, 
 With no less deadly violence than now 
 It hath on mine. Paulus ! is there no word 
 These lips can utter, that may make thee wish 
 Eternal silence there had stamped her seal ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 I know not, love ! thou startlest me ! — No, — none ! 
 Unless it be of hatred, change, or death ! 
 And these, — it can be none of these ! 
 
 MIRIAM.- 
 
 Why not ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Ye gods, my Miriam ! look not on me thus ! 
 My blood runs cold. " Why not," saidst thou ? Because 
 Thou art too young, too good, too beautiful 
 To die ; and as for change or hatred, love, 
 Not till I see yon clear and starry skies 
 Raining down fire and pestilence on man. 
 Turning the beauteous earth whereon we stand 
 Into an arid, scathed, and blackening waste, — 
 3 
 
26 MIRIAM. 
 
 Miriam, — will I believe that thou canst change. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O, thou art right ! the anguish of my soul, 
 
 My spirit's deep and rending agony. 
 
 Tell me that, though this heart may surely break, 
 
 There is no change within it ! and through life, 
 
 Fondly and wildly, — though most hopelessly, — 
 
 With all its strong affections, will it cleave 
 
 To him for whom it nearly yielded all 
 
 That makes life precious, — peace and self-esteem. 
 
 Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Meanest thou — I know not what. My mind grows dark. 
 Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost. 
 There is a wild and dreadful mystery 
 Even in thy words of love I cannot solve. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Hear me, — for with the holy faith that erst 
 
 Made strong the shuddering patriarch's heart and hand. 
 
 When meek below the glittering knife lay stretched 
 
 The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age. 
 
 This night I offer up a sacrifice 
 
 Of life's best hopes to the One Living God ! 
 
 Yes, from this night, my Paul us, never more 
 
 Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears 
 
 Drink in the tones of thy beloved voice. 
 
MIRIAM. 27 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Ye gods ! ye cruel gods ! let me awake 
 And find this but a dream ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Is it then said ? 
 God ! the words so fraught with bitterness 
 So soon are uttered, — and thy servant lives ! — 
 Ay, Paulus ; even from that hour, when first 
 My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost, 
 And to its superstitions wedded fast. 
 Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam 
 Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night 
 That broods in horror o'er a heathen world, — 
 Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld 
 A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide 
 Between us two, and o'er it gleamed alone 
 One pale, dim-twinkling star, — the lingering hope 
 That grace, descending from the throne of light, 
 Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart, 
 And melt it into humble piety. 
 Alas ! that hope hath faded ! and I see 
 The fatal gulf of separation still 
 Between us, love, and stretching on for aye 
 Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon 
 This clay, with all its sorrows, shall lie down. 
 Union for us is none, in yonder sky : 
 Then how on earth .'* — so in my inmost soul. 
 
?8 MIRIAM. 
 
 Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes, 
 
 With silent watchings and incessant prayers, 
 
 A holy resolution hath taken root, 
 
 And in its might at last springs proudly up. 
 
 We part^ my Paulus ! not in hate, but love, 
 
 Yielding unto a stern necessity. 
 
 And I along my sad, short pilgrimage 
 
 Will bear the memory of our sinless love. 
 
 As mothers wear the image of the babe 
 
 That died upon their bosom ere the world 
 
 Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill. 
 
 Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles, 
 
 Close to the heart's fond core, to be drawn forth 
 
 Ever in solitude, and bathed in tears. 
 
 But how ! with such unmanly grief struck down. 
 
 Withered, thou Roman knight ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 My brain is pierced ! 
 Mine eyes with blindness smitten ! and mine ear 
 Rings faintly with the echo of thy words ! 
 Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith 
 On woman's love, — on woman's constancy } — 
 Maiden ! look up ! I would but gaze once more 
 Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye. 
 To read what aspect perjury may wear. 
 What garb of loveliness may falsehood use, 
 To lure the eye of guileless, manly love ! — 
 
MIRIAM. 29 
 
 Cruel, cold-blooded, fickle that thou art, 
 Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover's eye ? 
 How ! there is light within thy lofty glance, 
 A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm 
 Upon thy lip and brow ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Ay, even so. 
 A light, — a flush, — a calm, — not of this earth ! 
 For in this hour of bitterness and woe, 
 The grace of God is falling on my soul 
 Like dews upon the withering grass, which late 
 Red, scorching flames have seared. Again 
 The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, 
 Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, 
 Sheds on my breast its long-forgotten peace, 
 And, shining steadfast as the noonday sun, 
 Lights me along the path that duty marks. 
 Lover too dearly loved, a long farewell ! 
 The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout 
 That bears the victor's name unto the skies, 
 The laurelled brow, be thine 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Maid ! — now hear me ! 
 For by thine own false vows and broken faith. 
 By thy deceitful lips, and dark, cold heart 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Great God, support me now ! — It cannot be 
 
30 MIRIAM. 
 
 That from my Paulus' lips such bitter words 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Such bitter words ! Nay, maiden, what were thine ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Mine were not spoken, love, in heat or wrath, 
 
 But in the uprightness of a heart that knew 
 
 Its duty both to God and man, and sought 
 
 Peace with its Maker, — ere it broke. But thou 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 And I ? — thou false one ! am not I a man ? 
 A Roman too ? And is a Roman's heart 
 A plaything made for girls to toy withal. 
 And then to keep or idly fling away. 
 As the light fancy of the moment prompts ? 
 Have I then stooped to win thy fickle love 
 From my proud pinnacle of rank and fame. 
 Wasting my youth's best season on a dream. 
 Forgetful of my name, my sire, my gods. 
 To be thus trifled with and scorned at last ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Canst thou not learn to hate me ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 O ye gods ! 
 With what a look of calm despair 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Ay, Paulus ! 
 Never, in all my deep despondency, — 
 
MIRIAM. 31 
 
 In all the hours of dark presentiment 
 
 In which my fancy often conjured up 
 
 This scene of trial, — did my spirit dream 
 
 Of bitterness like that which now thy hand 
 
 Is pouring in my cup of life. Alas ! 
 
 Must we then part in anger ? Shall this hour, 
 
 With harsh upbraidings marred 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Syren ! in vain 
 
 Would I could learn to hate thee ! trampling down 
 
 The memory of my fond and foolish love. 
 
 As I would crush an adder 'neath my heel ! 
 
 But no ! the poison rankles in my veins ; — 
 
 It may not be ; — each look and tone of thine 
 
 Tells me that ^et thou art my bosom's queen, 
 
 And each vain, frantic struggle only draws 
 
 Closer around my heart the woven toils. \_A pause. 
 
 Miriam ! my pride is bowed, — my wrath subdued, — 
 
 My heart attuned e'en to thy slightest will, — 
 
 So that thou yet wilt let me linger on, 
 
 Hoping and dreaming that thou hat'st me not, 
 
 Suffered to come at times, and sadly gaze 
 
 Upon thy loveliness, as if thou wert 
 
 A Dian shrined within her awful fane, 
 
 Made to be looked upon and idolized. 
 
 But in whose presence passion's lightest pulse, 
 
 Love's gentlest whisper, were a deadly sin. 
 
32 MIRIAM. 
 
 Cast me not from thee, love ! send me not forth 
 Blasted and wan into a heartless world, 
 Amid its cold and glittering pageantry, 
 To learn what utter loneliness of soul. 
 What wordless, deep, and sickening misery. 
 Is in the sense of unrequited love ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I cannot, must not hear thee. Even now 
 A chord is touched within my soul. — Great God ! 
 Where is the strength thou didst vouchsafe of late ? 
 Anger, — reproach, — were better borne than this ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Why should thy gentler nature thus be crushed ? 
 Is not the voice within thee far more just 
 Than the harsh dictates of thy gloomy faitlv? 
 Thy stern and unrelenting Deity 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Youth ! thou remindest me, — thou dost blaspheme 
 
 The God of Mercy whom I serve ; and now 
 
 Courage and strength return at once to nerve 
 
 My trembling limbs, my weak and yielding soul. 
 
 What wouldst thou have ? That I should yet drag on 
 
 A life of dark and vile hypocrisy, 
 
 Days full of fear and nights of vain remorse, 
 
 And love, though sinless, yet not innocent ? 
 
 For well I know that when thy sunny smiles 
 
 Are on me, sternly frowning doth look down 
 
MIRIAM. 33 
 
 My Maker on our stolen interview ! 
 
 It is a crime of dye too deep and dark 
 
 To be washed out but with a life of tears, 
 
 And penitence, and utter abstinence. 
 
 I never will behold thy face again ! 
 
 My soul shall be unlocked and purified. 
 
 And there the eyes of those that love me well 
 
 Shall find no dark and sinful mystery, 
 
 Shunning a tender father's scrutiny. 
 
 And weighing down my spirit to the dust. — 
 
 Paul us ! — again, — farewell ! yet, — yet in peace 
 
 We part ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Maiden ! by all my perished hopes. 
 By the o'erwhelming passion of my soul. 
 By the remembrance of that fatal hour 
 When first I spake to thee of love, and thought 
 
 That thou Ay ! by the sacred gods, I swear, 
 
 I will not yield thee thus ! In open day. 
 Before my father's eyes, — and bearing, too. 
 Perchance his malediction on my head, — 
 Before the face of all assembled Rome, 
 Banned though I be by all her priests and gods, — 
 Thee, thee will I lead forth, my Christian bride ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Ay ! say'st thou so, my Paulus ? Thou art bold. 
 And generous. Meet bridal will it be, — 
 
34 MIRIAM. 
 
 The slake, — the slow, red fire, — perchance the den 
 
 Of hungry lions, gnashing with white teeth 
 
 In savage glee at sight of thy young bride, 
 
 Their destined prey ! For well thou know'st that these 
 
 Are but the tenderest mercies of thy sire 
 
 To the scorned sect, whose lofty faith my soul 
 
 Holds fast through torments worse than aught that these 
 
 Can offer to the clay wherein it dwells. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Drive me not mad ! — Nay, — nay, — I have not done ; 
 
 The dark, cold waters of despair rise fast, 
 
 But have not yet o'ertopped each resting-place. 
 
 We will go forth upon the bounding sea, 
 
 We two alone, and chase the god of day 
 
 O'er the broad ocean, where each eve he dips 
 
 His blazing chariot in the western wave, 
 
 And seek some lonely isle of peace and love, 
 
 Where lingering summer dwells the livelong year. 
 
 Wasting the music of her happy birds. 
 
 The unplucked richness of her golden fruits, 
 
 The fragrance of her blossoms, o'er the land. 
 
 And we will be the first to tread the turf, 
 
 And raise our quiet hearth and altars there, 
 
 And thou shalt fearless bow before the cross, 
 
 Praying unto what unknown God thou wilt, 
 
 While I 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 No more, my Paulus ! it is vain. 
 
MIRIAM. 35 
 
 Why should we thus unnerve our souls with dreams, 
 With fancies wilder, idler far than dreams ? 
 Our destiny is fixed ! the hour is come ! 
 And wilt thou that a frail and trembling girl 
 Should meet its anguish with a steadier soul 
 Than thine, proud soldier ? — Ha ! what hurried step 
 Enter Euphas. 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Sister ! I have escaped, — I scarce know how ; — 
 Their shrieks yet ring within my thrilling ears. 
 The foe hath burst upon the unfinished rites, 
 
 Slaughtering some, and bearing off in bonds 
 
 Just heaven ! — what man is this ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O, answer me ! 
 
 And say our father is unhurt ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Hear, Miriam ! 
 I will be answered first ! What knight is this } 
 What doth he here ? [A pause. 
 
 O grief ! can this be so ? 
 Would I had died among their glittering swords. 
 Pouring my life-blood from a thousand wounds. 
 Ere my young eyes had seen this cruel shame ! 
 Hast thou no subterfuge at hand, pale girl ? 
 Well may convulsion wring thy trembling lip ! ^ 
 Were I a Roman boy, — of Roman faith, — 
 
6b MIRIAM. 
 
 This hand ere now But no ! — I could not do 't ! 
 
 Thou art too like the saint that bore us both ! 
 Let me be gone. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Stay, stay, rash boy ! Alas ! 
 The thickening horrors of this awful night 
 Have flung, methinks, a spell upon my soul. 
 I tell thee, Euphas, thou hast far more cause 
 Proudly to clasp my breaking heart to thine, 
 And bless me with a loving brother's praise, 
 Than thus to stand with sad but angry eye, 
 Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a brow 
 As sinless as thine own, — breaking the reed 
 But newly bruised, — pouring coals of fire 
 Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds ! — O, tell me, 
 What hath befallen my father ? Say he lives, 
 Or let me lay my head upon thy breast, 
 And die at once ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 He lives, — the old man lives. 
 See that thou kill him not. Let me pass on. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Tell me in mercy first, — where is our sire .'' 
 Why art thou here alone ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Hast thou no fear 
 To take that honored name upon thy lips ? 
 
MIRIAM. 37 
 
 I meant with gentlest caution to have told 
 
 TidiniTs so fraught with woe ; — 't were uselsss now. 
 
 Maiden ! he is a prisoner ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O just Heaven ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 They mastered him, — the ruthless slaves, — while I, 
 
 Lurking securely 'mid the copsewood near, 
 
 With shuddering frame and half-averted eye 
 
 Beheld them rudely bind his withered hands, 
 
 And mock his struggles impotent, and rend 
 
 The decent silver locks upon his brow, 
 
 While overhead the fair and quiet moon 
 
 Sailed on, and lent her light to deeds so foul ! 
 
 And then I saw him meekly led away 
 
 Amid a throng of shrieking captives, men, 
 
 Women, and babes, unto the dungeon drear, 
 
 Whence he will never issue but to die 
 
 A death of shame and cruel agony ! 
 
 And yet I stirred not, — for I deemed there grew 
 
 A spotless lily in the wilderness. 
 
 Whose unprotected sweetness none but I 
 
 Might shelter from the blast ! I fondly dreamed 
 
 Thou wert too pure, too good, too beautiful. 
 
 To be thus flung upon the cold, wide world. 
 
 Bearing the faith that men do trample on. 
 
 Alone and helpless, — orphaned, — brotherless ! 
 
 4 
 
38 MIRIAM. 
 
 And so my kind and aged parent went 
 Unaided, unconsoled. Shame on these tears ! 
 Could I have dreamed the dove would shelter her 
 Beneath the vulture's foul and treacherous wing ? 
 Alas, my father ! sweeter far this night 
 Will be thy rest within thy noisome cell. 
 And more light-hearted wilt thou rise at dawn 
 To front the bloody Piso 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Ha ! dost hear ? 
 
 m. PAULUS. 
 
 I hear, — and I rejoice. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 How ? ruffian ! Here ? 
 Art thou still here ? I had forgotten thee ! 
 But by the strength the God of justice gives. 
 In this death-grapple thou shalt surely die ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Art thou so hot } Unloose my throat, vain boy ! 
 Beardless, unarmed, and nerveless as thou art, 
 To risk thyself in desperate struggle thus. 
 With one whose slightest effort masters thee 
 As lightly as the bird of Jove bears off 
 
 The panting dove ! 
 
 Thou seest I harm him not. 
 Thou know'st I would not hurt one glossy curl 
 Upon thy brother's head. 
 
MIRIAM. 39 
 
 (To EUPHAS.) 
 
 Go ! thou art safe. 
 I could not slay my bitterest enemy, 
 Were he as young and beautiful as thou, 
 And much less thee^ — in such a cause as this. 
 Take thou thy life. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I thank thee not. — Alas ! 
 Thou couldst not proffer a more worthless gift. 
 Why should I live ? I look upon yon girl, 
 Weeping her bitter grief and self-reproach 
 In utter hopelessness, and pray thee take 
 The life which thou hast made so valueless. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Be still. Why pratest thou of misery 
 To one on whose devoted head the gods 
 Have poured the cup of vengeance, long deferred, 
 With such a fierce and unrelenting wrath. 
 That glory, riches, fame, and e'en the name 
 I proudly bore, — the hopes that rose this morn 
 As if the fire that lit them were from heaven, — 
 And life itself, — are now no more to me 
 
 Than last night's dream ? 
 
 One duty yet remains, — 
 And when that 's done ! — Look on these features, boy. 
 Hast thou not seen me on high festal days. 
 Decked with the tossing plume and snow-white robe, 
 
40 MIRIAM. 
 
 And bearing high my proud and knightly brow 
 Amid the throng of Rome's degenerate lords ? 
 Or did the abject Syrian boy ne'er dare 
 To lift his looks so high ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I scan thy face, 
 Proud youth I The lightnings leaping from thine eye 
 Avouch thee of a high and haughty race. 
 But of the name thou bearest I only know 
 Thy deeds have steeped it in such infamy. 
 That the pale statues of thy vaunted sires, 
 Lining thy hall, will surely one day leap 
 Forth from their niches in their living scorn, 
 And crush thee into senseless, shapeless dust. 
 I seek to know no more. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Stripling ! beware I 
 The powerful magic hidden in that name 
 Alone can bid thy father's prison open. 
 I am the son of Piso. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Is it so ? 
 Thou, — the proud Paulus, — lurking here by night. 
 Prowling with stealthy foot around the cot 
 Where in her innocence there dwelt a maid 
 Born and baptized in the Christian faith ! 
 Thou Piso's son ? Then by the God we serve, 
 
MIRIAM. 41 
 
 Thou 'h taken in the toils. Lo ! this way come 
 Glittering in arms my father's trusty friends, 
 Whom I had summoned hither but to aid 
 The orphans with their counsel, — ere I dreamed 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I hear the tread of heavy feet ! 
 
 And 'mid the trees I see their dusky forms ! 
 Fly, Paulus, fly ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Am I so base, think'st thou ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 They come ! with wrath upon their lurid brows. 
 In mercy, fly ! — O God ! it is too late ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Is it thy madness or thy love that speaks ? 
 What is to thee this foolish life of mine ? 
 Thou in thine hour of triumph and cold scorn 
 Hast crushed the heart wherein it beats, — even yet 
 Too fondly beats for thee ! Wouldst thou that death 
 Should not be wholly pangless ? — Spare thy words ; 
 Thou lov'st me not, — the mockery is ill-timed. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Hither, my friends, with speedier steps. 
 Enter armed Christians. 
 
 Ye come. 
 Girt with no needless weapons, to the cot 
 
42 MIRIAM. 
 
 Of him who called you to a gentler task. 
 
 Lo, in the dove's own nest the serpent coiled ! 
 
 So that ye ask not why he hither came. 
 
 Do what ye list. It is the haughty son 
 
 Of him whose myrmidons this night have snatched 
 
 Your own best treasures shrieking from your arms, 
 
 Turning your hymns and holy prayers to groans, 
 
 Drenching the unburied dust of him ye loved 
 
 With martyr's blood, and waking in your hearts 
 
 The stern, deep cry for vengeance ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O my brother ! 
 How have such words a place on Christian lips ? 
 Hear me, ye upright men ! Bare not your swords. 
 The youth on whom ye bend such dreadful eyes 
 Is innocent of all, — except the love, 
 The world-forgetting love, he cherished 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Miriam ! 
 Dumb be the shameless tongue that would proclaim 
 What in a brother's patient love I sought 
 To hide from mortal eye ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 It is too much ! 
 
 My innocence Why do I grow so weak ? 
 
 Wrongly and harshly dost thou judge of me ! 
 O for one breeze of purer, fresher air, 
 
MIRIAM. 43 
 
 To sweep away the gathering mist that dims 
 J\Iy failing sight ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 She faints ! Let me not look 
 Upon her lifeless form, lest it awake 
 Pity that were a sin ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 How beautiful 
 Even in her deathlike paleness doth she lie ! 
 Fairest ! from that kind swoon awake not yet. 
 Thy words were love ? — one struggle, then, for life. 
 Meantime, in blest unconsciousness, perchance 
 Thou 'It scape a bloody sight. — Ye men of peace ! 
 I wait my doom. Ye, who do boast your faith 
 A faith of love, and peace, and charity. 
 Look on the son of Piso, and declare 
 If, in his helplessness, your unarmed foe 
 Shall live or die. — Ye pause ? — I am prepared. 
 Though my young heart, that still beats steadily. 
 Be of a softer temper than my sire's, — 
 Though the same voice that boldly bids you strike 
 Ofttimes for hours has sued most earnestly 
 To my stern father for a Christian's life, — 
 Hath bid the fire be quenched, the tiger chained, 
 The scarce-believing captive given back, 
 Even from the grasp of death, to the wild prayers, ' 
 The blessings, and the tears of those he loved, — 
 
44 MIRIAM. 
 
 Yet do I claim no mercy at your hands. 
 
 Do with me as you list, remembering this, — 
 
 The blood within these veins is innocent 
 
 As that which stained the floor of yonder cave ! — 
 
 How ! — with a sudden frown ye wildly pluck 
 
 Your daggers forth ? They gleam before an eye 
 
 That quivers not. — But thou, — thou who art yet 
 
 A mild and gentle-hearted boy, arise ! 
 
 Lift up thy buried face, and let me look 
 
 Once more upon its beauty, — so like hers. 
 
 In all its pale and touching loveliness ! 
 
 Thou stirrest not, — I hear thy stifled sobs ! 
 
 Bidd'st thou the deed thou dar'st not look upon ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Let him not die ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 He must. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 O, no ! not thus 
 Religion asks the service of our hands. 
 The spirit of her mild and bloodless laws 
 Requires not life for life. Let him go forth. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Boy ! with that word thou hast undrawn the bolts 
 That close the deep, dark dungeon on thy sire, 
 And loosed the heavy shackles on his arms. 
 For every idle drop of Piso's blood 
 
MIRIAM. 45 
 
 Ye in your wrath and blind revenge had shed, 
 One pang the more had wrung those aged limbs. 
 But while I live, a blessed hope yet beams 
 Upon the dire captivity ye mourn. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Thou silver-tongued deceiver ! Is it thus 
 
 Thou wouldst escape us ? Think'st thou that because 
 
 My Christian heart relented at the thought 
 
 Of one lone, helpless victim's blood poured forth 
 
 As water in revengeful sacrifice, 
 
 I have become a weak, believing girl. 
 
 All fond credulity ana hope ? — Peace ! — peace ! 
 
 When thy deluding accents sound most sweet, 
 
 Most do I dread thy deep hypocrisy. 
 
 There is no hope ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 No hope ! Ye gods ! my Miriam ! 
 To thee and thine how humbly croucheth down 
 The lion thou hast tamed ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Nay, let him go ! 
 Hence, in thy cruel treachery, to thy sire ! 
 Tell him that other Christians worship yet 
 The one pure God within the walls of Rome. 
 Bid him plant thick his stakes, to fury lash 
 His howling monsters from the wilderness ; 
 And, ere the dawn, be sure thy myrmidons 
 
46 MIRIAM. 
 
 Seize the forsaker of his helpless sire, 
 
 And let him end his brief and blighted days, 
 
 Withering for hours upon the welcome cross 
 
 In pangs — scarce worse than those remembrance brings. 
 
 Go, get thee hence ! I spare thy wretched life ; 
 
 But on thy brow I pour the utter scorn, 
 
 The deep abhorrence, of my soul ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Wake, maiden ! 
 Why is thy fearful swoon so long ? Alas ! 
 Looking upon thy deathlike loveliness, 
 I hear strange, scornful words, and heed them not ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Mourneth the whirlwind o'er the broken flower ? 
 Gaze not upon the ruin thou hast made. 
 Go to thy sire, and tell him 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Stripling ! hear ! 
 That sire hath now no son ! I give myself 
 A pledge and hostage for your father's life ; 
 And if the morrow's sun bring not your friends 
 Back from their dreary dungeon to your arms. 
 Let the bright daggers gleaming round me now 
 Drink the young blood of Piso's only son ! 
 Go thou and tell my father this ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Roman ! 
 
MIRIAM. 47 
 
 • 
 I take thee at thy word ! I go ! — Perchance 
 
 Thou wouldst but lead me to the lion's den. 
 
 But if thy words he craft, and thy designs 
 
 Pregnant with direst mischief to my life, 
 
 It matters not ; for I have that at stake 
 
 Would lead me on through fire and pestilence, 
 
 Famine, and thirst, and keenest agony. 
 
 Fearless and struggling still while hope remained ! 
 
 My father ! what hath earth to daunt mine eye. 
 
 Seeking to gaze once mo»e upon that brow 
 
 I should have died to shield from violence ? 
 
 No ! I have naught below the skies but thee. 
 
 And to the wild beast's lair I rush at once 
 
 To save thee, or to die ! — My sister ! — nay ! 
 
 Let me not look on her ! — O, who could dream 
 
 Falsehood had crept within a shrine so fair ? 
 
 Let me turn from her, ere the memory 
 
 Of what she was 
 
 My father's friends ! bear ye 
 
 The hostage of our kindred's lives away 
 
 Up to the lonely garden, by the wall 
 
 Where we have sometimes met, and there await 
 
 The answer I shall bring. If when the sun 
 
 Wakes with his first red beam the matin birds, 
 
 I come not yet, nor from the rising ground 
 
 Ye should mark aught approach that tokens good, 
 
 Deem that my father's cell hath closed on me, — 
 
48 MIRIAM. 
 
 That in my youth I am held fit to wear 
 
 The martyr's glorious crown, — and that no power, 
 
 No earthly power, can save the friends ye love 
 
 Out of the spoiler's hand. Ye know the rest. [Exit. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 The rest! — blood rudely shed, untimely death. 
 
 And an ignoble grave, are in that word. 
 
 O for one touch of that high energy, 
 
 That eager spirit thrilling through each vein, 
 
 That in my days of young renow# and pride 
 
 Bore me triumphant in the battle's van. 
 
 Where brightest flashed the swords, and thickest flew 
 
 The barbed javelins round my glittering shield ! 
 
 Christians ! ere we go hence, I would but look 
 Once more upon her face ! I hear a voice 
 Sighing her dirge among yon rustling leaves. 
 And calling him whose spirit lived in hers 
 Away, — away from worldly sin and woe. 
 And I w.ould learn from that calm, marble brow 
 The deep and blest repose there is in death ! 
 
 [A cloud crosses the moon. 
 How ! doth the God she worshipped thus forbid 
 The sinner's eye to gaze on things so pure ? 
 Pass, shadow, pass ! — a holier light than thine. 
 Fair orb, falls on my dark and troubled soul. 
 While thus I drink in peace and quietness 
 Gazing upon my Miriam's silent face ! 
 
MIRIAM. 49 
 
 Ye gods ! methought a sudden quivering ran 
 O'er her pale lips and eyelids softly closed ! 
 She stirs ! — she sighs ! — she looks upon me now ! 
 Life, — life and light are waking in her eye ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Methought once more in dear Judea's land, 
 
 A child, by Siloe's gushing fount, I sat 
 
 Close by my angel-mother's knee, and heard 
 
 The holy hymns she sweetly sung each night 
 
 Unto our God, while ever and anon 
 
 The quiet murmur of the brook came in, 
 
 Filling each pause with softest melody. 
 
 Even as it was wont, years, years ago ! 
 
 Was it an idle vision of the night, — a trance ? 
 
 Where am I now ? Whose dark, bright eyes are these. 
 
 Gazing upon me thus ? Euphas ! my sire ! 
 
 Where are ye both ? [Rising suddenly.'] Alas ! alas ! too well 
 
 1 do remember all ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 My Miriam ! Dost not 
 Remember me ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Peace ! peace ! — that voice, — it kills ! 
 
 O for the deep and blest forgetfulness 
 
 Where is my brother ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Am I then so hateful ? 
 
50 MIRIAM. 
 
 Wilt thou not hear my voice, although it speak 
 Of those 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Tell me, ye men of* anxious brow, 
 Where is the dark -haired boy, — the boy I loved 
 Even from his cradle better than my life ? 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 He hath gone forth. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Gone forth, said ye ? — and whither ? 
 Alone, — unarmed ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Hear from my lips the tale ! 
 Up to my father's palace hath he gone. 
 Alone, — unarmed — — 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Enough, — enough ! Just God, 
 Now doth thy wrath fall heavy on my soul ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Wilt thou not hear what purpose led him forth ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I know it, — and I pray you let me pass ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 How ! — whither wouldst thou go ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 To die ! — with him, — 
 With them ! — Are they not loth to die ? 
 
MIRIAM. 51 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Nay,— nay! 
 None whom thou lov'st shall die. I bade him say 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 How ! was he sent, — sent, Paulus ! — and by thee 7 
 I will not stay ! loose me ! the air grows thick, — 
 I cannot breathe ! — Alas ! betrayed, — betrayed 
 Even into the tyrant's hand ! — so young ! — 
 So good, — so innocent, — O my brother ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Hear me this once ! Weep if thou wilt, but hear ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 1 have no power to move. The God who gave 
 Hath taken away the sinner's wasted strength. 
 Say on ; but let my brother be thy theme. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Terror and blank dismay he bears with him 
 This night into my father's stately halls. 
 Think'st thou the unknown tyrant whom thou hatest, 
 He whom thy sire's deep wrongs have bid thee curse, 
 Will feel no shuddering when he hears the tale 
 Told by thy brother's lips, — perchance ere now .? 
 Knowing that, by some dark, mysterious chance. 
 Fierce Christian swords are closing round my breast, 
 Ready with morn's first beam to drink my blood, — 
 Think'st thou, to save this young and much-prized life, 
 He would not give a thousand Christians back 
 
63 MIRIAM. 
 
 From their barred cells ? — nay, from the lifted cross ? 
 Thou know'st him not. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Paulus, dost thou believe 
 I shall again behold my father's face ? 
 Or that the noble boy, whom thou hast sent 
 Up to the house of blood and cruel fraud, 
 Will ever from that den return unharmed } 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 I am my father's only son, and loved 
 
 As only sons alone are ever loved. In this 
 
 Lieth my hope. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Thy hope ! O God ! — thy hope ? 
 Is it no more ? — Thou shouldst have been assured^ 
 Ere thou hadst risked a life I hold so dear. 
 0, why doth trusting woman plant her hopes 
 In the unknown quicksands of a stranger's faith ? 
 She should love none she hath not known from birth, — 
 Or look to be deceived, as I have been. 
 Why dost thou stay me thus ? Lo ! I am called ! 
 I must be there to close their eyes ! — Away ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Hear me, my Miriam ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Nay ! 't is past ! Away ! 
 That voice was once a spell ; — it is all o'er ! 
 
MIRIAM. 53 
 
 Why dost thou call me thine ? I have no part 
 In thee, nor thou in me ; — and we love not, 
 Hate not, and loorship not alike. How then 
 Can I be thine ? I pray thee, let me go ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 And whither then ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I know not ! — Where are tliey 7 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 They will be here ere morn. 
 
 BIIRIAM. 
 
 Thou think'st not so ! 
 Youth ! thou hast learned deceit. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 I bear all this ! 
 I mark the frightful paleness of thy cheek, 
 The wild and wandering glances of thine eye. 
 And stifle down my utter agony. 
 O, what a night is this ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Am I so pale ? 
 It is thy work, — and, for a gentle youth. 
 Strange havoc hast thou caused, — much misery ! 
 Say'st thou my looks are wild ? It is because 
 I linger here with thee, when I should fly 
 E'en to earth's farthest bounds. — I will be gone ! 
 Ay ! I am weak, but not in spirit, youth ! 
 
54 MIRIAM. 
 
 And the roused soul hath strength to lift its clay. 
 I must behold the boy's dark curls once more, 
 And stroke again my father's silver locks, 
 And hear their last, last words of pardoning love, 
 And learn of them, pure martyrs, how to die ! 
 Think'st thou I shall have power to look on them 
 Even to the last, through all their agonies .'' 
 Or will he graciously let me die first ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 It is too much ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Nay, if I haste, he may ! 
 Why dost thou hold me ? I am growing strong. 
 And thou, methinks, art weak ! 
 
 {Bursting from him.) 
 
 Lo ! I am free ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Will ye not stay her ? I am powerless ; 
 
 Her words have stricken from mine arms their force. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 She hath her task ; strength will be given her. 
 
 MIRIABI. 
 
 Ay, ye say true. I am not wholly left ; 
 And like a morning mist from gleaming lakes. 
 The cloud is passing from my wildered mind. 
 Youth ! wert tJiou as they are, even thus 
 For thee would I risk all. — If there be hope 
 
MIRIAM. 55 
 
 Or consolation in those words, take thou 
 
 One last, fond blessing with them ! — this, at least. 
 
 Will sure be pardoned me. There is a love 
 
 That innocence may feel for sinning friends, 
 
 A love made up of holy hopes, and prayers, 
 
 And tears ! and, Paulus, even such angel-love. 
 
 Living' or dying, will I bear to thee ! — Farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Thou too must hence with us ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Not yet, — not yet! 
 Let me but watch the fluttering of her robe ! - — 
 Alas ! its last white gleam is faded, — gone, — 
 And swallowed up in darkness, like my hopes, 
 My happiness, — like all things fair or bright, 
 These eyes have ever loved to look upon ! 
 Lead where ye will. The clods beneath these feet 
 Have scarce less life or consciousness than he 
 Whose foot is pressing them, with a dull hope 
 To share their utter senselessness ere long. [Exeunt. 
 
56 MIRIAM. 
 
 SCfiNE II. 
 
 A Hall in the Palace of Piso. — Piso and Euphas. 
 PISO. 
 
 Why ! thou hast trusted in thy youth and bloom, 
 
 As if the eye whose Hghtnings thou hast braved 
 
 Were woman's ! Thou hast yet to learn, fair boy. 
 
 The mower in his earnest task spares not 
 
 The wild-flower in his path. It moves my mirth 
 
 That with such hope thou shouldst have sought my face. 
 
 Intruding on my midnight privacy. 
 
 To pour thine intercession in mine ear. 
 
 Tell me, I pray, didst thou in sooth believe 
 
 Thy boyish eloquence and raven curls 
 
 Might move the settled purpose of my soul ? 
 
 Or is thy life too bitter in the bud, 
 
 That thou hast taken a way so sure and prompt 
 
 To nip its blossoming.? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I know not which. 
 But if I had a hope, and it prove false. 
 Life were the sternest penalty thy wrath 
 Could bid my spirit bear. 
 
MIRIAM. 57 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I doubt thee much. 
 When the young blood runs bounding through the veins, 
 And a strong thought is on the working soul, 
 And death goes wandering far and heeds thee not, 
 'T is easy then to scorn thine absent foe. 
 But if the monster turn upon thee fierce, 
 Whispering a sudden summons in thine ear. 
 Checking thy youthful pulse with icy touch. 
 Flinging an utter darkness on thy hopes. 
 Boy ! in that shuddering hour, — it draweth nigh ! — 
 I shall behold thy bright cheek blanched with fear, 
 And hear thee, in thine agony, implore 
 One day, — one hour of that same precious life 
 Which now thou hold'st so cheap. How thou wilt rue 
 And wonder at thine own presumption strange. 
 And that insane and idle hope, which gave 
 Thee, in thy youth and folly, to my hand. 
 Ye gods ! it was most strange ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 To thee most strange, 
 Who of all earthly things alone dost hold 
 No sympathy with aught on earth. To thee 
 There is no power in words that can unfold 
 The steady faith, and deep, absorbing love, 
 That brought me here. — I have not yet said all. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Not all } Why, that is stranger still. Methought 
 
58 MIRIAM. 
 
 Thou hadst run through each supplicating phrase 
 Our language knows ; and in good truth, although 
 The gods themselves are scarce more wont than I 
 To hear the voice of prayer and agony, 
 Yet will I own mine ear hath never drunk 
 Tones and entreaties eloquent as thine. 
 Thou hast said much, fair lad, and said it well. 
 And said it all — in vain. — Dost hear ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I do. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Why ! thou art wondrous calm ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Thou man of blood ! 
 I have not yet said all ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 But by the gods, 
 Thou hast ! for I will hear no more this night. 
 To-morrow, if I 'm in an idle mood, 
 I '11 hear thee, — on the cross ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I read thine eye, 
 That does not honor me with wrath or scorn, 
 But marks me with a proud, cold weariness. 
 Yet will I utter — what shall bid that eye 
 Flash fire ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Poor fool ! I marvel I have spent 
 
MIRIAM. 59 
 
 Even thus much time upon thee. Take him hence ! 
 Where are the daring slaves who marshalled thee ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Where is thy son ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 My son ! — my son, saidst thou ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Ay ! — where is he 7 thine only son ? — and Paulus, 
 I think, the name he nohly bears. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Gone forth 
 Upon some reckless revel, haply ; I know not. 
 Seekest thou time, that with such idle quest 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I seek thy vulnerable spot. If now 
 
 I fail ! — Know'st thou not aught, — whither, — or how — 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I tell thee, no ! Read me thy riddle, boy ! 
 The night wears on, and busy hours are mine 
 Ere to my couch 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 The couch unvisited 
 By sleep this night ! O, were it not for those 
 Whose lives hang on this chance, I could relent. 
 How can I aim so near a father's heart ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 This tardiness and would-be mystery 
 
60 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Portend a mighty tale. Look it he such. 
 Why ! what knitted brow and troubled eye ! 
 Say on, and hence ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Enough ! — Thou hast a son, 
 Whose life hangs on a word, — a syllable, — 
 Breathed from thy lips ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Well ! excellent ! Go on. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 He is a hostage 'mid an armed band, 
 A pledge thou canst not sport with, for the lives 
 We came to beg. Give me ray father back. 
 My father and his friends from yonder cells. 
 And thou shalt have thy haughty son unscathed 
 By Christian swords ! But if they bleed 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Say on ; 
 I would hear all. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 If to the appointed spot 
 They come not all, — age, youth, and woman, — all, — 
 Ere the red sun shall look aslant the hills 
 With its first beam, he dies ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 And is this all ? 
 
MIRIAM. 61 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Ay. Now have I said much, — and well, — and not, 
 Perchance, in vain ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Lad, were there but one chance 
 Thou e'er mightst profit by the kind advice, 
 I would exhort thee, when again thou seek'st 
 To save thy life by trick and cunning tale, 
 Make thou thy story prohahle ! — Dost hear ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 How ! dost thou doubt ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I should as soon believe thee. 
 If thou assertedst that the ocean waves 
 Were dashing high around my palace-gates ; 
 Or that the thousand Christians I have slain 
 Were seeking me along the silent streets, 
 Moaning and glimmering in their phantom-shrouds, 
 At this lone hour of midnight. — Thou art pale : 
 In the extremity of fear hast thou 
 Devised a tale so wild ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I may be pale ; 
 But reperuse my brow, and see if there 
 Is aught that tokens fear ! 
 
 PISO. ' 
 
 , Boy ! there is that 
 
 6 
 
62 MIRIAM. 
 
 Within thy pensive eye I cannot meet, 
 I have beheld a face so Hke to thine. 
 Else had our parley shorter been. — Away ! 
 I will behold — will hear thy voice no more ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Forth to the dungeon must I go ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ay, lad ! 
 The deepest, — darkest ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 So it be but that 
 My father shareth, I care not how dark. 
 Darker will be to-morrow's noon to thee, 
 Thou childless sire ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Can it be true ? I feel 
 A cold and sudden shuddering in my veins. 
 Tell me once more, — I know 't is mockery, — 
 Yet would I hear thy tale again, false boy ! 
 My son, thou say'st 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Circled with Christian swords, 
 Stands waiting thy behest ! for those whose friends 
 This night have fallen within thy fatal grasp 
 Now hold thine own proud darling fast in bonds, 
 Where rescue or protecting power of thine 
 Cannot avail him aught. Revenge thou mayst. 
 
MIRIAM. 63 
 
 But canst not save him, — but by sparing those 
 Whom thou didst purpose for a cruel death. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 And where, — in what dark nook 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Nay, tyrant ! but 
 Thou canst not dream that I will answer thee. 
 
 ' PISO. 
 
 I will send forth my soldiers, — they shall search ; 
 It may be false, — but they shall overrun 
 Palace and hut, and search each hiding-place 
 In all this mighty city, till my son 
 Be found ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 When he is found, that son will be — 
 Knowest thou what ? Sunrise the hour, — remember ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Now by the great god Mars ! but thou shalt die 
 For this, be thy tale false or true. Till now 
 I never felt these firm knees tremble. — Speak ! 
 How fell my noble Paulus in the gripe 
 Of yonder ravening wolves } 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 How came he there ? 
 Alas ! that question hath a dagger's point. 
 Man, I would rather die than answer it ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 But thou shalt speak, or I will have thy bones 
 
64 MIRIAM. 
 
 Wrenched from their sockets. — Stripling ! — Silent still ? 
 Bethink thee, thou art young and delicate ; 
 Thy tender limbs have a keen sense of pain ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 In dark thoughts am I lost, — but not of that ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Answer me ! rouse thee from thy trance ! Thou 'It find 
 A stern reality around thee soon. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 It is a thought to search the very soul ! 
 
 And yet — so young — she may repent. — List, Piso ! 
 
 It is a short but melancholy tale. 
 
 And if my heart break not the while, in brief 
 
 Will I declare how fell thy haughty son 
 
 Into the power of Christian foes. He sought 
 
 I have a sister, — she is beautiful, — 
 Touched by three summers more than I have seen 
 Into the first young grace of womanhood, — 
 Lovely, yet thoughtful. — O my God ! it comes 
 Upon my soul too heavily ! — Proud Roman ! 
 Art thou not answered ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I am. He dies ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 How! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ye shall all die. In my mighty wrath 
 
MIRIAM. 65 
 
 I have no words, — no frenzy now ! 'T is deep, 
 Too deep for outward show ! But he shall die, 
 The base, degenerate boy ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Thou speakest now 
 In the first burst of fury. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 That my son 
 Should love a Christian girl ! Foul, foul disgrace ! 
 Fury, saidst thou ? I am calm. Look on me. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I see the tiger crouching ere he springs. 
 
 I mark the livid cheek, the bloodshot eye, 
 
 Hands firmly clenched, and swollen veins. Are these 
 
 Tokens of inward calm } 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Now am I free ! 
 My son hangs not upon my palsied arm, 
 Checking the half-dealt blow ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Dost thou exult } 
 O Heaven ! to think such spirits are ! Wilt thou, 
 Piso, indeed forget 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Strange error thine 
 To tell this secret, boy ! — I loved my son. 
 And loved naught else on earth. In him alone 
 
66 MIRIAM. 
 
 Centred the wild, blind fondness of a heart 
 All adamant, except for him ! And thou, — 
 T/iOM, foolish youth, hast made me hate and scorn 
 
 Him whom my pride and love Knowest thou not 
 
 Thou hast but sealed thy fate ? His life had been 
 More precious to me than the air I breathe ; 
 And cheerfully I would have yielded up 
 A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens 
 
 To save one hair upon his head. But now 
 
 A Christian maid ! — Were there none other ? — Gods ! 
 Shame and a shameful death be his, — and thine ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 It is the will of God. My hopes burnt dim 
 Even from the first, and are extinguished now. 
 The thirst of blood hath rudely choked at last 
 The one affection which thy dark breast knew. 
 And thou art man no more. Let me but die 
 First of thy victims 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Would that she among them 
 
 Where is the sorceress ? I fain would see 
 
 The beauty that hath witched Rome's noblest youth. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I will. — On her shall fall my worst revenge ; 
 
 And I will know what foul and magic arts 
 
 [Miriam glides in. A pause. 
 
MIUIAM. 67 
 
 Beautiful shadow ! in this hour of wrath 
 
 What dost thou here ? In Ufe thou wert too meek, 
 
 Too gentle, for a lover stern as I. 
 
 And since I saw thee last, my days have been 
 
 Deep steeped in sin and blood ! What seekest thou ? 
 
 I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come. 
 
 With thy dark eyes and their soul-searching glance, 
 
 To look me into peace ? — It cannot be. 
 
 Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms ! 
 
 He whose young love thou didst reject on earth 
 
 May tremble at this visitation strange. 
 
 But never can know peace or virtue more ! 
 
 Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog 
 
 Did win thy precious love. — I have good cause 
 
 To hate and scorn the whole detested race ; 
 
 And till I meet that man, whom most of all 
 
 My soul abhors, will I go on and slay ! 
 
 Fade, vanish, shadow bright ! — In vain that look ! 
 
 That sweet, sad look ! — My lot is cast in blood ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 0, say not so ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 The voice that won me first ! 
 0, what a tide of recollections rush 
 Upon my drowning soul ! — my own wild love, — 
 Thy scorn, — the long, long days of blood and guilt 
 That since have left their footprints on my fate ! — 
 
68 MIRIAM. 
 
 The dark, dark nights of fevered agony, 
 When, 'mid the strife and struggling of my dreams, 
 The gods sent thee at times to hover round, 
 Bringing the memory of those peaceful days 
 When I beheld thee first ! — But never yet 
 Before my waking eyes hast thou appeared 
 Distinct and visible as now ! — Fair spirit ! 
 What wouldst thou have ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O man of guilt and woe ! 
 Thine own dark phantasies are busy now, 
 Lending unearthly seeming to a thing 
 Of earth, as thou art ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 How ! Art thou not she ? 
 I know that face ! I never yet beheld 
 One like to it among earth's loveliest. 
 Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art 
 A thing of mortal mould ? — O, better meet 
 The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog 
 My midnight dreams, than that half-pitying eye ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Thou art a wretched man ! and I do feel 
 Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought. 
 But from the quiet grave I have not come. 
 Nor from the shadowy confines of the world 
 Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour. 
 
MIRIAM. 69 
 
 The disembodied should be passionless, 
 
 And wear not eyes that swim in earth-born tears, 
 
 As mine do now ! — Look up, thou conscience-struck ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Off! off! She touched me with her damp, cold hand I 
 But 't was a hand of flesh and blood ! — Away ! 
 Come thou not near me till I study thee. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild ? thy lips 
 
 Convulsed and ghastly white ? Thine own dark sins. 
 
 Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form 
 
 Thou dar'st not look upon, — I know not why. 
 
 But I must speak to thee. 'Mid thy remorse, 
 
 And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, 
 
 I must be heard, — for God hath sent me here. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Who, — who hath sent thee here ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 The Christian's God, 
 The God thou knowest not. He hath given me strength, 
 And led me safely through the broad, lone streets. 
 Even at the midnight hour ! My heart sunk not. 
 My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering 
 Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft 
 Pale gods and goddesses on either hand. 
 Bending their sightless eyes on me ; by founts. 
 Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air ; 
 
70 MIRIAM. 
 
 Through moonlit squares, where ever and anon 
 Flashed from some dusky nook the red torchlight, 
 Flung on my path by passing reveller. 
 And He hath bi'ought me here before thy face ; 
 And it was He who smote thee even now 
 With a strange, nameless fear. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Girl ! name it not. 
 I deemed I looked on one whose bright young face 
 First glanced upon me 'mid the shining leaves 
 Of a green bower in sunny Palestine, 
 In my youth's prime ! I knew the dust, 
 The grave's corroding dust, had soiled 
 That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell 
 Upon the soul that never yet knew fear. 
 But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread ; 
 And what the gods did make me am I now. 
 What seekest thou ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Miriam ! go thou hence. 
 Why shouldst thou die ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Brother ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ha ! is this so ? 
 Now, by the gods ! — Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves ! 
 If they escape me now Why, this is good ! 
 
MIRIAM. 71 
 
 I had not dreamed of hap so glorious. 
 She that beguiled my son ! His sister ! 
 
 BIIRIAM. 
 
 Peace ! 
 Nqme not with tongue unhallowed love like ours. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Thou art her image, — and the mystery 
 Confounds my purposes. Take other form, 
 Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee ! 
 
 Curiam. 
 I have no other form than this God gave ; 
 And he already hath stretched forth his hand 
 And touched it for the grave. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 It is most strange. 
 Is not the air around her full of spells } 
 Give me the son thou hast seduced ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Hear, Piso ! 
 Thy son hath seen me, — loved me, — and hath won 
 A heart too prone to worship noble .things. 
 Although of earth, — and he, alas ! was earth's. 
 I strove, I prayed, in vain ! In all things else 
 I might have stirred his soul's best purposes. 
 But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, 
 There was no entrance in that iron soul. 
 And I Amid such hopes despair arose. 
 
72 MIRIAM. 
 
 And laid a withering hand upon my heart. 
 I feel it yet ! — We parted ! Ay, this night 
 We met to meet no more. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Sister ! my tears 
 
 They choke my words, — else 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Euphas, thou wert wroth 
 When there was little cause ; — I loved thee more. 
 Thy very frowns in such a holy cause 
 Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, 
 Looking on fancied sin, is noble. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Maid! 
 Hath then my son withstood thy witchery, 
 And on this ground ye parted ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 It is so. 
 
 Alas that I rejoice to tell it thee ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Nay, well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon. 
 
 That he had loved thee would have been a sin 
 
 Too full of degradation, infamy. 
 
 Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves 
 
 Beheld thee in thy loveliness ! And yet, bold girl ! 
 
 Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell * 
 
 That works on one grown old in deeds of blood. 
 
MIRIAM. 73 
 
 I have looked calmly on when eyes as bright 
 
 Were drowned in tears of bitter agony, 
 
 When forms as full of grace — and pride, perchance — 
 
 Were writhing in the sharpness of their pain. 
 
 And cheeks as fair were mangled 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Tyrant, cease ! 
 Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these 
 Were not for ears like hers ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I tremble not. 
 He spake of pardon for his guiltless son. 
 And that includeth life for those I love. 
 What need I more ? 
 
 ETJPHAS. 
 
 Let us go hence at once. 
 Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates 
 That shut our friends from light and air. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Not yet. 
 My haughty boy, for w^e have much to say. 
 Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not ! 
 Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here 
 Till I am satisfied. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 How ! hast thou changed 
 
 7 - 
 
74 MIRIAM. 
 
 PISO. 
 Nay, but I must detain ye till I ask 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Detain us if thou wilt. But look ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 At what ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 There, through yon western arch ! — the moon sinks low. 
 The mists already tinge her orb with blood. 
 Methinks I feel the breeze of morn even now. 
 Know'st thou the hour ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I do, — but one thing more 
 I fain would know ; for after this wild night 
 Let me no more behold you. Why didst thou, 
 Bold, dark-haired boy, wear in those pleading eyes, 
 When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look 
 That fell familiar on my soul ? And thou. 
 The lofty, calm, and, O, most beautiful ! 
 Why are not only that soul-searching glance, 
 But even thy features and thy silver voice, 
 So like to hers I loved long years ago, 
 Beneath Judea's palms ? Whence do ye come ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 For me, I bear my own dear mother's brow ; 
 Her eye, her form, her very voice, are mine. 
 So, in his tears, my father oft hath said. 
 
 i 
 
MIRIAM. 75 
 
 We lived beneath Judea's shady palms, 
 Until that saintlike mother faded, — drooped, — 
 And died. Then hither came we o'er the waves. 
 And till this night have worshipped faithfully 
 The One, True, Living God, in secret peace. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Thou art her child ! I could not harm thee now. 
 O, wonderful ! that things so long forgot, — 
 A love I thought so crushed and trodden down 
 Even by the iron tread of passions wild, — 
 Ambition, pride, and worst of all, revenge, — 
 Revenge that hath shed seas of Christian blood \ — 
 To think this heart was once so. waxen soft. 
 And then congealed so hard, that naught of all 
 Which hath been since could ever have the power 
 To wear away the image of that girl, — 
 That fair, young Christian girl ! — 'T was a wild love ! 
 But I was young, a soldier in strange lands, 
 And she, in very gentleness, said nay 
 So timidly, I hoped, — until, ye gods ! 
 She loved another ! Yet I slew him not ! 
 I fled ! — O, had I met him since ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Come, sister ! 
 The hours wear on. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ye shall go forth in joy, 
 
76 MIRIAM. 
 
 And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son — 
 
 Him whom she did not bear — home to these arms, 
 
 And go ye out of Rome with all your train. 
 
 I will shed blood no more ; for I have known 
 
 What sort of peace deep-glutted vengeance brings. 
 
 My son is brave, but of a gentler mind 
 
 Than I have been. His eyes shall never more 
 
 Be grieved with sight of sinless blood poured forth 
 
 From tortured veins. Go forth, ye gentle two ! 
 
 Children of her who might perhaps have poured 
 
 Her own meek spirit o'er my nature stern, 
 
 Since the bare image of her buried charms. 
 
 Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power 
 
 To stir my spirit thus ! But go ye forth ! 
 
 Ye leave an ahered and a milder man 
 
 Than him ye sought. Tell Paulus this. 
 
 To quicken his young steps. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Now may the peace 
 That follows just and worthy deeds be thine ! 
 And may deep truths be born, 'mid thy remorse, 
 In the recesses of thy soul, to make 
 That soul even yet a shrine of holiness. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Piso ! how shall we pass yon steel-clad men, 
 Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon gate } 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Take ye my well-known ring, — and here, — the list. 
 
MIRIAM. 77 
 
 Ay, this is it, methinks : show these Great gods ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 What is there on yon scroll which shakes him thus ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 A name, at which he points with stiffening hand. 
 And eyeballs full of wrath ! — Alas ! alas ! 
 I guess too well. — My brother, droop thou not. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Your father^ did ye say } Was it his life 
 Ye came to beg } 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 His life ; but not alone 
 The life so dear to us ; for he hath friends 
 Sharing his fetters and his final doom. 
 
 PTSO. 
 
 Little reck I of them. Tell me his name ! [A pause. 
 
 Speak, boy ! or I will tear thee piecemeal ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Stay! 
 Stern son of violence ! the name thou askest 
 Is — is — Thraseno ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Well I knew it, girl ! 
 Now, by the gods, had I not been entranced, 
 I sooner had conjectured this. — Foul name ! 
 Thus do 1 tear thee out, — and even thus 
 Rend with my teeth ! — O rage ! she wedded him, 
 
78 MIRIAM. 
 
 And ever since that hated name hath been 
 
 The voice of serpents in mine ear ! — But now 
 
 Why go ye not ? Here is your list ! and all, 
 Ay, every one whose name is here set down, 
 Will my good guards forthwith release you ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Piso ! 
 In mercy mock us not ! children of her 
 Whom thou didst love 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ay, maid ! but ye are his 
 Whom I do hate ! That chord is broken now, — 
 Its music hushed ! Is she not in her grave, — 
 And he — within my grasp ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Where is thy peace, — 
 Thy penitence ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Fled all, — a moonbeam brief 
 Upon a stormy sea. That magic name 
 Hath roused the wild, loud winds again. — Begone ! 
 Save whom ye may. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Piso ! I go not hence 
 Until my father's name be on this scroll. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Take root, then, where thou art ! for by dark Styx 
 I swear 
 
MIRIAM. 79 
 
 t 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Nay, swear thou not, till I am heard. 
 Hast thou forgot thy son ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 No ! let him die. 
 So that I have my long-deferred revenge ! 
 Thy lip grows pale ! — Art thou not answered now ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Deep horror falls upon me ! Can it be 
 Such demon spirits dwell on earth } 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Bold maiden ! 
 While thou art safe, go hence ; for in his might 
 The tiger wakes within me ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Be it so. 
 He can but rend me where I stand. And here, 
 Living or dying, will I raise my voice 
 In a firm hope ! The God that brought me here 
 Is round me in the silent air. On me 
 Falleth the influence of an unseen Eye ! 
 And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer. 
 This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame. 
 Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul, 
 My father thou mayst slay ! Flames will not fall 
 From heaven to scorch and wither thee ! The earth 
 Will gape not underneath thy feet ! And peace. 
 
80 MIRIAM. 
 
 Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still 
 Thy home and hearth ! But deep within thy breast 
 A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. 
 Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams 
 To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day 
 That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness, 
 As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, 
 And know that even in death — is no repose ! 
 And this shall be thy life ! Then a dark hour 
 Will surely come 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Maiden, be warned ! All this 
 I know. It moves me not. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Nay, one thing more 
 Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth — 
 Full as it is of young and gentle hearts — 
 One man alone that loves a wretch like thee ; 
 And he, thou say'st, must die ! All other eyes 
 Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look. 
 Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine ; 
 And he whose loving glance alone spake peace 
 Thou say'st must die in youth ! Thou know'st not yet 
 The deep and bitter sense of loneliness. 
 The throes and achings of a childless heart. 
 Which yet will all be thine ! Thou know'st not yet 
 What 't is to wander 'mid thy spacious halls. 
 
MIRIAM. 81 
 
 And find them desolate ! — wildly to start 
 
 From thy deep musings at the distant sound 
 
 Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick — 
 
 Ay, sick at heart — with dark remembrances ! 
 
 To dream thou seest him as in years gone by, 
 
 When, in his bright and joyous infancy. 
 
 His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, 
 
 And his soft arms were twined around thy neck. 
 
 And his twin rosebud lips just lisped thy name, — 
 
 Yet feel in agony 't is but a dream ! 
 
 Thou know'st not yet what 't is to lead the van 
 
 Of armies hurrying on to victory. 
 
 Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour, 
 
 Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume. 
 
 Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fixed 
 
 In battle-field ! — to sit, at midnight deep, 
 
 Alone within thy tent, — all shuddering, — 
 
 When, as the curtained door lets in the breeze. 
 
 Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms 
 
 And bright young hero-face of him who once 
 
 Had been most welcome there ! — and worst of all 
 
 PISO. 
 
 It is enough ! The gift of prophecy 
 Is on thee, maid ! A power that is not thine 
 Looks out from that dilated, awful form, — 
 Those eyes deep-flashing with unearthly light, — 
 And stills my soul. — My Paul us must not die ! 
 And yet — to give up thus the boon 
 
82 MIRIAM. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 What boon ? 
 A boon of blood ? — To him, the good old man, 
 Death is not terrible, but only seems 
 A dark, short passage to a land of light. 
 Where, 'mid high ecstasy, he shall behold 
 The unshrouded glories of his Maker's face, 
 And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last 
 Upon the ascended Prince, and never more 
 Know grief or pain, or part from those he loves ! 
 Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust. 
 And bring deep vengeance on his murderer ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 My Paulus must not die ! Let me revolve 
 
 Maiden ! thy words have sunk into my soul ; 
 
 Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down 
 
 A purpose cherished in my inmost heart. 
 
 That which hath been my dream by night, — by day 
 
 My life's sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn, 
 
 Long years ere thou wert born, that should the gods 
 
 E'er give him to my rage, — and yet I pause ? — 
 
 Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son. 
 
 And I not crush them into nothingness? 
 
 Am I so pinioned, vain, and powerless ? 
 
 Work, busy brain ! thy cunning must not fail. [Retires. 
 
 « 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 My sister ! thou art spent. 
 
MIRIAM. 83 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Not yet ; although 
 The strange excitement of my spirit dies, 
 And stern suspense is fretting fast away 
 The ties which hold that spirit from its home, 
 Yet shall I linger till my task be done. 
 Look ! on that moody brow what dost thou read ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Alas ! no hope. And yet methinks a smile 
 
 Of inward exultation sudden gleams 
 
 Athwart his features, like a distant flash 
 
 Of lurid lightning 'mid thick clouds. My sister ! 
 
 I like it not. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 He marks us watching him. 
 And with a brightening aspect draweth nigh. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Children ! go hence in peace, for I have held 
 
 Communion with my own fierce, warring thoughts. 
 
 And there is something there which pleads your cause. 
 
 I cannot live on this dark earth alone ; 
 
 I cannot die, if burdened with his blood ; 
 
 I cannot give my brave and only son 
 
 To buy the luxury of my revenge ! 
 
 So ye have won your boon, and I must stake 
 
 My Paulus too on your fidelity ! 
 
 Ye might deceive me ; but I read you well, 
 
84 MIRIAM. 
 
 Two young, high-minded souls ; — to you I trust 
 All that I hold most dear. In peace and hope 
 Go hence, and send him home. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Go hence ! and how ? 
 Leaving behind us those for whom we came ? 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Fear not, for they shall follow thee. This hour, 
 This instant, will I take myself the way 
 That leads down to their dwellings dark and drear, 
 And set them free. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 And we will cling to thee. 
 Blessing the hand which breaks a father's chains, 
 And thou shalt see our meeting, and rejoice 
 To think that thou hast caused such happiness. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Nay, maiden ! dost forget .? My Paulus stands 
 
 In jeopardy, and ye may be too late ! 
 
 Seek ye my son, while I release your friends. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Piso ! we cannot sound the depths of guile 
 Within that cold and crafty breast ; — but woe ! 
 If we should trust, and be deceived ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 How ! do ye wrong me thus ? Can such distrust 
 Spring up in youthful hearts ? 
 
MIRIAM. 85 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 We have good cause 
 To doubt a Pagan, when he talks of peace 
 Or mercy for his Christian foes. And yet 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ye will go forth, — for ye can do naught else. 
 It is your destiny. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 We will not dream 
 There can be perfidy so base. We trust, 
 And by the confidence of innocence 
 Will we disarm thy wrath. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Nay, sister, more. 
 He cannot mock us now, for we still hold 
 Our pledge until his promise be redeemed. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Then go. If harm betide my son I see 
 
 A dull gray light along the east ! — Begone ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Swear to us first 
 
 PISO. 
 
 What would ye have ? I swear. 
 Both by my gods and by the sacred Styx, 
 And by the precious blood of that one son, 
 That I will take your father and his friends 
 From yonder cells, and send them where ye list, 
 
86 MIRIAM. 
 
 Before yon stars grow dim ! Is it enough ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Alo7ie, too, must they come. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Ay, girl, alone. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 And tell them they must seek that lonely spot 
 Where we all met three nights ago. 
 
 PISO. 
 
 I will. 
 Aught more ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 No, naught. And now, when we behold 
 The glad procession drawing nigh, whh joy 
 Will we release brave Paulus from our thrall, 
 And send him back to comfort thine old age. 
 And he will shield us from all other harm, 
 While we make haste to quit this bloody land, 
 Some for a calmer home on earth, and one 
 For yonder skies ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 Speed hence ! watch o'er my son, 
 And by the appointed hour even yet your friends 
 Shall be with you. Remember, ye are bound 
 To loose him soon as ye descry their train ; 
 And bid him borrow wings to fly and ease 
 A heart that hath been racked for him this night. 
 
MIRIAM. 87 
 
 A heart that can be touched through him alone. 
 
 EUPHAS. ^ 
 
 Let us depart, though fear and doubt still brood 
 Upon our souls. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Euphas ! we will not leave 
 Such words to rankle in a softened heart. 
 Piso ! the child of her whom thou once loved 
 Leaves thee a blessing for the kindly hope 
 Thy words have given. Thine be a long old age 
 Of calm and penitence, — stayed by the arm 
 Of him whom I shall see but once, — once more ! 
 
 Farewell ! I yield Euphas ! uphold my steps. 
 
 This palace shall be his abode, when I 
 Am silent in my grave ! Will he forget 
 That there was once a Miriam ? — Lead forth ; 
 The air will give me strength ; and we will thank 
 Him who hath bid a gladsome light shine in 
 On hearts that were a chaos of despair. 
 My father saved ! 
 
 PISO. 
 
 And I may be deceived ! 
 Yet I do trust you. — Haste ! it is the dawn, 
 Gleaming through yon arcade, that bids your cheeks 
 Look pale, and dims my tapers thus. Depart. 
 If ye should be too late, earth hath no cave 
 To hide you from my wrath ! [Exeunt. 
 
88 MIRIAM. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A rising Ground in a deserted Garden, near the City Walls. — Paulus, 
 and Christians keeping guard. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 I have gazed upward on yon twinkling gems 
 
 Until my eyes grew dim ; and then have turned 
 
 To look upon the starlit face of things, 
 
 Obscure, yet beautiful, and watched the moon 
 
 Reddening 'mid earthborn mists, and verging fast 
 
 To yonder hilly west, each in its turn, — 
 
 Hoping the outward calm of things so fair 
 
 Might sink, as erst, into a troubled breast. 
 
 And breathe their own deep quiet o'er my soul. 
 
 Such things have been, but not for hours like these. 
 
 My brow is wet with dew, and yet burns on ! 
 
 My eye drinks in a placid scene, yet fills. 
 
 Fills to the brim with silent, blinding tears ! 
 
 And my heart beats against my aching breast 
 
 With throbs of agony ! — My Miriam ! 
 
 Thou in thine innocence wilt die, — ay, die 
 
 By a most cruel death ! And I am here, 
 
 Bound in a strange and vile captivity ! 
 
 'T was the sole hope, — and now I feel 't was vain ! 
 
MIRIAM. 89 
 
 I have no power to thrust the image stern 
 Out of my soul, — thee, trembling, cold, and pale. 
 Bowing thy gentle head with murmured prayers 
 Beneath rough hands that bind thee to the cross. 
 Ye gods ! the rest, — the rest ! — let me go mad, 
 Ye pitying gods, and so escape the worst. 
 Knowledge of that I cannot see, yet know. 
 And if, with strength by thrilling horror given, 
 I call my wandering fancy home, and chain 
 
 Thought to the present What were Death's worst pangs 
 
 Could I but meet him in the battle-field. 
 Waving on high my own red-flashing sword, 
 Meeting my death-blow in the hottest strife, 
 Dying with shouts of victory in mine ears. 
 Frowns on my brow, proud smiles upon my lips ? 
 Alas ! the death of brutes, vain struggles, groans. 
 And butchery, await me here ! 
 
 Ye stars ! 
 I watch you in your silent march ! I mark 
 How one by one ye kiss yon shadowy hills. 
 And steal into the chambers of the west. 
 Sinking for ever from my eyes ! Farewell ! 
 I shall not see you rise ! A few brief hours. 
 Ye, in your tranquil beauty, shall look down 
 Once more upon the spot where now I stand. 
 And there behold me not. But ye shall see 
 Token of bloody deed, — the pure turf stained, — 
 
 8* 
 
90 MIRIAM. 
 
 The scabbard haply cast in haste away, — 
 And boughs strewn rudely o'er the darkest spot 
 That tells the foul, foul tale of violence ! 
 And what of this ? or why, at such an hour. 
 Revel my thoughts in idle circumstance, 
 Avaihng naught ? I know not, — I hold not 
 The clews that guide my spirit's wanderings; 
 And when they list, wild, dark imaginings 
 Arise unbidden ! 
 
 How ! ye do grow dim, 
 Fair stars ! The breeze that fans my cheek 
 Freshens with morn, and yonder glowing moon 
 Rests her broad rim upon the distant hills, 
 And I descry a cypress, tall and dark. 
 Drawn with its spreading boughs against her disk. 
 My hours ebb low, and I will watch no more 
 The heavens and earth with dim and aching eyes. 
 There is no calm within, — and that without 
 Makes but a broken image on my soul, — 
 A faithful mirror once of all things fair ! 
 {Sits down on a rock and hides his face with his hands. — ^ long pause.) 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Friends ! by which path think ye they will approach ? 
 
 SECOND CHRISTIAN. 
 
 By this. We shall descry them from afar, 
 Threading the trees that fringe the river's bank. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 I had forgotten my stern guards, until 
 
MIRIAM. 91 
 
 Their hollow voices woke me from vain dreams, — 
 
 Vain dreams of other days ! — Ye gods, how light ! 
 
 The sky is full of light, and golden clouds 
 
 Are floating softly in the crimson east, — 
 
 Fit homes for those pure, bright-winged, angel forms 
 
 Which, Miriam says, do serve her God in heaven ! 
 
 I hear the gentle stir of waking birds 
 
 Among the boughs that rustle o'er my head ; 
 
 And, motionless as rocks, I dimly see 
 
 The forms of men beneath the shadowing trees. 
 
 Leaning upon their swords, — keeping stern guard 
 
 O'er one poor, unarmed wretch ! — O, why have I 
 
 No weapon in extremity like this ? [A pavse. 
 
 What was that soft, sweet note ? The prelude faint 
 
 To the full matin concert of glad hearts 
 
 Joying to see the morn ! — Ay, there thou go'st. 
 
 Up to the skies, fair bird ! and, cleaving swift 
 
 The balmy air with soft and busy wing. 
 
 Thou pourest forth thy soul in melody ! 
 
 I envy thee, — though I almost forget 
 
 What 't is that vexes me while thus I watch 
 
 Thine upward flight ! But thou art gone, — and I, — 
 
 I am on earth, dark earth, and have no wings 
 
 To bear me up to yonder happy realms ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Seest thou aught ? 
 
 SECOND CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Naught but the willow-boughs, 
 
92 MIRIAM. 
 
 Waving and whispering in the rising breeze. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Ye watch in vain. They will not, cannot come ! 
 
 My own wild hope hath fled ; my heart is sick. 
 
 I hear chains rattling on their youthful limbs ; 
 
 I see them gasping 'mid the dungeon damps, 
 
 Closed in with dark, strong walls ! They cannot come ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 The hour draws nigh. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Ay, on the river's face 
 Vanish the dull, red specks, that all night long 
 Glimmered, in faint reflection of the lamps 
 That lit the student's task, the sick man's couch. 
 Life wakes throughout the city. — Rome, my home ! 
 How beautiful art thou ! — thus stealing forth 
 From the deep-veiling darkness of the night, — 
 A wilderness of gardens, palaces. 
 And stately fanes ! — I cannot see the roof. 
 The one proud roof I seek ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Pagan, I know 
 Thou fear'st not death. Art thou prepared to die ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Ay, any death, save that thou purposest. 
 Had I a sword 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Hast thou no need of prayer ? 
 
MIRIAM. 93 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Of prayer ? Why should I pray ? Have I not served 
 The ungrateful gods too faithfully ? Alas ! 
 I know not what I say ! — Trouble me not, 
 I do conjure thee, Christian ! — Is 't the hour ? 
 A mist is on mine eyes. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Not yet. There 's time 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 god of day ! why are thy chariot-wheels 
 
 So slow ? Would that thy earliest beam had power 
 
 To strike me into ashes ! Such a death 
 
 Would have no horrors for a Roman youth. 
 
 But in cold blood Christian ! what seest thou ? 
 
 SECOND CHRISTIAN. 
 
 A wreath of mist that sails along the stream. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 1 will be patient. Could I think of aught, — 
 
 No matter what, — save Aer, and this vile death, — 
 Such death as cowards die ! — Could I but pierce, 
 Were it but with one brief and shuddering glance. 
 The cloudy curtain hanging o'er the grave ! — 
 O, new, and strange, and awful, are the thoughts. 
 Dim forming in this whirling brain ! Her words 
 Come thrilling back upon my soul with might 
 Most like the might of solemn truth, that wars 
 With blind and steadfast prejudice ! — Ha ! look ! 
 
94 MIRIAM. 
 
 Two forms come gliding yonder 'mid the trees ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 They come ! — What may this mean ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Alas ! — alone ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 With weary steps and slow the pair ascend 
 The hill of blood, — for such this spot must be ! 
 They are indeed alone ! and grief, methinks. 
 Is in their steps ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 She droops ! their prayer was vain ; 
 And my stern father hath forgotten all 
 That gave his bosom aught of human touch. 
 His hand hath signed my early doom ! — Ye gods ! 
 Bear witness how I bless that bloody fate. 
 Since on the heads of yonder sinless pair 
 My father's hand hath wrought no cruel deed ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Their safety doth amaze me. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Nay, the gods 
 Are sometimes touched by rarest innocence, 
 And do by miracle melt iron hearts. 
 Slowly they mount — Ha ! hidden by thick boughs — 
 Christian ! I do implore thee, do the deed ! 
 Spare those mild, youthful eyes the sight of blood, 
 
MIRIAM. 95 
 
 Forth following the dagger's point ! Be quick, 
 And so be merciful ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 A deed so rash 
 Would bring down shame upon these silver hairs. 
 The sun hath not yet risen. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Give me thy sword ! 
 
 \Wresting it from 1dm. 
 MIRIAM {rushing in). 
 
 O, Stay ! When God hath barely given me strength 
 
 To grasp thy robe, must I behold thy blood 
 
 Shed by thine own rash hand ? We deem it guilt ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Hath thy God given thee pinions ? Would, O, would 
 That I had died before that weary foot 
 Had climbed the hill ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Indeed that foot is weary, 
 And the frame weak ; and the internal striving 
 Of hope, and fear, and haste hath lit no fire 
 Upon this cheek, — and I stand hovering 
 On the grave's utmost verge. Yet glad, O, glad 
 Are the faint th robbings of this heart ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 How ! — speak ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Doth not my soul speak from my joyous eyes ? 
 
96 MIRIAM. 
 
 They come ! for God went with us, and his voice 
 Spake to the tyrant's heart. 
 
 EUPHAS {entering). 
 
 Ay, they are saved. 
 And thou, young heathen, spared for happier days. 
 Now haste thee hence in peace, and meditate 
 Hereafter, in thy calm and lonely hours, 
 Upon this night of strife and agony. 
 And on the faith that nerved young Christian hearts, 
 And on the strange success that crowned their hopes. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Mortals are ye, — and more than mortal power 
 Hath wrought in this ! But for my gods, — alas ! 
 To them I have not prayed this dreadful night. 
 O, what is that faith worth which thus forsakes 
 Its votary in trial's darkest hour } 
 It might have been that thou hadst softly sapped 
 My youth's belief, — and so it proudly stood 
 Until the blast came by, — and then it shook. 
 My gods ! I could not bear to think of them ! 
 Why is my brain so dizzy ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Friends, watch still ! 
 Soon as ye see our brethren drawing nigh. 
 The Pagan must away. Paulus, till then. 
 Is it a sin that dying lips should breathe 
 Words that pertain to earth and earthly things ? 
 
MIRIAM. 97 
 
 Thy faith I may not hope to shake ; — and next 
 Would I conjure thee never to forget 
 The voice, the face, the words, the dying love 
 Of her whose warring love and faith have dug 
 Her own untimely grave, — have worn away 
 Her hopes, her nerves, her life, with secret waste. 
 Paulus ! forget thou not, in thy proud halls. 
 Beneath thy father's smile, in battle-field, 
 Or, most of all, in the dark, solemn hour 
 When midnight sheds her spirit on thy soul, 
 The words I 've uttered in those latter days 
 Of our wild love, when failing hope, dim fear. 
 And a vague consciousness that I must yield. 
 Must give thee up to darkness, came to add 
 A sad and awful fervor to my words. 
 O, it must work, — it loill ! That memory 
 Within thy soul will yet have mighty power ! 
 Thou wast not made for base idolatry ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Beloved ! in this hour of hope and joy, 
 Why is the thought of death upon thy soul ? 
 Why is thy voice more sad than the lone bird's, 
 Mourning her wounded or imprisoned mate ? 
 Speak of thy faith, love, if thou wilt ; and I 
 Will mutely listen still, — although farewell 
 Hang with a wild and melancholy tone 
 On every strain ; — but, O, talk not of death ! 
 
98 MIRIAM. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 My sister ! thou art pale, weary, and worn ; 
 
 And care hath wrung thy young, elastic soul, — 
 
 Wrung out its very energies and hopes ! 
 
 But in a calmer land we soon shall find 
 
 Repose, the wounded spirit's balm, and peace 
 
 Shall draw sweet music from thine unstrung mind. 
 
 Thy cheek again shall bloom, thine eye grow bright, 
 
 Beneath thy father's mild, approving smiles ; 
 
 Thy seraph voice, ere long, at vesper hour 
 
 Shall fearless wake the hymn or murmured prayer, 
 
 In full communion with fond, faithful hearts ! 
 
 O, bright and blessed days await us yet. 
 
 Brighter by contrast with the gloomy past ! 
 
 Dear Miriam, talk thou not of death ! — Alas ! 
 
 That mournful smile ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Ye know not, cannot know, 
 How surely Death has set his mouldering seal 
 Upon this brow. Must I not speak of him r 
 He is so near me, that his shadow falls 
 Even now across my path. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Thou art deceived ! 
 It cannot be. The sickness of the soul. 
 Not of the body, is upon thee ! 
 
 MIRIABT. 
 
 Brother, 
 
MIRIAM. 99 
 
 Both ! But 't is long since in the greater pain 
 
 I have forgot the less. What were to me 
 
 The pangs that racked my heart and throbbing brain, 
 
 The fever burning in my veins, the ice 
 
 That suddenly, beneath a noonday sun. 
 
 At times congealed my blood, while o'er my soul 
 
 A fiercer agony held sway ? Ere long 
 
 I must depart ; and I but wait awhile 
 
 To bear my aged father's blessing hence. 
 
 I would that he might see how peacefully 
 
 The spirit of his child will pass. To him 
 
 That holy sight will rise, in after times, 
 
 Full, full of blessed, calm, consoling thoughts ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Miriam ! I am here, — and soon, thou say'st, 
 
 Must hence. Hast thou no word, no glance, no thought 
 
 For me ? I look upon thee steadily. 
 
 And read not death on that pale cheek ! — Beloved ! 
 
 1 do conjure thee, talk of life and hope, — 
 
 For there is hope, of which thou dost not dream. 
 If death come not to dash the untasted cup 
 Into the dust ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Of Life and Hope ! Such themes 
 Are fittest for the hour of death, — and they 
 Are in my mind when most I speak of it. 
 Euphas ! why dost thou weep ? The heritage 
 
100 MIRIAM. 
 
 Of Truth is thine ; thou knowest what death is, 
 
 And that to me it is no thing of fear. 
 
 Thou must not weep ! But tliou^ — alas, my Paulus ! 
 
 The curse to lose the thing thou lovest most, 
 
 Without one hope, one comfort in thy grief. 
 
 Will soon be on thee ! Thou shalt shortly find, 
 
 Where hope is not, 't were better memory 
 
 Might die ! And yet, forget me not ! Although 
 
 Thou thinkest never to behold again 
 
 Her thou didst love, — in this world or the next, — 
 
 Forget me not ! Though long and proud thy course, 
 
 An hour may come 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 The sun hath risen ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Just God ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I had forgotten all ! — O sinful heart ! 
 
 Look ! Miriam, look, if thou seest aught ! For me, 
 
 Mine eyes are glazed with tears. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 And mine are dim, — 
 But not with tears. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 There is no sign of life 
 Along the river's bank ! The sun 
 
MIRIAM. 101 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 'T is vain, 
 Christians, 't is vain ! I knew it from the first. 
 How ye two 'scaped I know not ; but I know 
 This blood must flow. Ye never will behold 
 The friends whom ye expect. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 The leopard yet 
 Hath never changed his spots. Thy sire craves blood, 
 The earth craves thine. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 His blood ! what mean thy words ? 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Is not the sun's whole disk above the hills ? 
 And I have three fair boys, whom that same sun 
 Will watch through torments ere the day be closed. 
 The murderer's son stands there ! Shall I not strike ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Art thou a follower of Christ ? — Alas ! 
 Thou pure and gentle One ! who walkedst earth, 
 Amid earth's bloodiest, sinless, — from whom 
 No shame, no wrong, no agony, could draw 
 One word of bitterness, — thou hast not left 
 Thy spirit in the hearts of all who bear 
 Thy holy name. 
 
 ET7PHAS. 
 
 The guiltless shall not die. 
 
 9* 
 
102 MIRIAM. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Are ye Thraseno's children ? Shall your sire 
 
 Hang agonizing yonder on the cross, 
 
 And ye stand here, bending your tearful eyes 
 
 Upon the tyrant's hope and joy ? Young friends. 
 
 For some dark purpose did he spare two lives. 
 
 But for our other friends, — the hour is past, — 
 
 They come not. Ye were mocked, — and just revenge 
 
 Leans on that youth and beckons us ! — My boys ! 
 
 My three dear boys ! — He dies ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Stay, Jew in heart ! 
 What is 't emerges from the grove ? 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Ha ! — where ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 'T is so. I see them plain, — a feeble band, — 
 Loosed from the spoiler's grasp. O Thou on high. 
 Whose mighty hand doth hold the proud man's heart, 
 Thine be the praise ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Down on thy knees, rash man ! 
 Look on thy bloodless hands, and render thanks 
 Where thanks are due. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 I am condemned ! 
 And 'mid the joy wherewith I shall receive 
 My children to these arms will shame arise. 
 
MIRIAM. 103 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 And penitence be born of shame. Haste, Paulus ! 
 Thou must away. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Peace ! — peace ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 The hour is come. 
 It was the promise to thy sir^ 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 But, maiden ! 
 The promise was not mine. It binds me not ; 
 And of thy father I have that to ask 
 May give a dark mind peace. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 What may it mean ? 
 Miriam, see you the faces of the group ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O, no ! Whate'er I gaze upon is robed 
 
 In strange and lurid light. The grave's dim hues 
 
 Are gathering fast o'er earth. — Art thou not pale ? 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 It may be. Fear and doubt are on my soul. 
 
 Paulus, look thou ! Yon troop come not, methinks. 
 
 Like prisoners let loose, like victims snatched 
 
 From agony and death ! No buoyancy 
 
 Is in their steps, — no song upon their lips, — 
 
 No triumph on their brows ! They pause ! — now closer 
 
 They draw their feeble ranks ! 
 
104 MIRIAM. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Grief and dismay 
 Are with that group. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 O God ! I see him not ! 
 My father is not there ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Najr; Euphas, stay ! 
 Kneel humbly here with me, and pray for strength. 
 Wilt thou forsake me in an hour like this ? [j pause. 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 They come ! 
 Raise, — raise your drooping heads ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 I dare not look. 
 (Christians enter y and the group^ openings displays the body of Thra- 
 SENO 071 a bier.) 
 
 PAULUS {springing forward)- 
 
 foul and bloody deed ! — and wretched son. 
 That knows too well whose treachery hath done this ! 
 
 AN AGED CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Thus saith the man of blood : — " My word is kept. 
 
 1 send you him I promised. Have ye kept 
 Your faith with me ? If so, there is naught more 
 Between us three. Bury your dead, — and fly ! " 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 A ruffian's strangling hand hath grasped this throat, 
 And on the purple lip convulsion still 
 
MIRIAM. 105 
 
 Lingers, with awful tale of violence ! 
 O, fearful was the strife from which arose 
 Our brother's spirit to its peaceful home ! 
 Let grief, let wrath, let each unquiet thought, 
 Be still, and round the just man's dust ascend 
 The voice of prayer. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Not yet ! O, not quite yet ! 
 Hear me, ye pale and horror-stricken throng ! 
 Hear me, thou sobbing boy ! My Miriam, turn, — 
 Turn back thy face from the dim world of death, 
 And hear thy lover's voice ! — What seest thou 
 In the blue heavens, with fixed and eager gaze ? 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Angels are gathering in the eastern sky, — 
 The wind is playing 'mid their glittering plumes, — 
 The sunbeams dance upon their golden harps, — 
 Welcome is on their fair and glorious brows ! 
 Hath not a holy spirit passed from earth. 
 Whom ye come forth to meet, seraphic forms ? 
 O, fade not, fade not yet ! — or take me too. 
 For earth grows dark beneath my dazzled eye ! 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Miriam ! in mercy spread not yet thy wings ! 
 Spurn me not from the gate that opes for thee ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 In which world do I stand ? A voice there was 
 
106 MIRIAM. 
 
 Of prayer and woe. That must have rung on earth ! 
 Say on. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 Christians ! I must indeed say on, 
 Or my full heart will break ! — No heathen is 't 
 On whom ye gaze with lowering, angry eyes. 
 My father's blood, — his name, his faith, his gods, — 
 I here abjure ; and only ask your prayers, 
 The purifying water on my brow, 
 And words of hope to soothe my penitence, 
 Ere I atone my father's crimes with blood. ^Silence. 
 
 And will none speak ? Am I indeed cast off, — 
 Rejected utterly ? Will no one teach 
 The sinner how to frame the Christian's prayer. 
 Help me to know the Christian's God aright, 
 Wash from my brow the deep red stains of guilt ? 
 Must I then die in ignorance and sin } 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 O earth ! be not so busy with my soul ! 
 Paulus ! what wouldest thou } 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 The rite that binds 
 New converts to your peaceful faith. 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Good brethren, 
 Hear ye his prayer ! Search ye the penitent. 
 Bear him forth with you in your pilgrimage, 
 
MIRIAM. 107 
 
 And when his soul in earnest hath drunk in 
 
 The spirit of Christ's law, seal him for heaven ! — 
 
 And now, — would that my chains were broke ! Half freed, 
 
 My spirit struggles 'neath the dust that lies 
 
 So heavy on her wings ! — Paulus, we part. 
 
 But, O, how different is the parting hour 
 
 From that which crushed my hopeless spirit erst ! 
 
 Joy, — joy and triumph now 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 O, name not joy ! 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Why not ? If but one ray of light from Heaven 
 Hath reached thy soul, I may indeed rejoice ! 
 Even thus, in coming days, from martyrs' blood 
 Shall earnest saints arise to do God's work. 
 And thus with slow, sure, silent step shall Truth 
 Tread the dark earth, and scatter Light abroad, 
 Till Peace and Righteousness awake, and lead 
 Triumphant, in the bright and joyous blaze, 
 Their happy myriads up to yonder skies ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Sister ! with such a calm and sunny brow 
 Stand'st thou beside our murdered father's bier } 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Euphas, thy hand ! — Ay, clasp thy brother's hand ! 
 Ye fair and young apostles ! go ye forth, — 
 Go side by side beneath the sun and storm. 
 
108 MIRIAM. 
 
 A dying sister's blessing on your toils ! 
 
 When ye have poured the oil of Christian peace 
 
 On passions rude and wild, — when ye have won 
 
 Dark, sullen souls from wrath and sin to God, — 
 
 Whene'er ye kneel to bear upon your prayers 
 
 Repentant sinners up to yonder heaven. 
 
 Be it in palace, — dungeon, — open air, — 
 
 'Mid friends, — 'mid raging foes, — in joy, — in grief, — 
 
 Deem not ye pray alone ; — man never doth ! 
 
 A sister spirit, lingering near, shall fill 
 
 The silent air around you with her prayers. 
 
 Waiting till ye too lay your fetters down. 
 
 And come to your reward ! — Go fearless forth ; 
 
 For glorious truth wars with you, and shall reign. 
 
 [Seeing the bier. 
 My father ! sleepest thou ? — Ay, a sound sleep. 
 Dreams have been there, — O, horrid dreams ! — but now 
 The silver beard heaves not upon thy breast. 
 The hand I press is deadly, deadly cold. 
 And thou wilt dream, wilt never suffer, more. 
 Why gaze I on this clay ? It was not this, — 
 
 Not this I reverenced and loved ! 
 
 My friends, 
 Raise ye the dirge ; and though I hide my face 
 In my dead father's robe, think not I weep. 
 I would not have the sight of those I love 
 Too well — even at this solemn hour too well — 
 
MIRIAM. 109 
 
 Disturb my soul's communion with the blest ! 
 My brother, sob not so ! . 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Shed not the wild and hopeless tear 
 Upon our parted brother's bier ; 
 With heart subdued and steadfast eye, 
 O, raise each thought to yonder sky ! 
 
 Aching brow and throbbing breast 
 In the silent grave shall rest ; 
 But the clinging dust in vain 
 Weaves around the soul its chain. 
 
 Spirit, quit this land of tears, 
 Hear the song of rolling spheres ; 
 Shall our wild and selfish prayers 
 Call thee back to mortal cares ? 
 
 Sainted spirit ! fare thee well ! 
 More than mortal tongue can tell 
 Is the joy that even now 
 Crowns our blessed martyr's brow ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Paul us, arise ! 
 We must away. Thy father's wrath 
 
 10 
 
110 MIRIAM. 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 O, peace ! 
 
 My Miriam, speak to us ! — She doth not stir ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Methought I saw her ringlets move ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Alas! 
 'T was but the breeze that lifted those dark locks ! 
 They never will wave more ! 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 It cannot be ! 
 Let me but look upon her face ! — O God ! 
 Death sits in that glazed eye ! 
 
 FIRST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Ay, while we sung 
 Her father's dirge, across the young and fair 
 I saw death's shudder pass. Nay, turn not pale. 
 Borne on the solemn strain, her spirit soared 
 
 Most peacefully on high. 
 
 Chastened ye are, 
 And bound by sorrow to your holy task. 
 Arise, — and in your youthful memories 
 Treasure the end of innocence. — Away, 
 Beneath far other skies, weep, if ye can, 
 The gain of those ye loved. 
 
 EUPHAS. 
 
 Lift this fair dust. — 
 
MIRIAM. Ill 
 
 My brother ! speechless, tearless grief for her 
 Who listeneth for thy prayers ? 
 
 PAULUS. 
 
 My mind is dark. 
 The faith which she bequeathed must lighten it. 
 Come forth, and I will learn. — O Miriam ! 
 Can thy bright faith e'er comfort grief like mine ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 King Henry the Seventh. 
 
 Lady Catherine, the ivife of Perkin Warbeck. 
 
 Clara, her attendant. 
 
 Sir Florian, a friend of Perkin Warbeck. 
 
 Scene. — A castle on the sea-coast, in Cornwall. 
 Time. — The autumn of the year 1499. 
 
 Lady Catherine and. Clara. 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Open that casement toward the sea, my Clara. 
 I gaze in vain along the hilly waste, 
 Watching the lone and solitary road 
 Until mine eyes are strained. The dull day wanes, 
 The sad November day, — and yet there come 
 No tidings from my lord ! Ay ! that is well ! 
 Sit thou where I have sat these many hours 
 In patience sorrowful ; and summon me 
 
116 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 With a most joyous cry, if thy kind watch 
 Be more successful. Sea ! for ever tossing ! 
 Thy very motion is so beautiful, 
 So wild and spirit-stirring, as I turn 
 From the bleak, changeless moor, all desolate, 
 I bless each wave that breaks against yon cliff. 
 O mighty ocean ! thou art free, — art free ! 
 Dash high, thou foamy-crested billow, high ! 
 That was a leap, which sent the snowy spray 
 Up to yon o'erhanging crag, and forth 
 The screaming sea-bird sprang rejoicingly. 
 Clara, do not forget thy watch. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 Nay, lady. 
 Return not yet ; thou shalt have warning swift. 
 If but a lonely traveller tread the heath. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Yes ! I will trust thee, and again look forth 
 
 Upon the glorious sea. In my youth's prime 
 
 Is it not strange I thus should love to gaze 
 
 On a wild ocean-view and frowning sky ? 
 
 O sorrow ! fear ! and dark suspense ! what change 
 
 Ye work in brief, brief space on careless hearts ! 
 
 Methinks it was not many months ago 
 
 Childhood was round me with its rainbow dreams ; 
 
 Then came the glittering vision of a court. 
 
 Dear Scotland's court, where on my bridal hour 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 117 
 
 A gracious monarch smiled, and silently 
 
 Time stole the wings of love. My husband ! dearest ! 
 
 Our happy hours were few. The echoes still 
 
 Rang back the harp's sweet nuptial melody, 
 
 When came a fearful voice, — I scarce knew whence, — 
 
 But terrible, O, terrible it was ! 
 
 The dew scarce dry upon the snowy rose 
 
 I wore that morn, when it was wet afresh 
 
 With tears of parting ! 'T was but for a time, 
 
 He said, and we should meet again. My heart 
 
 Clings to the promise sweet, — " We meet again " ; 
 
 But when, O, when ? Ye vain remembrances. 
 
 Depart ! Let me survey the heath once more. 
 
 The ocean breeze has fanned the pain away 
 
 From my hot brow, and now it wearies me 
 
 To look upon those restless waves. Their roar 
 
 Comes faintly up from yonder wet, black rocks. 
 
 Monotonous and hoarse ; the mighty clouds 
 
 Sweep endless o'er the heavens ; I am sad. 
 
 And all things sadden me. They '11 set him free ! 
 
 They surely will, my Clara ! Thou hast said it 
 
 Full twenty times this day, and yet again 
 
 I fain would hear such empty words of cheer. 
 
 What is yon speck upon the dusky heath ? 
 
 Look ! — look ! 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 I have been watching it, dear lady. 
 
118 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 'T is but a lonely tree. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 No, no, it moves ! 
 My heart's solicitude doth give me sight 
 Keener than thine ; — it moves ; — it comes this way, 
 What may its form and bearing be ? It nears 
 Yon pile of rocks. Clara, such speed denotes 
 A horseman fleet ! Peace, heart ! throb not so fast. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 The gray mist settles down and mocks thine eye. 
 It is a peasant, toiling through the furze. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Nay ! 't is a mounted knight ! Yon hillock passed, 
 Thou wilt descry him plain. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 'T is so ! he rides. 
 He rides for life ! Is 't not the jet black steed 
 Sir Florian mounts ? 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 It is my husband's friend ! 
 'T is he that rushes on with such mad haste. 
 Tidings at last ! — O Clara, I am faint ! 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 Be calm, my much-tried mistress ; joy still comes 
 Close upon apprehension. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Is it so ? 
 
A DUAMATIC FRAGMENT. 119 
 
 1 cannot tell. Would bad news spur him thus ? 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 Believe me, no. Be calm. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 I will, — I will. 
 Is he not here ? he 's wondrous slow, methinks. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 The noble charger 's spent ; his smoking sides 
 Are flecked with foam, and every gallant leap 
 Seems as 't would be his last. Why doth his rider 
 Cast back such troubled glances o'er the moor ? 
 Now to the ground he springs ! the brave steed drops ! 
 Lady, look up ! Sir Florian is at hand. 
 Enter Florian. 
 FLORIAN. 
 
 Where is the Lady Catherine ! O, away ! 
 Fly for your life ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Fly ? and from whom ? or why ? 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 Question me not ; I do conjure you, fly. 
 The danger 's imminent ; — moments are precious. 
 Down to the beach ; — take boat without delay. 
 It is your husband's bidding. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 O, thank Heaven 
 For those two words ! Am I to meet him, then .'* 
 
120 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 No, lady, no ! but I have been delayed. 
 Crossed, intercepted, and wellnigh cut off. 
 Till on a moment's grace your life depends. 
 The king pursues. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 The king ! in mercy say, 
 Where is my husband ? 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 London Tower held still 
 The princely wanderer, when the rumor came 
 That Henry's wrath burnt hot 'gainst thee, sweet lady ! 
 And that the place of thy retreat was known. 
 Fly ! 't is thy husband's word. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Imprisoned still ! 
 Take me to London, noble Florian. Nay, 
 How can I live but in that same dark Tower, 
 Where they have pinioned down my gallant lord, — 
 My noble, much-wronged lord ? Not yet set free ! 
 He hath been pardoned once, if men told true ! 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 Come, fair and most unhappy ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 I have heard 
 Such fearful tales of bloody murders done 
 In the mysterious circuit of those walls ! 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 121 
 
 What, didst thou leave him well ? 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 In truth I did, 
 Though somewhat wan and wasted ; anxious, too. 
 For thy most precious life. Come, I conjure thee ! 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 There is a strange and hollow sound abroad ! 
 'T is not the sea ! 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 No, nor the sweeping wind. 
 It is the tramp of steeds fast galloping ! 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 They come ! like mounted giants looming now 
 Through the dim mist. 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 She 's lost ! Why lingered I ? 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 Quick ! there is time ; — our startled menials now 
 Bar fast the outer doors ; — yon staircase leads 
 Down through a vaulted passage to the shore. 
 Still motionless, sweet mistress ? 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Was he worn 
 And pale, saidst thou ? Truly I do rejoice 
 The king draws nigh, for on my bended knees 
 Will I entreat to share my husband's cell. 
 11 
 
122 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 She is distraught ! 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 Most gracious lady, list ! 
 It is your blood this haughty monarch seeks, 
 And with a vow against the innocent 
 His soul is burdened ; do not wildly dream 
 That he will pity thee. And for thy lord — 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Pause not ! I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 He hath been tried, condemned 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 And slain ? 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 That shriek 
 Doth guide them hither. 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 Nay, he lives as yet, 
 But vainly 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 O, God bless thee for that word ! 
 He lives ! Monarch of England, come ! 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 Hark, hark ! 
 That crash, — the doors are burst ! 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 123 1 
 
 i 
 SIR FLORIAN. 
 
 Her doom is sealed ! 
 Enter King Hknry and attendants. I 
 
 KING HENRY. I 
 
 We are in time ; — the bird hath not escaped. | 
 
 Those hoof-tracks made me fear, some traitor fleet I 
 Had warned her from the nest. Ha ! frowning youth ! 
 
 Whence comest thou ? What may thine errand be, - 
 
 That brought thee hither in such furious haste .'' j 
 
 SIR FLORIAN. ^ 
 
 Thou well mightst guess ; 't was from thy bloody fangs 
 I vainly hoped one victim to withdraw. 
 She chose to trust thy clemency, — alas ! 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Alas, indeed ! bold heart is thine, and tongue , 
 
 As bold. But garb so travel-stained, fair Sir, 
 
 Fits not a lady's bower ; and thou 'It not love. 
 
 Perchance, to fix that pity-beaming eye 
 
 Upon my deeds of clemency. Take hence 
 
 This youthful rebel, and let manacles 
 
 Bind those officious hands. 
 
 [Exit Sir Florian with tico officers. 
 Now for our work. 
 We will survey this far-famed Scottish lily, 
 Ere the sharp steel do crop its drooping head. 
 Indeed she 's wondrous fair ! Hast thou no voice. 
 Pale suppliant ? Its music must be rich. 
 
124 A DRAMATIC FKAGMENT. 
 
 And e'en more eloquent than those clasped hands, 
 That sweet, imploring face. Speak, for thy moments 
 Flit into nothingness, and if thou hast 
 One last petition for thy dying hour 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 My husband, gracious king ! 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 What, art thou mad ? 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Let me but see his face ! O, drag me hence 
 With scorn and violence to share his doom, 
 And I will bless thy name. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 She hath gone wild 
 With sudden terror. He 's condemned, sweet lady. 
 To die a shameful death, and thou this hour — 
 This very hour — must perish in thy youth. 
 So bids my needful policy. Thinkest thou 
 Of aught but precious life, with such a fate 
 Darkening around thee, fair one ? Now, ask aught 
 But life 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Life, — life! mere breath! and what is that? 
 Take it, my sovereign ! He who gave it me 
 Will call my spirit home to heaven and peace 
 When this poor dust lies low. I have no prayer 
 To offer for my wretched life, if joy 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 125 
 
 Lie dead and buried in my husband's grave. 
 Is there no mercy for my gallant lord ? 
 Crowned monarch, speak ! what can thy mightiness 
 Grant thee beyond the holy power to bless ? 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 I must be stern in words as well as deeds. 
 I charge thee, if thou hast a last request, — 
 A dying message to the noble house 
 Whence thou art sprung 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 My home ! — forsaken home ! 
 It was for him I left the heathy hills 
 Of my own Scotland ; there we had not perished 
 Thus in life's early bloom. May blessings rest 
 On the old quiet castle, and each head 
 Its gray roof shelters ! How those ancient halls 
 Will ring a wild lament, when comes the tale 
 That England's broken faith hath widowed me. 
 And laid me, all unmourned, in English dust ! 
 Thy fame, proud king, thy fame ! 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Ha ! dost thou dare 
 Breathe such reproach ? Hear, then, unthinking girl, 
 Since t]j.ou dost stir my wrath ! Dost thou not know, 
 Daughter of Gordon's stainless house, that thou 
 Art to a mean and base impostor linked ? 
 Duped and beguiled by crafty words, thy king 
 
126 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 Gave with his own pledged faith thy maiden hand 
 To Margaret''s low-born tool ; — and he hath lied, 
 Lied his own life away, and stained his soul 
 With foulest perjury, to steal the crown 
 Of glorious England from her lawful king. 
 The fraud is plain ; — the forfeit, his mean life ; — 
 And men with eyes amazed shrink back from him 
 They followed in a dream. Awake thou, too ; 
 Die not in thy delusion. 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Now be still. 
 My swelling heart ! Speak calmly, quivering lips ! 
 Man ! — I will call thee monarch now no more, 
 While ring thy words of insult in mine ear, — 
 Thou dost defame the husband I adore, 
 And, in mine hour of fear and agony, 
 With cruel calumnies dost strive to rend 
 The one true heart that loves him yet. Enough ! 
 Unkingly words were thine ; — but I depart 
 Where earthly slanders cannot reach mine ear. 
 Give orders ; — let me die. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Nay, it is past ; — 
 It was a flash of momentary heat. 
 For of a fiery race I came. Alas ! I mourn 
 That in cold blood, fair lady, I must doom 
 A creature young and innocent as thou 
 
A DRAMATIC mAGMENT. 127 
 
 To an untimely grave. And, if I gaze 
 
 Longer upon that brow ingenuous, 
 
 My purposes will surely melt. Farewell ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Stay, — stay ! hear but a few brief words, my king ! 
 
 Not for myself I plead, not of my life. 
 
 My worthless life, would speak ; — but fame, his fame, 
 
 Dearer than kingdoms to his noble heart, 
 
 Claims of his wife one burst of warm defence. 
 
 If royal blood flow not within the veins 
 
 Of him I loved and wedded, that deceit 
 
 Was never his ! The artful may have played 
 
 Upon his open nature, and have lured 
 
 Their victim to the toils for purposes 
 
 They dared not own ; — and now they may forsake, — 
 
 O God of heaven ! I never will desert 
 
 My mocked and much-wronged husband, though false men 
 
 Shrink from him as a serpent. I may die 
 
 A bloody death, but, with my last, last breath. 
 
 Will still avow my trusting love, and sue 
 
 For mercy on his innocence. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Now, lady 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 O, peace ! — unless I read thy restless eye aright. 
 Wilt thou not look on me ? 
 
 {Casting herself at his feet.) 
 
 Doth thy heart swell 
 
128 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 With an unwonted fulness ? Ha ! the vest 
 
 Heaves glittering on thy breast ! thou then art moved, — 
 
 And, if tears choke me not, I will dare plead 
 
 Even for him, — him whom I may not name. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Loosen my robe ; — away, — I will not hear ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Thou must, — thou wilt ; — though slanderous tongues do say 
 
 Thy heart is steel, I will believe it not. 
 
 While on that gracious face I gaze. Thou 'It hear me. 
 
 His trust in flattering tongues for ever cured, 
 
 His wild hopes mocked, his young ambition quenched, 
 
 His wisdom ripened by adversity. 
 
 Forth from his prison will my husband come, 
 
 A subject true and faithful to thy sway. 
 
 And I will lead him far away from courts, 
 
 Into the heart of lonely Scottish hills ; 
 
 There by some quiet lake his home shall be, 
 
 So still and happy, that his stormy youth. 
 
 With all its perilous follies, will but seem 
 
 As a dim memory of some former state. 
 
 In some forgotten world. He shall grow old 
 
 Ruling my simple vassals with such power 
 
 As a brave hand and gentle heart may use ; 
 
 And never, never ask again, what blood 
 
 Flows in his veins ; nor dream one idle dream 
 
 Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns, 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 129 
 
 While these fond lips can whisper winning words, 
 And woman's ever-busy love can weave 
 Ties strong, but viewless, round his manly heart. 
 Thou 'It hear it not, but in that blessed home 
 How will I murmur in my nightly prayers 
 The name of Enn;land's kinn^ ! 
 
 He 's free ! — he 's pardoned ! 
 That tearful smile all graciously declares 
 I am not widowed in my wretched youth ! 
 I shall behold his noble face again. 
 God bless thee, generous prince ! and give thee power, 
 Through long, long years, to bind up bleeding hearts, 
 And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace ! 
 My tears, — they flowed not when I prayed, — but now 
 The grateful gush declares, when language fails, 
 The ecstasy of joy ! 
 
 {Enter a messenger, 2cIio presents a pocket to the king. He breaks it 
 open, and, after casting his eye over it, turns aicay abruptly.) 
 
 CLAHA. 
 
 The king is troubled ! 
 KING HENRY (after a pause) . 
 My sweet petitioner, look up ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 Alas! 
 I dare not. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Nay, why now such sudden fear ? 
 
130 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 What sawest thou mirrored in my face ? 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 A nameless terror robs me of all strength. 
 
 That packet ! — O, these quick and dread forebodings ! 
 
 Speak ! it were mercy, should thine accents kill ! 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Thou hast a noble spirit ; — rouse it now, 
 Daughter of Gordon ! 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 King ! say on, — say all ! 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Art thou prepared ? 
 
 LADY CATHERINE. 
 
 What matters it ? Speak, — speak ! 
 Prepared ! what, with this dizzy, whirling brain ? 
 Comes fortitude amid such fierce suspense ? 
 Tell me the worst, — and show thy pity so. 
 
 KING HENRY. 
 
 Blanched, — gasping, — but angelic still ! What words 
 Can sheathe the piercing news ? Thy suit 
 Was all too late, true wife ! He is in heaven. 
 
 [Lady Catherine faints. 
 
 " Pale rose of England ! " men have named thee well. 
 What brought me hither ? What ? To murder thee } 
 O, purpose horrible ! I cannot think 
 This bosom ever harboured scheme so fierce. 
 Dark, bloody policy ! it is dissolved 
 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMEXT. 131 
 
 Beneath the gentle light of innocence, 
 
 Melted by woman''s true and faithful love, 
 
 Conquered by grief it is not mine to heal. 
 
 The dead may not return, — but she may live ! 
 
 Quit not the broken-hearted, weeping maid ! 
 
 She hath been true till death. And I will give 
 
 Shelter to sorrow such as these stern eyes 
 
 Ne'er saw till now. To my own gentle queen 
 
 Will I consign the victim of harsh times. 
 
 Thou shouldst have bloomed in sunshine, blighted rose ! 
 
 And ne'er have been transplanted from thy bower 
 
 To waste such fragrant virtues 'mid the storm. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In the reign of Henry the Seventh of England, a pretender to the 
 crown appeared, in the person of Perkin Warbeck, a youth who de- 
 clared himself to be Richard, Duke of York, second son of Edward 
 the Fourth. He was supported by Margaret of York, the Duke of 
 Burgundy, and other powerful friends ; and the young king of Scot- 
 land went so far as to bestow on him the hand of the Lady Catherine 
 Gordon, nearly allied to the royal family, and celebrated for her beauty. 
 She remained fondly attached to him through his reverses, when all 
 England had forsaken him ; and it is said that the cold heart of Hen- 
 ry was so softened by her loveliness, constancy, and sorrow for her 
 husband, that he relented in his bloody purpose, and, instead of tak- 
 ing her life, as he had intended, placed her honorably in his queen's 
 household. Warbeck had adopted the title of the " Pale Rose of Eng- 
 land " ; but the people transferred it to her. See Mackintosh's History 
 of England, Phil, ed., p. 197. 
 
TO MY MOTHER'S MEMORY. 
 
 My mother! weary years have passed, since last 
 I met thy gentle smile ; and sadly then 
 It fell upon my young and joyous heart. 
 There was a mortal paleness on thy cheek, 
 And well I knew they bore thee far away 
 With a vain hope to mend the broken springs, — 
 The springs of life. And bitter tears I shed 
 In childhood's short-lived agony of grief, 
 When soothing voices said that thou wert gone. 
 And that I must not weep, for thou wert blest. 
 Full many a flower has bloomed upon thy grave, 
 And many a winter's snow has melted there ; 
 Childhood has passed, and youth is passing now. 
 And scatters paler roses on my path ; 
 Dim and more dim my fancy paints thy form. 
 Thy mild blue eye, thy cheek so thin and fair. 
 Touched, when I saw thee last, with hectic flush. 
 Telling, in solemn beauty, of the grave. 
 Mine ear hath lost the accents of thy voice. 
 
133 
 
 And faintly o'er my memory comes at times 
 A glimpse of joys that bad their source in thee, 
 Like one brief strain of some forgotten song. 
 And then at times a blessed dream comes down, 
 Missioned, perhaps, by thee from brighter realms, 
 And, wearing all the semblance of thy form. 
 Gives to my heart the joy of days gone by. 
 With gushing tears I wake. O, art thou not 
 Unseen and bodiless around my path, 
 Watching with brooding love about thy child ? 
 Is it not so, my mother ? I will not 
 Think it a fancy, wild, and vain, and false, 
 That spirits good and pure as thine descend. 
 Like guardian angels round the few they loved. 
 Oft intercepting coming woes, and still 
 Joying on every beam that gilds our paths. 
 And waving snowy pinions o'er our heads 
 When midnight slumbers close our aching eyes. 
 
 1821, 
 
 12 
 
i 
 
 OMNIPRESENCE. 
 
 There is an unseen Power around, 
 
 Existing in the silent air ; 
 Where treadeth man, where space is found, ■ 
 
 Unheard, unknown, that Power is there. 
 
 And not when bright and busy day 
 
 Is round us with its crowds and cares, 
 And not when night with solemn sway 
 
 Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers, — 
 
 Not when on sickness' weary couch 
 
 He writhes with pain's deep, long-drawn groan, — 
 Not when his steps in freedom touch 
 
 The fresh green turf, — is man alone. 
 
 In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall, 
 
 'Mid music, lights, and revelry. 
 That Present Spirit looked on all. 
 
 From crouching slave to royalty. 
 
OMNIPRESENCE. 135 
 
 When sinks the pious Christian's soul, 
 
 And scenes of horror daunt his eye, 
 He hears it whispered through the air, 
 
 " A Power of mercy still is nigh." 
 
 The Power that watches, guides, defends. 
 
 Till man becomes a lifeless sod, 
 Till earth is naught, — naught, earthly friends, — 
 
 That omnipresent Power — is God. 
 
 1821. 
 
THE PEARL-DIVER'S SONG. 
 
 Down, down to the depths of the sea, 
 
 With a fearless plunge, I go, 
 Down to the realms ye ne'er may see, 
 
 By a path ye cannot know. 
 
 Sun ! shine bright in the high blue sky ! 
 Winds ! o'er the curling billows fly ! 
 Far from the light and air of day 
 Lieth my dark and trackless way. 
 O'er my head the green waves close, 
 Yellow the light around me grows ; 
 Ringing and rushing sounds I hear, 
 Down to a darker realm I steer. 
 Upwards and downwards, shooting by. 
 Numberless creatures I descry. 
 Busy with fin and glittering fair. 
 Winging their way like birds in the air. 
 Deeper I sink, and phantoms strange 
 Through the dim depths, half formless, range, 
 
137 
 
 Creatures the upper sea ne'er knew, 
 Shapes such as fancy never drew. 
 Balanced awhile, I wait and quake. 
 Till welters along the huge sea-snake, — 
 Till, looking on me with stony eye, 
 Monsters unnamed go rolling by. 
 
 I have scaped the shark's wide-gaping jaw, 
 I have broken unscathed the mighty law ; 
 Here, on old ocean's bed of sand, 
 Hurtless, a living man I stand. 
 Where the winds of heaven never blew. 
 Where the gentle skies ne'er dropped their dew. 
 Where an awful calm and stillness reign. 
 And strange, dim lights the waters stain. 
 Where the foot of man hath never trod, 
 Pacing the firm white sand unshod, 
 I pluck from the rock the clinging shell 
 That bears the pearl in its rough, dark cell. 
 
 I stay not to wander 'mid coral groves. 
 
 Where the green-haired mermaid singing roves, — 
 
 I stay not to look on mouldering bones. 
 
 And the thousand wrecks the ocean owns. 
 
 The pearl, from its home beneath the waves. 
 
 The pearl from the depth of the ocean caves, 
 
 12* 
 
138 THE pearl-diver's song. 
 
 The pure white pearl in triumph I bear 
 To the joyous realms of liglit and air ! 
 Up, up to the realms above, 
 Up to the summer sun I love, 
 Where my dripping limbs that sun shall dry, 
 And the winds of earth a welcome sigh. 
 I look on the light my glad eye craves, 
 Proudly I ride the bounding waves. 
 Bearing my treasure, and like a dream 
 The sunless realms I have visited seem. 
 
 So shall the beams of heaven break 
 
 On the soul that wins that glorious stake, — 
 
 On the soul no syren could entice. 
 
 That hath sought and found the pearl of price, 
 
 And longs from its weary task below 
 
 Up to its home of light to go. 
 
 1825. 
 
ON FOR EVER. 
 
 Winds of the sky ! ye hurry by 
 
 On your strong and busy wings, 
 And your might is great, and your song is high, 
 
 And true is the tale it sings. 
 
 " On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 
 Round the whole earth lieth our way. 
 
 On, on, for we may not stay." 
 
 Murmuring stream ! like a soft dream 
 
 Goest thou stealing along, 
 Pausing not in the shade or gleam, 
 
 And this is thy ceaseless song. 
 
 " On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 
 Down to the deep lieth my way. 
 
 On, for I may not stay." 
 
 Queen of yon high and dim blue vault, 
 
 Gliding past many a star, 
 'Mid their bright orbs thou dost not halt. 
 
 And a voice comes down from thy car : — 
 
110 ON FOR EVER. 
 
 " On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 
 Round the whole earth lieth my way. 
 
 On, for I may not stay." 
 
 Thoughts of my mind, ye hurry on ; 
 
 Whence ye do come I may not know. 
 But from my soul ye straight are gone, 
 
 In a ceaseless, ceaseless flow. 
 
 " On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 
 By a behest we must obey, 
 
 On, for we may not stay." 
 
 Man may not stay ! there is no rest 
 On earth for the good man's foot ; 
 
 He should go forth on errands blest. 
 And toil for unearthly fruit. 
 On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 Idle not precious hours away. 
 On, for ye may not stay ! 
 
 Sit ye not down in sloth's dark bower. 
 Where shades o'er the spirit fall. 
 
 Pause not to wreathe the sunny flower 
 That is worn in pleasure's hall. 
 On, on, for ever and aye ! 
 Duties spring up along your way, 
 Do good, — for ye may not stay ! 
 1825. 
 
BxVNNOCKBURN. 
 
 Red light was in the western sky, 
 One star was twinkling lone and high, 
 The evening breeze came murmuring by. 
 But not 'mid bending grass to sigh. 
 The wild-flowers it would woo were crushed ; 
 At noon the storm had o'er them rushed, 
 Fierce hoof, fleet foot ! When eve came on. 
 The dews and breezes found them gone. 
 
 The wild-flowers ! were they all that lay 
 Crushed out of beauty 'neath the ray 
 Of that lone star } Alas ! there came 
 That day the dazzling light of fame 
 Upon the green and peaceful plain. 
 Bought with red blood, and strife, and pain ; 
 And fearfully abroad were spread 
 Dark signs of life, whence life had fled. 
 Ay, the cool breeze but poured its breath 
 O'er the dim starlight field of death, 
 
142 BANXOCKBURN. 
 
 And cooled the burning lip and brow 
 In shame and agony laid low, 
 Or called back wandering sense and life 
 To the dull eye once closed on strife, 
 Or o'er each youthful hero slain 
 Crept with its low and dirge-like strain. 
 Lights from the victor's tent flashed out. 
 And from the long white camp a shout 
 Aye and anon rose up, and shook 
 Faint, wounded frames in every nook 
 Where they had crept away to die. 
 
 But in one stately tent, O, why 
 
 Blazed there no torch, arose no voice, 
 
 As if to bid the stars rejoice } 
 
 The groan, the deep, half-stifled groan. 
 
 Of manly sorrow, struggling, lone. 
 
 Came from that tent ; there sat the Bruce ! 
 
 The fiery Edward ! tigers loose 
 
 Not half so fierce in war, the hind 
 
 Petted by b3auty not more kind 
 
 When to its scabbard went the blade. 
 
 And from his brow the helm was laid. 
 
 There sat the Bruce, — dark, dark, alone ! 
 
 O'er his rude table wildly thrown 
 
 His warrior arms, and sadly bowed 
 
 His face, tnd quenched its lightnings proud. 
 
BAXXOCIvBURX. 143 
 
 Fast rolled his hidden tears, and grief, — 
 Manh grief, that never courts relief 
 Till spent in whirlwind agony, — 
 Mixed with his triumph misery. 
 He mourned the dead, the one brave youth 
 His spirit loved with such deep truth 
 As dwells in young, free, noble hearts 
 Bound each to each till life departs. 
 He mourned the dead, and in that hour 
 Proud thoughts of victory had no power ; 
 The light from glory's brow had fled, — 
 She could not bring him back the dead ! 
 
 " My Walter ! " — rose the low, deep tones, 
 
 Blended with choking sobs and groans, — 
 
 " They say a glorious battle 's won, 
 
 And few are slain ; but thou art one 
 
 By whose most precious blood was bought 
 
 My victory ! Would God had brought 
 
 Deep ruin on my arms this day, 
 
 So tliou hadst not been snatched away ! " 
 
 O man ! blind man ! that very morn 
 Saw in his breast the sole hope born 
 Of victory, — defeat and shame 
 The only ills whose dread could claim 
 Averting prayers from that proud heart ! 
 Now what could granted prayers impart ? 
 
144 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Fame came, too dearly bought to bless, 
 And victory came, but valueless ! — 
 So was it then, so shall it be ! 
 A blank, a blight, 'mid victory 
 O'er aught, except the foe within, — 
 The struggling, warring rebel. Sin ! 
 
 1828. 
 
THE SICKLY BABE. 
 
 Mine infant was a poor, weak thing, 
 No strength those little arms to fling. 
 His cheek was pale and very thin, 
 And none a smile from him could win 
 Save I, — his mother ! O my child, 
 How could they think my love so wild ? 
 
 I never said it, but I knew. 
 From the first breath my baby drew, 
 That I must soon my joy resign, — 
 That he was God's, not mine, not mine ! 
 But think you that I loved him less 
 Because I saw his feebleness ? 
 
 To others, senseless seemed his eye ; 
 They looked, and only thought, " He '11 die " ; 
 To me, that little suffering frame 
 Came freighted with a spirit's claim, — 
 Came full of blessing to my heart, — 
 Brought thoughts I could to none impart. 
 
 13 
 
146 THE SICKLY BABE. 
 
 The pale, pale bud bloomed not on earth 
 Blighted and stricken from his birth, 
 A few short months upon my breast 
 He lay, then smiled and went to rest : 
 And all forgot him, born to die. 
 All, all forgot, — save God and I. 
 
MY WATCH. 
 
 Last night I lay with wakeful eyes, 
 
 With eyes that ached and longed to sleep ; 
 
 And as the weary hours went by, 
 
 One sound, beside the night- wind's sigh, 
 
 Stole on mine ear. 
 
 Unseen beneath my pillow lay 
 My little watch, and until day 
 Its pleasant voice went ticking on, 
 Speaking of friends and things long gone ; 
 I loved to hear. 
 
 Ay ! take my gems, my sparkling rings. 
 My bird, although he sweetly sings, 
 My books, beguilers of lone hours, 
 My loved and almost loving flowers. 
 
 But leave me this. 
 
148 MY WATCH. 
 
 Not for thy pearls and golden case, 
 Not for thy true, familiar face. 
 Not for thy gentle midnight song. 
 Dear watch ! have I loved thee so long, 
 
 ^ Through woe and bliss. 
 
 The hours thou markest cling to thee. 
 Through thee my life still speaks to me ; 
 The wedding sunshine, — -'when he gave, — 
 The gloom that settled on his grave. 
 
 Come at thy voice. 
 
 I see again the cradle small. 
 Where lay my little one, my all. 
 Lulled by thy steady tick above. 
 Or touching thee with timid love, 
 
 A plaything choice. 
 
 The feverish nights, so sick, so long. 
 When flesh was weak, and faith was strong. 
 When sunk the fire, and round me played 
 Strange shadows, as I lay and prayed 
 
 For soft release ; — 
 
 The days when, bounding through each vein, 
 Health made me glad of life again, 
 
MY WATCH. 149 
 
 And while my busy fingers flew, 
 Unconsciously my nature grew 
 
 In strength and peace ; — 
 
 All these sweet, solemn thoughts arise, 
 While rest on thee my tearful eyes. 
 Companion of my holiest hours ! 
 Coffined with me, and wreathed with flowers. 
 Thou shalt be laid. 
 
 Machinery of wondrous skill 
 Wears out, in spite of mortal will ; 
 Mine must, thou gently warnest me ; 
 The springs run down, and soon rest we 
 In quiet shade. 
 
 Peace, peace and stillness for us both. 
 To quit life's uses art thou loth ? 
 Then, busy monitor, tick on ; 
 To higher tasks must I be gone : 
 
 Stay thou, and teach ! 
 
 Not of the past alone speak thou : 
 Look calmly on the youthful brow. 
 Speak gently in the dead of night, — 
 O, of the Future talk, — of Light, 
 
 Which man may reach ! 
 
 13* 
 
JUSTICE AND MERCY. 
 
 I SAW in my dream a countless throng, 
 By a mighty whirlwind hurried along, — 
 
 Hurried along through boundless space, 
 With a fearful onward, onward sweep, 
 Looking like beings roused from sleep, 
 
 Till they met their Maker face to face. 
 
 Then consciousness waked in each dark eye, 
 The mercy-seat shone above on high. 
 
 And a timid, wild, but hopeful gaze 
 Those wandering spirits upwards cast. 
 As if they had cause to joy at last. 
 
 When they saw the seat of judgment blaze. 
 
 " Justice ! " they cried, with sound so clear, 
 The stars of the universe needs must hear ; 
 
 " Justice ! " again, again rang out. 
 As of those who felt the hour had come 
 Their earth-choked lips should no more be dumb, 
 
 And all God's worlds must hear their shout. 
 
JUSTICE AND MERCY. 151 
 
 They were the souls of myriad men, 
 
 Who had died, and none cared how or when, — 
 
 Who had dwelt on earth as slaves, — as slaves ! 
 They were the men by death set free, 
 
 And flocking came from their million graves, — 
 They who on earth had scarce dared Je, 
 
 Shaking the bonds from their half-crushed souls. 
 
 Uttering a cry that rent the poles. 
 For they knew that God would hear them then. 
 
 And afar I beheld a smaller band. 
 
 With hands clasped over their downcast eyes ; 
 For before the blaze they could not stand. 
 
 And all space seemed full of groans and sighs. 
 Naked, affrighted, pierced with light, 
 
 They knew themselves and their deeds at last ; 
 From their quivering lips to the throne of Right 
 
 A faint low cry of " Mercy ! " passed. 
 
 Justice and Mercy ! Hear them both ! 
 
 Bondman and master both are here ; 
 Each asketh that which he needeth most. — 
 
 Now pass from my soul, thou dream of fear ! 
 
LINES ON CHANNING. 
 
 When sinks the sun, shall we forget 
 That but to us his beams are set ? 
 When holy spirits pass away, 
 Shall we but weep o'er feeble clay ? 
 
 With aspirations like thine own, 
 Pure being, whom we dare not mourn, 
 O, let us mark, where dwells " no night," 
 A new-born, active, burning light. 
 
 Shine on for ever, tranquil star ! 
 Though in far heaven thy glories are, 
 Their solemn beams shall from this hour 
 Fall on our souls with added power. 
 
 Each thrilling cadence, each mild word 
 Of love or wisdom we have heard, 
 From gifted lips now still and cold. 
 Shall be imbued with power untold. 
 
LINES ON CHANNING. 153 
 
 Go, Christian sage ! Death now liath wrought 
 On pages glowing with thy thought ; 
 Death, who hath calmed all pain, hath sealed 
 Thy power on earth, — and heaven revealed. 
 
THE BABY'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 MOTHER, dear mother, no wonder I cry, 
 More wonder by far that your baby don't die ; 
 No matter what ails me, no matter who 's here, 
 No matter how hungry the " poor little dear ! " 
 No matter if full, or all out of breath. 
 
 She trots me, and trots me, and trots me to death ! 
 
 1 love my dear nurse, but I dread that great knee ; 
 I like all her talk, but woe unto me ! 
 
 She can't be contented with talking so pretty, 
 And washing, and dressing, and doing her duty ; 
 All that 's very well, — I can bear soap and water, 
 But, mother, she is an unmerciful trotter ! 
 
 Pretty ladies, I want just to look at your faces ; 
 Pretty lamp, pretty fire, let me see how it blazes ; 
 How can I, my head going bibbity bob ? 
 And she trots me the harder, the harder I sob ; 
 
THE baby's complaint. 155 
 
 mother, do stop her ! I 'm inwardly sore, 
 
 1 hiccup and cry, and she trots me the more, — 
 
 And talks about " wind," when 't is she makes me ache ; 
 Wish 't would blow her away, for poor baby's sake ! 
 
 Thank goodness, I 'm still ; O, blessed be quiet ! 
 I 'm glad my dear mother is willing to try it ; 
 Of foolish old customs my mother 's no lover, 
 And the wisdom of this she can never discover. 
 I '11 rest me awhile, and just look about, 
 And laugh up at Sally, who peeps in and out, 
 And pick up some notions as soon as I can, 
 To fill my small noddle before I 'm a man. 
 
 O dear, is that she ? Is she coming so soon ? 
 She 's bringing my dinner with teacup and spoon ; 
 She '11 hold me with one hand, in t' other the cup. 
 And as fast as it 's down, she '11 just shake it up ; 
 And thumpity thump, with the greatest delight, 
 Her heel it is going from morning till night ; 
 All over the house you may hear it, I 'm sure, 
 Trot, trotting ! Just think what I 'm doomed to endure ! 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES 
 
 14 
 
HER FATHER 
 
 THE FOLLOWING PAGES 
 
 ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The author of the following tale deems some 
 apology due to the public, for offering them so 
 slight a production, founded on a subject so fer- 
 tile in materials ; for Joanna the First of Naples, 
 the high-minded and ill-fated prototype of Mary 
 Stuart, bloomed and perished at an epoch in the 
 world's history which can scarcely be exceeded in 
 interest by any given period. It presents a theme 
 worthy of the departed Scott, or the living James. 
 
 Some years since, the writer perused Mrs. Jame- 
 son's Lives of The Female Sovereigns with great 
 pleasure, and the impression was a lasting one, — 
 particularly so with regard to the biography of 
 Joanna. She was led by it to examine all the rec- 
 ords of that celebrated queen to which she had 
 access. When afterwards deprived of her custom- 
 
 14* 
 
162 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 ary occupations, for two or three years, by partial 
 blindness, one of her chief resources against the 
 weariness of forced idleness was in exercises of 
 the memory and invention. She sometimes enter- 
 tained herself with weaving fictions and planning 
 little works, destined never to come forth from the 
 chambers of her brain ; and, amid the visionary pro- 
 cessions which moved through her darkened apart- 
 ment, many a time did the majestic figure of the ^ 
 Neapolitan queen sweep sadly by, the heroine of 
 the unwritten romance. As a memorial of those 
 hours, when the faculties mercifully bestowed on 
 every human mind asserted their power to charm 
 away physical evil, she has, the last summer, com- 
 mitted some of their fruits to paper, and the task 
 has again beguiled a few weeks of ill health. Want 
 of eyesight has prevented her indulging in research- 
 es that might have graced her pages with antiqua- 
 rian lore ; but she trusts she has avoided any serious 
 anachronisms. Her narrative is not a work of pure 
 fiction, as most of the leading characters and prin- 
 cipal events are historical ; and she has endeavoured 
 
INTRODUCTION. 163 
 
 to take no unwarrantable liberties with facts, as 
 recorded by writers who believed Joanna innocent 
 of the crimes charged upon her by her enemies. 
 
 For a time the author contemplated attempting 
 a tragedy on the subject which is now presented 
 in a less ambitious form ; but a strong conscious- 
 ness of the high nature of the undertaking, and 
 of the difficulties to be encountered by any one 
 who proposes to conform to the rules laid down 
 by the established canons of criticism, deterred her 
 from so hazardous an enterprise. 
 
 Ill the following tale, she has remembered a wish 
 often expressed in her hearing by judicious moth- 
 ers ; she has endeavoured to discard the machinery 
 usually employed in works of fiction, and to bring 
 strong passions and affections into play, without the 
 cooperation of that on which the main interest 
 of a romantic story commonly depends. She re- 
 spectfully waits the decision of the public as to 
 the degree of interest excited for a heroine, whose 
 fears and trials are not interwoven with a love-tale. 
 Her little work is published in the hope, that, if 
 
164 JOANNA OP NAPLES. 
 
 it win the approbation of her young readers, they 
 may be lured by it to the fountains of history, ever 
 pouring forth bright streams of pleasure and in- 
 struction. As the current comes gliding down from 
 the urns of dim antiquity, it brings us awful truths, 
 that deserve contemplation ; — the insufficiency of 
 human greatness ; the dangers of a blinding pros- 
 perity ; the terrible retribution, which so often 
 overtakes guilt, even on this side of the grave. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was in the month of June, in the year 1382, on 
 a day of unusual heat, that a solitary female walked 
 her apartment in the fairest palace of Naples, while 
 the whole city lay hushed under the spell of the 
 calm, sultry noon. The siesta was upon the eyelids 
 of the noble in his hall, and the lazarone stretched 
 his indolent limbs in the shade of some lofty wall ; 
 while the very waves of the lovely bay came mur- 
 muring sleepily as it were to the beach, where not a 
 living thing stirred along the wide sweep. The sails 
 of the fishing-boats hung down motionless ; the at- 
 mosphere seemed to quiver above the roofs of the 
 city ; the cone of Vesuvius, from whose apparently 
 extinguished fires no smoke had risen for nearly two 
 centuries, rose clearly defined in the pure realms of 
 upper air, and the sun, from a cloudless sky, poured 
 down a flood of yellow beams that seemed to oppress 
 man, beast, and inanimate nature with their fervor. 
 
166 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 But there was one, in that vast and populous city, 
 who appeared unconscious of the hour and its influ- 
 ences. She was pacing a superb room in a palace 
 which overlooked the bay, and held crushed in her 
 hand a loose packet, while meditation, of a deep and 
 anxious character, sat in her downcast eyes. Her tall 
 figure was worthy of the countenance where still lin- 
 gered an exquisite loveliness, though youth had long 
 since fled ; yet the touch of time had scarcely woven 
 a single thread of silver among the dark curls which 
 would have fallen in profusion about her face, had 
 they not been confined, with a propriety becoming 
 her years, by a circlet of gold round her regal brows, 
 from which a long veil depended over her graceful 
 form and purple velvet robe. Her pale Italian com- 
 plexion suited the Roman cast of her features. The 
 sadness of her countenance was not that of a single 
 hour's sorrow ; a settled thoughtfulness was in her 
 fine, but deep-sunken eyes, which marked her for 
 one who had long been familiar with the lessons of 
 aflliction ; — yet this was a queen ! In one of the 
 fairest realms on earth she had been the loveliest and 
 loftiest ! the theme of poets in that land of song, 
 and fitted by the graces of her mind, as well as per- 
 son, to wake and claim admiration from the most 
 gifted intellects of the age. It was the beautiful but 
 unfortunate Joanna, queen of Naples, whose exist- 
 ence had opened with every prospect of earthly fe- 
 licity which the heart of woman could crave, and 
 who had been early taught that rank, beauty, wealth, 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 167 
 
 and talent cannot ward off the fitting trials of this 
 life from a helpless human being ; powerful over a 
 few fellow-creatures it might be, — powerless in the 
 hands of the unseen Ruler of people and potentates. 
 The meridian of her eventful life was past, and there 
 was little promise that its wane would afford that 
 calm which a wearied spirit craves, when the con- 
 flicts of youth have been fierce and many. 
 
 She sat down and looked between the massy col- 
 umns upon the prospect ; — it was beautiful, but life- 
 less. The desolate feeling in her own heart gave a 
 meaning to the universal repose which did not belong 
 to it ; and she felt as if the unseen multitude who 
 slumbered under that broad sky were to wake no 
 more. She cast her eyes to the mountain, and re- 
 membering that it had been more than once the 
 cause of sudden destruction to thousands, she shud- 
 dered. '' But no ! " she thought ; " the evils I have 
 reason to dread for my people are of another stamp ; 
 and these gloomy forebodings rise not from the past 
 dealings of God, but from what I know is in man, — 
 cruel, treacherous man." She turned over the leaves 
 of the packet in her hand, conned passages with a 
 troubled air, and, passing her hand over her temples 
 as if they ached, she sunk into a long, unbroken rev- 
 erie, until the hottest hours were past. A soft breeze 
 at last began to stir among the orange-trees below 
 the balcony ; the sounds of voices rose once more on 
 the air, and a few figures appeared moving along the 
 beach. Still she sat, her head leaning against a mar- 
 
168 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 ble column, her eyes closed, and her fine features 
 occasionally disturbed by the current of busy and 
 anxious thought within. A faint tinge, a reflection 
 from the crimson drapery that hung between her and 
 the broad glare iof day, was thrown upon her cheek, 
 and the unconscious grace of her attitude would have 
 riveted a sculptor's eye. The apartment was separ- 
 ated from two other chambers by doors, now thrown 
 open for the sake of coolness, yet hung with rich 
 curtains, waving in the rising breeze. A sound is- 
 sued thence which roused the dejected queen ; the 
 unsteady steps and suppressed laughter of children 
 came from the anteroom, and presently the curtain 
 was put aside, and two lovely faces peeped archly 
 through. Sorrow fled instantly from the counte- 
 nance of Joanna, and she extended her arms to re- 
 ceive the little intruders, who, finding themselves 
 perceived, came laughing and bounding towards her. 
 One was a noble, animated boy, about five years of 
 age ; the other, a little girl, scarce three ; and both 
 for an instant clung round the neck of her who gave 
 them so loving a welcome. The boy, however, soon 
 betook himself to his sports, coursing about the apart- 
 ment on the broken spear which he called his war- 
 horse ; while the little girl, with the gentler habits 
 of her sex, sat contentedly on the lap of the queen, 
 playing with the rich ornaments of her dress, ever 
 and anon shaking back the curls from her cheeks, 
 and looking up with her inquiring eyes, as she await- 
 ed answers to her innumerable questions. She had 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 169 
 
 already drawn the pearl bracelets from the royal wrists 
 they adorned, and fastened one about her own brows, 
 while the other encircled her throat, and was in the 
 act of transferring the sparkling rings of the queen 
 to her own tiny fingers, laughing merrily at their 
 disproportionate size, when the drapery was again 
 put aside from the door, and a young and beautiful 
 female entered. A glance would have decided her 
 to be the mother of the children, though her fairy- 
 like proportions and delicacy of complexion gave her 
 the appearance of extreme youth. She was, in fact, 
 scarce two-and-twenty, but had been six years the 
 wife of Charles of Durazzo. 
 
 When Joanna found herself bereaved of her be- 
 loved sister, she had lavished upon her daughter the 
 deepest affections of her nature ; and to Charles, the 
 son of her enemy, as well as to Margaret, the daugh- 
 ter of her sister Maria, she had manifested the ten- 
 derness of a mother. Her palace had been their 
 abode after the decease of their parents, and in their 
 early union she had rejoiced. There the young Mar- 
 garet had found a home from her very birth ; there 
 she was wedded ; there had her two children been 
 born ; and there she was now bringing them up 
 peacefully, under the protection of the august Jo- 
 anna : while her husband, Charles of Durazzo, bore 
 arms in the less genial regions of Germany. Never 
 was there a nobler instance of magnanimity than Jo- 
 anna's, in adopting the son of that prince of Durazzo 
 who had so often disquieted her reign ; and her ex- 
 
 15 
 
170 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 treme fondness for the youth seemed justified by his 
 bravery and talents. The young Margaret delighted 
 in pouring forth the idolizing feelings of her heart to 
 one who had acted the part of a mother to both her- 
 self and her husband. In the aflection of her niece, 
 Joanna had found consolation during the absence of 
 her adopted son ; and her childless desolation had 
 been cheered by the caresses and sprightliness of 
 their offspring. " Look," said she to the approach- 
 ing mother, " your little Joanna would steal my scep- 
 tre, if it were within her reach, without waiting for 
 the day when it may be hers ! " There was some- 
 thing sad in her tone, which was inconsistent with 
 the sportive manner in which she held up the smil- 
 ing face of the little girl, to show the pearl bandeau 
 on her forehead ; but there was no reply to her re- 
 mark. Absorbed in the children, it was some mo- 
 ments before she observed the unwonted abstraction 
 of their mother. The boy was the first who drew 
 her attention to it ; as he came making a sportive 
 pass at them with his mimic weapon, she saw a sud- 
 den change pass over his bright face, and he stood 
 gazing at his mother with a look of anxious wonder. 
 Joanna turned, and observed that tears w^ere trickling 
 down the cheeks where smiles were wont to play. 
 She rose in surprise and summoned the attendants to 
 take away the children. They yielded reluctantly, 
 and the miniature queen resisted, as they took the 
 borrowed pearls from her and led her away, turning 
 back her face over her fair round shoulder with many 
 a sob. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 171 
 
 When they were alone, Joanna endeavoured to 
 draw from her pale and trembling niece the canse of 
 her agitation ; but in vain. She strove to speak, but 
 seemed half choked with emotion ; and it was not 
 until she had thrown herself on the neck of her 
 adopted mother, and poured forth a flood of tears, 
 that she uttered the words, '' My husband ! " 
 
 " What news from him ? " exclaimed Joanna ; 
 '' you heard from him this day, by the same courier 
 who brought despatches to me ? Is he not well ? I 
 have not heard otherwise, — at least not of his bodily 
 health." 
 
 "He is well," said Margaret, "but, O my mother, 
 
 my dear mother ! he bids me " She could 
 
 not finish the sentence, and Joanna waited in dismay. 
 
 " Margaret," said she at last, " can it be possible 
 that I divine what you would say ? Can it be that 
 he orders you to leave me ? " 
 
 Margaret faintly murmured, " It is so," and sunk 
 weeping on the cushions. 
 
 The blood rushed over the face of Joanna, and 
 forsook it again. Becoming deadly pale, she whis- 
 pered to herself, " Proof strong and terrible ! " and 
 walked to the farthest end of the apartment, throw- 
 ing aside the drapery from the window, and leaning 
 her head against a column, as if in hopes that the 
 fresh air might revive her. The brief illness passed 
 away ; but her lips were still white, when she re- 
 turned with a steady step, and taking the hands of 
 Margaret in her own, she said quietly, " Margaret of 
 
172 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 Dnrazzo, you shall go ; — with all the honors of your 
 rank you shall pass from my palace, from my king- 
 dom, from my protection, to that of your hus- 
 band." 
 
 " O my mother ! " again exclaimed the princess, 
 " do you part with me so lightly ? " 
 
 '' So lightly ! " repeated Joanna, pressing her hand 
 to her forehead ; " God only knows whether my 
 heart will break or not ; but think you I am one to 
 mock a husband's claim ? Have I taught you to 
 love Charles from your cradle, — have I given my 
 benediction on your nuptials, — have I been to him 
 in the place of his departed mother, seeking in all 
 things to gratify each wish of his heart, — and think 
 you I could rob him of you at last ? Margaret, were 
 I to lie down this night on yonder couch, and know 
 that I should never rise from it more, I would first 
 speed you on your perilous journey. Your children, 
 too, doth he summon them ? " 
 
 " He bids me sue for their company also ; and why 
 I weep so bitterly I know not, since he asks but a 
 visit, — a short visit, — and promises to escort us to 
 dear Naples again in a few weeks. But, mother ! I 
 have never, never left you for a single day, and 
 though it be to meet my adored husband " 
 
 Joanna interrupted her: — " The children, too ! I 
 see it all ! The involuntary hostages must be with- 
 drawn. Margaret, look me in the face ! " 
 
 Astonished at the almost stern demand, Margaret 
 looked up ; Joanna fixed a penetrating gaze on her 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 173 
 
 sweet, innocent countenance, and then asked, — '' Do 
 you not know lohy your husband thus summons you 
 to the rude camp ? " 
 
 " Nay, mother, is it strange that he should wish to 
 see me ? How long is it since he has beheld wife 
 or child? " 
 
 Joanna contemplated her ingenuous features a mo- 
 ment longer, and then murmuring, '' Guileless as 
 the morning dew ! " turned away with a deep sigh. 
 "No, Margaret ; it is not strange that he should wish 
 to see you. Go to him, my child ; your visit may 
 not be fso brief as you imagine ; but be our separa- 
 tion long or short, my blessing will be with you. 
 And tell him I spoke no word to detain you, uttered 
 no murmur, breathed no doubt." The last words 
 died away in a whisper, and Joanna turned to leave 
 the kneeling princess with an air of abstraction ; but 
 suddenly recollecting herself, asked, "Does he name 
 a day for your departure ? " 
 
 " To-morrow," faintly articulated Margaret ; "a 
 troop of horse for my escort are without the city." 
 
 Joanna's cheek was again flushed, as she exclaimed, 
 "So soon ! Are the hours so precious to him ! Then 
 the hurricane will come on apace ! Margaret," she 
 added, more calmly, " set forth in the cool hour of 
 morn, but do not seek to bid me farewell ; do not 
 send the children to me." Her lip quivered as she 
 spoke. "I am not quite well, methinks; and I will 
 not sadden their gay setting forth upon their travels 
 with my tears. I have forebodings that it may be 
 
 15* 
 
174 JOAXNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 long ere we meet again, and in solitary meditation 
 only can I combat the weaknesses of my nature." 
 
 '' Not well ! " exclaimed Margaret ; " nay, mother, 
 if 3^ou are not well, how can I leave you ? Charles 
 would not ask it, — would not expect it. Your color 
 comes and goes strangely ; indeed you are not well, 
 and do you imagine I can depart to-morrow ? " 
 
 Her plaintive question brought the tears at last 
 into the burning eyes of Joanna. She pressed her 
 lips on the forehead of the affectionate being, and 
 said gently, " You must go, my child ; it is a matter 
 of duty, — of state policy ; and my honor as.a queen 
 bids me not impede you. Alas ! why should she 
 who bears the crown on her brow wear the heart of 
 a woman to ache with a woman's sorrows? Go, 
 Margaret ; I am not ill, save in the spirit, and that 
 you have often seen weighed down with many cares. 
 Leave me, but do not, do not forget me ! do not 
 cease to love me ! And Margaret, — hush ! let not 
 the walls hear me, — if evil counsellors come be- 
 tween me and the children of my adoption, if they 
 seek to steal away thy husband's love for me, if 
 they bid him wrong me, insult me, rob me, bring 
 him back, dearest Margaret ! Win him again to this 
 maternal embrace ! Speak to him like an angel of ^ 
 peace, and save me from the wretchedness of despis- 
 ing one I have idolized ! " 
 
 Overcome by her emotions, Joanna remained hard- 
 ly conscious how far she had been hurried, with her 
 hands grasping firmly those of her kneeling niece, 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 175 
 
 and her head bowed down upon her breast. Marga- 
 ret continued a moment speechless, with an air of 
 utter amazement and horror, scarcely believing she 
 had heard aright, and then, springing to her feet, she 
 exclaimed, '' Mother ! what is it you say ? what is 
 it you fear ? whom do you doubt ? Is it of my 
 husband you speak ? of Charles ? Have the slan- 
 derers dared touch his unspotted fame ? You do not, 
 — you cannot believe one word uttered against his 
 love and truth." 
 
 " Margaret," said Joanna, " there are things which 
 may not be lightly believed ; I believe nothing ; but 
 strange rumors have reached me. They tell me the 
 tempter has been with him ; he is but a man, my 
 child, and an ambitious one, — and I have lived to 
 see the surest footed fall, in slippery paths." 
 
 ^' O mother ! " said Margaret, •' bitter must have 
 been the experiences which have poisoned so noble a 
 mind as yours with suspicion. I will go to my hus- 
 band ; would I were with him now ! for I know that 
 a truer heart never beat. I will bring him to your 
 very feet to deny the calumny with his own lips. 
 He false, who has worshipped you from his infancy, 
 and would have poured out his blood a thousand 
 times in defence of your rights ! O, none but a wife 
 can know the heart of her husband ! and sure am I 
 that Charles loves, venerates, and adores you, as I 
 do. Would it were to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Would that another and another morrow were 
 past, — until the last ! " said Joanna ; ''for the burden 
 
176 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 of life grows heavier each day, and I fear I shall be- 
 come weary of it. I meant not to disturb your peace 
 prematurely, my child ; I meant to have locked up 
 miserable fears in my own heart, until their fulfil- 
 ment came ; but to distrust the affection of Charles 
 has given me pangs that would not bear concealment. 
 Leave me, Margaret. To part with you at all is woe 
 enough ; to part with you thus is a trial, under 
 which I must seek consolation at the foot of the 
 altar. There, at least, I have found peace in the sad- 
 dest hours I have ever known ; and there I trust I 
 shall yet find it, whatever darker 'doom may be in 
 store for me." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew a small golden crucifix 
 from her girdle, and pressing it to her lips, as she 
 raised her swimming eyes to heaven, she placed one 
 hand on the head of Margaret ; and whispering a 
 short Latin invocation to the protecting Virgin, she 
 turned, and, walking slowly to the farther end of the 
 room, disappeared through a passage leading to a 
 chapel. Margaret, half blinded by her tears, gazed 
 on her majestic figure till it vanished, and then, with 
 a bewildered air and heavy heart, retired to her own 
 apartment, to order hasty preparations for her de- 
 parture. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 177 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The morning star was yet glittering over Vesu- 
 vius, when the blast of the horn was heard in the 
 square before the palace, and knights, gorgeously ar- 
 rayed, rode in from all quarters. Joanna had given 
 orders that her niece should be attended from the 
 city by a splendid cortege ; and the proudest barons 
 of her court came forth in obedience to the behest of 
 their queen, the younger not unwilling to prance in 
 the train of so beautiful a princess. 
 
 Margaret roused herself from her broken slumbers 
 to a sad consciousness that the day of her first de- 
 parture from home had arrived ; an event which can 
 be devoid of interest only to the unthinking or cold- 
 hearted, and Margaret was neither. The deeper 
 causes of uneasiness, arising from her parting con- 
 versation with the queen, were already boating from 
 her mind ; for she had persuaded herself that all 
 would soon be well. She had but to see her hus- 
 band, to converse with him, and all would be ex- 
 plained ; they would return together to the home of 
 their youth, and the heart of their adopted mother 
 would be eased, so that with the full ardor of youth- 
 ful hope and confidence she prepared to set forth. 
 A flush of indignation, indeed, mantled her cheek, as 
 she remembered how base had been the insinuations 
 conveyed to Joanna ; but her hope of an immediate 
 
Ho JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 and proud confutation was triumphant above all other 
 emotions ; and with a step as elastic as herown spir- 
 its, she descended to the court-yard, at the head of her 
 maiden train. The great gates were thrown open, 
 and she saw the square filled with plumed heads, 
 glittering arms, and waving banners. Her little son, 
 whom she led, broke from her and clapped his hands 
 exultingly at the spectacle, while the blasts of the 
 trumpets and shouts of the throng gave token of 
 the popularity which attended Joanna and her 
 family. 
 
 Accustomed to the saddle, which had already as- 
 sumed the shape used by fair equestrians in modern 
 days, Margaret had preferred commencing her jour- 
 ney on the palfrey she rode on hawking expeditions ; 
 and the milk-white animal, gentle as he was beauti- 
 ful, stood at the foot of a flight of marble steps, 
 sweeping the ground with his flowing tail and rich 
 caparisons. As she presented herself to the public 
 gaze, glowing with youth and beauty, the first red 
 beams of the rising sun fell upon her, and shrinking 
 at the unexpected acclamations of the people, she 
 looked like a young Aurora, retiring as the god of 
 day advanced. Even as she descended the steps, 
 conducted by a courtly knight, her reverted glances 
 scanned the front of the palace, for she hoped to 
 meet with one kind, parting smile from her whose 
 presence she had been forbidden to seek ; but it was 
 in vain ; and while she mounted and rode forth into 
 the square, courteously bowing her head and lav- 
 
JOAXXA OF NAPLES. 179 
 
 ishing her grateful smiles on the populace, slie felt 
 that her eyes were filling with tears of disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 She did not, however, pass forth unmarked by one 
 whose heart yearned after her as she went. The 
 royal canopy had that night sheltered a royal watch- 
 er, not, alas ! for the first time in her eventful life. 
 With the first gray of morning, Joanna had again 
 resorted to the chapel, and there she strove to shut 
 out the confused sounds which indicated the early 
 and unusual stir in that part of the city, where quiet 
 generally prevailed at this hour, notwithstanding the 
 restless habits of the Neapolitans. The distant tram- 
 pling and neighing of steeds, the shrill blasts of the 
 trumpets^ and the bustle in a remote wing of the 
 palace occupied by Margaret, occasionally broke on 
 her devotions ; but at last that most peculiar sound, 
 unlike all others, and most familiar to royal ears, rose 
 upon the air, and came with a full swell along the 
 arched roof of the chapel, — the power of innumer- 
 able human voices, united in one mighty and pro- 
 longed shout. She dropped her rosary; — she knew 
 that Margaret was leaving the safe and happy home 
 of her youth. Again it came surging through the 
 lonely chapel ; and the imperious promptings of af- 
 fection could no longer be resisted. She left the 
 chapel and hastened to a gallery which overlooked 
 the square ; where, through a latticed window, she 
 might gaze unobserved on the splendors beneath. 
 Little attraction had the pomp of her nobility for her 
 
180 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 eyes, riveted on one object alone. She saw the prin- 
 cess in the centre of the glittering throng, managing 
 her palfrey with exquisite grace, while her long, 
 white plumes, lifted up by the morning breeze, 
 danced gayly over her face, and gave to view its 
 bright and bewitching smiles. For a single instant 
 a pang shot through the heart of Joanna. '' He 
 would make her their queen, even now," thought 
 she, '•' and cannot wait till the faded and forgotten 
 Joanna rests in her grave ! " She covered her face 
 to shut out the spectacle ; she struggled inwardly, 
 and the better feelings of her noble nature rose with 
 a momentary prayer, for she had learned that the 
 worst enemies of our peace are not without, but 
 within us, and to triumph there is to triumph every- 
 where. 
 
 When she looked again, the litters containing the 
 children and their attendants were passing, but the 
 form of Margaret was still plainly visible ; and she 
 now saw her face sadly reverted. The princess was 
 about to vanish from the square, when, by a sudden 
 impulse of feeling, she checked her steed, — reined 
 him about; the knights around her drew up, — the 
 procession halted ; and a solemn and respectful si- 
 lence pervaded the whole throng, while the departing 
 princess took one last, mournful survey of the palace. 
 Joanna's hand was upon the lattice ; her emotion was 
 almost irrepressible. She longed to rush upon the 
 balcony, and, in the presence of her assembled people, 
 bestow another parting benediction on the lovely and 
 
JOAXXA OF NAPLES. 181 
 
 innocent creature whom she thought never to behold 
 again. But while striving with the impulse, she saw 
 one of the barons respectfully take the bridle of Mar- 
 garet's horse, and, turning about, lead him round the 
 angle of the street they were about to enter ; while 
 the princess, drooping and manifestly in tears, drew 
 her veil over her face, and in that sad guise disap- 
 peared from the straining gaze of Joanna. No ac- 
 clamations now rose on the air ; the stillness of uni- 
 versal sympathy pervaded the multitude ; and Joanna 
 stood mechanically watching the train as the knights 
 rode two and two out of the square, until the last 
 had turned the corner. The people crowded silently 
 after, till not a human being was left in the vast 
 space, save the lame beggars that lay in the porti- 
 cos. The tramp of irmumerable feet died away in 
 the distance, and all was quiet and solitary ; not even 
 the footstep of an attendant was to be heard wander- 
 ing through the palace ; and for the first time in her 
 life, checkered as it had been with many woes, Joan- 
 na's heart died within her, with a lonely and forsaken 
 feeling. " They are gone, — they are gone ! " is the 
 idea that takes complete possession of the mind, when 
 the young, gay, and beloved pass from our abodes. 
 To Joanna, full as her mind was of the gloomiest 
 anticipations, the hush which prevailed in the pal- 
 ace, after the bustle of departure, had in it some- 
 thing awful and deathlike ; it seemed to her as if a 
 funeral procession had left her gates. 
 
 In the mean time Margaret passed on through the 
 
 16 
 
182 JOANXA OF NAPLES. 
 
 fairy regions which encircle the city of Naples ; and 
 upon her was not lost the fresh matin beauty of its 
 matchless scenery. Her eye caught with pleasure 
 the innumerable fishing-boats, gliding almost imper- 
 ceptibly over the mirror-like surface, scarce rocking 
 as they went, and distinctly reflected, with their 
 snowy sails, in the water. The faint night-mist, 
 which yet lingered at a distance, half veiled the isl- 
 ands, which rose looming from it like remote moun- 
 tains ; and over Posilipo hung the thin, cloud -like, 
 waning moon, still visible, though the sun was con- 
 siderably above the horizon. Absorbed in medita- 
 tions, half sad and half pleasing, she gave no en- 
 couragement to conversation ; but after they left these 
 familiar objects behind them, and wound through 
 vineyards and orange groves, she felt one pang more 
 in exchanging the gay escort from the court of Joan- 
 na for that of her husband's rude and warlike band. 
 With all graceful courtesy she bade adieu to the 
 proud nobles, as one by one they passed before her, 
 bending to the saddlebow with their helmeted heads ; 
 and as she saw them put spurs to their steeds, fall 
 again into ranks, and sweep back along the road to 
 Naples, soon lost among the foliage, she turned a 
 doubtful glance on the warriors that surrounded her. 
 It Avas a detachment of his most tried and faithful 
 cavalry whom Charles had sent to bring her into the 
 distant plains of Lombardy, whither he had prom- 
 ised to descend and meet her ; and the perfect train- 
 ing of their steeds, the war-worn condition of their 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 183 
 
 armour, and their scarred visages, bore testimony that 
 they had been engaged in no holiday service. Mar- 
 garet resigned herself to their protection, with a feel- 
 ing of confidence and security, inspired by the bare 
 idea that they were her husband's soldiers, — that 
 the familiar banner which flaunted above them was 
 his, — that they had fought by his side, and were by 
 him trusted with a most precious charge. 
 
 The day passed away without event, excepting 
 that, as they approached A versa, her attention was 
 fixed on the gray walls of a convent, rising above 
 the trees, on the brow of a wooded hill. There was 
 nothing peculiar in the object, so similar to many 
 others along their winding way ; but she saw an 
 elderly knight of the party pointing it out to his 
 companion with a frowning brow ; and as they rode 
 closer together, and fell into a low, eager conversa- 
 tion, still occasionally looking towards it with aus- 
 tere countenances, she felt assured that it had been 
 the scene of some dreadful calamity, — perhaps crime. 
 Curiosity at last prompted ber to approach them to 
 inquire its history; when the name of ''Andrea" 
 fell on her ear. Horror-struck at the sound, she drew 
 back in silence ; and shuddered as she again fixed 
 her eyes on those gloomy walls, within whose cir- 
 cuit that prince — the youthful husband of Joanna 
 in her early and happy days — had been so foully 
 and mysteriously murdered. She knew that, at the 
 time, dark surmises had touched the character of Jo- 
 anna ; but she believed that her triumphant acquittal 
 
184 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 had promptly cleared her fame, and that her spotless 
 course had since lived down all suspicion. She knew 
 not that the delicate texture of a woman's reputation 
 retains a tinge for ever, where calumny has once 
 fallen ; she knew not the existence of those unchar- 
 itable spirits, whose delight it is to believe the worst, 
 — who cannot forget that evil was once spoken, and 
 will not suffer oblivion to gather round the cruel and 
 idle slanders of bygone days. She little dreamed 
 that the character of the pure and lofty Joanna, the 
 kinswoman whose virtues she loved and reverenced 
 so deeply, was to be handed down to posterity, a 
 problem for the discussion of the antiquarian, a dis- 
 puted point among the searchers into the dark things 
 of history ; and that thousands would live and die 
 under the impression, that, early ripe in guilt as in 
 talents, she had stained her soul, as she trod life's 
 threshold, with a murder of peculiar atrocity.* 
 
 We will not trace the route of Margaret as she 
 pressed on to a reunion with her husband. Impa- 
 
 * '* Public rumors, in the absence of notorious proof, imputed the 
 guilt of this mysterious assassination to Joanna, Whether historians 
 are authorized to assume her participation in it so confidently as they 
 have generally done, may perhaps be doubted ; though I cannot ven- 
 ture positively to rescind their sentence." — "The name of Joan of 
 Naples has suiFered by the lax repetition of calumnies. Whatever 
 share she may have had in her husband's death, and certainly under 
 circumstances of extenuation, her subsequent life was not open to any 
 flagrant reproach ; the charge of dissolute manners, so frequently 
 made, is not loarranted by any specific proof or contemporary testimo- 
 ny.'' — Hallam's Middle Jigcs^ Part II. Ch iii. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 185 
 
 tient of delay, she could not be detained by invita- 
 tions or proffered civilities from the court of Rome. 
 Detesting the character of the tyrannical Urban, of 
 whom Gibbon remarks that '' he could walk in his 
 garden reading his breviary, while hearing the cries 
 of six cardinals upon the rack in an adjacent room," 
 she shrunk from the Vatican as from the den of a 
 wild beast, and pursued her northward journey with 
 as much celerity as possible for a train of females 
 and children unaccustomed to fatigue. At one spot 
 the Baron di Castiglione pointed out two routes, one 
 of which led winding through plains and valleys, 
 while the other, though far more rough and wild, 
 would conduct them more speedily through moun- 
 tain defiles to their journey's end, and on this she 
 decided. 
 
 It was towards the close of a lovely summer's day 
 that the little troop descended, along a thickly wood- 
 ed mountain road, into a rocky pass. The cliffs rose 
 high above them on each side, garlanded in spots 
 with rough grass and tangled weeds, while here and 
 there the larch and the pine sprang from the clefts, 
 and partially clothed the gray, eternal rocks with their 
 sombre verdure. On the right, a torrent came dash- 
 ing from the recesses of the hills, and, with a perpen- 
 dicular fall of some twenty feet, formed a deep basin, 
 from which it rippled quietly away down the valley. 
 Round the basin was spread a carpet of the greenest 
 and softest herbage ; and its waters lay dark under 
 the shadow of an enormous oak that stood on its 
 
 16* 
 
186 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 brink. The gnarled roots of this monarch of the 
 dell rose above the turf, or, stretching away under the 
 still water, looked like sleeping serpents. The spot 
 had an aspect so cool and tranquil, that Margaret was 
 glad when she saw the Baron give a signal for halt- 
 ing ; and though she had preferred riding on horse- 
 back since noon, that she might enjoy scenery to 
 her so new and picturesque, yet, weary and heated 
 as she was, it was a luxury to spring from the saddle 
 upon the fresh turf; and, throwing back her veil, she 
 inhaled the bracing mountain air with delight. As 
 she seated herself on one of the huge twisted roots 
 by the basin, the children came rejoicing to her side ; 
 her ladies gathered almost under the spray of the tor- 
 rent to enjoy its freshness ; the warriors dispersed 
 themselves in groups among the clefts of the rocks, 
 and their steeds came panting to drink of the pool, 
 or strayed, quietly grazing, down the little valley. 
 The Baron di Castiglione, having despatched a sin- 
 gle horseman in advance, removed the helmet from 
 his gray locks, and summoning his favorite, the spir- 
 ited boy, to his knee, established himself on a large 
 fragment of rock, which had fallen from the cliffs 
 above, whence he could command a view of the 
 lower entrance into the pass. In a short time, fa- 
 tigue hushed every one into silence, and the tranquil 
 genius of the place seemed to have resumed his sway. 
 The little Margaret laid her curly locks upon her 
 mother's lap, and, soothed by the continuous dashing 
 of the Avaterfall, sunk into a profound slumber ; and 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 187 
 
 the wild goats came to the edges of the rocks, looked 
 down at the peaceable intruders a few moments in 
 surprise, and then bounded away to their heights. 
 
 As Margaret sat enjoying it all with the keen zest 
 of one who, having a true taste for nature, had es- 
 caped to her wildest haunts from the irksome monot- 
 ony of a palace, she gazed upwards to the deep blue 
 sky, of which so narrow a space was visible, with 
 an unwonted admiration of its purity ; when sud- 
 denly, from the summit of the loftiest precipice in 
 view, a large, stately bird rose upon the wing, and 
 soared away with many a majestic sweep. She 
 needed no one to tell her it was the mountain eagle ; 
 she almost fancied she heard the rush of his mighty 
 wings, as he sprang forth on the breeze, and follow- 
 ing him with an intense gaze, as he diminished to a 
 seeming speck and vanished in the realms of upper 
 air, she was unconscious of a commotion among the 
 recumbent knights about her. When her strained 
 eyes again rested on earth, she perceived that most 
 of them had risen, and were looking towards the 
 lower part of the defile. The Baron di Castiglione, 
 too, had turned in the same direction, with the air of 
 one listening intently ; and presently a sound, as of 
 horsemen ascending the rocky pass at full speed, 
 came upon her ear. The idea of an attack from 
 banditti flashed across her mind, as she cast a hur- 
 ried glance about the wild, secluded spot ; and rising, 
 she clasped her little girl to her bosom, and, advanc- 
 ing to the side of the Baron, stood in the centre of 
 
188 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 the grass plat. In another moment, two knights, 
 mounted on black steeds, came rapidly into the pass, 
 and on seeing the group before them, reined up sud- 
 denly and respectfully, remaining motionless in their 
 saddles. The next instant a third knight came dash- 
 ing between them, on a superb white charger, glit- 
 tering, like his master, with steel and gold ; and as 
 the princely figure galloped almost to her side, threw 
 himself to the ground, and raised the vizor from his 
 noble countenance, Margaret recognized her long-ab- 
 sent husband, Charles of Durazzo ! 
 
 When the first joy of meeting his wife and chil- 
 dren was over, Charles turned to the Baron, and ex- 
 claimed hastily, '^ You have surprised me much. 
 When your messenger came but now to tell me the 
 princess was here, I could scarce credit my ears. 
 Why tarried you not in Rome ? " 
 
 '' I had no such orders." 
 
 " What ! have you met no couriers ? I sent two, 
 with injunctions that, if you had left the city, you 
 should forthwith return thither, and await me." 
 
 '' They have missed us, then," said the Baron ; — 
 '' it was the princess's pleasure to take the shorter 
 road through the hills, and they, no doubt, expected 
 to meet us in the plains." 
 
 '' It is unfortunate," said the prince ; " I did not 
 mean to welcome my wife to my canvas walls and 
 rough camp fare, when Rome has so many stately 
 palaces whose gilded doors would fly open to re- 
 ceive her." 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 189 
 
 "I should better love the humblest tent under 
 your banner," whispered Margaret, " than the proud- 
 est palace in that city." 
 
 Charles smiled upon her kindly, and laying his 
 gauntleted hand on the head of his boy, who, lost in 
 admiration, stood gazing up in his face, he added, 
 " And here, too, is one who will love a soldier's 
 str^v pallet better than the silken pillows of Naples ! 
 To the camp, then. Baron ; we will give these fair 
 ladies as little cause as may be to repent their long 
 journey, and they shall look upon a sight that may 
 repay no small fatigue. They shall behold an army 
 that a prince may be proud to lead." 
 
 It was now by the side of her husband, listening 
 to his cheerful voice, and feeling that his guardian 
 hand was on her palfrey's bridle, that Margaret re- 
 sumed her route, forgetting in the happiness of the 
 moment that such a thing as doubt, fear, or sorrow 
 existed. The Baron di Castiglione rode near them, 
 and to him Charles addressed much of his conversa- 
 tion, respecting the state of his troops, and the Ve- 
 netian wars. In less than half an hour they emerged 
 from the rocks and trees of the mountainous coun- 
 try, and as they issued from the forest upon the brow 
 of a hill, far as the eye could reach extended a noble 
 spectacle indeed. The champaign below them was 
 green as an emerald, with many rills winding and 
 glittering through the meadows ; and everywhere 
 were scattered the white tents of an extended camp. 
 By the brook-sides, in the fields, among the groves, 
 
190 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 the long lines stretched away to the. right and left, 
 distinctly visible by the light that yet came from the 
 glowing west, where the smi had just sunk below 
 the horizon. The shadows of twilight had indeed 
 begun to gather over some of the deepest dells ; but 
 on their right, along the whole eastern horizon, glim- 
 mered a range of cloud-like forms, the summits of 
 snow-topped mountains, gilded by the beams of ^hat 
 sun which to the lower country had already set. 
 Almost breathless with admiration, Margaret uttered 
 an exclamation, which induced her husband to pause 
 indulgently a few moments that she might enjoy the 
 scene ; and she could scarcely help sighing, when, 
 as they trotted slowly down the green slope, the 
 groves that soon overshadowed them shut the whole 
 from her view. 
 
 New cause of wonder, however, arose as they en- 
 tered the city of tents, where the cleanliness, order, 
 and stillness that prevailed spoke well for the disci- 
 pline of Charles's boasted army. Received with mil- 
 itary honors at the lines, the little cavalcade was con- 
 ducted through a long, wide street of tents, at the 
 termination of which an illuminated pavilion glim- 
 mered through the closing dusk ; and here the weary 
 Margaret dismounted. Every possible arrangement 
 had been hastily made for her comfort ; she sunk ex- 
 hausted upon the soft cushions, piled up for her 
 couch ; but though refreshments were brought her, 
 the fever, induced by fatigue and over-excitement, 
 began to burn on her cheeks and throb in her pulse. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 191 
 
 Charles, in alarm, summoned the most experienced 
 of her attendants, who prescribed rest and quiet ; he 
 passed softly from the pavilion, gave orders for pro- 
 found stillness throughout the camp, and retired to an 
 humbler tent in her vicinity. Even the sentinel at 
 her door remained motionless at his post, lest his 
 footfall should disturb her slumbers ; and long ere 
 the usual hour, a midnight hush was upon those 
 thousands of living and active human beings. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Unwonted noises roused the princess early the 
 next morning, but she awoke completely refreshed 
 and restored ; and for a while, ere she summoned her 
 attendants, lay endeavouring to collect her scattered 
 ideas. As the events of the preceding day floated 
 through her mind, a painful thought suddenly struck 
 her ; and the more she reflected upon it, the more she 
 wondered that, in spite of her fatigue and indisposi- 
 tion, it had not occurred to her before. Not a word 
 of inquiry respecting the queen had escaped the lips 
 of Charles ! He had shown no solicitude to hear of 
 her health or her occupations ; he had not mentioned 
 her nor alluded to her. In vain Margaret strove to 
 bring to mind some hasty question, some one word 
 of loving recollection ; in vain she tried to extenuate 
 
192 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 such seeming want of interest in his noble benefac- 
 tress, — to fancy that the joy of meeting his wife 
 and children, or that military cares, might have occa- 
 sioned a brief forgetfulness of what was neverthe- 
 less near his heart. Uncomfortable and perturbed, 
 she rose betimes, and when the duties of her toilette 
 were completed, sent a page to answer the inquiries 
 which a messenger from Charles had already ad- 
 dressed to her women. The prince was then occu- 
 pied among his officers ; but she soon heard his joc- 
 und voice at the door of her tent, and, dismissing her 
 attendants, she hastened to meet him. He was al- 
 ready armed and prepared for the saddle ; and joy- 
 fully observing the restored bloom on her cheek, he 
 drew her forth, saying, — '' Come out, my wife, and 
 look at this stirring sight." 
 
 It was so, indeed. The knoll on which her pavilion 
 stood commanded a view of a large portion of the 
 camp ; but wherever she turned her eyes, it dropped 
 at once from her sight, and in an instant the whole 
 aspect of the field was changed, as if by magic. In 
 the distance, towards the south, the arms of the de- 
 parting troops were seen gleaming through the trees 
 as they ascended the hills which bounded the plain ; 
 and a large body of cavalry stood waiting at a short 
 distance. As she came forth from the pavilion, the 
 war-horse of Charles was led up by two grooms, 
 who could with difficulty restrain the ardor of the 
 noble animal, tossing his head and rearing under 
 their grasp. His eye glanced fire as he heard the 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 193 
 
 well-known voice of his accustomed rider in the 
 battle-field ; but Charles hastily bade the men take 
 him away. "■ I shall not ride Caesar upon the march," 
 said he ; ''I shall want him fresh for service. Bring 
 me the Black Prince." 
 
 " That was the name our mother taught you to 
 reverence. The brave English warrior befriended 
 James of Minorca, and she never forgot it," said Mar- 
 garet, scarce daring to look in her husband's face as 
 she ventured this remark. 
 
 He winced, however, for she felt a sudden slight 
 motion of the arm on which she leaned ; but, without 
 apparently having heard her, he exclaimed, — " You 
 will call me no true knight, Margaret, for deserting 
 you as soon as you place yourself under my protec- 
 tion ; but there are leaders among my troops, with 
 whom it is necessary I should hold constant collo- 
 quy, and business at present demands every moment 
 of my waking time. It will be better, therefore, that 
 the good Baron di Castiglione resume his office, and 
 guide you back through the hills again to Rome, 
 while I march to the same point along the plains." 
 Observing the tears gathering in Margaret's eyes, he 
 added, — ''I must needs head my troops, dearest ; 
 and it will be safer, pleasanter, and more fitting, that 
 you travel under a selected escort, than in company 
 with my rough soldiery. In Rome we shall meet." 
 
 " It is hard to part again so soon," said Margaret, 
 " but that is not all that disappoints me. I had 
 something to say to you, Charles." 
 
 17 
 
194 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 '' And can you not say it briefly ? or is not that 
 a woman's talent ? " asked the prince gayly ; '' my 
 body-guard shall wait, then, a little for me ; we will 
 dash the faster through the dew, and overtake yon 
 creeping infantry in marvellous short space. What 
 little harangue have you prepared that makes you 
 so pale ? Surely there can be no boon which you 
 dare not ask of me." 
 
 '' I have no boon to ask," said Margaret, trem- 
 bling ; '' but do you know, Charles, it seems to me 
 strange that you have not inquired after the queen ! " 
 
 The prince colored to the temples. '' Have I not 
 indeed ? Is it possible ? " said he. " But you know 
 I have scarce had time ; you were ill last night ; in 
 fact, we have hardly met as yet. She is well, is 
 she not ? " 
 
 " Ah, Charles," exclaimed Margaret, '^ our mother 
 would not thus have asked tidings of you ! It is of 
 you she thinks night and day ; her absent husband, 
 dearly as she loves him, is not more constantly pres- 
 ent to her thoughts, and the color comes proudly to 
 her cheek when she hears you praised, as if you had 
 indeed drawn your very existence from hier ! Could 
 you but have seen her when the false rumor came 
 that you were slain in battle ! She did not strive to 
 soothe my anguish, for she shared it. Pale as mar- 
 ble, speechless as a statue, she sat hours by my 
 couch, with the tears trickling down her cheeks, 
 save when she laid her head on my pillow to mingle 
 her groans and sobs Avith mine. O my husband ! 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 195 
 
 to think an orphan boy like 5^011 should have foiuid 
 maternal tenderness so fond, and in so noble a be- 
 ing ! " 
 
 Charles fixed his eyes on the ground ; but Marga« 
 ret waited in vain for a word. " How often I have 
 longed to tell you of her devotion to your children, — 
 how she trains up your son to look upon his father 
 as the model of all things heroic and excellent, — how 
 she bids him be as brave in the field, as wise in the 
 council-chamber, as generous to the unfortunate, as 
 true to those he loves ! " 
 
 The prince started impatiently. " The sun grows 
 hot, Margaret," said he ; '' you were better in the 
 shade." 
 
 " Then come in with me," urged Margaret, hold- 
 ing him pleadingly by the hand ; " think how long 
 it is since we have talked together, and how full my 
 heart must be ! Surely, if we are not to travel in 
 company, you will not begrudge me one half-hour 
 before you set out ! " Margaret's was the face on 
 which entreaty sits irresistible, and as her beseech- 
 ing eyes were fixed on him, he looked irresolute, 
 yielded, and reentered the tent. '' Now tell me, 
 dearest," said she, striving to lift the heavy helmet 
 from his head, " when will you quit these weary 
 wars ? Your face is homewards now ; are you not 
 coming home to live tranquil and happy with us 
 once more ? I am afraid you will be spoiled, Charles, 
 and forget mother, wife, and children." 
 
 " That cannot be ! " exclaimed the prince with 
 energy, " I have the heart of a man still ! " 
 
196 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " I believe it, Charles, — I believe it from the bot- 
 tom of my soul ! and no black calumny shall ever 
 make me doubt your truth and fidelity," added Mar- 
 garet, clasping her hands, as a bright look of confi- 
 dence beamed over her face. 
 
 " Why," said the prince, with a look of some per- 
 plexity, " why such an asseveration ? " 
 
 ^' O Charles ! " replied she, '' I hardly dare tell 
 you why. It has been upon my lips all this time, 
 but I have not dared utter it. They have slandered 
 you, my husband ; I know not who ; but enemies 
 of your fame have whispered the darkest insinua- 
 tions against you ; they have charged you with the 
 blackest of crimes, — ingratitude ! They have striv- 
 en to make the noble Joanna herself believe you for- 
 getful of the deepest and tenderest obligations that 
 could bind man to a fellow-creature, — false, even 
 to her, the mother of your desolate childhood." 
 
 The prince started up impetuously, and as he 
 walked about the tent, the veins in his forehead 
 swelled with agitation. '' Who has done this? " ex- 
 claimed he ; '' whence came these tales ? " 
 
 " I know not," said Margaret ; '^ I asked not ; it 
 was enough for me to declare them false ; and I 
 would have died in the cause, had it been needful. 
 They say that base, intriguing spirits abound in 
 courts ; but I thought that you, dearest, stood above 
 suspicion, as above temptation. It was from the 
 queen's own lips I heard the tale." 
 
 " And yet she dismissed you safely and honorably 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 197 
 
 from her court ! Did she make no effort to retain 
 you, — nor my children, — as pledges of my faith ? 
 Then she doubts me not, noble, generous, angelic 
 being that she is ! " 
 
 Margaret burst into tears. " O Charles ! " she ejac- 
 ulated, " could she but hear you ! Come back to 
 Naples with me, my husband ; what need you of 
 these troops ? Leave them behind, and hasten with 
 me to look once more on her beloved and beautiful 
 face. Come to receive those benignant smiles with 
 which she always welcomed you ; the holy blessing, 
 which you used to say kept all wickedness away 
 from you. Next week will be the anniversary of 
 our wedding day ; let us keep it in the palace where 
 she smiled upon our childish affection, — where she 
 herself bade me love you till my dying day." 
 
 Charles was deeply moved ; a tear even rolled 
 down his manly cheek, as he looked upon the fair 
 creature who clung to him. " I am, indeed, bound 
 by the heart-strings to her who bestowed on me 
 such a wife, were there no other tie," said he, in a 
 low, sad tone, as if musing aloud. At that moment 
 the curtained door of the tent was slowly drawn 
 back, and the prince looked up sternly, as if indig- 
 nant at the intrusion ; but on seeing the person who 
 stood there in silence, he changed countenance, and 
 hastily disengaging himself from his wife, he seized 
 his helmet from the cushion, replaced it on his brow, 
 and left the tent with the stranger, without uttering 
 another word. 
 
 17* 
 
198 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 Margaret remained immovable with surprise. As 
 he stood with his back to the light, she had but faint- 
 ly distinguished the face of the unbidden guest, — a 
 tall monk, with a downcast eye and colorless cheek ; 
 but the sudden paleness and abrupt departure of her 
 husband left her completely bewildered. Ere she 
 had recovered from her amazement, the ground be- 
 neath her feet shook with the tread of a large body 
 of horse, sweeping by at full speed ; and in a mo- 
 ment more a page appeared, to announce that the 
 Baron di Castiglione waited her orders. She hurried 
 to look forth. The camp had entirely disappeared ; a 
 few heavy wagons were moving slowly from the 
 field ; her own small band were already mounting, 
 and at a short distance she perceived the party which 
 had just passed galloping towards the hills. At their 
 head she easily recognized the stately form of Du- 
 razzo, and by his side rode the monk. Slowly 
 and sadly she withdrew, and as her women crowd- 
 ed into the tent to assist in the bustle of depart- 
 ure, she was unconscious of the dismay her aspect 
 excited. 
 
 If the journey to meet her husband had appeared 
 long to Margaret, the same route retraced was intol- 
 erably tedious. Surprise at his demeanour, a vague 
 anxiety, impatience to be once more in his presence, 
 where she still felt as if all doubt and fear must be 
 dispelled, took from her the power of enjoying either 
 the conversation of her companions or the beauty of 
 the scenery through which they passed. To find 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 199 
 
 herself in Rome, little as she cared for its Papal hon- 
 ors, was now the earnest object of her wishes ; and 
 on her last day's journey, as they ascended each hill, 
 she gazed anxiously forward, in hopes of catching a 
 distant glimpse of that city whose fame was bruited 
 over the world, and whose power lay on the invisi- 
 ble spirit of man. She dreamed not, however, that 
 this mysterious power was yet to crush her best 
 hopes of happiness ; that the influence of the tiara 
 was to blight the remainder of a life hitherto so 
 free from bitterness. Still less did she dream of 
 the sad entrance she should make into its renowned 
 streets. 
 
 The noontide halt was over, and the Baron had 
 just given her the welcome assurance, that in four 
 hours she would be within the walls of the Eternal 
 City, when one of the children's attendants came, 
 with an anxious brow, to announce that the little Jo- 
 anna was ill. The princess hastened to her in alarm, 
 and found the child reclining on the shoulder of her 
 nurse, the rose color on her cheek heightened to a 
 feverish scarlet, and her eyes dull and glazed. She 
 stretched her arms to her mother with a faint moan. 
 Margaret took her at once, and on applying to her 
 attendants, found, to her dismay, that none knew 
 what remedy to prescribe, or by what form of mal- 
 ady the patient was attacked. Nay, some of the 
 more timid shrunk to a distance, and her quick ear 
 caught the fearful word '' contagion " among their 
 stifled whispers. Clasping the little girl to her bosom. 
 
200 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 she ascended the litter, and crying to the Baron, 
 " Rome ! Rome ! — with all speed to Rome ! " she 
 sat in speechless suspense. Her children had been 
 blessed from birth with unusual health, and utterly- 
 inexperienced as she was in the symptoms or man- 
 agement of disease, her emotions, on witnessing the 
 sufferings she could not relieve, were almost agoniz- 
 ing. On they went, with a speed which at another 
 time would have been unpleasing ; but to her it 
 seemed as if they crept along the interminable way ; 
 and to her incessant inquiries, " How far yet ? " 
 the answers only brought disappointment. At last 
 the domes of the city rose above the level of the 
 Campagna, along the dusky horizon ; but without one 
 throb of lofty associations, — one glance at the ob- 
 jects which surrounded them as they drew nearer to 
 the Mistress of the world, — Margaret forgot every 
 thing else in the increasing distress of her child. As 
 the shades of twilight descended, she fancied death 
 already painted on the livid features she discerned 
 more dimly ; and was at last hardly conscious that 
 they had passed the Porta del Popolo, when they 
 reached the threshold of a magnificent palace, ap- 
 pointed by the Pope himself for her reception. 
 
 The most skilful physicians of the day came at 
 her summons. It was discovered that the little girl 
 had not been well since the night when the princess 
 had passed almost incognita through Rome, in her 
 haste to join her husband ; and that the building in 
 which they had then slept stood near the Lateran, 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 201 
 
 recently discovered to have become so infected by 
 the encroaching malaria of the marshes, that, during 
 the summer months, it was abandoned to the insid- 
 ious and invisible foe. The disease which had at- 
 tacked the frame of the little Joanna was pronounced 
 a dangerous, malignant fever ; and after despatching 
 a messenger to hasten her husband, still on the march, 
 Margaret gave herself up to that most wearing, yet sa- 
 cred, of duties, a mother's patient midnight watch- 
 ing by the couch of her suffering child. The so- 
 licitations of her attendants, the recollection of her 
 rank, the danger to her health, — nothing could coun- 
 teract the impulse of that common human nature, 
 throbbing alike in the heart of the high and low ; 
 and the wife of the poorest peasant, nursing her 
 squalid babe on the Pontine fens, could scarcely 
 have envied the wealthy, beautiful, admired princess 
 of Durazzo, as all night long she counted the weary 
 hours, listened to the feeble moans of her child, 
 held the draught to its parched lips, and laid its rest- 
 less head on that pillow, which, in palace or cottage, 
 is ever the softest, the bosom of maternal love. 
 
202 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 After the departure of Margaret from Naples, the 
 melancholy days of Joanna crept on, unmarked by 
 any event distinct from the usual routine of her life. 
 In the regular administration of her queenly duties, 
 in the superintendence of many benevolent and pub- 
 lic-spirited works which she had undertaken, in pre- 
 siding over the court, which her own virtue and dig- 
 nified deportment had rendered as remarkable for re- 
 finement as for magnificence, she sought to beguile 
 the secret anxieties of her heart. Since the opening 
 dawn of her life had been clouded by sorrows most 
 peculiar, — by violent deaths or unlocked for treach- 
 ery among her dearest friends, — she had ever worn an 
 aspect of majestic pensiveness ; and the open smiles, 
 which had forsaken her countenance at eighteen, 
 had never returned to illumine its more mature beau- 
 ty. Gentle and affable in her demeanour, however, 
 her habitual gravity did not banish innocent mirth 
 from those about her ; and she was loved, almost to 
 adoration, by those who came oftenest about her 
 person. Yet none were admitted completely into 
 her confidence ; the awe inspired by her rank and 
 character was never dispelled by indiscreet commu- 
 nicativeness on her part ; and not one of her most 
 trusted nobility suspected how deeply the apprehen- 
 sion of coming evils, deadlier than all she had yet 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 203 
 
 known, was now haunting her hours of meditation. 
 When the warlike spirit of her adopted son had led 
 him, in spite of her remonstrances, to seek distinc- 
 tion under the king of Hungary, once her bitter foe, 
 she had felt the want of a masculine mind and chiv- 
 alric arm to counsel or defend her. Driven by 
 necessity once more to form connections she had 
 abjured, the duties which Charles had forsaken now 
 devolved on a husband ; and the unblemished, disin- 
 terested character of Prince Otho of Brunswick, suit- 
 able to her in age and accomplishments, did honor to 
 her matronly judgment. It is of him that the grace- 
 ful pen of Joanna's female biographer writes thus : — 
 '' Without demanding the title of king, or arrogating 
 any power to himself, this generous, brave, and ami- 
 able man won and deserved the entire affection of 
 his queen, and maintained her throne for some time 
 in peace and security." At this critical juncture, he 
 was absent in the southern part of his dominions, 
 where some symptoms of insurrection among the 
 rough mountaineers of Calabria had required the 
 check of his personal appearance. So vague had 
 been the rumors which had reached Joanna of the 
 negotiations between Pope Urban, her implacable 
 enemy, and Charles, her adopted son, that she for- 
 bore as yet to molest her husband with intelligence 
 which she shrunk from believing. 
 
 She returned one evening from an excursion to 
 visit the palace she was building under the brow of 
 Posilipo. The romantic beauty of its situation, 
 
204 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 where its very foundations were laved by classic bil- 
 lows, had not been overlooked by her elegant taste ; 
 and while anxious to give occupation to the artifi- 
 cers whom she had hitherto employed on churches 
 and hospitals, she had designed it as a calm retreat 
 for her declining years. In the present state of her 
 spirits, she looked on the progress of the workmen 
 with a sadness she could scarce conceal. Again and 
 again she cast back her eyes, as she rode from it, 
 surrounded by a gay party of courtiers ; and the 
 question forced itself continually on her mind, " Will 
 it ever be completed ? Shall I live to tread in its 
 fair halls, and look from its windows over these blue 
 waves ? Or will some gloomy blight fall yet again 
 across my path ? Will my plans be frustrated, my 
 spirits broken, my ever busy mind crushed by fresh 
 sorrows ? Then will the hand of the workman 
 cease, the sound of labor be hushed ; the lonely sea 
 will murmur round the unfinished walls, the fisher- 
 man will hang his nets in its uncovered vaults, and 
 the musing traveller shall pronounce it a sad me- 
 morial of the uncertainties that wait on all human 
 schemes ! " 
 
 She spurred her steed forward at last, to escape 
 these melancholy thoughts, and a temporary excite- 
 ment revived her drooping spirits, as she sped along 
 the delightful Mergellina ; the fleet Arabian on which 
 she was mounted dashed over the firm, wet sands, as 
 if with a consciousness of enjoyment ; the breeze, 
 which in that region comes down from the hills in 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 205 
 
 the afternoon, played with its bracing influences on 
 her frame, and her whole train entered with zest in- 
 to that most exhilarating pleasure, a gallop along a 
 wide, smooth beach. 
 
 When she arrived at the private apartments of her 
 palace in Naples, it was with an unwonted glow on 
 her cheek, and a brightness in her eye, which spoke 
 of her earlier and happier days. '• My ride has done 
 me much service," she said, as she drew off her silk- 
 en glove, embroidered with gold, and turned to her 
 private secretary, who waited her return with papers ; 
 '' and now I think these dull documents will not 
 make my poor head ache as of late." She took a 
 sealed packet from his hand, as he said something of 
 •'•a courier from Rome," changed countenance as she 
 looked at the superscription, broke it open hastily, 
 and, casting her eyes over the brief contents, dropped 
 the parchment, staggered a few paces, and fell, as if 
 stunned, upon a couch. The confusion which en- 
 sued lasted but a few moments ; the alarm had hard- 
 ly been given by her terrified secretary, when the 
 recovering queen roused herself, and standing up 
 calmly, though the late brilliant hue of her complex- 
 ion had fled, and her hand convulsively grasping the 
 back of a chair, she bade her female attendants quit 
 the apartment ; then directing the secretary to leave 
 writing implements on the table, and see that couri- 
 ers were in readiness to set out for Calabria, she dis- 
 missed him too. Motionless for a few moments after 
 he left her, she gazed on the fatal packet which lay 
 
 18 
 
206 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 on the floor, as if it had been a scorpion, and then, 
 slightly spurning it with her foot, she murmured, 
 " Man's vileness I may scorn ! when God deals with 
 me, may I be resigned ! " Her eyes rose devoutly 
 to heaven as she turned towards the table, where 
 she seated herself and leaned her head upon her 
 hand. Deep was the abstraction to which she yield- 
 ed, and the groans, which at times escaped from her, 
 showed how severe was her mental anguish : but 
 she at last seized the parchment, and with a trem- 
 bling, but practised and rapid hand, traced the fol- 
 lowing epistle. 
 
 *' My good and well-beloved husband : — 
 
 "■ The blow is struck ! the throne totters beneath 
 my feet, and I call to you for aid. Charles of Du- 
 razzo claims the crown of Naples, by right of the 
 Pope's investiture ! His army hovers on the borders 
 of my kingdom, and though my heart be pierced, 
 I will yield nothing to injustice and ingratitude. 
 Tarry not among the banditti of the mountains ; for 
 bolder, though baser, robbers are in the plains, and 
 will soon beset the gates of Naples." 
 
 She sealed her concise summons, despatched it, 
 and, with a brow full of lofty determination, descend- 
 ed to the apartment where some of the bravest and 
 wisest among her nobility awaited her. They were 
 thunderstruck at the intelligence she had to commu- 
 nicate ; they broke forth in righteous indignation at 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 207 
 
 the viper she had cherished ; and she alone was com- 
 posed and self-possessed. She was forced to remind 
 them that they met not to dwell on the past, but to 
 take counsel for the future ; and she proceeded to set 
 forth her resolution to resist the aggression of Duraz- 
 zo, sanctioned at it was by Urban himself. A spirit- 
 ed, but temperate and dignified, reply was sent to 
 the manifesto of Charles ; and arrangements were 
 made to summon aid from her dominions in Prov- 
 ence, and to have the city in a posture of defence 
 with all practicable speed. Each baron, as he left 
 the presence of his queen, vowed fidelity with purse, 
 sword, and heart's blood, to her person and rights. 
 The lamps suspended along the galleries waned in 
 their sockets, as Joanna passed to her stately cham- 
 ber ; the stars waned in the heavens before sleep vis- 
 ited her aching eyes. 
 
 CFI AFTER V. 
 
 We return, for a short space, to the misguided 
 Charles, Prince of Durazzo. He had left his wife 
 abruptly, at the head of a strong party of horse, to 
 overtake the main body of his troops, marching 
 steadily south. In silence he rode on for some time, 
 exchanging not a word with his immediate compan- 
 ion, — a monk, whose unusual sallowness of com- 
 
208 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 plexion, emaciation of figure, and austerity of aspect 
 marked him as one who strictly observed the rules of 
 his order. The black robe and wide sleeves of the 
 Dominican showed him to be a member of that pow- 
 erful brotherhood, whose zeal in the cause of Papal 
 supremacy, and success in attaining the office of con- 
 fessors to kings and princes, had given them an in- 
 fluence over the destinies of men as unsuspected as 
 it was terrible. It was in this unscriptural and un- 
 hallowed relation that Father Matteo stood toward 
 the young prince by whose side he rode ; the keeper 
 of his conscience, the master of his secrets, the ruler 
 of a towering spirit, which thought to be controlled 
 by no earthly power. Without an effort to rouse 
 Charles from his unwonted taciturnity, without the 
 least apparent curiosity as to its cause, he kept his 
 large, gloomy eyes fixed on the ground before him, 
 in a cold abstraction, which contrasted strongly with 
 the erect and open countenance of Durazzo, on whose 
 features worked a constant succession of strong emo- 
 tions. More than once the prince suddenly drew up, 
 as from an irresistible impulse, and seemed about to 
 accost his companion ; but a glance at that stern, 
 pale face appeared to have the power of checking the 
 half-uttered remark, and muttering an ejaculation, 
 he drove the spurs impatiently into his steed, forcing 
 him into an idle caracole, that only betrayed the 
 moodiness of his master's mind. They reached at 
 last a grove of chestnuts, where the shade of those 
 beautiful trees spread like an awning over the soft 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 209 
 
 grass ; and Charles, as if his resolution were taken, 
 gave some directions to his officers, and then, making 
 a sign to the monk to follow him, rode away among 
 the trees on their left, leaving the troops to pass on 
 without them. In a few minutes they came to the 
 brow of a cliff, and looked down upon a little quiet 
 lake, hidden among the wooded hills. The sun was 
 not yet high enough to shine on its smooth surface, 
 and a tranquillity and freshness as of the early morn- 
 ing lingered on its shores. No human habitation 
 was in sight ; but on a promontory, which jutted in- 
 to the water, stood the ruins of a small, ancient tem- 
 ple, classically^- graceful in its proportions, and beauti- 
 ful even in decay. 
 
 In this still seclusion Charles paused, listened, and 
 looked around ; the heavy tramp of his troops came 
 sounding indistinctly along the ground, the squirrel 
 chirped as he leaped among the branches overhead, 
 and the cry of the heron rose from the reedy border 
 of the little bay below them ; but there was no sign 
 of intrusion from the approach of man. He turned 
 upon his companion, and with a visible effort to 
 speak in an unfaltering tone, he exclaimed, — " Fa- 
 ther Matteo ! the die is not yet cast. It is not too 
 late to pause and consider the dark paths I am about 
 to tread ! " 
 
 The monk made no reply ; he stroked the neck of 
 his horse with his bony, gloveless hand, and a with- 
 ering sneer passed over his lips, but he did not even 
 lift his eyes to the speaker. 
 
210 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " No," pursued the prince, " it cannot be too late. 
 So secret have been our transactions, so desperate 
 is the deed contemplated, so madly have I been hur- 
 ried on of late ! — I will, I must pause to reflect yet 
 again ! There are moments when I am alone at 
 midnight, in which things wear an aspect so differ- 
 ent ! It seems to me, holy father, that, whether I 
 prosper or fail in this undertaking, I must be a mis- 
 erable, miserable man. At one time I feel that I am 
 lured forward by the glittering form of an ambition 
 as glorious as becomes my princely race ; then it 
 seems as if the base goblin figures, Covetousness, 
 Fanaticism, Treachery, beckoned me on to my de- 
 struction. Now, methinks, the voice of God is in 
 my ear ; then, the horrid whispers of a fiend ! Fa- 
 ther ! it is dreadful." 
 
 '' Is there nothing more dreadful ? " asked the Do- 
 minican. Then, raising his voice above the sepul- 
 chral tone which seemed to have awed the prince 
 for a moment, he slowly pronounced the words, — 
 " Thy faith broken with man, the commands of the 
 Holy Church mocked, the drawn sword basely 
 sheathed, thy warlike fame tarnished, the sparkling 
 crown withdrawn from thy unworthy brows, a wo- 
 man's foot upon thy neck, the derision of nations on 
 thy inglorious retreat, thy secret schemes made pub- 
 lic and scoffed at because thou hadst not courage to 
 carry them through, thy life dragged out in ignoble 
 obscurity, thy death a passage to — eternal perdition, 
 — Charles of Durazzo, how likest thou the picture ? " 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 211 
 
 The face of Durazzo, red and pale by turns, spoke 
 volumes ; but mastering the internal struggle, he ex- 
 claimed, — "It is dark as midnight ! I know that I 
 am entangled almost beyond hope of extrication ; that 
 to advance or retreat must be alike desperate ; that 
 my worldly fortunes and happiness are already staked, 
 and cannot escape the dreadful jeopardy. But, keep- 
 er of souls ! I adjure you by all your holy vows, by 
 your regard for the salvation of a fellow-creature, 
 who has given you the direction of his conscience, 
 by your reverence for God, and the Holy Virgin, 
 and the blessed company of saints and martyrs, tell 
 me one thing truly, — am I right ? am I right 1 I ask 
 you ! " 
 
 A sudden gleam of triumph shot from the eye of 
 the monk, as he heard this testimony to his still un- 
 shaken power ; but it was gone in an instant, and 
 his thin lips were compressed in a frigid and haughty 
 silence. 
 
 Charles laid his hand almost imploringly on the 
 coarse, black sleeve, and went on in a choked voice. 
 " Tell me what crime can be fouler than ingratitude, 
 — the very word is heavy on my tongue ! — ingrat- 
 itude to her who took me under the shelter of her 
 palace when I was an orphan boy ; and it is from that 
 very palace I would drive her, now manhood has 
 made me independent of her protection. I know her 
 queenly spirit ; she will not yield her natural rights 
 without a struggle, and my hand must be raised 
 against her in parricidal violence. My father was her 
 
212 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 foe, and she forgave him. He fell by the hand of an 
 assassin, and she took me, a beardless, helpless boy, 
 scarce numbering twelve summers, to a home she 
 made always happy. O holy priest ! I tell you my 
 manhood will wear an indelible stain if I wrong that 
 more than mother ! I told you so, when you first 
 came to me with the tempting propositions of our 
 most holy Father. I told you so in amazement and 
 indignation ; and how you have lulled those honor- 
 able scruples, how you have alternately lured and 
 goaded me on to this wretched pass, I know not. 
 The struggle was long and fierce, you well know, 
 and now it begins afresh. Priest, I doubt ! I doubt ! 
 banish these misgivings if you can. Prove, prove 
 to me that the deeds on which I am rushing are not 
 crimes, — base, unnatural, monstrous crimes ! " 
 
 It was in tones of agony that the prince spoke. 
 The perspiration stood on his forehead, and his eyes 
 were fixed almost wildly on the monk, who had the 
 advantage of perfect self-possession. Interlacing his 
 emaciated fingers, clasping his hands to his breast, 
 and raising his eyes to heaven, he seemed for a few 
 moments lost in holy meditation ; his lips then 
 moved, and as audible sounds began to escape from 
 them, the concluding words of a Latin prayer were 
 articulated "solemnly and distinctly. He then bent 
 his penetrating eyes on the prince, with a gaze so 
 long and fixed, that it became embarrassing, and in 
 a tone unwontedly gentle and tender said, — " My 
 son ! to recede is guilt ; to pause is guilt ; to hesitate 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 213 
 
 is guilt ; penance and absolution can alone wash 
 away this day's errors. I have warned you ; the 
 consequences of a change in your purposes will be 
 terrible ; I cannot screen you from them. Worldly 
 shame will hurry you to an ignoble grave ; the mal- 
 ediction of the Church will blight and blast you for 
 ever ; and for what will you brave all this ? Are 
 you a man, that the smile or the tear of a woman's 
 eye can thus work on the noblest purposes of your 
 soul ? Are you a prince, that, when a fair kingdom 
 is at your disposal, and the arm of the Church is 
 stretched forth to place you on an independent 
 throne, you prefer to remain a vassal, because a wo- 
 man has this morning whispered old tales of your 
 nursery days in your ear ! For shame, belted knight ! 
 for shame, armed warrior ! " Then, changing his tone 
 to one of deep and awful denunciation, — " Joanna 
 must fall ! She that brought you up at her foot- 
 stool, to be the plaything of her idle hours, and her 
 bravo when you should wear a sword, — she who 
 would have kept you to glitter at her court, or fight 
 at her bidding under a husband's banner, must come 
 down from a height that dizzies her female brain. 
 The realms of Naples are too fair and powerful to 
 be longer swayed by the caprices of a woman. God 
 hath given to his Vicegerent on earth the power to 
 crown and uncrown ; to distribute sceptres among 
 the children of men, not according to the idle chan- 
 ces of birth, but in obedience to the nobler laws of 
 the general good. She, on whose fame lie indelible 
 
214 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 Stains of evil report, whom the wrath of Heaven has 
 pursued with incessant calamity, must sparkle no 
 longer in the constellation of crowned heads. Among 
 the courts of Europe hers must fade, with its boasted 
 lustre. Her hour is come ; and she must tell her 
 beads in the silent cell of a recluse, and wear the 
 stones of some secluded monastery with her humbled 
 knees. Some bold heart, brave hand, and manly 
 brow shall win and wear the prize suspended aloft. 
 Prince of Durazzo, whose shall it be, — thine or 
 another's ? Choose ! " 
 
 Charles sprung madly from his horse, and dashed 
 himself on the ground, at the foot of a noble tree, 
 his plate armour rattling as he fell prostrate. He re- 
 mained plunged in a mental conflict the most severe ; 
 while the stately monk, drawing himself up to his 
 full height, sat composedly watching the victim, as 
 he struggled in the toils that were woven so invisi- 
 bly but invincibly about him. The master-key had 
 again been touched, and with a master's hand. Am- 
 bition, — the burning desire to exchange his ducal 
 coronet for a kingly crown, — to step forward and sig- 
 nalize himself among the potentates of Europe, the 
 peer, perhaps, of Louis of Anjou, Regent of France, — 
 all worked within the compass of one human breast 
 to accomplish his fate, and that of thousands linked 
 with it. The bare idea of seeing a boon so glorious 
 snatched from him, enjoyed by another, roused the 
 jealousy of his nature, and made each better impulse 
 of generosity, honor, and gratitude seem like the 
 sickly fancies of some fever-fit. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 215 
 
 He rose at last, but languidly, as if the struggle 
 had taken the strength from his joints ; and as he 
 sat for a few moments with downcast looks, his fin- 
 gers played with the moss and wild-flowers growing 
 about the roots of the old tree ; he even tore them 
 up unconsciously, but his thoughts were not with 
 those sweet, innocent objects of his boyish admira- 
 tion. The hectic spot on his cheek showed that the 
 passions of manhood were racking him within, and 
 the big tears rolled slowly down his face. As the 
 priest seemed resolved on a stern silence, he was not 
 roused till a swelling breeze brought the faint blast 
 of a trumpet from some distant winding of the road. 
 His horse, grazing negligently beside him, lifted his 
 head and pawed the earth at the well-known sound, 
 and Charles, starting up, vaulted into the saddle. As 
 he turned to regain the road, the hand of Father 
 Matteo was laid firmly on his bridle. '^ My son," 
 said he. The prince looked up, and met those pen- 
 etrating eyes, bent upon him with their darkest aus- 
 terity. " We must have no more of these scenes ! 
 no more faltering, no more baby talk ! The die is 
 cast ; and your soul is the stake for which you play ! 
 Should the birds of the air carry the tale of this 
 day's irresolution to the footstool of Urban " 
 
 Charles impatiently strove to dash forward, but 
 the grasp of the monk on his bridle was not to be 
 shaken off ; and his horse reared so violently as al- 
 most to unseat the rider. "Whither so fast? " asked 
 Father Matteo ; " back, to play the hireling of a 
 Hungarian? " 
 
216 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 '^ Forward," shouted Charles, "to Rome, — to Na- 
 ples, — to a bloody grave, please God ! " — and burst- 
 ing from the priest, he galloped with frantic speed 
 in the direction of his troops, and soon disappeared 
 among the trees. His confessor sat gazing after him 
 a moment, and a smile of most unchristian exulta- 
 tion played again over his features. " The work 
 speeds/' he murmured to himself, " and he of the 
 tiara shall say he chose well his instrument. Charles, 
 men speak of thy virtues ; but thou hast one pas- 
 sion which a master spirit shall use to exterminate 
 them, and work his own ends. Ambition ! — ambi- 
 tion ! — the crown for him, — and for me — what 
 lures me on but the scarlet hat, — and the hope of 
 vengeance ! " His head sunk on his breast, and he 
 followed the prince at a more moderate pace. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Once more we revisit the beautiful city of Naples, 
 and her whom its populace love, even at this day, to 
 call '' our Queen Joanna." But we pass over an in- 
 terval of some weeks, since, struck to the heart by 
 the treachery of Durazzo, she stifled the feelings of 
 the woman, and prepared for the duties of the queen. 
 Lofty and calm, she betrayed none of her secret grief, 
 and showed no irritability or hastiness of temper. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 217 
 
 She listened coolly when her officers came to consult 
 with her, deliberated wisely, but acted with decis- 
 ion ; while to all her immediate attendants the mel- 
 ancholy sweetness of her voice and manner had 
 something in it so touching, that they were often 
 melted into tears in the midst of their most ordinary 
 intercourse. The panic among her women was in- 
 deed great, and not without cause. 
 
 Charles, expecting no acquiescence in his demands, 
 and fully prepared to act, had marched with all speed 
 upon Naples ; Joanna had retreated into the Castell 
 Nuovo, and had immediately ascended its ramparts. 
 Lying on the east of the city, which rises like an 
 amphitheatre from the north side of its celebrated 
 bay, the walls of the castle were washed on one side 
 by the sea ; and thither she betook herself, fixing a 
 long and anxious gaze on the hazy line where sky 
 and water met ; but not a speck appeared. The gal- 
 leys from Provence were probably still ploughing 
 their way through distant tracts of the Mediterra- 
 nean. She went to another part of the castle, and 
 looked eastward. The dust rising in clouds above 
 the vineyards showed that Otho was advancing with 
 all possible speed from Calabria ; but alas ! too late. 
 Between him and his unfortunate wife the troops of 
 Durazzo were pouring into the streets of Naples ; 
 and it was only tantalizing to watch his approach- 
 Still, however, she stood with breathless interest, her 
 eyes fixed on the spectacle, till an officer of her 
 
 19 
 
218 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 household came to her with every mark of haste and 
 agitation. 
 
 '^ The gates," he exclaimed, '' the gates of the 
 castle are beset by fugitives. We have closed tliem, 
 but the cry is terrible. The wretches are flying be- 
 fore the sword of the enemy ! " 
 
 " Admit them," replied the queen; "admit them 
 instantly." 
 
 '' May it please your Majesty," said an aged senes- 
 chal, '' it will be your destruction ; they bring fam- 
 ine with them as surely as they enter these walls." 
 
 '' How," asked the queen, " have we no food ? 
 Did I not give orders three days since that the castle 
 should be stocked for seven months ? Was I not 
 obeyed ? " 
 
 " To the letter," returned the old man, one of the 
 most trusted of her personal attendants ; " your offi- 
 cers and your servants have done your bidding, and 
 the provisions in the castle will last its present in- 
 mates full seven months ; but we must have no more 
 mouths to consume them." 
 
 The queen hesitated ; the distant cries of the pop- 
 ulace reached her, and one of her barons came hasti- 
 ly upon the wall. "Let me pray your Majesty to 
 withdraw ; one of the apartments by the sea will be 
 more retired and quiet." 
 
 " Q,uiet ! " said she, with a tone of mournful sur- 
 prise ; " what have I to do with quiet ? Is this an 
 hour for Joanna of Naples to seek ease and tranquil- 
 lity ? Why should I retire ? " 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 219 
 
 '' Because," replied the Baron, '' the people at the 
 gate are almost frantic with terror ; their shrieks fill 
 the air ; it must distress you, for you cannot afford 
 them the slightest aid." 
 
 " I hear them ! I hear them calling on my name ! " 
 exclaimed Joanna. 
 
 " They do, indeed," replied the Baron ; " they 
 seem to invoke you as they would their saints. Let 
 me implore your Majesty to leave the walls." 
 
 The tumult increased. " Are the gates strong ? " 
 asked the seneschal. 
 
 '' As adamant," returned the Baron. " I bade the 
 soldiers use no violence to drive the poor creatures 
 back on the enemy ; women and children can never 
 burst such barricades." 
 
 '' Holy Virgin ! " cried the queen, '' I cannot bear 
 it. Let me see, let me speak to them." 
 
 The Baron threw himself respectfully before her. 
 " I conjure your Majesty to abstain. It may wring 
 your heart, but it can do no good ; they cannot, they 
 must not, be admitted." 
 
 '' Luca di Battista ! " said the queen, '' stand 
 back ! " 
 
 She uttered these words gently, but with a tone 
 of decision. He yielded instantly, and with a de- 
 jected air and anxious brow followed his royal mis- 
 tress to a small apartment above the great gate of 
 the citadel. This was one of the five fortresses by 
 which Naples was strengthened, and seemed proof 
 against assault. No sooner did the queen present 
 
220 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 herself at the window which looked down into the 
 thronged square, than the tumult redoubled ; and for 
 a moment she shrunk back and hid her face in her 
 hands. It was indeed a startling sight. The throng 
 consisted principally of women and children ; the 
 withered faces of the aged, the ghastly ones of the 
 sick, all were upturned to her. Arms were stretched 
 out imploringly, and every voice uttered her name, 
 mingled with all those piteous phrases of entreaty in 
 which the Italian tongue abounds. In vain she at- 
 tempted to address them ; as they looked up to her, 
 standing in simple white raiment, without one regal 
 ornament about her person, recognized for their queen 
 only by her noble air and well-known countenance, 
 it seemed as if they beheld in her some blessed fe- 
 male saint, who could save them from destruction by 
 a single exertion of superhuman power. 
 
 Her gestures at last obtained a momentary hush. 
 She was about imploring them to attempt their es- 
 cape to another fortress, stating why she could not 
 shelter them in the Castell Nuovo, when the silver 
 tones of her voice were drowned in a shrill cry, 
 which rose from the outskirts of the throng. In a 
 moment the whole crowd was again in motion, those 
 at a distance pressing towards the drawbridge, that 
 crossed the moat, against those nearest the gate, until 
 the struggle and crush became tremendous. The 
 queen and her attendants saw too plainly the cause 
 of the disturbance from their elevated position. Over- 
 looking the heads of the people, their view extended 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 221 
 
 down a long street ; and at its termination the flash- 
 ing of swords showed a furious conflict going on. 
 Some of the citizens were defending themselves vig- 
 orously as they retreated towards their helpless wives 
 and children ; but it was evident that their force was 
 inefficient, and that the mounted soldiers of Durazzo 
 were driving them in triumphantly. No sooner did 
 the unhappy wretches at the gate become aware of 
 this fact, than their agonizing cries again rent the 
 air. " Our good queen ! our blessed queen ! have 
 mercy on us ! We shall be cut to pieces ! For the 
 love of the Holy Virgin, save us ! " 
 
 The heart of woman could bear it no longer. Jo- 
 anna turned suddenly, with tears rolling down her 
 cheeks, to her officers, and bade them open the gates. 
 They hesitated ; but a momentary anger flashed from 
 her eyes as she repeated her order, — " Luca di Bat- 
 tista ! descend and see that those gates be unbarred 
 to my people ! Shall I stand here and behold them 
 slaughtered like sheep ? Admit them, or I will give 
 my own neck to the swords of yonder cutthroats ! " 
 
 The nobleman obeyed her in melancholy silence ; 
 and as the work of unclosing the huge double gates 
 occupied some moments, the tumultuous throng 
 heard with impatience the clang of the dropping 
 bars and grating bolts ; and when at last the doors 
 were seen to move slowly inwards, the rush was 
 dreadful. The shrieks of the bruised, the stifled 
 cries of those who were thrown down and trampled 
 upon, the confusion within, where the unhappy crea- 
 
222 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 tores scattered themselves in every direction, — some 
 still pale with terror, hardly realizing their safety, 
 some flushed and heated with the struggle, some 
 crying wildly for those they had lost in the press, — 
 all produced a bewildering effect on the mind of the 
 queen. She stood a long time immovable and almost 
 breathless. At last a few bloody stragglers from the 
 conflict came flying up the street, hotly chased by 
 the enemy. There was barely time to admit them 
 also, while volleys of arrows from a body of archers, 
 whom Luca di Battista had stationed on the walls 
 for the purpose, kept back the pursuers till the gates 
 were again closed and secured. 
 
 Then, and not till then, the queen drew a long 
 breath, and, turning from the window, looked for a 
 moment at those about her with an expression of 
 despair. " Could I have done otherwise ? " said she. 
 None answered, and the old seneschal alone shook 
 his head sadly, and she passed into the gallery which 
 conducted to her own apartments, leaving consterna- 
 tion in the little group behind. 
 
 Before night a strict investigation was made by 
 order of the queen ; and it was ascertained that, 
 swarming as the fortress now was with human be- 
 ings, the provisions it contained would barely enable 
 her to hold out one month. Before that period 
 should have elapsed success might crown the arms 
 of Otho, or the expected aid from Provence might 
 arrive ; and leaning on these two chances, she was 
 now condemned to that trial most wearing to the 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 223 
 
 nerves, a period of helpless inaction and cruel sus- 
 pense. Durazzo occupied the city ; her husband 
 immediately laid siege to him ; but though she could 
 distinguish the camp of that brave warrior beyond 
 the walls, and was aware of the frequent skirmishes 
 going on between the parties, she found it impossible 
 to open a communication with him. The difficulty 
 of enforcing attention to the rules her forethought 
 had laid down, and securing a wise abstemiousness 
 among the motley population of the Castell Nuovo, 
 gave her officers incessant perplexity within its walls. 
 Her own table was spread with the absolute parsi- 
 mony which circumstances made needful, and she 
 herself underwent a perpetual fasting penance, set- 
 ting an example of cheerful submission to privation ; 
 yet each day brought to her accounts of the alarm- 
 ing diminution in the public stock of provisions, and 
 the necessity of lessening the scanty allowance doled 
 out to the people. 
 
 Three long weeks passed on ; day by day the walls 
 were lined before sunrise with unhappy beings, strain- 
 ing their eyes seaward, to catch a glimpse of the 
 hoped-for succors from their queen's French domin- 
 ions, or striving to ascertain on which side success 
 lay in the daily conflicts between Otho and Duraz- 
 zo. The latter showed little disposition to assault 
 the Castell Nuovo ; the strength of its fortifications, 
 defended by skilful archers, made him unwilling to 
 waste the blood of his soldiers, while sure, from the 
 circumstances of the case, that his powerful ally, 
 
224 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 famine, would eventually give him a bloodless vic- 
 tory ; and his immediate attention was engrossed by 
 the harassing attacks of his own besieger. He con- 
 tented himself with frequently summoning the queen 
 to surrender ; and she at last felt that a dreadful al- 
 ternative was before her. She must surrender, or 
 feel that she had brought a cruel and lingering death 
 on some hundreds of innocent fellow-beings. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the mean time Margaret remained at Rome, 
 watching unremittingly over her little charge, whose 
 spirit hovered for days on the verge of death ; ap- 
 parently about to quit its tabernacle of clay, yet still 
 lingering, as if yielded a little longer to the prayers 
 of maternal fondness. The instincts of her heart 
 had led Margaret to forget every other possible evil 
 in the dreaded calamity of bereavement. Even the 
 mysterious delay of her husband was to her mind 
 almost satisfactorily explained, when her attendants 
 assured her that business of the most pressing nature 
 had led him back to Lombardy. She questioned not 
 the truth of their statements ; her whole soul was 
 absorbed in the conflict between life and death car- 
 ried on beneath her eye ; and as the superstition of 
 the age led her to vow wealth untold to the altars of 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 225 
 
 that holy Mother, whose beautiful character and at- 
 tributes shone like the morning star on the night of 
 her sorrow, she felt the force of the loveliest delu- 
 sion that ever mocked an aching heart. Trusting in 
 the power of that sweet and gentle being to call 
 back her darling from the threshold of the tomb, and 
 unconscious that there was in her own nature a glo- 
 rious principle of resignation, which could extract 
 the bitterness from all affliction, and fit her to bear 
 that which it was now intolerable to contemplate, 
 she prayed unceasingly for one specific object, the 
 restoration of her little Joanna to health. At last 
 the unskilful pharmacy of that age was no longer 
 baffled by the fierce disease ; it was plain that the 
 yet innocent soul of the patient was not to seek 
 those realms of kindred purity, where temptation 
 could never come nigh nor sin pollute it ; it was to 
 bear its terrible probation on earth. Alas ! could the 
 mother, whose tears of rapture bathed the creature 
 she deemed rescued by her prayers, have seen the 
 curtain of futurity raised, and Joanna the Second of 
 Naples performing her disgraceful part amid the ig- 
 nominious events ! 
 
 Brief, however, was the transport of that hour in 
 which her physicians announced that the child would 
 live. Margaret had returned from the neighbouring 
 chapel, whither she had hurried to pour out the over- 
 flowing gratitude of her soul ; and she stood gazing 
 on the emaciated object of her tenderness, when her 
 reverie was interrupted by a benediction uttered in a 
 
226 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 deep tone by some one behind her. She turned and 
 beheld the Dominican standing in the doorway, with 
 whom her husband had left her so abruptly at their 
 last interview. She did not recognize him, however, 
 nor did the idea of his identity with that unwelcome 
 person occur to her, till he announced himself as the 
 Father Matteo da Yillani, the confessor of Charles of 
 Durazzo. Then, indeed, she clasped her hands with 
 a mingled emotion of joy and terror, as she ex- 
 claimed, — *' And whence come you, holy father ? 
 from him, my beloved husband ? " 
 
 " Even so," returned the monk. 
 
 '' And how fares he ? Why comes he not hither ? 
 When shall I see him again ? " 
 
 " He sends greeting by me to his most noble lady, 
 and asks tidings of the health of his child ;. and 
 prays that, if her sickness pass away, you will come 
 to him with all convenient speed." 
 
 Worn out as Margaret was with fatigue and anx- 
 iety, this fresh access of joy was received in eloquent 
 silence. She folded her hands, and raised her eyes 
 to a niche in the wall, where a lamp burnt before an 
 image of the Virgin, — an image before which she 
 had so often kneeled during her late cruel vigils. It 
 was some moments before she found words to ex- 
 press her eagerness to rejoin her husband once more, 
 whenever the health of her child should be suffi- 
 ciently restored. " But you see ! " she added, point- 
 ing to the cadaverous countenance of her patient. 
 
 Father Matteo cast a cold glance on the half-inani- 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 227 
 
 mate object, and said, '^ It is well. My errand to 
 Rome was not of this ; but coming on business with 
 his Holiness, I likewise bore the message of your 
 husband. When it is fitting, he will look for you 
 in Naples ; meantime, I return thither to-morrow, 
 and " 
 
 " Naples ! said you ? " mterrupted the princess, — 
 '' my husband in Naples ? I heard you not rightly." 
 She looked at her attendants in amazement, and 
 their downcast, confused countenances excited her 
 surprise still further. " What is this mystery? Why 
 have I been deceived ? " inquired the princess with 
 increasing vehemence ; '' they told me he was in 
 Lombardy." 
 
 ''I know not what they may have told you, nor 
 wherefore they have blistered their tongues with 
 falsehood," resumed the monk calmly ; " but I ac- 
 quaint you with the truth. He is in his home^ in 
 the fair city of Naples." 
 
 A suspicion now broke on the mind of Margaret, 
 and she faintly asked, — " What doth he there, sir 
 priest ? " 
 
 " He contends for the crown which God's Vice- 
 gerent hath given him, and besieges the dethroned 
 Joanna in her citadel." 
 
 The unhappy princess heard not the concluding 
 words ; there was a ringing in her ears ; the room 
 seemed to turn round with a wavering motion, and 
 muttering, — ''Is he a villain ? " she would have 
 swooned heavily on the floor, if her attendants had 
 
228 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 not caught her as she fell. The monk staid not to 
 look on the sufferings of her whom he had felled 
 with a word ; but glided in the confusion out of the 
 palace, and with a rapid foot sped towards the hill 
 of the Vatican. 
 
 It was long ere sense returned to the princess ; 
 and when at last the indistinct recollectioUj that 
 something dreadful had befallen her, stole on her 
 mind, she eagerly uttered the name of her child, and 
 looked towards the well-known couch, where all her 
 anxieties of late had centred. Alas ! a few more 
 throbs of the reviving pulse, and memory performed 
 her wonted functions too faithfully ! The dreadful 
 conviction of unworthiness in him she best loved, — 
 the idea of the sufferings endured by her whom she 
 regarded as a mother, and a model of female excel- 
 lence, — by turns took possession of her imagination. 
 Her frame, exhausted by long watchings and recent 
 cares, was not prepared to endure this new and more 
 intense agony of mind ; and before daylight her 
 alarmed attendants had summoned the physicians 
 again to the palace, to exercise their skill on the un- 
 fortunate princess of Durazzo. A consuming fever 
 had prostrated her so entirely, that her own life hung 
 by a thread, while the child she had nursed with 
 such tribulation of soul lay breathing still feebly in 
 a neighbouring apartment. 
 
 The short Italian twilight was already descending, 
 when Father Matteo hurried from the lonely Palazzo 
 San Carlo ; but almost the whole extent of the city 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 229 
 
 lay between him and the hill of the Vatican. The 
 moon rose as he crossed the Tiber, and when he 
 stood at length in one of the gardens attached to the 
 palace, even then venerable with time, the fountain 
 by which he paused showered drops of silver into its 
 basin beneath her beams. The massy pile of build- 
 ings on which he gazed was already a collection of 
 palaces, rather than a single, symmetrical edifice, 
 cumbrous, gloomy, and inconvenient. The glories 
 of the coming century had not dawned upon it, 
 when, under the magnificent Julius the Second, its 
 halls began to glow with the creations of a Rapha- 
 el's imagination ; when architecture, sculpture, and 
 painting held counsel together, how they should ren- 
 der it most worthy to be the earthly residence of 
 Him whose empire was not of earth alone. The 
 genius of Michel Angelo had not yet suspended be- 
 tween heaven and earth that dome over the neigh- 
 bouring cathedral which should be the admiration of 
 future ages ; the long line of pontiffs had not yet 
 risen who should gather splendor after splendor round 
 this favored spot, until it became what the astonished 
 traveller now finds it, — a wilderness of wonders. 
 But the new sanctity which was attached to it since 
 the sacred Conclave had assembled within its walls, 
 an arrangement of recent date, made it solemn in the 
 eyes of all true Catholics ; while the power of Urban 
 the Sixth,- cruelly and perfidiously exercised, lent to 
 his gloomy residence no attractions in the eyes of 
 the young and gay. The stillness of death brooded 
 
 20 
 
230 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 over it ; the part of the building which the monk 
 had approached overlooked the garden with its long 
 ranges of windows ; but no one sat there to look 
 forth on the moonlight, to enjoy the evening breeze 
 and the fragrance of the orange-blossoms. Here and 
 there, along the garden walks, silently glided the fig- 
 ures of some holy brethren, disappearing like ghosts 
 in the deep shadows of the trees, with steps as 
 stealthy as if pacing the cloisters of a Carthusian con- 
 vent. The lonely owl, in the Coliseum, hooting as 
 the moonbeams looked into his ivied retreat, could 
 scarce have inspired a more mournful sense of des- 
 olation than was awakened by the hum of the pop- 
 ulous city, coming so faintly on the ear, with the 
 dash of the solitary fountain. It seemed as if the 
 world, with all its living bustle and innocent pleas- 
 ures, were indeed shut out from the haunt of re- 
 ligion. But the religion of those days did not teach 
 that worldly cares and pleasures may be disarmed 
 and sanctified by the spirit we may carry into them ; 
 or that to conquer temptation is better than to ex- 
 clude it, if exclusion be possible. 
 
 Father Matteo paused to take breath after his long 
 and hurried walk ; and leaning against the trunk of a 
 tree, he watched the palace with some anxiety. At 
 last a glimmer appeared at a window ; it passed on to 
 another and another ; and the figures of a few at- 
 tendants, bearing lights, preceded and followed the 
 form of a tall, aged man, as they passed along an 
 extensive gallery. "It is he," murmured the monk ; 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 231 
 
 '' he goes to his private closet to await me ; and this 
 night I must sound the depths of that crafty bosom. 
 He that deals with Urban must tread warily, for 
 yonder dark chamber holds uneasy furniture for the 
 limbs of those he loves not. They say the creaking 
 of the rack disturbs some men more than the shrieks 
 of the tortured trouble his ruthless spirit." 
 
 He again drew the cowl over his face, and ap- 
 proached a low door, in an angle of the buildings, 
 which was opened at his knock. He passed along 
 many passages, leaving others on either hand, through 
 one of which he distinguished, far in the distance, 
 the massy balustrade of that ancient, grand staircase, 
 over which had passed the footsteps of Charlemagne, 
 and beside it the equestrian statue of Constantino 
 the Great, standing dimly seen and majestic beneath 
 the lamps of the entrance hall. His course, how- 
 ever, was to the more private recesses of the palace ; 
 yet even there the presence of the Pope's body-guard 
 showed a dread of danger, most natural in one who 
 had been raised to power in a popular sedition, and 
 whose claim must needs be as insecure as unjust. 
 The monk cast not a glance on the stolid counte- 
 nances of these automata, nor a thought on the in- 
 congruity which placed armed men round the Head 
 of the Church ; but pressed forward, till he found 
 himself admitted into a small apartment, scantily 
 furnished. 
 
 Before him stood a heavy marble table, covered 
 with scrolls of parchment ; and in a cumbrous arm- 
 
232 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 chair beside it, without canopy or ornament of any- 
 kind, was seated a stern old man. His complexion 
 was dark- and bilious; every line of his countenance 
 strongly marked ; his forehead high and square ; and 
 above it rose a round, close cap of dark velvet. The 
 tiara was of recent introduction, and used then, as 
 indeed at this day, only on public occasions. Not a 
 symptom of the extravagance which then inundated 
 the civilized world had found its way into the Papal 
 palace ; neither gems nor gold glittered about the 
 person of that stern denouncer of luxury, Urban 
 the Sixth ; and the very lamp which was suspended 
 from the ceiling over his table was of iron. This 
 affectation of simplicity corresponded ill with the 
 number of valuable parchments scattered about the 
 room, — a number which, in those days, was pro- 
 fusion ; but he who had been distinguished as the 
 learned Archbishop of Bari, had not forgotten his 
 pride of erudition; so various are the forms worn by 
 that most insidious of human passions. 
 
 There was one person more present ; a young man 
 of slight figure and mild aspect, who sat apart, as if 
 waiting the pleasure of a superior. The attention 
 of the Pontiff seemed absorbed by the illuminated 
 manuscript volume, over whose purple vellum pages 
 he was poring; the monk stood mmoticed ; and 
 though from time to time he made slight movements 
 to attract the eye of Urban, he dared not approach 
 the table. At last the youth spoke in a low voice, 
 and the haughty prelate, looking up, coldly saluted 
 
JOAXNA OF NAPLES. 266 
 
 the new-comer, and demanded the tidings from Na- 
 ples. 
 
 " I have left it in the hands of Dnrazzo," replied 
 the monk ; " and though the queen still holds out, 
 the Castell Nuovo is rather her prison than her for- 
 tress. She never can issue from it but as a state- 
 prisoner." 
 
 " And Otho ? " asked the Pontiff; '' his troops be- 
 leaguer Naples, we have heard." 
 
 " It is so," answered Father Matteo, " but to no 
 purpose. Famine wastes the flesh of the wretches 
 whom Joanna's folly admitted within her walls, and 
 the sword of her husband avails her little. A few of 
 her nobles deserted her on the arrival of a prince, 
 whose claims were announced to be sanctioned by 
 Heaven itself ; and as I came by stealth through the 
 troops of Otho, there I found disloyal scruples work- 
 ing in the minds of many." 
 
 " It is well, — it is well ! " exclaimed the Pope, his 
 sullen eye sparkling for an instant. '' On such ground 
 I plant my foot. The power of the Church rests on 
 public opinion ; I have sworn to myself that no tittle 
 of the rights claimed by the most noble of my prede- 
 cessors, Gregory the Seventh, shall be wrested 
 from my hands ; and princes must know, past all 
 doubt, by what tenure their bawble sceptres are held. 
 This woman, who disputes the authority of the Holy 
 See, and cleaves to Antipope, — how stands the affec- 
 tion of your prince towards her ? " 
 
 20* 
 
234 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 The monk hesitated somewhat before he an- 
 swered : — "It is still strong." 
 
 '' How ! " cried the prelate ; •' he wars upon her, 
 — he keeps good faith with us, doth he not ? " 
 
 " Ay, so long as the skilful hand is on the bridle, 
 he will not dart from the course ; but I may not con- 
 ceal from your Holiness that he hath given me much 
 trouble at times." 
 
 " Say on ; open this man's heart before me. I 
 must know with what instruments we have to 
 work." 
 
 As he spoke, the pontiff rested his head on his 
 hand, and fixed his searching eye on the monk, who 
 felt under it the consciousness that he was himself 
 subjected to the keenest scrutiny. He went on 
 calmly, however : — '' My trouble with the hot-head- 
 ed prince hath arisen from many fond fancies he 
 cherishes concerning the gratitude due to the queen 
 of Naples, and the obligations of his youth. He is 
 brave to heroism, generous and open, full of what 
 men call noble feelings and good impulses ; but duc- 
 tile, unsteady, and devoured by ambition." 
 
 " He is the man I thought him," said Urban ; '' he 
 is the man we want." 
 
 " I believe it," replied the monk ; '' but great as 
 is his reverence for the Church of Rome, his belief 
 in the infallibility and supremacy of the Holy See, 
 his dread of its denunciation, and strong as is his 
 thirst for power, there are counteracting principles in 
 his nature that must yet be crushed, before we can 
 
JOAXNA OF NAPLES. 235 
 
 rely upon him. A single interview with his wife in 
 Lombardy, if I had not cut it short, would have un- 
 done all my labor." 
 
 '' Hath she such influence ? " asked Urban, knit- 
 ting his brows. '•' She must be disposed of." 
 
 " She is so. I have no fear from that quarter for 
 the present ; for I came upon her, when already half 
 dead with fatigue and anxiety, and when I told her, 
 with intentional abruptness, the part her husband 
 plays at Naples, she dropped as if smitten by a thun- 
 derbolt. She will not cajole the soft heart of Du- 
 razzo very speedily, for, if I mistake not, she will 
 be little able to thrust herself among the counsels of 
 men till the purposes of your Holiness are completed. 
 It is from Joanna herself, — from the sorcery that she 
 exercises over all who approach her, — that we must 
 keep this warrior. His wife but spoke to him of the 
 queen, and his firmest resolutions dissolved like va- 
 por in the sunbeams. What effect will the aspect, 
 the words, the reproaches, the tears, of the queen 
 herself have upon him ? It was your pleasure, as to 
 my management on this point, I came to know." 
 
 Urban's countenance grew darker and darker. '^ Is 
 the faith of Charles pledged to you, in behalf of my 
 nephew here ? " asked he. 
 
 '' It is ; as surely as he mounts the throne of Na- 
 ples, so surely will he put the Count Butillo in pos- 
 session of the domains he hath promised. I have 
 not a doubt whether he will keep faith with your 
 Holiness in this matter. Let him but conquer the 
 
236 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 feelings which plead in behalf of Joanna, and the 
 work is done ; he is ours for ever. The sole obsta- 
 cle we have to overcome is in his devoted attach- 
 ment to that woman. If that is not wrought upon 
 by herself, or any other subtle enemy to our plans, 
 he will go all lengths. Yet she has many friends ,• 
 and giving out, as she does, that your Holiness has 
 accepted costly gifts from her, and professed much 
 friendship for her of late, a suspicion of duplicity 
 has alienated many good Catholics from their alle- 
 giance to the true Head of the Church." 
 
 The monk watched the effect of this allusion on 
 the pontiff; but the harsh features of Urban were 
 undisturbed. " It is true," he coolly remarked; "for 
 the good of the Church, not for our own emolument, 
 we have received her gifts, and we have kept terms 
 with her till our plans were matured. It is now time 
 that her unmanageable spirit be quelled, her luxuri- 
 ous court be broken up, and our supremacy made to 
 blaze forth before the eyes of all the potentates of 
 Europe. She must be made a warning, — a fearful 
 one ; and I charge you, Matteo da Yillani, to see that 
 neither she, nor the pretty doll, her niece, gets access 
 to the heart of this prince of yours. He must be 
 on the throne of Naples, for there he can serve us. 
 Whether men work for us from the pure wish to 
 aggrandize the Church, or from the hope of reward, 
 we must use them." 
 
 The monk, Avho had been so calm and decided 
 when dealing with the feebler nature of Durazzo, 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 237 
 
 now felt himself overmatched by an abler and crafti- 
 er intellect than his own. The eye of Urban was 
 still upon him, cold and stern, watching each change 
 of his countenance, as he vainly strove to control its 
 muscles ; and he was conscious that he visibly shrunk 
 from a glance which seemed to penetrate his inmost 
 purposes. He looked at the door and at the youth- 
 ful nephew of the Pope alternately, uncertain wheth- 
 er to retreat, or to venture farther into conference 
 with one so powerful, so wily, and so remorseless. 
 
 Urban perceived his embarrassment, and relaxing 
 his gloomy brow, added, — " The Church hath re- 
 wards, it is true, for those who serve her skilfully 
 and faithfully, and on none can her honors be better 
 bestowed. Your order. Father Matteo, stands pre- 
 eminent in services, and in your person we must find 
 one who will both carry forward our interests and 
 grace our favors. I bind myself by no promises, 
 mark me," he added, observing the brighteued eye 
 of the monk ; '' but I bid you go back to Naples, and 
 persevere in the work you have undertaken. I will 
 take care that Qiiy physicians visit the Princess Mar- 
 garet ; and if they manage their drugs aright, her re- 
 covery shall be conveniently tardy ; while you, with- 
 out molestation from her presence " 
 
 The cold-blooded pontiff was here interrupted by 
 an ejaculation from the young man, who sat almost 
 behind him, and who arose suddenly. Urban looked 
 at his troubled countenance a moment with some ex- 
 pression of surprise, and then said quietly, — " Fran- 
 
238 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 cis ! you are but a boy, and a faint-hearted one. I 
 must indeed provide for him who hath neither a pol- 
 itic brain nor a strong hand. Go forth ! a moonlight 
 walk is fitter pastime for you than these grave collo- 
 quies. I will take sufficient care of your interests. 
 You shall be Prince of Capua, and hold sway over a 
 region whose soft clime may suit you well." 
 
 The young man left the room hastily, untutored 
 as yet in the dark policy of the court of Rome, and 
 rejoicing to escape from participation in counsels so 
 nefarious ; while the monk looked as if relieved by 
 his absence, — so true it is, that there are times when 
 the most hardened in guilt feel some wholesome awe 
 in the presence of innocence. The door had scarce- 
 ly closed, when he drew nearer to the table, and in a 
 lower tone, with his eyes fixed inquiringly on the 
 countenance of Urban, he asked, — " Will it please 
 your Holiness to give me your commands, your final 
 commands, respecting the course to be pursued? " 
 
 '' Do you not comprehend the scope of my wish- 
 es ? " said Urban ; " have I not been sufficiently ex- 
 plicit ? " 
 
 " My instructions have not been definite," returned 
 the monk ; '' how far this prince must be driven, 
 to what measures we may have recourse, in order to 
 bend this haughty queen, I know not." 
 
 " She must bend or break," replied the Pontiff. 
 
 " She will never yield her crown, save with the 
 head that wears it," urged Father Matteo. 
 
 The pontiff paused : — '• And you choose not to 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 239 
 
 venture too far, without the sanction of my express 
 command ! You are a wise and cautious man, Mat- 
 teo da Villani, and must needs prosper in these trou- 
 bled times. Now bear in mind what I say to you. 
 That mock-pope at Avignon wins men's hearts by 
 his courteous words and gentle deeds ; I shrink not 
 from dipping my hands in the blood that would gush 
 from the neck of Joanna, queen of Naples, — you know 
 that I should not ; but interest, good Matteo, interest 
 bids me work by measures more politic. Let this 
 Charles of Durazzo be goaded on by every spur you 
 can apply to a spirit so fiery ; and either in the hot 
 hour of victory, or in some moment of despair, when 
 she blocks up his way, manage him well, good con- 
 fessor, and you will find no need of precise directions 
 from me." 
 
 The face of Father Matteo again gleamed with 
 the terrible smile of exultation it wore, when Charles 
 left him at their last important interview ; and that 
 involuntary smile was marked by a shrewd observer. 
 '' I would have you speed to Naples," said Urban, 
 '' for your business there is weighty ; but before our 
 conference close, I will ask you a plain question, and 
 that is what you least look for. Why do you har- 
 bour malice, — bitter, persecuting, vindictive malice, 
 against the queen of Naples ? " 
 
 The monk for an instant stood dumb. He found 
 himself completely unmasked before one to whom 
 the most iniquitous windings of the human heart 
 were familiar. But, taking courage from the very 
 
240 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 emergency of the case, he resolved to unfold his 
 whole secret to the man whose sympathies were be- 
 lieved to be with all things dark and cruel. His 
 frame shook, and his emaciated cheeks became livid, 
 as, almost leaning on the tables, he said in a sup- 
 pressed, hoarse voice, — ''I am the son of that Con- 
 rad Wolf whom she drove ignominiously from Na- 
 ples. Clement the Sixth and his cardinals had unan- 
 imously acquitted her of the fearful charge of having 
 murdered her husband. She came back in her pomp 
 from Provence. I saw her triumphant pageant, — and 
 then I saw my father die in obscurity. He had been 
 mangled by the infuriated populace, that had risen in 
 her behalf, — and I swore to avenge him. I swore 
 that she too should die a violent death ! " 
 
 Urban looked steadfastly on the convulsed features 
 of the monk, working with the worst passions of 
 human nature. " I have seen the German governor 
 of whom you speak," said he ; " I recognize him in 
 every lineament of his son's countenance. All men 
 said that he merited his fate." 
 
 '' I care not ! I care not ! " cried the monk. " For- 
 give me. Holy Father, that I forget in whose pres- 
 ence I stand. My feelings do not often burst forth 
 thus ; but for years they have flowed on in a deep, 
 steady, strong current, that leads to sure revenge." 
 
 " Thou art of the xoolfs own race, I see," said 
 Urban, with a bitter smile ; '•'- and truly there is a 
 promise that thy thirst for blood may be quenched. 
 Go to Naples, to Naples, my son ! If I love not its 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 241 
 
 haughty queen, I need but give her up to thy tender 
 mercies ; and that I surely will, if she do not grovel 
 in the dust beneath my feet. Leave us and set forth, 
 for the hours are precious ; others have now claims 
 on my time." 
 
 The sound of footsteps was heard in the anteroom, 
 and the monk, stifling his agitation, took a hasty 
 leave. Uneasy at being thus hurried away, he re- 
 gretted having been thrown off his guard, and re- 
 solved to .lose not an instant in hastening back to 
 Charles, and watching for the propitious moment to 
 accomplish his own purposes, by the hand of anoth- 
 er. '' If Joanna prove a feeble and fickle woman," 
 he thought, " and yield all required homage to this 
 proud pontiff, she will escape me yet ! He will not 
 scruple to play me false." Miserable with the doubts 
 and anxieties that harass a bosom on whose schemes 
 the blessing of Heaven cannot be invoked, and feel- 
 ing how little reliance the unprincipled can place 
 on each other, Matteo da Villani hurried from the 
 dark precincts of the Yatican ; and as day broke 
 over the Sabine hills, it lighted him and his small 
 train along the melancholy wastes of the Pontine 
 marshes. 
 
 21 
 
242 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth of 
 August, that Joanna ascended the walls of the Cas- 
 tell Nuovo, with a languid step, to look once more 
 sorrowfully over the bay, for " hope deferred " had 
 almost settled into the sickness of despair. Day by 
 day she had seen misery deepening in the haggard 
 countenances of those about her ; and now, as she 
 passed, every eye rolled upon her glassy and vacant ; 
 every cheek was hollow with want ; and as the wom- 
 en and children sometimes held out their meagre 
 hands to her, silently imploring the succour she could 
 not give, she turned from them hopelessly to the 
 warriors, whose gaunt limbs and unsteady steps told 
 as fearful a tale of the sufferings their own stronger 
 frames endured. She had pledged herself to surren- 
 der on the twenty-sixth, if the expected aid from 
 Provence should not arrive ; and clinging to the last 
 slender chance of relief, she riveted her gaze on the 
 too familiar entrance of the harbour, with an inten- 
 sity that sometimes almost seemed to conjure up the 
 dim outlines of objects she longed to behold. 
 
 It was while thus absorbed, and striving to real- 
 ize that the last sun of her freedom was sinking rap- 
 idly in the western skies, that she was roused by a 
 moan near her. She had been too much accustomed 
 of late to sounds of woe to be easily startled ; but 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 243 
 
 this was like the last faint groan of dissolution ; and 
 turning hastily, she perceived a wretched object 
 lying in the shadow of a turret near her. It was an 
 elderly female, whose features were drawn out and 
 sharpened by the pangs of hunger and the approach 
 of death. Her head was supported by a pale, thin 
 youth, who occasionally wiped the damps from her 
 forehead, and, as he stooped forward to watch the 
 life coming and going in her fixed eyes, was uncon- 
 scious of the queen's approach. Joanna had as yet 
 heard of no actual death from starvation in her gar- 
 rison ; and struck to the heart by this spectacle, she 
 involuntarily drew near, and stood before the expir- 
 ing woman. For a moment she was recognized ; the 
 poor sufferer made a feeble effort to raise her head 
 and stretch out her bony hand, whispering, '' It is the 
 queen, our good queen." The young man looked 
 up, but did not move ; and after a momentary re- 
 lapse, the woman again uttered, falteringly, " Serve 
 her, Giovanni ! I charge you, my son, serve our 
 good Joanna ! " 
 
 The queen was choked with emotion, as she heard 
 these words of affection from a subject, dying so mis- 
 erable a death at her very feet ; and again she felt, 
 as she had often done, the littleness of all human 
 power. She was still a queen, — still an object of 
 veneration to this departing spirit ; but not in her 
 proudest days could she have stayed its flight one 
 moment. It might be some such consciousness that 
 floated through the mind of the young Giovanni ; 
 
244 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 for after the first glance, he seemed to forget the 
 presence of majesty, until Joanna, unable to look 
 idly on the convulsive spasms of the dying woman, 
 turned hastily away, and commanded an attendant to 
 bring food, if it were the last crumb in the fortress. 
 
 The youth then, impatiently moving his hand, ex- 
 claimed, " No ! no ! it is too late ! " It was indeed ; 
 in another moment, his mother again, as with her 
 last struggle, said more distinctly, " Serve her, my 
 son, for she has been good to us! " and then turning 
 to his breast, drew her limbs upwards with a shiver, 
 and after a few gasps, ceased to breathe. 
 
 The cry, which seemed to break from the heart of 
 the youth, rang terribly in the ears of the queen, and 
 incapable of speaking consolation amidst the first 
 bursts of filial sorrow, she retired at once to her 
 apartments, and herself gave directions respecting 
 fitting burial for the body. It had seemed to her 
 that those emaciated features had not been unknown 
 to her in former days ; and when at sunset her at- 
 tendants informed her that the youth requested per- 
 mission to see her, she eagerly ordered him to be ad- 
 mitted into her presence. He was scarcely eighteen ; 
 and his hunger-stricken countenance betrayed that 
 youthful vigor alone had enabled him to sustain the 
 fearful ordeal under which his mother had sunk. He 
 was now calm, though the traces of sorrow remained 
 on his swollen eyelids. His soiled but once costly 
 apparel showed him to be no menial ; and the mod- 
 est courtesy with which he thanked the queen for 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 245 
 
 her kindness was that of one who had been accus- 
 tomed to approach personages of high rank. His 
 face, too, had in it something familiar ; and Joanna 
 sought in vain to recall when and where she had 
 seen him. " I cannot forget my mother's last words, 
 so long as I have breath," said he, with a faltering 
 voice. " She bade me serve you ; to-morrow may 
 take away the power ; and I have come to ask your 
 Majesty, if it be indeed possible that I may obey her 
 commands." 
 
 ''Tell me first," said the queen, ''who is the faith- 
 ful son and true subject, that forsakes neither his 
 mother nor his queen in their adversity ? " 
 
 " I was a beardless boy when your Majesty last 
 saw me, but suffering hath changed me more than 
 time. My mother has often told me how, at the 
 close of the terrible pestilence, you reentered Naples 
 from your exile ; and how you passed one day, like a 
 radiant angel, all pomp, youth, and beauty, through 
 the street where she lived, when my father fell smit- 
 ten by the destroying angel on his own threshold ; 
 how your attendants stood back terrified, while you 
 came down from your palfrey, and courageously held 
 water from a neighbouring fountain to his lips, and 
 spoke comfort to her ; and how you protected the 
 widowed and fatherless, when his corpse was thrown 
 into the dreadful pit. Have you forgotten that, when 
 you discovered her to be of gentle birth, you gave 
 her a place among the attendants of your own lovely 
 infant ? " 
 
246 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " I remember it all," cried Joanna. " When God 
 smote my child in its cradle with sndden and mys- 
 terious death, I came back from the gorgeous cere- 
 monies of my coronation to forget its splendor in 
 the rosy smiles of the darling Avhom I left slumber- 
 ing in perfect health, and your mother stood sobbing 
 over its lifeless clay ! I have not seen her for years 
 past, but could I forget her ? " 
 
 ''Your bounty reached her," said the youth, "and 
 for me you provided nobly." 
 
 The queen's countenance changed. " I recognize 
 you too," said she ; " I procured you an appointment 
 in the household of my son, — of Charles of Du- 
 razzo. You were his page, I think ? " 
 
 " I am so," replied Giovanni. 
 
 " And what do you here ? " asked the queen has- 
 tily. 
 
 "When my master approached Naples," said the 
 page, " I hurried forward to protect my mother. I 
 found her feeble from recent illness, and she re- 
 proached me because I did not forsake him for his 
 treachery to you. I could not ! I could not ! for to 
 me he has been a noble and kind master, and I love 
 him. The people fled in all directions, and she con- 
 jured me to bring her hither. We entered with the 
 throng, and I staid to soothe her sufferings, — to sup- 
 port her while I could, — to see her die at last. And 
 now I would go back to my kind, generous, mis- 
 guided prince." 
 
 Joanna sat a few. moments lost in thought,* and 
 
JOAXXA OF NAPLES. 247 
 
 then suddenly repeating his last words, — '' Mis- 
 guided prince ! alas ! alas ! " — she strove to repress a 
 groan. 
 
 Giovanni spoke not, but his varying countenance 
 expressed shame for the master he adored, and re- 
 spectful compassion for the injured sovereign before 
 him. At last he inquired timidly, " Is there no way 
 in which the page of Durazzo can aid the queen of 
 Naples ? You will not bid me leave him." 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Joanna ; " God forbid that those 
 to whom he may have shown kindness should prove 
 ungrateful ! May that punishment never wring his 
 heart ! Go to him, faithful boy, and serve him so 
 far as you can innocently, through joy and sorrow, 
 through the deceitful hours of guilty prosperity, and 
 the dreadful season of retribution. / ask no other 
 kindness at your hands." 
 
 The youth burst into tears, and sunk on his knee 
 before her ; it was the homage of uncorrupted feel- 
 ings to her virtue rather than her rank ; and Joanna's 
 dry and burning eyes were moistened with an emo- 
 tion most grateful in the midst of her afflictions. 
 " Is there nothing, — nothing I can do for my august 
 sovereign ? I would fain perform somewhat that I 
 may be glad to remember when I am a man, — srome 
 service to her personally." 
 
 The queen shook her head ; but as the youth rose, 
 something crossed her mind, and she exclaimed, — 
 " Yes, stay ! My poor husband ! — we may never 
 meet again, and a line from my own hand would 
 
248 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 cheer his brave heart ! Giovanni, will you leave the 
 honored remains of your mother under my charge ? 
 There are priests in the fortress and her dust shall 
 not be neglected. I will have masses said for her 
 soul. But speed you forth this very night into the 
 city to rejoin your master ; and find means to bear 
 one farewell word from your unfortunate queen to 
 her husband. Will you undertake it ? " The young 
 man hesitated, and she added, — "I would not have 
 you peril your life, and you know best yourself with 
 what risks the enterprise may be fraught. I do not 
 urge it." 
 
 " It is not of my life I am thinking," said Giovan- 
 ni, "but of my honor ; yet I know not that I should 
 pass the bounds of duty to my master in fulfilling 
 your request. My mother's dying words are in my 
 ears, and I will obey them at all hazards." 
 
 The queen paused a little longer for reflection ; 
 and then, turning to a table, where lay her writing 
 implements, she penned a hasty note of affection to 
 Otho, apprising him of her approaching capitulation, 
 and bidding him a solemn farewell ; for she felt that 
 her future destiny was darkened by the prospect of a 
 long separation. Giovanni departed at twilight, and 
 by the queen's command was permitted egress from 
 the castle through one of the subterranean passages 
 leading to the water's edge. We need not follow 
 him ; it is sufficient to say, that, having presented 
 himself to his princely master, with whom he was 
 deservedly a favorite, and explained his absence, he 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 249 
 
 found means to convey the letter of Joanna into the 
 enemy's camp, and to the hands of Otho, before day- 
 break. Meantime the queen forgot not her promise 
 with regard to the poor woman who had died in her 
 presence ; and on the last evening of her cruel siege, 
 the most solemn services of religion were performed 
 in the Castell Nuovo, by those who felt that, if relief 
 were not at hand, their own enfeebled limbs might 
 next lie down in the grave. 
 
 Few slept in the wretched garrison on that night. 
 Reduced to the last extremity, many of the famish- 
 ing wandered about ceaselessly, hushing the moans 
 of their children, watching the slow march of the 
 stars, and, as the hours wore on, casting many an 
 impatient glance to the east. The faintest silver 
 light was breaking over the hills, when Joanna left 
 a couch haunted by horrid dreams, and went up for 
 the last time among her people, — few and faithful, — 
 to survey the uprising of the sun which would prob- 
 ably light her into captivity. All night long she had 
 been tormented with visions of blood, or with phan- 
 tasmagoria of the ghastly faces that miCt her by day ; 
 and as the pale dawn of the fatal twenty-sixth of 
 August gave them again to her view, hovering along 
 the walls like spectres, she shuddered, and felt that 
 any fate to her would be welcome, which might save 
 these unhappy creatures from the slow and torturing 
 death of famine. As the eastern horizon grew bright- 
 er and brighter, she had not the heart to look, as she 
 had once done, on that gorgeous spectacle, which 
 
250 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 never wearies the eyes of the happy; but, turning to 
 the sea, vacantly contemplated the harbour, and 
 Capri rising dimly on the southern verge. Her 
 thoughts were no longer on the promised aid from 
 France ; treachery had beset her all her life long, 
 and Durazzo had blighted the last remaining germs 
 of her confidence in mortal man. " Gay Provence 
 has forgotten me," said she to herself; "the mild 
 and affable Clement will not aid me ; Anjou is too 
 busy with his own pressing cares. There is no man 
 living that can or will strike one blow more for the 
 liberties of Naples or its deserted queen ! Even my 
 husband has not the power to help me, or knows not 
 how critical is the emergency. O Charles ! the bit- 
 terness of all bitterness is to feel that thou hast made 
 my misery ! — that in two short hours more, thy un- 
 natural crime will be consummated, and I shall be 
 hurled from the throne by the very hands I have so 
 often clasped in mine, when thou wast like a loving 
 son to me, — an innocent, affectionate, true-hearted 
 boy ! Shall I not awake, and find it all a terrible 
 dream ? " 
 
 The time had indeed been fixed at two hours past 
 sunrise, when the Castell Nuovo was to be yielded, 
 without condition, into the power of Durazzo ; and 
 though Joanna did not face the east, she knew when 
 the glorious luminary had lifted himself above the 
 Apennines ; his rays shot across the city and bay, 
 and gilding the ridge of Posilipo, called, as it were, 
 into bright existence its wooded heights and white 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 251 
 
 • 
 
 villas. Still she sat motionless ; her officers silently- 
 gathered about her ; and from the various subterra- 
 nean passages and cells of the fortress its whole wan 
 and trembling population came pouring up, as if the 
 graves were yielding their dead. The walls next the 
 city were lined with them, standing, sitting, or lying, 
 as their strength permitted, in mute expectation. A 
 clock struck in a neighbouring church ; it was the 
 only one in Naples, and still a new thing on the 
 earth, and men, not yet familiar with it, felt, when 
 that solemn voice came forth on the air, as if Time 
 himself spoke to them, while he sped on his awful 
 course. Even the queen started at the sound, and 
 withdrew her sad contemplations from the monastery 
 of San Martino, the object of her munificence in 
 happier days. Battista recalled her attention to the 
 same quarter, however, by pointing out something 
 about the castle of St. Elmo, which frowned on the 
 heights just above it ; and with looks of surprise, 
 she conferred with her officers for some moments be- 
 fore she left the walls. She retired to her private 
 apartment, as the hour of surrender arrived ; but 
 Luca di Battista followed shortly, to inform her that, 
 though the city was evidently in commotion, no one 
 approached the fortress. " The passage leading into 
 the Strada di Toledo is deserted," said he ; " we 
 see armed men continually passing and repassing 
 across it at a distance, and there is a sound of tumult 
 that increases every moment ; but we seem to be 
 forgotten." 
 
252 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 The queen, who had assumed a noble composure, 
 now became agitated. '' I believe you were right," 
 said she ; '' that brave boy kept his word with me 
 last night, and Otho is roused to an effort that may 
 cost him dear." 
 
 " He must have attacked the city," returned the 
 Baron ; "I know of nothing else that could with- 
 draw the attention of the enemy at this moment. 
 Courage, my queen ! We may be saved ! " 
 
 "No, — no," replied Joanna ; " do not excite false 
 hopes, my good Baron ; it is the alternation of hope 
 and despair that frets out the heartstrings. Had the 
 galleys from Provence arrived, a general onset from 
 without might have done me good service ; and for 
 that advantage Otho has no doubt waited ; but the 
 news of my unhappy condition has driven him on a 
 desperate measure. He will fail ; my heart forebodes 
 nothing but evil." 
 
 " Nay," exclaimed the nobleman ; '' think better 
 of it. Your Majesty is worn down with fasting 
 and anxiety, and they make even men prone to 
 despond." 
 
 "I know it," said Joanna sadly. " The weakness 
 of this frail tabernacle of cla^r does strangely debili- 
 tate the nobler tenant within. I will repair once 
 more to the walls." 
 
 As she approached a flight of steps, leading from 
 a court up to the ramparts, a large hound, still stately 
 in his proportions, though extenuated by famine, 
 crawled towards her, whining and feebly making 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 253 
 
 demonstrations of joy at seeing her. He had be- 
 longed to her husband, and had once saved his mas- 
 ter's life in a boar-hnnt ; and though not another 
 animal in the fortress had been spared, Joanna had 
 given orders that this faithful creature should not be 
 slaughtered till the last extremity. He had not tasted 
 food for three days ; and as he looked up expressively 
 in her face, with his large, imploring eyes, the Baron 
 said, — '' Methinks it were greater humanity to knock 
 the poor beast on the head, than let him die by inch- 
 es. Starving is an ugly death." 
 
 The queen looked irresolute ; she passed her hand 
 over his long, velvet ears, and as he stooped his head 
 to receive the caress, the gold collar which her hus- 
 band had playfully fastened round his neck, as the 
 reward of his bravery, caught her eye. '^ No ! " she 
 exclaimed, turning away ; " I have not the heart to 
 give such an order. Live on, a few hours longer, 
 poor Brancone, and thou shalt have a new master. 
 Di Battista, he that will enter this castle to-day as 
 a victor loves a noble dog, and will feed the hound, 
 though he starve the mistress." 
 
 " Ay," said Di Battista to himself; ''the dog hath 
 no crown to be coveted." 
 
 They mounted to the walls ; and as Joanna seated 
 herself where she could look down into the square 
 between the castle and the city, she felt something 
 touch her hand. It was the dog, who had followed 
 her with difficulty ; and as she bade him couch at 
 her feet, obedient to the last, he lay, or rather fell, 
 
 22 
 
254 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 down before her, and stretching forth his Hmbs, tried 
 to forget, in uneasy sleep, the hunger that gnawed 
 his vitals. 
 
 In the mean time the clashing of weapons came 
 now distinctly on the breeze, and as the inhabitants 
 of the castle stood listening breathlessly, wonder and 
 anxiety were on every face. At times the skirmish 
 seemed to recede, and then it approached again ; but 
 nearly an hour elapsed, before any token of the bat- 
 tle presented itself. Suddenly shouts were heard 
 more plainly. A cloud of dust was seen rising above 
 the houses in the Strada di Toledo. It advanced 
 slowly, and at last a tumultuous throng appeared at 
 the foot of the street, leading from that main thor- 
 oughfare of Naples to the square before the Castell 
 Nuovo. Half veiled in dust, and engaged in furious 
 conflict, they came on ; but it was plain that every 
 inch of ground was contested, and the progress of 
 the party struggling to reach the castle was tardy. 
 
 Frantic with joy and reviving hope, Luca di Bat- 
 tista summoned his feeble band of archers to their 
 posts ; and though it was evident that scarcely a 
 dozen had strength to draw the longbow, he pre- 
 pared boldly to aid the approaching friends, and ex- 
 claimed again and again to the queen, — " Courage, 
 my noble mistress ! they fight like lions ! We shall 
 open the gates to them presently." 
 
 The queen did not remove her eyes from the 
 scene, but, still sorrowful in aspect, only answered, — 
 " They bring us no bread." 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 255 
 
 " But they open a passage through the enemy," 
 cried the sanguine warrior ; " they will find means 
 to throw in provisions, or set us free, trust me ! " 
 
 At this moment, a single knight, mounted on a 
 powerful hay horse, burst through all opposition, and 
 waving his bloody sword above his head, came gal- 
 loping into the square. The white and silver scarf 
 about his body, despite its crimson stains, showed 
 that he belonged to the queen's friends ; and Di Bat- 
 tista shouted loudly and incessantly to the men at 
 the gates to open them and push forward the draw- 
 bridge. Before the brave knight could reach the 
 moat, however, several of the enemy dashed after 
 him into the square ; and as he turned to defend 
 himself, still backing his horse towards the castle, 
 their strokes rained upon every part of his armour. 
 The flash of weapons in the broad sunlight was daz- 
 zling to the beholders, but he who fought single- 
 handed against such fearful odds lost not his pres- 
 ence of mind for an instant ; — plunging his sword 
 into a crevice in the armour of one antagonist, he 
 drew it forth reeking ; then, suddenly wheeling about, 
 he dexterously hamstrung the steed of another rider, 
 who came heavily to the ground, and left him for a 
 moment unmolested. He again pushed towards the 
 drawbridge, but in vain ; the enemy were upon him. 
 Two spurred between him and the castle, and not a 
 follower of his own had yet emerged from the street ; 
 his headlong valor had led him beyond their assist- 
 ance ; but, without a shout or a word, he defended 
 
256 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 himself manfully. The archers discharged their 
 arrows from the battlements ; but many of them 
 dropped short of the mark, and others fell impotent- 
 ly, as if sent by the hands of children, against the 
 helmets and shields of the assailants. Luca di Bat- 
 tista raged like a chained tiger ; and crying, " Give 
 me a crossbow, — it brings the strong and the weak 
 on a level," he seized a huge arbalist, and prepared 
 to discharge it with his own hands. The queen, 
 meantime, had watched every movement below with 
 the most intense interest ; she had started up as the 
 knight entered the square, and standing with clasped 
 hands and blanched lips, her garments fluttering in 
 the breeze, she seemed almost ready to leap wildly 
 into the fearful scene. Once or twice she exclaimed, 
 *' Who is he, Di Battista ? do you not know him ? " 
 
 "No, not I," cried the Baron ; " he is a brave man, 
 bear he what name he may ; — and we will have him 
 among us, please Heaven." 
 
 The unknown warrior was now within a few 
 yards of the moat, and once, for a single instant, he 
 looked up at the spot where the queen stood ; but 
 through his closed visor she could not discern his 
 features. '' Yet it must be he ! it can be none else ! " 
 she whispered to herself; and the blood rushed joy- 
 fully to her face, as she perceived several knights in 
 white and silver scarfs present themselves at the en- 
 trance of the squa,re. It retreated upon her heart 
 again, however, as a huge soldier, already unhelmet- 
 ed in the conflict, and gashed on one cheek, ap- 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 257 
 
 preached the solitary combatant, whose attention 
 was again for a moment drawn off, by the appear- 
 ance of his followers. The man raised his immense 
 battle-axe unheeded, as the warrior, sending forth 
 his voice for the first time, shouted to his knights to 
 come on. No sooner was that voice heard, than the 
 hound, who had been lying, apparently unable to 
 stir, by the side of Joanna, uttered a cry, and get- 
 ting on his feet with difficulty, crawled to the very 
 edge of the wall. He gazed down earnestly a mo- 
 ment, then, raising his head, snuffed the breeze, and 
 having uttered a few moans, as if conscious of the 
 danger, he sprang down into the moat. Too feeble 
 to swim, he struggled but a few instants, and sunk in 
 the stagnant waters. This last display of fidelity in 
 poor Brancone told Joanna too plainly who was the 
 heroic knight ; her agony of suspense was already 
 dreadful, and a shriek broke from her lips, as Luca 
 di Battista discharged an immense javelin from his 
 crossbow. At the precise instant that it left the bow, 
 aimed at the man who wielded the battle-axe, the 
 beset knight perceived his danger, and to avoid the 
 blow levelled at his crest, checked his steed, who in 
 rearing intercepte(f the weapon from the walls. It 
 pierced his shoulder ; the noble animal made a plunge 
 forward, and thus exposed the head of his rider to 
 the fatal stroke of the battle-axe. It descended, — 
 the helmet gave way, — and the light German hair 
 and manly features of Otho were exposed to view, 
 as he was dashed senseless to the ground ! 
 
25^ JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 Joanna knew nothing more. For the first time in 
 her life she fainted away utterly, and was carried 
 down to her apartment. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The desperate valor of Otho was wasted ; with 
 his fall ceased the conflict. Slain, wounded, or made 
 prisoners, his troops suffered severely from the enter- 
 prise ; and before noonday the ruin of Joanna was 
 decided, her last hope destroyed. She bore the in- 
 telligence with fortitude, however. On recovering 
 from her swoon, she learned that her husband still 
 lived, though wounded, and in the power of the 
 enemy ; and after a few hours' retirement, she nerved 
 herself to endure an interview with her conqueror. 
 
 It was in the coolest and loveliest hour of the day, 
 when the land-breeze blew refreshingly from the 
 hills, and the sun was sinking peacefully towards 
 the horizon, that the immense gates of the Castell 
 Nuovo were set open, its broad fhoat bridged for the 
 adversary's tread, and the square before it filled with 
 armed men. Durazzo himself first planted his foot 
 on that bridge, but it v/as with a downcast eye. Then 
 came on rank after rank of silent soldiery, following 
 under the dark, massive archway, which, flanked 
 with huge, round towers, seemed built to endure for 
 
JOAXXA OF NAPLES, 259 
 
 ages. As they entered the court and filed to the 
 right and left, before them stood the small and half- 
 starved garrison of Joanna, their visors up, and 
 their ghastly countenances bearing dreadful testimo- 
 ny to the sufferings they had endured ; while at 
 every loophole, and at the doors of dark passages, 
 were dimly seen innumerable faces of women and 
 children still more emaciated with want. From the 
 centre of the little group of soldiers advanced Luca 
 di Battista, himself pale with fasting and sleepless 
 nights, but with an aspect so haughty and stern, 
 that, as he fixed his eyes on the approaching victor, 
 they spoke the contempt which he felt in his soul ; 
 and an observer, ignorant of the truth, would have 
 reversed the relative position of the two warriors. 
 Di Battista might have been taken for the spirit of 
 the fierce Charles of Anjou, the builder of the cas- 
 tle, rising from his grave in anger at the ingrate who 
 came to rend her inheritance from his fair descend- 
 ant. The step of Durazzo had lost its martial firm- 
 ness ; it was slow and unequal ; he changed color 
 every moment, and with a trembling hand, without 
 looking him in the face, he received from Di Battista 
 the massy keys of the fortress, and hastily delivered 
 them to an officer, who was to be its commander. 
 
 This slight ceremony over, the troops of Durazzo 
 were dispersed to their respective positions along the 
 deserted walls, w^hich soon bristled on every point 
 with lances and spears ; and the native humanity of 
 Charles's disposition, chilled but not frozen by a self- 
 
260 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 ish ambitiorij manifested itself in the next arrange- 
 ment. WagonSj loaded with provision, came creak- 
 ing through the gateway, and the sufferings of the 
 famished were at an end. The chief seneschal of 
 Joanna, with several of the officers usually in at- 
 tendance on her person, then appeared, to conduct 
 Durazzo to her presence. They had reached the 
 spacious antechamber to her apartment, when the 
 confessor of the prince, suddenly arriving at the 
 Oastell Nuovo, followed him without hesitation, and 
 overtook him as he crossed its threshold. The monk 
 had been absent for a few days, and had returned to 
 Naples at the critical moment when the troops were 
 marching into the fortress ; and on learning that an 
 interview was to take place between the conqueror 
 and the conquered, he lost not a moment. Without 
 staying to shake the dust of travel from his dress, 
 he hurried unceremoniously through the knightly 
 throng, that pressed towards the anteroom to catch 
 a glimpse of a queen so celebrated ; and, coming up 
 with the prince as he entered the lofty apartment 
 where Joanna had proposed to receive him, he laid 
 his hand hastily on his arm. " My son ! my son ! " 
 said he, " what are you doing ? Did I not caution 
 you ? Did I not w^arn you ? " 
 
 '' I know it," replied Durazzo ; " but how can I 
 shrink from the presence of a woman ? I w^ould 
 rather mount the scaffold than meet her eye ; but she 
 demands to see me, and on what plea can I refuse a 
 boon so trifling ? " 
 
JOAXNA OF NAPLES. 261 
 
 •' Tush ! folly, — folly ! " ejaculated the priest ; 
 " step hither and hear me." He drew the prince 
 aside, and, with earnest gestures and indefatigable 
 perseverance, used every argument in his power to 
 dissuade him from holding the purposed colloquy. 
 He was but too eloquently aided by something in 
 Durazzo's own bosom ; who, conscience-stricken, and 
 ashamed of the position in which he stood towards 
 the queen, trembled as he entered the stately halls 
 of the Angevins, and approached her on whom he 
 was inflicting wrongs so base. 
 
 " It were better that Ave should not meet, I ac- 
 knowledge," said he ; " but now that I stand almost 
 in her presence, — now that I have intruded on the 
 sanctity of the royal apartments, and have warned 
 her of my approach, — it were unknightly rudeness, 
 me thinks, and most unbecoming in a generous con- 
 queror, to turn from her, as with mere wanton ca- 
 price." 
 
 '' Idle, boyish scruples ! " exclaimed Father Mat- 
 teo. '' Said I not so ? I knew that the very air she 
 breathed would unman you ; your brave knights will 
 yet look on, with scornful smiles, to see their hero 
 caught in the snares of this Jezebel. Go forth from 
 these enchanted chambers, my son, if you are not 
 already spellbound and nerveless, and leave me to 
 deal with her who is your deadliest enemy. I will 
 bring you her demands ; her smooth accents and 
 boasted eloquence will find another hearer than the 
 purchaser of Avignon. I pray you have mercy on 
 
262 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 yourself, my prince, and begone from these danger- 
 ous walls. The house of Anjou totters at your 
 touch, but you may be crushed in its ruins, if you 
 will not be counselled." 
 
 Perturbed and uncertain what course to pursue, 
 still accustomed to be governed by the voice that ad- 
 dressed him so authoritatively, Charles actually turned 
 to retire ; when the double doors at the upper end 
 of the hall were thrown open, and a dazzling vision 
 presented itself. Joanna stood before him, in the cen- 
 tre of a sparkling semicircle of attendants ; and she 
 herself blazed forth in the full majesty of a queen. 
 Either by chance or design, the dress she wore was 
 similar to that in which he first saw her arrayed for 
 some public occasion. Rich folds of drapery fell round 
 her statue-like form with classic grace ; its glossy, 
 silken texture was wrought with flowers of gold ; 
 her girdle was composed of jewels ; the crown, which 
 rested lightly on her high forehead, glittered with 
 diamonds and rubies ; and her hands, folded on her 
 breast, held a small, but exquisitely wrought cruci- 
 fix, worthy the approaching days of Cellini. The 
 lofty beauty of her countenance was almost unearth- 
 ly ; excitement glowed in her cheeks, and flushed 
 from her sunken, but expressive eyes ; and she looked 
 all that she had been in the glory of her earlier days, 
 when the gaze of a Petrarch delighted to dwell on 
 one who realized a poet's dream of female loveliness, 
 and the laughter-loving Boccaccio learned to rever- 
 ence virtue in a form so fascinating. Years rolled 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 263 
 
 back : — the day, the hour, when that same re- 
 splendent form first stood before him, rose on the 
 memory of Durazzo ; and though the rosy lips of 
 the apparition no longer wore the sweet, maternal 
 smile, which then dispelled his boyish timidity, but 
 greeted him with a cold, yet placid gravity, the pres- 
 ent moment vanished completely in the gush of fond 
 recollections. He stood thunderstruck an instant, 
 and then, as he rushed forward and threw himself at 
 the queen's feet, the tender appellation of other days, 
 '' My mother ! my mother ! " burst from his uncon- 
 scious lips. The witnesses of a scene so unexpected 
 remained hushed as death ; the monk bit his nether 
 lip, and with a countenance lurid with wrath turned 
 away ; the queen herself forgot her august compos- 
 ure, and as her lip trembled with a momentary emo- 
 tion, she almost laid her hand kindly on the bent 
 head of the prince ; but suddenly recollecting her- 
 self, she drew back proudly. " I have wished to see 
 you, Charles of Durazzo," she said, '^ but not thus. 
 Rise, — for that posture little becomes the terms on 
 which we meet." 
 
 Charles stood up, his cheeks burning with shame, 
 and his eyes fixed on the ground ; and with the same 
 calm, sweet tone the queen proceeded. '' You are 
 my master^ — by strength of arms you are so ; but 
 the croAvn of my ancestors is on my brows, and 
 never, while I breathe, will I voluntarily place it on 
 the head of — a usurper. He that wears it shall 
 be worthy of it. This it was my pleasure that you 
 should hear from my own kps." 
 
264 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 The undaunted spirit of this declaration roused 
 the pride of Charles for a moment, and retreating a 
 few steps, he looked up boldly, but again cowered as 
 he encountered the brilliant eye of Joanna fixed 
 steadily upon him. He stammered a few words, 
 and the queen bent her head forward to listen ; but 
 unable to express himself articulately, he looked 
 towards his confessor. The monk met his embar- 
 rassed glance with a -contemptuous smile, and the 
 queen resumed, — "I ask of you the safety of my 
 husband and my garrison. Priests, women, children, 
 and a few brave men, once able to bear the weight 
 of armour and skilful to use it, have clung to my 
 fallen fortunes with an affection and fidelity that 
 have touched my heart's core. I would not be un- 
 grateful, — however I may be sunken in the world's 
 eye ; but a deposed queen has little grace to grant. 
 I can plead for their lives and property with their 
 conqueror and mine, — it is all I can do ; and for 
 that purpose I use the few brief moments of our 
 interview. Is my petition granted ? " 
 
 " It is," said Durazzo ; " all, every thing you can 
 ask. Try me farther. Demand any thing that I can 
 perform, and prove whether -I am as heartless and 
 ungrateful as you deem me." 
 
 " Nay, I have but one favor more to ask ; — 
 an honorable prison, — a convent rather than a dun- 
 geon." 
 
 '' Mother in heaven ! " cried the prince ; "a pris- 
 on ! Think you I am a brute, a monster ? I would 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 265 
 
 smite the head from the shoulders of him who should 
 speak of a prison for the person of my adored bene- 
 factress ! Never, so help me Heaven ! shall wrong 
 or outrage approach you, while the son of your 
 adoption wields a sword or draws the breath of life ! 
 No, most august Joanna. By divine injunction I re- 
 ceive the crown, which must pass from the house of 
 Anjou ; by the will of him who bears the keys of 
 Heaven, and through whose mouth God himself 
 speaks his sovereign pleasure to earthly princes, I 
 claim the throne which you Tnust vacate ; but nev- 
 er, never, shall I forget the filial love of my boy- 
 hood ; never shall I inflict one unnecessary pang upon 
 the heart that opened to me in my desolation. You 
 shall dwell with me in the castle, whose founda- 
 tions were laid deep in the sea-shore by your warlike 
 progenitor, and steadfast as those foundations you 
 shall find the faith of Durazzo ! Trust me, dearest 
 mother ; — give me back your love, your confidence. 
 Abide with me with all the wonted splendors of your 
 rank about you ; cheer me in my troubles ; aid me 
 with your counsels ; and though I may not bow the 
 knee of a subject, I will pay the fondest homage of 
 a son at your feet." 
 
 As the prince spoke, he again sunk on one knee, 
 and attempted to raise the golden hem of her gar- 
 ment to his lips ; but the queen withdrew it with 
 dignity ; and, as a slight expression of scorn passed 
 over her face, she replied, — '' This hour unfolds 
 how little you know me, Durazzo ; how ill you can 
 
 23 
 
266 JOANNA OF NAPLES. ' 
 
 understand the true spirit of a born sovereign. I will 
 not wrong you ; I think not that you speak to mock 
 and insult me, though a proposal so degrading quick- 
 ens this pulse with an indignation you have not the 
 soul to comprehend. You are bound by the laws of 
 chivalry to respect me as a woman, and an oppressed 
 one ; and I do not hold you such a recreant, that you 
 wilfully pour contumely on your prisoner. But I tell 
 you, Charles of Durazzo, I will not lo*ok tamely on 
 your usurpation. I will not walk about these halls 
 like the eagle whose wings are clipped. I will be 
 caged, or I will soar ! Till my subjects forsake me 
 to the last man, I will not forsake them, nor acqui- 
 esce in a mean compact, which transfers them to an 
 unprincipled ruler." Charles started up, but the 
 queen went on. " I know you, prince of Durazzo, — 
 I know you now. Physical courage you have, — 
 fearless and brave as a lion in the face of danger ; 
 but moral courage, the noblest gift of your race, you 
 have not. You have some vague, unsettled senti- 
 ments of honor ; but fixed principles you have not ; 
 and he who is the slave of blind impulse cannot 
 rule a kingdom rightly." 
 
 '' Urban thinks not so," said Durazzo ; " he reads 
 me better than she who trained me at her knee." 
 
 '^ Rememberest thou those days, Charles ? " asked 
 the queen, in a voice so soft and tremulous, and with 
 a tone so melancholy, that the eyes of all present 
 filled with tears. The prince shook ; his heart 
 swelled, and it was with difficulty he repressed the 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 267 
 
 impulse to burst forth once more into protestations 
 of affection ; but a sudden movement of the monk, 
 who seemed about to interfere in the colloquy, 
 checked him. '•' If the Head of the Church," he 
 
 began, " if Urban himself " 
 
 "Name him not," interrupted Joanna; ''he, too, 
 is a usurper, and, himself born a subject of Naples, 
 he may well preach treason. You well know, Du- 
 razzo, that I cleave to the cause of Clement, and 
 look upon the Archbishop of Bari as one who has 
 grasped the keys of St. Peter with a sacrilegious 
 hand, and has made intrigue and sedition his step- 
 ping-stones to power which he abuses. You know 
 that I gave shelter to the cardinals who fled from 
 his tortures ; that when the tiara was brought se- 
 cretly to Fondi, I sent my ambassadors to Avitness 
 the coronation of Robert of Savoy, to whom I bow 
 as Clement the Seventh, the only lawful Father of 
 the Church ; and that I have thereby drawn on my 
 head a fierce and unrelenting persecution. Urban, 
 Charles, is my deadly enemy, — the enemy of my 
 prosperity, my peace, my life, and my reputation. 
 If my name goes down to posterity blackened with 
 calumnies that make me shudder as I think of them, 
 it is his hand that has given the mortal stab to my 
 fame, — his influence that will live along the page of 
 history, blighting the character of an injured anfl in- 
 nocent woman, long after her bones have crumbled 
 to dust. O Charles ! that you should become the 
 puppet of him who would crush me into the earth, — 
 
268 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 who would drive me from the memory of the good, 
 and shut out my soul from heaven, were that his 
 prerogative ! — that you, whom I once loved so ten- 
 derly, should become a thing I cannot respect, — a 
 gilded toy-king I must despise ! " 
 
 A hectic spot was now on the cheek of Durazzo ; 
 when Luca di Battista burst suddenly into the apart- 
 ment, exclaiming, — '' The laggard, craven slaves ! 
 I would a whirlwind met them now ! Look there, 
 my queen ! " And as he spoke, the impetuous Baron 
 threw back the lattice from a window near Joanna, 
 which commanded a view of the bay. The whole 
 lovely scene was bathed in the richest crimson glow 
 of sunset ; but the eye of the queen marked little of 
 its beauty, for, full in view, ten French galleys came 
 on, just rounding the promontory of Posilipo, and 
 ploughing the golden waves, as they beat up bravely 
 against the land-breeze, that almost baffled their 
 progress. The queen stood dumb, gazing as if bewil- 
 dered, and almost fancying it some optical illusion, 
 conjured up by the sunbeams and evening vapors ; 
 then, sadly exclaiming, " Too late ! too late ! " she 
 clasped her hands before her eyes to shut out a spec- 
 tacle so glorious in itself, so cruel under existing cir- 
 cumstances, and sunk into a seat. 
 
 After some little conference with his officers and 
 witit Father Matteo, Charles respectfully approached 
 the queen, whose spirits and fortitude seemed for a 
 time to have given way. '' I relieve you from my 
 presence for to-day," said he, " but to-morrow, when 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 269 
 
 refreshed by sleep, you will perhaps admit me to a 
 conference that may terminate more satisfactorily." 
 
 " I know not that," replied Joanna, somewhat im- 
 patiently ; " but I would pray you one thing with 
 all earnestness. Let not these tardy Frenchmen be 
 liarmed ; let them go back in safety from their fruit- 
 less errand ; and let me have one interview with 
 them, that I may thank them for the good they pur- 
 posed." 
 
 " It shall be so," replied Dnrazzo ; " they shall be 
 treated as my own guests ; and to-morrow, if such 
 be your pleasure, they shall be ushered into your 
 presence." 
 
 ''I would fain see them," replied the queen ; ''my 
 destiny is sealed ; and after to-morrow I would quit 
 the Castell Nuovo." 
 
 The prince and his attendants left the apartment ; 
 and Joanna, worn out with fatigue and excitement, 
 retired to solitude and tears. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was with unavailing consternation and regret, 
 that the deputies from Provence learned whose was 
 the banner floating so proudly on the tower San Mar- 
 tino ; and that, had they reached the Bay of Naples 
 but a few hours sooner, its unfortunate queen might 
 
 23* 
 
270 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 have been saved from a captivity as hopeless as un- 
 just. Mournfully they entered her presence on the 
 day after their arrival ; but they were not permitted 
 a private interview. Charles himself had gone to the 
 Castello dell' Uovo, on the west side of the city, un- 
 der whose wave-encircled walls the French fleet was 
 moored. He had proposed to strengthen its fortifica- 
 tions, and, at the instigation of his confessor, had 
 chosen this day to inspect it ; but several of his offi- 
 cers attended the foreigners in their conference with 
 the queen, and Father Matteo mingled unbidden 
 with the train. It was his policy to keep the prince 
 from all direct intercourse with a woman whose high 
 spirit might soon be broken, and whose tender ap- 
 peals to the better nature of Charles would then, he 
 well knew, be irresistible ,- and he resolved, if possi- 
 ble, to be the medium of communication between 
 them. He feared, indeed, that a single night's re- 
 flection on the actual position of her aff"airs might 
 have humbled her into concessions which would sat- 
 isfy the ambition of the prince ; but the first glance 
 at her regal brow, as he followed the French into her 
 audience-chamber, satisfied him that he need dread 
 no humility on her part, which would be dangerous 
 to his schemes of vengeance. The treasures which 
 she and her principal nobility had borne with them 
 into the castle were still employed to support the 
 splendor she deemed becoming her rank ; for in that 
 age, the genius of invention, newly awakened from 
 a sleep of centuries, toiled diligently in the service 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 271 
 
 of luxury. The costly attire of the cardinals, who 
 thronged around the wealthy Clement at the court of 
 Avignon, would have purchased whole cities in the 
 days of the ancient republics, though the anathemas 
 of the Church of Rome were thundered against the 
 vanities, not only of crowned heads and nobility, 
 but of churchmen themselves. Joanna, a female, 
 scarce emerging from childhood when she mounted 
 the throne, had caught the spirit of the age. Her 
 reign was the era of many inventions ; one of her 
 own subjects had bestowed the compass on the ad- 
 venturous mariner ; and the*delicious climate of Na- 
 ples, the attractions of its sovereign, and her liberal- 
 ity towards all worthy objects, drawing many distin- 
 guished foreigners to her court, it had been her de- 
 light to welcome them with a magnificence suited to 
 her resources. 
 
 She now sat on a chair of state, raised three steps 
 above the floor ; a canopy of cloth of silver above 
 her, and a blue velvet carpet, flowered with silver, 
 covering the steps at her feet. Her own dress was 
 simple, but costly, the single band of gold which 
 confined her veil being enriched with the most pre- 
 cious gems, a cross of large rubies resting on her 
 swan -like neck, and her black velvet robe delicately 
 embroidered round the hem with vine-leaves and 
 bunches of grapes in pearls. She was no longer 
 flushed with feverish excitement, nor unnaturally 
 pale ; her eye had regained the calm, thoughtful 
 expression it had worn for years, and no one who 
 
272 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 looked at her would have believed her a queen but 
 yesterday deposed. Her reception of the French 
 noblemen, as they were severally introduced to her, 
 was full of her accustomed sweetness and majesty ; 
 and one or two of them she recognized at once. 
 " Noble Baron of Rocroi ! " said she, " it is many, 
 many years since we parted at Nice ; we may almost 
 count them by tens ; yet it were not well to dwell 
 on the events through which they have whirled us. 
 It seems a dark, misty chaos, as I look back ; but I 
 joy to see your soldier-like frame unbent by time." 
 
 '' These locks were hardly touched with silver, 
 when your Majesty left your faithful subjects in 
 Provence," said the old warrior, as he knelt to kiss 
 her extended hand. 
 
 " No," replied Joanna ; " but white as they now 
 are, and worn upon the temples by the helmet, you 
 see I cannot forget the hawk eye of Rocroi. And 
 this youth, — his face is familiar, yet he could not 
 have seen the light when we broke up our court to 
 traverse the seas." 
 
 " It is the young De Lisle," replied the Baron de 
 Rocroi, '' who prayed earnestly to come on this ex- 
 pedition, that he might behold her of whom he has 
 dreamed from his cradle." 
 
 " De Lisle ! " repeated the queen sadly ; '' I loved 
 your mother, young man ; the beautiful Countess de 
 Lisle was the pride and ornament of my French 
 court. In her bridal days we walked together amid 
 the shades of Yaucluse ; and her tears fell fast when 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 273 
 
 we parted. It is her clear, olive complexion, and her 
 animated smile, that you inherit. Did she bequeathe 
 to yon, also, her reverence for her sovereign, her 
 sympathy for the oppressed ? " 
 
 " She did, indeed," exclaimed the youth eagerly, 
 half drawing his sword from the scabbard ; " and I 
 have thought nineteen summers too many over my 
 head, before I brought my maiden blade into your 
 Majesty's service." 
 
 ^'■One day too many has indeed passed," said the 
 queen, with a melancholy smile ; '' and now, my 
 good and brave friends, — trusty, I doubt not, though 
 dilatory, — how chanced this fatal delay ? What ad- 
 verse wind swept the Mediterranean, when the fate 
 of Joanna hung on your speed ? " 
 
 The Frenchmen looked downwards in silence ; 
 and it was some moments before the venerable Ro- 
 croi replied to her inquiry. "It is true that we were 
 for many days wind-bound in the port of Marseilles ; 
 but, gracious queen, your cry for help came across 
 the waters just when the death of the monarch had 
 thrown the whole kingdom of France into confusion, 
 and Louis of Anjou was straining every nerve to 
 raise troops in his own defence. His regency was 
 over, but tumult and bloodshed were about him, and, 
 distracted by innumerable perplexities, he could not 
 take measures in your behalf so promptly as his heart 
 would have dictated." 
 
 The queen listened with attention to the defence 
 of the worthy Baron, but paused before she an- 
 
274 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 swered. A slight expression of doubt passed over 
 her face, and leaning on the arm of her chair^ she 
 covered her eyes with her hand, as if willing to re- 
 flect on what she had heard. " Good Baron of Ro- 
 croij" said she at length, " you were wont to be 
 highly esteemed as a man of no less sagacity and in- 
 tegrity than prowess ; and such I do hold you. Tell 
 me, then, are these the unvarnished facts ? Is Louis 
 of Anjou true in his heart, and worthy of my con- 
 fidence ? " 
 
 " He is ! " exclaimed the old knight with energy. 
 '' I believe him a most honorable and high-minded 
 prince ; and that the evil star of Ctueen Joanna, which 
 bade her summon his aid at the very conjuncture 
 when he could not grant it, ruled him in this matter. 
 Never, never, will he wrong or deceive you, most 
 august queen ; and I verily believe he will be smit- 
 ten with the sorest anguish, when he learns how ill 
 our errand hath sped. Men dreamed not that your 
 danger was so imminent." 
 
 " I thank you for this assurance, worthy De Ro- 
 croi," replied the queen, with her former unclouded 
 aspect ; " I trust you; but who, — who can wonder, 
 that a nature, once too confiding, hath long since be- 
 come prone to distrust ? Who can blame me, when 
 
 so lately forced to rend an idol from my heart " 
 
 She paused to recover herself, but it was only for an 
 instant. '' Now, most noble barons of Provence, I 
 see around you men whose swords and hearts are 
 pledged to the cause of Durazzo ; I see Italians hy 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 275 
 
 your side, who will listen to my words in the spirit 
 of jealousy and hatred ; yet in their presence will I 
 speak boldly. You well know, that at the tender 
 age of fifteen I came to the crown. What perils, 
 what difficulties, what temptations, then surrounded 
 me, no mortal man can know. It was not a day of 
 vainglorious exultation ; the tears of my regret fell 
 on the grave of my venerable grandsire, and I trem- 
 bled as I looked on the wild breakers amid which 
 he had left me, though I knew not half their hidden 
 dangers. My sex, my age, my rank, — those charms 
 of which courtiers told me, now rapidly waning, — 
 each and all brought their own trials. Yet men had 
 no mercy on my youth and inexperience ; they for- 
 gave not my errors ; they forgot not my infirmities ; 
 they exaggerated my indiscretions. I had deadly 
 foes and false friends, and my life has been a succes- 
 sion of calamities ; my reign filled with hurricanes, 
 both political and domestic, and slander has ever 
 been busy with that which is dearer than life to the 
 virtuous, — my good fame. Yet, noble barons, as 
 truly as I now stand before you, a living, breathing, 
 hapless woman, so truly does my conscience acquit 
 me of aught that approaches crime ; so truly have I 
 striven to serve God and my fellow-creatures, in all 
 innocence and uprightness. The enemies of my 
 youth are in their graves j the sorrows of my earlier 
 years have receded into the gloomy past ; but where 
 do I now stand ? Let me declare to you, in the 
 presence of yonder lowering Dominican, that I know 
 
276 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 myself to be on the brink of a precipice, and I know 
 whose fierce hostility hath driven me to it. I refused 
 to acknowledge the unjust election of the Archbish- 
 op of Bari, — a bad man and a cruel one ; * and he 
 hath denounced me, excommunicated me, tampered 
 with the fidelity of my subjects, stolen from me the 
 afi'ections of the son I adopted, poisoned the sweet 
 cup of domestic happiness, threatened me with ruin, 
 and I am in his power. Think not that I speak 
 boldly because unconscious of my danger. I behold 
 with an undaunted eye the melancholy vista opening 
 before me, — dethronement, imprisonment, a bro- 
 ken heart, a premature grave, and a blasted mem- 
 ory. He who can rend Christendom with a fatal 
 schism, make the Church a double-headed monster 
 that distracts the consciences of the pious, forget, 
 in his selfish ambition and unhallowed strife, that 
 the voice of the heretic, Wickliffe, cries scorn even 
 from the shores of his own friendly England, — he, 
 I say, will not hesitate to wreak his malice to the 
 uttermost on a helpless female. Yet, knowing all 
 these things, I do hereby protest, that no creature of 
 
 * " Alle sciagure da cui giaceva oppressa 1' Italia, un' altra assai 
 piu grave se ne aggiunse nel funestissimo scisma, che per tanti anni 
 divise e desolo miseramente la chiesa. Morto 1' an. 1378 il pontef. 
 Gregorio XI,, che avea ricondotta a Roma la sede aposlolica, ed eletto 
 a succedergli, non senza qualche tumulto, Bartolomeo Prignani, Arci- 
 vescovo di Bari, che prese il nome di Urbano VI., questi, colla ecces- 
 siva sua severita, fece ben presto pentire piu cardinali, e i Frances! 
 singolarmente, della elezione che aveano fatta." — Tiraboschi, Tomo 
 v., p. 14. 
 
JOANNA OP NAPLES. 277 
 
 his shall ever mount the throne of Naples while I 
 have breath wherewith to oppose it, nor while the 
 solemn voice of the dead can forbid it. I do hereby 
 revoke the declaration I once made in favor of Charles 
 of Durazzo, my adopted son and intended heir, de- 
 claring that his base subserviency to the designs of 
 Rome, his impatient ambition and black ingratitude, 
 have forfeited my confidence and my affection. And 
 I do hereby transfer all my dominions in Prance and 
 Italy, after my decease, to Louis of Anjou, late Re- 
 gent of France, declaring him my sole lawful heir, 
 and conjuring him to assert and make good his claim 
 to rule my beloved people. As a pledge and memo- 
 rial of my sincerity, worthy Baron de Rocroi, I call 
 all present to witness that I deliver into your hands 
 this document, — the last will and testament of Jo- 
 anna of Naples ; wherein the intentions I have so 
 distinctly expressed are fulfilled. And now, kind 
 and true friends, I would bid God speed you back to 
 dear, happy Provence. Begone, while the sea is 
 calm, and before the hand of the spoiler is out- 
 stretched ; for the purposes of unjust men are more 
 unsteady than the winds or waves. As for the dis- 
 inherited Charles, I loved him like a true woman, 
 faithfully, trustingly, to the last. I could not, would 
 not, believe him false till his own hand rent the band- 
 age from my eyes ; and even now I hate him not. 
 I pity him, my friends, I pity him ; for with agony 
 of soul will he yet atone for the undeserved suffer- 
 ing with which he has wrung this heart. Yet, — 
 
 24 
 
278 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 mark me, — if ever you are told hereafter that I 
 have admitted his unjust claims, believe it not ; even 
 if they place before you an act signed by my hand, 
 regard it as false, or extorted from me by fraud or 
 violence ; — believe it not ; — believe not your own 
 eyes ; — believe nothing but these tears which I shed 
 before you, and avenge them ! " 
 
 The queen descended two steps, and delivered the 
 roll of parchment into the hands of the Baron de 
 Rocroi, who received it on his knee. He then rose, 
 drew his sword, the other noblemen followed the ex- 
 ample, and their manly voices rang through the hall, 
 as they solemnly renewed their oaths of allegiance to 
 their persecuted sovereign. This ceremony over, he 
 approached to take a sad, respectful leave of Joanna, 
 and kiss her unsceptred hand. •• She bade them a 
 kind farewell, and as they passed silently, one by 
 one, from her presence, the tones of that most touch- 
 ing voice yet ringing in their ears, unwonted tears 
 rolled down their cheeks. 
 
 From the moment that the Baron de Rocroi had 
 ascertained the state of affairs in Naples, he had re- 
 solved not to linger a day near its treacherous shores. 
 The crews of his fleet had been permitted to land 
 only to take in a supply of fresh water, at which em- 
 ployment they had toiled through the night and cool 
 morning, and he had promptly demanded a safe-con- 
 duct from Charles, which that prince had as readily 
 granted, under the influence of his recent interview 
 with Joanna. From her presence, therefore, the 
 
JOANI^A OF NAPLES. 279 
 
 French chiefs returned to their ships, and prepared 
 to sail as soon as the afternoon veiito di terra should 
 fill their canvas. 
 
 In the mean time, Father Matteo, with equal de- 
 spatch, had gone in pm^suit of Dnrazzo, burning to 
 communicate the mtelligence of the queen's pro- 
 ceedings, and to seize the moment for striking an 
 important blow. Before he reached the Castello delP 
 Uovo, however, Charles had left it. Restless and 
 unhappy, the victor of yesterday had wandered from 
 place to place ; and as he galloped with a small party 
 of attendants to various parts of the city, under dif- 
 ferent pretexts, the perturbation of his mind was visi- 
 ble in his absent air and troubled countenance. It 
 was not till the afternoon that the monk overtook 
 him, just as he had returned to the Castello delP 
 Uovo, and stood on its battlements, watching the 
 French galleys as they went down the harbour with 
 a prosperous breeze, filling every inch of their white 
 sails. 
 
 '' There they go ! " said Durazzo, with a forced 
 smile ; '' the officious intruders are glad to make us 
 but a twenty-four hours' visit, and back they speed 
 to gay France. If our last tidings be true, Anjou 
 will find work enough for their ready blades on his 
 own soil, without sending them to bluster in a wom- 
 an's cause. I would he had despatched a few old 
 minstrels and troubadours, to cheer us in these anx- 
 ious days ; we would have shown them some royal 
 courtesy." 
 
280 JOANXA OF NAPLES. 
 
 '' You have shown yon knaves more courtesy than 
 beseems your interests, my son," said the monk, bit- 
 terly ; " but their safe-conduct would have availed 
 them little, could I have traced you some hours soon- 
 er ; it is too late now. You have sown the seeds of 
 your own torment." 
 
 " What mean you ? " exclaimed the prince. 
 
 " I mean, that the mischievous and malignant 
 woman whom you handle so gently has prepared strife 
 for your companion these many years ! Yonder fleet 
 galleys carry with them that which shall bring upon 
 you fresh enemies, increasing difficulties, and unceas- 
 ing warfare ! Know you not, — can you not guess, 
 what precious document they transport to the hands 
 of Anjou ? " 
 
 Charles's countenance fell, but he stood mute. 
 
 '' I tell you," continued the monk, " the last sol- 
 emn will of Joanna is in that bark, which leads the 
 van so proudly. It makes Louis of Anjou her heir, 
 and consequently bequeathes to you a goodly inher- 
 itance of strife and bloodshed. Inch by inch will 
 you be forced to contend for these fair possessions, 
 with the chance that at last the hand of your French 
 competitor may rend the crown from your brows, 
 so lately placed there by Urban himself. You came 
 from Rome a newly made king ; you may be driven 
 back to it a hunted fugitive. These are the loving 
 acts of Joanna towards you ! " 
 
 '' Have I deserved aught better at her hands ? " 
 asked Durazzo, turning deadly pale. '' And yet, — 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 281 
 
 that she should make him her heir ! How could I 
 anticipate such a step ? " 
 
 ^' Back, back to Venice ! " said the monk ; " there 
 you were a man and a warrior. Your friends of 
 Genoa have need of you ; for men say that an aged 
 magician hath brought up fire from hell to serve 
 those desperate Venetians, and that with smoke and 
 red flashes he rains down balls of iron upon the 
 Genoese fleet.* Go back to Venice, my son ; think 
 no more of fair Naples and its rich sovereignty ; and 
 as you pass through Rome, stay only to render ac- 
 count to Urban of the massy church plate that he 
 melted down, to hire fresh troops against this dis- 
 obedient woman. Tell him you are no match for 
 her wiles ; that you have not the spirit to curb her ; 
 that you have made her your prisoner, and dare not 
 treat her as such. Tell him that she taunts and in- 
 sults you to your face, and speaks of you with con- 
 temptuous pity ; yet goes free, and, with mingled 
 craft and haughtiness, lays her machinations for your 
 
 * " We may say, this was the most cruell warre that vntill that 
 time euer was seen in the world : for, therein was artillery first of all 
 vsed hy the Venecians ; which was about the yeer of our Lord one 
 thousand three hundred, eighty two, or a little while after. The in- 
 uention of this pestilent scourge of mankinde was attributed to the 
 Germanes : some say that a Monk, who was a great Philosopher, 
 found out the same ; not to that purpose to haue killed and slain men 
 therewith, but with a desire to haue experimented the quality and 
 naturall force of things. Others are of opinion, that it was one Peter ^ 
 a great Magician : but it iniporteth little to knowe who it was; for be- 
 sides the ordinary Historiographers which I follow in this place, ther 
 be many others write thereof" — Grymestone's Imperiall Hislury. 
 24* 
 
282 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 future ruin unmolested. O blindness and infatua- 
 tion most inconceivable ! Well may rumor whisper 
 that she, too, deals in a dark, unhallowed science, 
 which gives her more than human power." 
 
 " What would you have me do ? " asked the per- 
 plexed and wavering Charles. 
 
 His ghostly father gazed steadfastly on his counte- 
 nance, so full of woe and uncertainty, and then, look- 
 ing round at the page of Charles and other attend- 
 ants, who stood almost within hearing, he sunk his 
 voice to a stern whisper, and said, — ''It was but 
 yesterday you threatened to smite the head from the 
 shoulders of him who should speak of a prison for 
 Joanna, yet I dare do it." 
 
 The prince started, and, striking his hand against 
 his forehead, turned from the monk abruptly, and 
 strode away. Father Matteo looked after him ear- 
 nestly, and said to himself, — ''Ay, start at first ! then 
 look askance at the matter once more, — ponder, — 
 become familiar with its aspect, and brood over it, till 
 reluctance vanishes, and you plunge forward with a 
 blindfold desperation. I have her closely immured ; 
 I am as sure of it as if I looked through the grated 
 window of her prison." 
 
 Durazzo left the battlements instantly ; but it was 
 to return to his quarters in the city, where he shut 
 himself up in his apartment for two hours. At the 
 expiration of that time, Father Matteo was sum- 
 moned, as he had anticipated. The door Avas again 
 closed, and their fearful conference protracted till the 
 purple twilight descended over land and sea. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 283 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In the mean time a message came from Joanna, 
 requesting permission to visit her wounded husband. 
 It met with a prompt refusal. Another arrived, de- 
 manding an interview with Durazzo himself. That, 
 too, was refused. It was her heart's desire to solicit 
 the return of her beloved niece, that she might have 
 the consolation of a visit from her in some neigh- 
 bouring convent ; but, indignant at the harsh incivil- 
 ity with which her requests were met, and judging 
 rightly that it boded ill, she forbore to molest her 
 conqueror farther that night. 
 
 As the evening waned, no sleep sat heavy on her 
 eyelids. She dismissed her weary attendants, and 
 placed herself alone at a window of her chamber. 
 The air was peculiarly still and sultry, the sky hazy, 
 and the stars shone with a dim, reddish lustre, as if 
 looking sadly down on a world where they witnessed 
 so much sin and suffering. The monotonous sounds 
 of the waves, continually washing against the castle 
 walls, harmonized with the dejected state of the 
 queen's mind. She had observed that her own 
 guard had been withdrawn, and sentinels substituted 
 from the ranks of those fierce, hireling mountaineers, 
 by whose aid Charles had spread dismay in Naples. 
 She felt herself a prisoner ; and, leaning out from 
 her casement, looked wishfully down to some gar- 
 
284 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 dens beyond the fortress, whose myrtle-groves and 
 pleasant walks reached to the water's edge. There, 
 indeed, an illumination, like the work of fairies, 
 caught her attention for a few moments, as those 
 glittering insects, which light up the summer even- 
 ings of Italy, flitted in myriads among the trees, 
 emitting and concealing their silvery light with the 
 regularity of machinery. The laugh of the thought- 
 less Neapolitans, who strolled in search of coolness 
 at that late hour, came up occasionally to her ear ; 
 and she smothered a sigh as she thought, — " Yes, 
 there is brightness, there is joy yet in the world, 
 though not for me. Are my sorrows so selfish that 
 the thought cannot soothe their anguish ? O, no ! 
 Charles ! Charles ! the parental heart mourning over 
 the misconduct of the being it condemns and loves 
 at once, cannot be selfish ; and mine are the pangs 
 of a disappointed mother. Little dost thou dream 
 of them ; deep and secret are the fountains of these 
 gushing tears. My people, too ; beloved, unhappy 
 people ! what horrors of misrule await ye ! The 
 heartless usurper must needs be a tyrant ; he cannot, 
 he will not, study your welfare as I have done ; and 
 the wealth that should be the handmaiden of re- 
 ligion, charity, and the people's good, will be wasted 
 in bloody, ambitious wars, wherein ye have no con- 
 cern. He cannot rejoice in the quiet arts of peace, 
 with a guilty conscience for ever struggling in his 
 bosom ; and unrighteous contention must be the 
 element in which such troubled spirits move. O 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 285 
 
 my son, my unhappy boy.! my wretched people ! 
 my forlorn and suffering husband ! " 
 
 Forgetting thus the gloom of her own personal 
 situation in the sad prospects of those she loved, Jo- 
 anna yielded in the solitude of night to that sorrow 
 which before the face of man she would have mag- 
 nanimously suppressed ; and laying down her head 
 on the edge of the window, she wept freely. She 
 was unconscious how the hours passed, for the ab- 
 straction of utter affliction sometimes, like that of 
 happiness, makes us forgetful of time. It was long 
 past midnight, however, and repose at last seemed to 
 have settled upon that populous and most restless 
 city, when its stillness was invaded by a strange and 
 awful sound. The queen raised her head suddenly 
 and listened. It was a low, subterranean rumbling, 
 as if a thousand chariots were driven through vaults 
 far beneath the castle, jarring the whole massy fab- 
 ric ; and as it approached from the west, and died 
 solemnly away, her heart seemed to cease beating. 
 It was hushed by awe, not terror ; she knew the 
 voice of the earthquake, which had spoken forth its 
 deep accents not unfrequently daring her reign, but 
 seldom excited alarm, because unattended by serious 
 consequences. It had only reminded the thoughtful, 
 that though they dwelt under the bluest of skies, 
 amid balmy breezes, with a soil beneath their feet so 
 fertile that the whole country was a garden, yet that 
 that soil was but a crust over a vast fiery abyss ; a 
 fact to which, everywhere, the black lavas of former 
 
286 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 calamity bore fearful testimony, and the craters of 
 extinct volcanoes, visible at so many distinct local- 
 ities, gave also their witness. The shock which had 
 roused the queen was not a severe one, and amid the 
 innumerable noises of busy day might have passed 
 unnoticed ; but as she rose, she involuntarily looked 
 towards Vesuvius. The mountain stood calm, silent, 
 and majestic beneath the starlight ; the long sleep of 
 its fires was not yet broken. She remembered that, 
 in the beginning of the century, the volcano in the 
 isle of Ischia had been active ; and though its lofty 
 summit was hid by intervening objects, she turned 
 to that quarter, half expecting to see the heavens 
 glowing with the reflection of the red eruption ; but 
 there, too, the skies shone with their wonted lights 
 alone. It might have been produced by the distant 
 operations of Stromboli, which, as she well knew, 
 had been in a state of activity from time immemo- 
 rial. But the current of the queen's sad thoughts 
 was now broken, and she gave herself up to those 
 reflections on the omnipotence of the Almighty, 
 which, to intellects of a high order, are so absorbing. 
 Lost in sublime reverie, she lingered at the case- 
 ment without a thought of retiring ; when another 
 interruption called back her spirit from its musings. 
 The red light of a torch appeared flaring among the 
 trees, in one of the neighbouring gardens already 
 mentioned ; and presently its bearer, evidently a 
 stripling from the slightness of his figure, emerged 
 from the shrubbery which fringed the turfy margin 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 28T 
 
 of the shore, and wandered along as if searching for 
 something. He soon reached a cypress, whose droop- 
 ing branches swept the water, and, loosing a small 
 skiff which was secured to its trunk, sprang in, pushed 
 off, and plunged his flambeau into the sea. Its sud- 
 den extinction seemed to leave a total darkness be- 
 hind ; and the queen, after listening some time in 
 vain, was preparing to leave the window, when the 
 dash of an oar caught her ear. She leaned out again, 
 and was convinced that the boatman was approach- 
 ing under the castle walls with great caution ; and in 
 a few moments more he shot forth from their shad- 
 ow, apparently satisfied that no sentinels were sta- 
 tioned along the water side of the fortress ; and as 
 the small bark glided silently on the dark waters op- 
 posite her window, she perceived that he stood up 
 and made signs to her. Once she thought he raised 
 his arms as if about to draw a bow; but through the 
 shades of night it was impossible to distinguish his 
 gestures clearly. Aware that she herself was con- 
 spicuous at the window of a lighted apartment, she 
 was persuaded that the stranger must probably rec- 
 ognize her person, and propose to hold conference 
 with her ; but it was not till after watching some 
 time intently that she perceived he was making signs 
 for her to withdraw. She did so ; and the next in- 
 stant an arrow came whizzing past her, and, penetrat- 
 ing the oaken wainscoting of her apartment opposite 
 the casement, remained quivering in the wood. Star- 
 tled and amazed, she looked out again ; the youth 
 
288 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 and his boat were skimming the waves swiftly, and 
 were soon lost in the gloom of night, once more 
 leaving her in utter perplexity. On approaching the 
 arrow, she found a slip of linen paper attached to it ; 
 and the following words solved the mystery. 
 
 " Most gracious Queen, — 
 
 " A secret and deadly foe plots your destruction, 
 and rules the conscience of my poor master. They 
 have held a conference to-night. I know its result, 
 and have striven to rescue you. I have even bribed 
 the rude Hungarian captain of your guard; but when 
 I came to claim admission, scarce an hour since, for 
 the purpose of withdrawing you secretly to a place 
 of safety, I found him trembling with superstitious 
 terrors. The earthquake seemed to him a warning 
 against the betrayal of his trust, and I was forced to 
 retire and seek some method to warn you of your 
 danger. They will come to you with propositions 
 this night ; seem to yield, noble sovereign, or you 
 will be hurried beyond the reach of aid. Gain time ; 
 and by to-morrow night abler heads may plot, and 
 abler hands accomplish, your flight. 
 
 '' Giovanni del Monte." 
 
 " The page of Charles! " exclaimed Joanna to her- 
 self. '' Strange, strange are the chances of this 
 world ! The evil for which we were prepared comes 
 not, but sorrow lights upon us from some other quar- 
 ter ; and so, too, the staff we lean on breaks, and 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 289 
 
 help is extended by a stranger's hand ! Durazzo is 
 my enemy, and takes counsel with the emissaries of 
 Urban ; this unknown, humble boy rises up to com- 
 fort and protect a crowned queen ! Noble youth, 
 I will not peril thee. Thou shalt not entwine the 
 thread of thy destiny with that of my dark and tan- 
 gled fate, nor mingle in schemes that might bring 
 thee to an early and bloody grave. I will use no ar- 
 tifice ; I will ask no delay ; I will face all dangers 
 bravely, which threaten me alone." 
 
 So saying, the high-minded queen tore the paper 
 into small pieces, and cast them from the window. 
 As she stood, with the arrow yet in her hand, uncer- 
 tain how to dispose of it, a noise within the castle 
 broke on the universal stillness. It approached ; 
 doors opened, and heavy feet came trampling on, 
 along the marble floors. Shrieks from the anteroom 
 were then heard, and two of her female attendants 
 who slept there burst into her apartments with di- 
 sheveled hair, and clung to her, looking back with 
 wild terror. The queen, not entirely unprepared for 
 this scene, stood motionless, as an armed knight pre- 
 sented himself on the threshold, apparently uncer- 
 tain whether to advance. On seeing, however, that 
 the queen had not yet retired, but was standing, com- 
 pletely dressed, beneath the antique golden lamp sus- 
 pended from the centre of her apartment, he stepped 
 into the room with an air of deep respect. Behind 
 him, in the doorway, appeared the grim faces of sev- 
 eral Hungarian soldiers ; and as the knight looked 
 
 25 
 
290 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 back impatiently, the cowled head of a monk pre- 
 sented itself also. The quick eye of Joanna dis- 
 cerned it, though in the dim background ; and find- 
 ing that the foremost intruder still hesitated, she said 
 calmly, " I pray you, sir knight, approach, and sum- 
 mon hither the rest of your party, that I may know- 
 to whom I am indebted for a visit so well timed and 
 courteous. How ! The Baron di Castiglione ! — a 
 brave and honorable knight, as I have been wont to 
 think him ! — and in his company the dark -robed, 
 lowering Dominican I marked to-day, and a band of 
 foreign ruffians ! Pleasant and fitting guests to enter 
 a queen's chamber at this dead hour ! It is well that 
 sorrow keeps vigils, or you might have chased gay 
 dreams from my pillow. May I ask what midnight 
 work hath been assigned you by your noble mas- 
 ter ? " 
 
 " Most august princess," began the Baron ; but 
 Joanna interrupted him: — ''Nay, spare the courtesy 
 of soft words, good Baron, when the deeds are so 
 rough." 
 
 The monk now came forward, planted himself be- 
 fore the queen, threw back the cowl from his fore- 
 head, and fixing his sternest glance upon her, said, in 
 a harsh, imperious tone, — "We come from Charles 
 the Third, king of Naples, your sovereign and ours ; 
 and the business that brings us is of import too press- 
 ing to wait for daylight." 
 
 The queen bowed her head slightly and said, — 
 " I know whom you mean to designate by these 
 titles. What is your master's pleasure ? " 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 291 
 
 '' That you sign this document," returned the 
 monk abruptly, extending to her a scroll. 
 
 Joanna took it, cast her eye over it carelessly, and 
 dropping it on the floor, placed her foot upon it. 
 Then drawing her proud figure up to its full height, 
 she inquired, — '^ Is this all ? Know you not that my 
 declaration to the barons of Provence renders all re- 
 cantation useless ? You were present at the inter- 
 view ; you heard my words. You were aware it 
 would be an idle form to subscribe this worthless 
 document ; men would know it to have been extort- 
 ed from me. Shame on Charles to palter thus ! What 
 else doth he demand ? " 
 
 " That you promise to attend the meeting of Ital- 
 ian nobles he will summon to-morrow, and there 
 formally and publicly disclaim your proceedings of 
 this morning, acknowledging yourself possessed of 
 no right to wear or bequeathe the crown of these 
 realms." 
 
 " Hath Charles the shadow of an expectation that 
 I shall so far loose my reason ? Tell him that if I 
 obey his summons, it shall be to his sorrow ; that if I 
 come before the nobles of my country, it shall be to 
 declare my rights, to protest against his injustice and 
 iniquity, to rouse the loyalty and chivalry which are 
 sleeping, not dead, in the bosoms of belted knights. 
 I will not deceive him. It would be my heart's wish 
 to meet him face to face before the world, and make 
 a solemn appeal to God and niankind. These wan 
 cheeks, the accents of truth and injured innocence, 
 
292 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 his own accusing conscience and inward shame, 
 would give me a power over the hearts of my hear- 
 ers, that would reseat me on the throne of my an- 
 cestors. He knows it ; he dares not trust me with 
 such opportunity ; he has no thought of it, and the 
 mockery covers some further meditated wrong. What 
 more ? " 
 
 " The alternative," said the Baron, in a low voice 
 to Father Matteo ; ''tell her the alternative at once." 
 
 "There is an alternative, then? " asked the queen, 
 with some eagerness. 
 
 '' A prison in the Apennines," was the stern reply 
 of the monk. 
 
 Joanna involuntarily uttered an ejaculation of dis- 
 may, and a brief pause succeeded ; then, folding her 
 arms across her breast, and bowing her head, she said 
 composedly, "I choose it." 
 
 "Most noble Joanna," exclaimed the Baron di Cas- 
 tiglione, " think well, I conjure you. What boots 
 vain resistance ? Why struggle with power that must 
 overmaster all opposition ? Bend, while the storm 
 goes by." 
 
 " Never ! The reed in the valley may bend and 
 escape destruction, but the pine on the mountain 
 must break. The storm will not pass while Joanna 
 cumbers the earth, unless the heart of the ambitious 
 man again become that of a child, and he put away 
 evil counsellors, that foster his ruling passions. Few, 
 very few of my own nobles has he bribed or sub- 
 dued ; those who are true to me shall never blush 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. ,293 
 
 for the womanly faintheartedness of Joanna, nor say 
 that she set them the example of subserviency. I 
 reign in the hearts of my people ; and therefore it is 
 that these hollow propositions are sent to me in haste 
 and secrecy, that night may cover the approaching 
 crime. Should he drag me a prisoner through the 
 streets of Naples, beneath open day " 
 
 " Time wears ! " interrupted Father Matteo ; '' our 
 messages are spoken, and her choice is made. Baron 
 di Castiglione, she is your charge." 
 
 " Nay," said the Baron ; '' the business is too 
 weighty for such unseemly despatch. Decide not so 
 hastily, lady: the castles of the mountains are dreary 
 abodes ; and she who has reigned in the most luxuri- 
 ous court of Europe dreams not of the lonely, com- 
 fortless, heart-breaking hours- that await her." 
 
 " Good Baron," said the queen, '' I read in your 
 eye the respectful compassion that my situation 
 claims, and I thank you for it. Pity not me, how- 
 ever ; pity rather your own deluded master. My 
 choice is hasty, not rash. There are emergencies in 
 life when thought rushes with unwonted rapidity 
 through the brain, and the soul distinguishes right 
 from wrong with the lightning glance of intuition. 
 My principles have been years in forming ; their op- 
 eration is instantaneous. Bear me to my quiet pris- 
 on ; and believe not that Charles will be happier on 
 a usurped throne, than I in my unjust confinement. 
 Holy Father, tell him that, as I have bequeathed to 
 Louis of Anjou my dominions, to him I send this 
 
 25* 
 
294 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 arrow ; — so keen, so barbed, shall be the thought of 
 Joanna in his bosom. I am ready. Is it not tiie 
 prince's pleasure that we set forth to-night ? " 
 
 '^ It is so," answered the monk ; " and every ar- 
 rangement is made." 
 
 '' Ay," said Joanna, " it was wisely done ; the re- 
 sult of this visit was easily foreseen. My women, — 
 are they not to accompany me ? " 
 
 '' Not one." 
 
 The queen changed countenance ; and the cries 
 of her attendants again broke forth at this harsh pro- 
 hibition. " It is well," said Joanna, recovering her 
 self-possession ; '' I would not have my poor maidens 
 share my unkind fortunes, though the tenderness of 
 my own sex, and the sympathy of those who loved 
 me, might have poured one drop of sweetness into 
 the bitter cup. Farewell, my faithful friends ! Pray 
 for me. It would have been difficult to break my 
 heart, if cheered in adversity by your affection, 
 therefore you must stay. May you find no harsher 
 mistress than I have been ! Go to Margaret of Du- 
 razzo. They tell me she lies on a sick bed at Rome, 
 but I know that my sweet niece is true to me yet. 
 Carry her my blessing, and say, that could I have 
 
 looked once more on her beloved face Lead 
 
 forward, good Baron ! it is no hour for tears ! " 
 
 So saying, the queen disengaged herself from the 
 weeping women, who still clung round her person, 
 wrapped herself in a large mantle and veil, and refus- 
 ing to listen to further expostulation from Di Casti- 
 
JOANXA OF NAPLES. 295 
 
 glione, followed the monk with a firm step from the 
 apartment. 
 
 Lighted by torches, the party went down to the 
 vaults of the castle, and proceeding through damp 
 passages, which the sunbeam had never reached, and 
 whose solid masonry seemed to defy time and vio- 
 lence, they emerged from the very foundations of the 
 building at the water's edge. A large boat, well 
 manned, was in waiting ; and in a few moments 
 more the queen found herself bounding over the 
 waves that bore her frOm a palace to a prison. The 
 boatmen pulled vigorously, and as their course was 
 due south, in less than two hours she was in the cen- 
 tre of that celebrated bay, the billows leaping about 
 her with the white foam cresting their summits, as 
 the night breeze swept over them ; the glorious am- 
 phitheatre of lovely and classic hills rising indistinct- 
 ly round nearly the whole horizon, — the heights of 
 Capri and Ana-Capri, with their neighbouring prom- 
 ontory before her, becoming every moment loftier to 
 the eye ; Vesuvius on her left, calmly overlooking 
 the whole region like a queen ; and far, far behind 
 her, Naples, buried in repose and darkness, as it lay 
 on the gracefully sweeping northern shore, its situa- 
 tion marked only by a few twinkling lights. 
 
 It was long after daybreak when the party landed 
 on tlie rocks, not far from Sorrento, near a spot af- 
 terwards chosen by the Jesuits for the convent of La 
 Cocomella ; and here a small troop of horse awaited 
 them. Li silence the queen mounted, and without 
 
296 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 casting a glance toward the noble relics of antiquity 
 which grace these shores, then far more perfect than 
 the wandering antiquary of these days beholds them, 
 she rode in the centre of her guards along the fine 
 road, now covered by the encroaching waves. Avoid- 
 ing the populous town, the Baron led the way at full 
 speed across the fertile plain of Sorrento, where all 
 the fruits of summer clustered upon vine and bough 
 over their heads ; and the peasantry, coming forth to 
 their morning labor, greeted them cheerfully as they 
 passed, little dreaming, while the glittering party 
 swept by, that their beautiful and unfortunate queen 
 rode there a disconsolate prisoner. 
 
 When they had ascended the first ridge of the 
 mountains that approached the coast, Joanna profited 
 by a momentary halt to look back ; but the vast and 
 magnificent prospect that lay below only called up 
 agonizing remembrances. The remains of a noble 
 Roman aqueduct, striding across the plain with its 
 lofty arches ; the white villages and gray ruins ; 
 groves of every shade of green ; capes, islands, and 
 the silver sea beyond all, fair in themselves, and hal- 
 lowed by a thousand associations, were stretched 
 forth under a cloudless sky and bright morning sun, 
 that seemed to rejoice in the beauty he beheld ; and 
 her heart yearned over the whole region with a 
 mournful presentiment that she should never more 
 be gladdened by its loveliness, nor minister to the 
 happiness of its population. On they went again, 
 down the steep declivity ; the whole fairy scene was 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 297 
 
 shut from view, and eastward, before them, ex- 
 tended the green Campagna, to the foot of the eter- 
 nal Apennines, rising in gloomy majesty to the very 
 skies. 
 
 Towards the close of the next day, they paused 
 near a monastery at the very base of the mountains. 
 A tremendous pass opened before them, leading into 
 wild, untrodden recesses, from whose depths a tor- 
 rent came rushing down to the plains. The cliffs 
 which overhung the valley, sometimes gray and bare, 
 sometimes shaggy with ancient forests of larch and 
 pine, seemed to the inexperienced eye cornpletely in- 
 accessible ; but far up among the crags, and perched 
 on the very verge of a precipice, the turrets of a 
 solitary'' fortress caught the rays of the setting sun. 
 The evening mist already crept sluggishly along the 
 stream winding in front of the monastery, and as the 
 queen watched the illumination of the loftier and 
 more distant mountain peaks, visible above all nearer 
 objects, the Baron di Castiglione approached her, and, 
 with a countenance full of sad meaning, pointed to 
 the lonely castle, uttering the words, " II Muro.*' 
 Joanna shuddered as she Icoked up earnestly at her 
 future prison, but made no reply. Impatient to trav- 
 erse their dangerous road before nightfall, the Baron 
 allowed but a short halt at the monastery ; yet while 
 they pressed up the perilous ascent, the glowing west 
 faded gradually away ; the gloom of mighty forests 
 hung over them ; and Joanna felt that she was pass- 
 ing through toil and danger to a region beyond the 
 
298 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 reach of succour. More than once their road lay- 
 along the side of the mountain, which rose like a 
 wall on one hand, while on the other yawned a tre- 
 mendous chasm ; and the rude bridges, thrown by 
 the mountaineers over the dashing waterfalls, shook 
 at every step beneath their horses' feet. At last they 
 stood in safety before the barbican of the Castle Mu- 
 ro. A blast of the horn, as in days of yet more 
 ancient romance, was succeeded by deathlike still- 
 ness ; and then the mountain solitudes rang back 
 the unfrequent sound with their clear, sweet echoes. 
 Rude and dark were the towers which rose against 
 the sky ; and presently red torch-light flashed through 
 their few windows. Bewildered and almost stupe- 
 fied by the strangeness of her situation, Joanna was 
 scarcely conscious when the gates were thrown open ; 
 and she crossed the drawbridge, the outer court, and 
 was passing under the heavy gateway of the inner 
 wall, when the harsh clang of the external gate, as 
 it closed behind her, shutting out the world and all 
 it held dear, smote on her heart like a death-knell. 
 Then, indeed, the iron entered her soul ; and the 
 words " God help me ! " escaped her with a deep 
 groan, as the captive queen, amid a throng of wild, 
 banditti-like soldiery, placed her foot on the thresh- 
 old of her prison. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It were vain to attempt details of the trial which 
 now fell upon the persecuted Joanna. The weary 
 monotony of a prisoner's day may be conceived ; but 
 how very weary its unoccupied hours became to her, 
 whose life had been devoted to constant and high 
 employment, full of variety, full of incident, cannot 
 be described. Her imprisonment was, in one sense 
 of the word, solitary ; for though two or three fe- 
 males attended her to perform menial offices, and the 
 commander of the garrison had access to her pres- 
 ence, she found them rough and ignorant almost to 
 barbarism ; and the loneliness of the heart and in- 
 tellect was total ; the affections of the one, the cul- 
 tivation of the other, for a time seemed wasted. The 
 world was not then flooded with books, and none 
 were sent to beguile the irksomeness of her exist- 
 ence. By a refinement of inhumanity, idleness was 
 made part of the discipline intended to break her 
 spirits. Thrown on the resources alone of her own 
 mind, she found memory for ever busy with the past, 
 calling up its checkered scenes with cruel fidehty ; 
 while hope shrank away, because the future had no 
 bright spot to which she could point with her angel 
 smile. The suddenness of the transition at first 
 stunned and benumbed the queen's energies ; and 
 there were hours when she felt that incessant mus- 
 
300 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 ing, still thinking and thinking, without the slightest 
 interruption to reflections so engrossing and bitter, 
 would almost drive her to distraction. But hers was 
 not a mind to be thus unhinged and shattered ; and 
 though there was nothing in her situation which 
 she could grasp at and convert into happiness, she 
 sought refuge from madness in pursuits that could 
 have claimed slight interest under other circum- 
 stances. 
 
 The love of nature, ever strongest in the most 
 finely developed characters, did, indeed, sometimes 
 win her from sorrowful contemplations, as she looked 
 from her lofty turret window on the rugged, moun- 
 tain scenery about the Castle Muro, and watched the 
 effects of ever-changing lights and shadows on the 
 same immutable objects. It seemed to her that the 
 mere creation of clouds alone had filled the world 
 with variety, and given to the broad skies perpetual 
 novelty with their ever-shifting scenery ; while the 
 mountain peaks, sometimes shrouded in mists, some- 
 times glittering in sunshine, seemed almost to lose 
 their identity, so diff'erent was the aspect they wore 
 under various states of the atmosphere. One win- 
 dow of her turret looked down the pass, and com- 
 manded a distant view of green fields, smiling like 
 some calm, remote Elysium ; the other opened to the 
 east a prospect as rough and savage, as if formed 
 only for the abode of the mountain blast, the torrent, 
 and the wild bandit. Thence came the frequent hur- 
 ricane, roaring fearfully as it passed down the gorge, 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 301 
 
 and tearing up the young pines by the roots ; while 
 the aged trunks, that had withstood the storms of 
 centuries, rocked with all their mighty branches in 
 the gale. There, too, in the summer mornings, she 
 watched the timid ibex, that inhabitant of earth's 
 upper regions, tossing her fantastically twisted horns, 
 as she glided along the edge of some aerial cliff, or 
 led her young to drink of the brooks that gleamed 
 through the trees. The autumn saddened around her 
 at last ; and one morning she looked forth, and the 
 mountain-tops were white with snow. Then came 
 on the horrors of the long, long winter. Its inclem- 
 encies reached her ; the fierce music of its storms 
 howled round her lofty dwelling, as she lay thinking 
 of the absent ; and apparently forgotten both by 
 friend and foe, she suflered on for months, silently 
 and patiently, hoping that the frail dust which held 
 her spirit in such bondage would at length dissolve, 
 and that the wild-flowers of the mountains would 
 blossom, with the breath of spring, upon her grave. 
 
 Strong as her mind was by nature, it had derived 
 fresh strength from the development of the religious 
 principle, during her hours of solitary reflection, 
 where God spoke to her through his sublimest 
 works ; and all idle forms and pomps, devised by 
 man, came no longer between her soul and its Mak- 
 er. The purest exercises of devotion, in which her 
 spirit addressed itself spontaneously to the Best of 
 beings for protection and support, had become fa- 
 miliar to her mind ; and without a thought of heresy, 
 
 26 
 
302 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 her faith had been ripened by circumstances, and 
 was in advance of the age in which she lived. The 
 tenets of Lollard ism had indeed reached her ear; but 
 it was her own vigorous reason that had thus taught 
 her to improve her unsought opportunities of medi- 
 tation. In those moments of weakness and despon- 
 dency, to which human nature is ever liable, — when 
 the faces she best loved haunted her waking dreams, 
 until homesickness seemed to melt her very soul, — 
 then came, too, that consoling confidence in Infinite 
 Goodness, which had been born of wise reflections 
 on past events. Happy are those to whom a pause 
 in life's bustle is allowed, that they may ruminate 
 and learn for themselves how various are the garbs 
 which mercy wears, how inexhaustible the resour- 
 ces against sorrow which are granted in the privi- 
 lege of addressing ourselves to our Father in heav- 
 en. The heart of the Catholic queen became filled 
 in her solitude with the piety expressed in these 
 later days from a New England pulpit, with such 
 beautiful simplicity, — " Can he murmur who can 
 pray ? " 
 
 As the spring opened, more than one haughty mes- 
 sage from Durazzo broke upon her solitude, demand- 
 ing written concessions and acknowledgments, which 
 her sense of duty still forbade ; and she refused com- 
 pliance in a tone of calm dignity, and with an im- 
 perturbable sweetness of manner, which astonished 
 and melted his ambassadors. No murmur or re- 
 proaches escaped her lips ; no petitions for relief mo- 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 303 
 
 lested her conqueror ; no vehemence marked her de- 
 portment. Resignation, not sullenness, was in that 
 tranquil air ; and though her aspect showed that she 
 had suffered, those who held intercourse with her by 
 the command of Durazzo left her with a feeling of 
 deep, involuntary reverence for one who seemed ex- 
 alted rather than crushed by earthly calamity. 
 
 In the mean time a winter of wretchedness had 
 passed over the usurper's head. Opposition and diffi- 
 culty had met him at every turn. The crown sat 
 uneasy on his brows ; for not one moment of peace 
 had his bosom known, since the coveted prize had 
 been won. Continually in arms against the enraged 
 nobility of the kingdom, who, with few exceptions, 
 had embraced the cause of Joanna, — harassed by 
 the demands of Urban, who imperiously claimed the 
 promised domains of Capua for his nephew, which 
 it was out of his power to bestow, — shut out from 
 domestic enjoyment by the illness of his wife at 
 Rome, and the unsettled state of his affairs, — domi- 
 neered over by his confessor, who had ascertained 
 the weak points of his character, and, made insolent 
 by success, played on his ambition, his superstition, 
 and his impetuosity Avith masterly skill, — Charles 
 became daily more eager for power, more reckless 
 of the means by which it might be gained, more 
 remorseless as he looked back on the steps already 
 taken. The gentler traits of his moral constitution 
 were obliterated, one by one, as he rushed along his 
 downward and bloody career. His cheerfulness van- 
 
304 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 ished ; his temper became soured ; his heart grew 
 heavy and cold, and the open smile of his earlier 
 and better days was gone for ever from his counte- 
 nance. Unable to shake off the irritating conscious- 
 ness of his guilt, yet panting still for its fruits, the 
 gallant Prince of Durazzo was fast becoming the 
 selfish, relentless tyrant. So the opening spring of 
 1383 found the conqueror of Joanna. 
 
 It was early in the month of April, that Francis 
 Prignano, or Butillo, as he is styled by some histori- 
 ans, the nephew of Urban, returned to Rome, after 
 a long excursion, and accidentally learned that the 
 Princess of Durazzo yet lay there, the victim of 
 some lingering malady. The threat of his cruel rel- 
 ative flashed on his recollection, and a feeling of 
 compassion for the youthful sufferer stirred his heart. 
 Urban was absent from the city, and the opportunity 
 was not to be lost. A secret intimation was con- 
 veyed to the princess's trusty attendants ; the pre- 
 scriptions of the Pope's physicians were neglected, 
 and before the return of his Holiness, the evident 
 amendment in the strength of the princess allowed 
 them to transport her privately from his dominions, 
 and she was conveyed to the genial atmosphere of 
 Baiae. Here her health rapidly improved. 
 
 It was at this period that the aged and palsy- 
 stricken Wickliffe was lifting up a voice from his re- 
 tirement at Lutterworth, which rung more clearly 
 through Christendom as the hour approached which 
 was to hush its accents for ever ; and this, too, was 
 
 « 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 805 
 
 the year in which the hot-headed young Henry 
 Spencer, Bishop of Norwich, undertook his mad cru- 
 sade in favor of Urban against the Lollards in Flan- 
 ders ; while the schism which so fatally degraded 
 the dignity and lessened the power of the Catholic 
 Church went on fiercely, and the Pope of Rome, en- 
 grossed with so many other cares, had no leisure to 
 think of protracting the separation of Margaret from 
 her husband. Father Matteo rejoiced that, w^hile 
 Charles was fighting in the southern part of his do- 
 minions, against rebellious barons, she was not like- 
 ly to seek him ; and she, thus overlooked in her 
 hours of convalescence, unceasingly laid fond plans 
 to reclaim her unhappy lord to the paths of honor, 
 duty, and virtue ; so hard is it for woman to credit 
 the utter extinction of good principles in the heart 
 she has prized ; so true is it, that the veriest repro- 
 bate may find in the bosom of mother or wife some- 
 thing that still hopes and pleads, when all mankind 
 beside may have delivered him over to his sins and 
 their consequences ! 
 
 The tumultuous state of the country kept her for 
 some time inactive ; but at last tidings reached her, 
 that Durazzo had been defeated in a severe skirmish 
 among the Calabrian wilds, and was about to return 
 to Naples. She determined to set forth without de- 
 lay, and, accompanied by a strong escort, to meet him 
 near the mountains which encircled the Castle Muro. 
 In this hour of defeat and discouragement, she trust- 
 ed that an appeal to his reason and his heart, in the 
 
306 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 very neighbourhood of his august captive, might un- 
 bar the gates of that prison, give back their queen to 
 a distracted people, restore peace to her husband, and 
 long-forgotten happiness to herself. 
 
 The gloom of twilight was fast obscuring the 
 landscape round the monastery of Santa Maria, on 
 the evening of May the twenty-first, when the dis- 
 pirited and weary troops of Durazzo came filing 
 through the mountains south of the plain. They 
 were to halt for the night near the base of those 
 cliffs which were crowned by the gray turrets of II 
 Muro ; and Charles, acquainted with the localities of 
 these regions, approached to take possession of the 
 quiet little monastery, which stood in the centre 
 of the plain, without daring to look up at the pris- 
 on of his benefactress, as it frowned on him from 
 the heights, which, on the east, bounded the level 
 grounds. His march had been hurried and toilsome ; 
 for the snows, melting among the Apennines, aided 
 by heavy rains, had swollen every brook to a torrent ; 
 and the roads, at all times steep and rough, had been 
 rendered almost impassable by masses of earth and 
 rock, and fallen trees, strewed over them by the 
 waters and winds. He followed in the rear of his 
 troops, mounted on a jaded horse, who stumbled 
 with fatigue under his master, as he descended the 
 last hill that swept down to the plains ; and with 
 his head sunk on his breast, the rider vented the 
 moodiness of his mind in frequent ejaculations of 
 impatience at the worn-out animal. Changed, — 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 307 
 
 changed, indeed, was the whole outward aspect of 
 that warrior, within one short twelvemonth. He 
 was clad yet in the complete steel, whose fashion 
 had just superseded that of mail, when the introduc- 
 tion of artillery threatened to render it as useless as 
 it was cumbrous ; but he no longer bore himself 
 aloft with the noble, chivalrous air of his more vir- 
 tuous days. The solid helmet pressed no more heav- 
 ily on his brows than of yore ; but he was weighed 
 down by the consciousness of guilt, which lay on 
 him as a mighty burden, and still more by that 
 which he deemed a necessity for crimes yet more 
 fearful. His closed visor hid a face darkened by the 
 terrible meditations of his soul. 
 
 His evil genius came to meet him under the om- 
 inous shadows of the primeval forest ; Father Matteo 
 had awaited him for some hours at the monastery, 
 and now rode forth to communicate tidings which 
 were of no small import. 
 
 " What is that you say ? " exclaimed Durazzo, 
 starting from a sullen reverie ; " Louis has crossed 
 the Alps ? — and with what force ? " 
 
 " Rumor tells so wild a story," answered the priest, 
 " that we can lend her little credit. They say the 
 plains about Bologna shake under the tramp of thirty 
 thousand cavalry." 
 
 '^ Impossible ! impossible!" cried Charles, '-unless 
 some wily sorcerer hath called up armed knights and 
 chargers from the ground, to take the field for An- 
 jou." 
 
308 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " Ay," resumed the monk, '' and whirled them 
 through the air across those Alpine barriers. But 
 allowing for all probable exaggerations, we may well 
 fear that he brings with him a force sufficient to ac- 
 complish his avowed object," 
 
 " And what may that be, if not to war on us ? " 
 
 " His immediate purpose is to release Joanna from 
 her confinement." 
 
 Durazzo's gesture indicated his surprise and anger, 
 but he made no reply. 
 
 " There are tidings also from the city," continued 
 Father Matteo, after a brief pause. '' I left it be- 
 cause I saw that the Wild Horse* of Naples grew 
 restive ; and a courier, this afternoon, brought news 
 of an insurrection among that idle and innumerable 
 populace." 
 
 ^' We will carry them snowballs from the moun- 
 tains," said Durazzo, with a sneer ; '' it is easy to 
 cool the fever of Neapolitan patriotism with a little 
 iced water." 
 
 Father Matteo shook his head. ''Their Queen 
 Joanna, as they style her, still sits on an invisible 
 throne in the bosom of each poor man in the city. 
 The affections are spiritual, my son, and you will 
 find it hard to use sword and lance against these 
 shadowy opposers." 
 
 '' Peace ! I pray you, good father," exclaimed 
 Charles ; "I will take order with these lounging 
 
 * An emblem on the banner of the Neapolitan populace. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 309 
 
 knaves. Came not Castiglione with you to meet 
 me?" 
 
 '' He hath declared against you." 
 
 '' He, — Di Castiglione ! " cried the usurper, with 
 unconcealed dismay ; — " the man I have trusted 
 agaia and again ! He that has fought battle after 
 battle by my side ! I gave him charge of my wife, 
 when she came last year to meet me ; I commis- 
 sioned him to carry yonder headstrong woman to 
 her cage, because I thought his gentle courtesy fitted 
 him for such task ; but I deemed him true as steel. 
 Are you well advised of what you say ? " 
 
 " I am," replied the monk, with a laconic cool- 
 ness, which was peculiarly irritating to his fiery com- 
 panion. 
 
 '' And what more ? Come, — these are all refresh- 
 ing tidings after a defeat and a weary day's journey. 
 Have you no more blessed news for me ? I shall 
 sleep soundly after these anodynes." 
 
 " Di Castiglione has tampered with the barons 
 who gave you the preference over Anjou, because, 
 they said, no Frenchman should wear the crown of 
 Naples ; and three of them — the very three whom 
 you lately sent with propositions to yonder castle — 
 have joined him in his revolt." 
 
 " So, so ; our prospect brightens apace ! She has 
 but to look upon my best followers with her proud 
 smiles, and the bonds of their allegiance dissolve. I 
 think we will send her no more messengers, — no 
 more false-hearted barons ; you shall deal with her, 
 good father. Were it not wise ? " 
 
810 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 '' They say," resumed the priest, •' that the hard- 
 ships of this winter have undermined her health ; 
 that she hath been ill." 
 
 '' 111 ! " repeated Durazzo, his dark eye flashing 
 through his visor. " You have spoken one word of 
 pleasing import at last. She is of flesh, — and all 
 flesh must fade ; she will not live for ever. Ay, ay; 
 when she perishes from my path, all other obstacles 
 will shrink aside, or be as nothing. What is her 
 malady ? " 
 
 " Men will call it a broken heart ; a tedious dis- 
 ease, my son." 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the prince impatiently ; — 
 "hath she no burning fever? — no wasting consump- 
 tion in her blood ? — nothing that promises her a 
 speedy deliverance from those high walls ? " 
 
 " Nothing of that sort. I said she had been ill ; 
 but it was some slight, passing distemper, that hath 
 already left her ; the rumor thereof, in all likelihood, 
 will excite fresh sympathies in her behalf. If the 
 eagles of the air carry her tidings of all that is un- 
 dertaken for her release, she will begin a new life ; 
 for the hope of freedom is an efficient cordial for the 
 sick captive." 
 
 " Freedom ! " muttered the chieftain ; " there is but 
 one freedom for her." 
 
 '' I would her sickness had been unto death," said 
 Father Matteo ; " at this crisis it might have been 
 your salvation." 
 
 He made this remark thoughtfully, and with a 
 
JOAXXA OF NAPLES. 311 
 
 side glance endeavoured to observe its effect on his 
 companion, but the sudden halt of the prince startled 
 him. The flush of sunset had long since died away, 
 but a pale, amber light yet lingered on the western 
 horizon ; the new moon and the evening star hung 
 there, side by side ; and as the two riders emerged 
 from under the trees, Charles, turning upon his com- 
 panion, threw up his visor, under the soft radiance 
 of that most beautiful hour. Never was there a 
 more fearful contrast with the tranquillity of nature. 
 If the iron frame of that monk could have shaken 
 with human feeling, he would have trembled as he 
 looked on the dreadful expression of Durazzo's feat- 
 ures. " Father Matteo ! " said the unhappy man, in 
 a low, hollow voice, " look on me and read what is 
 in my heart ! You have the fiend-like power to pen- 
 etrate its gloomy recesses, and call its unformed pur- 
 poses of evil into being. Tell me how to shape its 
 present designs ! " 
 
 The crafty monk saw that he was no longer called 
 on to suggest iniquity, but to aid in its accomplish- 
 ment ; the triumph of the Prince of Darkness was 
 complete over the once struggling victim, and the 
 work was nearly done. With wary hesitation, he 
 gazed on the prince irresolutely, as if uncertain how 
 to understand him ; but Charles exclaimed more ve- 
 hemently, — " Why do you not answer me ? You 
 do, — you must comprehend ! Is there more than 
 one deed that hath no name ? " 
 
 " My son," replied the monk, " I have said that 
 
312 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 the death of Joanna would be your salvation ; do I 
 understand you now ? " 
 
 Durazzo shuddered and looked round wildly, as 
 the night breeze came rustling through the forest be- 
 hind them. " Who goes there ? " cried he ; " have 
 we not listeners in the coppice ? " 
 
 " Noj" said the monk calmly ; '' you are agitated, 
 my brave prince. Be composed, and let us talk de- 
 hberately of your affairs. They are in an unpromis- 
 ing state assuredly ; the juncture is perilous." 
 
 " Perilous ! " interrupted Charles, "it is desperate ; 
 it drives me wild. I tell you, the storm breaks from 
 every quarter at once, and I will endure its buffetings 
 no more. That woman," — and he ground his teeth 
 and raised his gauntleted hand towards the dark 
 mountain, where a twinkling light pointed out the 
 turret of Joanna, — '' that woman is a thorn in my 
 side, — an arrow in my flesh, — a canker at my 
 heart's core. Her influence comes out from her sol- 
 itary cell, and baflies me everywhere, winning prince 
 and peasant by the mere magic of her name. While 
 that proud heart of hers throbs with life, there is 
 neither peace nor prosperity for her successor ; no 
 stability for his throne ; no security for his days. 
 See you not this, father ? " 
 
 " I have seen it long," replied the monk. 
 
 '^ And can I bear it ? " 
 
 " Not if you are a man, with energy enough to 
 snap the mere cobweb that entangles you." 
 
 '^ I could burst chains of forged steel ! It is not 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 313 
 
 the rage of a moment that nerves my arm. No, 
 good priest ; for many days and nights past, my 
 mind has been working, — working, — taking dead- 
 Her hues from the troubles that darkened around me. 
 And though I dared not look steadfastly on my own 
 purposes, as they flickered like horrid phantoms in 
 the void of the future, I knew to what I must 
 come. I rode last night among these savage moun- 
 tains till daybreak ; and what think you banished 
 hunger, thirst, fatigue ? What followed at my 
 horse's heels, wailing in my ears continually, as we 
 trampled along the rocky defiles ? Some unseen 
 demon, good father, whispering murder ! murder ! 
 all the livelong night." 
 
 The priest smiled : — " This form of frenzy bodes 
 some spirited deed, I acknowledge," said he ; '' but 
 the how, the when, the where, if your courage 
 hold ? " 
 
 '' They must be matters of prudent deliberation," 
 said the prince ; " and as soon as I have crushed 
 
 these gnats at Naples " 
 
 " Pardon me," interrupted the monk ; '' there is 
 yet another item of intelligence I had wellnigh for- 
 gotten. The queen comes to meet you." 
 
 '' The queen ! " repeated Durazzo ; '' what queen? " 
 
 " The queen Margaret, — your royal consort." 
 
 '' And what brings her into these wild mountains ? 
 
 Why has she not waited my summons ? These are 
 
 no times for itinerant princesses, when lances scour 
 
 the country in every direction. What seeks she ? " 
 
 27 
 
314 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " I hear her errand is to solicit the liberation of 
 your prisoner." 
 
 " Is. it so ? We will not encounter her soft plead- 
 ings ; we will take another road." 
 
 " You cannot well avoid her ; she and her train 
 lodge this night at Capanna. It was her purpose to 
 meet you here ; but the weariness of her children 
 compelled her to halt at ten miles' distance, and she 
 will join you early to-morrow morning." 
 
 '^ She must not ; — she shall not ! " 
 
 "Nay," said the monk, "it may matter little. She 
 may come too late." 
 
 "How? — how so?" asked Charles, somewhat 
 bewildered. 
 
 " Why," replied- Father Matteo, " your prisoner 
 has had a most well-timed indisposition of late. It 
 may return, — it may prove fatal, — it may save 
 your fair queen the trouble of those eloquent expos- 
 tulations from which you shrink." 
 
 "To-night? — do you mean this very night?" 
 asked Charles in a whisper, again looking fearfully 
 round, as if conscious that the very stones of the val- 
 ley ought to cry out against such foul conspiracy. 
 
 "Is not your purpose fixed?" said his companion. 
 " Is not the deed to be done ? Is not your condition 
 such as to make it, not only a matter of policy, but 
 necessity ? Will you have the folly and feebleness 
 to procrastinate for a single day the one bold stroke, 
 which cuts the knot of your embarrassments ? Shun 
 not this queen of yours ; it would excite suspicion. 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 315 
 
 Let her come hither to-morrow morning. Meet her 
 boldly, and let her hear the message which will come 
 down from II Mm'o before the dew is off the grass. 
 Take my counsel once more, my son ; for if you have 
 not the courage to do, at once, what you perceive to 
 be fitting, it will never, — never be done ; and your 
 destruction is at hand. Mark my words. I have not 
 prompted you to the deed ; but I declare that noth- 
 ing else can save you. I offer to conduct the trans- 
 action with such secrecy, that the world shall never 
 cry aloud, — Charles did it. Stealthy whispers, 
 vague surmises, may be stifled ; — as yonder fair- 
 spoken Joanna might testify, from the dark experi- 
 ences of her own early life." 
 
 " Priest ! priest ! " exclaimed Charles, '' tell me 
 one thing ; tell me truly. Was it not all foul cal- 
 umny ? Is her conscience heavy with a husband's 
 blood ? Do you believe it ? " 
 
 " I <fo," replied the monk with solemnity. 
 
 Durazzo looked him earnestly in the face a mo- 
 ment, and then his head sunk on his breast, as he 
 groaned aloud. " I do no^," said he. '• Would to 
 God that I could ! I would give half this realm to 
 know that there was a shadow of just retribution in 
 this dreadful measure, — to feel myself the avenger 
 of innocent blooS ; but it cannot be ! My conviction 
 of her blameless uprightness rests on the close inter- 
 course of years, when in the free, unguarded com- 
 munion Let us speak of it no more. Her soul 
 
 will need few masses, when I have sent it to the 
 
316 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 long account, — and mine, — good father, — you will 
 shrive me ! You will give me absolution ! Blessed 
 be the power of the Church ; there is no crime be- 
 yond the reach of its mercy." 
 
 " Crime ! " said the monk impatiently ; — " what 
 speak you of crime ? Could you do the Church bet- 
 ter service, than by thrusting this rebellious and ma- 
 lignant child out of existence ? Is not the seal of 
 perdition upon her ? Look for wreaths of gold and 
 palms of glory, my son ; for you do but perform the 
 will of Heaven in this matter. Blind and ignorant 
 men might cast censure on you, therefore let it be a 
 deed of privacy and darkness ; but from the great 
 Head of the Church, from Urban himself, approba- 
 tion, assistance, and all manner of favor will descend 
 upon you. Trust me ; he that lays low the haughty 
 head of Joanna does God and man service." 
 
 During this conversation, the two riders had re- 
 sumed their journey, and had now reached the south- 
 ern bank of the stream, which meandered through 
 the valley from east to west. The monastery of 
 Santa Maria stood on the opposite side, and farther 
 up ; but the only access to it was over a slight wood- 
 en bridge which they were approaching ; and as they 
 caught the glimmer of its waves, dancing in the 
 moonbeams, they perceived the river was swollen, 
 till the water laved the very edges of the rough 
 planks, and at times washed across them. Branches, 
 and even trunks of trees, hurried along by the rapid 
 current, were accumulating on the upper side ; and 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 317 
 
 after recorinoitring it a few moments, as they halted 
 under the willow-trees, Durazzo and his companion 
 crossed it singly and cautiously, lest it should be 
 swept from under them. Soon afterwards, finding 
 themselves among the soldiery, they postponed their 
 fearful theme till Charles had taken possession of a 
 friar's cell in the monastery. There, forbidding all 
 intrusion, he summoned his confessor to his side 
 again ; and there, in that quiet retreat of simple 
 piety, shut in by stone walls, which had been raised 
 to exclude all earthly temptations from its tenants, 
 and surrounded only by the emblems of religion, he 
 resumed the unhallowed consultation. We will fol- 
 low its details no more. 
 
 In the mean time, the page of Charles, who had 
 been sent forward by his master to the monastery 
 before the sun set, had become impatient and anx- 
 ious, on seeing that the waters continued to rise as 
 evening came on, and he had gone back to meet 
 him. Crossing the little bridge, he had sat down be- 
 neath the willow-trees, and almost exhausted by the 
 fatigues of the recent march, as he awaited his mas- 
 ter, he looked up at the stars, shining through the 
 long, slender, waving branches, with eyes that, in 
 spite of himself, closed in momentary slumber. In 
 vain he struggled against it, straining his ears to 
 catch the distant tread of horse. The waves mur- 
 mured by him with a most lulling sound ; the tall 
 sedges, not yet under water, rustled in the breeze ; 
 the gleaming light from the tower of Muro, on the 
 
 27* 
 
318 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 mountain, seemed to recede, and become a star in 
 the dark sky ; and all things gradually assumed a 
 shadowy and dreamy aspect, till a profound sleep fell 
 irresistibly on his eyelids. He woke not till roused 
 by the tramp of steeds close at hand ; and as he 
 started up, the harsh voice of Father Matteo struck 
 his ear, uttering the too intelligible words, — " He 
 that lays low the head of Joanna does God and 
 man serviced His blood ran cold; — he remained 
 immovable, concealed in deep shadow, while his 
 master and the monk, unconscious of his presence, 
 debated on the security of the bridge, finally crossed 
 it, and rode out of sight, leaving him petrified with 
 dismay, as he pondered on the ominous words. His 
 resolution was soon taken. He knew that Margaret 
 was at Capanna ,* and rushing once more over the 
 tottering bridge, with a fleet, light step, he procured 
 a horse among the officers, pretending that he was 
 despatched by his master, and instantly took the 
 road down the river-side to the village. It was not 
 necessary to cross the stream again ; and long before 
 midnight, he stood in the presence of the amazed 
 wife of Durazzo. 
 
 She heard his tale with speechless horror ; and 
 then repelled with indignation the suspicion that her 
 lord would yield to suggestions so barbarous. 
 
 " You know him not as he now is ! " exclaimed 
 the youth ; " believe me, gentle lady, my beloved 
 master is an altered man. You have not watched, 
 as I have done, the terrible change stealing over him 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 319 
 
 for months past ; his temper, — his heart, lady, — so 
 hardened. Come to him, I implore you ! You alone 
 can soften it ; you alone can counteract the influence 
 of that dreadful priest. Have mercy on your hus- 
 band and on the royal captive ! " 
 
 The agitation of Giovanni could not be witnessed 
 without exciting some sympathetic alarm, and Mar- 
 garet at last assented. " If you warned me that he 
 was but threatened with a dangerous malady, I 
 should fly to him ; surely the evil that endangers 
 soul, instead of body, is more fearful ; — and it may 
 be, — it may be, — that he yields. Holy Virgin, aid 
 me ! I will go." 
 
 Leaving the greater part of her train to follow 
 with her children next day, Margaret left Capanna 
 at midnight, and rode up the river-banks under the 
 protection of Giovanni and a few chosen horsemen. 
 Sad and silent was the little journey. The road in 
 many places was covered with water, so that the 
 party were obliged to take higher ground, forcing 
 their way through thick aloes, while every moment 
 of delay seemed intolerable to those whose anxiety 
 and impatience increased the more they reflected on 
 the circumstances in which Durazzo was placed. 
 Giovanni observed with pleasure that the surface of 
 the stream was covered with wrecks, which testified 
 that the force of the current had carried away the 
 bridge, nearly opposite the monastery ; — and when 
 they reached the spot, he pointed out the fact to his 
 royal mistress, assuring her that the destruction of 
 
320 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 the bridge must have prevented all passage to the 
 road that led up among the mountains. 
 
 '' He can have sent no messengers to II Muro this 
 night," said the page, with a lightened heart, as he 
 assisted the trembling lady to dismount at the con- 
 vent gate. The door was opened before they had 
 demanded admittance ; but it was to give egress to a 
 tall, dark figure, which started back at first, on meet- 
 ing them, and then, with mufiied face, passed hastily 
 out, and disappeared in the gloom. Giovanni looked 
 suspiciously and anxiously after it, and then urged 
 the admission of the queen to her husband. It was 
 in vain. The friars obstinately refused to disturb the 
 prince, who had expressly forbidden all intrusion 
 upon his solitude that night ; and the vehemence of 
 the youth, the pathetic entreaties of Margaret, were 
 alike wasted. She was, however, conducted to a 
 cell, and there left alone, by a monk whose charity 
 and hospitality could carry him no farther. Repose 
 she could not ; but as she kneeled at her devotions, 
 awed by the stillness which prevailed ere long 
 through the cells and cloisters of the whole build- 
 ing, it seemed to her that something stirred near her 
 door. A soft tap was presently heard, and as she 
 opened it, an aged friar presented himself, with a 
 light in his hand. " Daughter," said he, ''I was 
 once in the world, till its sorrows drove me hither. 
 I had a wife, as young, beautiful, and loving as 
 thou art ; and while she walked with me on earth, 
 she made me a better man. For the sake of her 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 321 
 
 memory, dim in my soul for many years till this 
 night, I will lead thee to thy husband. Use thy in- 
 fluence well, daughter, — for therefore did God be- 
 stow it. Beauty is a holy gift, and the woman that 
 views it aright forgets vanity, and trembles at her 
 responsibility." So saying, the mild old man, with 
 a noiseless step, moved along the passage, and pla- 
 cing the lamp on the floor near a door which stood 
 ajar, he cast one more compassionate glance at the 
 fair creature, who trembled as she approached a hus- 
 band's presence, and whispering, '-'Linked to a man 
 of blood, — I pity thee ! " he withdrew. 
 
 Margaret paused for a few minutes to summon 
 strength. Not a sound came from the apartment ; 
 a light glimmered within, but it seemed as if the 
 repose of death must be there. Arousing all her 
 courage, she at length pushed the door open slowly, 
 and stood on the threshold. The bare walls within 
 were feebly lighted by a candle, waning in its sock- 
 et. As its blaze rose and sunk, uncertain shadows 
 flickered about the room, and the mournful efiigy of 
 a suff'ering Saviour, which hung on the wall, seemed 
 its only occupant. Margaret took up her own lamp 
 and advanced a few steps, when she discovered the 
 prostrate figure of her husband, stretched on a rude 
 pallet of straw in a corner. " He sleeps ! " thought 
 she joyfully ; " could he sleep if he purposed such a 
 crime ? " Her reflections were broken by a convul- 
 sive shudder, which passed over the limbs of Du- 
 razzo, and a stifled groan. '' It is troubled sleep," 
 
322 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 she thought again ; and, placing her lamp on the 
 rough table, she drew near him, and perceived that 
 his attitude was not that of slumber. His face was 
 buried in the pillow ; his hands locked over his head, 
 as if he had thrown himself down in agony. She 
 stooped, and softly whispering, '' Charles ! " she 
 touched one of those burning hands with hers. At 
 that sound and touch, he sprang up on his knees, and 
 glared on her with a livid face, and eyes that seemed 
 starting from their sockets. Appalled and speech- 
 less, she stood trembling, till, in a hoarse and almost 
 inarticulate voice, he demanded, — " Margaret ! is it 
 Margaret ? " 
 
 " Surely, — it is your wife," replied she ; '' none 
 other would dare come to your side unbidden. But, 
 O Charles ! is it thus you welcome me ? Do you 
 not know me, beloved ? " 
 
 His eyes wandered about so wildly, that for an in- 
 stant a surmise of his insanity crossed her mind, and 
 she retreated a few paces, when he leaped up, and, 
 seating himself on the side of the couch, placed his 
 hands before his face, as if striving to recollect him- 
 self. " Margaret here ! " said he again ; — " and how 
 is that ? Whence came you ? " 
 
 '' From Capanna," replied the princess ; " have I 
 done wrong to seek my lord uncalled? O my be- 
 loved husband ! we meet not as we once did ! " 
 
 " And I am not what I was ! " cried Charles, in a 
 softened tone ; and as he looked on her steadfastly a 
 few moments, the wildness passed from his eyes ,* 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 323 
 
 they even filled with tears. " Beautiful, — though 
 pale ! — sweet and gentle as ever ! " said he. '' Thou 
 hast been ill, my wife ; — and our separation has been 
 long ! " He held out both his hands to her, and she 
 threw herself on his neck, weeping without restraint. 
 Again and again she attempted to speak, but a fresh 
 burst of emotion checked her words ; and Charles 
 held her in silence, till the violence of her feelings 
 was expended. When she became calm, she rose 
 and looked in his face, smiling through her tears 
 with the same innocent expression he remembered 
 so well in the April days of her childhood ; but a 
 change had passed over his countenance ; — the de- 
 mon was there again. He almost threw her from 
 him as he cried, — " Smile not on me, Margaret ! 
 What have I to do with angels ? Go, go ! — leave 
 me ! It is my pleasure to be alone. Gave I not or- 
 ders " Margaret clasped her hands supplicat- 
 
 ingly, and again approached him ; but in a voice of 
 thunder he repeated, " Leave me, I say ! What 
 brought you hither ? Who gave you entrance ? " 
 
 ''Dearest, — dearest!" said Margaret, still cour- 
 ageously drawing closer to the frantic man, though 
 he lifted his clenched hand, as if actually about to 
 deal a furious blow on her temples. Such daring, in 
 a creature so soft and naturally so timid, smote him 
 with a nameless sensation, that overpowered all wild 
 passions, and he remained immovable, till she imper- 
 ceptibly sunk at his feet, threw back the dishevelled 
 locks from her face, embraced his knees, and re- 
 
324 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 mained with upturned countenance, mutely implor- 
 ing forbearance, such tenderness beaming from her 
 eyes, that a heart of stone must have been melted. 
 
 His arm dropped. " Margaret ! Margaret ! " said 
 he, " thou hast grown bold ! Whence comes this 
 new-found courage ? " 
 
 '' Do I not love thee, Charles ? " 
 
 ^' Even yet, — my wife ? " 
 
 '' Till death." 
 
 " No, — no, — no ! Deceive not thyself ; thou 
 canst not love me always. Were I unworthy of 
 thee, couldst thou love me ? " 
 
 '' Thou shalt not be. It was to ward off evil, be- 
 loved, that I came hither. Thou hast erred much, 
 and they told me that temptation had again beset 
 thee ; therefore nothing had power to daunt me, — 
 to keep me from thy side. O Charles ! the deeds 
 thou hast done since we parted are dreadful ; but it 
 is not too late to retrieve all, — not too late to repair 
 the wrong, and be again happy." 
 
 " Woman ! woman ! " cried Durazzo, fiercely ; 
 " thou knowest not what thou sayest ! For what 
 purpose camest thou hither, demon in a seraph's 
 shape ? To mock me ? — to hiss at me ? What 
 brought thee hither, I say ? " He gazed on her 
 with fixed eyeballs, and, from the darkened corner in 
 which he stood, they glared like a tiger's ; but he no 
 longer beheld a quaking suppliant, ready to sink at 
 his feet. 
 
 Some new feeling had rushed over the mind of 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES, 325 
 
 Margaret, and though she became pale as marble, 
 she stirred not, she trembled not, but met his maniac 
 stare with an expression of countenance he had nev- 
 er seen her wear before. " Charles," said she, '' I 
 came hither to save thee from thyself Why do I 
 find thee mad, — mad, my husband ? What crime 
 hast thou been ruminating upon, by the midnight 
 lamp, till thy noble reason is almost unseated? Think 
 of it no more ; — think only of me. Rejoice that I 
 have come between thee and thy meditated crime." 
 
 Charles gnashed his teeth, and rapidly muttered in 
 a low tone, — " Art thou not come too late ? " 
 
 The words had hardly struck her ear, when Mar- 
 garet disengaged herself from him, sprang to the cen- 
 tre of the room, and turning upon him a face of hor- 
 ror, asked in a whisper, fearfully distinct, '' Am I the 
 wife of a murderer? Stand back till I am answered. 
 Heaven breaks our vows if it be so." 
 
 '• Then they are cancelled ! " was the half-suifo- 
 cated answer of Durazzo. 
 
 Margaret uttered not a word ; the veins in her 
 forehead swelled, and she gasped for breath. 
 
 Charles, suddenly rousing himself from his stupor, 
 exclaimed, — '' What have I said ? Margaret ! — 
 Margaret ! believe it not. Did I say I had murdered 
 her ? No, — no, — she lives yet, — it may be. / 
 have struck no blow." 
 
 " Durazzo ! " said the princess, " trifle not with 
 me. What hast thou done ? It is remorse that al- 
 most maddens thee, and think not to keep thy fatal 
 
326 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 secret from a wife. The guilt undivulged for years 
 will escape thy lips, and cast thee from me at some 
 future hour of agony ; for never, never, will I 
 
 knowingly share the fortunes of O Charles! 
 
 I cannot utter that fearful word again. Tell me ; 
 what hast thou done ? " 
 
 Still Durazzo sat in sullen silence. The sugges- 
 tions of the page flashed on her mind. " Hast thou 
 sent orders to yonder mountain to-night ? " she asked. 
 The look with which he answered her told enough ; 
 and clasping her hands, she cried in a tone of joy, — 
 '' Heaven be praised ! I have not come too late. No 
 message can have passed that swollen stream, and O 
 my husband ! thou art saved from anguish unuttera- 
 ble and eternal." 
 
 '' What mean you ? " exclaimed the bewildered 
 Durazzo. 
 
 '' That God hath interposed, — that the wild work 
 of the elements hath been merciful to thee. The 
 bridges have been swept away ; and if thou hast in- 
 deed been in the power of evil spirits, and hast sent 
 bloody commands to II Muro, they cannot have been 
 transmitted." 
 
 Charles rose, but stood perplexed, his faculties 
 confused by a revulsion of feeling so unexpected. 
 " Art thou sure ? " asked he, at last, abruptly. 
 
 '' I saw the wrecks with my own eyes," replied 
 Margaret ; " I saw the stream unspanned by the 
 handiwork of man, as it hurried foaming through 
 the plain ; and your own page told me, no man 
 could have crossed it this night." 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 327 
 
 *' But he will seek a passage higher up," said Du- 
 razzo. 
 
 " Then fly ! — fly at once ! " exclaimed the prin- 
 cess; '' whoever may be your bloody courier, he must 
 have met with embarrassment and delay ; he may be 
 overtaken. O Charles ! I found thee in purgatory, 
 but if there is paradise on earth, thou shalt know 
 it to-morrow night, when looking on thy bloodless 
 hands. She who loved us so fondly will forgive 
 thee, — O, speed ! speed ! Why dost thou delay ? " 
 
 '' Down, busy fiend ! " muttered Durazzo to him- 
 self, still fixing his eyes on the floor, a dark and ter- 
 rible irresolution sitting on his brow. 
 
 " Thou dost not hesitate ? " cried Margaret, aston- 
 ished and terrified. '' Then Satan is indeed here, 
 though mine eyes behold him not. Good saints and 
 angels, defend us ! " 
 
 ''Margaret," said Durazzo, ''her life is my earthly 
 ruin, — my death ! " 
 
 " Believe it not ! " cried Margaret, something of 
 Joanna's noble spirit flashing from her beautiful face ; 
 "it is the foul fiend that whispers it. And what if it 
 be so ? Come death ; come any thing but guilt and 
 eternal remorse ! Husband of my youth, rather 
 would I hang over thy bloody corse, and know that 
 those beloved eyes would never look on me again, 
 so that thou diedst innocent of this foul, irreparable 
 crime ! ' Then the memory of thy virtues would 
 minister comfort. Let me rather wear the widow's 
 garment of mourning than live to shudder at thy 
 approach ! " 
 
328 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 '' Callest thou this the language of love ? " said 
 Charles, bitterly. 
 
 " Ay, of love the purest, the most exalted ; — love 
 that adores, hopes, pleads to the last, contend- 
 ing and struggling with sin itself for thy salva- 
 tion ; — love that is quicksighted to thy true digni- 
 ty and happiness ; — love that foresees thy coming 
 agony of remorse, and trembles even at the earthly 
 retribution that will overtake thee ; — love that clings 
 to thee on the very brink of a precipice ! When thou 
 hast fallen, — then, indeed, virtuous love must for- 
 sdke thee, a ruined and degraded wretch. Start not ! 
 Since all higher appeals fail, hear this ! Wife as I 
 am, — fond and faithful wife, — mother of thy chil- 
 dren, — Durazzo, I declare to thee, that, polluted 
 with the murder of a benefactress, the cold-blooded, 
 ungrateful, deliberate assassin shall forfeit all rev- 
 erence, all homage, all affection, from the woman 
 that once adored him ! He shall search for her in 
 bower and hall, and find her not, to share the fruits 
 of his sin and infamy. No, Charles ; thou mayst 
 revel amid empty pomps if thou canst, but thy bro- 
 ken-hearted wife shall kneel at the foot of the cross, 
 in some lonely convent, forsaking thee and the 
 world, to drag out her days in penitence for anoth- 
 er's crime. O noble and wretched Joanna, is this thy 
 reward ? Is it by a cruel, violent death thou must 
 pass from a life of many sorrows? Charles, couldst 
 thou have the heart to look on her dying agonies ? 
 Couldst thou behold those eyes closed for ever, that 
 
JOAXNA OF NAPLES. 329 
 
 beamed so kindly on thee, knowing thyself her mur- 
 derer, and ever hope for peace again ? Picture her 
 lying, this moment, cold and lifeless at thy feet ; and 
 then remember the hour of thine own dissolution, 
 fearful and frantic with the pangs of remorse, — per- 
 haps bloody, unconsoled, deserted by man, frowned 
 upon by the unutterable wrath of God ! Thou must 
 die, Charles ; thou knowest not ivhen ; but be it to- 
 morrow, or in a decrepit old age, the memory of this 
 very moment, fleeting so swiftly by us, will be with 
 thee then. It speeds, — it speeds ; — it will be gone, 
 never to return ! O, seize it, my wretched husband ! 
 It hurries thee to perdition, and I cling to thee in 
 vain. O Joanna ! more than mother ! when his 
 children ask me of thy death, what shall I say ? 
 Have mercy on us all, Charles ! Cover not thy in- 
 nocent offspring with ignominy. Leave me not to 
 shudder, when I speak to them of their father ! 
 Hath any man a right to bequeathe shame to his chil- 
 dren ? Have mercy on thyself ! it is for thine own 
 soul, for thy salvation, I plead ; and the invisible 
 God, who hears and sees us this moment, will re- 
 member these tears against thee ! Yet I would die 
 any death, to save thee from this complicated guilt ! 
 Thou yieldest ! I see it in thy softening aspect ; — 
 the cloud passes from thy brow ; — thy lip quivers, 
 — thou art saved ! Holy Mother, be praised ! Guar- 
 dian angels are about us, and the discomfited fiend 
 retires ! " 
 
330 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 " Thou, — thou art J indeed, my guardian angel, 
 glorious, inspired being ! " cried Charles. 
 
 '' Give not me the honor," said Margaret ; " but 
 haste, — fly, — trust no messenger, — go in person. 
 If I am worthy to be her sister's child, let me look 
 once more on that august countenance. Come to 
 me with forgiveness from her living lips upon thy 
 brow, or never approach me again. Nay ; bring her 
 from the prison that dishonors thee ; or the wife 
 of Durazzo becomes the bride of Heaven ! — And 
 thou, image of a suffering Saviour, listen to my 
 vows ! " 
 
 As she spoke, she threw herself exhausted before 
 the crucifix. Durazzo cast but a single glance on 
 her kneeling figure, on a face pale with the anguish 
 of the scene and streaming with tears, and on eyes 
 uplifted in fervent faith. He rushed from the cell, 
 and Margaret heard his rapid steps as he fled along 
 the cloister, — the eager voice of Giovanni, — the 
 loud demand for his war-horse. Then came the bus- 
 tle among the soldiers, — the trampling of the char- 
 ger, — the furious gallop, dying away in the distance, 
 — the gradual subsiding of the confusion within 
 doors, and all was again still. It seemed like a 
 dream. She prostrated herself in prayer, till nearly 
 an hour had passed away ; then she arose and re- 
 turned to the cell the friars had appropriated to her, 
 and at its door found the page, his countenance 
 beaming with joy. " All will go well," cried he. 
 " The priest had but left my master when we ar- 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 331 
 
 rived. The caitiff took with him four Hungarians ; 
 he durst not ask such service of Neapolitans ; and 
 they rode up and down the river-bank, vainly seek- 
 ing boat, bridge, or fording-place. Then they as- 
 cended the pass to a narrowing of the stream, and 
 there cut down trees and threw them across. I 
 tracked them so far and returned, told the king as 
 he came forth, and he galloped thither at once. He 
 will overtake them, lady ; they must delay to fell 
 trees from time to time, as they pass the mountain 
 torrents, and he will press unchecked over their 
 bridges ; — all is safe ! By the gray light of dawn, I 
 saw his white charger but now, as he passed the face 
 of the Black Rock, nearly half way up the moun- 
 tain side; he cannot be far behind them." Margaret 
 clasped her hands thankfully, and retired to bear her 
 suspense, where solicitude of the most intense nature 
 is always best endured, — in solitude. 
 
 Giovanni was right. The monk had been delayed, 
 finding no passage across the swollen stream ; but, 
 bent on fulfilling his atrocious mission, he had gone 
 higher up the river, where it issued from the gorge 
 between two wooded cliffs, that nearly met over its 
 bed ; and here a few trees, hastily felled, had allowed 
 him and his ruffians to reach the opposite bank, far 
 above which rose the solitary fortress. Charles, act- 
 ing once more under the better impulses of his na- 
 ture, pursued his own myrmidons furiously ; yet so 
 long had been the interval between their departure 
 from the monastery and his own, that his heart al- 
 
332 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 most sickened with despair, as he followed their 
 tracks up the steep ascent, and dashed over the rude 
 bridges they had constructed. Higher, they seemed 
 to have met with less to delay them ; the old bridges 
 had not been carried away by the upper brooks ; and 
 the perspiration stood on his brow, as he emerged 
 from the forest-trees which encircled the lower re- 
 gion of the mountain. Raising himself on his stir- 
 rups, he looked over the stunted firs and gray rocks ; 
 — not a figure was to be seen moving up the melan- 
 choly waste. The mists of the valley had not begun 
 to ascend, and the air around was so pure, so full of 
 light from the yet unrisen sun, that he seemed to 
 have reached the very birthplace of the morning. 
 No matin-song of birds, as on lower earth, welcomed 
 the approaching god of day; nor did the wild scream 
 of the still slumbering eagle break the silence of 
 those awful solitudes, — a silence more dreadful than 
 the voice of battle to the conscience-smitten man, 
 who felt as if his guilty soul were here brought alone 
 face to face with his Maker. Onward he pressed, 
 and the noble animal he rode strained every nerve 
 against the steep ascent, now striking fire with his 
 hoofs, as he clattered over the rocks, now bounding 
 along the boggy interval, where the short Alpine 
 grasses and wild-flowers yielded to his hurricane pas- 
 sage. By snatches the pleadings of his weeping 
 Margaret haunted the fierce rider, and the words, 
 " Picture her lying cold and lifeless at thy feet ! " 
 sounded ever and anon in his ear, while, at each fresh 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 333 
 
 pang of remorse and terror, he goaded the snow- 
 white flanks of his charger till the blood streamed 
 from them. Occasionally the towers of II Muro 
 came in sight, clearly defined against the morning 
 sky ; but in vain he eyed them ; they told no tales 
 of the work doing within their dark circuit. He 
 knew not if the murderer's step had yet touched 
 their threshold, or whether their noble inmate still 
 slumbered peacefully, unconscious that the wing of 
 the destroying angel waved so near her. 
 
 He reached at last a spot where the road narrowed 
 almost to a footpath, made a sharp turn round a cliff", 
 which rose high on his right, while on the left a 
 steep slope led down to the brink of a fearful chasm. 
 Heedless of the dizzying abyss, as he was about to 
 wheel rapidly round the projecting angle of the rock, 
 he almost came violently in contact with the person 
 of a man descending on foot. It was the monk ; his 
 cowl thrown back, — his face more ghastly than usu- 
 al, — his eyes wild. Both for a moment gazed on 
 each other as if thunderstruck, and then Durazzo, 
 though his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of 
 his mouth, demanded abruptly, " Is it over ? " 
 
 '' No ; she lives," replied the monk, attempting to 
 put his hand on Charles's bridle, — " but " 
 
 Durazzo stayed not to hear the sentence complet- 
 ed ; again he plunged the spurs into his nearly spent 
 charger, and rushing violently between Father Mat- 
 teo and the rocky wall on his right, turned the cor- 
 ner and continued his upward course. He heard 
 
334 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 not the cry that followed him; he knew not that the 
 shock had thrown the miserable monk upon the 
 slope, on whose verge he was standing. It was 
 smooth and slaty ; its inclination almost perpendic- 
 ular ; not a shrub, not a blade of grass, grew upon it, 
 and as the wretch alternately slid and rolled down, 
 in vain he clutched the pebbles that filled his grasp, 
 without staying his destruction. He was at the 
 brink of the precipice, — he was gone ! Yet he had 
 time to know and feel the complete horror of his sit- 
 uation. Below the verge of the cliff, a few young 
 trees sprang from the interstices of the rocks, on one 
 of which the falling monk seized with a frantic 
 grasp. One look upward at the blue sky with fleecy 
 clouds sailing across, — a single shuddering glance 
 downward. The roar of the cataract came up dis- 
 tinctly ; he saw the white foam at the bottom of the 
 gloom ; he felt the shrub to which he clung bend- 
 ing, — giving way, — and heard the earth and stones 
 around rattling and thundering down the face of the 
 precipice. For an instant, like flashes of lightning, 
 the recollection of crime and terrors of judgment 
 darted through his soul ; in another moment all was 
 over. In the midst of health and strength, in the 
 full possession of his faculties, and conscious of his 
 situation, the bad man went to his account. When 
 the heats of summer dried up the mountain torrent, 
 the wolf and the bird of prey alone knew where his 
 bones lay, amid the rocks of a lonely defile, untrod- 
 den by the foot of man ; and a rumor went abroad 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 335 
 
 that the ambitious Dominican, the proud confessor 
 of Durazzo, who had disappeared so mysteriously 
 from amidst men, had perished by the hands of the 
 lawless banditti of the Apennines. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Refreshing had been the slumbers of Joanna on 
 the night preceding the twenty-eighth of May ; and 
 pleasant dreams had hovered about her pillow, bring- 
 ing round her the scenes and friends of her youth. 
 The beautiful face of Philippa, the Catanese, whom 
 years before she had fondly cherished with the friend- 
 ship of unsuspecting girlhood, — whom she had seen 
 torn from her arms to perish in tortures, — had smiled 
 upon her again and again, amid her visions ; and as 
 she awoke at daybreak, the lovely phantom seemed 
 to melt gradually away, still smiling and beckoning 
 her ; while, above and in the background, the yet 
 more celestial countenance of the Holy Mother looked 
 down on the dreamer with an aspect that breathed 
 peace and consolation. 
 
 She rose, not to mourn over the vanishing illusion 
 and at the harsh realities about her, but to kneel in 
 gratitude, because happy dreams were not shut out 
 from the prisoner, — because unseen protection had 
 guarded her slumbers and cheered her drooping spirit. 
 
336 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 Her late indisposition had passed away, and an ex- 
 hilarating perception of returning strength — a lux- 
 ury unknown to one who never experiences sickness 
 — ran through her veins. She stood at her favorite 
 window, which looked eastward into the very heart 
 of the mountain scenery, and as the dappled skies 
 gradually brightened with crimson and gold, a thought 
 of the vain earthly pomps in which she had once 
 taken such delight stole into her mind. " Idle and 
 frivolous were ye all ! " she said to herself, " and mer- 
 cifully was I drawn away from snares and tempta- 
 tions. When the work is done, — when the spirit is 
 purified, — then will it be called away. But as yet, 
 earth holds something to which it cleaves. Could I 
 but linger to speak one cheering word to Otho, — to 
 embrace my beloved Margaret once more, — to kiss 
 the fair brows of her children ! Could I but see my 
 poor, deluded, miserable Charles, once more touched 
 with penitence, his hard heart softened like the rock 
 in the wilderness, and gushing again with pure afi'ec- 
 tions ! Cannot the God, who smote the firm granite 
 with the prophet's rod, work a moral miracle ? — Why 
 am I haunted with such fond fancies ! Let me not 
 beco.ne a dreamer, when the heavens are flooded 
 with the broad light of day. Enough for visions in 
 the dead hour of night, when the eye sees not, when 
 the hand is weary, and the senses crave their neces- 
 sary repose." 
 
 So saying, she shook off the inclination for melan- 
 choly reverie which was stealing over her, and with 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 3d7 
 
 one admiring glance at the mists which had covered 
 the valley like a sea, and were now climbing up- 
 wards in silver wreaths, she turned energetically to 
 her morning tasks. A single volume in Latin, the 
 production of a venerable father of an earlier centu- 
 ry, had lately found its way to her aerial prison ; and 
 she often amused herself with committing passages 
 to memory, or reading it aloud in choice Italian, for 
 not in vain had she been educated in the court of 
 her grandfather, Robert of Sicily, the patron of re- 
 viving literature. Thus employed she sat ; and as 
 she read, she slowly unbound the thick tresses which 
 were now bearing testimony that sickness and trou- 
 ble silver the dark locks of woman no less than time. 
 The last few months had changed them much ; but 
 it was with a faint smile, not with a sigh, that the 
 most beautiful female of her day looked on the token 
 of her fading loveliness. Like all strong-minded 
 women, she had never prized the flattery that chose 
 her person for its theme ; but had sought from the 
 wise and good that approbation which age could not 
 forfeit ; and she neither mourned what was lost, nor 
 triumphed in the consciousness that her majestic 
 beauty might even yet have dazzled a courtier's eye. 
 In the midst of these quiet occupations, she heard 
 the immense door unbarred, at the end of a long 
 vaulted passage, leading to her apartment. It was 
 the customary sound at this period of the day ; but 
 there was an unusual violence in the haste with 
 which it was thrown back, and the footsteps ap- 
 
338 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 preaching along the stone floor were heavy and 
 many. '' Another embassy from Charles ! " she said 
 to herself; " it is an uncommon and unseemly hour. 
 They must bring me tidings of pressing importance. 
 O, could it be that among the mysterious vicissi- 
 tudes of life, Anjou hath terminated my captivity, 
 and my freedom were at hand ! Be quiet, throbbing 
 heart ! " 
 
 Striving to conquer the emotion with which this 
 thought — so natural, yet so wild — tinged her cheek 
 and brightened her eye, she surveyed the opening 
 door of her apartment. Those without held a whis- 
 pering consultation ; it seemed as if they hesitated on 
 the very threshold ; but her suspense was not long. 
 Four strangers entered, one by one, — silently ar- 
 ranging themselves along the wall. Theirs were not 
 the well-known faces of Neapolitan barons ; their 
 limbs were clad neither in the glittering armour nor 
 the silken tunic of the nobles ; she missed even the 
 familiar, dark eye of Italy, which might have spoken 
 some encouragement. Foreigners, — Hungarians, — 
 hired ruffians ! she read them and their fatal business 
 at a glance, and a sudden sickness of the heart for an 
 instant came upon her. It was not in human nature 
 to look, without apprehension, on death, approaching 
 so unexpectedly, with violence, perhaps with torture. 
 But though she involuntarily pressed her hands to- 
 gether, clasping the crucifix which always hung at 
 her girdle, she neither started up with undignified 
 terror, nor uttered a single ejaculation. Three of 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 339 
 
 the men gazed on her with cold and curious eyes ; 
 she saw no token of sensibility or humanity there, 
 to which she might appeal ; they were of the lowest 
 rank of society, utterly abandoned and inured to 
 crime. Their leader alone appeared embarrassed and 
 unable to meet the eye of Joanna, as if capable of 
 appreciating the magnanimity with which she seemed 
 prepared to encounter her fate. After waiting in vain 
 for him to disclose his errand, she herself broke si- 
 lence at last. " You are a stranger to me, — a for- 
 eigner. Do you speak Italian ? " 
 
 The man answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " Then if your business be with Joanna of Naples, 
 she is before you ; unfold it." 
 
 He still hesitated, — looked at the door, — at his 
 followers, — and began. '' Lady, I am not wont to 
 shrink from that which I undertake ; but the gold 
 that has bought my services this day will be hardly 
 earned. I know not how to look upon you, and re- 
 member the reward that is to banish my poverty." 
 
 " I understand you ; my hour is come. Tell me 
 only by whose order a life of sorrows is to close in 
 blood." The Hungarian shook his head. " You are 
 forbidden to speak a name so high ? It is an idle 
 mystery. My prison walls are protection to me 
 against all save one, and his authority alone can ad- 
 mit the hired assassin to my guarded cell. But it is 
 best ; — the sound of that name, as the sanction of 
 such a deed ! — let me not hear it. Would I had 
 died peacefully on yonder couch, and spared his soul 
 
340 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 this last leap into sin and misery ! I could not have 
 believed, — could not have dreamed it ! I will not 
 think of it, — for the departing spirit should be calm. 
 Stranger, by what mode is it your will that I should 
 pass from this troubled scene of shadows ? " 
 
 ^' It is the pleasure of those who sent us hither, 
 that no mark of violence remain on your person." 
 
 " I thank them for the unintentional grace ; so 
 much of the woman and the queen remains un- 
 crushed, that I should have shrunk from the fierce 
 handling of your ruffians. Alas! — idle thought! — 
 say on." 
 
 '' We are ordered to allow your Majesty a choice 
 between three deaths," said the man, awed into the 
 use of a term, which had but seldom reached her ear 
 of late. 
 
 She repeated the word sadly after him. '^ There 
 is but 07ie Majesty, and no mortal eye hath seen 
 that. I rejoice that I have never forgotten it. Go 
 on." The captain pointed without speaking to the 
 pillows of her couch. She understood him, and 
 shuddered. " Suffocation ! — that is indeed a death 
 of struggles ! Four men to stifle down the breath of 
 one helpless woman ! O, no ! — no ! " 
 
 '' The castle well is deep, — it is full of water, — 
 but that, too, is a fearful death," said the same man, 
 his aspect softening more and more. 
 
 Joanna paused ; — for a moment the innate love of 
 life stirred in her heart. " If yonder misguided prince 
 should repent ! " said she ; ''he was ever the victim 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 341 
 
 of impulse. He is violent as the winds, and as un- 
 steady. Two hours' delay may bring countermand- 
 ing orders." 
 
 The man shook his head impatiently, and darted 
 an anxious glance at the door, from whence a harsh 
 voice was heard exclaiming, — '' Stilicho, — speed ! 
 speed ! I charge you." The relenting murderer re- 
 membered his .price, and hastening to the door re- 
 ceived from the hands of some unseen person a silver 
 cup, which he presented to the queen, saying in a 
 low voice, — " Let this be your choice, — it is sure, 
 but quiet." 
 
 " What ! by my own hand ? " 
 
 '' If you reject the cup, remember how rudely 
 the deed must be done. There is no escape, — no 
 delay possible. Spare me, noble lady, the most hate- 
 ful part of my vile office. I was not always what 
 I now am ; and my heart once more beats with the 
 feelings of a man. I conjure you, force me not to 
 order those degraded wretches to lay hands upon 
 you." 
 
 " He has chosen his instrument ill," said Joanna, 
 searching the countenance of the Hungarian with a 
 lingering hope. 
 
 '' No," replied he, averting his face ; '* I cannot 
 save you, — and time presses." 
 
 Joanna's eyes filled with tears as she took the cup, 
 and said solemnly, — '' Appear not at the judgment- 
 seat against him who has laid this burden on thy 
 soul ! O my unhappy, parricidal child ! I bow to 
 
 29* 
 
342 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 the dreadful necessity, and choose as best I may. 
 The deed is not mine ; I only strive to meet, be- 
 comingly, the death I cannot avoid. Even in this 
 awful moment, let me not forget to thank him who 
 performs his task with no brutal roughness. Is it 
 forbidden me to hope for the rites of religion ? Is 
 there no priest sent to shrive the departing soul ? " 
 Stilicho signified to her that there wiis not. An ex- 
 pression of bitter disappointment escaped her : — ''I 
 would fain have manifested my reverence for religion 
 with the last act of my life. It is well, — all is well. 
 There is mercy inexhaustible, to which my heart 
 whispers that even the unshriven sinner may ap- 
 peal." 
 
 So saying, she sunk on her knees, lost in devotion. 
 There was no agitation perceptible in her frame ; she 
 seemed about to commend herself calmly to Divine 
 protection, at the approach of quiet sleep ; and after 
 a brief exercise of the spirit, she again rose with an 
 almost superhuman dignity in her motions. '' I am 
 strengthened ; — I am ready ! " said she ; and throw- 
 ing back the locks which concealed her countenance, 
 bright already with the hues of immortality, she lift- 
 ed the cup of poison, and for a moment surveyed the 
 dark liquor it contained earnestly. As she raised it 
 to her lips, the door opposite opened, and Father 
 Matteo presented himself, haggard with anxiety and 
 impatience, and ready to utter one exclamation of 
 triumphant revenge as he looked on her despair. She 
 paused only to greet him with a smile of celestial 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 343 
 
 sweetness. '' Father ! there is no pride, no anger, 
 on the grave's brink ! Tell him I forgive him. — 
 that I have prayed for him, — and may God pardon 
 you all ! " With these words, she drank the deadly 
 liquor to its dregs, and then regarded the group with 
 the same heavenly serenity as before. 
 
 The monk stood cowed, — trembling, — before 
 her. He had not intended to witness such a scene ; 
 and so unexpected, so unearthly, was the aspect of 
 his victim, as she stood full in the stream of red sun- 
 light from the eastern window, which seemed to cast 
 a glory round her brows, — so touching, yet so sub- 
 lime, was the sweetness of her address to him, that, 
 for the first time in his life, he felt that he had a con- 
 science^ — a fearful thing to deal with ; for the first 
 time in his life, the majesty of virtue broke upon his 
 mind. One moment he stood in dumb horror, his 
 knees knocking together, and then, turning about, he 
 fled, panic-stricken, from the walls of II Muro. His 
 horse had dropped under him at its gates on his ar- 
 rival, and he rushed wildly down the mountain on 
 foot, a thousand passions making a pandemonium of 
 his breast. His fatal rencounter with Durazzo has 
 been described. 
 
 For a short space after the departure of the monk, 
 an awful stillness was in the chamber of crime. The 
 three Hungarians, whose services the use of the poi- 
 son had rendered needless, retired at a signal from 
 their leader ; the just risen sun looked in upon the 
 motionless queen, who had seated herself near the 
 
344 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 open window, and, with her eyes fixed upon the cru- 
 cifix, appeared again absorbed in mental exercises 
 most fitting her condition ; while Stihcho leaned 
 against the doorway, struggling with the new and 
 strange sentiments of reverence and compassion, 
 which the events of this day had developed in a 
 bosom not entirely hardened. Suddenly Joanna ut- 
 tered a faint cry of pain, putting her hand to her 
 side ; but as the Hungarian started involuntarily for- 
 ward, she smiled sadly, and said, " It is gone ; — it 
 must return again ; but it is gone for the present. 
 I would say one thing more before my tongue shall 
 lose its office. They have doubtless bound you to 
 secrecy. Keep your vow. A dying woman adjures 
 you to spare the fame of her murderer, — for the 
 sake of his innocent wife and children. Tell no 
 man that my death-arrow came from the hand that 
 should have closed my dying eyes with filial tender- 
 ness. Alas, Charles, — the draught was sweet com- 
 pared with the gall of that thought ! You promise 
 me ? — that is well. It is better my people should 
 believe that I sickened, and died, and went calmly 
 to my rest. It is true ; I am ill, — I am ill ! Would 
 it had been sent of God ! but I can bear it pa- 
 tiently." 
 
 She then leaned against the high-backed chair, and 
 closing her eyes meekly, she pressed the emblem of 
 her faith to her lips ; but another stab of pain soon 
 forced her to moan aloud, and as she looked upward 
 imploringly to heaven, Stilicho saw that her pale- 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 345 
 
 ness had increased. Falling on his knees before her, 
 he exclaimed, — ''Let me depart. I cannot bear it. 
 I have looked on death many a time, — but not on 
 such as this. Let me depart ! " 
 
 Compassionately the queen turned to the subdued 
 man of guilt, as she answered, — " Ay, it is better 
 that you should go. Forbid my women to come 
 hither till noonday ; then they will find me sleeping 
 indeed. I would that no heart should be wrung by 
 witnessing the sufferings through which I must pass. 
 Will they be long, think you ? " 
 
 " I know not," said Stilicho ; " the monk prepared 
 the draught." 
 
 " Why do I ask ? " added Joanna. " Eternity 
 alone is long ; moments and hours are nothing to me 
 now. O, begone ! these pangs come fast and keen. 
 Repent, — and be forgiven. Trust not the absolu- 
 tion of priests. Nay ; / forgive you, but that, too, 
 is the forgiveness of frail humanity, — of kindred 
 dust. Go ; for the venom works fast." Stilicho 
 saw tokens of its dreadful efficiency in the increas- 
 ing lividness of her complexion and in her dilating 
 eyeballs. He, too, hurried, shuddering, from her 
 presence ; — and Joanna of Naples was left to strug- 
 gle alone with death ! 
 
 Half an hour passed away ; she still breathed ; but 
 her limbs were becoming cold and lifeless ; stupor 
 was upon her open but dull organs of vision, and her 
 arms hung down powerless by her side ; yet con- 
 sciousness had not altogether left her. Her lips 
 
346 JOANNA OF NAPLES. 
 
 moved occasionally, and a gleam of intelligence now 
 and then shot from those orbs, which once beamed 
 light from the pure soul within ; the spirit seemed 
 loath to quit its fair shrine. At last the sacred still- 
 ness was again broken by the sound of approaching 
 footsteps. The queen heard them ; there was some- 
 thing familiar in the sound. She struggled to rise ; 
 and as she sat upright, stiif, and with the counte- 
 nance of a corpse, Charles of Durazzo appeared on 
 the threshold, himself hardly wearing the semblance 
 of a living man, so wan and spectre-like was his as- 
 pect. With an unearthly cry he rushed forward and 
 fell at her feet, — and then, suddenly rising again, 
 exclaimed, — '' Thou art not dying, — thou must not 
 die ! " He looked wildly about the apartment, — 
 ^' I see them not ; I see no mark of intrusion here, — 
 I am not, then, too late ! Thou art ill, my mother? " 
 " Ay, ill unto death, Charles ! Thou hast called 
 me back from its shadows ; but they gather, — they 
 gather." Her speech faltered, and her sight grew 
 dim again ; but she pointed to the silver cup on the 
 table. Charles looked at it, — at his expiring ben- 
 efactress ; there was unutterable anguish on his face, 
 and he covered it with his hands ; but a bright smile 
 irradiated the features of the queen, as she mur- 
 mured, — '' God hath spared my reason, — and I see 
 thee mourn thy crime. Could I but have spoken one 
 word to my brave husband, — to my sweet Marga- 
 ret ! To die is not dreadful, Charles ! Heaven hath 
 permitted me to behold thy tears, — and I go where 
 
JOANNA OF NAPLES. 347 
 
 there is mercy. I would not return, — I would not 
 return ! " The words died inarticulately on her lips, 
 as thus, thoughtful of others to the last, she soothed 
 the sinner's remorse. Charles endeavoured to sup- 
 port her, when, writhing with a sudden return of 
 pain, she attempted to sink on her knees, but in the 
 effort fell heavily forward from his enfeebled arms, 
 and lay dead at the feet of her murderer ! 
 
 The Hungarians had been guided down a shorter 
 path to the valley by some mountaineers ; and when 
 the wretched Durazzo once more reached the monas- 
 tery, a rumor was already circulating, that the queen 
 had died of a sudden illness. Margaret had heard 
 and understood it, and, shunning her guilty husband, 
 was already on her way to take shelter in a distant 
 convent. Once in her after life she appears on the 
 page of history, as regent during her son's minority. 
 The young Giovanni, alienated from the master he 
 had loved till so foul a crime repelled the most en- 
 during affection, had fled to Otho, who, cured of his 
 wounds and released from prison, was hurrying to 
 join Louis of Anjou. 
 
 The body of the lamented Joanna lay in state in 
 the church of Santa Chiara, bearing no external mark 
 of violence ; where the tears of a grateful and idoliz- 
 ing people bewailed her unmerited sorrows, and moth- 
 ers, as they looked on her marble features, thinking 
 that so much beauty, genius, magnanimity, and vir- 
 tue would never again be vouchsafed to them in the 
 form of an earthly sovereign, read the solemn lesson, 
 
348 JOANNA OF NAPLES. , 
 
 and forbore to ask of Heaven those external advan- 
 tages for their children, which, even when combined 
 with high moral qualities, had brought to one woman 
 so little felicity. 
 
 But of her assassin, the pen of fiction shall not 
 tell the tale of retribution. " After a turbulent and 
 unhappy reign of three short years, he deemed him- 
 self securely fixed on the throne of Naples, and pro- 
 ceeded to Hungary to wrest the crown from Maria, 
 the daughter and heiress of Louis of Hungary, the 
 old enemy of Q,ueen Joanna. The young queen of 
 Hungary, who was then about fifteen, was of a gen- 
 erous, frank, and noble nature ; but her mother, the 
 regent Elizabeth, was more than a match for Duraz- 
 zo in artifice and cruelty. By her machinations, he 
 was decoyed into the apartment of Maria, and while 
 he stood reading a paper, a gigantic Hungarian, se- 
 cretly stationed for that purpose, felled him to the 
 earth with his sabre. His death, however, was not 
 instantaneous ; — he lingered for two days in agonies, 
 neglected and abandoned ; at length his enemies, be- 
 coming impatient of his prolonged existence, and 
 fearful of his recovery, caused him to be suffocated 
 or strangled." 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER 
 
 30 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This sketch of Miss Carter was prepared some 
 years ago, and intended as the first of a series, 
 to be entitled, '' Biographical Sketches of Six Dis- 
 tinguished English Ladies of the Last Century." 
 Mrs. Barbauld, as the one best known to the mod- 
 ern public, should perhaps have been selected as 
 the first for notice, but the author, hoping to com- 
 plete the series, began chronologically. She has 
 been obliged to relinquish the plan, but as the 
 memoir of Miss Carter was ready for the press, she 
 offers it, in hopes that a true portrait of a woman 
 so truly wise and excellent may excite some in- 
 terest and do some good among her young coun- 
 trywomen. 
 
ELIZABETH CARTEE 
 
 At the close of the last century, England could 
 show among her females a circle whose qualities 
 were of the highest order, and whose names ought 
 not to pass entirely from the memory of man. Yet 
 man, and woman too, are already forgetting them 
 and their acquirements, and their virtues, as if all 
 these things were given to bless but one generation, 
 and to perish from earth, as the dust with which 
 they were linked mingles with the grave soil. 
 
 Of these distinguished women, we would single 
 out Miss Carter as the most remarkable, if not the 
 most estimable. We would not speak of her as 
 merely the most learned woman England ever knew, 
 but as combining in herself many of the best and 
 most elevated characteristics of woman, and there- 
 fore deserving the respect and love of her own sex, 
 their study, their imitation, in some points at least. 
 
 She was born on the sixteenth of December, in 
 the year 1717. Her father was a pious and learned 
 clergyman of the Established Church, living at Deal, 
 
 30* 
 
354 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 on the southeastern coast of England. She was 
 left motherless at the age of ten ; but her father 
 formed a second connection, which seems to have 
 been a judicious and happy one, and to have exerted 
 a favorable influence upon the character of Eliza- 
 beth. It was the plan of Dr. Carter to give his 
 daughters, as well as his sons, a classical education. 
 But Elizabeth was not a genius. She had not a 
 quick memory, and the study of Latin and Greek 
 cost her such severe application, that her father him- 
 self changed his purpose and wish, dissuading her 
 zealously from these pursuits. But she loved knowl- 
 edge, and loved to overcome difficulty. She had a 
 spirit of patient, indefatigable toil. All that is thus 
 acquired is acquired thoroughly ; and the foundations 
 of her learning were laid deep and solid. Her perse- 
 verance without the stimulus of rapid success, or pa- 
 rental urgency, shows her firmness of purpose, and 
 the result is full of encouragement for those easily 
 disheartened by their want of brilliant capacity. 
 
 With all this love and power of close application, 
 she had a great flow of spirits, which were held in 
 restraint only by the silken bonds of discretion. Her 
 father was noformalist. He enjoyed her liveliness, 
 and mingled in her pleasures when he could, feeling 
 truly that small harm can befall the young, where a 
 parent shares alike their gravest and gayest pursuits. 
 
 She made an attempt once in her life to ascertain 
 whether she had a talent for drawing. We are bound, 
 perhaps, to seek whatever acquisitions of knowledge 
 
 I 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 355 
 
 or accomplishment may come within our reach, both 
 for the development of our whole nature, and with a 
 view to various unforeseen emergencies of life, in 
 which they may become pleasant or useful resources. 
 But soon discovering her own deficiency, she had too 
 much good sense to persevere, deeming no mere ac- 
 complishment worthy the immense sacrifice of time 
 it must require from those who have not a decided 
 talent for it. She took more pains to learn music, 
 but failed here also. French she spoke fluently 
 through life, having been sent to pass a year in the 
 family of a French refugee minister, to acquire it. 
 The sciences, with the exception of their stately 
 queen. Astronomy, do not appear to have interested 
 her so deeply as the languages; yet she was too true 
 a lover of all knowledge to neglect them. In giving 
 a lively account to some young friend of her hav- 
 ing " fallen in love with a Dutchman," she states 
 that her cure was ejffected by " a dose of Algebra, 
 fasting." 
 
 She acquired the Italian, Spanish, and German 
 languages by her own unaided efforts, at a very 
 youthful age, the Portuguese at a later period, and 
 still later she marched up alone to attack the wild, 
 solitary fortress of the Arabic. Through life she 
 made a practice of reading a portion of Hebrew daily 
 when in health. It seems not unlikely that the difli- 
 culties she early encountered arose, in some degree, 
 from her rejection of those humble but invaluable lad- 
 ders to knowledge, grammars. Since she was not 
 
356 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 one to be discouraged by the dryness of learning de- 
 clensions and conjugations, we are at a loss to under- 
 stand how she fell into a mistake which involved so 
 much unnecessary expense of time and labor. 
 
 She committed a more serious error in studying 
 late at night, binding wet towels around her head, 
 and chewing green tea to keep herself awake. That 
 Elizabeth Carter should have sinned in the slightest 
 degree against the laws of our physical nature does 
 not prove that she was deficient in conscientiousness 
 on this important point, but only that the subject 
 was not well understood in those days. Could the 
 pages of Combe have been placed in her youthful 
 hands, she would have made no false balance of lit- 
 erary progress against health, and the headaches 
 which so often racked her brain through a long life 
 probably would have been unknown to her. Those 
 who set so just a value on time as she did must see 
 the importance of avoiding an evil that may occa- 
 sionally incapacitate them for useful employment. 
 There is a terrible waste of time occasioned by sick- 
 ness, that might have been avoided. 
 
 We will now give a passage from the biography 
 by her nephew, which, brief as it is, we consider of 
 high importance. " She found time to work a great 
 deal at her needle, not only for herself, but the fam- 
 ily ; and this even when in London, for it appears 
 from one of her father's letters, that, when one of her 
 brothers had new shirts, some of them were sent to 
 her to make there." We doubt whether, among the 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 357 
 
 changes that one hundred years have produced, it 
 would now be easy to find a literary young lady vis- 
 iting London, and moving in no humble circles, ac- 
 tually making shirts for her rustic brothers with her 
 own fair hands. 
 
 In personal appearance, Miss Carter was prepos- 
 sessing. Although her figure was indifferent, her 
 complexion was clear and fair, her teeth white, her 
 hair curling, and her features expressive. If they 
 truly expressed the mind and heart within, — and 
 how often does the soul indeed mould the face, and 
 look out from the eyes of an artless girl! — she must 
 have had power to arrest the gaze even of a ball- 
 room lounger. It would be a serious omission to say 
 nothing of her manners, so often does winning de- 
 portment exercise the magic that beauty is apt to 
 deem exclusively her own. She was near-sighted ; 
 but that this could have given her no ungraceful 
 awkwardness is evident from the readiness with 
 which she became a favorite. Acquaintances speed- 
 ily were converted into friends, and, in some instan- 
 ces, friends into lovers. There must have been 
 something peculiarly engaging about her ; her for- 
 tune could have held out no temptations, and a lady's 
 Greek and Latin have never been suspected of win- 
 ning hearts ; yet she had many admirers, and her 
 celibacy was unquestionably a matter of choice. 
 
 To describe Miss Carter as she Avas in her youth, 
 and not speak of her piety, would leave her portrait 
 barely sketched ; the rich coloring must come from 
 
358 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 the skies. A mild light seems to have shone in upon 
 her young mind from the Scriptures, and her charac- 
 ter borrowed from it that beautiful tone which makes 
 it so pleasant an object of contemplation. There 
 was nothing in it dazzling, nothing overstrained. 
 She was probably not often thrown in the way of 
 Dissenters, and seems to have contented herself with 
 acting up to what she had been taught, as became a 
 meek and devout young Christian. Quiet, earnest 
 piety was the foundation of her religious character, 
 the best foundation it could have ; and to this habit 
 of mind we can alone attribute the perfect humility 
 with which she bore that worst trial of the young, 
 flattery. When the tongues of learned men told her 
 what she was, in no measured terms of admiration, 
 we believe that her devout heart whispered, — '' To 
 God be the glory." Among the means she used to 
 keep the flame ever burning on its secret altar, were 
 daily study of the Scriptures and the assiduous peru- 
 sal of sermons and other religious works. As a pe- 
 culiarity most worthy of imitation, and indicative of 
 the serious spirit in which she listened to the preached 
 word, let us mention that " she was never known to 
 find fault with any sermon in which the doctrine 
 was that of the Gospel, and in which the moral and 
 religious duties were properly enforced." 
 
 Before she had reached her seventeenth birthday, 
 she had translated the thirtieth Ode of Anacreon ably, 
 and her literary reputation had begun to spread. Her 
 brother writes from Canterbury school, that he had 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 359 
 
 " translated one of the Odes of Horace so well, it 
 was thought to have been done by her." She ap- 
 peared first before the public in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine, in which she wrote acceptably, though 
 not often. 
 
 From the age of eighteen she visited much in 
 London, and early became acquainted with a young 
 man, whose rare merit she appreciated long before 
 the signet of fame was set upon it, and whose grow- 
 ing reputation she must have watched with peculiar 
 interest. Her father thus writes to her : — " You 
 mention Johnson : that is a name with which I am 
 wholly unacquainted. Neither his scholastic, critical, 
 nor poetical character ever reached my ears. I a little 
 suspect his judgment, if he is fond of Martial." Dr. 
 Johnson always manifested a respect in his deport- 
 ment towards Miss Carter, unmarked by his occa- 
 sional rudeness to others of her sex ; an additional 
 proof that there must have been something gentle 
 and lady-like in her manners. A rough, strong, fear- 
 less character, such as his, was more likely to be 
 softened than awed into uniform civility. 
 
 Pope, nearly fifty years of age, was the poet of 
 the day, when Miss Carter published her translation 
 of a critique upon the " Essay on Man," by Cronsaz, 
 in which she attempted to qualify the severity of the 
 author's criticism in her notes. No intimacy ensued 
 between her and the irritable poet ; and certainly his 
 treatment of Lady Montague had no tendency to 
 lure another young female upon the quicksands of 
 
360 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 such dangerous intercourse. She published several 
 small works, of which she afterwards thought little ; 
 but they brought upon her a torrent of adulation, 
 which would have seriously injured a mind less 
 strong, and a heart less pious. The most extrava- 
 gant of Tier flatterers, perhaps, was one whose mis- 
 fortunes scarcely overcame her dislike, and gained 
 her pity, and who sought in vain for the honor of 
 intimacy. This was the celebrated Savage, intro- 
 duced to her by Dr. Johnson, when she was about 
 twenty-two ; and she showed singular moral strength 
 for her years in thus repelling the praise of a man of 
 genius and of sorrows, on account of his dissipations. 
 Would that in this noble self-respect, at least, she 
 might find imitators! It proved, too, that, while she 
 could appreciate Johnson, she had no disposition to 
 put the leading-strings of her judgment into his 
 hands ; and that, while she bowed to his towering 
 intellect, she remained aloof from his prejudices and 
 partialities. 
 
 Another occurrence of the same year must have 
 been far more gratifying to one who measured praise 
 by the genuine respectability of the quarter whence 
 it came. There was in Germany at this time a 
 young man of nearly her own age, whose wonderful 
 attainments had already secured him fame, Francis 
 Baratier, an early and ripe scholar. This youth no 
 sooner heard of the learned English maiden, than he 
 was desirous of opening a literary correspondence 
 with her. His wish was granted ; but it was not 
 
ELIZABETH CAKTER. 361 
 
 according to the order of Providence that this de- 
 liglitful intercourse should proceed, or that the two 
 young persons should ever behold each other in this 
 world. Baratier had been a prodigy in his childhood, 
 and his race was soon run ; the fatal precocity of his 
 intellect had been the harbinger of decay. His first 
 letter to her is dated February 24th, 1739. He was 
 already ill, and in the following October the vol- 
 umes he had loved were closed for ever, and a weep- 
 ing father followed the boy of whom he had been so 
 proud to an untim.ely grave. 
 
 Two years after this, Miss Carter formed the 
 strongest intimacy of her life. It was one to which 
 the name of friendship in its highest sense may be 
 given ; there was the " idem velle atque nolle " of 
 Sallust ; but high and holy were the things that both 
 loved, the base and unworthy all that they disliked. 
 Miss Catharine Talbot was highly connected, accom- 
 plished, admired in the great world, yet bearing in 
 the depths of her soul treasures like ocean pearls, of 
 which the great world knew little. Miss Carter 
 seems to have indulged an almost romantic eager- 
 ness to become acquainted with a lady she had heard 
 so highly extolled ; and, strange to tell, these high- 
 flown, youthful anticipations gave birth to no disap- 
 pointment. She thus breaks out in a letter to a mu- 
 tual friend, after having seen Miss Talbot at church : 
 — " Miss Talbot is absolutely my passion ; I think of 
 her all day, dream of her all night ,* must I never 
 hope for a nearer view, till I meet her glittering 
 
 31 
 
862 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 among the stars in a future state of being ? " Their 
 acquaintance commenced immediately afterwards. 
 Drawn and held together by so many noble sympa- 
 thies, these two gifted young women became inti- 
 mate with a suddenness which in ordinary cases 
 would be imprudent, and fraught with future repen- 
 tance. Their correspondence was highly interesting, 
 and continued whenever they were separated, till 
 one of the parties was removed by death. " It was 
 never checked by even the slightest coldness or es- 
 trangement." 
 
 The immediate result of this acquaintance was, 
 that Miss Carter was introduced to the celebrated 
 Dr. Seeker, with whom Miss Talbot and her wid- 
 owed mother resided ; and her acquaintance in the 
 best circles of London rapidly increased. She still, 
 however, passed her summers at Deal, in the happi- 
 est of domestic circles, a blessing to each individual 
 connected with her. The fame of her learning had 
 long since thrown her simple town's people into some 
 perplexity ; they had begun to think her ambition 
 and her achievements illimitable, and one of her 
 friends had to contend stoutly against a report that 
 she "wanted to be member of Parliament." But the 
 simplicity of her heart remaining unalloyed, at home 
 and abroad, she was no less beloved than admired. 
 
 Those terrible headaches had now seized upon her, 
 which continued to mingle alloy with her purest en- 
 joyments through life ; so that, whether travelling, 
 studying, or partaking of social pleasures, she was 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 363 
 
 perpetually liable to be driven to her pillow by se- 
 vere pain. As a proof that these headaches were the 
 result of early mismanagement, it may be remarked 
 that exercise in the open air kept them off ; and as 
 she was a good walker, fearless of cold, and delight- 
 ing to tread the new-fallen snow, she often escaped 
 from her foe by resolutely rambling abroad even in 
 the depth of winter. Yet it was long before she 
 formed a system on her experience. 
 
 In the winter of 1744 and 1745, she was at Deal 
 during some part of the season, when an invasion of 
 the French was expected on that part of the coast. 
 So various are the ways in which individuals are af- 
 fected by public affairs, that we find it difficult to re- 
 alize, as we read the letters of a quiet family in the 
 South of England at this period, that this was the 
 epoch selected by the author of Waverley. There is 
 the thrilling date, the ^' year '45," and the name of 
 the Pretender ; but a set of objects are brought be- 
 fore us, very different from the romantic and glitter- 
 ing phantasmagoria conjured up by the wand of the 
 Scottish Prospero. A letter she wrote after an alarm 
 had been given in the town expresses not so much 
 apprehension as indignation at the indifferent man- 
 ner in which the place was prepared for an attack. 
 
 In the summer of 1746, she gives Miss Talbot an 
 account of her mode of occupying herself, in a 
 sprightly letter. That mode seems to have been 
 somewhat desultory ; which leaves us to marvel at 
 the great results. But it must be remembered that 
 
364 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 she was now nearly twenty-nine, and that, daring 
 the usually giddy period of youth, she had been in 
 the habit of studying intensely for many hours at a 
 time. As she had advanced so far as to leave diffi- 
 culty behind, the same application was no longer 
 necessary. Her rule was, " to read after breakfast 
 something in every language with which she was 
 acquainted, so that she never allowed herself to for- 
 get what she had once known." Of this we would 
 speak with peculiar commendation. We have often 
 heard the careless exclamation, *' O, I used to play 
 and sing," — or ''read Italian and German," — or the 
 like^ — " but I have forgotten all I ever knew of it." 
 Pew, unless it be the busy mothers of large families, 
 have a sufficient excuse for thus wasting past time. 
 It is a property of knowledge, that, when once gained, 
 it is kept at small expense, and whatever has cost 
 time in the acquisition should be worth keeping. 
 
 While in London, Miss Carter gave her hours to 
 the society of such individuals as Bishop Butler, the 
 Bishop of Oxford, Dr. Johnson, Richardson, Mrs. 
 Montague, and others of the wisest and best whom 
 England could produce. Intercourse with such a 
 world could not enervate her mind. She went much 
 abroad, but not to fritter away her time in frivolous 
 conversation ; and, as she mingled freely with the 
 most intelligent persons of her day, the work of her 
 mental improvement was not likely to be stayed. 
 There was no better way in which it could have 
 been carried on, after the solid foundation had been 
 laid. 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 365 
 
 About the year 1749 commenced the most inter- 
 esting portion of Miss Carter's life, — the period when 
 she was to reap a reward for her past toils more de- 
 lightful than the pleasure of acquisition, or gro\vth 
 of intellect, in the consciousness of usefulness. She 
 now engaged with her whole heart in an employ- 
 ment that for a few years confined her almost wholly 
 to Deal. Her father's fortune was small, his family 
 numerous, and as he wished to bring up his youngest 
 son to the Church, from economical motives he began 
 to educate the boy himself. But his health and spir- 
 its failed, and the prospects of young Henry were in 
 jeopardy, when his sister Elizabeth, the daughter of 
 another mother, took up the task with an able hand. 
 From this time, her many friends in London, with 
 the beloved Miss Talbot at their head, in vain urged 
 her to pass the winter among them as usual. She 
 had not taken up the business of education as a mere 
 summer recreation, and would not trifle with the 
 precious time of her pupil. This was her real busi- 
 ness, and engrossed her chief interest for several 
 years. But for the gratification of Dr. Seeker and 
 Miss Talbot, while devoted to this unostentatious 
 home duty, she beguiled her leisure hours with trans- 
 lating Epictetus. And this employment, taken up 
 accidentally, and partly for mere recreation, event- 
 ually made known her great acquirements to the 
 world, and was the source of her reputation. 
 
 Much good-humored discussion passed between 
 her and Dr. Seeker as to the style she should adopt 
 
 31* 
 
366 ELIZABETH CAETER. 
 
 in her translation, the worthy Bishop complaining 
 that she was disposed to " put Epictetus into a laced 
 coat." He says in one of his letters, — '' Abruptness 
 and want of ornament often add much force and 
 persuasion to what is said ; they show the speaker 
 to be in earnest, which hath the greatest weight of 
 any thing." That Miss Carter was independent is 
 shown by her having at first maintained her predi- 
 lection for a free and elegant translation against such 
 learned authority ; that she was not obstinate is 
 shown by her having finally adopted the plainer 
 style, so urgently recommended. Most readers of 
 these silken-phrased days would probably wish that 
 she had adhered to the gracefal, rather than the lit- 
 eral. 
 
 She was now immersed in classical study. It was 
 heart-work as well as head-work with her, for her 
 best affections were called out while training her 
 young brother for his intended lot, and while she 
 went on with her translation, a delightful stimulus 
 was supplied by friendship. Nothing can afford a 
 writer more wholesome excitement, than an opportu- 
 nity of submitting his manuscript pages, fresh from 
 the hasty pen, to the cool inspection of a judicious 
 and candid friend. In such a case, criticism never 
 wounds, and praise gives the much needed encour- 
 agement. Melancholy would be the annals of those 
 obscure and solitary students, who have dug in the 
 mines of literature through long, desolate years, un- 
 cheered by the voice of sympathy, conscious, perhaps, 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 367 
 
 of the brighter regions in which their more favored 
 brethren were moving, but themselves never catch- 
 ing the beam of a human smile on their lonely tasks. 
 
 Miss Carter was in her thirty-second year when 
 the singular amusement for her leisure hours was de- 
 vised, and as she was too conscientious to bestow 
 any but leisure hours upon it, the work did not ad- 
 vance rapidly. In the mean time her Ode to Wis- 
 dom, then much admired, received the compliment 
 of being translated into mellifluous Dutch. 
 
 After an absence of four years, she once more vis- 
 ited London, where two days of her sojourn were 
 passed with Richardson, just before the publication 
 of Sir Charles Grandison ; and as she esteemed that 
 amiable author highly, the brief visit gave her pecu- 
 liar pleasure. She returned to Deal with the inten- 
 tion of preparing her translation for publication, at 
 the earnest instigation of her friends. Her head- 
 aches, however, now became distressing, and the ill- 
 ness of some who were nearest and dearest to her 
 engrossed her time and thoughts. In the mean time, 
 a few of her influential friends in London entertained 
 a project for obtaining her a place at court. A sit- 
 uation more uncongenial with her tastes could hardly 
 be imagined. She expressed the strongest repug- 
 nance to being the subject of such a scheme. Her 
 precarious health and her diffidence seem to have 
 formed powerful objections in her own mind to a 
 court life, and she adds in a letter to Miss Talbot, — 
 " I cannot guess precisely what is the office to which, 
 
368 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 if there be any truth in this report, I should be named. 
 If it should be only to teach the children to read, 
 would it not be a more eligible life to be a country 
 schoolmistress, ' with apron blue ' ? If for any thing 
 higher, it would be forming too advantageous an 
 opinion of myself to think I was qualified for it. Of 
 Latin and Greek I might perhaps be able to give 
 them some notions ; but this surely cannot be the 
 scheme, for since the days of Q,ueen Elizabeth and 
 Lady Jane Grey, who ever thought of teaching prin- 
 cesses Latin and Greek. But I am in hopes it will 
 all blow over, for this very plan was mentioned some 
 years ago." 
 
 Her own corrections of the translation were at last 
 completed, and the sheets sent to Dr. Seeker. She 
 was urged to prepare a life of Epictetus, to which 
 she thus replies : — " Whoever that somebody or other 
 is, that is to write the life of Epictetus, seeing I have 
 a dozen shirts to make, I do opine, dear Miss Talbot, 
 that it cannot be I." 
 
 When the work was ready for the press, a new 
 difficulty arose in the minds of the pious friends. 
 The spirit of Voltaire and Bolingbroke was abroad, 
 and timid Christians were full of alarm. Miss Tal- 
 bot became uneasy lest the publication of such a no- 
 ble heathen system of morality, at this crisis, might 
 supply weapons for the foes of Christianity. Miss 
 Carter was not at first infected with the panic ; she 
 could not believe that " infidelity could ever arise 
 from admiration of the sentiments of the wise, good, 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 369 
 
 and religious among the heathen philosophers." The 
 Bishop was next seized with misgivings, and as she 
 considered him better acquainted with human nature 
 than her female adviser, his scruples nearly terrified 
 the poor translator out of publication. She was 
 finally induced by them to prepare a Life of Epicte- 
 tus and Notes, intended to counteract any injurious 
 effect of the text upon minds in an unsettled state as 
 to belief. 
 
 It must be remarked, that her author contained 
 nothing immoral or profane ; such a writer would 
 never have been chosen as a favorite subject of study 
 by a woman of the strictest principles. Her friends 
 objected to the display of a mere moral system so 
 captivating, at a conjuncture when many were ready 
 to throw off all religion, and seize on any decent 
 substitute. 
 
 Miss Carter made the work complete by adding 
 translations of the Manual of Epictetus, and his 
 Fragments. At last, in May, 1756, she was doubly 
 set free ; the tasks begun together were completed 
 together. Her brother was examined for the Uni- 
 versity. She waited for the result with a natural 
 solicitude ; her father himself communicated the joy- 
 ful tidings of the young man's honorable admission ; 
 and the surprise of the learned was great when they 
 were told by whom the student had been prepared. 
 
 At the same time she was prepared to lay before 
 the world those sublime doctrines of the Stoic phi- 
 losopher, till now locked up from the curiosity of all 
 
370 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 save the erudite, which had enabled the old man 
 Epictetus to bear up under a lot that seemed to the 
 beholder most wretched. He was a slave's slave, for 
 his master was one of the courtiers of Nero ; he had 
 been crippled in youth, he spent his days in extreme 
 poverty, and when his venerable head was laid low, 
 he left behind him the secret of his perpetual cheer- 
 fulness in the treatise which was now to be intro- 
 duced to the Christian world. Miss Carter felt that, 
 if an unbiased public should decide that she had 
 failed in her undertaking, the charge of presumption 
 would lie on her with double weight, because she 
 was a woman. 
 
 The work appeared in 1758, nearly nine years 
 from its commencement. It was published by sub- 
 scription, in opposition, however, to Miss Carter's 
 earnest remonstrances. Its reception was such as to 
 justify the most sanguine expectation of her friends ; 
 and she was a gainer of one thousand pounds ; a cir- 
 cumstance of no small import to one who was de- 
 pendent on a father now advanced in life, and far 
 from wealthy. Her biographer remarks, that '^the 
 book was much admired, and talked of as soon as 
 published, and the extraordinary circumstance of a 
 translation from the Greek of so difficult an author 
 by a woman, made a great noise all over Europe. 
 Even in Russia an account was published of her." 
 
 During th-e next two or three years, whether in 
 London or Deal, Miss Carter seemed to bask in the 
 sunshine of literary reputation, friendship, and do- 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 371 
 
 mestic happiness. But she was doomed to realize 
 that Divine Wisdom does not permit earth's most in- 
 nocent enjoyments to be unalloyed. Her health 
 failed, and even her spirits yielded to the depressing 
 and mysterious influences of pain. She was at last 
 restored by a visit at Tunbridge, in the society of 
 Mrs. Montague, Lord Bath, and Lord Lyttelton. 
 While at this fashionable watering-place, she was 
 persuaded to publish some poems, and with this lit- 
 tle work ended her short career before the public. 
 She had no passion for authorship, none of that de- 
 sire to keep herself before the eye of the world at 
 all hazards, by which so many are tempted to write 
 down and stifle their own literary reputation. And 
 she was quite aware that a poetical genius was not 
 among her gifts. 
 
 In the following year, the competency which Miss 
 Carter had honorably acquired enabled her to make 
 such arrangements for her mode of life as best suited 
 her tastes. The step-mother, with whom she had 
 lived so happily, was now gone to her rest ; her fa- 
 ther had not a house of his own, and was exposed in 
 his old age to the inconveniences of frequent remov- 
 als from one dwelling to another. Miss Carter con- 
 sulted his comfort no less than her own, in purchas- 
 ing a house. It was at the southern end of the town 
 of Deal, and commanded a fine view of country and 
 ocean, whose broad and restless surface she loved to 
 contemplate. While the premises were under repair, 
 she went abroad with Lord Bath and Mrs. Montague ; 
 
372 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 for the war having just ended, the Continent was 
 again open to the English ; and that travel-loving 
 nation were never backward to embrace the opportu- 
 nity of rushing across the Channel. 
 
 The love between Miss Carter and the wealthy 
 Mrs. Montague was that of sisters, and the purse of 
 the latter defrayed the expense of this tour. Yet no 
 painful feelings, belonging to the obliger and the 
 obliged, seem to have ever arisen between these 
 amiable and high-minded women. Among such 
 alone can similar transactions occur without after 
 jealousies and difficulties. The quiet and solitary 
 spinster enjoyed the excursion highly, for her wan- 
 derings even on British ground had been few and lim- 
 ited. In comparing the state of things in those days 
 with the present restlessness of society, when the 
 facilities of travelling have set all manner of men and 
 women flying about the world as indefatigably and 
 seemingly with as little purpose as motes dancing in 
 the atmosphere, we cannot help wondering how many 
 of these sight-seers are duly qualified for travelling. 
 The evident waste of privilege on some of these 
 rovers of sea and land has made us wish there were 
 a customary preparation for travel as for college. 
 
 In September she returned to Deal, and settled 
 herself down happily as her father's housekeeper, 
 during the principal part of the year. The good old 
 man had his separate library, and through the studi- 
 ous hours of the day they pursued their respective 
 occupations apart ; but they always met at their 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 873 
 
 cheerful meals, when the similarity of their tastes 
 and their mutual affection must have rendered their 
 daily intercom'se a source of much quiet enjoyment. 
 Throughout the whole of her voluminous correspond- 
 ence with her friends, we continually find afi*ection- 
 ate allusions to her father, brothers, sisters, and their 
 children. Such passages, now that the hand which 
 wrote them is cold, and the eyes which first read 
 them are all sealed, afford us delightful glimpses into 
 virtuous and peaceful homes long since broken up. 
 She by no means reserved the agreeable powers which 
 Heaven had bestowed on her for the cultivated cir- 
 cles. She had none of the intellectual pride which 
 stoops not even to gather a flower ; but in the neigh- 
 bourhood where she had been born and brought up, 
 where her father had preached and his people had 
 shown both him and her such unremitting kindness, 
 she maintained an unceremonious intercourse. She 
 passed from the company of the great and good, to 
 that of the good only, with a truly Christian sim- 
 plicity. On these occasions her genius and acquire- 
 ments seemed to sleep. Her nephew tells us that 
 many were long acquainted with her, '' who never 
 knew, till told by others, that she was acquainted 
 with any language but her own " ; yet, in the partial 
 opinion of Dr. Drake, she was probably the best lin- 
 guist England had produced, with the exception of 
 Sir William Jones. She considered, in her own 
 words, that " every situation in life, with respect to 
 society, requires a certain expense and establish- 
 
 3Q 
 
374 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 ment " ; but still she dressed plainly, only taking 
 care to ward off the charge which might lightly be 
 brought against her as a learned lady, by the most 
 scrupulous neatness. By the judicious regulation of 
 her expenses, she was enabled, even while associat- 
 ing with the opulent, to assist the indigent, to make 
 presents to her relatives, and to friends poorer than 
 herself. Never could she have, accomplished all this 
 while mingling with the aristocracy of England, if 
 she had not been above striving to cope with wealth 
 in externals. Had she manifested such an inclina- 
 tion, never probably would she have received from 
 that proud aristocracy half so much respect. As it 
 was, she found both gentle and noble willing to meet 
 her on her own ground. To the great regularity of 
 her habits, which she maintained even when in Lon- 
 don, she probably owed the calmness of her mind 
 and the length of days which infirmity had ren- 
 dered a boon little likely to be granted. With all 
 her strictness and independence of custom, that she 
 was never taxed with eccentricity shows how ex- 
 actly she knew when it was right to conform to the 
 ways of the world, and when to depart from them. 
 
 Charges Street, Piccadilly, was her London resi- 
 dence, and it was the practice of the friends with 
 whom she always dined to send her home in their 
 carriages at her own hour, ten in the evening. She 
 thus avoided the risk of outstaying her welcome un- 
 der the roof of any friend, and maintained her inde- 
 pendence, while she participated in all the intellectual 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 375 
 
 pleasures of such society as continually sought her. 
 Her journeys to<ind from London were performed m 
 the stage-coach ; and on these occasions she some- 
 times met with amusing adventures. Once she en- 
 countered a stranger, who manifested an inquisitive- 
 ness that in a son of New England would hardly es- 
 cape animadversion. ''He fixed his eyes on my face, 
 and inquired if I was not one of the Carters, to 
 Avhich I answered, ' Yes ' ; about- half an hour after 
 he looked at me again, and broke forth, 'Why, surely 
 you cannot be the lady that is reported to be so well 
 read in the mathematics, that she has puzzled all the 
 naval officers, and a gentleman came on purpose to 
 have a conference with her about it ! ' — ' No, in- 
 deed, Sir, I am not.' — ' Was it any of your sisters 
 then ? ' — ' Not that I know.' After many inter- 
 rogations, he seemed very unquiet and dissatisfied 
 with my answers, and I believe the good man is to 
 this hour in a perplexity whether I am the lady 
 that puzzled all the naval officers or not." — In one 
 of her letters from Deal, too, she gayly expresses her 
 satisfaction that the Witch Act had been repealed ; 
 far and wide the country people believed that she 
 had the power of predicting the changes of the 
 weather, and she observes, that, " from my foretell- 
 ing a storm, it will be a mighty easy and natural 
 transition to my raising it." 
 
 When Miss Carter had thus arranged her plans of 
 life, she did not forget the awful uncertainty of that 
 life. She no sooner had property to bequeathe, than 
 
876 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 she made her will, with a promptitude which showed 
 how much she had the interest of others at heart, 
 and how little she shrunk from contemplating the 
 solemn closing of all earthly duties. This is one in- 
 stance among many which we would gladly select, 
 as exemplifying the peculiarity of Elizabeth Carter's 
 character. We feel that we can hardly dwell too 
 much on the fact, that she did not surpass her sex in 
 genius, that it was not by the brilliancy of her tal- 
 ents that she commanded univ^ersal respect. It was 
 by higher attributes. Her strong mind was admira- 
 bly regulated. Her great learning was the fruit of 
 patient toil ; but no duties were overlooked or slight- 
 ed, no acquirement or object was suffered to monopo- 
 lize her interest. She never acted rashly, she never 
 procrastinated, she was not governed by mere im- 
 pulse. She was emphatically a female sage, and the 
 high quality of wisdom was in her adorned with all 
 Christian graces. In short, she seems to have truly 
 felt what an excellent female writer of her own time 
 has so well expressed, — " What a woman knows is of 
 little consequence compared with what a woman is." 
 Her life henceforward flowed on in a useful but 
 quiet routine. Her days were singularly prosperous; 
 the only sorrows which befell her came in the ordi- 
 nary course of events, and it was long before the 
 golden links began to drop from the chain of her 
 friendships. But those whom she valued were now 
 to commence the long series of departures which at 
 last left her the survivor of each early friend. The 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 377 
 
 beneficial effect of the Spa-waters on Lord Bath's 
 heahh had been only temporary ; in the summer 
 after his torn* on the Continent with the Montagues 
 and Miss Carter, this child of prosperity expired, ad- 
 vanced in life, but unimpaired in his faculties. It 
 was of him that Sir Robert Walpole declared, that 
 he " dreaded the tongue of Pulteney more than 
 another man's sword." Struggling against that able 
 minister, he had indeed fought much on the dismal 
 arena of politics. "Non ragionam di' lor, ma guarda 
 e passa." Amiable, disinterested, highly polished, 
 and exemplary, he had won the esteem of Miss Car- 
 ter, and in him she mourned a zealous friend. Her 
 opportunities of observing his private character were 
 such as do not often occur, where the parties are 
 both unmarried. After his death she remarked, that, 
 during the months in which she had been his fellow- 
 traveller, she " did not recollect a single instance of 
 peevishness." and that she '' never heard him use a 
 harsh or even uncivil expression to any of his ser- 
 vants." This was better than Chesterfieldian polite- 
 ness. 
 
 Legacies from friends increased Miss Carter's means 
 of doing good. At Deal she became almost an ob- 
 ject of veneration, among the families of the hardy 
 seafaring people on the coast. It was not, however, 
 mere gratitude for her bounty that endeared her to 
 these simple-minded persons. However indistinct 
 were their conceptions of the nature of her great- 
 ness, they saw that she was looked up to by those 
 
378 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 whose external appendages of wealth and rank they 
 could fully comprehend, and her kind, unpretending 
 manners under such circumstances had a peculiar 
 charm. Her influence among them was never 
 abused. On the contrary, the temptations to which 
 the habits and situation of this part of the island ex- 
 posed them were counteracted by Miss Carter in 
 every possible manner. So great was her respect 
 for the laws of the country, that, while many of her 
 wealthier neighbours did not hesitate to " load their 
 coaches with contraband goods," she never would 
 purchase an article, even from a common store, which 
 she suspected to have been smuggled. Yet, in com- 
 passion for the ignorance of the poorer classes, mis- 
 led by the example of their superiors, she would ex- 
 tend her advice and assistance to the families of the 
 wretched smugglers themselves in their seasons of 
 distress. 
 
 We will remark here, that, although some of Miss 
 Carter's intimacies lay among the distinguished polit- 
 ical characters of the day, they kindled no fire of 
 party spirit in her breast. She had her opinions ; 
 she thought Wilkes no patriot, and Churchill no po- 
 et ; but her dislike of them was neither rancorous 
 nor loquacious. She was a Greek scholar, but still 
 a true retiring woman, and no politician. 
 
 That her mildness did not result from a phlegmatic 
 temperament is shown by the generous warmth she 
 manifested when Dr. Johnson was grossly assailed 
 by newspaper writers, and by her use of such strong 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 379 
 
 expressions as the following, in speaking of one of 
 her French contemporaries : — '' By your account of 
 Rousseau's book, I fear it is likely to do more harm 
 than good, which seems to be the case with all his 
 writings that I have seen. It is a pity he does not 
 pursue his own favorite theory of running wild and 
 grazing among the animals, whose morals would be 
 in no danger of being relaxed by his stories, nor their 
 principles poisoned by his philosophical whims." 
 
 The death of Dr. Seeker, Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, deprived her of one whom she had had cause 
 to reverence and love for twenty years. Whatever 
 may have been the opinion entertained of him by 
 the Dissenters, in whose faith he had been brought 
 up, and who could not but look on his frequent 
 church preferments with a suspicious eye, his learn- 
 ing and abilities were great, his disposition benev- 
 olent, and his qualities as a friend admirable. Miss 
 Carter mourned him deeply. Many of her happiest 
 hours had been spent at Lambeth ; and when her 
 friend, Miss Talbot, left it with her mother, she, too, 
 bade a last adieu to a spot almost sanctified in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Soon after this bereavement, she lost an amiable 
 female friend who had sutfered much, and whom she 
 had benefited much by her own lively temperament 
 and animating Christian faith. Constitutional cheer- 
 fulness is not always regarded as it should be, as a 
 trust, like intellectual power ; an advantage bestowed 
 not for our own enjoyment alone, but a thing which 
 
380 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 may be made a blessing to our fellow-creatures, and 
 for the right use of which we are therefore held re- 
 sponsible. Miss Carter poured the sunshine of her 
 own happy spirit on hearts which had been darkened 
 by ill health, sorrow, or that seemingly causeless 
 melancholy which steals mysteriously over some 
 sensitive minds, to be smiled, not chidden, away. 
 
 In this same year, 1769, an interruption occurred 
 in her correspondence with Miss Talbot. The once 
 fluent pen was checked, for one of the most dread- 
 ful maladies which assail this strange structure of the 
 human body had long been secretly preying on her 
 constitution, and the termination of her pangs ap- 
 proached. This exemplary woman had concealed 
 from her aged mother the existence of a cancer in 
 her side, from the kindest motives ; but a few other 
 friends and attendants knew her condition, among 
 whom was Miss Carter. As the year 1770 opened, 
 Miss Talbot escaped from the torments of her dis- 
 ease to receive the reward of her Christian patience. 
 
 Her death was a severe bereavement to Miss Car- 
 ter. She writes on the subject to her various corre- 
 spondents with expressions of deep grief, chastened 
 by pious resignation ; and thus alludes to the virtues 
 of the departed in a letter to Mrs. Vesey : — " While 
 she was in a mortal state, I was accustomed to look 
 up to her as the most perfect pattern of goodness I 
 ever knew ; and now my thoughts pursue her into 
 the world of glorified spirits with more awful im- 
 pressions. I cannot help considering her sometimes 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 381 
 
 as more present to my view than when the veil of 
 corporeal obstruction obscured my sight." 
 
 To a single woman, now advancing into the vale 
 of years, it was a loss to be peculiarly felt ; for bonds 
 of almost sisterly sympathy were broken, and it was 
 too late to weave them anew. But among other no- 
 ble sources of consolation, Miss Carter turned herself 
 to the task of cheering the heart-stricken parent of 
 her friend ; and letters passed constantly between 
 her and the venerable Mrs. Talbot, for the twelve 
 long years during which the widowed and childless 
 lingered among scenes once so happy. She died at 
 the age of ninety-two. 
 
 Although Miss Carter had ceased to come before 
 the public, her pen was not idle ; the published col- 
 lections of her letters are voluminous ; and these un- 
 studied effusions all bear the stamp of good sense, 
 learning, cheerfulness, an affectionate spirit, and 
 piety. They are free from pedantry, vanity, and 
 cant ; they contain not a trace of envy or unkindness 
 towards any human being ; they are full of judicious 
 criticisms, of allusions to passing events and distin- 
 guished characters of her time, which now have an 
 historical interest ; and they afford us many pleasant 
 glimpses into the domestic manners of the day. 
 
 There is a passage in one of her letters to Mrs. 
 Vesey, dated April, 1770, which we are tempted to 
 quote, because it bears on a subject that has recently 
 and justly attracted much attention, particularly in 
 this country: we mean the relation between mistress 
 
382 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 and servant. '' My two damsels have behaved so 
 wickedly during my absence, that no consideration 
 of my own case ought to prevent my parting with 
 them ; and I am looking out for two others to supply 
 their places, who know no earthly thing but how to 
 speak truth and do as they are bid. One such prize 
 I have found, and am watching for another equally 
 ignorant. So you may easily imagine that I have 
 too much employment, first in teaching myself, and 
 then in teaching them the art and mystery of their 
 business, to allow me to think of making any long 
 excursion this summer. I ought to feel the less re- 
 luctance at the task which lies before me, as I have 
 so little power of application to any studies that 
 would be more amusing ; and I take pleasure in the 
 thought of endeavouring to make two fellow-crea- 
 tures useful and happy. Nor am I discouraged by 
 any former want of success. The trial is always a 
 duty ; and with success I have nothing to do." 
 
 According to her biographer, however, who had 
 opportunities of knowing the fact, she was eminently 
 successful in this department of usefulness ; as we 
 think any judicious woman must be, who sets out 
 with such principles. Her servants were usually ex- 
 cellent and attached, seldom leaving her household 
 except to be married. That she did not indolently 
 or ignorantly leave matters to their management may 
 be inferred from such passages as the following : — 
 " I will write to Mrs. Chapone soon ; but just now 
 I am in a world of business and bustle, for we have 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 383 
 
 company to dinner, and I am ' Mungo here, Mungo 
 there, Mungo everywhere ' ; so it is well I began my 
 letter last night. Between walking before breakfast, 
 presiding over the cookery, and paying a visit, as in 
 duty bomid, to Lady Camden, I have been as busy 
 all the morning as if I had been actually doing a 
 great deal." — '' I have been necessarily confined at 
 home with my two damsels; I hope in a few months 
 they will have learned their business, and I be freed 
 from the trouble of teaching it. My being used to 
 a servant remarkably clever, who soon took all the 
 fatigue from me, renders my present task more weari- 
 some ; but it must be done ; and if they are good 
 girls, as I hope and believe they are, they will amply 
 repay me. It is very fit that there should sometimes 
 be occasions to prove by more feeling arguments 
 than mere speculation, how very much those who 
 are placed in the higher classes of life are indebted, 
 for a great part of their ease, leisure, and comfort, to 
 those whose lot is fallen to them in the lower." 
 
 In short, in spite of her Greek and Arabic, and in 
 spite of her fashionable London friends, she seems 
 to have been much devoted through life to the duties 
 of a housekeeper, an aunt, a sister, and a daughter. 
 The Memoirs of her, which have so long been be- 
 fore the public, and from which the materials for 
 this sketch are drawn, are from the pen of her eldest 
 sister's son ; he dwelt long under her immediate care, 
 she assisted in his education, and he had the best 
 possible chances of studying her character in her 
 
384 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 most unguarded hours. We cannot help placing 
 much confidence in the portrait he has sketched; and 
 the perusal of her letters, with the allusions made to 
 her by her contemporaries, confirms its fidelity. 
 
 In these letters, we find evidence of such a taste 
 for the beautiful and picturesque as usually exists 
 only in a highly poetical temperament, and we can- 
 not help being surprised that her verse exhibits no 
 stronger proof of it. Dwelling on the sea-coast, and 
 looking from the apartment where she was accus- 
 tomed to read and write out upon the changeful 
 ocean, she seems to have fully enjoyed its varying 
 beauty and sublimity. Almost every letter contains 
 some casual allusion to the prospect before her, and 
 not a phenomenon in the broad skies above escaped 
 her observant eye. The gathering and the scatter- 
 ing storm are often sketched in a few happy phrases ; 
 and she has the art of painting, with a single felici- 
 tous epithet, that on which a less feeling writer might 
 have wasted pages of verbose description : — '' Yester- 
 day afternoon we had a great storm, and a most no- 
 ble preparation for it. I scarce ever saw the ' dread 
 magnificence of Heaven ' appear in a more awful 
 form. The western horizon was involved in the 
 deepest gloom, through which the lightning vibrated 
 in a manner singularly beautiful. The great expanse 
 of darkness was rendered the more solemn by a range 
 of pale clouds of a remarkable color and form, by 
 which it was bounded towards the east. The natu- 
 ral expectation from the appearance of such a sky 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 385 
 
 was thunder, but it ended in a most outrageous wind, 
 which lasted about ten minutes, and then sank into 
 a sober rain."^^ 
 
 '' November 1st, 1769. I think, considering your 
 rehictance to get up for the comet, you are scarcely 
 worthy to hear of my celestial phenomenon, if I had 
 not a need to tell it. I saw this morning a most ex- 
 traordinary rainbow, as it was only of a single color. 
 The sun was hardly above the sea ; his orb was not 
 visible, but concealed by a strong golden cloud, which 
 formed a perfect arch in the east, of a pale orange 
 color, extremely distinct. The appearance was very 
 singular, and I thought myself in high luck to get a 
 sight of it, for it did not last above two or three min- 
 utes ; it vanished as soon as the sun had shaken off 
 the clouds and shone out in full splendor." 
 
 As a specimen of her attention to those minor du- 
 ties towards society from which some are apt to think 
 celebrity may absolve them, we quote the following 
 passage : — " June 20th, 1772. Indeed, my dear 
 friend, I at this time feel strongly the force of the 
 prejudice that one's own house is the best of all pos- 
 sible houses, as I have just returned from a visit 
 which it cost me a great deal of exertion to pay. It 
 is true I have a very laudable affection for conversa- 
 tion ; but it is equally true that I mortally hate talk- 
 ing ; and consequently I have no natural talent for a 
 visit. Yet a visit is a part of life, a debt which in 
 many cases one owes to the general relation of hu- 
 man creatures to one another ; and which one has 
 
 33 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 no right to withhold, merely because it happens to 
 contradict some more agreeble amusement. Well, — 
 quoad hoc, — I have done my duty, and am flown 
 back to the quiet and cheerfulness of my own little 
 apartment." 
 
 While thus selecting a few brief extracts from Miss 
 Carter's correspondence, which may afford a more 
 distinct conception of her mind and heart than pages 
 of description, we cannot omit one which shows a 
 high degree of independence, and illustrates the no- 
 blest kind of independence. It must be remembered 
 that Mrs. Montague, to whom she was writing, was 
 rich, admired, and fashionable ; and that her purse 
 even had more than once contributed to Miss Carter's 
 comfort and enjoyment. Yet, with mingled delicacy 
 and frankness, she again and again warns this valued 
 friend of the temptations which within and without 
 are besetting her. " Indeed, I had not the least idea 
 of being angry with you for wishing yourself at Al- 
 mack's or Soho ; for it certainly is not to me that you 
 or any one else is accountable for any degree of time 
 or attention which they think proper to bestow on 
 such assemblies. Forgive me, my dear friend, if 
 the tenderest concern for your virtue and happiness, 
 joined to a persuasion that such superior talents and 
 advantages demand a most watchful attention to every 
 step you take, tempted me just to offer it as a subject 
 for your consideration, how far your very frequent 
 appearance might be right in mixed assemblies, and 
 your example an encouragement to the general dissi- 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 387 
 
 pation of the world. But my judgment of the mis- 
 chievous effects of this kind of hfe may very proba- 
 bly be wrong, and beyond a hint I seldom proceed. 
 I have too much business in endeavouring to correct 
 my own wrong dispositions, and to reform the faults 
 and follies which I feel every hour rising, to allow 
 me to indulge the vanity of thinking I have any 
 right to dictate to others, and, least of all, to those 
 who have distinguished powers of judging for them- 
 selves." In other letters she speaks more plainly ; 
 and the unbroken friendship of the parties shows 
 that the manner of the thing could reconcile even 
 the high-bred idol of fashion to judicious reproof. 
 
 In 1773, another breach was made in the circle of 
 her dear friends, by the death of Lord Lyttelton. 
 Such was the character of her intimacies, that, when 
 she was called to mourn, society lamented with her 
 over the loss of some exemplary individual. She 
 gives us a beautiful delineation of this pattern for 
 English nobility ; and bestows on him a commenda- 
 tion rarely deserved, — " that amidst all the intricacies 
 of this perplexed world, his heart preserved its native 
 simplicity, and was as free from guile as that of a 
 little infant." 
 
 Throughout the years 1773 and 1774, we find Miss 
 Carter's mind much absorbed, and continually made 
 anxious, by the increasing infirmities of her father. 
 The old man had entered his eighty-seventh year, 
 but the fond affection of his children could not yet 
 spare him. Seldom can the age of the good parent 
 
388 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 be " dark and unlovely," if God spare but his off- 
 spring to gather around his decrepitude. 
 
 Miss Carter concludes the letter in which she an- 
 nounces the death of her father to Mrs. Montague 
 with the following words : — ''At present, I have a 
 sad, desolate feeling at my heart, and an oppressive 
 Aveight on my spirits, that I cannot shake off; but 
 this I trust will soon be relieved, and be succeeded 
 by pleasing and comfortable sentiments of gratitude, 
 respect, and affection to the memory of a father, to . 
 whom I had such uncommon and inexpressible obli- 
 gations." That thefe are bonds of filial obligation, 
 which nature tells us are alike strong in all cases, is 
 true ; but where the parental duties have been dis- 
 charged with unusual ability and devotedness, there 
 arise obligations which do indeed deserve to be call- 
 ed, " uncommon and inexpressible." Miss Carter 
 realized this fully. It is difficult to judge how far 
 her mature character was the result of a kindly con- 
 stituted temperament, or self-cultivation, or of early 
 parental discipline ; but that the latter had a large 
 share in the formation of her various excellences 
 cannot be doubted by any who have been in the habit 
 of watching the influences of home education. 
 
 From this time she was in one sense of the word 
 alone. The regular companion of her existence, he 
 who had dwelt from her earliest existence in the spot 
 she called her home, was gone. To the unmarried 
 woman, the presence of a parent is the essence of 
 home ; there is none like that of a parent's house. 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 389 
 
 But there was no loneliness of the heart for her. 
 She took too deep an interest in the welfare of others 
 to sink into gloom and apathy ; literature and friend- 
 ship occupied her mind and her affections ; devout 
 exercises and benevolent deeds kept her spirit in a 
 heavenly frame ; while her sister's children taught 
 her the value of a blessed relationship, through which 
 the childless carry down their love to another gen- 
 eration. 
 
 One of her objects of attention was a Benevolent 
 Society, which made demands on time as well as 
 money ; and in charitable enterprises of this nature 
 we find her engaged henceforward, with a quiet but 
 constant interest. 
 
 In the year 1775, Mrs. Montague lost her worthy 
 husband, and, as he left her sole mistress of a large 
 fortune, she immediately settled an annuity on Miss 
 Carter. 
 
 Her headaches, however, had now increased to a 
 distressing degree. Yet, as the friends of her earlier 
 days passed from the scene, and infirmity fixed upon 
 her as her companion to the grave, her gentleness and 
 cheerfulness attracted many of the young to soothe 
 her decline. Religious books and the classics still 
 were her favorite reading ; and her remarks on French, 
 Italian, and Spanish writers show that they formed 
 a part of her customary studies. She was no ad- 
 mirer of the French tragedy. A true Englishwoman 
 fresh and natural in her tastes, in vain did she strive 
 to reconcile herself to the pompous declamation of 
 
 33* 
 
390 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 Racine ; and at last she gave it up, playfully declar- 
 ing to Mrs. Montague, — "If you beat me for it, I 
 cannot help thinking that Pyrrhus and Alexander 
 make love ' en petits maitres,' and we should never 
 guess who they were, if their names were not set to 
 the pictures." 
 
 Daring the progress of the American Revolution, 
 though she was no politician, her letters contain 
 many interesting allusions to passing events. We 
 read almost with curiosity the various rumors of suc- 
 cess or defeat, the apprehensions with regard to the 
 safety of one friend's son, or another's husband, — 
 expressions of sympathy with the bereaved, specula- 
 tions on the result of the unnatural contest, and com- 
 ments on the failing health of Lord Chatham, — till 
 the lapse of years is forgotten, we are carried back to 
 the times of our fathers, and view the scene of their 
 struggle as it were from the opposite shores of the 
 Atlantic. 
 
 In the year 1778, we find a strong symptom of old 
 age in the following passage : — '' O lack ! what 
 writing, or, as somebody used to say, what luritation 
 it all is ! You and I, my dear friend, have lived to 
 see the mushroom growth of a new language in our 
 country, filled with phrases which nobody could have 
 understood when v/e were young." So murmured her 
 old father, when, in his latter years, she would have 
 persuaded him to read some then modern work. And 
 the murmur is still heard from thousands who grew 
 up among the phrases of which the retired authoress 
 
ELIZABEXn CARTER. 391 
 
 complained, but love not fresh innovations, now that 
 their own locks are growing gray. 
 
 In the year 1782, then at the age of sixty-five. Miss 
 Carter was induced, very unwillingly, to accompany 
 some friends to Paris ; then a scene of luxury and 
 gayety, which, even to the most thoughtful observer, 
 gave little indication of the bloody calamities ap- 
 proaching. She did not enjoy this journey ; and, in 
 her homesickness, wrote to a friend, that she could 
 not help longing for what she should '' prefer to all 
 the fine sights in the world, a view of the cliffs of 
 Dover." Her sensibilities to the sublime and beauti- 
 ful were not blunted by ill health, however, for she 
 strikingly describes her impressions on viewing the 
 Cathedral of Amiens. 
 
 In December, 1784, she thus alludes to the decease 
 of another friend of many years : — "I see by the pa- 
 pers, Dr. Johnson is dead. In extent of learning and 
 exquisite purity of moral writing, he has left no su- 
 perior, and, I fear, very few equals. His virtues and 
 his piety were founded on the steadiest of Christian 
 principles and faith. His faults, I firmly believe, 
 arose from the irritations of a most suffering state of 
 nervous constitution, which hardly ever allowed him 
 a moment's repose." 
 
 In the following year, she seems to have suffered 
 much from uneasiness on account of her friend, Mrs. 
 Vesey, who, after her husband's death, gave way to 
 a morbid wretchedness, which nothing could cheer. 
 Brilliant and popular as that lady was, she seems to 
 
392 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 have wanted those more solid characteristics which 
 made Miss Carter happy under so many bereave- 
 mentSj and so much ill health. 
 
 So uneventful was the life of Miss Carter, that it 
 affords little material for biography ; but her letters 
 were full of interest. The mind of a sensible spec- 
 tator, as it appears in a private correspondence, has 
 the beautiful, mirror-like property of reflecting the 
 state of society with all its fluctuations. We cannot 
 but muse over the sad changes which she incidental- 
 ly and almost involuntarily portrays. The progress 
 of luxury and the increase of crime keep pace with 
 each other fearfully. Now we read of conflicts be- 
 tween the bold smugglers on the sea-coast, and the 
 armed authorities ; we are told of robberies, house- 
 breakings, and murders taking place in parts of the 
 country till now innocent and quiet ; then come in- 
 stances of profligacy in high life, such as were rare 
 in her younger days ; — but with it all are blended 
 allusions to so many instances of public and private 
 worth, from her virtuous sovereign downward, that 
 they act like glimpses of sunshine through stormy 
 clouds, reminding one that there is Light above, 
 which may be obscured for a time, but not quenched. 
 There is no moroseness mingled with her serious re- 
 flections on the follies or vices of the generations 
 rising about her. Her perfect confidence in Divine 
 Wisdom and Goodness, overruling all, forbade any 
 fear lest evil should gain the mastery at last, and Sin 
 and Ruin sweep over the earth. Even during the 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 393 
 
 French Revolution, when every arrival from the Con- 
 tinent brought the details of fresh horrors, she thus ex- 
 presses herself: — '' In what will all this violence and 
 wickedness end ? Perhaps in some important good. 
 Villains, by doing the dirty work which the virtuous 
 will not do, and which may in a corrupted world be 
 necessary to clear away the obstructions which lie in 
 the road to some great public benefit, become instru- 
 ments of the reasonable change and reformation 
 which they never intended. Thus, by the overruling 
 providence of God, from the chaos of human passions 
 emerges a system of order and good government." 
 
 From September, 1795, till December, 1796, there 
 is a gap in her correspondence with Mrs. Montague ; 
 during this interval she had a long and dangerous ill- 
 ness. She recovered sufficiently to take up her win- 
 ter residence in London, but when she returned to 
 Deal, the eyesight of her beloved friend had failed ; 
 and the correspondence at length necessarily closed, 
 so busy was the hand of Time with both the writers. 
 In 1802, Mrs. Elizabeth Montague died. During all 
 the latter years of her life, Miss Carter took a vivid 
 interest in the works of genius which issued from 
 the press, though bearing a stamp very different from 
 that which had passed current in her younger days. 
 She was pleased with the better moral tone assumed 
 by works of fiction ; she shared in the surprise and 
 admiration which welcomed the brilliant debut of 
 Miss Burney ; and she yielded to the witcheries of 
 Mrs. Radcliffe. She always took peculiar delight in 
 
394 ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 the literary successes of her own sex ; and when she 
 discovered that a volume of plays which had appear- 
 ed anonymously, and which she had read with the 
 warmest admiration, were the production of a youth- 
 ful female, the since celebrated Miss Baillie, her feel- 
 ings were those of triumph. To this lady the re- 
 flection must be pleasant, that Elizabeth Carter lived 
 to bestow on her the blessing of her society and af- 
 fection. To have won respect from the excellent and 
 discriminating, who have long studied human nature, 
 may justify a becoming pride, and must stimulate to 
 progress. 
 
 The contemporary of Pope, Miss Carter lived to 
 witness a new school of poetry indeed ; but she gave 
 in her adhesion, by the delight with which she pe- 
 rused The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 But her constitution was at last completely broken 
 up ; the new century had indeed dawned upon her, 
 but it had brought much sickness and infirmity. 
 Her decay, however, was very gradual, and soothed 
 by the most affectionate attentions from the many 
 who revered and loved her. It was even cheered by 
 circumstances, which, brought up as she had been in 
 the bosom of loyalty, were gratifying to her feelings 
 as a subject. So far back as the year 1791, she had 
 been admitted to a private interview with Uueen 
 Charlotte ; and she afterwards received various at- 
 tentions from one whose domestic character was in 
 harmony with the respect thus paid to a virtuous 
 private individual. Other members of the royal 
 
 I 
 
ELIZABETH CARTER. 395 
 
 family visited her only a year or two before her 
 death, but with her usual wisdom she regarded these 
 occurrences in their just light ; she was pleased with 
 the amiable spirit indicated by them, not elated by 
 any fancied honor done to herself. 
 
 In December, 1805, Miss Carter went to London, 
 for the last time ; she took the sacrament previous to 
 setting out, from her nephew, the Rev. Montague 
 Pennington. Her strength began to fail rapidly after 
 the first of January, but her mind remained till a 
 few hours before her decease ; and when, at last, the 
 Angel of Death brought her summons, it came in 
 peace. She expired without a struggle, at three in 
 the morning of the 19th of February, 1806, in the 
 eighty-ninth year of her age. 
 
 Although her remains were deposited in London, 
 and an epitaph there placed on the stone which covers 
 them, another monument rose to her memory in her 
 native town of Deal. Both pay homage to the union 
 of learning and piety in one female mind. If, as we 
 believe, she combined with these attributes an excel- 
 lent judgment, modesty, and sweetness of temper, 
 her character was indeed one fit to be held up as a 
 model to her sex. She was an honor to the century 
 in which she lived, and deserves not to be forgotten 
 by that which succeeds it. 
 
I 
 
THE SILVEE BELL* 
 
 An excellent lady lay on her death-bed. Her limbs 
 were benumbed, her voice feeble, and her head heavy, 
 but her warm heart still throbbed with a tender con- 
 cern for the good of others. There was a young 
 person in whom she was especially interested, be- 
 cause she had been the intimate friend of her own 
 departed daughter; and a parent never forgets to love 
 those whom a dead child has loved. Besides this, 
 the youthful Emily was beloved for her own sake. 
 She was artless and gentle ; the lady looked upon 
 her fair face, remembered that it would be difficult 
 for one so young, rich, and beautiful to escape the 
 power of worldliness in some of its many forms, 
 and prayed for her, as none but the dying, perhaps, 
 can pray. 
 
 When she felt that her separation from the body 
 was really approaching, this Christian friend sent for 
 Emily, and said a few kind words of farewell, which 
 
 * Never before published. 
 34 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 melted her into tears. And then she bestowed upon 
 her a parting gift. It was a morocco case, contain- 
 ing, not jewels for the neck and arms, but a lit- 
 tle silver bell of the sweetest tone. There was a 
 spring to be touched, and then it sent forth a low 
 but exquisite sound, dying away in melodious vibra- 
 tions, that seemed to ask an echo from the heart- 
 strings. At the same time, a silver hand, upon a 
 sort of watch-face beneath the bell, moved forward 
 one division. There were three hundred and sixty- 
 five divisions. 
 
 ^' Emily," said the departing friend, '' I give you 
 no farewell advice, and make but one dying request. 
 Each night before you sleep, give at least five min- 
 utes to quiet reflection ; then touch this spring, and 
 then, when all is again still, pray as your heart may 
 move you. Touch the bell at no other time save in 
 this interval between your evening meditation and 
 your evening prayer. One year from to-night, ob- 
 serve if the hand has traversed the whole circle." 
 
 " Dear friend," exclaimed Emily, '' I have never 
 since my childhood omitted nightly prayer, and do 
 you think I am in danger of it ? " 
 
 ^' God knows your dangers better than I ; but I 
 perceive that your interest will soon be drawn pow- 
 erfully towards the outward, and I would have a link 
 between it and the inward. For one of your tem- 
 perament, it may be good to have some visible token 
 of spiritual progress ; and I know that if you are 
 true to the meaning of my request, and comply with 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 399 
 
 it faithfully, your soul must make some advance in 
 one year." 
 
 The friends parted. The faded face of the one 
 was covered from the sight of man ; the blooming 
 countenance of the other soon went smiling again 
 along life's daily path. But she forgot not the silver 
 bell, and each night, in the stillness of her solitary 
 chamber, her face covered with her hands, she sat a 
 short season in deep thought, questioning herself of 
 the day that had just passed to return no more, of 
 her own character, her hopes, her dependence on 
 God and her Saviour. Then, with a deep feeling of 
 solemnity, she opened the morocco case, touched the 
 spring, and listened to the sudden voice which sprang 
 forth in response, so sweet that it hardly disturbed 
 the tranquillity of night, into which it soon died 
 away. Then was her soul attuned for prayer, and 
 she felt as if that melodious call had brought a saint- 
 ed spirit to join in her act of devotion. 
 
 Night after night, week after week, passed on. 
 Winter came. Emily went to her first ball. It was 
 very late when she returned, for the moments had 
 flown, she knew not how. She was excited, and 
 yet tired. She took off her sparkling jewels dream- 
 ily, for her thoughts were where she had been for 
 hours, and they would not come with her to the dull, 
 lonely chamber. She threw her delicate, snow-white 
 dress upon a chair, slowly inhaled the expiring per- 
 fume of her bouquet, wrapped a shawl about her, and 
 yet lingered before she sat down to meditate. It 
 
400 THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 was very, very hard to call back her soul from the 
 splendidly lighted ball-room. In vain she covered 
 her eyes with her hands. The absent faces and 
 forms of the human creatures, who had been flitting 
 before her eyes, were more real to her than those 
 pure existences whose presence she was wont to feel 
 beside her at this solemn season. 
 
 But the girl's conscience was yet pure and strong, 
 and she persevered in the mental struggle till she 
 conquered, till she felt that she could pray with a 
 heart wholly given to the desire of holiness. Then 
 she touched the silver bell, and though strains of a 
 lighter character still rung gayly on her ear, they 
 were hushed instantly, they were overpowered, when 
 that voice of liquid melody came forth. Emily 
 thought it had a cadence of sadness she had never 
 before observed. Was it only contrast with the ex- 
 hilarating music of the ball-room band ? 
 
 And now Emily had entered on a new life, the 
 brilliant debutante of the season. Her friends con- 
 gratulated her, because it was the gayest winter, so 
 called, which had been known for some years. The 
 fashionable world seemed wild with the love of pleas- 
 ure, and excitement in some form was sought and 
 found night after night. And Emily, too, pursued 
 it, and oftentimes thought herself very happy. She 
 loved music, dancing, the theatre, witty conversa- 
 tion, the graceful personations of tableaux vivans, 
 with all their charming planning and bustle of prep- 
 aration ; and on she went, admiring and admired, 
 through a succession of gay visions and triumphs. 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 401 
 
 And each night found her enduring a severe strug- 
 gle in the solitude of her own apartment, when she 
 came in with her weary step, and strove to shut the 
 door upon the world. 
 
 For a time conscience held her back with a strong 
 hand from the morocco case, till she was sure that 
 she could in solemn sincerity call upon her Father in 
 Heaven, and offer him an undivided mind. But, O, 
 it grew so much more difficult ! At last, despairingly, 
 she would awaken the silver voice, trusting that the 
 thoughts she could not control would obey that 
 blessed summons. Then the words of prayer would 
 pass through her mind, — not rise up from her heart, 
 — and with a vague, comfortless dissatisfaction she 
 would lay her head upon her pillow, with no con- 
 sciousness that the blessing of holy ones unseen was 
 falling upon her. And then the enemy would return, 
 as if triumphant over her feeble attempt to baffle his 
 wiles, and lost in idle reveries of vanity and folly, 
 she would sink to sleep. 
 
 So it was with her, till even this battle with temp- 
 tation was more than her failing resolution and en- 
 feebled virtue could sustain. She might not always 
 wear a chaplet without thorns. The gay life has its 
 vexations as well as the busy one. Sometimes she 
 stood before her mirror with dimmed eyes, and a 
 brow of perplexity ; but whether dejected or exult- 
 ing, she felt that the sources of her emotion were 
 not such as she could call upon her Maker to behold 
 with his holy eyes, or visit with his tender sympa- 
 
402 THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 thy. At moments, the utter frivolity of her life pre- 
 sented itself to her with such fearfulness, that she 
 almost hoped she was overlooked in God's creation. 
 But this was usually on Sabbath nights, and fewer 
 became such awakenings as the year rolled on. 
 
 When nine months had elapsed, she had several 
 times omitted to touch the silver bell. Each time 
 she had pleaded to herself that she was too much 
 exhausted ! — With what ? — Too much exhausted 
 with dissipation to think of God, to remember her 
 Saviour ! 
 
 At last, she even forgot it. 
 
 Tp 5jP ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The year had almost expired, when God in his 
 mercy sent upon Emily a sudden and dreadful ill- 
 ness. The cholera messenger came to her. He did 
 not *' take her out of the world," but came to ''keep 
 her from the evil that was in it." 
 
 She recovered. And the first night in which she 
 again found herself in her sleeping-room alone was 
 the anniversary of that upon which she had received 
 from a dying Christian friend the long-neglected 
 silver bell. 
 
 Agdin she sat down, with her hands clasped over 
 her face, to meditate, and prepare her mind for sol- 
 emn communion with God. She felt as if she had 
 almost seen him ! 
 
 There was no struggle with gay images and world- 
 ly thoughts now. She looked upon the circle around 
 which the silver hand should have travelled, and felt 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 403 
 
 the lesson and the reproach with the deepest com- 
 punction. It declared that she had been estranged 
 from her Father in Heaven, that the love of Christ 
 had not been in her, that she had forgotten the pious 
 dead, and had given her strength and her affections 
 to the world. 
 
 Tears of penitence gushed over her cheeks as the 
 unwonted music again broke upon her ear, and it 
 never sounded so sweet. That night the spared 
 trifler vowed a vow with her prayers. Youthful 
 reader, what, think you, was her vow ? 
 
 If you had found by bitter experience that you 
 had not sufficient strength of character to resist dan- 
 gerous influences, would you think it wise or right 
 to expose yourself to them voluntarily ? 
 
 It is one thing to cry out against the theatre and 
 the ball-room. It is another to ask you soberly to 
 examine yourself as to the effect of the recreations, 
 no matter what they may be, in which you indulge, 
 — the effect on your own soul, your religious habits, 
 the individual spiritual life. If the sound of the sil- 
 ver bell, leading you from calm meditation to true 
 prayer, might not be heard each night in your cham- 
 ber, what would doom it to silence ? 
 
 That J whatever it be, is wrong for you. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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