Chapter IV (1)

Facta Majorum, veluti in Speculum ostendit Historia—Judex œquus bonorum et malorum.

It is not without reason, that history has always been considered as the light of ages, the depository of events, the faithful evidence of truth, the source of prudence and good counsel, and the rule of conduct and manners—confined without it to the bounds of the age and country wherein we live, and shut up within the narrow circle of such branches of knowledge as are peculiar to us, and the limits of our own private reflections, we continue in a kind of infancy which leaves us strangers to the rest of the world, and profoundly ignorant of all that has preceded, or even now surrounds us. What is the small number of years which make up the longest life, or what the extent of country which we are able to possess or travel over, but an imperceptible point in comparison of the vast regions of the universe, and the long series of ages which have succeeded one another since the creation of the world? And yet all we are capable of knowing must be limited to this point, unless we call in the study of history to our aid, which opens to us every age and every country, keeps up a correspondence between us and the great men of antiquity, sets all their actions, all their achievements, virtues and faults, before our eyes, and by the prudent reflections it either presents or gives us an opportunity of making, soon teaches us to be wise in a manner far superior to the lessons of the greatest masters.

History may properly be called the common school of mankind, equally open and useful both to great and small; those necessary and important services can be obtained only by its assistance, as having the power of speaking freely, and the right of passing an absolute judgment on actions of every denomination. Though the abilities of the great may be extolled, their wit and valor admired, and their exploits and conquest boasted, yet if all these have no foundation in truth and justice, history will tacitly pass sentence upon them, under borrowed names. The greatest part of the most famous conquerors, we shall find treated as public calamities, the enemies of mankind, and the robbers of nations; who, hurried on by a restless and blind ambition, carry desolation from country to country, and like an inundation or a fire, ravage all they meet in their way. We shall see a Caligula, a Nero and a Domitian, who, praised to excess during their lives, become the horror and execration of mankind after their deaths; whereas a Titus, a Trajan and a Marcus Aurelius, are still looked upon as the delights of the world. It is history which fixes the seal of immortality on actions truly great, and sets a mark of infancy on vices, which no after-age can ever obliterate. It is by history that mistaken merit and oppressed virtue appeal to the uncorrupted tribunal of posterity, which renders them that justice, which their own age has sometimes refused them, and, without respect of persons, and the fear of a power which subsists no more, condemns the unjust abuse of authority with inexorable rigor.

There is no age or condition, which may not derive the same advantages from History; and what has been said of princes and conquerors, comprehends also in some measure, persons in power, ministers of state, generals of armies, officers, magistrates, and in a word all those who have authority over others, for such persons have sometimes more haughtiness, pride and petulance, in a very limited station, and carry their despotic disposition and arbitrary power to the greatest lengths.

Thus history we see, when it is well taught, becomes a school of morality for all mankind; it condemns vice, throws off the mask from false virtues, lays open popular errors and prejudices, dispels the delusive charms of riches, and all the vain pomp which dazzles the imagination, and shows by a thousand examples that are more availing than all reasonings whatever, that nothing is great and commendable but honor and probity. From the esteem and admiration which the most corrupt cannot refuse to the great and good actions which history lays before them, it confirms the great and important truth, that virtue is man’s real good, and alone can render him truly great and valuable. This virtue we are taught by history to revere, and to discern its beauty and brightness through the veils of poverty, adversity and obscurity, and sometimes even of disgrace and infamy; and on the other hand, it inspires us with contempt and horror of vice, though clothed in purple and surrounded with splendor.

_Literary Society, February 11th, 1780_.

THE EXILE’S ADIEU TO HIS NATIVE LAND.

[Written several years ago.]

The hour is come, and I must part,
My native land, with thee;
The scenes, the ties that hold my heart,
Are thine, fair Land of Liberty! {773}
But _these_, and all beside I leave,
To venture on the ocean wave;
Compell’d, alas! compell’d to be
An exile from my _home_ and _thee_!

The hill, the lawn, the blushing vine,
That deck my place of birth,
My much lov’d native land, are thine,
And sacred is thy earth;
For thou contain’st a father’s grave,
Who died, thy soil and rights to save—
Yet, I am thus compell’d to be
An exile from them all and thee.

Beside, the ties by nature given,
To bind us to our kind—
All, _but_ the fadeless _hope_ of heaven,
I leave with thee behind:
Then while the vessel lingers here,
Accept, my native land, _a tear_;
Alas! I am compell’d to be
An exile from my home and thee.

Away! away! how swiftly we
Are swept across the brine;
_Yon_ far blue spot is all I see,
But oh! that spot is thine.
A weeping exile bids adieu
To friends he never more shall view;
Alas! he is compell’d to be
A wanderer, fair land, from thee!

But _hope_, and recollections bright,
With him will always be,
And like the brilliant star of night,
Dispel his misery.
For thinking on thy sons, I’ll deem
Myself among them; though a dream,
’Twill consolation sometimes give,
To know for _thee_ they _only_ live.

Pure as thy native air and sky,
Thy daughters, slaves can never nurse;
Too noble, they had rather die,
Than give or bear the fatal curse.
Around thy banner, at the call,
Oh, may thy offspring stand or fall;
And though to friendless climes I flee,
My warmest prayers shall be for thee.

The sun that sets will rise again,
But I can never see
His rays upon my native plain,
Nor _friends_ to welcome me.
Adieu, forever! who can tell
The sorrow of this last farewell?
But fate ordains, and I _must_ be
An exile from my home and _thee_.

WALLADMOR.

Sir W. Scott’s reputation prompted some German publishers to make a bold attempt at imposition. A work was announced under the title of Walladmor, and professing to be a free translation from the English of Sir Walter. It was a miserable failure.

TRAGEDIES OF SILVIO PELLICO.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

The misfortunes and sufferings of this individual, as related in the memoirs of his “Imprisonments,” published not long since, have excited in Europe and in this country an interest in his fate. There are few of our readers, we think, who do not remember the captive at Spielberg, and have not been moved by the simple and touching account of his calamities, and the truly philanthropic and christian spirit exhibited under them. Many of the tragedies we propose to notice were composed in prison, and repeated to his fellow-captives, to beguile the dreary hours of confinement, when perhaps the sufferer looked forward to death alone as the means of his liberation. These dramas have, therefore, an interest apart from their intrinsic merit, and would invite attention, even were they destitute of greater claims. But the name of Silvio Pellico, before his unfortunate arrest, was known throughout Italy as one of the best of her living dramatists; and his subsequent pieces have detracted in no way from his literary fame. This is great praise in itself, when we consider the high reputation acquired by his first effort, “_Francesca da Rimini_.”

It is well known that Manzoni attempted to carve out a new path for the drama in Italy. Avowedly renouncing the system of Alfieri and his followers—a system which had been prevalent since the birth of dramatic literature in his country—he aimed at becoming the founder of a new school, that should be more akin to the English and German. From his boldness in violating the unities of time and place, and numbering himself among the romantic writers, we are induced to believe that the reformation he advocates is to be total, and that his new principles are to be recommended by advantages peculiar to themselves. But this is not the case in the tragedies of Manzoni. His rich fancy, and command of poetic language, have indeed embellished them as poems; but as dramas, they have gained absolutely nothing. His heroes wear the same stiff and formal aspect with all the rest; we know them, if not by the “Athenian garment they have on,” by their cold, stately, and monotonous deportment. The interest is almost wholly political; the plots are unskilfully conducted, and the dialogue occasionally wearisome. The death-scene of Ermengarda in _Adelchi_, and the interview between the count and his wife and daughter, in _Carmagnuola_, are indeed touching and tragic; but they are merely episodes in the pieces, and the merit of a single scene is insufficient to redeem a whole play. The same faults, growing out of the selection of a political subject, are to be found with Pindemonte; while Monti and Niccolini are to be regarded as followers of Alfieri, since their compositions are upon the same plan. Pellico, without ostentation, has aimed at penetrating to the true source of tragic emotion. He has excluded all local coloring from his productions, neglecting also those striking embellishments of description and imagery, of which all the above-mentioned writers have availed themselves; yet his dramas are universal favorites in Italy. The cause of this popularity, the secret of his influence, lies in the exhibition of the passions. To accomplish this point, and succeed by the representation of feeling alone, he has sacrificed {774} what he considered the minor advantages of poetical ornament; but while he has thereby proved his power to unlock the sympathies, he has compelled himself to forego the complete success he might have commanded by a more impartial attention to the devices of his art. He has avoided, in most of his plays, the turgid declamation too common among the poets of his country; we say in most of them, for we think his _Euphemio of Messina_, in sound and fury, will challenge a comparison with any of the productions of his predecessors, without displaying the pathos of which the subject was capable. It is ever difficult to sympathize with distresses growing out of artificial opinions dependant upon a state of society entirely different from our own; we cannot, therefore, enter into the embarrassment of Ludovica, when she fancies herself bound by a sacred vow, to save her country by the sacrifice of her lover. Had the dependance of her father’s fate upon Euphemio’s destruction been brought more fully and immediately into view, when her resolution was formed, her conduct would have been more consistent with her character, and with female nature; and those who read with coldness the resolves, the conflicts, the despair of the bewildered enthusiast, would have been moved with emotion at the sufferings and the heroism of a daughter. It is truth to nature, and its exquisite simplicity, which give such power to the _Francesca_; no where does the author o’erstep the modesty of nature in the expression of emotion. This tragedy, by which its author is best known, is founded on a passage in Dante, where the shade of the unhappy lady relates the story of her love. Francesca, the daughter of Guido, lord of Ravenna, was given by her father in marriage to Lanciotto of Rimini; being fondly attached at the time to his brother Paolo, who had unfortunately slain her brother, and consequently ventured not to become a suitor for her hand. Their sufferings are occasioned by a mutual misunderstanding. Paolo, supposing himself the object of her hatred, only after a long absence returns to his brother’s court; and Francesca, endeavoring to hide her now criminal love under a semblance of aversion, craves permission to retire from Rimini with her father. Accident discovers to the pair their concealed feelings towards each other; Lanciotto’s jealousy is awakened, and he arrests his brother, commanding his wife to prepare for her departure from the city. But Paolo, apprehensive for her safety, breaks from his guards, and seeks her presence for a last interview; and when Lanciotto, maddened by rage, rushes upon his brother with his drawn sword, bidding him defend his life, Francesca throws herself between them, and receives her husband’s steel in her own breast. She expires, and Paolo, casting away his sword, resigns himself also to death.

There is much that is beautiful and touching in this play; both in the perfect guilelessness and loving nature of Francesca, and the noble devotedness of Paolo; but our limits will permit us to offer only a translation of one scene in the third act. This scene has been much praised and celebrated, and is certainly one of the most effective in the drama.

_Paolo_. Francesca!

_Francesca_. Heavens! who is’t I see?
Signor—what would you?

_Paolo_. But to speak with you.

_Francesca_. To speak with me! I am alone—alone
Thou leav’st me—father! Father—where art thou?
Help—help thy daughter! Give me power to fly!

_Paolo_. Whither?

_Francesca_. Signor—pursue me not; respect
My will. Unto the altar I retreat;
The wretched have most need of heaven.

_Paolo_. And I
With thee unto the household altar’s foot
Will also go. Who than myself more wretched?
There mingled shall our sighs ascend. O, lady!
Thou wilt implore my death—the death of him
Whom thou abhorrest; I will pray that heaven
May hear thy prayers, and all thy hate forgive,
And shower down joys on thee, and long preserve
Thy youth and loveliness, and give thee all
Thy heart desires; all—all—thy husband’s love
And children blessed!

_Francesca_. Paolo! (hold, my heart!)
Weep not. I do not wish your death.

_Paolo_. Yet—yet—
You hate me!

_Francesca_. And what reck you, if I ought
To hate you? I disturb you not. To-morrow
I shall be here no more. Be to your brother
A kind and true companion: for my loss
Console him; me he surely will lament.
Ah me! of all in Rimini, he only
Will weep when it is known to him. Now listen;
Tell him not yet—but know, I never more
Return to Rimini; sorrow will kill me.
When he shall hear, my husband, these sad tidings,
Console him; and you too, perhaps—for him
May shed a tear.

_Paolo_. Francesca—and you ask
What reck I, if you hate me! and me doth
Your hate disturb not—nor your fatal words?
Oh! lovely as an angel, by the Deity
Created in the most impassioned moment
Of heavenly love—dear, dear to every heart—
A happy wife—and dar’st thou speak of death?
To me such words belong, who for vain honors
Was banished from my native country far,
And lost—alas! a father then I lost.
I hoped again to embrace him. He would never
Have made me wretched, had he known my heart,
But given me her—her whom I now have lost
Forever.

_Francesca_. What mean you? Of your beloved
You speak—and are you without her so wretched?
So mighty then is love within your breast!
Love should not reign sole sovereign in the hearts
Of valiant cavaliers. Dear is to them
The sword, and glory; such are noble passions.
Follow them, thou, and let not love debase thee.

_Paolo_. What do I hear? hast thou compassion on me?
And wouldst thou hate me less, if with the sword
I should acquire a loftier fame? One word
From thee suffices. Name the spot—the years;
I will depart to earth’s remotest shores;
The harder and more perilous I find
The enterprise, the sweeter will it be,
Since thou, Francesca, dost impose the task.
The love of fame and daring have indeed
Made strong my arm; far stronger shall it be
In thy adored name. Nor ever stained
Shall be mine honors with a fierce ambition.
No crown I covet, or will seek, save one
Of laurel, twined by thee: enough for me
Thy sole applause—a word—a smile—a look—

_Francesca_. Eternal God!

_Paolo_. I love thee! O, Francesca—
I love thee! and most desperate is my love!

_Francesca_. What words are these? I rave! What hast thou said?

_Paolo_. I love thee!

_Francesca_. Dar’st thou—hold! To hear—thou lov’st me! {775}
So sudden is thy passion! Know’st thou not
I am thy brother’s wife? Can’st thou so soon
Forget thy lost beloved one? Ah me
Wretched! Let go my hand—thy kisses here
Are frenzy!

_Paolo_. This, this is no sudden passion!
I lost my love—and thou art she! Of thee
I spoke; for thee I wept: thee loved: thee ever
I love—and to my latest hour will love!
Ay, if for this, my madness, doomed to suffer
Eternal chastisement beyond the grave,
Eternally still more and more I'll love thee!

_Francesca_. Can this be true?

_Paolo_. The day that to Ravenna
I went, ambassador from my father’s court,
I saw thee cross the vestibule, attended
By a band of mourning females,—pause beside
A recent sepulchre; in pious act
Prostrate thyself, and thy joined hands to heaven
Lift up, with silent interrupted tears.
“Who is it?” I inquired of one. “The daughter
Of Guido,” he replied. “And whose the tomb?”
“Her mother’s tomb.” Oh, in my inmost heart
How felt I pity for that mourning daughter!
How throbbed my breast, confused! Thou wast veiled,
Francesca, and thy eyes saw not that day;
Yet from that day I loved thee.

_Francesca_. Thou—oh cease!
Didst love me!

_Paolo_. For a time I hid my passion;
Yet seemed it one day thou hadst read my heart.
Forth from thy chamber to the secret garden
Thy steps were turned. And nigh the silver lake,
Prone ’mong the flowers, with sighs I watched thy chamber,
And at thy coming, trembling rose. Intent
Upon a book, thine eyes beheld me not;
But on the book let fall a tear. I came
In deep emotion nigh. Confused my words,
Confused were also thine. That book, Francesca,
Thou gav’st to me; we read—we read together
“Of Lancillotto,[1] how by love compelled;”
Alone we were, and free from all suspicion.
Our eyes then met; my face was crimsoned—thou
Didst tremble—and in haste wast gone.

_Francesca_. That day—
The book remained with thee.

_Paolo_. It rests upon
My heart; it made me in my exile happy.
Here ’tis; behold the page we read together.
Behold! and mark the drop which fell that day
From thy dear eyes.

_Francesca_. Away—I do conjure thee;
Hence! no remembrance should I yet preserve,
Save of a brother slain.

_Paolo_. Oh, then that blood
I had not shed! O, fatal—fatal wars!
That slaughter bowed my soul to misery;
I dar’d not ask thy hand; I went to Asia,
To battle there. I hoped yet to return,
To find thy wrath appeased—to obtain thy hand.
Ah! to obtain thy hand, I do confess
I nourished hope.

_Francesca_. Ah me! I pray thee—hence!
My sorrow and my honor now respect!
Oh for the strength by which I may resist!

_Paolo_. Thou clasp’st my hand! Joy! tell me, wherefore clasp
My hand!

_Francesca_. Paolo!

_Paolo_. Dost thou hate me not?
Dost thou not hate me?

_Francesca_. ’Tis right I should hate thee.

_Paolo_. Can’st thou?

_Francesca_. I cannot!

_Paolo_. O, repeat that word!
Lady—thou hat’st me not!

_Francesca_. Too much I said.
Cruel! is’t not enough? Go—leave me!

_Paolo_. Nay—
I leave thee not till thou hast told me all.

_Francesca_. Have I not said—I love thee! Ah! the words
Escaped my impious lips! I love thee—die
For love of thee! I would die innocent;
Have pity!

_Paolo_. Love me?—thou? My terrible
Anguish thou seest. I am a desperate man;
But the deep joy which thrills me in the midst
Of my despair, is such great happiness
I cannot utter it. Is it then true
Thou lov’st me—and I lost thee?

_Francesca_. Thou thyself,
Paolo, did’st forsake me; I could ne’er
Think myself loved of thee. Go! be this hour
The last——

_Paolo_. It is impossible. I cannot
Leave thee. Let me behold at least thy face
Each day.

_Francesca_. And thus betray us both; enkindle
Injurious thoughts in Lanciotto’s breast!
And stain my name!—Paolo, if thou lov’st me,
Away!

_Paolo_. Alas! irreparable fate!
To stain thy name! No—thou’rt another’s wife;
Paolo must die! Tear from thy breast remembrance
Of me—and live in peace. I have disturbed
Thy peace; forgive me. No—no—do not weep;
Love me no more. Alas! what do I ask?
Love me! yes—weep o’er my untimely fate.

_Act III, Scene 2._

[Footnote 1: It is conjectured that Arnaut Daniel, a Troubadour, was the author of the romance of Lancillotto.]

This play has been long before the public; we will now examine some of Pellico’s later pieces, which have never been translated into English, and but recently printed in Italy.

The three best of his new tragedies, _Gismonda da Mendrisio_, _Leoniero da Dertona_, and the _Herodiad_, have been published together in one volume. The scene of the first is laid at the period of the destruction of Milan by the forces of Frederick I, assisted by many of the Lombards, to whom that city had become odious. Aribert, son to the Count of Mendrisio, had been betrothed to Gismonda of Lodi, but afterwards becoming enamored of Gabriella, a lady of Milan, espoused her, and devoted himself to the cause of her countrymen. Having aided to destroy Lodi, he engages in the defence of Milan against the Emperor and his father’s house; while his younger brother, who has married Gismonda, leads an army against the city. The piece opens with the exultation of the victors over the conquest of Milan; but the rejoicing of the Count is embittered by the tidings that his eldest son has perished. Gismonda, whose desire of vengeance is satisfied at the account of his death, with difficulty suppresses her tears, and avows in a soliloquy her unextinguished love for the man who had deserted her, and wasted her country. Aribert, however, had escaped the slaughter of Milan, and appears in the second act with his child and Gabriella in man’s attire, before his father’s gate, to implore forgiveness and protection for his family. His wife meets Gismonda, and emboldened by the expression of sadness in her countenance, addresses her, without revealing her real sex, and begs her mediation, but in vain. The Count unexpectedly comes forward and listens to her; encouraged by his parental tenderness, Aribert {776} throws himself at his feet, and is pardoned and restored to his former privileges. He prays Gismonda to forget what is past, and be a sister to him, to which she replied with concealed bitterness.

“Forgetful of the past? To me no harm
Or outrage hast thou done, nor in thy power
Is it to harm me. I could still be happy
Whatever madness and whatever guilt
Drove thee to fight beneath Milan’s proud standards,
And to espouse a daughter of Milan.
I hold me, Aribert, not wronged by thee,
But rather bless the day that broke a bond
Imposed in folly, and bestowed my hand
Upon a loyal cavalier. In thee
I hate my house’s foe, Cæsar’s and God’s.”

Her subsequent maledictions and menaces betray to Aribert the true cause of her emotion, and teach him to anticipate the vengeance of a jealous and deserted woman. Herman, his younger brother, in fear of losing his inheritance, refuses a reconciliation with the fugitive, even at his father’s command, loading him with reproaches which at length become mutual. They are interrupted in one of their disputes by the sound of a trumpet, and discover from the window a band of Suabians who had been invited thither by Herman, and come under the direction of the Margrave of Auburg, to demand, in the Emperor’s name, the rebel son of the Count. The old man refuses compliance with this requisition, taking on himself the consequences of disobedience; and Herman afterwards reveals to his wife the league he had formed with the imperial troops for the destruction of his brother. The ensuing scenes show the unfortunate lady under the dominion of conflicting passions; now fired with rage, now agitated by fear, now melting with tenderness. Gabriella, leading her child, supplicates her aid against the dangers that threaten her husband, but is repulsed with hatred and anguish. The wretched Gismonda, however, afterwards discovers to the Count in the presence of his eldest son, the treachery that surrounds them, herself assuming the blame; informs them that the keys of a subterranean passage leading from a wood to the castle were consigned by her to the enemy. Their vehement reproaches cannot increase her mental agony. Soon afterwards, the alarm is given, and the news brought that the subterranean passage is already invaded. The fifth act introduces us into the midst of the battle, which takes place within the palace. The Count, disarmed and wounded, is vainly endeavoring to hold back Herman from the scene of conflict. Gabriella with her son rushes in, followed by the Margrave, who snatches the child from her arms. Gismonda rescues and restores the infant to his mother, but repels her thanks as insults. The shouts of victory at length are heard from the adherents of the Count; Aribert is saved by Gabriella from the lance of an enemy, and enters triumphant, finding his brother wounded and sustained by the Count. Herman acquits his brother of evil design against him, and confesses himself the traitor who had admitted the hostile troops, vindicating Gismonda from any share of the blame. He dies, and his unhappy wife retires into a convent.

The scene of _Leoniero da Dertona_ is in the twelfth century. The inhabitants of Dertona, a city which had joined the celebrated Lombard league against the Emperor Frederick, are divided into two factions; one, headed by Arrigo, tribune of the people, taking part with the allies; the other adhering to the cause of the Imperialists. The first party hold a fortress upon the rock, in those times a post of great strength and importance. The consul Enzo, leader of the Imperialists, had given his sister Eloisa in marriage to Arrigo, to induce him to desert his cause; that failing, had treacherously possessed himself of the person of the tribune, threatening to kill him if the fortress were not surrendered. At this crisis, Leoniero, father of Enzo, returns from the East, where he had gone as a soldier in his youth, and suffered long imprisonment. A feud has long existed between his family and that of Auberto, the father of Arrigo; but Leoniero, being informed of the conduct of his son, censures highly his breach of faith towards his brother-in-law, and his treason to his country. Yet he cannot so far forget his private resentment as to declare himself the friend of Auberto, though such a course would have at once subdued the strength of the opposing faction, so dear is Leoniero to his countrymen. He remains neutral for a time, and Enzo meanwhile works upon the fears of Eloisa, who endeavors to prevail on her imprisoned husband to write a letter commanding the surrender of the fortress. Neither entreaties nor threats can move the stern virtue of the tribune, and his father is confirmed in his resolution to maintain his trust by the arrival of a messenger from Milan, who discovers the treacherous alliance of Enzo with the Imperial troops, and promises succor from the Milanese in a few days. Enzo then attempts to possess himself by force of the person of his father, who, finally dismissing his long cherished enmity, takes refuge in the castle with his ancient foe, and is received with open arms. His son sends hostages to induce him to return; and Leoniero, hoping that his paternal counsels may reclaim the traitor, goes, at the advice of Auberto and others, though distrusting his professions of penitence. Arrived at his son’s palace, he finds himself unexpectedly a prisoner, forbidden to see or speak with any but his guards. The fifth act opens with an imposing scene. Upon the walls of the castle are discovered Auberto and his faithful soldiers, the friends of liberty. The plain beyond is filled with Suabian troops, mingled with the Dertonese. In the foreground stands the consul with other magistrates, and the Count of Spielberg, who in the Emperor’s name declares Enzo governor of Dertona, and imposes on all its citizens obedience to him. Enzo kneels to do homage to the vicegerent of his master for his newly acquired domain, and receives a sword from the Count. The senators and his troops swear fealty to him, and he then addresses Auberto in behalf of Arrigo, who stands bound on one side, offering life to the son on condition of the father’s obedience. We will translate the remainder of the act.

_Enzo_ (_to Auberto_.) A last and brief delay
I now accord to thee; but ere the bell
Sounds its first stroke to tell the coming hour,
Pronounce his life or death, (_to executioner_) At the first stroke,
Mark me, his head must fall!

_Auberto_. Enzo, a duty
Inviolable as the icy grave,
Binds me this fortress to maintain, until
The standard of Milan shall join our troops.
For that which is not granted to my will,
Oh! punish not the innocent! These prayers
Are poured, ah, not in coward fear! And wherefore {777}
To deeds of useless cruelty descend?
What may avail his slaughter? In all breasts
An hundred fold will wrath be wrought against thee.
Thou rendest Eloisa’s heart—bethink thee,
She is thy sister! From thy noble father,
From Leoniero, at his hour of death,
Thus stained with fratricide, thou wilt in vain
Implore his blessing for thyself, thy children.

_Arrigo_. Cease, father, cease! Thy sorrow may infect
The heroes round thee; they have need of strength.

_Auberto_. Alas, I am a father! Since my duty
I do not violate, these tears are lawful.
If thou inexorable dost demand
A victim, give, O give back to his children
Arrigo—take _my_ head!

_Arrigo_. No—never!

_Auberto_. Enzo!

_Enzo_. Immutable my sentence: wo if thou
Thus hear’st the next hour sound! He falls—his fall
The signal for the assault.—Ha! in such haste
Uggero!

_Uggero_. My lord, your father hath besought me
With words of agony that would have moved
Yourself!—Within the tower, near to Arrigo
He was, with Eloisa, when thy order
Summoned the guilty hither. Fear unspeakable
Seized Leoniero; to the battlements
He mounted; thence beheld the axe that menaced
The generous youth. His daughter’s shrieks subdued
The old man’s heart: He wept, and trembling cried
“Hence, hence, unto my son—crave his permission
That I speak to Auberto; I alone
Somewhat can proffer, shall secure the safety
Of all.”

_Enzo_. What would he say? Can he prevail
On the besieged to yield? What fear I?—He
Vanquished by terror; dare I thus believe?
Let him approach—and be a guard about him;
Tremble, if to the people he escape,
(_to the Count_) Is it not noble victory, to my power
E’en he should bend his pride? But whence the tumult
In yonder castle?
(_soldiers on the walls drag forward Enzo’s hostages_)

_Soldiers_. Death—death!

_Hostages_. To thy presence,
Enzo, by hostile fury we are dragged.

_Auberto_. Since vain my prayer has been for a son’s life,
Enzo, behold thy friends!

_Soldiers_. Life, liberty
Give to the Tribune, or your hostages
We slay!

_One of the Hostages_. Have pity! say what crime toward thee
Have we committed, that to such a fate
We are betrayed! Ubaldo, Berengario
Had written to thee—yes!

_Enzo_. Who are my friends,
Who traitors, I discern not. This, Corrado,
Is this thy faith? Thus hath thy kinsman opened
The gates?—Hear me, Auberto—hope yet lives.
Cæsar’s decree, which gives me the dominion
Of this Dertona, consecrates my power
In Leoniero’s eyes. Hither he comes.
Him ye shall hear, and if with him the oath
Of stern resistance binds you, be that oath
By him absolved.

_Auberto_. Unworthy calumny!
Leoniero—Ha! he comes. Can it be so?
His face, so wan indeed, and mien deject
Bespeak him changed.

_Ghielmo_. Auberto, no! High thoughts
He sure revolves!

SCENE IV. _To them enter Leoniero and Eloisa_.

_Auberto_. O ancient hero! Where
Where is thy courage? Why do I behold thee
Thus moved? Hast thou forgot our late embrace,
The embrace of noble love?

_Eloisa_. Beloved husband,
Our father promised safety.

_Arrigo_. Leoniero!
Is this the virtue, armed in which, but now
Thou talked’st to me of death, and didst inspire me
With thoughts sublime? Behold me, still the same
In these last moments. Be, old man, like me!
By one unworthy act, oh! cancel not
The blameless deeds of a long life!

_Leoniero_. Enzo!
Dost thou not homage to such minds? My son,
Pity thy sire! I long once more to bless thee.
A sorrowful hate is that which toward a son
A father bears in such an hour! This weight
I can endure no longer. I would love thee,
But cannot love thee, if thou wilt not turn
From wickedness like this.

_Enzo_. Sire, to Auberto
Address thy speech.

_Leoniero_. Pity thyself: my soul
Prophetic in the future reads for thee
A fearful fate; nor is that future distant.
Now deprecate the wrath of Heaven. Its mandate
Is, “let Arrigo live!”—For this thy God
Shall pardon many crimes; thou in the arms
Of friends and of thy children, in old age
Consoled shalt die; nor shall the daily sun
Look on thy bones exhumed by the revenge
Of a wronged people. History shall say
How knelt a father at thy feet, and prayed
For power once more to bless thee!

_Enzo_. Cease. Auberto,
Open those gates to me, or the first sound
Of the approaching hour—— (_bell sounds_)

_Voices_. Ha!

_Enzo_. Sounds his knell!

_Leoniero_. Enzo! Have pity! ’Tis in vain! Oh Heaven,
This fearful strait! Lo! ’twixt opposing duties
The chief I am constrained to choose. The just
I cannot save without it. Hear, Auberto,
Arrigo, hear, and all ye who refuse
To the new lord obedience!

_Auberto and others_. Obedience
Unto the laws, the church, our honor!

_Leoniero_. Listen,
Brave warriors! With unmerited disdain
Ye saw Leoniero’s grief. He now, impelled
By patriot love—by love for you—since need
There is of noble sacrifice—conjures you
To be like him—in courage! (_stabs his son_.)

_Auberto_. Ah—that blow——

_Enzo_. I die!

_Eloisa_. Oh! Father—brother!

_Count_. Treason—Ho!
The murderer—cut him down!

_Leoniero_. Dertona’s saved!
Come hence—ye heroes—come! The people all
Will arm them at your cry!

_Followers of Enzo_. We’re Dertonese!
Defend, defend Leoniero!

_Arrigo_. Struck to earth
Behold the leader of our foes! Already
His squadrons fly!

_Soldiers_ (_from the castle_.) Victory!

_Auberto_. (_rushing forward_) My son—thou here!
I clasp thee once again! Where is the hero,
Thy Saviour? Leoniero—where art thou!

_Eloisa_. O, friends! behold my father!

_Auberto and Arrigo_. Ah—unhappy!

_Leoniero_. Fled is the foe—my country saved—and I—
I have done all I could! This blood—the blood
Of a monster—but that monster was my son!
I slew him—and I weep—and cannot hate him!

_Auberto_. O virtue!

_Leoniero_. If thou once didst hate, Auberto,
Pardon—for heaven hath punished. Eloisa—
Arrigo—I do bless ye in my death, {778}
You and your children. But if one of them
Should e’er become a traitor—Lo—Arrigo,
This steel——

_Eloisa_. He dies!

_Arrigo_. O noble, lofty spirit!
With dread and reverence o’erpowered, thou leav’st us!
There is none on the earth can equal thee!

Though the incidents of this piece are chiefly of a political nature, interest is excited for the feelings of Eloisa and the father. But the sacrifice he makes in immolating his son, if it does not revolt us, is hardly fit for exhibition when the scene is laid in an age so nearly resembling our own in the influence of religion and public sentiment. The slaughter of a son by a Roman parent for the good of his country may compel our admiration; but such outrages upon nature are more fit to be marvelled at in history than used for the purposes of tragedy. The same objection does not apply to the catastrophe of _Esther d’Engaddi_, another of Pellico’s dramas, though it is even more harrowing to the feelings; her despair is perfectly natural, when hopeless of vindicating herself by other means, she drinks of the poisoned cup proposed as a test of her innocence.

The _Herodiad_ contains much finer poetry and more pathos than the preceding tragedies; much has been made of an apparently unpromising subject. The character of Herodias is one of those mixtures of good and ill, the one principle perpetually struggling with and overpowering the other, which are so well adapted to the purposes of the drama; with a powerful mind, disposed to virtue by the influence of early habits, she is under the dominion of a haughty and ambitious temper, excited by her absorbing passion for Herod, who possesses not half her strength of intellect. Zephora, the rightful spouse of the king, had been driven from the court to make room for her rival, who had also abandoned her own husband. Herodias, influenced by the remonstrances of John the Baptist, and the persuasions of the virtuous Anna, her friend and confidant, who had become a convert to christianity, is at one time induced to leave the court of Herod; and the queen Zephora, who comes to render herself a hostage for the security of Herod against her native tribes, is received by the king. Herodias, however, who had been insulted by the populace on quitting the palace, soon returns to dispute her place with Zephora, and at length, wrought to madness by jealousy and rage, stabs the unhappy queen, ordering one of the guards to conceal the body. She is now quite abandoned to the dominion of her passions, which hurry her to destruction. The conflict of emotions in her breast is evident throughout the play, yet it is skilfully managed. In the festival scene, where her daughter dances before the king, and pleases him so that he engages to grant whatever she shall ask, even to the half of his kingdom—the wretched queen is tortured by contending passions, which are inexplicable to the mind of Herod. She now craves music; now drives the singers from her presence with maniac execrations. With the Prophet her madness for a time is quelled; she submits to reproof from his lips, and condescends to vindicate herself. The following reply to his remonstrance against her desertion of her lawful husband, is characteristic.

_Herodias_. Patience ’mid insults had I not? Who then
Shall dare to say to me—“Thou should’st have urged
Thy virtue further!” Is there one can measure
His virtue for another, and declare
It might have been extended—where it ceased?
Is frail man infinite? The weary pilgrim,
If—crossed innumerous steeps—at length to earth
Prostrate he fall—brand ye his name with sloth?
When his breath fails, say ye—“Yet other rocks
Before thee hang!” With patience did I suffer!
Endured the horrid chain—how long endured!
And when at last within my bosom rose
In all its sovereign and terrific power,
HATE—and a desperate burning thirst impelled me
To avenge my wrongs—with steel—if I gave not
The blow, but rather chose to fly—was mine
No virtue?—I alone know that it was!
I—conscious of the ills endured—and conscious
Of the bold heart God gave me!

_John_. On bold hearts
Hard trials God imposes—and on thee
It was imposed——

_Herodias_. To die in shame!

_John_. Far better
Than live in guilt.

_Herodias_. Audacious! bold!

_John_. What right
Hast thou, O woman, from the innocent wife
To steal her spouse? Thou lov’st him; is this right
Enough? The robber loves his prey—doth God
Absolve the robber? To the traitor dear
His perfidy—and slaughter to the murderer;
Are slaughter then, and treachery no crime?
A strong heart is within thee. Thou hast sinned.
Exert the strength then which the weak possess not:
Regain the upright path whence thou hast fallen.

After the murder of Zephora, tortured by the upbraiding of a guilty conscience, the queen sends again for the Prophet, to implore peace at his hands, though she is unwilling quite to renounce her sins; he on his part, thunders forth no maledictions upon her head; even his rebuke breathes the mild spirit of the religion of love. When she confesses the deed to which her fury has impelled her, he involuntarily utters an exclamation of abhorrence.

_John_. Monster!

_Herodias_. ’Tis not for thee
To show to me the monster that I am:
Better than thou, I know it. I but ask
Is there a bound, which passed, excludes the wretch
From God’s forgiveness? Must I, desperate,
Curse heaven, and to the murders caused by me,
Add thine, and others—or, my rival dead.
If I now pause from blood, now reverence thee
And all the just—henceforth with never ceasing
And blameless deeds wipe out the horrors past—
Turn all a burning spirit’s energies
To work the glory of my king—my people—
My God,—will this God, to compassion moved,
Moved by his servant’s prayers—thy prayers—a veil
Cast o’er my sin, and bless the last endeavors
Of one who would be pious, but in vain
Struggled against opposing evil nature?

_John_. There is indeed a bound, which past, excludes
From God’s forgiveness. But Zephora’s slaughter
It is not—nor whate’er we can imagine
Of murder yet more horrible. The limit
That shuts eternally God’s pardon out,
Is—to renounce repentance.

_Herodias_. And I
Renounce it not. Console me; oh extinguish
In me this fierce remorse—this hate of all
The universe—myself!

_John_. Amend.

_Herodias_. That word.

_John_. Amend.

_Herodias_. I will. {779}

_John_. Remove thee from the palace;
The King.

_Herodias_. Such separation but Zephora
Could ask. And now, whate’er my crime has been
In slaying her—Zephora is no more.
None can now say to me, “Herod is mine!”
Is the Omnipotent a wrathful being
Who claims vain sacrifices, abject baseness,
And barbarous abandonment of all
The heart holds dear?

_John_. Thou hypocrite! the peace
Of holiness thou would’st attain and joy thee
Still in the fruits of sin.

_Herodias_. I——

_John_. Peace I offer—
But hence hypocrisy—a heart’s deceit
That hopes to hide itself from God, and form
An impious league ’twixt penitence and guilt,
A league impossible! The wicked, whom
His deeds of evil prosper still is wicked
If such prosperity he doth not spurn;
In his returning nobleness abhorring
The good which God gave not. I say to thee,
That throned at Herod’s side, even as before,
Thou still would’st feed on pride, and evil passions,
On hatred and revenge. God’s high decree
Is not capricious; this is man’s own nature:
Necessity immutable. Amendment
There is not for the guilty, if he yet
Reject not of his infamy the fruit!

_Herodias_. No reformation is there—none—for me!
Now know I all. Expect the axe!—He goes
Tranquil to death—and I who slay him—tremble!

Herodias then instructs her daughter to claim as her promised boon from the King, the head of John. Herod grants it reluctantly, but would stipulate for the safety of Zephora; and is horror struck at the story of her death. Then comes the punishment. The daughter of Herodias is struck dead in her mother’s arms, who reproaches the King as the cause of her crimes and misfortunes.

_Herod_. Remove her from the cruel sight.

_Herodias_. Back! thine
Is yet more horrible than death. Accursed
The infamous love which bound us once! Thou, thou
Hast on my head heaped up the fearful wrath
Of the Most High; hast torn from me my child,
My innocent child, whose only guilt it was
That I have been her mother. Who impelled me
Into such crimes? Who led me to contemn
The Eternal? Who inspired the secret hope
That earth and heaven contained no God? Ah me
Deluded! it was he!

_Herod_. Ah——

_Herodias_. Wretch! was’t not
Thy part to curb my madness—guard the lives
Of John and of Zephora?—to repentance
Invite, compel me?—and to sooner rend
A thousand times my heart, than immolate
All innocence—all justice!

_Herod_. I——

_Herodias_. The Book
Of Life I see displayed! Lo! with the blood
Of John and of Zephora God blots out
Eternally my name—and yet another—
The name of Herod!

_Herod_. This is terror—frenzy!
Alas! with her own desperate hands she tears
Her streaming hair! Help! help!

_Herodias_. Herod! our names
The finger of the Lord hath blotted out!

Thus ends this tragedy; which in energy and character is not inferior to the best of our author’s compositions. The chief personage bears some resemblance to the Saul of Alfieri, and has, like him, the ingredients of a character adapted to the romantic school. The last dramatic production from the pen of Silvio Pellico which has reached this country is _Thomas More_, of which we have left ourselves but brief space to speak. It is almost, if not altogether, a failure. The representation of the historical personages of the Court of Henry VIII. in a piece in which not the slightest local or national coloring is preserved, has a singularly feeble effect on minds familiar with the graphic power of the English dramatists. With this association the scenes are unusually bald and desolate; the characters, which might have been Italians or Greeks for ought appearing to the contrary, save in their names, (and those have a Tuscan twist,) walk through the chill desert of their parts with more than classic monotony. Not that we believe Pellico could have succeeded, even had he attempted the task, in exhibiting a faithful picture of the manners of that court and those times, or in painting English character; we simply regard it as unfortunate that he should ever have thought of writing a drama on a subject in our history. Alfieri’s _Maria Stuarda_ ought to have been a warning to deter him from such an effort. The chief business of the piece in question is to exhibit the integrity and virtue of More, the fallen Chancellor, and victim of tyranny, through trials and persecutions. These, of course, avail nothing to turn him from the path of duty; and the reader, foreseeing from the beginning the certain catastrophe, is conducted by slow steps through the play, as through a long avenue of cypresses terminating with a scaffold. An effort is indeed made, in the last Act, to divert attention by exciting hopes of a deliverance, but it is feebly effected. The historical answer of More to his enemies is preserved; “As St. Paul, who took part in the murder of Stephen, is with the martyr in heaven, so may you, my judges, and I, be saved alike in the mercy of the Lord.”

Pellico does not want energy, but he lacks that concentration of sentiment and passion which is one of the greatest merits in dramatic poetry. His style is too diffuse; his eloquence, though graceful, often devoid of boldness and vehemence. No striking imagery is to be found in his pages, though such is the genuine and universal language of emotion. He never labors to produce effect by a single sentence. Yet he excels his contemporaries and most of his predecessors in the delineation of feeling, and in the interest imparted to his dramas; especially in the expression of tender emotions. All with him is unaffected and simple; and his faults are rather deficiencies than offences against nature and taste. Had he studied to give a local interest to his pieces, and appreciated the advantages of a knowledge of the scene and times, his success might have been unbounded. Man may be man when stripped of costume, but he is not man as we know him and as he moves in the world; nor is any thing gained by removing from our view those external circumstances which so universally influence his character and actions.

Sir John Hill, who passed for the translator of Swammerdam’s work on insects, understood not a word of Dutch. He was to receive 50 guineas for the translation, and bargained with another translator for 25—this other being in a like predicament paid a third person 12 pounds for the job.

{780}

MONODY

On the Death of Mrs. Susan G. Blanchard, wife of Lieut. A. G. Blanchard, of the United States Army, and only Sister of the Author.

Sister! they’ve laid thee in the silent earth!
Thy spirit’s free!
And many suns have set upon thy grave—
Unknown to me!
I was not there—to catch thy parting breath!
When thou didst die—
Yet Sister! I shall weep, till grief will dim
Thy Brother’s eye!
Mem’ry shall haunt thee! wheresoe’er I go—
Breaking my heart!
And thy pure sainted image shall be mine
Till life depart!
I would my weary spirit were with thine
Triumphant borne—
For Susan! I shall cling to life, no more—
Now thou art gone!
Perchance that angel spirit hovers nigh
This lonely spot!
And on the wintry air whispers—that I
Am not forgot!
Weeping, I grasp at this ephem’ral dream,
Though vain it be!
And dedicate my breaking heart, oh Grief!
Through life, to thee!

A CONTRAST,

BY PAULINA.

It was a calm autumnal evening. The late bright green that had clothed the forests, had given place to a rich and almost endless variety of colors. In other lands the fairy pencillings of fancy may have pictured beauties like these, but in our own American woods there is a charm art and genius may strive in vain to imitate or describe. And who is it that can gaze on such a scene without a soft, delicious melancholy? It has a voice to the contemplative mind impressive yet sweet. The rustling of the fallen leaves—the murmur of the breeze through the thinly clad boughs—the gay and almost magic hues of the richly variegated foliage—more lovely as it approaches more nearly to its fall—all conspire to still the troubled passions of the mind—to elevate the spirit above the transitory things of time, and remind us of the solemn truth, that all the beauties and pleasures of this world are fleeting as the summer flower—transient as the splendor of an autumn wood. Ten years had passed since last I stood beneath the lofty oaks that cast their shade over the silent sepulchres of the dead. Tired of the greetings of friends and gaze of strangers. I sought the spot where rested the ashes of those that once had been among the friends of my youth.

I strolled from tomb to tomb, and sought on the pages of memory the history of many I had once known and loved, but often did I inquire of my companion, to gather more fully the recollection which time had partially obscured. At length a simple, yet elegant tomb attracted my attention. Near it stood one of an imposing appearance, in which art and munificence seemed to have exerted their skill, to make it tower above the rest. On the first was this simple, but affecting inscription—

SACRED
To the memory of
MATILDA WILLIAMS.

On living tablets of the heart,
Her virtues are engraved;
Then seek not on the works of art,
The record of her praise.

It bore no dates, but was evidently recently erected. The name I did not recognize, but the tender, unpretending inscription, sensibly touched my heart, and I felt a strong desire to know the history of her whose virtues needed no external record. My friend read my feelings, and immediately drew my attention to the next tomb-stone. It bore a long list of lineage, beauty, amiability, &c. &c. and as I read the long and beautiful detail, I almost questioned the justice of Omnipotence in thus snatching, in early life, from mortal gaze, so pure, so beautiful a pattern of every female grace and excellence. “Only twenty-four,” I exclaimed, “and yet so highly exalted, so much beloved.” My friend smiled archly and remarked, “Have you seen so much of the world and not yet learned that real merit rarely has loud trumpeters?” Her manner surprised me, and I inquired the meaning. It is too late now, said she, to enter into the narrative about which you feel so much interested; to-morrow I will relate the history of both these women, whose tombs are not more strikingly different than were their lives and characters. United in life by a strange destiny, or rather by strange circumstances, it is fit that their last dwellings should be near each other, and that their monuments, like their characters, should stand forth in striking contrast.

* * * * *

Matilda Clayton was the only daughter of the poor widow who removed to this village a short time before you left here, and who for years has taught the village school.