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Know you are here: some speak of you with tears,
And some with execrations.

Ripperda. Their pity and their curses move alike
Ripperda. I would wipe them from my brain,
But that I see the day when, down in the dust,
They will weep bitter drops of late repentance,
And grovel for my pardon :-where is Antonio ?-
But tell me not-he waits in the blighted courts
Of faithless Madrid, with a ready lie
And supple smile; he herds with my destroyers-
He creeps to that vain queen, and prostitutes
The form his father gave him, for that woman's
Deceitful favours-speak not the changeling's name-
Tell, tell me not that I have hatch'd a serpent
In mine own blood, and warm’d him in my bosom ;
I charge you, tell it not.

Most gracious lord,
Vouchsafe me a mild hearing. Your poor son
Swift posted from Vienna, when the news
Reach'd him of your misfortunes; never sleep
Lighted upon him as he hurried through
The German forests; and, when on the sea,
For many days he bravd the terrific storm,
With thoughts alone of that more fearful tempest
That hurl'd you from your pow'r: he found your prison,
Two days from your escape; and, when he hoped
To clasp his father, by a royal order
He was immur'd himself, and only freed
Within this week.

Ripperda. No more, Jeronymo,
No more you'll drive me mad. With my own boy
I had defied the world- -curse on my rashness
To fly to these barbarians. But 'tis past.
Ripperda and true greatness are divorc'd.
Perish all thoughts of what I might have been,
And come thou clouded future to my arms,
And I will hug thee, though thou taint my soul
Beyond all medicine. Where is Antonio ! -

Jeron. In Africa.
Ripperda. Pooh, pooh!

Here in Mequinez.
Ripperda. Provoke me not-

Here, in thy outer court. Ripperda. Thou liest, damn'd slave, thou liest-he dare

not come.
Jeron. He waits to see you.

Villain, repeat this lie,
And I will dash the foul, malignant word,
Back, back, to choke thee.

Sir, I do entreat you

To see your son, your most afflicted son,
The champion of your honour,-the-

I charge thee,
On thy soul's safety tell me nought but truth ;
Came Don Antonio with thee to Mequinez?

Jeron. I do protest that I have spoken truth-
He voyaged with me in the pirate sloop,
And landed here this night.

Ripperda. Josepha, can'st thou look upon my son,
Child of my sainted wife ? Can I look on him?
Can I endure that his pure eye should see
This impious caftan, these eternal records
Of all my foul disgrace ? perhaps he will stand
To-morrow in the mosque, hear me deny
My Saviour and my God? oh madness, madness!

Josepha. I thought Ripperda’s soul was like the oak
That turbulent tempests shake not. See the boy,
And like a pious father kiss his feet,
And tell him you have sinn'd-perchance he brings
From royal Philip his benign permission
To rot in Spain on a mechanic's fare;
Or, perhaps, to till your confiscated lands
As the court steward. Oh! 'tis a glorious chance ;
And if the Pope will give you absolution,
Your heretic heart may 'scape the purging fire,
Till famine hands you to the quiet tomb-
Admit the boy and beg his gracious blessing.-

Jeron. Sir, will you see him?

Never, never more!
Tell him to fly this most accursed land,
To change his name, to blot from his escutcheon
His father's ensigns; tell him to learn to hate me-
Tell him—tell him. I faint-bear, bear me in.


“ And now, good Master Mason, you may to your work. Hereabout I think be the spot;—and by the time that you have removed the earth I will again attend you."

The personage from whom these orders proceeded was Mr. Thomas Herbert. There was an air of calm melancholy in his demeanour; but, like many other men under circumstances of affliction, the exercise of a little self-importance imparted an alacrity to his movements which would have befitted a less solemn occasion. It was his duty to prepare, for the remains of the unhappy Charles, a secure and honourable resting place. The suspicions of the Parliamentary Commissioners allowed

little time for previous arrangement;--and therefore the plain hearse which bore the mangled corpse, attended by a few faithful followers, had passed into the Castle of Windsor, before the grave was chosen, in the Chapel of St. George, where it was to rest for ever from persecution."

Young man,” said Herbert to the page who attended him, we must lay our dear master in a royal tomb. Though the dogs have hunted him to the death, we will give him a resting place in no common earth. This is the sepulchre of Edward the Fourth. It was wont to be hung with pearls, and rubies, and other seemly ornaments ;-but the disinterested reformers have left nothing but the plain monument of steel. It is of curious workmanship, boy."

“ I marvel,” quoth one of the labourers, “ what all this fuss is about where they shall lay him! As the Parliament have cut off his head, it can argufy little where they bestow his trunk. This ground is plaguy hard, and he who last put a spade in it has been boxed up himself, with all his great grand-children long enew I warrant ye.

• Varlet,” replied the master," cease your profane talking. There are those will bury the king who can pay for the digging. Have you come to the crown of the vault?” “ Rot it, no-neither crown nor side. I think we may

finish the job to-morrow, if they will put him here. How long may King Edward have been dead, master?”

The more patient tradesman exhorted his labourers to persevere ;—but their efforts were still unsuccessful. Herbert grew cold and weary, and after many vain directions took another stroll round the solitary chapel. At the entrance he encountered the worthy Bishop Juxon, and they together walked into the choir.

Ten years ago, ere the troubles began,” said the good Bishop, in a voice that implied something between a reverie and an address to Herbert, “ ten years ago, I saw our poor dead master sit in that stall, in all the glory and power of a king. His nobles were around him, and the banners of royal and princely houses waved above them, and the loud organ sounded a jubilate, and the people looked on in awe and re

And now we are seeking to consign him to a hasty grave and the place of splendour is desolate and plundered of its ornaments—and the nobles are proscribed or they are traitors --and their banners are torn down and their escutcheons defaced ---and the night bird comes in at the broken lattice to make her nest in their abandoned seats—and the glory of the church and of the land has passed away.” “ I have some old notions about the church,” replied Herbert,“ but they might have corrected her errors without stripping her of her decent reverence




-they might have bounded the power of the throne without murdering our dear master.”

It was, perhaps, well for these faithful mourners, that the arrival of some personages of consequence prevented a tinuance of their complaining dialogue; or some ready ears might have treasured up their words, to be repeated to those who would not have greatly compassionated their sorrow, or very ardently seconded

their zeal. “ Master Herbert,” said the Earl of Lindsey, “ you tarry long. Is not the vault yet opened?”

" My good lord, I pray you to believe that I have exercised all needful diligence. The workmen have difficulty to find the entrance to the vault, and they are even now labouring in a fresh direction."

“ Why then, Master Herbert, we must change our plan. Your warrant is to bury the King this 7th day of February, and we may do well to observe it to the letter. See you not, by that gleam of sun in the western aisle, that the day is waping ?”

“ I remember,” said the Marquis of Hertford, “ to have heard it affirmed, that Henry the Eighth's vault is at the eastern end of the choir. Lend me thy staff, Master Herbert.”

The Lord advanced toward the altar, and commenced a series of experiments, which caused the labourers, who had suspended their fruitless operation, to admire at his sagacity. At last the pavement returned a hollow sound, and the by-standers agreed that it would be prudent to direct all their labours to this new attempt.

“ It is certainly indifferent in the eye of reason, ejaculated Herbert, “ whether he sleepeth with the House of York, or the House of Tudor. One more choice is yet left, and if this fail, we may lay him with another Royal— martyr,'” he would have said ; but Bishop Juxon, who stood by in silence, laid his finger on his lip, and Herbert stammered out,“ personage—the unhappy Henry VI.”

The pavement was removed, and with some considerable exertion, the vault was soon discovered and opened. A ladder and a lantern were procured, and Herbert, with the good bishop, fearlessly descended. The lords had no desire to contemplate mortality so closely.

“Here is the end of all,” said the bishop. • There lies the high-crested tyrant, reckless alike of his pleasures and his sins; and though he departed in the plenitude of his power and his iniquity, he is as humbled as our poor master, who is come to the tomb a sufferer and a saint. Well-well—the day of retribution will arrive.”

They soon ascended. • Is there room?" said the Duke of

Rutland. Ample,” replied Herbert. Henry has one of his wives by his side; but there is no quarrelling for a new love."

Canst thou, in two hours,” said the bishop to one of the workmen, “ canst thou cut a plate or girdle of lead with these words— King Charles, beheaded by his Parliament, 1648.?!” “ I think there be not time enough for so much,” said the man. “. Nor have we warrant for it,” said the Earl of Lindsey. “Cut the wordsKing Charles, 1648,' and see that all be ready at six of the clock.” The party left the chapel.

In the bed-chamber, in which the unhappy Charles had slept only twelve days previous to his execution, was now placed his coffin. The apartment was nearly in the same order as when he left it. Herbert and the bishop entered. The recollections of his master's sufferings pressed upon the faithful usher, and he dropped a few unbidden tears. The good bishop took up the King's book of devotions, which lay upon the table; the leaf was folded down at the penitential Psalms, and the bishop also wept at this sign of the contrite heart which had passed to a bar of mercy.

The door opened, and Colonel Whitchot, the Parliamentary Governor of the Castle, entered. " Well, Master Herbert," he exclaimed with a tone of contemptuous exultation, “ your master be soon returned to his old lodgings; but we shall now have less trouble to guard him.” His soul, Sir,” answered the bishop," is now in company with the seraphic hosts ; he is above all danger and all fear; and he is as far removed from earthly insult, as his virtues were triumphant over the malice of his enemies. I hope at the great day of account his persecutors will not be shut out from that mercy which they denied to him.”

“Look you, doctor,” exclaimed the colonel," your office is to bury Charles Stuart, and not to preach over him. So be busy about it. Within there! Bear this body to its grave, and look that none of the town people enter the gates. With your leave, Sir,” said the bishop, " we have appointed six of the clock for the hour of interment; and if it be your pleasure till that time, the body may be placed in St. George's Hall, that those who follow it may arrange themselves in decent order.” The governor paused suspiciously; but at length yielded a reluctant assent; and to that hall of revelry and of triumph were borne the lonely remains; and a few stood round them with a sincere sorrow; and a few looked on with a vague

and not uncharitable curiosity. The pause was brief; and the state, if such it could be called, sudden and scanty. A few glimmering torches were lighted; six of the king's faithful friends lifted the coffin on their shoulders ; about a dozen gentlemen in mourning arranged themselves behind it; and the procession moved forward.


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