IV.

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.

Perhaps you remember the interest her coming gave to all the lovers of mystery in our circle. She was dressed in black. Her child was about twelve or fourteen; beautiful as a fairy, and seemingly a visitor from some etherial sphere—so delicate, so gentle was her every glance and movement. They brought with them an elegant harp and guitar, and two richly painted portraits. Of their characters or former home, nothing could be gathered. She rented that house which you see among those lofty oaks, and furnished it in a style of neat simplicity and taste. Soon after she came, she issued proposals for a school, but few at first seemed disposed to patronize her; and though curiosity was strongly manifested to know who and what she was, all that could be gathered was the assertion that she was the widow of an officer, whose untimely death had left her friendless, and induced her, to seek among strangers, a home and support. Months passed by, and her correct deportment—the pure elegance of her manners, and her various accomplishments, gained her the good-will and confidence of some of the leading characters in the village, by whose influence a considerable number of scholars was soon procured. Among her friends and patrons was Mr. Wilton; and his daughter Clara, then {781} about the age of Matilda, was the first committed to her care.

Soon did the widow and her daughter engage the affections of the scholars, and a great intimacy took place between Matilda and Clara. The Wiltons were wealthy, and their influence great; yet, notwithstanding their efforts to induce Mrs. Clayton to mingle with society, she and Matilda remained secluded from all the gaieties and pleasures of the village. Often did their acquaintances stroll to the cottage to listen to their sweet voices as they sung to their instruments; and never shall I forget the tender tears I shed as I stood one moonlight evening near the lattice, and heard the widow play and sing these touching lines:

How hard it is with calmness to survey, The scenes which memory bringeth to my view; I fain would drive its spectre forms away, And think ideal, what I know is true. She brings back scenes of bliss beyond compare, Recalls the joys which are forever fled— I bathe their memory with my bitter tears, And leave this spot to weep around the dead. I gaze on thee, my own, my darling child— I see “thy father’s softened image there;” And oh! my tears arise to check thy smile, And bid thee share thy widow’d mother’s care. I’ve asked not pity, for too cold’s this world To share the sorrows of the suffering poor; From wealth’s high summit, when the wretch is hurled, Alone they’re left their misery to deplore: But conscious virtue will our solace be— Perhaps we yet some feeling hearts may find; While sweet’s the task to teach and succor thee, My own Matilda, my dear orphan child; And to our God our evening hymn we’ll raise, For He did hear, when in our wo we cried; The widow’s spouse—the orphan’s friend we’ll praise, And dry our tears in hopes of bliss on high.

Even now I almost fancy I can hear her sweet tremulous voice, as it rose on the silent evening breeze, and still I seem to gaze on that lovely, though pallid face, as with tearful uplifted eye she sang those last lines of tender heart-touching piety and faith. But I have wandered from my narrative. Years rolled by, and still the widow’s school increased, and with it love and respect for her and her daughter. Clara Wilton had been the constant companion of the latter for near three years, and her proficiency in both solid and ornamental branches of education should have satisfied even her ambitious parents. But the fashionable error that a young lady’s education could never be completed at home, had found its way here, and Clara, with others, was removed from Mrs. Clayton’s maternal care, to mix with strangers, careless of their principles, and uninterested in their happiness.

You, who have known the course pursued in fashionable boarding schools—you who have seen the disappointed hopes—the perverted minds—the corrupted hearts which have been the result of injudicious plans of education, will not wonder when I tell you that the artless, affectionate Clara returned home, after two years _polish_, an altered, a sadly altered being. Matilda was now assisting her mother in the duties of the school-room. That budding beauty which in childhood charmed, was mellowed, refined, by the graces and dignity of the woman. That quiet spirit, whose benign influence had been felt by so many in the morning of life, now shed its purifying influence in a more extended circle. Matilda was admired—beloved. Many sought her society—she treated all with that amiable politeness which springs from a pure heart: but few could gain her confidence or tempt her from that deep retirement she had learned to love.

Clara still loved Matilda. Though fashion, folly, show and pleasure had filled her mind, still she often left the bustle of gay life, to spend an hour in that quiet, lovely spot, where she had spent her happiest days. Often did she strive to enlist Matilda under the banners of her leading pleasures, but she strove in vain. When crossed or afflicted at any real or imaginary loss, she told her the troubles that annoyed her; and often did Matilda point out the transitory nature of her favorite joys, and point her unsatisfied heart to the only fountain of perfect bliss.

Clara had many admirers, and frequently had the cottage been visited in her evening rambles by her and her friends, to listen to the elegant performance of its inmates, while Clara often joined the concert with her own clear and highly cultivated voice.

Among the number who had thus become known to Matilda, was James Williams, long an ardent admirer and evident favorite of Miss Wilton’s.

Long had he solicited her hand, but she would not decide his fate. Almost constantly with her, he had imagined her necessary to his happiness, and so long had been kept in a feverish excitement of love, and hope, and doubt, that he scarcely cared to have his case permanently fixed. Believing himself beloved, he rather enjoyed than disliked her frequent changes of deportment towards him, and had not yet learned that there was a deep and holy feeling meant by love, that he had never yet enjoyed.

But he saw Matilda. Again and again he repaired to the cottage, and ere he knew that he was in danger, he found himself completely enslaved by the artless, lovely manners, and rich and highly cultivated mind of her who never thought of conquest. But he was shackled, and how to break his bonds he knew not. Only one means presented itself, and that was to urge Clara to a decided and immediate step relative to him. She, unsuspecting his motive, and believing his happiness in her power, rejected him, vainly expecting to hear renewed declarations of affection, and to witness a sorrow and despair which she would, ere long, turn into hope and gladness.

But, like the captive bird, who after weeks of imprisonment finds the door of his cage unbarred, he exulted in his newly gained liberty, and with delightful speed burst asunder every tie that bound him to his captor, and sought again those joys which he had feared were lost to him forever. Clara loved him, if the heart of a gay unthinking girl could love. Little had she dreamed that in the lowly Matilda she could find a rival, and that too, in the only heart whose worship she had ever really valued. But in his speaking countenance she read that her rejection gave no pain, nor was she long in discovering the cause of his alienated affections. Clara was now awoke from more sleeps than one—she had awoke from confidence in love, to prove that she had been bewildered with an _ignis fatuus_; her feelings of resentment, envy and revenge, which had slumbered so long, were now aroused and glowed with the intensity of a long smothered flame.

{782} When she first left her native village, she was a stranger to the vices so prevalent among the young in modern times. But easy is the task to imbibe wrong sentiments—to learn that revenge is noble—that the end justifies the means, and that she who can best dissemble, most secretly effect her purposes, is most praiseworthy and admired.

Her feelings naturally ardent, needed but an exciting cause to call into active exercise some of the most uncontrollable, and unamiable passions. Clara might have made, with proper government when young, an excellent woman. But no early discipline had prepared her for usefulness and happiness. An only daughter, the heiress of a large estate and honorable name, and possessed of many personal graces—she had known no restraints—met with no crosses to her inclinations, and had been taught, by precept and example, that admiration, conquest, dress and fashion, were the objects at which she should tend—the summit of her ambition. Mrs. Clayton had endeavored to instil good principles in all her pupils’ minds; but what can the lessons of the school-room effect, when the family circle extinguishes all the good feelings produced during a few hours instruction? Self-love was Clara’s idol—self-love, alas! is too often the destroyer of its worshipper.

Williams soon became an open admirer of Miss Clayton. Gifted with talents, fortune, and a person of uncommon elegance, his mind well stored with literature, and his heart, though uninfluenced by solid piety, yet feelingly alive to many noble and brilliant virtues, he was formed to love with all the deep fervor of a virtuous soul, and formed to be beloved by one who could appreciate his character. No sooner did Williams declare himself the friend and equal of Miss Clayton, than the line of demarkation which had been drawn by the proud and rich gave way, and it soon became quite as fashionable to admire the gentle Matilda, as it had been to pay homage to her wealthier cotemporaries.

Nor did Williams alone desert Miss Wilton’s ranks. Among her former suitors was a young man of dissipated character, but polished manners, who would, no doubt, have been a successful competitor for her hand, had not Williams appeared upon the stage. Between these two, no good feelings existed; and no sooner did Dudley discover his attachment to Matilda, than he determined to oppose him. For some months no event occurred worth recital. Rumor declared Williams the future husband of Matilda; while Dudley, tired of his new flame, again returned to flatter the beautiful Clara.

It was evident that she was not happy, and also that the desertion of Williams was a source of real mortification; yet still her fondness for her rival continued, and she even seemed more devoted than ever to the society of her friend. Matilda loved her, and fondly imagined that she was likewise beloved. But the time for her marriage drew near. Clara possessed her confidence, and apparently enjoyed the approaching good fortune of her friend. At this juncture, business called Williams unexpectedly from the state. With a beating heart he bid adieu to his betrothed, promising to write every post, and extorting from her a like favor. One letter only was received from him, and that was cold and brief. Added to this, she was told that his departure was a finesse to avoid the fulfilment of his engagement—that he had spoken disrespectfully of her, and that she need not expect any farther tidings from him. But Matilda believed it not. She wrote. In a short time her letter was returned unopened. Still she could not believe him false. A month rolled by—a month of anguish, of suspense—but nothing farther was heard from him.

During this time Williams had received letters from his friends advising him to return no more—that Matilda had deceived him—that her conduct was improper in the extreme—that the story of her mother’s widowhood was an artful tale, invented to conceal the ignominious birth of her daughter, and that they were proved to be exiles from home, forced off by the resentment of their family. He, too, received a letter from Matilda, requesting to be exonerated from her vows, alleging a former attachment as the cause, which she declared herself unable to overcome. Nor did it end here. Dudley and Clara had so managed that the minds of the public should be prepared for the event of Williams’ desertion; and the unhappy girl soon found that not only had her lover fled, but with him her character, and of course her peace. At Williams’ request their school had been dismissed, and thus were they left, with sullied fame, and without the means of future support. In vain did they endeavor to investigate the matter. No one stepped forward to assist them, save some who lacked the ability to succor those whom they believed innocent. Two years passed by, and found their situation deplorable indeed. A deep melancholy had seized the widow’s mind; their efforts to re-assume their former office failed, and they were poor, friendless and afflicted. Matilda bore it with becoming dignity—all that industry and prudence could effect was done—but the rose was fled from her cheek, and the smile of peace was gone. Only by the bed side of the poor and dying, or afflicted, and within the walls of the house of God, did she venture to stray. But the influence of virtue will sooner or later be felt. Public sentiment cannot long remain stationary, and a reaction seemed gradually taking place in the Claytons’ favor. Again they requested to be patronised, and a few persons resolved again to try them. The fever of excitement was passed, and the minds of the community, as they grew more calm, began to look more closely into the nature of the case; and many now wondered that they had been so credulous as to believe what was so slightly proven. But it is needless to descend to particulars—suffice it to say, that they were again placed in a situation of comparative comfort; and many who had secretly shown some kindness to the sufferers, now boldly espoused their cause, and openly declared their belief in their innocence. Clara was still unmarried, and her deep hatred to Matilda now began to assume a more tangible form. No opportunity escaped her and Dudley, to asperse her character; and so marked was their enmity, that it attracted general attention.

Twelve months passed by, and their school increased, and with it their favor with the greater portion of their acquaintances. Dudley and Clara were to be married, and a great excitement existed in expectation of the gaieties of the scene. Never had such preparations been known, and consequently the approaching marriage was the theme of every tongue. The evening before the wedding, a large party of the young men of the village {783} and its vicinity, had assembled to celebrate some anniversary in which they were interested. After the business of the meeting was over, they agreed to drink to the happiness of Dudley and his Clara. One sally of mirth gave way to another, until Dudley and several others felt much exhilarated by their large potations. Dudley at length mentioned Williams—tauntingly alluded to his former attachment to Clara—attributed his rejection by her to his own influence—and wound up by asserting that it was not the only favor for which his friend had to thank him. Encouraged by the mirth his witticisms excited, he proceeded to state, in a strain of deep ridicule, that had not his superior discernment discovered the true character of Miss Clayton, and given the alarm, she would have now been the wife of Williams; and that, for the favor he had done him in getting him out of that dilemma, he should seek out the exile, and claim, by way of reward, a handsome legacy for his first. Among the number present was one who long had loved the innocent girl whose name was thus unceremoniously handled; a suspicion that Dudley was the cause of her ruin, darted through his mind, and he resolved to take him by guile. He accordingly asked if friendship for Williams had prompted him to the task of breaking off his chains. “No, indeed: I had a double motive. She, a proud wretch, had rejected me; and he, a villain, once had rivalled me; for a reason, good or bad, they loved each other, and I made them feel what they will not forget.” “And you can prove all that was said?” continued the other. Dudley was now alarmed, for there was something in young Maxwell’s look that showed he had said more than he intended to be understood. “Prove it!” said he, “assuredly I did it; and if necessary, can prove a great deal more than you have ever heard.”

The party dispersed at a late hour, but Maxwell arose next morning unrefreshed. He fancied he had found the clew to the labyrinth, and resolved, unsuspected and secretly, to discover, if possible, the mystery which he now saw had been so long thrown over that transaction. Maxwell, too, was Williams' friend. He alone knew his present residence, and he resolved, if possible, to investigate the matter, and restore, if innocent, happiness and fame to her whom he now believed unjustly deprived of both.

* * * * *

The halls of Wilton Lodge were glittering with a thousand lights—the merry peals of the violin resounded through the mansion—the gay dancers were seen in every direction—while feasting and profusion marked the splendid scene. Maxwell leant beside a lofty column, decorated with flowers and variegated lamps, and looked on the festive scene with a saddened heart.

Clara was arrayed in almost regal splendor. The jewels glistened in her hair—the pearls gave their pure forms to decorate her snowy neck and arms; every thing combined to make her happy and gay, and yet he thought that she was sad.

Wearied with the dance, she seated herself near the spot where Maxwell stood. He approached, and laughingly inquired why she looked so serious, where all was so gay and bright. She denied that such was the case, when he jestingly remarked, that he should think she was sighing for her old flame, young Williams, unless she looked more like a happy bride. A deep blush overspread her cheek, and with deep feeling she replied, that Matilda Clayton might grieve for him, for they suited better than any two she had ever known. He asked her why? Because, said she, her heart is false as a traitor’s, and his, like hers, inconstant and base. “You astonish me,” said Maxwell. “I know them both,” she replied, “and Mr. Dudley knows them too.” Maxwell said no more, and Clara rejoined the dance.

* * * * *

One month had scarcely elapsed since the marriage of Dudley, when the village was again excited by the appearance of Williams. No sooner had he arrived than a thousand vague reports and ideas were afloat, and the general sentence was, that his business was to see Matilda. He refreshed himself at the hotel, and taking Maxwell’s arm, strolled towards the cottage. The sun had set, and the moon was shining with an unusual brightness, and gave to the flowers and shrubberies around the cottage a more than natural beauty. They approached softly, for they recognized Matilda’s voice, and listening, heard these words:

Yes, false to me has been this world; Its malice tore thy heart from me: The shaft which at my peace was hurled, Was deeply felt, I know, by thee. Still conscious virtue is my stay, Though yet a dart does rankle here— He thinks me base and false as they Who tore my bosom with despair. I’ll blame him not; the poisonous breath Of malice forced him thus to stray; And fain I’d clasp the tyrant Death, To wash that guiltless stain away.

Williams’ agitation became so great that his friend with difficulty prevented his betraying his nearness to the house; but caution was necessary, as it had been planned that Maxwell should go in alone, and by degrees apprise Matilda of W.’s arrival, and his object. He accordingly knocked at the door. Mrs. Clayton asked who was there. His name was given, and he immediately entered.

Seating himself near Matilda, he asked what event on earth could give her most pleasure? She blushed deeply, and replied, “to see all the world convinced that I am not deserving of the scorn which has been heaped upon me; true, a reaction has already taken place, but where there is mystery there is doubt, and doubt is the fruitful source of distrust. But why did I answer thus; excuse me, for as you entered I was brooding over the past—the bitter past.” “And did you ever suspect the enemies who at that dark period caused your sorrow?” “No,” she replied, “I would not be so unjust as to censure merely from suspicion; but let us drop so painful a theme—I was wrong to allude to it.” But Maxwell was resolved that it should not thus be dropped. “Miss Clayton,” said he, “did you never think that Dudley and his wife were deeply concerned in that nefarious business? Answer me, for I do believe that they were the entire cause.” He then proceeded to relate what he had heard from the lips of both, and concluded by saying, “I have written to Williams, stating my suspicions, and when he comes, I doubt not a full explanation and investigation will be the result.” “Williams!” repeated Matilda; “and do you know where he is? But I must thank you for the interest you have ever taken in my fate. Words are weak to paint the {784} feelings of a grateful heart. Oh! that you may be rewarded, even should your noble endeavors fail.” “But you have not told me,” he continued, “whether or not you think my charges against those persons just.” “I have feared it,” said she, “but I resolved to condemn no one until I _knew_ that they deserved it. Those who have writhed under the tortures of unmerited charges, will be the last to give like pangs.” “Farewell, Miss Clayton,” said he, “when next we meet, may it be to tell you that the sun of happiness has dawned again in your horizon, and that your wrongs are revenged.” “Talk not of revenge,” she replied; “I would not have it taken. ‘Judgment is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ and to _him_ will I leave it.” She could say no more—tears streamed down her cheek. The widow pressed his hand, and exclaimed, “The Lord will bless, will reward thee!” Maxwell left the room, and rejoined the impatient Williams.

* * * * *

The excitement which reigned during the time that Williams and Maxwell were investigating the mystery of Matilda’s injuries cannot be described. Suffice it to say, that a complete exposure of a deep and villainous plot was the result. Dudley, exasperated at his conduct and that of his wife being detected, challenged Williams to a duel; but he refused, and wrote him a letter declaring his contempt of him and his wife, and his determined purpose neither to meet him or any other man for a purpose so ungentlemanly, and at direct variance with the laws of God and man. A suit against them was expected, but Matilda positively refused her consent to such a measure, declaring that money was no atonement for sorrow, and that, her innocence attested, she neither sought nor wished to punish her enemies, as she well knew they would suffer far more than they had forced her to endure. Need I add, that she soon became the wife of the only man she ever loved. A short time before their marriage the brother of Mrs. Clayton sought her out. Her father had died. On his death-bed he forgave her for marrying against his will, and left her a large estate. But happiness is brief at best. It was soon too evident that Matilda was not long for earth. Excitement and sorrow had undermined her health, and her husband saw but too plainly that the seeds of death were already sown.

But to return to Dudley. Disgraced and despised by the virtuous and good, he plunged into excesses of every kind. He and his wife were miserable; for, mutually sunk in each other’s estimation, their conduct manifested to all who knew them, the object for which they sacrificed their honor: truth and peace defeated, all was too much for even them to bear. Mr. Wilton did not long survive the shock his feelings had received. He died in less than twelve months after Williams’ return.

Clara’s health failed; penitence perhaps was little felt—but shame and wounded pride, and a cold neglectful husband, added to the pangs of a reproving conscience, carried her to the grave. She left one child, but that too has lately been laid by her side. Dudley is a bankrupt and a wanderer. Where he is I am unable to inform you. Rumor says that he has fallen a victim to the fury of a mob. And who reared that splendid monument to Clara’s memory? Her husband, neglectful, cruel to her while living, had it erected, as if in mockery—for it serves but to remind all who see it how little she deserved its inscription. But Matilda, my heart bleeds to think on her. She was the mother of one lovely child; but her health was gone. Her husband spared no pains to arrest the progress of disease; but it was in vain that he took her from north to south, from place to place: after two years absence from this village, she returned but to die. But how different was her end from that of her once beloved friend. The sympathy of all, the love of all, the blessings of the poor, accompanied her to her last home. Never shall I forget the joyful peace that illumined her dying face—nor the anguish of her mother, the agony of her husband, when, for the last time, she clasped her infant in her arms, poured out her heart in prayer, forgave her enemies, blessed her friends, and clasping her husband’s hand to her heart, breathed her last. You saw her tomb, and do you wonder that it says no external record is necessary for her praise. Two months ago, and I saw her laid in her last bed.

And what became of Maxwell? Williams had an only sister; she is an inestimable woman, and she is his wife. He has met a rich reward for his generous conduct towards Matilda and her husband. He lives in that beautiful spot where the Wiltons once resided. Williams has taken his child and its grandmother, and gone to reside among her friends. His heart is deeply wounded, but the piety of his wife has induced him to look above for comfort. Long might I dwell on the moral of this narrative, but it needs no comment with you.

The two tombs are called the “Contrast,” and justly do they deserve the appellation. Strangely blended in their destinies while living, it seems fit that they should thus repose near each other, if but to remind those who pass by, that _virtue_ and _vice_ alike meet their reward.

_Editorial_.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

MEDICAL REVIEW.

_The British and Foreign Medical Review, or Quarterly Journal of Practical Medicine and Surgery. Edited by John Forbes, M.D., F. R. S., and John Conolly, M.D. (American Edition.) Nos. I, II and III: For January, April, July, 1836._

If any augury of success is to be drawn from desert, this work may fairly be regarded as likely soon to assume a vanward place amongst its competitors for favor with the medical world. Whether we view the quantity or the quality of its matter—the number, variety, richness, or power of its articles—the comprehensiveness of its plan or the judiciousness of its arrangement—it equally strikes us as possessing the very first degree of merit.

Each number consists of four grand divisions: I. Analytical and Critical Reviews; II. Bibliographical Notices; III. Selections from Foreign Journals; IV. Medical Intelligence. So wide is the scope of each one of these divisions, and so copious its _filling up_, that a steady reader of the Review can hardly fail to know {785} every material step that medical science takes—every important discovery—every valuable publication, and almost every instructive case. Not the least commendable trait in the work, is the notice it takes of _foreign_ medicine; the attention it bestows upon the state of the profession and upon medical men, medical works, and medical institutions—not only in England—not only in Great Britain—not only in Europe—but in America, and even in Asia. It practically recognizes a great commonwealth of knowledge, pervading the whole earth; each province alike concerned, and alike entitled to be lighted and cheered by the sun of science; a widespread fraternity of intellect and benevolence, of which membership is limited to no climate or hemisphere. Thus we see notices of the state of medicine in Spain, Russia and Denmark; and of the medical journals now published in Great Britain, France, Italy, Denmark, Germany, the Colonies, and America. _En passant_, we state the number of these: in Germany 11; in Italy 5; in Denmark 4; in the United States 8; in Rio Janeiro 1; in Kingston (Jamaica) 1; in Calcutta 1; in France (including hebdomadal and tri-weekly papers,) 17. In Great Britain it seems there are but _six_.

We cannot too much admire the sound sense and enlarged philanthropy breathed in the following passage of the British Medical Review, occurring just after it has bespoken a regular exchange with its foreign contemporaries.

“It is our anxious desire and earnest hope to make it a freer medium of communication and a closer bond of union, between the members of the medical profession in all civilized countries, than has hitherto existed. It is delightful to all who cultivate the arts of peace, to live in times when the nations of the earth may freely communicate with each other, without restraint or difficulty: and it is doubly delightful to those who, like the members of our profession, are striving only for what is good, to find themselves associated in their labors with the virtuous and the wise of every land, differing indeed in the external and unessential characters of language, customs, and civil polity, but identified in the common desire to improve the physical, moral, and intellectual condition of man, and consequently, to augment the happiness, and exalt the dignity of the human race.” _No. I, p. 230_.

It pleases our pride as Americans, to observe the large space which our country evidently occupies in the opinion of the enlightened men who edit this Review. The physicians of the United States and their works, in its pages, fill twice the room, we believe, of those in any other foreign country, not excepting France or Germany; and there are repeated and unequivocal proofs, that the inconsiderable figure which this, like other departments of American science and literature, has hitherto made in British eyes, is now to be entirely changed. Mark the conciliatory and fraternal tone of what follows:

“The energetic character of the American people, whom we feel proud to regard as derived from a common ancestry with ourselves, and their astonishing progress during the last half century in the arts and sciences, are no less conspicuous in the actual state of medicine there, than in the other branches of human knowledge and social amelioration. Were we, however, not resolved to make the state of medical science among our North American brethren better known and more justly appreciated in England, we should almost be ashamed to confess how little we ourselves know of it, and how little is really known of it by the great majority of our best informed physicians and surgeons. While the medicine of France is familiar to most men of any education among us, and that of Germany and Italy is known to many, the condition of our science throughout the vast territories and in the immense cities of the United States, although recorded in our own language, and cultivated in the same spirit as by ourselves, is scarcely known to us at all. A striking proof of this is, that in some recent histories of medicine published in this country, by men of the very first talents and acquirements, scarcely any notice is taken of America, or of the improvements or discoveries for which we are indebted to American physicians and surgeons. An equally striking evidence is the extremely limited importation into this country of American books, and the non-circulation of American Journals among us. On the contrary, the extreme eagerness with which English books are received in America, is no less strikingly illustrated by the well known fact that all good works on British medicine are not only imported into, but are immediately republished in America, and circulated in vast numbers.” “Dr. Combe’s admirable work on Hygiene, has not only been reprinted in America, but circulated to the amount of 10,000.”

“The zeal with which medicine is cultivated in America, is equally manifested by the number and variety of the medical journals published there; and we are bound in fairness to add, that the original communications and criticisms contained in such of them as we have met with, sufficiently prove that it is not a zeal without knowledge.” _Id. p. 228_.

The foregoing extracts are worth making and worth reading, for two especial reasons: first, because in speaking so kindly of us, they tend to awaken a mutual throb of kindness in our own bosoms, and so to strengthen and multiply the ties of international affection; and second, because by showing us how insignificant we are in the civilized world, they severely and justly rebuke our national vanity, pampered so long by our Fourth of July orators and newspaper paragraphists, into the belief that we are “the greatest and most enlightened people on earth.”

Among the American physicians whose names are brought with praise before the British public in the Review before us, are Drs. Dunglison, Geddings, and Smith, of Baltimore, and Jackson (senior and junior,) of Boston. Though Dr. Dunglison is an Englishman born, we claim his professional merits chiefly for America, who has fostered, developed and matured, by appreciating and rewarding them. We sympathize in the gratification he must feel, at the emphatic and pre-eminent tribute rendered him in the preface, where he is classed _with_, yet _above_, the distinguished physicians of Berlin, Hamburg, Geneva, Madrid, and St. Petersburg, to whom obligations are acknowledged for valuable assistance.

In No. 2, is a very favorable review of Dr. Dunglison’s late work on the Elements of Hygiene. Like his prior and large work on Human Physiology, (of which, as well as of his Medical Dictionary, America is the birth place,) this valuable treatise is rather _technical_ than _popular_; being designed more for medical than for general readers.

In the same article, is a detailed notice of the before mentioned essay of Dr. Combe, on Hygiene—or, to give its proper title, “The Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and to the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education.” This is the work of which the Reviewer says 10,000 copies have been circulated in the United States; but as it has been stereotyped by the Harpers, and made a number of their “Family Library,” besides publication in other forms, we question if 20,000 copies be not nearer the truth. The whole range of physical authorship, we have long believed, does not present an equal to this modest little book of Dr. Combe’s, for curious, interesting, and valuable truth: not to physicians alone, or to {786} scholars, or to gentlemen, or to school-mistresses, but to every class of mankind, from the President of a College to the laborer in “his clouted shoon.” The topics it particularly treats of, are the structure and functions of the _skin_—of the _muscular system_—the _lungs_—the _bones_—and the _nervous system_, with the _mental faculties_, supposed to be connected with it. Annexed to each of these subjects are rules, “by the observance of which, each of them may be kept in health, and may conduce to the general health of the body.” “And thus the reader is led to wholesome customs, by being taught the _reason_ of their being wholesome.”

It is now admitted by all intelligent persons, except those captious and querulous praisers of time past, who abound in every age, that medicine is far advanced in a great and most salutary reformation, the progress of which is still _onward_. In nothing is this reform more conspicuous—nay, in nothing does it more _consist_—than in the profession’s now aiming to preserve health by timely precautions, instead of being satisfied to restore it when lost. In fact it is not now _medicine_ so much as _hygiene_; it is the art of preserving rather than the art of healing; _prevention_ rather than _cure_. And as much superior as prevention proverbially is to cure—so much better is the present plan of guarding the health by a judicious diet, seasonable clothing, dwellings properly warmed and aired, and a strict attention to cleanliness—than the old one, of letting luxury and debauchery have their course, and then trusting to expel their crudities and counteract their poison by physic. If the expelling agent—the antidote—had been always infallible (and alas, how many grave-yards prove the contrary!)—the _wear_ and _tear_ of constitution, produced by the action of the disease, and even of the remedy, was a clear _balance_ against the old system.

Dr. Combe’s work is emphatically an emanation of the reformed school of medicine; and though in that school the names of Broussais, Louis and Jackson may be more united by fame, we deem “Combe on Mental Health”[1] to have borne away from them all the palm of _usefulness_.

[Footnote 1: This is the title usually affixed to the back of Dr. C.’s book.]

In the three numbers of the Review, are many articles which we would fain mention, but _all_ would exceed our space, and we do not like the task of further selection. Some idea of the merits of the work (and incidentally of Dr. C.’s) was all we aimed to convey.

It is republished (quarterly) in New York, by W. Jackson, and in Baltimore by William Neal, who are authorized to receive subscriptions. The price is $5 _per annum_.

MR. LEE’S ADDRESS.

_Address delivered before the Baltimore Lyceum, Athenæum Society, William Wirt Society, Washington Lyceum, Philo-nomian Society and Franklin Association, Literary and Scientific Societies of Baltimore, on the 4th of July, 1836. By Z. Collins Lee, Esq._

Having reason to be well aware of Mr. Lee’s oratorical powers, we were not altogether at liberty to imagine his Address, merely from the deep attention with which, we are told, its _delivery_ was received, the impassioned and scholar-like performance we now find it upon perusal. Few similar things indeed have afforded us any similar pleasure. We have no intention, however, of speaking more fully, at this late day, of an Address whose effect must have depended so largely upon anniversary recollections. We allude to it _now_ with the sole purpose of recording, in brief, our opinion of its merits, and of quoting one of its passages without comment.

Is it now, as it was formerly, the necessary tendency of all alarming and apparently fatal convulsions of society and governments, to realize often permanent good out of temporary evil? The political revolutions which distinguished the close of the 18th century were accompanied with various secondary movements more benign and pacific in their character, and more lasting in their results, though not contemplated by the then apostles of anarchy. The changes to which I refer were perhaps among their legitimate results, and when they have been studied through a period longer than the perturbations which produced them, they will doubtless be ranked among the compensatory adjustments, in which Providence strikes a balance between present and overwhelming evils and future and permanent good; for in the political as well as in the natural world the desolating torrent, which sweeps away its bulwarks, often loses its power in the depths of its own excavations, whilst it forms a new barrier out of the very elements it displaced. Thus, in every country which has passed like ours through a great and sudden revolution, or been the scene of public excitement and party spirit, there will be a principle of adjustment and order springing out of the most dangerous and disorganizing commotions. That our land has been lately the witness of most daring outrages upon public peace and private rights—that the torch of the incendiary, and the more fearful and disgraceful out-breakings of lawless violence and ferocious passion, have trampled law and order before our eyes in the dust, and that life and property have been swept away by the sirocco breath of popular tumult, are melancholy facts attested in many parts of our country—and to one unacquainted with the genius of our institutions and the habits of our people, these were indeed most startling evidences of the inefficiency of the one and the unfitness of the other for self-government. But, my fellow-citizens, at the bottom of the American character and closely interwoven with its general sentiment, is a recuperative and renovating principle of right and order, which, sooner or later compensates for the devastation and ruin of one day, by years of order and submission to the laws, and binds as victims upon their own _Moloch_ altars the mad passions and daring spirits which perpetrated it. Let not, therefore, our confidence and hopes be diminished or torn from the true, essential and _conservative_ principles of our institutions, but rather let these evils stimulate us to greater zeal and more devoted labor, in spreading far and wide, by means of knowledge and religion, the true and only remedies—and though the storm may howl and the clouds gather over portions of the country, oh! let us still cling with unfaltering confidence to our _union_, to our _religion_, to our _liberties_. In this age kindred minds will unite their sympathies either for good or evil; wealth seeks its preservation by uniting itself to wealth—power strives to extend itself by an alliance with power—in such cases wealth and rank have frequently exercised a predominant influence, and brute force has still oftener enjoyed its short lived triumph; but intellectual power guided by high religious and moral motives, has never failed to establish its just rights and proper sway. The education therefore of the people, the diffusion of knowledge, and the encouragement of literature and science are the only safeguard for a government and social system like ours, exposed as they are to the double hostility of popular menace and the arrogant inroads of exclusive and aristocratic orders; but the most efficacious of all these elements of stability is that of intellectual power, whether it is exhibited in the statesman’s forethought and sagacity—in the philosopher’s powers of combination and judgment—or in the lighter and more elegant accomplishments of the scholar and the poet—the shaft of the stately column is not weakened by the acanthus that curls at its summit, nor is reason less enlightened when embellished by the imagination.

The foundation, therefore, of a literature peculiarly free and national, and the encouragement of all the arts of life, should be our first aim; and here, gentlemen of the societies, which have so honorably been dedicated to these noble objects, permit {787} me to animate, if I can, your laudable zeal, and invoke to you the praise and support of proud city—of the whole country. In your hands are deposited sacred and beneficial trusts—on your efforts as citizens and scholars depend much of the future prosperity and glory of Maryland. It is not enough therefore that you are the nominal and passive members of these scientific and literary associations, or the admirers of all that is beautiful in the culture of letters and the promotion of science. You may walk indeed through the gorgeous temple of knowledge and explore its holiest recesses or arcana, or bow before its altars with homage and adoration, but you must _unfold_ its portals and _lift high_ its gates that the people may enter, and become as enlightened as they are free. Above all, in aiding by your exertions in this great work, you should endeavor to found a literature whoso seat is the bosom of God—whose end the elevation of man. Let then the Bible be its chief pillar or corner stone, from whose pure pages and sublime truths, the waters of life may gush forth, and mingling with the full stream of rational and social prosperity, form

“——as deep and as brilliant a tide As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave.”

THE PICKWICK CLUB.

_The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club: Containing a Faithful Record of the Perambulations, Perils, Travels, Adventures, and Sporting Transactions of the Corresponding Members. Edited by “Boz.” Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

In our June “Messenger,” we spoke at some length of the “Watkins Tottle and other Papers,” by “Boz.” We then expressed a high opinion of the comic power, and of the rich imaginative conception of Mr. Dickens—an opinion which “The Pickwick Club” has fully sustained. The author possesses nearly every desirable quality in a writer of fiction, and has withal a thousand negative virtues. In his delineation of Cockney life he is rivalled only by the author of “Peter Snook,” while in efforts of a far loftier and more difficult nature, he has greatly surpassed the best of the brief tragic pieces of Bulwer, or of Warren. Just now, however, we can only express our opinion that his general powers as a prose writer are equalled by few. The work is to be continued, and hereafter we may give at some length the considerations which have led us to this belief. From the volume before us we quote the concluding portion of a vigorous sketch, entitled “A Madman’s MS.” The writer is supposed to be an hereditary madman, and to have labored under the disease for many years, but to have been conscious of his condition, and thus, by a strong effort of the will, to have preserved his secret from the eye of even his most intimate friends.

I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I _know_ she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure, with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down—that form is _hers_; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright: but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler: for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendor in which she lived;—I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind, for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of strapping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin bright point would make!

At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before, whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping, for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.

One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon the ground.

Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest, and most celebrated among them, took me aside and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. _I!_ I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. {788} All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face as we rode home, till the tears came into my eyes.

But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets: or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew that I was a madman yet.

I remember—though it is one of the last things I _can_ remember: for now I mix realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved—I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fists into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There—see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with many doors—I don’t think I could find my way along them: and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been and they are proud to have me here to show.

Let me see;—yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers, waiting to see me—urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly up stairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together—_for the first time_.

I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought—and I gloried in the knowledge—that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

This man had a commission in the army—a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery. This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due! Due to _his_ uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him—I could not help it—but I spoke not a word.

I saw the sudden change that came upon him, beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the color faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and as I laughed—I was very merry then—I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.

‘You were very fond of your sister when she was alive’—I said—‘Very.’

He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair: but he said nothing.

‘You villain,’ cried I, ‘I found you out; I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it—I know it.’

He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back—for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.

I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out.

‘Damn you,’ said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; ‘I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood, I will have it.’

I turned aside with one blow, the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash, we rolled upon the floor together.

It was a fine struggle that, for he was a tall strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

My secret was out; and my only struggle now, was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether: but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout, which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I awoke I found myself here—here in this gay cell where the sun-light seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dust till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.

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A press of business connected with some necessary arrangements for Volume the Third, has prevented us from paying, in this Messenger, the usual attention to our Critical Department. We have many books now lying by us which we propose to notice fully in our next. With this number we close Volume the Second.

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ERRATUM—The _Essay on Friendship_, in the present number, and to which a foot-note of some length is appended, should have been embraced under the general head of the Essays of Gilchrist, also in this number. The mistake occurred by our supposing the _Essay on Friendship_ to have appeared in the last Messenger.