The Sun.
London, England, 1861-08-09 00:00:00

TIIE CAUCA SUS.

A telegraphic despatch mentioned, a few days
ago, that the reAment of the Cossacks of Khopersk,
now serving in the Caucasus, had revolted. A
letter from that country gives some details connec-
ted with that fact :—" The Cossack regiments
attached to the Russian army of the Caucasus form
several lines, which are complete military colonies.
They conquer the soil from the enemy, and there
establish themselves, with their families, guarding
their acquired possessions, sabre in hand. The
lines of these military villages are, as a matter of
cou
progressrse,gradually advanced, and as it were, mark
the
of conquest. Prince Bariatinski
lately, in order to gain ground, ordered ouch

The Constable of the Tower. A Historical Ro-
mance. By William Harrison Ainsworth.
Illustrated by John Gilbert. 3 vols. Chapman
and Hall.
Originally appearing as a serial story in Bentley's
Miscellany, occasionally illustrated by the delicate
and facile " pencilling" of John Gilbert—Harrison
Ainsworth's new historical romance has recently
been issued from the press by Messrs. Chapman and
Hall, in its complete form, as a separate publication.
Accordingly as the work appeared in the pages of
the magazine from month to month, we have
analyzed its merits almost chapter by chapter.
Ever since the three exquisite volumes into which it
is now compacted have been lying before us—
tempting us to examine the fiction as a whole, to
weigh it in its entirety in the balance of criticism—
we have eagerly, but until now vainly, looked fcr
the double opportunity for so doing ; first, for the
leisure for writing, secondly, for due space in our
journal, both of them unprocurable until Parlia-
ment should have been prorogued. At length the
two requisites are within our reach, and we eagerly
grasp at them in order at length that we may
realize in this way a long cherished intention.
Mr. Ainsworth's new story is worthy of the au-
thor's hand as a Master-Romancist. Often as he
has written historic fiction, he has never written
better than throughout these Five Books of The
Constable of the Tower. The production assumes
its place at once among the most brilliantly deli-
neated and highly elaborated narratives of this cha-
racter. It makes a superb triad among the writings
of Harrison Ainsworth, when placed, as we hesitate
not to place it upon the instant, between two old
favourites of ours, owing their existence years ago
to his pen of glamour and fascination— Windsor
Castle and the Tower of London. Clubbing those
'three works together, ranging the whole nine vo-
lumes side by side on our bookshelves—nine enthrall-
ing volumes of historic romance, illustrated by the
pencils of Johannot, Gilbert, Delamotte, and Cruik-
shank—it would be difficult (remembering their
contents) not to recognise in their author a combi-
nation of genius and of industry, of fecund fancy
and untiring research, but rarely brought toge-
ther and thus intimately united in the service
of imaginative literature. Otherwise—by how
many of his writings as a Novelist !—Mr. Ains-
worth has vividly enough attested the pre-eminence
of his powers as a romance writer, especially and
Peculiarly as one into whose possession have fallen,
sot° speak, not only the grimly robe of Mrs. Radcliffe
and the weird wand of Monk Lewis, bat together
with those symbols of a mysterious authority over
all the sources of terror and of wonderment, much
of that higher gift of gifts for imparting to the
grizzliest improbabilities a prevailing air of veri-
similitude and of absolute credibility, which is the
secret of the glamour exercised over us by all the
great masters of Romance from Godwin and Matu-
rin down to Ilenri De Balzac. Who has not long since
recognised the possession of all these gifts and
powers in their very perfection in the author of that
enthralling romance of romances—the story of
ROOKWOOD? It is said of Mr. Ainsworth that he
has exhausted all the old familiar resources of the
romancist—the trap-doors and the sliding panels,
the wrack, the dungeon, the scaffold, the perillous
feats and hairbreadth 'stapes that carry the ro-
mance reader on through " moving incidents by
flood and field" with the speed, let us say, of
Dick Turpin when bestriding Black Bess
on the great north road between York and
London. It is hardly an exaggeration. Yet
his achievements (for they are little less than
achievements) in this way are all so varied in their
nature : they form such startling contrasts when
brought for a moment into comparison ! Instance
this—the terrific descent from the pillar described
in our author's splendid romance of the Admirable
Crichton, and the wonderful flight down the roaring
current of the Thames in the opening pages of Jack
Shepherd, when the Silent Highway is swept
over by the scourge of that astounding hurricane. It
were superfluous, however, to endeavour nowadays
to illustrate, by examples culled from his volumi-
nous productions, a distinguishing peculiarity long
and long ago so very generally recognised. It is
a peculiarity this which will be found more or less
pervading the whole series of Mr. Ainsworth's effu-
sions as a fictionist. Discoverable, hardly less than
in those famous books of his which we have already
here particularised—in his other remarkable nar-
ratives, some of them historical, others purely the
outpourings of his imagination. Hence, in truth,
the popularity, more or less, appertaining to those
extraordinary narratives, whether reference be
made to Old St. Paul's, with its record of the fire
and plague; to St. James's, with all its Court in-
trigues, introducing us to people as widely different
as Sacheverel and Marlborough ; and to Guy
Fawkes, with its marvellous Rembrandt glimpses of
the Gunpowder Plot conspirators! Or whether,
on the other hand, allusion be made to the purely
fanciful history of the Miser's _Daughter, to the
goblin scenes depicted in those wild annals com-
memorative of lhe Lancashire Witches, even to the
pages of that tantalising fragment of a Romance
called Auriol ! To say nothing of the allurements
thrown in like manner by Mr. Ainsworth's wizard-
like, and almost, one might say, lurid imagination,
over various passaaee in his more recent fictions—
over the serio-comic incidents of The Flitch of Bacon
—over the strangely fluctuating fortunes of The
Spendthrift—over the singularly interesting, and
some of them wonderfully probable, and others still
more wonderfully improbable, adventures of Mervyn
Clitheroe—over the varied characters flitting to
and fro across those beautiful Sussex downs near
Brighton,vvith the picturesque gables of "0 vingdean
Grange" in',the midst of its clustering orchards and
shrubberies, filling up the background of that last
alluring picture, vividly sketched in black and
white, by the indefatigable pen of our unwearied
and seemingly inexhaustible Romancist.
At last—reverting to one of those higher kinds
of labour in this beautiful fairyland of fiction (the
dreamland, the cloudland of Imaginative Litera-
ture), in which he had already signally evidenced
at once his capacity and proficiency as a Fabulist—
Harrison Ainsworth has, in this the latest of his
numerous literary productions, completed that His-
torico-Rornantic Triad to which we have already
referred as shining out with a sort of triple lustre
from among his ci,ehteen or twenty separate and
some of them world-famous works of imagination.
Placing TIIE CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER as we do,
and as we have already here intimated, between
" Windsor Castle" and " Tile Tower of London"—
we recognise in those three historic romances, in
those nine goodly volumes, a superb contribution
towards the elucidation of the events of one of the
most extraordinary epochs in the annals of our
native land. No man has more vividly realised to
himself and to his readers the distinguishing pecu-
liarities of that most memorable period, the very
heart or centre of which is the time during which

varius, cujus rei Tibet simulator ac dissimulator,
alteni appetens, suiprofusus, ardens in cupiditatibus,
satis eloquentice, sapientice parum." All this—
together with physical gifts and graces to which
Cataline could not lay claim—Seymour being the
handsomest man of his time, and one endowed (as
the loves of Catherine and Elizabeth sufficiently
well evidenced), with an almost irresistible charm
of fascination. Yet so calm, so uninfatuated is
Mr. Ainsworth, in his regard, while here
treating of Seymour's ambition and Sey-
mour's character, that sometimes even we
scarcely think justice is done to the Lord High
Admiral. For example—the novelist who has here
chosen Seymour as his hero takes for granted,
accepts as absolutely proven and as henceforth not
to be for an instant contravened, the gailt imputed
to the Lord High Admiral in respect to his supposed
complicity with the Master of the Mint at Bristol
—Sherington, here called by Mr. Ainsworth
Sharingtoe. Our novelist takes for granted, we
say, accepts as absolutely proven, the charge made
against Seymour of having (for a given sum) con-
nived at Sherington's misdeeds in clipping the coin,
issuing base testoons, and falsifying the entries in
the books of his department. Although it is as yet
doubtful to this day whether Sherington was not
in reality a double-dyed rascal actually " suborned
to calumniate Seymour as the price of his own
life "—" a suspicion," observes Lingard (vol. v., p.
279, last Editiart), " a suspicion which was almost
converted into certainty when that offender (i.e.,
Sherington) was not only pardoned but restored to
his former appointment, and found still to possess
a considerable fortune." However, we mention this
one instance merely as affording what may with
truth be called "proof positive," that in delineating
his hero, Seymour,',Mr. Ainsworth has not had his'
judgment blurred at any rate by the feverish influ-
ence of the lues Boswelliana. We have followed
the incidents of the story so carefully from month
to month as the narrative has appeared in its first
or piecemeal form in Bentley's Miscellany, that we
have nothing further left to say here in regard to the
plot of the romance, a plot the thread of which, if
we may so express it, has been carefully and dex-
terously woven into the meshes of history. The
result of Mr. Ainsworth's art in so weaving it,
being in effect that in The Constable of the Tower
we have as it were a gorgeous specimen from his
practised hand of the tapestry of historico-romantic
literature. Among the personages whose forms
and features are here recognisable are not only the
dying monarch and the boy-king his successor,
not only the Protector Somerset and his ambitious
brother the Admiral, not only the young Princesses
(afterwards Queens) Mary and Elizabeth, besides
the Queen Dowager, Catherine Parr, but together
with these the various personages peopling the
Courts of Henry VIII. and Edward Vl.—Cranmer,
Archbishop of Canterbury; Wriothesley, the Lord
Chancellor; the Earl of Hertford, the Great Cham-
berlain; Lord Russell, the Privy Seal; Sir
Anthony Brown, the Master of the Horse, and so
forth. The Constable appearing as a matter of
course, and even of right on his part, as nomi•
nally the central figure upon the canvass. Upon
the vory threshold of the story, so to speak, the
reader's attention is arrested, being held spell-bound
thence to the very Finis. " The curtain," says the
novelist at the outset, " was about to descend upon
one of the most tremendous dramas ever enacted in
real life—a drama which those who witnessed it be-
held with wonder and awe. The sun of royalty,
which had scorched all it fell upon by the fierceness
of its mid-day beams, was fast sinking into seas
lighted up by lurid fires, and deeply stained by
blood." Shortly after which comes that terrible
picture of the Royal Bluebeard at the close of his evil
reign; Harrison Ainsworth depicting the bloated
mass of sensuality then called and yet remembered
with horror as

HENRY VIII.

Engendered in his frame by want of exercise, and
nourished by gross self-indulgence, disease made rapid fear-
ful progress. Ere long he had become so corpulent, and his
limbs were so much swollen, that he was almost incapable
of movement. Such was his weight that machinery had to
be employed to raise him or place him in a chair. Doors
were widened to allow him passage. He could not repose
on a couch, from fear of suffocation ; and unceasing anguish
was occasioned by a deep and incurable ulcer in the leg.
Terrible was he to behold at this period. Terrible to hear
were his cries of rage and pain, which resembled the roar-
ing of a wild beast. His attendants came nigh him with
reluctance and affright, for the slightest inadvertence drew
down dreadful imprecations and menaces on their heads.
But the lion, though sick to death, was a lion still. While
any life was left in him Henry would not abate a jot of the
sovereign power he had exercised. Though his body was
a mass of disease his faculties were vigorous as ever ; his
firmness was unshaken, his will absolute. To the last he
was true to himself. Inexorable he had been, and inexor-
able he remained. His thirst for vengeance was insatiable
as ever, while his suspicions were more quickly aroused
and sharper than heretofore. But during this season of
affliction, vouchsafed him, perhaps, for repentance for his
numerous and dire offences, there was no endeavour to re•
concile him with man or to make peace with heaven;
neither was there any outward manifestation of remorse.
The henchmen and pages stationed at the door of his
chamber during the long hours of night, and half slumber-
ing at their posts, with other watchers by his side, were
often appalled by the fearful groans of the restless king
But these might be wrested from him by pain, and were n
proof that conscience pricked him. Not a word escaped
his lips to betoken that sleep ~vf.s scared away by the
spectres of his countless victims. What passedthm that
dark and inscrutable breast no man couldteli
1 Several of Mr. Ainsworth's imaginary characters ,

occasions.
How the prediction as to Seymour is at length
fulfilled, let the subjoined fragment of Mr. AitlP
worth's resplendent narrative relate :
Owing to the precautions taken by the Constable, SE"
mour was brought to the scaffold in safety, and when
soon afterwards mounted the steps and appeared upon it,
tremendous shout arose from the beholders. Hitherto till
day had been dull and gloomy, but at that moment a sligt
burst of sunshine fell upon him, and illumining his 01'1
countenance'rendered him yet more conspicuous to the ci,rt
assemblage whose eyes were strained towards him•
in his proudest moments had he looked more majestic OP—
he did now that he stood upon those fatal boards, nor pfu
haps, for one instant, more elated. But the smile wll,7ict
had played upon his features quickly faded away, es
the sunshine that had lighted them up, and left them P"'
and rigid-looking as marble. He had been preceded upon
the scaffold by the Constable and the Lieutenant, togethet,
with Mauger. By this time Latimer had mounted 617,
steps, and stood beside him. No other person was allows
upon the scaffold. It had been the Admiral's intention tfo
address the crowd, and for this purpose he advanced towards
the front of the scaffold, and, bowing to the bystanders, beg°
to speak; but such a tumult arose, and so many vociferation°
wereraised, that his words were completely drowned, and be
yielded—though NA ith manifest reluctance—to the Con'
stable's entreaties to him to desist. Taking off his cap, he
cried in a sonorous voice, that rose loud above the disturb'
ante, "Longlive King Edward I" The shout was receive('
with acclamations, followed by fresh groans and hooting
against the Lord Protector. Latimer then approached hire,
and asked if he sincerely repented his sins and placed hie
hope in the Saviour. But Seymour scarcely heeding biva;
and anxious, as it seemed, to get done with the scene, calls
fiercely to the executioner to make haste, and throwing °lf
his gown, revealed a figure which, for symmetry, was 1111'
rivalled. Again Latimer approached him, and was agar
repulsed. Seymour then knelt down, and deep silence felt
upon the multitude. His prayers, which did not occulVl
many minutes, being ended, he signed to Mauger that
he
was ready. Then approaching the block he knelt ,
dc4
beside it, took the broidered handkerchief sent him via
Elizabeth from his doublet, pressed his lips to it,
an
fastened it over his eyes. At this moment Latimer v,
vanced and cried out in his ear, " Repent 1" " AwaY,, !is
cried the Admiral, "you distract me !" He then laid
comely neck upon the block, and the axe descended. T 11114,,,
perished the guilty and aspiring Seymour. According '7,
Latimer, he died "very dangerously, irksomely, horriblYit
Others, however, judged him more charitably, and tilcn/g
he made a bravo ending.
e
And we certainly cannot but recognise the j usti
•c
of that comment pronounced upon this tragic te.;
mination to the life of Seymour, that impressl
and judicial comment of the National Historic;
—" This tragedy has left a deep stain upon the
mory of Somerset and Latimer. Somerset sacri,
ficed a brother to ward off the danger of a rill' f:
Latimer prostituted his holy office to sanctifi,
deed of cruelty and injustice." As contrasting Pifer
tures to the foregoing and to themselves, we
give by way of final quotations—passages descriptl 0
of Seymour's last love scone (at once a love stead
and a death scene) with Queen Catherine;
after it in rapid sequence, frightfully rapid as t`lo
incident came itself, one of Seymour's many 1°
scenes with the Princess Elizabeth. Here
CATHERINE'S DEATHBED.
" Have you any further injunctions for me, Catherine r
inquired Seymour.
no'
"Only this," she replied. "Be kind to the little „I
cent I have so lately brought into the world, I do 11‘.
think it will live long to trouble you." r
"While I am spared to watch over it, it shall neon,
want a father's love. But you indulge in sad forebodieeb
Catherine, none of which, I trust, will be realised. kle,fe .n
better heart in regard to yourself. You are not so e'"
gerously ill as you suppose."
" All is well-nigh over with me, Seymour," she grek'iled
" Give me your hand. Mine has been a wretched lifet;fot
I am not sorry it draws to a close. Vainly have I lookeu
happiness in the married state—in each instance I,ll.tip
been disappointed, but in none so deeply, and so we'.,,uoro
as in the last. The disappointment has been all the Rjefo
bitter because I expected so much. Who would lleer
that one so richly graced in mind and body as 9°ll,ir'
mour, could be so faithless, so cruel ? Even 11"--
tyranny has been less terrible than yours."
clP#
" What have I done, Catherine ? ' • cried &yule-
bractedly. " What have I done ?"
4
"You have killed me," she replied, raisin.. herself -- boas
last effort, and fixing her eyes upon him, "if°not by pal
s°
by unkidness."
" Oh ! n
unsay your words, Catherine,', he
"Recal that dreadful accusation." 1.040
But it was out of her power to recal it. The fierce
e3`
that burnt for a moment in her eyes became suddelinetlif
tinct—the hue of her features changed to that a ue-opy
and with a groan she sank backwards. The 111111i4
queen's troubles were over. be
With a loud cry Seymour flung himself on his loleeo-
side her, and, clasping her hand, cried in a 10101- r
voice, " Look down upon me, Catherine, and fore° ni,ietbe
His grief was real. His nature was not all evil,
good within was for the moment touched. A Pre" cei
keenest self-repruach, if it had been in his powe._e
r te;eol
his unhappy wife to existence, at that moment n
havede-re
e ionn e
horridos.H contrast is the love scene between
SEY-lOU R AND ELIZABETH.
Elizabeth was then residing at Hatfield, and ° clo
about a month after his return to town, the Admirt"A-01°
attended only by Ugo. His visit was not unespect;::, re'
princess having been prepared for it by a letter. ''-outoe
ceived him very graciously, and after some little dine
Mistress Ashley, by whom she was attended, discr
the
withdrew. No sooner were they alone together theil
and
Admiral, flinging himself on his knees before her:i Ate
seizing her hand, exclaimed, in passionate tones, ie
to
come to claim you, Elizabeth. There is now no obstaleovea,
our union. The bar that stood between us is ren
,t
You will be mine—mine !" lord'
" Not clandestinely, as you propose in your letter, m 9
she rejoined. " I will never consent to secret rolPto
such as took place between you and the queen. On
am decided, so you will strive in vain to move me. our,
"Your decision amounts to a refusal," cried SeYrawei
" Were I to demand your hand formally in 13'3°01 the
neither the Lord Protector, nor the Council, nor case
King, your brother, would consent. Such an ro
would be madness, and would effectually frustrate ouviooi
ject. You kayo often told me you hoped the time