CHAPTER VIII

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ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN: A ROMANCE. BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Venal Villains--'Jock' instructed to 'Pouch' them--At Work on another Novel--The Dog of a Publisher--Devil of a Price--_St. Irvyne_--Irving's Hill--Review of _St. Irvyne_--Wolfstein the Magnanimous--Megalena de Metastasio--Olympia della Anzasca--Eloise St. Irvyne--The Virtuous Fitzeustace--Ginotti's Doom--The Oxonian Shelley's Repugnance to Marriage--His Commendation of Free Love--Parallel Passages of _Zastrozzi_ and _St. Irvyne_--The Verses of _St. Irvyne_.

As the hour drew near for the publication of _Zastrozzi_, Shelley was urgent with his publisher to spend money in getting favourable reviews of the superlatively foolish book. The publisher declining to part with his money for that purpose, the literary aspirant (more truth-loving though he was than other boys, if Lady Shelley may be trusted) discovered a grievance in Mr. Robinson's niggardly reluctance to bribe the reviewers. As the man of business would not make needful arrangements with the 'gentlemen of the press,' Shelley declared his intention (in a letter dated 1st April, 1810), to see that the 'venal villains' were properly 'pouched.' Many a boyish author has talked and written in the same vein, and even tipt a 'venal villain' for a lying paragraph, without bearing himself in later time so as to acquire a reputation for untruthfulness or for labouring under semi-delusions. A biographer might well disdain to notice so trivial an indication of a readiness to tamper with the truth and fib by deputy, had Shelley's veracity never been called in question in later time. Under the circumstances of the case, one does not make too much of the small matter, in remarking that, whilst it accords with the

## action of the young man who offered verse for sale as 'original poetry'

with the knowledge that it was not 'original,' this resolve to buy insincere praise, in order to deceive the public and win money or homage from credulous readers, is out of harmony with the fine things that have been said of the poet's sublime sincerity and passionate abhorrence of falsehood. If Medwin was right in saying _Zastrozzi_ was favourably reviewed and declared 'a book of much promise,' the critic must have been a sufficiently 'pouched' and 'venal villain.'

In the same letter of 1st April, 1810, the poet and novelist, who ten days later donned cap and gown at University College, is seen at work on another novel, in the hope that it will bring him 60_l._, and place him before the world as the author of the _New Romance_ in three volumes. If 'Jock' (otherwise styled Mr. John Robinson, of Paternoster Row) won't pay him 'a devil of a price' for his new poem, and at least 60_l._ for his new romance, 'the dog shall not have them.' It was thus the youngster swaggered over a sheet of paper on April Fools' Day, about his dog of a publisher, and the devil of a price the dog must pay him for the finest fruit of his genius. The young man boasting of the 60_l._ he meant to have for his _New Romance_ in three volumes, was the same boy who seems to have set it about that he had been paid 40_l._ for _Zastrozzi_. What the poem was, does not appear. It may have been the 'Original Poetry' that wasn't original, or the _Wandering Jew_ that was subsequently offered for a devil of a price, or a gentlemanly price to the Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. of Edinburgh, and Mr. John Joseph Stockdale, of 41 Pall Mall, or even the first meagre sketch of _Queen Mab_; but I am inclined to think it was _The Jew_. _Zastrozzi_ having fallen dead from the press (of course, for no other reason than the dog's neglect to pouch the villains), Jock was not in the humour to drop money either on the poem for which 'a devil of a price' would be nothing more than fair payment, or on the novel that, on being finished and 'fitted' for the press by a publisher, instead of filling three volumes was (in bulk) a slighter and meaner book than _Zastrozzi_. Placed in Mr. Stockdale's hands in September, 1810, and 'fitted' for public perusal by Mr. Stockdale himself, this performance in prose fiction was published by the Pall Mall bookseller (not on the payment of 60_l._ to the author, but altogether at the author's cost and risk) in December, 1810, under the style and titles of _St. Irvyne_, or, _The Rosicrucian_, the first of the two titles being an adaptation of the names of the ducal seat (St. Irving's Hills)[2], in whose glades and gardens he had walked by moonlight with the more cold than faithless Harriett, not six months since.

For insufficient reasons _St. Irvyne, or, The Rosicrucian_--an even wilder piece of lunacy than _Zastrozzi_--has been assigned to a German source. German tale-wrights may have been in some slight degree accountable for its morbid extravagances, even as they were indirectly accountable for some of the several hundreds of similar English romances, that were produced in the poet's boyhood by the imitators of Mrs. Radcliffe and Monk Lewis. But to speak of it as a tale _from_ the German, or even _after_ the German, is to be guilty of a misdescription.

Consisting of two separate stories, stitched together by an inexpert handler of the literary needle, _St. Irvyne_ is just such a performance as might have been looked for from the author of _Zastrozzi_, eager to produce a second romance, before 'clearing out' of the state of mental disease, that was partly the effect and partly the cause of the efforts that resulted in the earlier story. Something must be said of both parts of the tale that, dropping still-born from the press, would have been absolutely forgotten, had it not been for the author's subsequent celebrity.

PART, NO. I.

Consenting to participate in the adventures and fortunes of the Alpine Brigands, by whom he has been captured, the youthful and 'high-souled' Wolfstein--an outcast from his noble family and from the society of his equals--makes the acquaintance of Ginotti the Rosicrucian, whilst the latter is acting as First Lieutenant under Cavigni, the captain of the Banditti. Almost at the same time he falls under the influence of Megalena de Metastasio, daughter of a wealthy Italian Count, who has been despoiled, murdered, and thrown down a yawning precipice by the comrades of the magnanimous Wolfstein. The association of the brigands with Wolfstein is of no long duration: for when he has made two attempts to poison their chieftain (the second attempt being successful), the allied robbers expel Wolfstein of the lofty soul from their brotherhood.

In justice to the magnanimous Wolfstein, it must be admitted he did not poison Cavigni without provocation. Not only does the robber-chief presume to force his unacceptable addresses on the lovely Megalena de Metastasio, but follows up this presumption with a threat of ravishing her. 'Then,' cries the robber-chief, 'if within four-and-twenty hours you hold yourself not in readiness to return my love, force shall wrest the jewel from the casket.' Ere the four-and-twenty hours have passed, Cavigni has drained the poisoned chalice, and is rolling in torments at his murderer's feet.

Saved by Ginotti from the death to which other robbers would fain consign him, Wolfstein goes off with Megalena to Genoa, where they enter the best society. On the eve of their withdrawal from the Alpine cave, Megalena shows 'Wolfstein jewels to an immense amount':--a sight that causes the high-souled Wolfstein to exclaim, 'Then we may defy poverty; for I have about me jewels to the value of ten thousand zechins.'

When they have settled themselves in their Genoese home, Wolfstein of the lofty soul shocks Megalena by begging her to become his wife without a nuptial ceremony. 'And is my adored Megalena,' he asks, 'a victim then to prejudice?... Does she suppose that Nature created us to become the tormentors of each other?'--questions that of course convince Megalena she ought not to stand out for the empty forms of lawful wedlock. 'Yes, yes,' the young lady exclaims with equal courage and sobriety. 'Prejudice, avaunt! Once more reason takes her seat, and convinces me that to be Wolfstein's is not criminal. O Wolfstein! if for a moment Megalena has yielded to the imbecility of nature, believe that she yet knows how to recover herself, to reappear in her proper character.' People differ in their notions of propriety. To old-fashioned persons Megalena may seem to 'reappear in a very improper character.' She and the high-souled Wolfstein henceforth live together as husband and wife without being husband and wife. They 'acted on emotional theories of liberty.' But then, as Mr. Froude would say, they were so young and enthusiastic!

The course of their mutual affections can scarcely be used as an argument for Free Love. They 'act on emotional theories of liberty' in other matters. Turning pettish and restless, Megalena plunges into 'dissipated pleasures.' Less enamoured of his ringless bride than harassed by her caprice, the high-souled Wolfstein takes to gambling, and forms an embarrassing intimacy with the ardent and lovely Olympia della Anzasca (daughter of the Count and Countess of the same rather uncomfortable name), a young gentlewoman, whose passions, stimulated by 'a false system of education and a wrong expansion of ideas,' impel her to quit her father's palazzo one evening, and pay Wolfstein a visit, just as he and Megalena are sitting down to a late supper.

'To what, Lady Olympia, do I owe the unforeseen pleasure of your visit? What so mysterious business have you with me?' inquires Wolfstein, on entering the room to which the untimely and unattended visitor had been shown.

## Acting on an emotional theory of liberty, the Lady Olympia della Anzasca

ejaculates, 'Oh! if you wish to see me expire in horrible torments at your feet, inhuman Wolfstein, call for Megalena, and then will your purpose be accomplished!'

Having no wish to see the Lady Olympia die in so unsuitable a place, Wolfstein, instead of calling for Megalena, replies, 'Dearest Lady Olympia, compose yourself, I beseech you. What, what agitates you?'

'Oh! pardon me, pardon me,' exclaims the Lady Olympia, with 'maniac wildness,' 'pardon a wretched female who knows not what she does! Oh! resistlessly am I impelled to this avowal; resistlessly am I impelled to declare to you, that I love you! adore you to distraction!--Will you return my affection? But, ah! I rave! Megalena, the beloved Megalena claims you as her own; and the wretched Olympia must moan the blighted prospects which were about to open fair before her eyes.'

With the propriety, to be looked for in a gentleman whose Megalena is supping in the next room, and may come upon the scene at any moment, the high-souled Wolfstein exclaims: 'No reflection in the present instance is needed, Lady. What man of honour needs a moment's rumination to discover what nature has so inerasibly planted in his bosom,--the sense of right and wrong? I am connected with a female whom I love, who confides in me; in what manner should I merit her confidence, if I join myself to another? Nor can the loveliness of the beautiful Olympia della Anzasca compensate me for breaking an oath sworn to another!'

On hearing this 'dreadful fiat of her destiny,' Olympia swoons at Wolfstein's feet, a swoon from which she recovers, just as Megalena sweeps into the room, at the instance of natural curiosity respecting the cause of Olympia's visit. At the sight of Megalena's 'detested form,' the 'passion-grieving' Olympia, faintly articulating 'Vengeance!' rushes into the street and bends her rapid flight to the 'Palazzo di Anzasca.' When Olympia has thus departed in her 'passion-grief,' Wolfstein protests he has never given the fair Anzasca's passion any encouragement.

'What further proof,' he asks of Megalena, 'can I give but my oath, that never in soul or body have I broken the allegiance that I formerly swore to thee?'

'The death of Olympia!' answers Megalena.

'What mean you?' ejaculates Wolfstein.

'I mean,' says Megalena, 'I mean that, if ever you wish again to possess my affections, ere to-morrow morning Olympia must expire.'

'Murder the innocent Olympia?'

'Yes.'

'Will nothing else convince Megalena that Wolfstein is eternally hers?'

'Nothing!' says Megalena.

''Tis done then,' replies Wolfstein the Magnanimous, ''tis done. Yet' (he mutters), 'I may writhe, convulsed in immaterial agony, for ever and ever--ah! I cannot. No, Megalena, I am again yours; I will immolate the victim which thou requirest as a sacrifice to our love. Give me a dagger, which may sweep off from the face of the earth one who is hateful to thee! Adored creature, give me the dagger, and I will restore it to thee dripping with Olympia's hated blood; it shall have first been buried in her heart.'

Armed with the dagger, which Megalena puts in his hand, the high-souled Wolfstein goes off to the Palazzo della Anzasca (or 'di' Anzasca, the author uses 'della' and 'di' indifferently), enters it, unobserved follows Olympia to her bedroom, hides himself in the room till Olympia has put herself to bed, and remains in his convenient corner of the chamber, till she breathes the heavy breath of slumber. The moment for the ruthless deed has come. Dagger in hand, Wolfstein of the exalted soul glides to the sleeper's bed, watches her angelic features, gazes on the angelic smile that plays over her countenance, nerves himself to deliver the fatal blow, raises the poniard, and then--throws it from him. The noise of the falling dagger rouses Olympia to consciousness. She is awake and recognizes him. They speak to one another. For a moment Olympia imagines he has relented, and has come to give her the strongest proof of his affection. Another moment, and discovering her mistake, she leaps wildly from her bed.

'A light and flowing night-dress,' runs the narrative, 'alone veiled her form; her alabaster bosom was shaded by the light ringlets of her hair, which rested unconfined upon it. She threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, as if struck by some thought, she started convulsively from the earth; for an instant she paused. The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the apartment, fell full upon the dagger of Wolfstein. Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it, and, ere Wolfstein was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her bosom. Weltering in purple gore she fell; no groan, no sigh escaped her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolution could not dispel, played on her convulsed countenance; it irradiated her features with celestially awful, although terrific expression. "Ineffectually have I endeavoured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul; now I overcome them," were her last words. She uttered them in a tone of firmness: and, falling back, expired in torments, which her fine but expressive features declared that she gloried in.'

The victim of 'a false system of education and a wrong expansion of ideas' is at rest. All is silent in the chamber of death. As the stir, certain to ensue on the tragedy of Olympia's bedroom, may render Genoa a perilous place of residence for the man she adored and the woman she detested, Wolfstein and Megalena fly to Bohemia, in which country he has recently succeeded to immense wealth, through his uncle's death.

PART, NO. II.

Consisting of six chapters and a concluding note, the Second Part of this marvellous combination of two several tales relates chiefly to the fortunes of Eloise St. Irvyne, who accompanies her dying mother from the Chateau de St. Irvyne in France to Geneva, where the elder lady expires of a lingering malady, after solemnly admonishing her daughter to beware of any man she may encounter, who shall be 'a man enveloped in deceit and mystery.' Such a man Eloise has already encountered on her journey to Geneva; and she falls under his fatal influence immediately after her mother's death. Just as Wolfstein induces Megalena to become his ringless bride, Nempere prevails on Eloise de St. Irvyne to become his mistress.

Growing weary of his victim's fascinations soon after he has gained possession of her body, the villain Nempere (who in due course turns out to be Ginotti, the Rosicrucian) offers Eloise St. Irvyne as a mere _fille de joie_, in payment of a gambling debt, to the dissolute but essentially honourable Chevalier Mountfort,--an Englishman of ancient lineage and noble rank. Too chivalrous to take advantage of the power he has acquired by purchase over the victim of Nempere's licentiousness and perfidy, the Chevalier Mountfort places Eloise with an adequate allowance in a picturesque cottage, under the chivalric surveillance of the exemplary Fitzeustace (an Irish gentleman), who eventually makes her his wife. Having thus provided for Eloise, the Chevalier Mountfort goes off in pursuit of Nempere, to chastise him for his villany.

Eloise is left in good hands. 'He is an Irishman,' the Chevalier has remarked to Eloise of the gentleman to whose care she is consigned, 'and so _very moral_, and so averse to every species of _gaieté de coeur_ that you need be under no apprehensions. In short, he is a love-sick swain, without ever having found what he calls a congenial female.' The virtues of this Irish gentleman are regarded by Mr. Denis Florence MacCarthy as indicative that, whilst writing _St. Irvyne_ in the summer of 1810, Shelley was already disposed to regard the Irish with favour.

In Eloise this 'love-sick swain' discovers the 'congenial female' for whom he has long been seeking. Admiring her beauty, he hangs upon the music of her lips, pining for the time when he shall be permitted to salute them. Nothing in her history moderates his passion for Nempere's abandoned mistress. In his judgment it is nothing to her disadvantage that she has been seduced, and is on the point of giving birth to a child of shame. When she answers his prayer for their immediate union by saying: 'Know you not that I have been another's?' he replies with passionate fervour: 'Oh, suppose me not the slave of such vulgar and narrow-minded prejudice. Does the frightful vice and ingratitude of Nempere sully the spotless excellence of my Eloise's soul?' When Eloise gives birth to Nempere's son, Fitzeustace officiates by turns as the mother's doctor and the infant's nurse. At moments when he is necessarily 'absent from the apartment of the beloved Eloise, his whole delight is to gaze on the child, and trace in its innocent countenance the features of the mother he adores.'

Eloise having at length consented to become his wife, this Irish gentleman remarks: 'But before we go to England, before my father will see us, it is necessary that we should be married. Nay, do not start, Eloise: I view it in the light that you do; I consider it as but a chain which, although it keeps the body, still leaves the soul unfettered; it is not so with love. But still, Eloise, to those who think like us, it is, at all events, harmless; 'tis but yielding to the prejudices of the world wherein we live, and procuring moral expediency at a slight sacrifice of what we conceive to be right.'

Thus admonished, Eloise consents to the slight sacrifice of what she conceives to be right, and promises to pass to her Fitzeustace's conjugal embraces through the narrow gate of lawful matrimony, instead of by the broad and higher way of Free Love. 'Well, well,' she says reluctantly, 'it shall be done, Fitzeustace; but take the assurance of my promise that I cannot love you more.' Partly, in palliation of the lady's weakness and Fitzeustace's excessive care for the world's opinion in this business, the author of the romance remarks in his own person: 'They soon agreed on a point, in their eyes of so trifling importance, and arriving in England, tasted that happiness, which love and innocence alone can give. Prejudice may triumph for awhile, but virtue will be eventually the conqueror.'

Reappearing, in the last chapter, to compass the high-souled Wolfstein's destruction, Ginotti, _alias_ Nempere, is left eventually in the darksome vaults of St. Irvyne's ruinous abbey, to endure 'a dateless and hopeless eternity of horror,' as a gigantic and conscious skeleton, with 'two pale and ghastly flames glaring in his eyeless sockets.' The way in which the narrative is wound up surpasses all human understanding. After 'fitting' the manuscript for the press, Mr. John Joseph Stockdale may well have entreated Shelley to reconsider some passages of the story, and to explain or alter, certain matters of the _dénouement_. In answer to the publisher's request for explanations and further instructions, Shelley wrote lightly from University College, Oxford, on 14th November, 1810:--

'Dear Sir,--I return you the Romance by this day's coach. I am much obligated by the trouble you have taken to fit it for the press. I am myself by no means a good hand at correction, but I think I have obviated the principal objections which you allege.

'Ginotti, as you will see, did _not_ die by Wolfstein's hand, but by the influence of that natural magic which, when the secret was imparted to the latter, destroyed him.--Mountfort being a character of inferior import, I did not think it necessary to state the catastrophe of _him_, as at best it could be but uninteresting.--Eloise and Fitzeustace, are married and happy I suppose, and Megalena dies by the same means as Wolfstein.--I do not myself see any other explanation that is required.--As to the method of publishing it, I think, as it is a thing which almost _mechanically_ sells to circulating libraries, &c., I would wish it to be published on my _own_ account.

'I am surprised that you have not received the _Wandering Jew_, and, in consequence write to Mr. Ballantyne to mention it; you will doubtlessly therefore, receive it soon.--Should you still perceive in the romance any error of flagrant incoherency, &c., it must be altered, but I should conceive it will (being wholly so abrupt) not require it.

I am your sincere humble servant, Percy B. Shelley.

'Shall you make this in one or two volumes? Mr. Robinson, of Paternoster Row, published _Zastrozzi_.'

The author's explanations in no degree diminish the difficulty of understanding the story. On the contrary, they rather increase the difficulty. Having done his duty in calling the author's attention to some of the story's most glaring absurdities, and having (as he imagined) no pecuniary interest to be cautious for in respect to a work that was to be published at the charges of the young gentleman who, sooner or later, would, of course, be able to pay a heavy bill, Mr. Stockdale sent to the printers the thing of lunacy, of which Mr. Garnett says: 'Worthless as _St. Irvyne_ is of itself, it becomes of high interest when regarded as the first feeble step of a mighty genius on the road to consummate excellence.'

It was enough for the author of _Zastrozzi_, in the first stage of his fanatical abhorrence of lawful wedlock, to make the virtuous Verezzi speak slightingly of the nuptial rite as needless for the consecration of his spiritual union with the amiable Matilda di Laurentini. In _St. Irvyne_ this repugnance to the fetters put upon passion, that should be left in absolute freedom, is declared more precisely and emphatically. Whilst the exemplary Fitzeustace declares his contempt for the ceremony, Eloise makes it clear she would rather be his mistress than his wife. At the same time, the author in his own person declares that, when Virtue shall have triumphed over Prejudice, women, instead of being given and taken in Marriage, will be given and taken in Free Love. In this matter the Oxonian surpasses the Etonian, and is seen to have advanced a long step towards the conclusions that qualified him to proclaim the sanctity of Free Love in _Laon and Cythna_,--the poem in which he 'startled' (his own word) the men and women of England by insisting that in a perfect state of society a brother and sister would be able, with perfect propriety, to live together in Free Love, and beget children of one another.

In the article entitled 'A Newspaper Editor's Reminiscences,' to be found in the June, 1841, number of _Fraser's Magazine_, the curious may find some rather strong, but inconclusive, evidence that at some time between October[3], 1811, and March, 1812, Shelley tried to sell to three or four different London publishers, for a sum of 10_l._, certain tales in manuscript, out of which he composed _Zastrozzi_ and _St. Irvyne_. If Shelley, after publishing the two 'failures' in prose fiction, tried to wheedle money out of booksellers for the materials out of which those failures were made, he did what he should not have done, and received less than his proper punishment in getting nothing by his pains. But the evidence is so unsatisfactory that the young man did thus endeavour to get money for stuff, whose worthlessness he had ascertained, I cannot hold him guilty of the curious piece of sharp practice. The same newspaper editor's evidence that one of these tales was either a translation from the German, or alleged by Shelley to have been a translation from the German, being still more unsatisfactory, there is no need to trouble the reader of these volumes to consider the particulars of it.

As he delights in the dreary labour of collating the texts of worthless books, it is strange that Mr. Buxton Forman (who has wasted a great deal of time in collating the different editions of Shelley's writings) should have failed to discover that _St. Irvyne_ consists, in a considerable degree, of the characters, and positions, and incidents of _Zastrozzi_, so changed by being turned inside out and differently coloured, as to be likely to be mistaken, by hasty and unsuspicious readers of both books, for new actors and positions and incidents. Towards the close of his career, Thackeray said to a friend, 'I am no prolific creator of characters. In that respect I have fairly worked myself out. It remains for me now to redress my old puppets with new bits of riband and tinsel.' The puppets of the Etonian romance are thus redressed in the Oxford story. By change of costume, the puppet, who figures as a man in _Zastrozzi_, is qualified for a woman's part in _St. Irvyne_. By being pulled inside out, the position that was meant to rouse admiration in the one story, becomes a position that (in the hands of an abler artist) would stir to pity in the other. To escape from an humiliating position, Olympia poniards herself in _St. Irvyne_; even as Verezzi, to escape a melodramatic embarrassment, poniards himself in _Zastrozzi_. The slumbering Eloise in the later fiction declares her passion for Fitzeustace to the listening Irishman, even as the slumbering Verezzi in the earlier romance declares his passion for Julia to the listening Matilda.

THE DAGGER SCENE IN 'ZASTROZZI.'

'_Madness--fiercest madness--revelled through his brain._ He raised the poniard high, but Julia rushed forwards, and in accents of desperation, in a voice of alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare himself--to spare her--for all might yet be well.

'_"Oh! never, never!" exclaimed Verezzi, frantically, "no peace but in the grave for me. I am--I am--married to Matilda."_

'Saying this, he fell backwards upon a sofa in strong convulsions, yet his hand still firmly grasped the fatal poniard.

'Matilda, meanwhile, fixedly contemplated the scene. Fiercest passions raged through her breast: vengeance, disappointed love--disappointed in the instant, too, when she had supposed happiness to be hers for ever, rendered her bosom the scene of wildest anarchy.

'Yet she spoke not--she moved not--but collected in herself, stood waiting the issue of that event, which had so unexpectedly dissolved _her visions of air-built ecstasy_.

'Serened to firmness from despair, Julia administered everything which could restore Verezzi with the most unremitting attention. At last he recovered. _He slowly raised himself, and starting from the sofa where he lay, his eyes rolling wildly_, and his whole frame convulsed by fiercest agitation, _he raised the dagger which he still retained, and, with a bitter smile of exultation, plunged it into his bosom!--His soul fled without a groan, and his body fell to the floor, bathed in purple blood._'

THE DAGGER SCENE IN 'ST. IRVYNE.'

'_"Wilt thou be mine?" exclaimed the enraptured Olympia, as a ray of hope arose in her mind. "Never! never can I," groaned the agitated Wolfstein, "I am irrevocably, indissolutely another's."--Maddened by this death-blow to all expectations of happiness_, which the deluded Olympia had so fondly anticipated, she leaped wildly from the bed. A light and flowing night-dress alone veiled her form; her alabaster bosom was shaded by the light ringlets of her hair which rested unconfined upon it. She threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, as if struck by some thought, she started convulsively from the earth: for an instant she paused.

'The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the apartment, fell full upon the dagger of Wolfstein. _Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it; and ere Wolfstein was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her bosom. Weltering in purple gore, she fell; no groan, no sigh escaped her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolution could not dispel, played on her convulsed countenance; it irradiated her features_ with celestially awful, although terrific, expression. "Ineffectually have I endeavoured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul; now I overcome them," were her last words. She uttered them in a tone of firmness, and, falling back, expired in torments, which her fine, her expressive features declared that she gloried in.'

Each of these passages is a fair example of the work from which it is taken. Surely their resemblance in temper, moral fibre, style, verbiage, affords sufficient evidence that the two passages were put together by the same writer. What evidence do they afford that, whilst the passage, taken from _Zastrozzi_ (the novel universally allowed to be a thing of Shelley's own manufacture), was written as it is printed by the future poet, the passage from _St. Irvyne_ (the novel generally assigned to a German source) is a mere translation from a German original? Why (in the absence of evidence that Shelley could translate a page of German, and in the absence of any German novel, out of which _St. Irvyne_ could have been made) are we to regard the passage of the earlier book as the pure product of Shelley's mind, and the passage of the later romance as so much of the translated product of a German writer's mind?

THE BEDROOM SCENE IN 'ZASTROZZI.'

'The morning came--Matilda arose from a sleepless couch, and with hopes yet unconfirmed sought Verezzi's apartment. She stood near the door listening. Her heart palpitated with tremulous violence, as she listened to Verezzi's breathing--every sound from within alarmed her. At last she slowly opened the door, and though adhering to the physician's directions in not suffering Verezzi to see her, she could not deny herself the pleasure of watching him, and busying herself in little offices about his apartment.

'She could hear Verezzi question the attendant collectedly, yet as a person who was ignorant where he was, and knew not the events which had immediately preceded his present state.

'_At last he sank into a deep sleep._--Matilda now dared to gaze on him; the hectic colour which had flushed his cheek was fled, but the ashy hue of his lips had given place to a brilliant vermilion. _She gazed intently on his countenance._

'_A heavenly yet faint smile diffused itself over his countenance_--his hand slightly moved.

'Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed herself. She was mistaken: for, on looking again, he still slept.

'She still gazed upon his countenance. _The visions of his sleep were changed, for tears came fast from under his eyelids, and a deep sigh burst from his bosom._

'Thus passed several days: Matilda still watched, with the most affectionate assiduity, by the bedside of the unconscious Verezzi.

'The physician declared that his patient's mind was yet in too irritable a state to permit him to see Matilda, but that he was convalescent.

'One evening she sate by his bedside, and gazing upon the features of the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusual softness take possession of her soul--an indefinable tumultuous emotion shook her bosom--_her whole frame thrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand, which lay motionless, beside her, she imprinted on it a thousand burning kisses_.

'"_Ah, Julia! Julia! is it you?" exclaimed Verezzi, as he raised his enfeebled frame; but perceiving his mistake, as he cast his eyes on Matilda, sank back and fainted._

##