diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/67925-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67925-0.txt | 14957 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 14957 deletions
diff --git a/old/67925-0.txt b/old/67925-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 30e1868..0000000 --- a/old/67925-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14957 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe -Shelley [Vol. I of II], by Percy Bysshe Shelley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley [Vol. I of II] - -Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley - -Editor: Richard Herne Shepherd - -Release Date: April 27, 2022 [eBook #67925] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, SF2001, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was - produced from images made available by the HathiTrust - Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WORKS OF PERCY -BYSSHE SHELLEY [VOL. I OF II] *** - - - - - -SHELLEY’S PROSE WORKS - -VOL. I. - - - - -_In Five Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth boards_, =3s. 6d.= _each_. - -THE COMPLETE WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - -Edited, Prefaced, and Annotated by RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD. - - -=Poetical Works=, in Three Volumes. - - Vol. I. Introduction by the Editor; Posthumous Fragments - of Margaret Nicholson; Shelley’s Correspondence with - Stockdale; The Wandering Jew (the only complete version); - Queen Mab, with the Notes; Alastor, and other Poems; - Rosalind and Helen; Prometheus Unbound; Adonais, &c. - - Vol. II. Laon and Cythna (as originally published, - instead of the emasculated “Revolt of Islam”); The Cenci; - Julian and Maddalo (from Shelley’s manuscript); Swellfoot - the Tyrant (from the copy in the Dyce Library at South - Kensington); The Witch of Atlas; Epipsychidion; Hellas. - - Vol. III. Posthumous Poems, published by Mrs. Shelley - in 1824 and 1839; The Masque of Anarchy (from Shelley’s - manuscript); and other pieces not brought together in the - ordinary editions. - - -=Prose Works=, in Two Volumes. - - Vol. I. The two Romances of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne; the - Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets; A Refutation of Deism; Letters - to Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments. - - Vol. II. Essays: Letters from Abroad; Translations and - Fragments, edited by Mrs. Shelley, and first published - in 1840, with the addition of some Minor Pieces of great - interest and rarity, including one recently discovered by - Professor Dowden. With a Bibliography of Shelley, and an - exhaustive Index of the Prose Works. - - -CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. Martin’s Lane W.C. - - - - - THE PROSE WORKS - OF - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY - - _FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS_ - - EDITED, PREFACED, AND ANNOTATED - BY - RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD - - _IN TWO VOLUMES_ - - VOL. I - - LONDON - CHATTO & WINDUS - - 1897 - - - _Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. - _At the Ballantyne Press_ - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -EDITOR’S PREFACE. - - -These two volumes contain a complete collection of Shelley’s Prose -Writings; the two youthful prose romances of _Zastrozzi_ and -_St. Irvyne_; the Dublin and Marlow pamphlets; the long-lost and -lately-found _Refutation of Deism_; the Letter to Lord Ellenborough; -the curious review of Hogg’s romance of Alexy Haimatoff, recently -unearthed by Professor Dowden; a number of minor papers originally -published by Medwin; and the entire collection of “Essays and Letters -from Abroad,” first issued by Mrs. Shelley in 1840, and which throw so -much light on Shelley’s character and genius. The Bibliography appended -to the second volume will, it is hoped, be of real service to all -lovers and students of Shelley. - -Shelley is another instance of the fact that a great master of verse is -always a good writer of prose. Whatever may be thought of the crudity -of his juvenile romances--and the greatest Shelleyan enthusiasts, -Browning, Swinburne, and Rossetti, have successively laughed at -them--they contain at least vivid descriptions of natural appearances; -while his political pamphlets, as a recent writer has pointed out, are -weighty and sententious to a wonderful degree, considering the age at -which they were written. That he was a delightful letter-writer, full -of grace and easy fluency, the letters to Peacock and to Leigh Hunt -abundantly prove; while of his critical powers, especially in regard to -sculpture and painting, both these and the posthumous papers published -by Medwin give us no mean idea, though we may not be prepared to go -quite so far as Mr. Matthew Arnold does when he says that he doubts -whether Shelley’s “delightful Essays and Letters, which deserve to be -far more read than they are now, will not resist the wear and tear of -time better, and finally come to stand higher, than his poetry.” - - RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD - - Kingston Vale, _Lent, 1888_. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - ZASTROZZI 1 - ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN 113 - AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE 221 - PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION 263 - DECLARATION OF RIGHTS 284 - A REFUTATION OF DEISM 289 - HISTORY OF A SIX WEEKS’ TOUR 331 - A PROPOSAL FOR PUTTING REFORM TO THE VOTE 357 - “WE PITY THE PLUMAGE, BUT FORGET THE DYING BIRD” 367 - LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT 381 - THE SHELLEY PAPERS:-- - _The Coliseum: A Fragment_ 393 - _Critical Notices of the Sculpture in the Florence Gallery_:-- - _On the Niobe_ 402 - _The Minerva_ 405 - _On the Venus called Anadyomine_ 407 - _A Bas-relief_ 408 - _Michael Angelo’s Bacchus_ 409 - _A Juno_ 410 - _An Apollo_ 410 - _Arch of Titus_ 411 - _Remarks on “Mandeville” and Mr. Godwin_ 412 - _On “Frankenstein”_ 417 - _On the Revival of Literature_ 420 - _A System of Government by Juries_ 422 - _On Love_ 426 - - - - - ZASTROZZI, - A ROMANCE. - - BY - P. B. S. - ----That their God - May prove their foe, and with repenting hand - Abolish his own works.--This would surpass - Common revenge. - - Paradise Lost. - - - LONDON, Printed for G. Wilkie and J. Robinson: 57, PATERNOSTER ROW. - - 1810. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -ZASTROZZI. - -A Romance. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Torn from the society of all he held dear on earth, the victim of -secret enemies, and exiled from happiness, was the wretched Verezzi! - -All was quiet; a pitchy darkness involved the face of things, when, -urged by fiercest revenge, Zastrozzi placed himself at the door of the -inn where, undisturbed, Verezzi slept. - -Loudly he called the landlord. The landlord, to whom the bare name of -Zastrozzi was terrible, trembling obeyed the summons. - -“Thou knowest Verezzi the Italian? He lodges here.” - -“He does,” answered the landlord. - -“Him, then, have I devoted to destruction,” exclaimed Zastrozzi. “Let -Ugo and Bernardo follow you to his apartment; I will be with you to -prevent mischief.” - -Cautiously they ascended--successfully they executed their revengeful -purpose, and bore the sleeping Verezzi to the place, where a chariot -waited to convey the vindictive Zastrozzi’s prey to the place of its -destination. - -Ugo and Bernardo lifted the still sleeping Verezzi into the chariot. -Rapidly they travelled onwards for several hours. Verezzi was still -wrapped in deep sleep, from which all the movements he had undergone -had been insufficient to rouse him. - -Zastrozzi and Ugo were masked, as was Bernardo, who acted as postilion. - -It was still dark, when they stopped at a small inn, on a remote and -desolate heath; and waiting but to change horses, again advanced. At -last day appeared--still the slumbers of Verezzi remained unbroken. - -Ugo fearfully questioned Zastrozzi as to the cause of his extraordinary -sleep. Zastrozzi, who, however, was well acquainted with it, gloomily -answered, “I know not.” - -Swiftly they travelled during the whole of the day, over which Nature -seemed to have drawn her most gloomy curtain. They stopped occasionally -at inns, to change horses and obtain refreshments. - -Night came on--they forsook the beaten track, and, entering an immense -forest, made their way slowly through the rugged underwood. - -At last they stopped--they lifted their victim from the chariot, and -bore him to a cavern, which yawned in a dell close by. - -Not long did the hapless victim of unmerited persecution enjoy an -oblivion which deprived him of a knowledge of his horrible situation. -He awoke--and overcome by excess of terror, started violently from the -ruffians’ arms. - -They had now entered the cavern; Verezzi supported himself against a -fragment of rock which jutted out. - -“Resistance is useless,” exclaimed Zastrozzi. “Following us in -submissive silence can alone procure the slightest mitigation of your -punishment.” - -Verezzi followed as fast as his frame, weakened by unnatural sleep, and -enfeebled by recent illness, would permit; yet, scarcely believing that -he was awake, and not thoroughly convinced of the reality of the scene -before him, he viewed everything with that kind of inexplicable horror -which a terrible dream is wont to excite. - -After winding down the rugged descent for some time, they arrived at an -iron door, which at first sight appeared to be part of the rock itself. -Everything had till now been obscured by total darkness; and Verezzi, -for the first time, saw the masked faces of his persecutors, which a -torch brought by Bernardo rendered visible. - -The massy door flew open. - -The torches from without rendered the darkness which reigned within -still more horrible; and Verezzi beheld the interior of this cavern -as a place whence he was never again about to emerge--as his grave. -Again he struggled with his persecutors, but his enfeebled frame was -insufficient to support a conflict with the strong-nerved Ugo, and, -subdued, he sank fainting into his arms. - -His triumphant persecutor bore him into the damp cell, and chained him -to the wall. An iron chain encircled his waist; his limbs, which not -even a little straw kept from the rock, were fixed by immense staples -to the flinty floor; and but one of his hands was left at liberty, to -take the scanty pittance of bread and water which was daily allowed him. - -Everything was denied him but thought, which, by comparing the present -with the past, was his greatest torment. - -Ugo entered the cell every morning and evening, to bring coarse bread -and a pitcher of water, seldom, yet sometimes, accompanied by Zastrozzi. - -In vain did he implore mercy, pity, and even death: useless were all -his inquiries concerning the cause of his barbarous imprisonment--a -stern silence was maintained by his relentless gaoler. - -Languishing in painful captivity, Verezzi passed days and nights -seemingly countless, in the same monotonous uniformity of horror and -despair. He scarcely now shuddered when the slimy lizard crossed -his naked and motionless limbs. The large earth-worms, which turned -themselves in his long and matted hair, almost ceased to excite -sensations of horror. - -Days and nights were undistinguishable from each other; and the period -which he had passed there, though in reality but a few weeks, was -lengthened by his perturbed imagination into many years. Sometimes he -scarcely supposed that his torments were earthly, but that Ugo, whose -countenance bespoke him a demon, was the fury who blasted his reviving -hopes. His mysterious removal from the inn near Munich also confused -his ideas, and he never could bring his thoughts to any conclusion on -the subject which occupied them. - -One evening, overcome by long watching, he sank to sleep, for almost -the first time since his confinement, when he was aroused by a -loud crash, which seemed to burst over the cavern. Attentively he -listened--he even hoped, though hope was almost dead within his breast. -Again he listened--again the same noise was repeated: it was but a -violent thunderstorm which shook the elements above. - -Convinced of the folly of hope, he addressed a prayer to his -Creator--to Him who hears a suppliant from the bowels of the earth. His -thoughts were elevated above terrestrial enjoyments--his sufferings -sank into nothing on the comparison. - -Whilst his thoughts were thus employed, a more violent crash shook the -cavern. A scintillating flame darted from the ceiling to the floor. -Almost at the same instant the roof fell in. - -A large fragment of the rock was laid athwart the cavern; one end being -grooved into the solid wall, the other having almost forced open the -massy iron door. - -Verezzi was chained to a piece of rock which remained immovable. The -violence of the storm was past, but the hail descended rapidly, each -stone of which wounded his naked limbs. Every flash of lightning, -although now distant, dazzled his eyes, unaccustomed as they had been -to the least ray of light. - -The storm at last ceased, the pealing thunders died away in -indistinct murmurs, and the lightning was too faint to be visible. -Day appeared--no one had yet been to the cavern. Verezzi concluded -that they either intended him to perish with hunger, or that some -misfortune, by which themselves had suffered, had occurred. In the most -solemn manner, therefore, he now prepared himself for death, which he -was fully convinced within himself was rapidly approaching. - -His pitcher of water was broken by the falling fragments, and a small -crust of bread was all that now remained of his scanty allowance of -provisions. - -A burning fever raged through his veins; and, delirious with despairing -illness, he cast from him the crust which alone could now retard the -rapid advances of death. - -Oh! what ravages did the united efforts of disease and suffering make -on the manly and handsome figure of Verezzi! His bones had almost -started through his skin; his eyes were sunken and hollow; and his -hair, matted with the damps, hung in strings upon his faded cheek. -The day passed as had the morning--death was every instant before his -eyes--a lingering death by famine--he felt its approaches; night came, -but with it brought no change. He was aroused by a noise against the -iron door: it was the time when Ugo usually brought fresh provisions. -The noise lessened; at last it totally ceased--with it ceased all hope -of life in Verezzi’s bosom. A cold tremor pervaded his limbs--his eyes -but faintly presented to his imagination the ruined cavern--he sank, as -far as the chains which encircled his waist would permit him, upon the -flinty pavement; and, in the crisis of the fever which then occurred, -his youth and good constitution prevailed. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -In the meantime, Ugo, who had received orders from Zastrozzi not to -allow Verezzi to die, came at the accustomed hour to bring provisions, -but finding that, in the last night’s storm, the rock had been struck -by lightning, concluded that Verezzi had lost his life amid the -ruins, and he went with this news to Zastrozzi. Zastrozzi, who, for -inexplicable reasons, wished not Verezzi’s death, sent Ugo and Bernardo -to search for him. - -After a long scrutiny they discovered their hapless victim. He was -chained to the rock where they had left him, but in that exhausted -condition which want of food and a violent fever had reduced him to. - -They unchained him, and lifting him into a chariot, after four hours’ -rapid travelling, brought the insensible Verezzi to a cottage, -inhabited by an old woman alone. The cottage stood on an immense heath, -lonely, desolate, and remote from other human habitation. - -Zastrozzi waited their arrival with impatience. Eagerly he flew to meet -them, and, with a demoniac smile, surveyed the agonised features of his -prey, who lay insensible and stretched on the shoulders of Ugo. - -“His life must not be lost,” exclaimed Zastrozzi; “I have need of it. -Tell Bianca, therefore, to prepare a bed.” - -Ugo obeyed, and Bernardo followed, bearing the emaciated Verezzi. A -physician was sent for, who declared that the crisis of the fever which -had attacked him being past, proper care might reinstate him; but that -the disorder having attacked his brain, a tranquillity of mind was -absolutely necessary for his recovery. - -Zastrozzi, to whom the life, though not the happiness of Verezzi was -requisite, saw that his too eager desire for revenge had carried -him beyond his point. He saw that some deception was requisite; he -accordingly instructed the old woman to inform him, when he recovered, -that he was placed in this situation because the physician had asserted -that the air of this country was necessary for a recovery from a brain -fever which attacked him. - -It was long before Verezzi recovered--long did he languish in torpid -insensibility, during which his soul seemed to have winged its way to -happier regions. - -At last, however, he recovered, and the first use he made of his senses -was to inquire where he was. - -The old woman told him the story which she had been instructed in by -Zastrozzi. - -“Who ordered me to be chained in that desolate and dark cavern?” -inquired Verezzi, “where I have been for many years, and suffered most -insupportable torments?” - -“Lord bless me!” said the old woman; “why, baron, how strangely you -talk! I begin to fear you will again lose your senses, at the very time -you ought to be thanking God for suffering them to return to you. What -can you mean by being chained in a cavern? I declare I am frightened at -the very thought; pray do compose yourself.” - -Verezzi was much perplexed by the old woman’s assertions. That Julia -should send him to a mean cottage, and desert him, was impossible. - -The old woman’s relation seemed so well connected, and told with such -an air of characteristic simplicity, that he could not disbelieve her. - -But to doubt the evidence of his own senses, and the strong proofs of -his imprisonment, which the deep marks of the chains had left till now, -was impossible. - -Had not those marks remained, he would have conceived the horrible -events which had led him thither to have been but the dreams of his -perturbed imagination. He, however, thought it better to yield, since, -as Ugo and Bernardo attended him in the short walks he was able to -take, an escape was impossible, and its attempt would but make his -situation more unpleasant. - -He often expressed a wish to write to Julia, but the old woman said -she had orders neither to permit him to write nor receive letters--on -pretence of not agitating his mind--and, to avoid the consequences of -despair, knives were denied him. - -As Verezzi recovered, and his mind obtained that firm tone which it was -wont to possess, he perceived that it was but a device of his enemies -that detained him at the cottage, and his whole thoughts were now bent -upon the means for effecting his escape. - -It was late one evening, when, tempted by the peculiar beauty of the -weather, Verezzi wandered beyond the usual limits, attended by Ugo -and Bernardo, who narrowly watched his every movement. Immersed in -thought, he wandered onwards, till he came to a woody eminence, whose -beauty tempted him to rest a little, in a seat carved in the side of an -ancient oak. Forgetful of his unhappy and dependent situation, he sat -there some time, until Ugo told him that it was time to return. - -In their absence Zastrozzi had arrived at the cottage. He had -impatiently inquired for Verezzi. - -“It is the baron’s custom to walk every evening,” said Bianca; “I soon -expect him to return.” - -Verezzi at last arrived. - -Not knowing Zastrozzi as he entered, he started back, overcome by the -likeness he bore to one of the men he had seen in the cavern. - -He was now convinced that all the sufferings he had undergone in that -horrible abode of misery were not imaginary, and that he was at this -instant in the power of his bitterest enemy. - -Zastrozzi’s eyes were fixed on him with an expression too manifest to -be misunderstood; and, with an air in which he struggled to disguise -the natural malevolence of his heart, he said, that he hoped Verezzi’s -health had not suffered from the evening air. - -Enraged beyond measure at this hypocrisy, from a man whom he now no -longer doubted to be the cause of all his misfortunes, he could not -forbear inquiring for what purpose he had conveyed him hither, and told -him instantly to release him. - -Zastrozzi’s cheeks turned pale with passion, his lips quivered, his -eyes darted revengeful glances, as thus he spoke:-- - -“Retire to your chamber, young fool, which is the fittest place for you -to reflect on, and repent of, the insolence shown to one so much your -superior.” - -“I fear nothing,” interrupted Verezzi, “from your vain threats and -empty denunciations of vengeance. Justice--Heaven! is on my side, and I -must eventually triumph.” - -What can be a greater proof of the superiority of virtue, than that -the terrible, the dauntless Zastrozzi trembled? for he did tremble; -and, conquered by the emotions of the moment, paced the circumscribed -apartment with unequal steps. For an instant he shrunk within himself; -he thought of his past life, and his awakened conscience reflected -images of horror. But again revenge drowned the voice of virtue--again -passion obscured the light of reason, and his steeled soul persisted in -its scheme. - -Whilst he still thought, Ugo entered. Zastrozzi, smothering his -stinging conscience, told Ugo to follow him to the heath. Ugo obeyed. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Ugo and Zastrozzi proceeded along the heath, on the skirts of which -stood the cottage. Verezzi leaned against the casement, when a low -voice, which floated in indistinct murmurs on the silence of the -evening, reached his ear. He listened attentively. He looked into -the darkness, and saw the towering form of Zastrozzi, and Ugo, whose -awkward, ruffian-like gait could never be mistaken. He could not -hear their discourse, except a few detached words which reached his -ears. They seemed to be denunciations of anger: a low tone afterwards -succeeded, and it appeared as if a dispute, which had arisen between -them, was settled: their voices at last died away in distance. - -Bernardo now left the room. Bianca entered; but Verezzi plainly heard -Bernardo lingering at the door. - -The old woman continued sitting in silence at a remote corner of the -chamber. It was Verezzi’s hour for supper: he desired Bianca to bring -it. She obeyed, and brought some dried raisins in a plate. He was -surprised to see a knife was likewise brought; an indulgence he imputed -to the inadvertency of the old woman. A thought started across his -mind--it was now time to escape. - -He seized the knife--he looked expressively at the old woman--she -trembled. He advanced from the casement to the door: he called for -Bernardo--Bernardo entered, and Verezzi, lifting his arm high, aimed -a knife at the villain’s heart. Bernardo started aside, and the knife -was fixed firmly in the door-case. Verezzi attempted by one effort to -extricate it. The effort was vain. Bianca, as fast as her tottering -limbs could carry her, hastened through the opposite door, calling -loudly for Zastrozzi. - -Verezzi attempted to rush through the open door, but Bernardo opposed -himself to it. A long and violent contest ensued, and Bernardo’s -superior strength was on the point of overcoming Verezzi, when the -latter, by a dexterous blow, precipitated him down the steep and narrow -staircase. - -Not waiting to see the event of his victory, he rushed through the -opposite door, and meeting with no opposition, ran swiftly across the -heath. - -The moon, in tranquil majesty, hung high in air, and showed the immense -extent of the plain before him. He continued rapidly advancing, and the -cottage was soon out of sight. He thought that he heard Zastrozzi’s -voice in every gale. Turning round, he thought Zastrozzi’s eye glanced -over his shoulder. But even had Bianca taken the right road, and found -Zastrozzi, Verezzi’s speed would have mocked pursuit. - -He ran several miles, still the dreary extent of the heath was before -him: no cottage yet appeared, where he might take shelter. He cast -himself for an instant on the bank of a rivulet, which stole slowly -across the heath. The moonbeam played upon its surface--he started at -his own reflected image--he thought that voices were wafted on the -western gale, and, nerved anew, pursued his course across the plain. - -The moon had gained the zenith before Verezzi rested again. Two -pine-trees, of extraordinary size, stood on a small eminence: he -climbed one, and found a convenient seat in its immense branches. - -Fatigued, he sank to sleep. - -Two hours he lay hushed in oblivion, when he was awakened by a noise. -It is but the hooting of the night-raven, thought he. - -Day had not yet appeared, but faint streaks in the east presaged the -coming morn. Verezzi heard the clattering of hoofs. What was his horror -to see that Zastrozzi, Bernardo, and Ugo, were the horsemen! Overcome -by terror, he clung to the rugged branch. His persecutors advanced to -the spot--they stopped under the tree wherein he was. - -“Eternal curses,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, “upon Verezzi! I swear never to -rest until I find him, and then I will accomplish the purpose of my -soul. But come, Ugo, Bernardo, let us proceed.” - -“Signor,” said Ugo, “let us the rather stop here to refresh ourselves -and our horses. You, perhaps, will not make this pine your couch, but I -will get up, for I think I spy an excellent bed above there.” - -“No, no,” answered Zastrozzi; “did not I resolve never to rest until I -had found Verezzi? Mount, villain, or die.” - -Ugo sullenly obeyed. They galloped off and were quickly out of sight. - -Verezzi returned thanks to Heaven for his escape; for he thought that -Ugo’s eye, as the villain pointed to the branch where he reposed, met -his. - -It was now morning. Verezzi surveyed the heath, and thought he saw -buildings at a distance. Could he gain a town or city, he might defy -Zastrozzi’s power. - -He descended the pine-tree, and advanced as quickly as he could towards -the distant buildings. He proceeded across the heath for half an hour, -and perceived that, at last, he had arrived at its termination. - -The country assumed a new aspect, and the number of cottages and villas -showed him that he was in the neighbourhood of some city. A large road -which he now entered confirmed his opinion. He saw two peasants, and -asked them where the road led,--“To Passau,” was the answer. - -It was yet very early in the morning, when he walked through the -principal street of Passau. He felt very faint with his recent and -unusual exertions; and, overcome by languor, sank on some lofty stone -steps, which led to a magnificent mansion, and, resting his head on -his arm, soon fell asleep. - -He had been there nearly an hour, when he was awakened by an old -woman. She had a basket on her arm, in which were flowers, which it -was her custom to bring to Passau every market-day. Hardly knowing -where he was, he answered the old woman’s inquiries in a vague and -unsatisfactory manner. By degrees, however, they became better -acquainted; and, as Verezzi had no money, nor any means of procuring -it, he accepted of an offer which Claudine (for that was the old -woman’s name) made him, to work for her, and share her cottage, which, -together with a little garden, was all she could call her own. Claudine -quickly disposed of her flowers, and, accompanied by Verezzi, soon -arrived at a little cottage near Passau. It was situated on a pleasant -and cultivated spot; at the foot of a small eminence, on which it was -situated, flowed the majestic Danube, and on the opposite side was a -forest belonging to the Baron of Schwepper, whose vassal Claudine was. - -Her little cottage was kept extremely neat; and, by the charity of the -Baron, wanted none of those little comforts which old age requires. - -Verezzi thought that, in so retired a spot, he might at least pass his -time tranquilly, and elude Zastrozzi. - -“What induced you,” said he to Claudine, as in the evening they sat -before the cottage door, “what induced you to make that offer this -morning to me?” - -“Ah!” said the old woman, “it was but last week that I lost my dear -son, who was everything to me; he died by a fever which he caught by -his too great exertions in obtaining a livelihood for me; and I came to -the market yesterday, for the first time since my son’s death, hoping -to find some peasant who would fill his place, when chance threw you in -my way. - -“I had hoped that he would have outlived me, as I am quickly hastening -to the grave, to which I look forward as to the coming of a friend, who -would relieve me from those cares which, alas! but increase with my -years.” - -Verezzi’s heart was touched with compassion for the forlorn situation -of Claudine. He tenderly told her that he would not forsake her; but if -any opportunity occurred for ameliorating her situation, she should no -longer continue in poverty. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -But let us return to Zastrozzi. He had walked with Ugo on the heath, -and had returned late. He was surprised to see no light in the cottage. -He advanced to the door, he rapped violently; no one answered. “Very -strange!” exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he burst open the door with his foot. -He entered the cottage--no one was there. He searched it, and at last -saw Bernardo lying, seemingly lifeless, at the foot of the staircase. -Zastrozzi advanced to him, and lifted him from the ground; he had been -but in a trance, and immediately recovered. - -As soon as his astonishment was dissipated, he told Zastrozzi what had -happened. - -“What!” exclaimed Zastrozzi, interrupting him, “Verezzi escaped! Hell -and furies! Villain, you deserve instant death; but thy life is at -present necessary to me. Arise, go instantly to Rosenheim, and bring -three of my horses from the inn there--make haste!--begone!” - -Bernardo trembling arose, and obeying Zastrozzi’s commands, crossed the -heath quickly towards Rosenheim, a village about half a league distant -on the north. - -Whilst he was gone, Zastrozzi, agitated by contending passions, knew -scarcely what to do. With hurried strides he paced the cottage. He -sometimes spoke lowly to himself. The feelings of his soul flashed from -his eyes--his frown was terrible. - -“Would I had his heart reeking on my dagger, signor!” said Ugo. “Kill -him when you catch him, which you soon will, I am sure.” - -“Ugo,” said Zastrozzi, “you are my friend; you advise me well. But no! -he must not die. Ah! by what horrible fetters am I chained--fool that I -was--Ugo! he shall die--die by the most hellish torments. I give myself -up to fate;--I will taste revenge, for revenge is sweeter than life; -and even were I to die with him, and, as the punishment of my crime, be -instantly plunged into eternal torments, I should taste superior joy -in recollecting the sweet moment of his destruction. Oh! would that -destruction could be eternal!” - -The clattering of hoofs was heard, and Zastrozzi was now interrupted by -the arrival of Bernardo--they instantly mounted, and the high-spirited -steeds bore them swiftly across the heath. - -Rapidly, for some time, were Zastrozzi and his companions borne across -the plain. They took the same road as Verezzi had. They passed the -pines where he reposed. They hurried on. - -The fainting horses were scarce able to bear their guilty burthens. No -one had spoken since they had left the clustered pines. - -Bernardo’s horse, overcome by excessive fatigue, sank on the ground; -that of Zastrozzi scarce appeared in better condition. They stopped. - -“What!” exclaimed Zastrozzi, “must we give up the search? Ah! I am -afraid we must; our horses can proceed no further--curse on the horses! -But let us proceed on foot; Verezzi shall not escape me; nothing shall -now retard the completion of my just revenge.” - -As he thus spoke, Zastrozzi’s eye gleamed with impatient revenge; and -with rapid steps he advanced towards the south of the heath. - -Daylight at length appeared; still were the villains’ efforts to find -Verezzi insufficient. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue conspired to make -them relinquish the pursuit. They lay at intervals upon the stony soil. - -“This is but an uncomfortable couch, signor,” muttered Ugo. - -Zastrozzi, whose whole thoughts were centred in revenge, heeded him -not, but, nerved anew by impatient vengeance, he started from the -bosom of the earth, and muttering curses upon the innocent object of -his hatred, proceeded onwards. The day passed as had the morning and -preceding night. Their hunger was scantily allayed by the wild berries -which grew amid the heathy shrubs; and their thirst but increased by -the brackish pools of water which alone they met with. They perceived -a wood at some distance. “That is a likely place for Verezzi to have -retired to, for the day is hot, and he must want repose as well as -ourselves,” said Bernardo. “True,” replied Zastrozzi, as he advanced -towards it. They quickly arrived at its borders: it was not a wood, but -an immense forest, which stretched southward as far as Schaffhausen. -They advanced into it. - -The tall trees rising above their heads warded off the meridian sun; -the mossy banks beneath invited repose; but Zastrozzi, little recking a -scene so fair, hastily scrutinized every recess which might afford an -asylum to Verezzi. - -Useless were all his researches--fruitless his endeavours: still, -however, though, faint with hunger and weary with exertion, he nearly -sank upon the turf, his mind was superior to corporeal toil; for -_that_, nerved by revenge, was indefatigable. - -Ugo and Bernardo, overcome by the extreme fatigue which they had -undergone, and strong as the assassins were, fell fainting on the earth. - -The sun began to decline; at last it sank beneath the western mountain, -and the forest-tops were tinged by its departing ray. The shades of -night rapidly thickened. - -Zastrozzi sat awhile upon the decayed trunk of a scathed oak. - -The sky was serene; the blue ether was spangled with countless myriads -of stars: the tops of the lofty forest-trees waved mournfully in the -evening wind; and the moonbeam penetrating at intervals, as they -moved, through the matted branches, threw dubious shades upon the dark -underwood beneath. - -Ugo and Bernardo, conquered by irresistible torpor, sank to rest upon -the dewy turf. - -A scene so fair--a scene so congenial to those who can reflect upon -their past lives with pleasure, and anticipate the future with the -enthusiasm of innocence, ill accorded with the ferocious soul of -Zastrozzi, which at one time agitated by revenge, at another by -agonising remorse, or contending passions, could derive no pleasure -from the past--anticipate no happiness in futurity. - -Zastrozzi sat for some time immersed in heart-rending contemplations; -but though conscience for awhile reflected his past life in images of -horror, again was his heart steeled by fiercest vengeance; and, aroused -by images of insatiate revenge, he hastily arose, and, waking Ugo and -Bernardo, pursued his course. - -The night was calm and serene--not a cloud obscured the azure -brilliancy of the spangled concave above--not a wind ruffled the -tranquillity of the atmosphere below. - -Zastrozzi, Ugo, and Bernardo advanced into the forest. They had -tasted no food, save the wild berries of the wood, for some time, -and were anxious to arrive at some cottage, where they might procure -refreshments. For some time the deep silence which reigned was -uninterrupted. - -“What is that?” exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he beheld a large and -magnificent building, whose battlements rose above the lofty trees. -It was built in the Gothic style of architecture, and appeared to be -inhabited. - -The building reared its pointed casements loftily to the sky; their -treillaged ornaments were silvered by the clear moonlight, to which the -dark shades of the arches beneath formed a striking contrast. A large -portico jutted out: they advanced towards it, and Zastrozzi attempted -to open the door. - -An open window on one side of the casement arrested Zastrozzi’s -attention. “Let us enter that,” said he. They entered. It was a large -saloon, with many windows. Everything within was arranged with princely -magnificence. Four ancient and immense sofas in the apartment invited -repose. - -Near one of the windows stood a table, with an escrutoire on it; a -paper lay on the ground near it. - -Zastrozzi, as he passed, heedlessly took up the paper. He advanced -nearer to the window, thinking his senses had deceived him when he -read, “La Contessa di Laurentini”; but they had not done so, for La -Contessa di Laurentini still continued on the paper. He hastily opened -it; and the letter, though of no importance, convinced him that this -must have been the place to which Matilda said that she had removed. - -Ugo and Bernardo lay sleeping on the sofas. Zastrozzi, leaving them -as they were, opened an opposite door--it led into a vaulted hall--a -large flight of stairs rose from the opposite side--he ascended them. -He advanced along a lengthened corridor--a female in white robes stood -at the other end--a lamp burnt near her on the balustrade. She was in -a reclining attitude, and had not observed his approach. Zastrozzi -recognized her for Matilda. He approached her, and beholding Zastrozzi -before her, she started back with surprise. For awhile she gazed on -him in silence, and at last exclaimed, “Zastrozzi! ah! are we revenged -on Julia? am I happy? Answer me quickly. Well by your silence do -I perceive that our plans have been put into execution. Excellent -Zastrozzi! accept my most fervent thanks, my eternal gratitude.” - -“Matilda!” returned Zastrozzi, “would I could say that we were happy! -but, alas! it is but misery and disappointment that cause this my so -unexpected visit. I know nothing of the Marchesa de Strobazzo--less -of Verezzi. I fear that I must wait till age has unstrung my now so -fervent energies; and when time has damped your passion, perhaps you -may gain Verezzi’s love. Julia is returned to Italy--is even now in -Naples; and, secure in the immensity of her possessions, laughs at -our trifling vengeance. But it shall not be always thus,” continued -Zastrozzi, his eyes sparkling with inexpressible brilliancy; “I will -accomplish my purpose; and, Matilda, thine shall likewise be effected. -But, come, I have not tasted food for these two days.” - -“Oh! supper is prepared below,” said Matilda. Seated at the -supper-table, the conversation, enlivened by wine, took an animated -turn. After some subjects, irrelevant to this history, being discussed, -Matilda said, “Ha! but I forgot to tell you, that I have done some -good. I have secured that diabolical Paulo, Julia’s servant, who was of -great service to her, and, by penetrating our schemes, might have even -discomfited our grand design. I have lodged him in the lowest cavern of -those dungeons which are under this building--will you go and see him?” -Zastrozzi answered in the affirmative, and seizing a lamp which burnt -in a recess of the apartment, followed Matilda. - -The rays of the lamp but partially dissipated the darkness as they -advanced through the antiquated passages. They arrived at a door: -Matilda opened it, and they quickly crossed a grass-grown courtyard. - -The grass which grew on the lofty battlements waved mournfully in -the rising blast, as Matilda and Zastrozzi entered a dark and narrow -casement. Cautiously they descended the slippery and precipitous steps. -The lamp, obscured by the vapours, burnt dimly as they advanced. They -arrived at the foot of the staircase. “Zastrozzi!” exclaimed Matilda. -Zastrozzi turned quickly, and, perceiving a door, obeyed Matilda’s -directions. - -On some straw, chained to the wall, lay Paulo. - -“O pity! stranger, pity!” exclaimed the miserable Paulo. - -No answer, save a smile of most expressive scorn, was given by -Zastrozzi. They again ascended the narrow staircase, and, passing the -courtyard, arrived at the supper-room. - -“But,” said Zastrozzi, again taking his seat, “what use is that fellow -Paulo in the dungeon? Why do you keep him there?” - -“Oh!” answered Matilda, “I know not; but if you wish----” - -She paused, but her eye expressively filled up the sentence. - -Zastrozzi poured out an overflowing goblet of wine. He summoned Ugo and -Bernardo--“Take that,” said Matilda, presenting them a key. One of the -villains took it, and in a few moments returned with the hapless Paulo. - -“Paulo!” exclaimed Zastrozzi, loudly, “I have prevailed on La Contessa -to restore your freedom: here,” added he, “take this; I pledge to your -future happiness.” - -Paulo bowed low--he drank the poisoned potion to the dregs, and, -overcome by sudden and irresistible faintness, fell at Zastrozzi’s -feet. Sudden convulsions shook his frame, his lips trembled, his eyes -rolled horribly, and, uttering an agonised and lengthened groan, he -expired. - -“Ugo! Bernardo! take that body and bury it immediately,” cried -Zastrozzi. “There, Matilda, by such means must Julia die: you see, that -the poisons which I possess are quick in their effect.” - -A pause ensued, during which the eyes of Zastrozzi and Matilda spoke -volumes to each guilty soul. - -The silence was interrupted by Matilda. Not shocked at the dreadful -outrage which had been committed, she told Zastrozzi to come out into -the forest, for that she had something for his private ear. - -“Matilda,” said Zastrozzi, as they advanced along the forest, “I must -not stay here, and waste moments in inactivity, which might be more -usefully employed. I must quit you to-morrow--I must destroy Julia.” - -“Zastrozzi,” returned Matilda, “I am so far from wishing you to spend -your time here in ignoble listlessness, that I will myself join your -search. You shall to Italy--to Naples--watch Julia’s every movement, -attend her every step, and, in the guise of a friend, destroy her; but -beware, whilst you assume the softness of the dove, to forget not the -cunning of the serpent. On you I depend for destroying her; my own -exertions shall find Verezzi; I myself will gain his love--Julia must -die, and expiate the crime of daring to rival me, with her hated blood.” - -Whilst thus they conversed, whilst they planned these horrid schemes of -destruction, the night wore away. - -The moonbeam darting her oblique rays from under volumes of lowering -vapour, threatened an approaching storm. The lurid sky was tinged with -a yellowish lustre--the forest-tops rustled in the rising tempest--big -drops fell--a flash of lightning, and, instantly after, a peal of -bursting thunder, struck with sudden terror the bosom of Matilda. She, -however, immediately overcame it, and, regarding the battling element -with indifference, continued her discourse with Zastrozzi. - -They wore out the night in many visionary plans for the future, and now -and then a gleam of remorse assailed Matilda’s heart. Heedless of the -storm, they had remained in the forest late. Flushed with wickedness, -they at last sought their respective couches, but sleep forsook their -pillow. - -In all the luxuriance of extravagant fancy, Matilda portrayed the -symmetrical form, the expressive countenance, of Verezzi; whilst -Zastrozzi, who played a double part, anticipated, with ferocious -exultation, the torments which he she loved was eventually fated to -endure, and changed his plan, for a sublimer mode of vengeance was -opened to his view. - -Matilda passed a night of restlessness and agitation; her mind was -harassed by contending passions, and her whole soul wound up to deeds -of horror and wickedness. Zastrozzi’s countenance, as she met him -in the breakfast-parlour, wore a settled expression of determined -revenge--“I almost shudder,” exclaimed Matilda, “at the sea of -wickedness on which I am about to embark! But still, Verezzi--ah! for -him would I even lose my hopes of eternal happiness. In the sweet idea -of calling him mine, no scrupulous delicacy, no mistaken superstitious -fear, shall prevent me from deserving him by daring acts--No! I am -resolved,” continued Matilda, as, recollecting his graceful form, her -soul was assailed by tenfold love. - -“And I am likewise resolved,” said Zastrozzi; “I am resolved on -revenge--my revenge shall be gratified. Julia shall die, and -Verezzi----” - -Zastrozzi paused; his eye gleamed with a peculiar expression, and -Matilda thought he meant more than he had said--she raised her -eyes--they encountered his. - -The guilt-bronzed cheek of Zastrozzi was tinged with a momentary blush, -but it quickly passed away, and his countenance recovered its wonted -firm and determined expression. - -“Zastrozzi!” exclaimed Matilda. “Should you be false--should you seek -to deceive me----But no; it is impossible. Pardon, my friend--I meant -not what I said--my thoughts are crazed----” - -“’Tis well,” said Zastrozzi, haughtily. - -“But you forgive my momentary, unmeaning doubt?” said Matilda, and -fixed her unmeaning eyes on his countenance. - -“It is not for us to dwell on vain, unmeaning expressions, which the -soul dictates not,” returned Zastrozzi; “and I sue for pardon from you, -for having, by ambiguous expressions, caused the least agitation; but, -believe me, Matilda, we will not forsake each other; your cause is -mine; distrust between us is foolish. But, farewell for the present; I -must order Bernardo to go to Passau to purchase horses.” - -The day passed on; each waited with impatience for the arrival of -Bernardo. “Farewell, Matilda,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he mounted the -horses which Bernardo brought; and, taking the route of Italy, galloped -off. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Her whole soul wrapped up in one idea, the guilty Matilda threw herself -into a chariot which waited at the door, and ordered the equipage to -proceed towards Passau. - -Left to indulge reflection in solitude, her mind recurred to the object -nearest her heart--to Verezzi. - -Her bosom was scorched by an ardent and unquenchable fire; and while -she thought of him, she even shuddered at the intenseness of her own -sensations. - -“He shall love me--he shall be mine--mine for ever,” mentally -ejaculated Matilda. - -The streets of Passau echoed to La Contessa di Laurentini’s equipage, -before, roused from her reverie, she found herself at the place of her -destination; and she was seated in her hotel in that city, before she -had well arranged her unsettled ideas. She summoned Ferdinand, a trusty -servant, to whom she confided everything. “Ferdinand,” said she, “you -have many claims on my gratitude. I have never had cause to reproach -you with infidelity in executing my purposes--add another debt to that -which I already owe you; find Il Conte Verezzi within three days, and -you are my best friend.” Ferdinand bowed, and prepared to execute her -commands. Two days passed, during which Matilda failed not to make -every personal inquiry, even in the suburbs of Passau. - -Alternately depressed by fear, and revived by hope, for three days was -Matilda’s mind in a state of disturbance and fluctuation. The evening -of the third day, of the day on which Ferdinand was to return, arrived. -Matilda’s mind, wound up to the extreme of impatience, was the scene of -conflicting passions. She paced the room rapidly. - -A servant entered, and announced supper. - -“Is Ferdinand returned?” hastily inquired Matilda. - -The domestic answered in the negative. She sighed deeply, and struck -her forehead. - -Footsteps were heard in the ante-chamber without. - -“There is Ferdinand!” exclaimed Matilda, exultingly, as he entered. -“Well, well! have you found Verezzi? Ah! speak quickly! Ease me of this -horrible suspense.” - -“Signora!” said Ferdinand, “it grieves me much to be obliged to -declare that all my endeavours have been inefficient to find Il Conte -Verezzi----” - -“Oh, madness! madness!” exclaimed Matilda, “is it for this that I -have plunged into the dark abyss of crime?--is it for this that I -have despised the delicacy of my sex, and, braving consequences, have -offered my love to one who despises me--who shuns me, as does the -barbarous Verezzi? But if he is in Passau--if he is in the environs of -the city, I will find him.” - -Thus saying, despising the remonstrances of her domestics, casting off -all sense of decorum, she rushed into the streets of Passau. A gloomy -silence reigned through the streets of the city; it was past midnight, -and every inhabitant seemed to be sunk in sleep--sleep which Matilda -was almost a stranger to. Her white robes floated on the night air--her -shadowy and dishevelled hair flew over her form, which, as she passed -the bridge, seemed to strike the boatmen below with the idea of some -supernatural and ethereal form. - -She hastily crossed the bridge. She entered the fields on the -right--the Danube, whose placid stream was scarcely agitated by the -wind, reflected her symmetrical form, as, scarcely knowing what -direction she pursued, Matilda hastened along its banks. Sudden horror, -resistless despair, seized her brain, maddened as it was by hopeless -love. - -“What have I to do in this world, my fairest prospect blighted, my -fondest hope rendered futile?” exclaimed the frantic Matilda, as, wound -up to the highest pitch of desperation, she attempted to plunge herself -into the river. - -But life fled; for Matilda, caught by a stranger’s arm, was prevented -from the desperate act. - -Overcome by horror, she fainted. - -Some time did she lie in a state of torpid insensibility, till the -stranger, filling his cup with water, and sprinkling her pallid -countenance with it, recalled to life the miserable Matilda. - -What was her surprise, what was her mingled emotion of rapture -and doubt, when the moonbeam disclosed to her view the -countenance of Verezzi, as in anxious solicitude he bent over her -elegantly-proportioned form! - -“By what chance,” exclaimed the surprised Verezzi, “do I see here La -Contessa di Laurentini? Did not I leave you at your Italian castella? I -had hoped you would have ceased to persecute me, when I told you that I -was irrevocably another’s.” - -“Oh, Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, casting herself at his feet, “I -adore you to madness--I love you to distraction. If you have one spark -of compassion, let me not sue in vain--reject not one who feels it -impossible to overcome the fatal, resistless passion which consumes -her.” - -“Rise, Signora,” returned Verezzi--“rise; this discourse is -improper--it is not suiting the dignity of your rank, or the delicacy -of your sex: but suffer me to conduct you to yon cottage, where, -perhaps, you may deign to refresh yourself, or pass the night.” - -The moonbeams played upon the tranquil waters of the Danube, as Verezzi -silently conducted the beautiful Matilda to the humble dwelling where -he resided. - -Claudine waited at the door, and had begun to fear that some mischance -had befallen Verezzi, as, when he arrived at the cottage-door, it was -long past his usual hour of return. - -It was his custom, during those hours when the twilight of evening -cools the air, to wander through the adjacent rich scenery, though he -seldom prolonged his walks till midnight. - -He supported the fainting form of Matilda as he advanced towards -Claudine. The old woman’s eyes had lately failed her, from extreme -age; and it was not until Verezzi called to her that she saw him, -accompanied by La Contessa di Laurentini. - -“Claudine,” said Verezzi, “I have another claim upon your kindness; -this lady, who has wandered beyond her knowledge, will honour our -cottage so far as to pass the night here. If you would prepare the -pallet which I usually occupy for her, I will repose this evening -on the turf, and will now get supper ready. Signora,” continued he, -addressing Matilda, “some wine would, I think, refresh your spirits; -permit me to fill you a glass of wine.” - -Matilda silently accepted his offer--their eyes met--those of Matilda -were sparkling and full of meaning. - -“Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, “I arrived but four days since at -Passau--I have eagerly inquired for you--oh! how eagerly! Will you -accompany me to-morrow to Passau?” - -“Yes,” said Verezzi, hesitatingly. - -Claudine soon joined them. Matilda exulted in the success of her -schemes, and Claudine being present, the conversation took a general -turn. The lateness of the hour, at last, warned them to separate. - -Verezzi, left to solitude and his own reflections, threw himself on -the turf, which extended to the Danube below. Ideas of the most gloomy -nature took possession of his soul; and, in the event of the evening, -he saw the foundation of the most bitter misfortunes. - -He could not love Matilda; and though he never had seen her but in -the most amiable light, he found it impossible to feel any sentiment -towards her, save cold esteem. Never had he beheld those dark shades in -her character, which, if developed, could excite nothing but horror and -detestation; he regarded her as a woman of strong passions, who, having -resisted them to the utmost of her power, was at last borne away in the -current--whose brilliant virtues one fault had obscured--as such he -pitied her: but still he could not help observing a comparison between -her and Julia, whose feminine delicacy shrunk from the slightest -suspicion, even, of indecorum. Her fragile form, her mild, heavenly -countenance, was contrasted with all the partiality of love, to the -scintillating eye, the commanding countenance, the bold expressive -gaze, of Matilda. - -He must accompany her on the morrow to Passau. During their walk, he -determined to observe a strict silence; or, at all events, not to -hazard one equivocal expression, which might be construed into what it -was not meant for. - -The night passed away--morning came, and the tops of the far-seen -mountains were gilded by the rising sun. - -Exulting in the success of her schemes, and scarcely able to disguise -the vivid feelings of her heart, the wily Matilda, as early as she -descended to the narrow parlour, where Claudine had prepared a simple -breakfast, affected a gloom she was far from feeling. - -An unequivocal expression of innocent and mild tenderness marked her -manner towards Verezzi: her eyes were cast on the ground, and her every -movement spoke meekness and sensibility. - -At last, breakfast being finished, the time arrived when Matilda, -accompanied by Verezzi, pursued the course of the river, to retrace her -footsteps to Passau. A gloomy silence for some time prevailed--at last -Matilda spoke: - -“Unkind Verezzi! is it thus that you will ever slight me? is it for -this that I have laid aside the delicacy of my sex, and owned to you a -passion which was but too violent to be concealed? Ah! at least pity -me! I love you: oh! I adore you to madness!” - -She paused--the peculiar expression which beamed in her dark eye, told -the tumultuous wishes of her bosom. - -“Distress not yourself and me, Signora,” said Verezzi, “by these -unavailing protestations. Is it for you--is it for Matilda,” continued -he, his countenance assuming a smile of bitterest scorn, “to talk of -love to the lover of Julia?” - -Rapid tears coursed down Matilda’s cheek. She sighed--the sigh seemed -to rend her inmost bosom. - -So unexpected a reply conquered Verezzi. He had been prepared for -reproaches, but his feelings could not withstand Matilda’s tears. - -“Ah! forgive me, Signora,” exclaimed Verezzi, “if my brain, crazed by -disappointments, dictated words which my heart intended not.” - -“Oh,” replied Matilda, “it is I who am wrong: led on by the violence of -my passion, I have uttered words, the bare recollection of which fills -me with horror. Oh! forgive, forgive an unhappy woman, whose only fault -is loving you too well.” - -As thus she spoke, they entered the crowded streets of Passau, and, -proceeding rapidly onwards, soon arrived at La Contessa di Laurentini’s -hotel. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The character of Matilda has been already so far revealed, as to render -it unnecessary to expatiate upon it farther. Suffice it to say, that -her syren illusions and well-timed blandishments, obtained so great a -power over the imagination of Verezzi, that his resolution to return -to Claudine’s cottage before sunset became every instant fainter and -fainter. - -“And will you thus leave me?” exclaimed Matilda, in accents of the -bitterest anguish, as Verezzi prepared to depart. “Will you thus leave -unnoticed, her who, for your sake alone, casting aside the pride of -high birth, has wandered, unknown, through foreign climes? Oh! if I -have (led away by love for you) outstepped the bounds of modesty, let -me not, oh! let me not be injured by others with impunity. Stay, I -entreat thee. Verezzi, if yet one spark of compassion lingers in your -breast--stay, and defend me from those who vainly seek one who is -irrevocably thine.” - -With words such as these did the wily Matilda work upon the generous -passions of Verezzi. Emotions of pity, of compassion, for one whose -only fault he supposed to be love for him, conquered Verezzi’s softened -soul. - -“Oh! Matilda,” said he, “though I cannot love thee--though my soul is -irrevocably another’s--yet, believe me, I esteem, I admire thee; and it -grieves me that a heart, fraught with so many and so brilliant virtues, -has fixed itself on one who is incapable of appreciating its value.” - -The time passed away, and each returning sun beheld Verezzi still -at Passau--still under Matilda’s roof. That softness, that melting -tenderness, which she knew so well how to assume, began to convince -Verezzi of the injustice of the involuntary hatred which had filled his -soul towards her. Her conversation was fraught with sense and elegant -ideas. She played to him in the cool of the evening; and often, after -sunset, they rambled together into the rich scenery and luxuriant -meadows which are washed by the Danube. - -Claudine was not forgotten: indeed, Matilda first recollected her, and, -by placing her in an independent situation, added a new claim to the -gratitude of Verezzi. - -In this manner three weeks passed away. Every day did Matilda practise -new arts, employ new blandishments, to detain under her roof the -fascinated Verezzi. - -The most select parties in Passau, flitted in varied movements to -exquisite harmony, when Matilda perceived Verezzi’s spirits to be -ruffled by recollection. - -When he seemed to prefer solitude, a moonlight walk by the Danube -was proposed by Matilda; or, with skilful fingers, she drew from her -harp sounds of the most heart-touching, most enchanting melody. Her -behaviour towards him was soft, tender, and quiet, and might rather -have characterised the mild, serene love of a friend or sister, than -the ardent, unquenchable fire which burnt, though concealed, within -Matilda’s bosom. - -It was one calm evening that Matilda and Verezzi sat in a back saloon, -which overlooked the gliding Danube. Verezzi was listening, with all -the enthusiasm of silent rapture, to a favourite soft air which Matilda -sang, when a loud rap at the hall-door startled them. A domestic -entered, and told Matilda that a stranger, on particular business, -waited to speak with her. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Matilda, “I cannot attend to him now; bid him wait.” - -The stranger was impatient, and would not be denied. - -“Desire him to come in, then,” said Matilda. - -The domestic hastened to obey her commands. - -Verezzi had arisen to leave the room. “No,” cried Matilda, “sit still; -I shall soon dismiss the fellow; besides, I have no secrets from you.” -Verezzi took his seat. - -The wide folding-doors which led into the passage were open. - -Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through them, to grow -pale. - -He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa at the other end -of the saloon. - -Suddenly she started from her seat; her whole frame seemed convulsed by -agitation, as she rushed through the door. - -Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, “Go! go!--to-morrow morning!” - -Matilda returned. She seated herself again at the harp, which she had -quitted, and essayed to compose herself; but it was in vain, she was -too much agitated. - -Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to perform its -office; and her humid hands, as they swept the strings of the harp, -violently trembled. - -“Matilda,” said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone, “what has agitated -you? Make me a repository of your sorrows; I would, if possible, -alleviate them.” - -“Oh, no,” said Matilda, affecting unconcern, “nothing--nothing has -happened. I was even myself unconscious that I appeared agitated.” - -Verezzi affected to believe her, and assumed a composure which he felt -not. The conversation changed, and Matilda assumed her wonted mien. The -lateness of the hour at last warned them to separate. - -The more Verezzi thought upon the evening’s occurrence, the more did -a conviction in his mind, inexplicable even to himself, strengthen, -that Matilda’s agitation originated in something of consequence. He -knew her mind to be superior to common circumstance, and fortuitous -casualty, which might have ruffled an inferior soul. Besides, the -words which he had heard her utter--“Go! go!--to-morrow morning!”--and -though he resolved to disguise his real sentiments, and seem to let the -subject drop, he determined narrowly to scrutinise Matilda’s conduct, -and particularly to know what took place on the following morning. An -indefinable presentiment that something horrible was about to occur, -filled Verezzi’s mind. A long chain of retrospection ensued--he could -not forget the happy hours he had passed with Julia; her interesting -softness, her ethereal form, pressed on his aching sense. - -Still did he feel his soul irresistibly softened towards Matilda--her -love for him flattered his vanity; and though he could not feel -reciprocal affection towards her, yet her kindness in rescuing him from -his former degraded situation, her altered manner towards him, and her -unremitting endeavours to please, to humour him in everything, called -for his warmest, his sincerest gratitude. - -The morning came--Verezzi arose from a sleepless couch, and descending -into the breakfast-parlour, there found Matilda. - -He endeavoured to appear the same as usual, but in vain; for an -expression of reserve and scrutiny was apparent on his features. - -Matilda perceived it, and shrunk abashed from his keen gaze. - -The meal passed away in silence. - -“Excuse me for an hour or two,” at last stammered out Matilda--“my -steward has accounts to settle;” and she left the apartment. - -Verezzi had now no doubt but that the stranger, who had caused -Matilda’s agitation the day before, was now returned to finish his -business. - -He moved towards the door to follow her--he stopped. - -“What right have I to pry into the secrets of another?” thought -Verezzi; “besides, the business which this stranger has with Matilda -cannot possibly concern me.” - -Still was he compelled, by an irresistible fascination, as it were, to -unravel what appeared to him so mysterious an affair. He endeavoured to -believe it to be as she affirmed; he endeavoured to compose himself; he -took a book, but his eyes wandered insensibly. - -Thrice he hesitated--thrice he shut the door of the apartment; till at -last, a curiosity, unaccountable even to himself, propelled him to seek -Matilda. - -Mechanically he moved along the passage. He met one of the -domestics--he inquired where Matilda was. - -“In the grand saloon,” was the reply. - -With trembling steps he advanced towards it. The folding doors were -open. He saw Matilda and the stranger standing at the remote end of the -apartment. - -The stranger’s figure, which was towering and majestic, was rendered -more peculiarly striking by the elegantly proportioned form of Matilda, -who leant on a marble table near her; and her gestures, as she -conversed with him, manifested the most eager impatience, the deepest -interest. - -At so great a distance, Verezzi could not hear their conversation; but, -by the low murmurs which occasionally reached his ear, he perceived -that whatever it might be, they were both equally interested in the -subject. - -For some time he contemplated them with mingled surprise and -curiosity--he tried to arrange the confused murmurs of their voices, -which floated along the immense and vaulted apartment; but no -articulate sound reached his ear. - -At last Matilda took the stranger’s hand: she pressed it to her lips -with an eager and impassioned gesture, and led him to the opposite door -of the saloon. - -Suddenly the stranger turned, but as quickly regained his former -position, as he retreated through the door; not quickly enough, -however, but, in the stranger’s fire-darting eye, Verezzi recognised -him who had declared eternal enmity at the cottage on the heath. - -Scarcely knowing where he was, or what to believe, for a few moments -Verezzi stood bewildered, and unable to arrange the confusion of ideas -which floated in his brain and assailed his terror-struck imagination. -He knew not what to believe--what phantom it could be that, in the -shape of Zastrozzi, blasted his straining eye-balls--Could it really -be Zastrozzi? Could his most rancorous, his bitterest enemy, be thus -beloved, thus confided in, by the perfidious Matilda? - -For several moments he stood doubting what he should resolve upon. -At one while he determined to reproach Matilda with treachery and -baseness, and overwhelm her in the mid career of wickedness; but at -last concluding it to be more politic to dissemble and subdue his -emotions, he went into the breakfast-parlour which he had left, and -seated himself as if nothing had happened, at a drawing which he had -left incomplete. - -Besides, perhaps Matilda might not be guilty--perhaps she was -deceived; and though some scheme of villainy and destruction to -himself was preparing, she might be the dupe, and not the coadjutor, -of Zastrozzi. The idea that she was innocent soothed him; for he -was anxious to make up, in his own mind, for the injustice which he -had been guilty of towards her: and though he could not conquer the -disgusting ideas, the unaccountable detestations, which often, in spite -of himself, filled his soul towards her, he was willing to overcome -what he considered but as an illusion of the imagination, and to pay -that just tribute of esteem to her virtues which they demanded. - -Whilst these ideas, although confused and unconnected, passed in -Verezzi’s brain, Matilda again entered the apartment. - -Her countenance exhibited the strongest marks of agitation, and full of -inexpressible and confused meaning was her dark eye, as she addressed -some trifling question to Verezzi, in a hurried accent, and threw -herself into a chair beside him. - -“Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, after a pause equally painful to -both--“Verezzi! I am deeply grieved to be the messenger of bad -news--willingly would I withhold the fatal truth from you; yet, by -some other means, it may meet your unprepared ear. I have something -dreadful, shocking, to relate; can you bear the recital?” - -The nerveless fingers of Verezzi dropped the pencil--he seized -Matilda’s hand, and, in accents almost inarticulate from terror, -conjured her to explain her horrid surmises. - -“Oh! my friend! my sister!” exclaimed Matilda, as well-feigned tears -coursed down her cheeks,--“oh! she is----” - -“What! what!” interrupted Verezzi, as the idea of something having -befallen his adored Julia filled his maddened brain with tenfold -horror: for often had Matilda declared that since she could not become -his wife she would willingly be his friend, and had even called Julia -her sister. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Matilda, hiding her face in her hands, -“Julia--Julia--whom you love, is dead.” - -Unable to withhold his fleeting faculties from a sudden and chilly -horror which seized them, Verezzi sank forward, and, fainting, fell at -Matilda’s feet. - -In vain, for some time, was every effort to recover him. Every -restorative which was administered, for a long time, was unavailing; -at last his lips unclosed--he seemed to take his breath easier--he -moved--he slowly opened his eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -His head reposed upon Matilda’s bosom; he started from it violently, -as if stung by a scorpion, and fell upon the floor. His eyes rolled -horribly, and seemed as if starting from their sockets. - -“Is she then dead?--is Julia dead?” in accents scarcely articulate -exclaimed Verezzi. “Ah, Matilda! was it you then who destroyed her? was -it by thy jealous hand that she sank to an untimely grave? Ah, Matilda! -Matilda! say that she yet lives! Alas! what have I to do in the world -without Julia? an empty, uninteresting void!” - -Every word uttered by the hapless Verezzi spoke daggers to the agitated -Matilda. - -Again overpowered by the acuteness of his sensations, he sank on the -floor, and, in violent convulsions, he remained bereft of sense. - -Matilda again raised him--again laid his throbbing head upon her -bosom. Again, as, recovering, the wretched Verezzi perceived his -situation--overcome by agonising reflection, he relapsed into -insensibility. - -One fit rapidly followed another, and at last, in a state of the -wildest delirium, he was conveyed to bed. - -Matilda found that a too eager impatience had carried her too far. She -had prepared herself for violent grief, but not for the paroxysms of -madness which now seemed really to have seized the brain of the devoted -Verezzi. - -She sent for a physician--he arrived, and his opinion of Verezzi’s -danger almost drove the wretched Matilda to desperation. - -Exhausted by contending passions, she threw herself on a sofa; she -thought of the deeds which she had perpetrated to gain Verezzi’s love; -she considered that should her purpose be defeated at the very instant -which her heated imagination had portrayed as the commencement of her -triumph: should all the wickedness, all the crimes, into which she had -plunged herself, be of no avail--this idea, more than remorse for her -enormities, affected her. - -She sat for a time absorbed in a confusion of contending thought; -her mind was the scene of anarchy and horror; at last, exhausted by -their own violence, a deep, a desperate calm, took possession of her -faculties. She started from the sofa, and, maddened by the idea of -Verezzi’s danger, sought his apartment. - -On a bed lay Verezzi. - -A thick film overspread his eye, and he seemed sunk in insensibility. - -Matilda approached him. She pressed her burning lips to his. She -took his hand--it was cold, and at intervals slightly agitated by -convulsions. - -A deep sigh at this instant burst from his lips--a momentary hectic -flushed his cheek, as the miserable Verezzi attempted to rise. - -Matilda, though almost too much agitated to command her emotions, -threw herself into a chair behind the curtain, and prepared to watch -his movements. - -“Julia! Julia!” exclaimed he, starting from the bed, as his flaming -eye-balls were unconsciously fixed upon the agitated Matilda, “where -art thou? Ah! thy fair form now moulders in the dark sepulchre! would I -were laid beside thee! thou art now an ethereal spirit!” And then, in a -seemingly triumphant accent, he added, “But, ere long, I will seek thy -unspotted soul--ere long I will again clasp my lost Julia!” Overcome -by resistless delirium, he was for an instant silent--his starting -eyes seemed to follow some form, which imagination had portrayed in -vacuity. He dashed his head against the wall, and sank, overpowered by -insensibility, on the floor. - -Accustomed as she was to scenes of horror, and firm and dauntless as -was Matilda’s soul, yet this was too much to behold with composure. She -rushed towards him, and lifted him from the floor. In a delirium of -terror, she wildly called for help. Unconscious of everything around -her, she feared Verezzi had destroyed himself. She clasped him to her -bosom, and called on his name, in an ecstasy of terror. - -The domestics, alarmed by her exclamations, rushed in. Once again they -lifted the insensible Verezzi into the bed. Every spark of life seemed -now to have been extinguished; for the transport of horror which had -torn his soul was almost too much to be sustained. A physician was -again sent for--Matilda, maddened by desperation, in accents almost -inarticulate from terror, demanded hope or despair from the physician. - -He, who was a man of sense, declared his opinion, that Verezzi would -speedily recover, though he knew not the event which might take place -in the crisis of the disorder, which now rapidly approached. - -The remonstrances of those around her were unavailing to draw Matilda -from the bedside of Verezzi. - -She sat there, a prey to disappointed passion, silent, and watching -every turn of the hapless Verezzi’s countenance, as, bereft of sense, -he lay extended on the bed before her. - -The animation which was wont to illumine his sparkling eye was fled, -the roseate colour which had tinged his cheek had given way to an -ashy paleness--he was insensible to all around him. Matilda sat there -the whole day, and silently administered medicines to the unconscious -Verezzi, as occasion required. - -Towards night the physician again came. Matilda’s head thoughtfully -leant upon her arm as he entered the apartment. - -“Ah! what hope? what hope?” wildly she exclaimed. - -The physician calmed her, and bid her not despair: then, observing her -pallid countenance, he said, he believed she required his skill as much -as his patient. - -“Oh! heed me not,” she exclaimed; “but how is Verezzi? will he live or -die?” - -The physician advanced towards the emaciated Verezzi--he took his hand. - -A burning fever raged through his veins. - -“Oh, how is he?” exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously watching the humane -physician’s countenance, she thought a shade of sorrow spread itself -over his features--“but tell me my fate quickly,” continued she: “I -am prepared to hear the worst--prepared to hear that he is even dead -already.” - -As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity overspread her -features. She seized the physician’s arm, and looked steadfastly on his -countenance, and then, as if overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank -fainting at his feet. - -The physician raised her, and soon succeeded in recalling her fleeted -faculties. - -Overcome by its own violence, Matilda’s despair became softened, and -the words of the physician operated as a balm upon her soul, and bid -her feel hope. - -She again resumed her seat, and waited with smothered impatience for -the event of the decisive crisis, which the physician could now no -longer conceal. - -She pressed his burning hand in hers, and waited, with apparent -composure, for eleven o’clock. - -Slowly the hours passed--the clock of Passau tolled each lingering -quarter as they rolled away, and hastened towards the appointed time, -when the chamber-door of Verezzi was slowly opened by Ferdinand. - -“Ha! why do you disturb me now?” exclaimed Matilda, whom the entrance -of Ferdinand had roused from a profound reverie. - -“Signora!” whispered Ferdinand--“Signor Zastrozzi waits below: he -wishes to see you there.” - -“Ah!” said Matilda, thoughtfully, “conduct him here.” - -Ferdinand departed to obey her; footsteps were heard in the passage, -and immediately afterwards Zastrozzi stood before Matilda. - -“Matilda!” exclaimed he, “why do I see you here? What accident has -happened which confines you to this chamber?” - -“Ah!” replied Matilda, in an undervoice, “look in that bed--behold -Verezzi! emaciated and insensible--in a quarter of an hour, perhaps, -all animation will be fled--fled for ever!” continued she, as a deeper -expression of despair shaded her beautiful features. - -Zastrozzi advanced to the foot of the bed--Verezzi lay, as if dead, -before his eyes; for the ashy hue of his lips, and his sunken -inexpressive eye, almost declared that his spirit was fled. - -Zastrozzi gazed upon him with an indefinable expression of insatiated -vengeance--indefinable to Matilda, as she gazed upon the expressive -countenance of her coadjutor in crime. - -“Matilda! I want you: come to the lower saloon; I have something to -speak to you of,” said Zastrozzi. - -“Oh! if it concerned my soul’s eternal happiness, I could not now -attend,” exclaimed Matilda, energetically; “in less than a quarter -of an hour, perhaps, all I hold dear on earth will be dead; with -him, every hope, every wish, every tie which binds me to earth. Oh!” -exclaimed she, her voice assuming a tone of extreme horror, “see how -pale he looks!” - -Zastrozzi bade Matilda farewell, and went away. - -The physician yet continued watching in silence the countenance of -Verezzi: it still retained its unchanging expression of fixed despair. - -Matilda gazed upon it, and waited with the most eager, yet subdued -impatience, for the expiration of the few minutes which yet -remained--she still gazed. - -The features of Verezzi’s countenance were slightly convulsed. - -The clock struck eleven. - -His lips unclosed--Matilda turned pale with terror; yet mute, and -absorbed by expectation, remained rooted to her seat. - -She raised her eyes, and hope again returned, as she beheld the -countenance of the humane physician lighted up with a beam of pleasure. - -She could no longer contain herself, but, in an ecstasy of pleasure, -as excessive as her grief and horror before had been violent, in rapid -and hurried accents questioned the physician. The physician, with an -expressive smile, pressed his finger on his lip. She understood the -movement, and though her heart was dilated with sudden and excessive -delight, she smothered her joy, as she had before her grief, and -gazed with rapturous emotion on the countenance of Verezzi, as, to -her expectant eyes, a blush of animation tinged his before pallid -countenance. - -Matilda took his hand--the pulses yet beat with feverish violence. She -gazed upon his countenance--the film, which before had overspread his -eye, disappeared; returning expression pervaded its orbit, but it was -the expression of deep, of rooted grief. - -The physician made a sign to Matilda to withdraw. - -She drew the curtain before her, and in anxious expectation awaited the -event. - -A deep, a long-drawn sigh, at last burst from Verezzi’s bosom. He -raised himself, his eyes seemed to follow some form which imagination -had portrayed in the remote obscurity of the apartment, for the shades -of night were but partially dissipated by a lamp which burnt on a table -behind. He raised his almost nerveless arm, and passed it across his -eyes, as if to convince himself that what he saw was not an illusion of -the imagination. - -He looked at the physician, who sat near to, and silent by the bedside, -and patiently awaited whatever event might occur. - -Verezzi slowly rose, and violently exclaimed, “Julia! Julia! my -long-lost Julia, come!” And then, more collected, he added, in a -mournful tone, “Ah, no! you are dead; lost, lost for ever!” - -He turned round and saw the physician, but Matilda was still concealed. - -“Where am I?” inquired Verezzi, addressing the physician. - -“Safe, safe,” answered he, “compose yourself; all will be well.” - -“Ah, but Julia?” inquired Verezzi, with a tone so expressive of -despair, as threatened returning delirium. - -“Oh! compose yourself,” said the humane physician; “you have been very -ill; this is but an illusion of the imagination; and even now, I fear -that you labour under that delirium which attends a brain-fever.” - -Verezzi’s nerveless frame again sunk upon the bed--still his eyes were -open, and fixed upon vacancy; he seemed to be endeavouring to arrange -the confusion of ideas which pressed upon his brain. - -Matilda undrew the curtain; but, as her eye met the physician’s, his -glance told her to place it in its original situation. - -As she thought of the events of the day, her heart was dilated by -tumultuous, yet pleasurable emotions. She conjectured that were -Verezzi to recover, of which she now entertained but little doubt, -she might easily erase from his heart the boyish passion which before -had possessed it; might convince him of the folly of supposing that -a first attachment is fated to endure for ever; and, by unremitting -assiduity in pleasing him--by soft, quiet attentions, and an affected -sensibility, might at last acquire the attainment of that object for -which her bosom had so long and so ardently panted. - -Soothed by these ideas, and willing to hear from the physician’s mouth -a more explicit affirmation of Verezzi’s safety than his looks had -given, Matilda rose, for the first time since his illness, and, unseen -by Verezzi, approached the physician--“Follow me to the saloon,” said -Matilda. - -The physician obeyed, and, by his fervent assurances of Verezzi’s -safety and speedy recovery, confirmed Matilda’s fluctuating hopes. -“But,” added the physician, “though my patient will recover if his -mind be unruffled, I will not answer for his re-establishment should -he see you, as his disorder, being wholly on the mind, may be possibly -augmented by----” - -The physician paused, and left Matilda to finish the sentence; for -he was a man of penetration and judgment, and conjectured that some -sudden and violent emotion, of which she was the cause, occasioned -his patient’s illness. This conjecture became certainty, as, when he -concluded, he observed Matilda’s face change to an ashy paleness. - -“May I not watch him--attend him?” inquired Matilda, imploringly. - -“No,” answered the physician; “in the weakened state in which he now -is, the sight of you might cause immediate dissolution.” - -Matilda started, as if overcome by horror at the bare idea, and -promised to obey his commands. - -The morning came--Matilda arose from a sleepless couch, and with hopes -yet unconfirmed, sought Verezzi’s apartment. - -She stood near the door listening. Her heart palpitated with tremendous -violence as she listened to Verezzi’s breathing--every sound from -within alarmed her. At last she slowly opened the door, and, though -adhering to the physician’s directions in not suffering Verezzi to -see her, she could not deny herself the pleasure of watching him, and -busying herself in little offices about his apartment. - -She could hear Verezzi question the attendant collectedly, yet as a -person who was ignorant where he was, and knew not the events which had -immediately preceded his present state. - -At last he sank into a deep sleep. Matilda now dared to gaze on him: -the hectic colour which had flushed his cheek was fled, but the ashy -hue of his lips had given place to a brilliant vermilion. She gazed -intently on his countenance. - -A heavenly, yet faint smile diffused itself over his countenance--his -hand slightly moved. - -Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed herself. She was -mistaken, for, on looking again, he still slept. - -She still gazed upon his countenance. The visions of his sleep were -changed, for tears came fast from under his eyelids, and a deep sigh -burst from his bosom. - -Thus passed several days: Matilda still watched with most affectionate -assiduity by the bedside of the unconscious Verezzi. - -The physician declared that his patient’s mind was yet in too irritable -a state to permit him to see Matilda, but that he was convalescent. - -One evening she sat by his bedside, and gazing upon the features of -the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusual softness take possession of her -soul--an indefinable and tumultuous emotion shook her bosom--her whole -frame thrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand which lay -motionless beside her, she imprinted on it a thousand burning kisses. - -“Ah, Julia! Julia! is it you?” exclaimed Verezzi, as he raised his -enfeebled frame; but perceiving his mistake, as he cast his eyes on -Matilda, sank back, and fainted. - -Matilda hastened with restoratives, and soon succeeded in recalling to -life Verezzi’s fleeted faculties. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - Art thou afraid - To be the same in thine own act and valour - As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that - Which thou esteemest the ornament of life, - Or live a coward in thine own esteem, - Letting _I dare not_ wait upon _I would_?--Macbeth. - - For love is heaven, and heaven is love. - --_Lay of the Last Minstrel._ - - -The soul of Verezzi was filled with irresistible disgust, as, -recovering, he found himself in Matilda’s arms. His whole frame -trembled with chilly horror, and he could scarcely withhold himself -from again fainting. He fixed his eyes upon the countenance--they met -hers--an ardent fire, mingled with a touching softness, filled their -orbits. - -In a hurried and almost inarticulate accent, he reproached Matilda with -perfidy, baseness, and even murder. The roseate colour which had tinged -Matilda’s cheek, gave place to an ashy hue--the animation which had -sparkled in her eye, yielded to a confused expression of apprehension, -as the almost delirious Verezzi uttered accusations he knew not the -meaning of; for his brain, maddened by the idea of Julia’s death, was -whirled round in an ecstasy of terror. - -Matilda seemed to have composed every passion; a forced serenity -overspread her features, as, in a sympathising and tender tone, -she entreated him to calm his emotions, and giving him a temporary -medicine, left him. - -She descended to the saloon. - -“Ah! he yet despises me--he even hates me,” ejaculated Matilda. “An -irresistible antipathy--irresistible, I fear, as my love for him is -ardent, has taken possession of his soul towards me. Ah! miserable, -hapless being that I am! doomed to have my fondest hope, my brightest -prospect, blighted.” - -Alive alike to the tortures of despair and the illusions of hope, -Matilda, now in an agony of desperation, impatiently paced the saloon. - -Her mind was inflamed by a more violent emotion of hate towards Julia, -as she recollected Verezzi’s fond expressions: she determined, however, -that were Verezzi not to be hers, he should never be Julia’s. - -Whilst thus she thought, Zastrozzi entered. - -The conversation was concerning Verezzi. - -“How shall I gain his love, Zastrozzi?” exclaimed Matilda. “Oh! I will -renew every tender office--I will watch by him day and night, and, by -unremitting attentions, I will try to soften his flinty soul. But, -alas! it was but now that he started from my arms in horror, and, in -accents of desperation, accused me of perfidy--of murder. Could I be -perfidious to Verezzi, my heart, which burns with so fervent a fire, -declares I could not, and murder----” - -Matilda paused. - -“Would thou could say thou wert guilty, or even accessary to _that_,” -exclaimed Zastrozzi, his eye gleaming with disappointed ferocity. -“Would Julia of Strobazzo’s heart was reeking on my dagger!” - -“Fervently do I join in that wish, my best Zastrozzi,” returned -Matilda: “but, alas! what avail wishes--what avail useless -protestations of revenge, whilst Julia yet lives?--yet lives, perhaps, -again to obtain Verezzi--to clasp him constant to her bosom--and -perhaps--oh, horror! perhaps to----” - -Stung to madness by the picture which her fancy had portrayed, Matilda -paused. - -Her bosom heaved with throbbing palpitations; and, whilst describing -the success of her rival, her warring soul shone apparent from her -scintillating eyes. - -Zastrozzi, meanwhile, stood collected in himself; and, scarcely heeding -the violence of Matilda, awaited the issue of her speech. - -He besought her to calm herself, nor, by those violent emotions, unfit -herself for prosecuting the attainment of her fondest hope. - -“Are you firm?” inquired Zastrozzi. - -“Yes!” - -“Are you resolved? Does fear, amid the other passions, shake your soul?” - -“No, no--this heart knows not to fear--this breast knows not to -shrink,” exclaimed Matilda eagerly. - -“Then be cool--be collected,” returned Zastrozzi, “and thy purpose is -effected.” - -Though little was in these words which might warrant hope, yet -Matilda’s susceptible soul, as Zastrozzi spoke, thrilled with -anticipated delight. - -“My maxim, therefore,” said Zastrozzi, “through life has been, wherever -I am, whatever passions shake my inmost soul, at least to _appear_ -collected. I generally am; for, by suffering no common events, no -fortuitous casualty to disturb me, my soul becomes steeled to more -interesting trials. I have a spirit, ardent, impetuous as thine; but -acquaintance with the world has induced me to veil it, though it still -continues to burn within my bosom. Believe me, I am far from wishing to -persuade you from your purpose. No--any purpose undertaken with ardour, -and prosecuted with perseverance, must eventually be crowned with -success. Love is worthy of any risk--I felt it once, but revenge has -now swallowed up every other feeling of my soul--I am alive to nothing -but revenge. But even did I desire to persuade you from the purpose on -which your heart is fixed, I should not say it was wrong to attempt it; -for whatever procures pleasure is right, and consonant to the dignity -of man, who was created for no other purpose but to obtain happiness; -else, why were passions given us? why were those emotions which agitate -my breast and madden my brain implanted in us by nature? As for the -confused hope of a future state, why should we debar ourselves of the -delights of this, even though purchased by what the misguided multitude -calls immorality?” - -Thus sophistically argued Zastrozzi. His soul, deadened by crime, could -only entertain confused ideas of immortal happiness; for in proportion -as human nature departs from virtue, so far are they also from being -able clearly to contemplate the wonderful operations, the mysterious -ways of Providence. - -Coolly and collectedly argued Zastrozzi: he delivered his sentiments -with the air of one who was wholly convinced of the truth of the -doctrines he uttered,--a conviction to be dissipated by shunning proof. - -Whilst Zastrozzi thus spoke, Matilda remained silent,--she paused. -Zastrozzi must have strong powers of reflection; he must be convinced -of the truth of his own reasoning, thought Matilda, as eagerly she yet -gazed on his countenance. Its unchanging expression of firmness and -conviction still continued. - -“Ah!” said Matilda, “Zastrozzi, thy words are a balm to my soul. I -never yet knew thy real sentiments on this subject; but answer me, do -you believe that the soul decays with the body, or if you do not, when -this perishable form mingles with its parent earth, where goes the -soul which now actuates its movements? perhaps, it wastes its fervent -energies in tasteless apathy, or lingering torments.” - -“Matilda,” returned Zastrozzi, “think not so; rather suppose that, by -its own innate and energetical exertions, this soul must endure for -ever, that no fortuitous occurrences, no incidental events, can affect -its happiness; but by daring boldly, by striving to verge from the -beaten path, whilst yet trammelled in the chains of mortality, it will -gain superior advantages in a future state.” - -“But religion! oh, Zastrozzi!” - -“I thought thy soul was daring,” replied Zastrozzi; “I thought thy -mind was towering; and did I then err in the different estimate I had -formed of thy character? O yield not yourself, Matilda, thus to false, -foolish, and vulgar prejudices--for the present, farewell.” - -Saying this, Zastrozzi departed. - -Thus, by an artful appeal to her passions, did Zastrozzi extinguish the -faint spark of religion which yet gleamed in Matilda’s bosom. - -In proportion as her belief of an Omnipotent power, and consequently -her hopes of eternal salvation declined, her ardent and unquenchable -passion for Verezzi increased, and a delirium of guilty love filled her -soul. - -“Shall I then call him mine for ever?” mentally inquired Matilda; “will -the passion which now consumes me possess my soul to all eternity? Ah! -well I know it will; and when emancipated from this terrestrial form, -my soul departs; still its fervent energies unrepressed, will remain; -and in the union of soul to soul, it will taste celestial transports.” -An ecstasy of tumultuous and confused delight rushed through her veins; -she stood for some time immersed in thought. Agitated by the emotions -of her soul, her every limb trembled. She thought upon Zastrozzi’s -sentiments. She almost shuddered as she reflected; yet was convinced -by the cool and collected manner in which he had delivered them. She -thought on his advice, and steeling her soul, repressing every emotion, -she now acquired that coolness so necessary to the attainment of her -desire. - -Thinking of nothing else, alive to no idea but Verezzi, Matilda’s -countenance assumed a placid serenity--she even calmed her soul, she -bid it restrain its emotions, and the passions which so lately had -battled fiercely in her bosom were calmed. - -She again went to Verezzi’s apartment, but, as she approached, vague -fears lest he should have penetrated her schemes confused her: but his -mildly beaming eyes, as she gazed upon them, convinced her that the -horrid expressions which he had before uttered were merely the effect -of temporary delirium. - -“Ah, Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “where have you been?” - -Matilda’s soul, alive alike to despair and hope, was filled with -momentary delight as he addressed her; but bitter hate, and -disappointed love, again tortured her bosom, as he exclaimed in accents -of heart-felt agony: “Oh! Julia, my long-lost Julia!” - -“Matilda,” said he, “my friend, farewell; I feel that I am dying, -but I feel pleasure,--oh! transporting pleasure, in the idea that I -shall soon meet my Julia. Matilda,” added he, in a softened accent, -“farewell for ever.” Scarcely able to contain the emotions which the -idea alone of Verezzi’s death excited, Matilda, though the crisis of -the disorder, she knew, had been favourable, shuddered--bitter hate, -even more rancorous than ever, kindled in her bosom against Julia, -for to hear Verezzi talk of her with soul-subduing tenderness, but -wound up her soul to the highest pitch of uncontrollable vengeance. -Her breast heaved violently, her dark eye, in expressive glances, -told the fierce passions of her soul; yet, sensible of the necessity -of controlling her emotions, she leaned her head upon her hand, and -when she answered Verezzi, a calmness, a melting expression of grief, -overspread her features. She conjured him, in the most tender, the most -soothing terms, to compose himself; and though Julia was gone for ever, -to remember that there was yet one in the world, one tender friend who -would render the burden of life less insupportable. - -“Oh! Matilda,” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not to me of comfort, talk not -of happiness. All that constituted my comfort, all to which I looked -forward with rapturous anticipation of happiness, is fled---fled for -ever.” - -Ceaselessly did Matilda watch by the bedside of Verezzi; the melting -tenderness of his voice, the melancholy, interesting expression of his -countenance, but added fuel to the flame which consumed her; her soul -was engrossed by one idea; every extraneous passion was conquered, and -nerved for the execution of its fondest purpose; a seeming tranquillity -overspread her mind, not that tranquillity which results from conscious -innocence and mild delights, but that which calms every tumultuous -emotion for a time; when, firm in a settled purpose, the passions but -pause, to break out with more resistless violence. In the meantime, -the strength of Verezzi’s constitution overcame the malignity of his -disorder, returning strength again braced his nerves, and he was able -to descend to the saloon. - -The violent grief of Verezzi had subsided into a deep and settled -melancholy; he could now talk of his Julia, indeed it was his constant -theme; he spoke of her virtues, her celestial form, her sensibility, -and by his ardent professions of eternal fidelity to her memory, -unconsciously almost drove Matilda to desperation. Once he asked -Matilda how she died; for on the day when the intelligence first turned -his brain, he waited not to hear the particulars; the bare fact drove -him to instant madness. - -Matilda was startled at the question, yet ready invention supplied the -place of a premeditated story. - -“Oh! my friend,” said she, tenderly, “unwillingly do I tell you that -for you she died; disappointed love, like a worm in the bud, destroyed -the unhappy Julia; fruitless were all her endeavours to find you; -till at last, concluding that you were lost to her for ever, a deep -melancholy by degrees consumed her, and gently led to the grave. She -sank into the arms of death without a groan.” - -“And there shall I soon follow her,” exclaimed Verezzi, as a severer -pang of anguish and regret darted through his soul. “I caused her -death, whose life was far, far dearer to me than my own. But now it is -all over, my hopes of happiness in this world are blasted, blasted for -ever.” - -As he said this, a convulsive sigh heaved his breast, and the tears -silently rolled down his cheeks; for some time in vain were Matilda’s -endeavours to calm him, till at last, mellowed by time, and overcome -by reflection, his violent and fierce sorrow was softened into a fixed -melancholy. - -Unremittingly Matilda attended him, and gratified his every wish; -she, conjecturing that solitude might be detrimental to him, often -entertained parties, and endeavoured by gaiety to drive away his -dejection; but if Verezzi’s spirits were elevated by company and -merriment, in solitude again they sank, and a deeper melancholy, a -severer regret possessed his bosom, for having allowed himself to be -momentarily interested by any thing but the remembrance of his Julia; -for he felt a soft, a tender and ecstatic emotion of regret, when -retrospection portrayed the blissful time long since gone by, while, -happy in the society of her whom he idolized, he thought he could -never be otherwise than then, enjoying the sweet, the serene delights -of association with a congenial mind; he often now amused himself in -retracing with his pencil, from memory, scenes which, though in his -Julia’s society he had beheld unnoticed, yet were now hallowed by the -remembrance of her: for he always associated the idea of Julia with the -remembrance of those scenes which she had so often admired, and where, -accompanied by her, he had so often wandered. - -Matilda, meanwhile, firm in the purpose of her soul, unremittingly -persevered; she calmed her mind, and though, at intervals, shook -by almost superhuman emotions, before Verezzi a fixed serenity, a -well-feigned sensibility, and a downcast tenderness, marked her manner. -Grief, melancholy, a fixed, a quiet depression of spirits, seemed to -have calmed every fiercer feeling when she talked with Verezzi of his -lost Julia; but, though subdued for the present, revenge, hate, and the -fervour of disappointed love, burned her soul. - -Often, when she had retired from Verezzi, when he had talked with -tenderness, as he was wont, of Julia, and sworn everlasting fidelity to -her memory, would Matilda’s soul be tortured by fiercest desperation. - -One day, when conversing with him of Julia, she ventured to hint, -though remotely, at her own faithful and ardent attachment. - -“Think you,” replied Verezzi, “that because my Julia’s spirit is no -longer enshrined in its earthly form, that I am the less devotedly, -the less irrevocably hers?--No! no! I was hers, I am hers, and to all -eternity shall be hers: and when my soul, divested of mortality, -departs into another world, even amid the universal wreck of nature, -attracted by congeniality of sentiment, it will seek the unspotted -spirit of my idolized Julia. Oh, Matilda! thy attention, thy kindness, -calls for my warmest gratitude--thy virtue demands my sincerest esteem; -but, devoted to the memory of my Julia, I can _love_ none but her.” - -Matilda’s whole frame trembled with unconquerable emotion, as thus -determinedly he rejected her; but, calming the more violent passions, a -flood of tears rushed from her eyes; and, as she leant over the back of -a sofa on which she reclined, her sobs were audible. - -Verezzi’s soul was softened towards her--he raised the humbled Matilda, -and bid her be comforted, for he was conscious that her tenderness -towards him deserved not an unkind return. - -“Oh! forgive, forgive me!” exclaimed Matilda, with well-feigned -humility: “I knew not what I said.” She then abruptly left the saloon. - -Reaching her own apartment, Matilda threw herself on the floor, in an -agony of mind too great to be described. Those infuriate passions, -restrained as they had been in the presence of Verezzi, now agitated -her soul with inconceivable terror. Shook by sudden and irresistible -emotions, she gave vent to her despair. - -“Where, then, is the boasted mercy of God,” exclaimed the frantic -Matilda, “if he suffer his creatures to endure such agony as -this? or where his wisdom, if he implant in the heart passions -furious--uncontrollable--as mine, doomed to destroy their happiness?” - -Outraged pride, disappointed love, and infuriate revenge, revelled -through her bosom. Revenge, which called for innocent blood--the blood -of the hapless Julia. - -Her passions were now wound up to the highest pitch of desperation. -In indescribable agony of mind, she dashed her head against the -floor--she imprecated a thousand curses upon Julia, and swore eternal -revenge. - -At last, exhausted by their own violence, the warring passions -subsided--a calm took possession of her soul--she thought again upon -Zastrozzi’s advice--Was she now cool? was she now collected? - -She was now immersed in a chain of thought; unaccountable, even to -herself, was the serenity which had succeeded. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Persevering in the prosecution of her design, the time passed away -slowly to Matilda; for Verezzi’s frame, becoming every day more -emaciated, threatened, to her alarmed imagination, approaching -dissolution--slowly to Verezzi, for he waited with impatience for the -arrival of death, since nothing but misery was his in this world. - -Useless would it be to enumerate the conflicts in Matilda’s soul: -suffice it to say that they were many, and that their violence -progressively increased. - -Verezzi’s illness at last assumed so dangerous an appearance that -Matilda, alarmed, sent for a physician. - -The humane man who had attended Verezzi before was from home, but one, -skilful in his profession, arrived, who declared that a warmer climate -could alone restore Verezzi’s health. - -Matilda proposed to him to remove to a retired and picturesque spot -which she possessed in the Venetian territory. Verezzi, expecting -speedy dissolution, and conceiving it to be immaterial where he died, -consented; and, indeed, he was unwilling to pain one so kind as Matilda -by a refusal. - -The following morning was fixed for the journey. - -The morning arrived, and Verezzi was lifted into the chariot, being yet -extremely weak and emaciated. - -Matilda, during the journey, by every care, every kind and sympathising -attention, tried to drive away Verezzi’s melancholy; sensible that, -could the weight which pressed upon his spirits be removed, he would -speedily regain health. But no! it was impossible. Though he was -grateful for Matilda’s attention, a still deeper shade of melancholy -overspread his features; a more heart-felt inanity and languor -sapped his life. He was sensible of a total distaste of former -objects--objects which, perhaps, had formerly forcibly interested -him. The terrific grandeur of the Alps, the dashing cataract, as it -foamed beneath their feet, ceased to excite those feelings of awe which -formerly they were wont to inspire. The lofty pine-groves inspired no -additional melancholy, nor did the blooming valleys of Piedmont, or the -odoriferous orangeries which scented the air, gladden his deadened soul. - -They travelled on--they soon entered the Venetian territory, where, in -a gloomy and remote spot, stood the Castella di Laurentini. - -It was situated in a dark forest--lofty mountains around lifted their -aspiring and craggy summits to the skies. - -The mountains were clothed half up by ancient pines and plane-trees, -whose immense branches stretched far; and above, bare granite rocks, on -which might be seen occasionally a scathed larch, lifted their gigantic -and misshapen forms. - -In the centre of an amphitheatre, formed by these mountains, surrounded -by wood, stood the Castella di Laurentini, whose grey turrets and -time-worn battlements overtopped the giants of the forest. - -Into this gloomy mansion was Verezzi conducted by Matilda. The only -sentiment he felt was surprise at the prolongation of his existence. -As he advanced, supported by Matilda and a domestic, into the castella, -Matilda’s soul, engrossed by one idea, confused by its own unquenchable -passions, felt not that ecstatic, that calm and serene delight, only -experienced by the innocent, and which is excited by a return to the -place where we have spent our days of infancy. - -No--she felt not this; the only pleasurable emotion which her return -to this remote castella afforded was the hope that, disengaged from -the tumult of, and proximity to the world, she might be the less -interrupted in the prosecution of her madly-planned schemes. - -Though Verezzi’s melancholy seemed rather increased than diminished by -the journey, yet his health was visibly improved by the progressive -change of air and variation of scenery, which must, at times, -momentarily alleviate the most deep-rooted grief; yet, again in a -fixed spot--again left to solitude and his own torturing reflections, -Verezzi’s mind returned to his lost, his still adored Julia. He thought -of her ever; unconsciously he spoke of her; and, by his rapturous -exclamations, sometimes almost drove Matilda to desperation. - -Several days thus passed away. Matilda’s passion, which, mellowed by -time, and diverted by the variety of objects, and the hurry of the -journey, had relaxed its violence, now, like a stream pent up, burst -all bounds. - -But one evening, maddened by the tender protestations of eternal -fidelity to Julia’s memory which Verezzi uttered, her brain was almost -turned. - -Her tumultuous soul, agitated by contending emotions, flashed from her -eyes. Unable to disguise the extreme violence of her sensations, in an -ecstasy of despairing love, she rushed from the apartment where she had -left Verezzi, and, unaccompanied, wandered into the forest, to calm her -emotions, and concert some better plans of revenge; for, in Verezzi’s -presence, she scarcely dared to think. - -Her infuriated soul burned with fiercest revenge: she wandered into the -trackless forest, and, conscious that she was unobserved, gave vent to -her feelings in wild exclamations. - -“Oh, Julia! hated Julia! words are not able to express my detestation -of thee. Thou hast destroyed Verezzi. Thy cursed image, revelling -in his heart, has blasted my happiness for ever; but, ere I die, I -will taste revenge--oh! exquisite revenge!” She paused--she thought -of the passion which consumed her. “Perhaps one no less violent has -induced Julia to rival me,” said she. Again the idea of Verezzi’s -illness--perhaps his death--infuriated her soul. Pity, chased away by -vengeance and disappointed passion, fled. “Did I say that I pitied -thee? Detested Julia, much did my words belie the feelings of my soul. -No--no--thou shalt not escape me. Pity thee!” - -Again immersed in corroding thought, she heeded not the hour, till -looking up, she saw the shades of night were gaining fast upon the -earth. The evening was calm and serene: gently agitated by the evening -zephyr, the lofty pines sighed mournfully. Far to the west appeared -the evening star, which faintly glittered in the twilight. The scene -was solemnly calm, but not in unison with Matilda’s soul. Softest, -most melancholy music, seemed to float upon the southern gale. Matilda -listened--it was the nuns at a convent, chanting the requiem for the -soul of a departed sister. - -“Perhaps gone to heaven!” exclaimed Matilda, as, affected by the -contrast, her guilty soul trembled. A chain of horrible racking -thoughts pressed upon her soul; and, unable to bear the acuteness of -her sensations, she hastily returned to the castella. - -Thus, marked only by the varying paroxysms of the passions which -consumed her, Matilda passed the time: her brain was confused, her -mind agitated by the ill success of her schemes, and her spirits, once -so light and buoyant, were now depressed by disappointed hope. - -“What shall I next concert?” was the mental inquiry of Matilda. “Ah! I -know not.” - -She suddenly started--she thought of Zastrozzi. - -“Oh! that I should have till now forgotten Zastrozzi,” exclaimed -Matilda, as a new ray of hope darted through her soul. “But he is now -at Naples, and some time must necessarily elapse before I can see him.” - -“Oh, Zastrozzi, Zastrozzi! would that you were here!” - -No sooner had she well arranged her resolutions, which before had been -confused by eagerness, than she summoned Ferdinand, on whose fidelity -she dared to depend, and bid him speed to Naples, and bear a letter, -with which he was entrusted, to Zastrozzi. - -Meanwhile Verezzi’s health, as the physician had predicted, was so -much improved by the warm climate and pure air of the Castella di -Laurentini, that, though yet extremely weak and emaciated, he was able, -as the weather was fine, and the summer evenings tranquil, to wander, -accompanied by Matilda, through the surrounding scenery. - -In this gloomy solitude, where, except the occasional and infrequent -visits of a father confessor, nothing occurred to disturb the uniform -tenour of their life, Verezzi was everything to Matilda--she thought of -him ever: at night, in dreams, his image was present to her enraptured -imagination. She was uneasy, except in his presence; and her soul, -shook by contending paroxysms of the passion which consumed her, was -transported by unutterable ecstasies of delirious and maddening love. - -Her taste for music was exquisite; her voice of celestial sweetness; -and her skill, as she drew sounds of soul-touching melody from the -harp, enraptured the mind to melancholy pleasure. - -The affecting expression of her voice, mellowed as it was by the -tenderness which at times stole over her soul, softened Verezzi’s -listening ear to ecstasy. - -Yet, again recovering from the temporary delight which her seductive -blandishments had excited, he thought of Julia. As he remembered her -ethereal form, her retiring modesty, and unaffected sweetness, a more -violent, a deeper pang of regret and sorrow assailed his bosom, for -having suffered himself to be even momentarily interested by Matilda. - -Hours, days passed lingering away. They walked in the evenings around -the environs of the castella--woods, dark and gloomy, stretched -far--cloud-capt mountains reared their gigantic summits high; and, -dashing amidst the jutting rocks, foaming cataracts, with sudden and -impetuous course, sought the valley below. - -Amid this scenery the wily Matilda usually led her victim. - -One evening when the moon, rising over the gigantic outline of the -mountain, silvered the far-seen cataract, Matilda and Verezzi sought -the forest. - -For a time neither spoke: the silence was uninterrupted, save by -Matilda’s sighs, which declared that violent and repressed emotions -tortured the bosom within. - -They silently advanced into the forest. The azure sky was spangled with -stars--not a wind agitated the unruffled air--not a cloud obscured the -brilliant concavity of heaven. They ascended an eminence, clothed with -towering wood; the trees around formed an amphitheatre. Beneath, by a -gentle ascent, an opening showed an immense extent of forest, dimly -seen by the moon, which overhung the opposite mountain. The craggy -heights beyond might distinctly be seen, edged by the beams of the -silver moon. - -Verezzi threw himself on the turf. - -“What a beautiful scene, Matilda!” he exclaimed. - -“Beautiful indeed,” returned Matilda. “I have admired it ever, and -brought you here this evening on purpose to discover whether you -thought of the works of nature as I do.” - -“Oh! fervently do I admire this,” exclaimed Verezzi, as, engrossed by -the scene before him, he gazed enraptured. - -“Suffer me to retire for a few minutes,” said Matilda. - -Without waiting for Verezzi’s answer, she hastily entered a small tuft -of trees. Verezzi gazed surprised; and soon sounds of such ravishing -melody stole upon the evening breeze, that Verezzi thought some spirit -of the solitude had made audible to mortal ears ethereal music. - -He still listened--it seemed to die away--and again a louder, a more -rapturous swell, succeeded. - -The music was in unison with the scene--it was in unison with Verezzi’s -soul: and the success of Matilda’s artifice, in this respect, exceeded -her most sanguine expectation. - -He still listened--the music ceased--and Matilda’s symmetrical form -emerging from the wood, roused Verezzi from his vision. - -He gazed on her--her loveliness and grace struck forcibly upon his -senses; her sensibility, her admiration of objects which enchanted him, -flattered him; and her judicious arrangement of the music left no doubt -in his mind but that, experiencing the same sensations herself, the -feelings of his soul were not unknown to her. - -Thus far everything went on as Matilda desired. To touch his feelings -had been her constant aim: could she find anything which interested -him; anything to divert his melancholy: or could she succeed in -effacing another from his mind, she had no doubt but that he would -quickly and voluntarily clasp her to his bosom. - -By affecting to coincide with him in everything--by feigning to -possess that congeniality of sentiment and union of idea which he -thought so necessary to the existence of love, she doubted not soon to -accomplish her purpose. - -But sympathy and congeniality of sentiment, however necessary to that -love which calms every fierce emotion, fills the soul with a melting -tenderness, and, without disturbing it, continually possesses the soul, -was by no means consonant to the ferocious emotions, the unconquerable -and ardent passion which revelled through Matilda’s every vein. - -When enjoying the society of him she loved, calm delight, unruffled -serenity, possessed not her soul. No--but, inattentive to every -object but him, even her proximity to him agitated her with almost -uncontrollable emotion. - -Whilst watching his look, her pulse beat with unwonted violence, her -breast palpitated, and, unconscious of it herself, an ardent and -voluptuous fire darted from her eyes. - -Her passion too, controlled as it was in the presence of Verezzi, -agitated her soul with progressively increasing fervour. Nursed by -solitude, and wound up, perhaps, beyond any pitch which another’s soul -might be capable of, it sometimes almost maddened her. - -Still, surprised at her own forbearance, yet strongly perceiving the -necessity of it, she spoke not again of her passion to Verezzi. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -At last the day arrived when Matilda expected Ferdinand’s return. -Punctual to his time, Ferdinand returned, and told Matilda that -Zastrozzi had, for the present, taken up his abode at a cottage not -far from thence, and that he there awaited her arrival. - -Matilda was much surprised that Zastrozzi preferred a cottage to her -castella; but, dismissing that from her mind, hastily prepared to -attend him. - -She soon arrived at the cottage. Zastrozzi met her--he quickened his -pace towards her. - -“Well, Zastrozzi,” exclaimed Matilda, inquiringly. - -“Oh!” said Zastrozzi, “our schemes have all, as yet, been unsuccessful. -Julia yet lives, and, surrounded by wealth and power, yet defies our -vengeance. I was planning her destruction, when, obedient to your -commands, I came here.” - -“Alas!” exclaimed Matilda, “I fear it must be ever thus: but, -Zastrozzi, much I need your advice--your assistance. Long have I -languished in hopeless love: often have I expected, and as often have -my eager expectations been blighted by disappointment.” - -A deep sigh of impatience burst from Matilda’s bosom, as, unable to -utter more, she ceased. - -“’Tis but the image of that accursed Julia,” replied Zastrozzi, -“revelling in his breast, which prevents him from becoming instantly -yours. Could you but efface that!” - -“I would I could efface it,” said Matilda: “the friendship which now -exists between us would quickly ripen into love, and I should be for -ever happy. How, Zastrozzi, can that be done? But, before we think of -happiness, we must have a care to our safety: we must destroy Julia, -who yet endeavours, by every means, to know the event of Verezzi’s -destiny. But, surrounded by wealth and power as she is, how can -that be done? No bravo in Naples dare attempt her life: no rewards, -however great, could tempt the most abandoned of men to brave instant -destruction, in destroying her; and should _we_ attempt it, the most -horrible tortures of the Inquisition, a disgraceful death, and that -without the completion of our desire, would be the consequence.” - -“Think not so, Matilda,” answered Zastrozzi; “think not, because Julia -possesses wealth, that she is less assailable by the dagger of one -eager for revenge as I am; or that, because she lives in splendour at -Naples, that a poisoned chalice, prepared by your hand, the hand of a -disappointed rival, could not send her writhing and convulsed to the -grave. No, no; she _can_ die, nor shall we writhe on the rack.” - -“Oh!” interrupted Matilda, “I care not, if, writhing in the prisons of -the Inquisition, I suffer the most excruciating torment; I care not if, -exposed to public view, I suffer the most ignominious and disgraceful -of deaths, if, before I die--if, before this spirit seeks another -world, I gain my purposed design, I enjoy unutterable, and, as yet, -inconceivable happiness.” - -The evening meanwhile came on, and, warned by the lateness of the hour -to separate, Matilda and Zastrozzi parted. - -Zastrozzi pursued his way to the cottage, and Matilda, deeply musing, -retraced her steps to the castella. - -The wind was fresh, and rather tempestuous: light fleeting clouds were -driven rapidly across the dark-blue sky. The moon, in silver majesty, -hung high in eastern ether, and rendered transparent as a celestial -spirit the shadowy clouds, which at intervals crossed her orbit, and by -degrees vanished like a vision in the obscurity of distant air. On this -scene gazed Matilda--a train of confused thought took possession of her -soul--her crimes, her past life, rose in array to her terror-struck -imagination. Still burning love, unrepressed, unconquerable passion, -revelled through every vein: her senses, rendered delirious by guilty -desire, were whirled around in an inexpressible ecstasy of anticipated -delight--delight, not unmixed by confused apprehensions. - -She stood thus with her arms folded, as if contemplating the spangled -concavity of heaven. - -It was late--later than the usual hour of return, and Verezzi had gone -out to meet Matilda. - -“What! deep in thought, Matilda?” exclaimed Verezzi, playfully. - -Matilda’s cheek, as he thus spoke, was tinged with a momentary blush; -it, however, quickly passed away, and she replied, “I was enjoying the -serenity of the evening, the beauty of the setting sun, and then the -congenial twilight induced me to wander farther than usual.” - -The unsuspicious Verezzi observed nothing peculiar in the manner of -Matilda; but, observing that the night air was chill, conducted her -back to the castella. No art was left untried, no blandishment omitted, -on the part of Matilda, to secure her victim. Everything which he -liked, she affected to admire: every sentiment uttered by Verezzi -was always anticipated by the observing Matilda; but long was all in -vain--long was every effort to obtain his love useless. - -Often, when she touched the harp, and drew sounds of enchanting melody -from its strings, whilst her almost celestial form bent over it, did -Verezzi gaze enraptured, and, forgetful of everything else, yielding -himself to a tumultuous oblivion of pleasure, listened entranced. - -But all her art could not draw Julia from his memory; he was much -softened towards Matilda; he felt esteem, tenderest esteem--but he yet -loved not. - -Thus passed the time. Often would desperation, and an idea that Verezzi -would never love her, agitate Matilda with most violent agony. The -beauties of nature which surrounded the castella had no longer power -to interest; borne away on swelling thought, often in the solitude of -her own apartment, her spirit was waited on the wings of anticipating -fancy. Sometimes imagination portrayed the most horrible images -for futurity; Verezzi’s hate, perhaps his total dereliction of her, -his union with Julia, pressed upon her brain, and almost drove her -to distraction, for Verezzi alone filled every thought; nourished -by restless reveries, the most horrible anticipations blasted the -blooming Matilda. Sometimes, however, a gleam of sense shot across her -soul, deceived by visions of unreal bliss, she acquired new courage, -and fresh anticipations of delight, from a beam which soon withdrew -its ray; for, usually sunk in gloom, her dejected eyes were fixed on -the ground; though sometimes an ardent expression, kindled by the -anticipation of gratified desire, flashed from their fiery orbits. - -Often, whilst thus agitated by contending emotions, her soul was shook, -and, unconscious of its intentions, knew not the most preferable plan -to pursue: would she seek Zastrozzi: on him, unconscious why, she -relied much--his words were those of calm reflection and experience; -and his sophistry, whilst it convinced her that a superior being exists -not, who can control our actions, brought peace to her mind--peace to -be succeeded by horrible and resistless conviction of the falsehood of -her coadjutor’s arguments; still, however, they calmed her; and, by -addressing her reason and passions at the same time, deprived her of -the power of being benefited by either. - -The health of Verezzi, meanwhile, slowly mended: his mind, however, -shook by so violent a trial as it had undergone, recovered not its -vigour, but, mellowed by time, his grief, violent and irresistible -as it had been at first, now became a fixed melancholy, which spread -itself over his features, was apparent in every action, and, by -resistance, inflamed Matilda’s passion to tenfold fury. - -The touching tenderness of Verezzi’s voice, the dejected softened -expression of his eye, touched her soul with tumultuous yet milder -emotions. In his presence she felt calmed; and those passions which, -in solitude, were almost too fierce for endurance, when with him were -softened into a tender though confused delight. - -It was one evening, when no previous appointment existed between -Matilda and Zastrozzi, that, overcome by disappointed passion, Matilda -sought the forest. - -The sky was unusually obscured, the sun had sunk beneath the western -mountain, and its departing ray tinged the heavy clouds with a red -glare. The rising blast sighed through the towering pines, which rose -loftily above Matilda’s head: the distant thunder, hoarse as the -murmurs of the grove, in indistinct echoes mingled with the hollow -breeze; the scintillating lightning flashed incessantly across her -path, as Matilda, heeding not the storm, advanced along the trackless -forest. - -The crashing thunder now rattled madly above, the lightnings flashed a -larger curve, and at intervals, through the surrounding gloom, showed a -scathed larch, which, blasted by frequent storms, reared its bare head -on a height above. - -Matilda sat upon a fragment of jutting granite, and contemplated the -storm which raged around her. The portentous calm, which at intervals -occurred amid the reverberating thunder, portentous of a more violent -tempest, resembled the serenity which spread itself over Matilda’s -mind--a serenity only to be succeeded by a fiercer paroxysm of passion. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Still sat Matilda upon the rock--she still contemplated the tempest -which raged around her. - -The battling elements paused: an uninterrupted silence, deep, dreadful -as the silence of the tomb, succeeded. Matilda heard a noise--footsteps -were distinguishable, and, looking up, a flash of vivid lightning -disclosed to her view the towering form of Zastrozzi. - -His gigantic figure was again involved in pitchy darkness, as the -momentary lightning receded. A peal of crashing thunder again -madly rattled over the zenith, and a scintillating flash announced -Zastrozzi’s approach, as he stood before Matilda. - -Matilda, surprised at his approach, started as he addressed her, and -felt an indescribable awe, when she reflected on the wonderful casualty -which, in this terrific and tempestuous hour, had led them to the same -spot. - -“Doubtless his feelings are violent and irresistible as mine: perhaps -_these_ led him to meet me here.” - -She shuddered as she reflected: but smothering the sensations of alarm -which she had suffered herself to be surprised by, she asked him what -had led him to the forest. - -“The same which led you here, Matilda,” returned Zastrozzi: “the -same influence which actuates us both, has doubtless inspired that -congeniality which, in this frightful storm, led us to the same spot.” - -“Oh!” exclaimed Matilda, “how shall I touch the obdurate Verezzi’s -soul? He still despises me--he declares himself to be devoted to the -memory of his Julia; and that although she be dead, he is not the less -devotedly hers. What can be done?” - -Matilda paused; and, much agitated, awaited Zastrozzi’s reply. - -Zastrozzi, meanwhile, stood collected in himself, and firm as the rocky -mountain which lifts its summit to heaven. - -“Matilda,” said he, “to-morrow evening will pave the way for that -happiness which your soul has so long panted for; if, indeed, the event -which will then occur does not completely conquer Verezzi. But the -violence of the tempest increases--let us seek shelter.” - -“Oh! heed not the tempest,” said Matilda, whose expectations were -raised to the extreme of impatience by Zastrozzi’s dark hints; “heed -not the tempest, but proceed, if you wish not to see me expiring at -your feet.” - -“You fear not the tumultuous elements--nor do I,” replied Zastrozzi. -“I assert again, that if to-morrow evening you lead Verezzi to this -spot--if, in the event which will here occur, you display that presence -of mind which I believe you to possess, Verezzi is yours.” - -“Ah! what do you say, Zastrozzi, that Verezzi will be mine?” inquired -Matilda, as the anticipation of inconceivable happiness dilated her -soul with sudden and excessive delight. - -“I say again, Matilda,” returned Zastrozzi, “that if you dare to brave -the dagger’s point--if you but make Verezzi owe his life to you----” - -Zastrozzi paused, and Matilda acknowledged her insight of his plan, -which her enraptured fancy represented as the basis of her happiness. - -“Could he, after she had, at the risk of her own life, saved his, -unfeelingly reject her? Would those noble sentiments, which the -greatest misfortunes were unable to extinguish, suffer that? No.” - -Full of these ideas, her brain confused by the ecstatic anticipation of -happiness which pressed upon it, Matilda retraced her footsteps towards -the castella. - -The violence of the storm which so lately had raged was passed--the -thunder, in low and indistinct echoes, now sounded through the chain -of rocky mountains, which stretched far to the north--the azure, and -almost cloudless ether, was studded with countless stars, as Matilda -entered the castella, and, as the hour was late, sought her own -apartment. - -Sleep fled not, as usual, from her pillow; but, overcome by excessive -drowsiness, she soon sank to rest. - -Confused dreams floated in her imagination, in which she sometimes -supposed that she had gained Verezzi; at others, that, snatched from -her ardent embrace, he was carried by an invisible power over rocky -mountains, or immense and untravelled heaths, and that, in vainly -attempting to follow him, she had lost herself in the trackless desert. - -Awakened from disturbed and unconnected dreams, she arose. - -The most tumultuous emotions of rapturous exultation filled her soul as -she gazed upon her victim, who was sitting at a window which overlooked -the waving forest. - -Matilda seated herself by him, and most enchanting, most pensive music, -drawn by her fingers from a harp, thrilled his soul with an ecstasy of -melancholy; tears rolled rapidly down his cheeks; deep drawn, though -gentle sighs heaved his bosom: his innocent eyes were mildly fixed -upon Matilda, and beamed with compassion for one whose only wish was -gratification of her own inordinate desires, and destruction to his -opening prospects of happiness. - -She, with a ferocious pleasure, contemplated her victim; yet, curbing -the passions of her soul, a meekness, a well-feigned sensibility, -characterised her downcast eye. - -She waited, with the smothered impatience of expectation, for the -evening: then had Zastrozzi affirmed that she would lay a firm -foundation for her happiness. - -Unappalled, she resolved to brave the dagger’s point: she resolved to -bleed; and though her life-blood were to issue at the wound, to dare -the event. - -The evening at last arrived; the atmosphere was obscured by vapour, and -the air more chill than usual; yet, yielding to the solicitations of -Matilda, Verezzi accompanied her to the forest. - -Matilda’s bosom thrilled with inconceivable happiness, as she advanced -towards the spot; her limbs, trembling with ecstasy, almost refused to -support her. Unwonted sensations--sensations she had never felt before, -agitated her bosom; yet, steeling her soul, and persuading herself that -celestial transports would be the reward of firmness, she fearlessly -advanced. - -The towering pine-trees waved in the squally wind--the shades of -twilight gained fast on the dusky forest--the wind died away, and a -deep, a gloomy silence reigned. - -They now had arrived at the spot which Zastrozzi had asserted would -be the scene of an event which might lay the foundation of Matilda’s -happiness. - -She was agitated by such violent emotions that her every limb trembled, -and Verezzi tenderly asked the reason of her alarm. - -“Oh, nothing, nothing!” returned Matilda; but, stung by more certain -anticipation of ecstasy by his tender inquiry, her whole frame -trembled with tenfold agitation, and her bosom was filled with more -unconquerable transport. - -On the right, the thick umbrage of the forest trees rendered -undistinguishable any one who might lurk _there_; on the left, a -frightful precipice yawned, at whose base a deafening cataract dashed -with tumultuous violence; around, misshapen and enormous masses of -rock; and beyond, a gigantic and blackened mountain, reared its craggy -summit to the skies. - -They advanced towards the precipice. Matilda stood upon the dizzy -height--her senses almost failed her, and she caught the branch of an -enormous pine which impended over the abyss. - -“How frightful a depth!” exclaimed Matilda. - -“Frightful indeed,” said Verezzi, as thoughtfully he contemplated the -terrific depth beneath. - -They stood for some time gazing on the scene in silence. - -Footsteps were heard--Matilda’s bosom thrilled with mixed sensations of -delight and apprehension, as, summoning all her fortitude, she turned -round. A man advanced towards them. - -“What is your business?” exclaimed Verezzi. - -“Revenge!” returned the villain, as, raising a dagger high, he essayed -to plunge it in Verezzi’s bosom, but Matilda lifted her arm, and the -dagger piercing it, touched not Verezzi. Starting forward, he fell to -the earth, and the ruffian instantly dashed into the thick forest. - -Matilda’s snowy arm was tinged with purple gore: the wound was painful, -but an expression of triumph flashed from her eyes, and excessive -pleasure dilated her bosom: the blood streamed fast from her arm, and -tinged the rock whereon they stood with a purple stain. - -Verezzi started from the ground, and seeing the blood which streamed -down Matilda’s garments, in accents of terror demanded where she was -wounded. - -“Oh! think not upon that,” she exclaimed, “but tell me--ah! tell me,” -said she, in a voice of well-feigned alarm, “are you wounded mortally? -Oh! what sensations of terror shook me, when I thought that the -dagger’s point, after having pierced my arm, had drunk your life-blood.” - -“Oh!” answered Verezzi, “I am not wounded; but let us haste to the -castella.” - -He then tore part of his vest, and with it bound Matilda’s arm. Slowly -they proceeded towards the castella. - -“What villain, Verezzi,” said Matilda, “envious of my happiness, -attempted his life, for whom I would ten thousand times sacrifice my -own? Oh! Verezzi, how I thank God, who averted the fatal dagger from -thy heart!” - -Verezzi answered not; but his heart, his feelings, were irresistibly -touched by Matilda’s behaviour. Such noble contempt of danger, so -ardent a passion, as to risk her life to preserve his, filled his -breast with a tenderness towards her; and he felt that he could now -deny her nothing, not even the sacrifice of the poor remains of his -happiness, should she demand it. - -Matilda’s breast meanwhile swelled with sensations of unutterable -delight: her soul, borne on the pinions of anticipated happiness, -flashed in triumphant glances from her fiery eyes. She could scarcely -forbear clasping Verezzi in her arms, and claiming him as her own; but -prudence, and a fear of in what manner a premature declaration of love -might be received, prevented her. - -They arrived at the castella, and a surgeon from the neighbouring -convent was sent for by Verezzi. - -The surgeon soon arrived, examined Matilda’s arm, and declared that -no unpleasant consequences could ensue. Retired to her own apartment, -those transports, which before had been allayed by Verezzi’s presence, -now unrestrained by reason, involved Matilda’s senses in an ecstasy of -pleasure. - -She threw herself on the bed, and, in all the exaggerated colours of -imagination, portrayed the transports which Zastrozzi’s artifice had -opened to her view. - -Visions of unreal bliss floated during the whole night in her -disordered fancy; her senses where whirled around in alternate -ecstasies of happiness and despair, as almost palpable dreams pressed -upon her disturbed brain. - -At one time she imagined that Verezzi, consenting to their union, -presented her his hand: that at her touch the flesh crumbled from it, -and, a shrieking spectre, he fled from her view: again, silvery clouds -floated across her sight, and unconnected, disturbed visions occupied -her imagination till the morning. - -Verezzi’s manner, as he met Matilda the following morning, was -unusually soft and tender; and in a voice of solicitude, he inquired -concerning her health. - -The roseate flush of animation which tinged her cheek, the triumphant -glance of animation which danced in her scintillating eye, seemed to -render the inquiry unnecessary. - -A dewy moisture filled her eyes, as she gazed with an expression of -tumultuous, yet repressed rapture upon the hapless Verezzi. - -Still did she purpose, in order to make her triumph more certain, to -protract the hour of victory; and, leaving her victim, wandered into -the forest to seek Zastrozzi. When she arrived at the cottage, she -learnt that he had walked forth.--She soon met him. - -“Oh! Zastrozzi--my best Zastrozzi!” exclaimed Matilda, “what a source -of delight have you opened to me! Verezzi is mine--oh! transporting -thought! will be mine for ever. That distant manner which he usually -affected towards me, is changed to a sweet, an ecstatic expression of -tenderness. Oh! Zastrozzi, receive my best, my most fervent thanks.” - -“Julia need not die then,” muttered Zastrozzi; “when once you possess -Verezzi, her destruction is of little consequence.” - -The most horrible scheme of revenge at this instant glanced across -Zastrozzi’s mind. - -“Oh! Julia must die,” said Matilda, “or I shall never be safe; such -an influence does her image possess over Verezzi’s mind, that I am -convinced, were he to know that she lived, an estrangement from me -would be the consequence. Oh! quickly let me hear that she is dead. I -can never enjoy uninterrupted happiness until her dissolution.” - -“What you have just pronounced is Julia’s death-warrant,” said -Zastrozzi, as he disappeared among the thick trees. - -Matilda returned to the castella. - -Verezzi, at her return, expressed a tender apprehension, lest, thus -wounded, she should have hurt herself by walking; but Matilda quieted -his fears, and engaged him in interesting conversation, which seemed -not to have for its object the seduction of his affection; though the -ideas conveyed by her expressions were so artfully connected with it, -and addressed themselves so forcibly to Verezzi’s feelings, that he -was convinced he ought to love Matilda, though he felt _that_ within -himself which, in spite of reason--in spite of reflection--told him -that it was impossible. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - The enticing smile, the modest-seeming eye, - Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying heaven, - Lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death. - - Thomson. - - -Still did Matilda’s blandishments--her unremitting attention--inspire -Verezzi with a softened tenderness towards her. He regarded her as one -who, at the risk of her own life, had saved his; who loved him with an -ardent affection, and whose affection was likely to be lasting: and -though he could not regard her with that enthusiastic tenderness with -which he even yet adored the memory of his Julia, yet he might esteem -her--faithfully esteem her--and felt not that horror at uniting himself -with her as formerly. But a conversation which he had with Julia -recurred to his mind: he remembered well, that when they had talked of -their speedy marriage, she had expressed an idea, that a union in this -life might endure to all eternity; and that the chosen of his heart on -earth, might, by congeniality of sentiment, be united in heaven. - -The idea was hallowed by the remembrance of his Julia; but chasing -it, as an unreal vision, from his mind, again his high sentiments of -gratitude prevailed. - -Lost in these ideas, involved in a train of thought, and unconscious -where his footsteps led him, he quitted the castella. His reverie was -interrupted by low murmurs, which seemed to float on the silence of the -forest; it was scarcely audible, yet Verezzi felt an undefinable wish -to know what it was. He advanced towards it--it was Matilda’s voice. - -Verezzi approached nearer, and from within heard her voice in -complaints. He eagerly listened. Her sobs rendered the words which in -passionate exclamations burst from Matilda’s lips, almost inaudible. He -still listened--a pause in the tempest of grief which shook Matilda’s -soul seemed to have taken place. - -“Oh! Verezzi--cruel, unfeeling Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, as a fierce -paroxysm of passion seized her brain--“will you thus suffer one who -adores you to linger in hopeless love, and witness the excruciating -agony of one who idolizes you, as I do, to madness?” - -As she spoke thus, a long-drawn sigh closed the sentence. - -Verezzi’s mind was agitated by various emotions as he stood; but -rushing in at last, [he] raised Matilda in his arms, and tenderly -attempted to comfort her. - -She started as he entered--she heeded not his words; but, seemingly -overcome by shame, cast herself at his feet, and hid her face in his -robe. - -He tenderly raised her, and his expressions convinced her that the -reward of all her anxiety was now about to be reaped. - -The most triumphant anticipation of transports to come filled her -bosom; yet, knowing it to be necessary to dissemble--knowing that a -shameless claim on his affections would but disgust Verezzi, she said: - -“Oh! Verezzi, forgive me: supposing myself to be alone--supposing no -one overheard the avowal of the secret of my soul, with which, believe -me, I never more intended to have importuned you, what shameless -sentiments--shameless even in solitude--have I not given vent to. I -can no longer conceal, that the passion with which I adore you is -unconquerable, irresistible; but, I conjure you, think not upon what -you have this moment heard to my disadvantage; nor despise a weak -unhappy creature, who feels it impossible to overcome the fatal passion -which consumes her. - -“Never more will I give vent, even in solitude, to my love--never more -shall the importunities of the hapless Matilda reach your ears. To -conquer a passion fervent, tender as mine is impossible.” - -As she thus spoke, Matilda, seemingly overcome by shame, sank upon the -turf. - -A sentiment stronger than gratitude, more ardent than esteem, and more -tender than admiration, softened Verezzi’s heart as he raised Matilda. -Her symmetrical form shone with tenfold loveliness to his heated fancy; -inspired with sudden fondness, he cast himself at her feet. - -A Lethean torpor crept upon his senses; and, as he lay prostrate before -Matilda, a total forgetfulness of every former event of his life swam -in his dizzy brain. In passionate exclamations he avowed unbounded love. - -“Oh Matilda! dearest, angelic Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “I -am even now unconscious what blinded me--what kept me from -acknowledging my adoration of thee!--adoration never to be changed by -circumstances--never effaced by time.” - -The fire of voluptuous, of maddening love scorched his veins, as he -caught the transported Matilda in his arms, and, in accents almost -inarticulate with passion, swore eternal fidelity. - -“And accept my oath of everlasting allegiance to thee, adored -Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda; “accept my vows of eternal, indissoluble -love.” - -Verezzi’s whole frame was agitated by unwonted and ardent emotions. He -called Matilda his wife--in the delirium of sudden fondness, he clasped -her to his bosom--“and though love like ours,” exclaimed the infatuated -Verezzi, “wants not the vain ties of human laws, yet, that our love -may want not any sanction which could possibly be given to it, let -immediate orders be given for the celebration of our union.” - -Matilda exultingly consented; never had she experienced sensations -of delight like these: the feelings of her soul flushed in exulting -glances from her fiery eyes. Fierce, transporting triumph filled her -soul as she gazed on her victim, whose mildly-beaming eyes were now -characterised by a voluptuous expression. Her heart beat high with -transport: and as they entered the castella, the swelling emotions of -her bosom were too tumultuous for utterance. - -Wild with passion, she clasped Verezzi to her beating breast; and, -overcome by an ecstasy of delirious passion, her senses were whirled -round in confused and inexpressible delight. A new and fierce passion -raged likewise in Verezzi’s breast; he returned her embrace with -ardour, and clasped her in fierce transports. - -But the adoration with which he now regarded Matilda, was a different -sentiment from that chaste and mild emotion which had characterised his -love for Julia: that passion, which he had fondly supposed would end -but with his existence, was effaced by the arts of another. - -Now was Matilda’s purpose attained--the next day would behold her his -bride--the next day would behold her fondest purpose accomplished. - -With the most eager impatience, the fiercest anticipation of transport, -did she wait for its arrival. - -Slowly passed the day, and slowly did the clock toll each lingering -hour as it rolled away. - -The following morning at last arrived: Matilda arose from a sleepless -couch--fierce, transporting triumph flashed from her eyes as she -embraced her victim. He returned it--he called her his dear and -ever-beloved spouse; and, in all the transports of maddening love, -declared his impatience for the arrival of the monk who was to unite -them. Every blandishment--every thing which might dispel reflection, -was this day put in practice by Matilda. - -The monk at last arrived: the fatal ceremony--fatal to the peace of -Verezzi--was performed. - -A magnificent feast had been previously arranged: every luxurious -viand, every expensive wine, which might contribute to heighten -Matilda’s triumph, was present in profusion. - -Matilda’s joy, her soul-felt triumph, was too great for utterance--too -great for concealment. The exultation of her inmost soul flashed in -expressive glances from her scintillating eyes, expressive of joy -intense--unutterable. - -Animated with excessive delight, she started from the table, and -seizing Verezzi’s hand, in a transport of inconceivable bliss, dragged -him in wild sport and varied movements to the sound of swelling and -soul touching melody. - -“Come, my Matilda,” at last exclaimed Verezzi, “come, I am weary of -transport--sick with excess of unutterable pleasure: let us retire, and -retrace in dreams the pleasures of the day.” - -Little did Verezzi think that this day was the basis of his future -misery; little did he think that, amid the roses of successful and -licensed voluptuousness, regret, horror, and despair would arise, to -blast the prospects which, Julia being forgot, appeared so fair, so -ecstatic. - -The morning came. Inconceivable emotions--inconceivable to those -who have never felt them--dilated Matilda’s soul with an ecstasy -of inexpressible bliss; every barrier to her passion was thrown -down--every opposition conquered; still was her bosom the scene of -fierce and contending passions. - -Though in possession of every thing which her fancy had portrayed with -such excessive delight, she was far from feeling that innocent and calm -pleasure which soothes the soul, and, calming each violent emotion, -fills it with a serene happiness. No--_her_ brain was whirled around in -transports; fierce, confused transports of visionary and unreal bliss: -though her every pulse, her every nerve, panted with the delight of -gratified and expectant desire; still was she not happy: she enjoyed -not that tranquillity which is necessary to the existence of happiness. - -In this temper of mind, for a short period she left Verezzi, as she had -appointed a meeting with her coadjutor in wickedness. - -She soon met him. - -“I need not ask,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, “for well do I see, in those -triumphant glances, that Verezzi is thine; that the plan which we -concerted when last we met, has put you in possession of that which -your soul panted for.” - -“Oh! Zastrozzi!” said Matilda,--“kind, excellent Zastrozzi; what words -can express the gratitude which I feel towards you--what words can -express the bliss, exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice? -yet still, amid the roses of successful love--amid the ecstasies of -transporting voluptuousness--fear, blighting chilly fear, damps my -hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed Julia’s image, is -the phantom which scares my otherwise certain confidence of eternal -delight: could she but be hurled to destruction--could some other -artifice of my friend sweep her from the number of the living----” - -“’Tis enough, Matilda,” interrupted Zastrozzi; “’tis enough: in six -days hence meet me here; meanwhile, let not any corroding anticipations -destroy your present happiness; fear not; but, on the arrival of your -faithful Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you wish -to enjoy for ever.” - -Thus saying, Zastrozzi departed, and Matilda retraced her steps to her -castella. - -Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had so long -panted--amid the embraces of him whom she had fondly supposed alone -to constitute all terrestrial happiness, racking, corroding thoughts -possessed Matilda’s bosom. - -Deeply musing on schemes of future delight--delight established by -the gratification of most diabolical revenge, her eyes fixed upon the -ground, heedless what path she pursued, Matilda advanced along the -forest. - -A voice aroused her from her reverie--it was Verezzi’s--the well-known, -the tenderly-adored tone, struck upon her senses forcibly; she started, -and hastening towards him, soon allayed those fears which her absence -had excited in the fond heart of her spouse, and on which account he -had anxiously quitted the castella to search for her. - -Joy, rapturous, ecstatic happiness, untainted by fear, unpolluted by -reflection, reigned for six days in Matilda’s bosom. - -Five days passed away, the sixth arrived, and, when the evening came, -Matilda, with eager and impatient steps, sought the forest. - -The evening was gloomy, dense vapours overspread the air; the wind, low -and hollow, sighed mournfully in the gigantic pine-trees, and whispered -in low hissings among the withered shrubs which grew on the rocky -prominences. - -Matilda waited impatiently for the arrival of Zastrozzi. At last his -towering form emerged from an interstice in the rocks. - -He advanced towards her. - -“Success! Victory! my Matilda,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, in an accent of -exultation--“Julia is----” - -“You need add no more,” interrupted Matilda: “kind, excellent -Zastrozzi, I thank thee; but yet do say how you destroyed her--tell me -by what racking, horrible torments you launched her soul into eternity. -Did she perish by the dagger’s point? or did the torments of poison -send her, writhing in agony, to the tomb?” - -“Yes,” replied Zastrozzi; “she fell at my feet, overpowered by -resistless convulsions. Who more ready than myself to restore the -Marchesa’s fleeted senses--who more ready than myself to account -for her fainting, by observing, that the heat of the assembly had -momentarily overpowered her? But Julia’s senses were fled for ever; -and it was not until the swiftest gondola in Venice had borne me far -towards your castella, that _il consiglio di dieci_ searched for, -without discovering the offender. - -“Here I must remain; for, were I discovered, the fatal consequences to -us both are obvious. Farewell for the present,” added he; “meanwhile, -happiness attend you; but go not to Venice.” - -“Where have you been so late, my love?” tenderly inquired Verezzi as -she returned. “I fear lest the night air, particularly that of so damp -an evening as this, might affect your health.” - -“No, no, my dearest Verezzi, it has not,” hesitatingly answered Matilda. - -“You seem pensive, you seem melancholy, my Matilda,” said Verezzi; “lay -open your heart to me. I am afraid something, of which I am ignorant, -presses upon your bosom. Is it the solitude of this remote castella -which represses the natural gaiety of your soul? Shall we go to Venice?” - -“Oh! no, no!” hastily and eagerly interrupted Matilda: “not to -Venice--we must not go to Venice.” - -Verezzi was slightly surprised, but imputing her manner to -indisposition, it passed off. - -Unmarked by events of importance, a month passed away. Matilda’s -passion, unallayed by satiety, unconquered by time, still raged with -its former fierceness--still was every earthly delight centred in -Verezzi; and in the air-drawn visions of her imagination, she portrayed -to herself that this happiness would last for ever. - -It was one evening that Verezzi and Matilda sat, happy in the society -of each other, that a servant entering, presented the latter with a -sealed paper. - -The contents were: “Matilda Contessa di Laurentini is summoned to -appear before the Holy Inquisition--to appear before its tribunal, -immediately on the receipt of this summons.” - -Matilda’s cheek, as she read it, was blanched with terror. The -summons--the fatal, irresistible summons, struck her with chilly awe. -She attempted to thrust it into her bosom; but, unable to conceal her -terror, she assayed to rush from the apartment--but it was in vain: her -trembling limbs refused to support her, and she sank fainting on the -floor. - -Verezzi raised her--he restored her fleeting senses; he cast himself -at her feet, and in the tenderest, most pathetic accents, demanded the -reason of her alarm. “And if,” said he, “it is any thing of which I -have unconsciously been guilty--if it is any thing in my conduct which -has offended you, oh! how soon, how truly would I repent. Dearest -Matilda, I adore you to madness: tell me then quickly--confide in one -who loves you as I do.” - -“Rise, Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda, in a tone expressive of serene -horror: “and since the truth can no longer be concealed, peruse that -letter.” - -She presented him the fatal summons. He eagerly snatched it; breathless -with impatience, he opened it. But what words can express the -consternation of the affrighted Verezzi, as the summons, mysterious -and inexplicable to him, pressed upon his straining eyeball? For an -instant he stood fixed in mute and agonizing thought. At last, in the -forced serenity of despair, he demanded what was to be done. - -Matilda answered not: for her soul, borne on the pinions of -anticipation, at that instant portrayed to itself ignominious and -agonizing dissolution. - -“What is to be done?” again, in a deeper tone of despair, demanded -Verezzi. - -“We must instantly to Venice,” returned Matilda, collecting her -scattered faculties; “we must to Venice; there, I believe, we may be -safe. But in some remote corner of the city we must for the present fix -our habitation; we must condescend to curtail our establishment; and -above all, we must avoid particularity. But will my Verezzi descend -from the rank of life in which his birth has placed him, and with the -outcast Matilda’s fortunes quit grandeur?” - -“Matilda! dearest Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not thus; you know -I am ever yours; you know I love you, and with you, could conceive a -cottage elysium.” - -Matilda’s eyes flashed with momentary triumph as Verezzi spoke thus, -amid the alarming danger which impended her: under the displeasure of -the inquisition, whose motives for prosecution are inscrutable, whose -decrees are without appeal, her soul, in the possession of all it held -dear on earth, secure of Verezzi’s affection, thrilled with pleasurable -emotions, yet not unmixed with alarm. - -She now prepared to depart. Taking, therefore, out of all her -domestics, but the faithful Ferdinand, Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi, -although the evening was far advanced, threw herself into a chariot, -and leaving every one at the castella unacquainted with her intentions, -took the road through the forest which led to Venice. - -The convent bell, almost inaudible from distance, tolled ten as the -carriage slowly ascended a steep which rose before it. - -“But how do you suppose, my Matilda,” said Verezzi, “that it will be -possible for us to evade the scrutiny of the inquisition?” - -“Oh!” returned Matilda, “we must not appear in our true characters--we -must disguise them.” - -“But,” inquired Verezzi, “what crime do you suppose the inquisition to -allege against you?” - -“Heresy, I suppose,” said Matilda. “You know an enemy has nothing to do -but lay an accusation of heresy against any unfortunate and innocent -individual, and the victim expires in horrible tortures, or lingers the -wretched remnant of his life in dark and solitary cells.” - -A convulsive sigh heaved Verezzi’s bosom. - -“And is that then to be my Matilda’s destiny?” he exclaimed in horror. -“No--Heaven will never permit such excellence to suffer.” - -Meanwhile they had arrived at the Brenta. The Brenta’s stream glided -silently beneath the midnight breeze towards the Adriatic. - -Towering poplars, which loftily raised their spiral forms on its bank, -cast a gloomier shade upon the placid wave. - -Matilda and Verezzi entered a gondola, and the grey tints of -approaching morn had streaked the eastern ether, before they entered -the Grand Canal at Venice; and passing the Rialto, proceeded onwards to -a small, though not inelegant mansion, in the eastern suburbs. - -Everything here, though not grand, was commodious; and as they entered -it, Verezzi expressed his approbation of living here retired. - -Seemingly secure from the scrutiny of the inquisition, Matilda and -Verezzi passed some days of uninterrupted happiness. - -At last, one evening, Verezzi, tired even with monotony of ecstasy, -proposed to Matilda to take the gondola, and go to a festival which was -to be celebrated at St. Mark’s Place. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -The evening was serene. Fleecy clouds floated on the horizon--the -moon’s full orb, in cloudless majesty, hung high in air, and was -reflected in silver brilliancy by every wave of the Adriatic, as, -gently agitated by the evening breeze, they dashed against innumerable -gondolas which crowded the Laguna. - -Exquisite harmony, borne on the pinions of the tranquil air, floated -in varying murmurs; it sometimes died away, and then again swelling -louder, in melodious undulations, softened to pleasure every listening -ear. - -Every eye which gazed on the fairy scene beamed with pleasure; -unrepressed gaiety filled every heart but Julia’s, as, with a vacant -stare, unmoved by feelings of pleasure, unagitated by the gaiety -which filled every other soul, she contemplated the varied scene. -A magnificent gondola carried the Marchesa di Strobazzo; and the -innumerable flambeaux which blazed around her rivalled the meridian sun. - -It was the pensive, melancholy Julia, who, immersed in thought, sat -unconscious of every external object, whom the fierce glance of Matilda -measured with a haughty expression of surprise and revenge. The dark -fire which flashed from her eye, more than told the feelings of her -soul, as she fixed it on her rival; and had it possessed the power of -the basilisk’s, Julia would have expired on the spot. - -It was the ethereal form of the now forgotten Julia which first -caught Verezzi’s eye. For an instant he gazed with surprise upon her -symmetrical figure, and was about to point her out to Matilda, when, in -the downcast countenance of the enchanting female, he recognised his -long-lost Julia. - -To paint the feelings of Verezzi--as Julia raised her head from -the attitude in which it was fixed, and disclosed to his view that -countenance which he had formerly gazed on in ecstasy, the index of -that soul to which he had sworn everlasting fidelity--is impossible. - -The Lethean torpor, as it were, which before had benumbed him; the -charm, which had united him to Matilda, was dissolved. - -All the air-built visions of delight, which had but a moment before -floated in gay variety in his enraptured imagination, faded away, and, -in place of these, regret, horror, and despairing repentance, reared -their heads amid the roses of momentary voluptuousness. - -He still gazed entranced, but Julia’s gondola, indistinct from -distance, mocked his straining eyeball. - -For a time neither spoke: the gondola rapidly passed onwards, but, -immersed in thought, Matilda and Verezzi heeded not its rapidity. - -They had arrived at St. Mark’s Place, and the gondolier’s voice, as he -announced it, was the first interruption of the silence. - -They started.--Verezzi now, for the first time, aroused from his -reverie of horror, saw that the scene before him was real; and that the -oaths of fidelity which he had so often and so fervently sworn to Julia -were broken. - -The extreme of horror seized his brain--a frigorific torpidity of -despair chilled every sense, and his eyes, fixedly, gazed on vacancy. - -“Oh! return--instantly return!” impatiently replied Matilda to the -question of the gondolier. - -The gondolier, surprised, obeyed her, and they returned. - -The spacious canal was crowded with gondolas; merriment and splendour -reigned around; enchanting harmony stole over the scene; but, listless -of the music, heeding not the splendour, Matilda sat lost in a maze of -thought. - -Fiercest vengeance revelled through her bosom, and, in her own mind, -she resolved a horrible purpose. - -Meanwhile, the hour was late, the moon had gained the zenith, and -poured her beams vertically on the unruffled Adriatic, when the gondola -stopped before Matilda’s mansion. - -A sumptuous supper had been prepared for their return. Silently Matilda -entered--silently Verezzi followed. - -Without speaking, Matilda seated herself at the supper-table; Verezzi, -with an air of listlessness, threw himself into a chair beside her. - -For a time neither spoke. - -“You are not well to-night,” at last stammered out Verezzi: “what has -disturbed you?” - -“Disturbed me!” repeated Matilda: “why do you suppose that any thing -has disturbed me?” - -A more violent paroxysm of horror seemed now to seize Verezzi’s brain. -He pressed his hand to his burning forehead--the agony of his mind -was too great to be concealed--Julia’s form, as he had last seen her, -floated in his fancy, and, overpowered by the resistlessly horrible -ideas which pressed upon them, his senses failed him: he faintly -uttered Julia’s name--he sank forward, and his throbbing temples -reclined on the table. - -“Arise! awake! prostrate, perjured Verezzi, awake!” exclaimed the -infuriate Matilda, in a tone of gloomy horror. - -Verezzi started up, and gazed with surprise upon the countenance of -Matilda, which, convulsed by passion, flashed desperation and revenge. - -“’Tis plain,” said Matilda, gloomily, “’tis plain, he loves me not.” - -A confusion of contending emotions battled in Verezzi’s bosom: his -marriage vow--his faith plighted to Matilda--convulsed his soul with -indescribable agony. - -Still did she possess a great empire over his soul--still was her frown -terrible--and still did the hapless Verezzi tremble at the tones of -her voice, as, in a frenzy of desperate passion, she bade him quit her -for ever: “And,” added she, “go, disclose the retreat of the outcast -Matilda to her enemies; deliver me to the inquisition, that a union -with her you detest may fetter you no longer.” - -Exhausted by breathless agitation, Matilda ceased: the passions of her -soul flashed from her eyes; ten thousand conflicting emotions battled -in Verezzi’s bosom: he knew scarce what to do; but, yielding to the -impulse of the moment, he cast himself at Matilda’s feet, and groaned -deeply. - -At last the words, “I am ever yours, I ever shall be yours,” escaped -his lips. - -For a time Matilda stood immovable. At last she looked on Verezzi; she -gazed downwards upon his majestic and youthful figure, she looked upon -his soul-illumined countenance, and tenfold love assailed her softened -soul. She raised him--in an oblivious delirium of sudden fondness -she clasped him to her bosom, and, in wild and hurried expressions, -asserted her right to his love. - -Her breast palpitated with fiercest emotions; she pressed her burning -lips to his; most fervent, most voluptuous sensations of ecstasy -revelled through her bosom. - -Verezzi caught the infection; in an instant of oblivion, every oath -of fidelity which he had sworn to another, like a baseless cloud, -dissolved away; a Lethean torpor crept over his senses; he forgot -Julia, or remembered her only as an uncertain vision, which floated -before his fancy more as an ideal being of another world, whom he might -hereafter adore there, than as an enchanting and congenial female, to -whom his oaths of eternal fidelity had been given. - -Overcome by unutterable transports of returning bliss, she started -from his embrace--she seized his hand--her face was overspread with a -heightened colour as she pressed it to her lips. - -“And are you then mine--mine for ever?” rapturously exclaimed Matilda. - -“Oh! I am thine--thine to all eternity,” returned the infatuated -Verezzi: “no earthly power shall sever us; joined by congeniality of -soul, united by a bond to which God himself bore witness.” - -He again clasped her to his bosom--again, as an earnest of fidelity, -imprinted a fervent kiss on her glowing cheek; and, overcome by -the violent and resistless emotions of the moment, swore, that nor -heaven nor hell should cancel the union which he here solemnly and -unequivocally renewed. - -Verezzi filled an overflowing goblet. - -“Do you love me?” inquired Matilda. - -“May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore thee not to -distraction! may I be plunged in endless torments, if my love for thee, -celestial Matilda, endures not for ever!” - -Matilda’s eyes flashed fiercest triumph; the exultingly delightful -feelings of her soul were too much for utterance--she spoke not, but -gazed fixedly on Verezzi’s countenance. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - “That no compunctious visitings of nature - Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between - The effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts, - And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers, - Wherever, in your sightless substances, - Ye wait on nature’s mischief.”--Macbeth. - - -Verezzi raised the goblet which he had just filled, and exclaimed, in -an impassioned tone-- - -“My adored Matilda! this is to thy happiness--this is to thy every -wish; and if I cherish a single thought which centres not in thee, -may the most horrible tortures which ever poisoned the peace of man, -drive me instantly to distraction. God of heaven! witness thou my oath, -and write it in letters never to be erased! Ministering spirits, who -watch over the happiness of mortals, attend! for here I swear eternal -fidelity, indissoluble, unalterable affection to Matilda!” - -He said--he raised his eyes towards heaven--he gazed upon Matilda. -Their eyes met--hers gleamed with a triumphant expression of unbounded -love. - -Verezzi raised the goblet to his lips--when, lo! on a sudden, he -dashed it to the ground--his whole frame was shook by horrible -convulsions--his glaring eyes, starting from their sockets, rolled -wildly around: seized with sudden madness, he drew a dagger from his -girdle, and with fellest intent raised it high---- - -What phantom blasted Verezzi’s eyeball! what made the impassioned -lover dash a goblet to the ground, which he was about to drain as a -pledge of eternal love to the choice of his soul! and why did he, -infuriate, who had, but an instant before, imagined Matilda’s arms an -earthly paradise, attempt to rush unprepared into the presence of his -Creator!--It was the mildly-beaming eyes of the lovely but forgotten -Julia, which spoke reproaches to the soul of Verezzi--it was her -celestial countenance, shaded by dishevelled ringlets, which spoke -daggers to the false one; for, when he had raised the goblet to his -lips--when, sublimed by the maddening fire of voluptuousness to the -height of enthusiastic passion, he swore indissoluble fidelity to -another--Julia stood before him! - -Madness--fiercest madness--revelled through his brain. He raised -the poniard high, but Julia rushed forwards, and, in accents of -distinction, in a voice of alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare -himself--to spare her--for all might yet be well. - -“Oh! never, never!” exclaimed Verezzi, frantically; “no peace but in -the grave for me.----I am--I am--married to Matilda.” - -Saying this, he fell backwards upon a sofa, in strong convulsions, yet -his hand still grasped the fatal poniard. - -Matilda, meanwhile, fixedly contemplated the scene. Fiercest passions -raged through her breast--vengeance, disappointed love--disappointed in -the instant too when she had supposed happiness to be hers for ever, -rendered her bosom the scene of wildest anarchy. - -Yet she spoke not--she moved not--but, collected in herself, stood -waiting the issue of that event, which had so unexpectedly dissolved -her visions of air-built ecstasy. - -Serened to firmness from despair, Julia administered everything which -could restore Verezzi with the most unremitting attention. At last he -recovered. He slowly raised himself, and starting from the sofa where -he lay, his eyes rolling wildly, and his whole frame convulsed by -fiercest agitation, he raised the dagger which he still retained, and, -with a bitter smile of exultation, plunged it into his bosom! His soul -fled without a groan, and his body fell to the floor, bathed in purple -blood. - -Maddened by this death-blow to all anticipation of happiness, -Matilda’s faculties, as she stood, whirled in wild confusion: she -scarce knew where she was. - -At last, a portentous, a frightful calm, spread itself over her soul. -Revenge, direst revenge, swallowed up every other feeling. Her eyes -scintillated with a fiend-like expression. She advanced to the lifeless -corse of Verezzi--she plucked the dagger from his bosom--it was stained -with his life’s blood, which trickled fast from the point to the floor. -She raised it on high, and impiously called upon the God of nature to -doom her to endless torments, should Julia survive her vengeance. - -She advanced towards her victim, who lay bereft of sense on the floor: -she shook her rudely, and grasping a handful of her dishevelled hair, -raised her from the earth. - -“Knowest thou me?” exclaimed Matilda, in frantic passion--“knowest thou -the injured Laurentini? Behold this dagger, reeking with my husband’s -blood--behold that pale corse, in whose now cold breast thy accursed -image revelling, impelled to commit the deed which deprives me of -happiness for ever.” - -Julia’s senses, roused by Matilda’s violence, returned. She cast her -eyes upwards, with a timid expression of apprehension, and beheld the -infuriate Matilda convulsed by fiercest passion, and a blood-stained -dagger raised aloft, threatening instant death. - -“Die! detested wretch,” exclaimed Matilda, in a paroxysm of rage, as -she violently attempted to bathe the stiletto in the life-blood of her -rival; but Julia starting aside, the weapon slightly wounded her neck, -and the ensanguined stream stained her alabaster bosom. - -She fell on the floor, but suddenly starting up, attempted to escape -her bloodthirsty persecutor. - -Nerved anew by this futile attempt to escape her vengeance, the -ferocious Matilda seized Julia’s floating hair, and holding her back -with fiend-like strength, stabbed her in a thousand places; and, with -exulting pleasure, again and again buried the dagger to the hilt in her -body, even after all remains of life were annihilated. - -At last the passions of Matilda, exhausted by their own violence, -sank into a deadly calm; she threw the dagger violently from her, and -contemplated the terrific scene before her with a sullen gaze. - -Before her, in the arms of death, lay him on whom her hopes of -happiness seemed to have formed so firm a basis. - -Before her lay her rival, pierced with innumerable wounds, whose head -reclined on Verezzi’s bosom, and whose angelic features, even in death, -a smile of affection pervaded. - -There she herself stood, an isolated guilty being. A fiercer paroxysm -of passion now seized her: in an agony of horror, too great to be -described, she tore her hair in handfuls--she blasphemed the power who -had given her being, and imprecated eternal torments upon the mother -who had borne her. - -“And is it for this,” added the ferocious Matilda--“is it for horror, -for torments such as these, that He, whom monks call all-merciful, has -created me?” - -She seized the dagger which lay on the floor. - -“Ah, friendly dagger,” she exclaimed, in a voice of fiend-like horror, -“would that thy blow produced annihilation! with what pleasure then -would I clasp thee to my heart!” - -She raised it high--she gazed on it--the yet warm blood of the innocent -Julia trickled from its point. - -The guilty Matilda shrunk at death--she let fall the upraised -dagger--her soul had caught a glimpse of the misery which awaits the -wicked hereafter, and, spite of her contempt of religion--spite of her, -till now, too firm dependence on the doctrines of atheism, she trembled -at futurity; and a voice from within, which whispers, “thou shalt -never die!” spoke daggers to Matilda’s soul. - -Whilst thus she stood entranced in a delirium of despair, the night -wore away, and the domestic who attended her, surprised at the unusual -hour to which they had prolonged the banquet, came to announce the -lateness of the hour; but opening the door, and perceiving Matilda’s -garments stained with blood, she started back with affright, without -knowing the full extent of horror which the chamber contained, and -alarmed the other domestics with an account that Matilda had been -stabbed. - -In a crowd they all came to the door, but started back in terror when -they saw Verezzi and Julia stretched lifeless on the floor. - -Summoning fortitude from despair, Matilda loudly called for them to -return: but fear and horror overbalanced her commands, and, wild with -affright, they all rushed from the chamber, except Ferdinand, who -advanced to Matilda, and demanded an explanation. - -Matilda gave it, in few and hurried words. - -Ferdinand again quitted the apartment, and told the credulous -domestics, that an unknown female had surprised Verezzi and Matilda; -that she had stabbed Verezzi, and then committed suicide. - -The crowd of servants, as in mute terror they listened to Ferdinand’s -account, entertained not a doubt of the truth. Again and again they -demanded an explanation of the mysterious affair, and employed their -wits in conjecturing what might be the cause of it; but the more -they conjectured, the more were they puzzled; till at last, a clever -fellow named Pietro, who, hating Ferdinand on account of the superior -confidence with which his lady treated him, and supposing more to be -concealed in this affair than met the ear, gave information to the -police, and, before morning, Matilda’s dwelling was surrounded by a -party of officials belonging to il Consiglio di dieci. - -Loud shouts rent the air as the officials attempted the entrance. -Matilda still was in the apartment where, during the night, so bloody -a tragedy had been acted: still in speechless horror was she extended -on the sofa, when a loud rap at the door aroused the horror-tranced -wretch. She started from the sofa in wildest perturbation, and listened -attentively. Again was the noise repeated, and the officials rushed in. - -They searched every apartment; at last they entered that in which -Matilda, motionless with despair, remained. - -Even the stern officials, hardy, unfeeling as they were, started -back with momentary horror as they beheld the fair countenance of -the murdered Julia; fair even in death, and her body disfigured with -numberless ghastly wounds. - -“This cannot be suicide,” muttered one, who by his superior manner, -seemed to be their chief, as he raised the fragile form of Julia -from the ground, and the blood, scarcely yet cold, trickled from her -vestments. - -“Put your orders in execution,” added he. - -Two officials advanced towards Matilda, who, standing apart with -seeming tranquillity, awaited their approach. - -“What wish you with me?” exclaimed Matilda haughtily. - -The officials answered not; but their chief, drawing a paper from his -vest, which contained an order for the arrest of Matilda La Contessa di -Laurentini, presented it to her. - -She turned pale; but, without resistance, obeyed the mandate, and -followed the officials in silence to the canal, where a gondola waited, -and in a short time she was in the gloomy prisons of il Consiglio di -dieci. - -A little straw was the bed of the haughty Laurentini; a pitcher of -water and bread was her sustenance; gloom, horror, and despair pervaded -her soul; all the pleasures which she had but yesterday tasted; all the -ecstatic blisses which her enthusiastic soul had painted for futurity, -like the unreal vision of a dream, faded away; and, confined in a damp -and narrow cell, Matilda saw that all her hopes of future delight would -end in speedy and ignominious dissolution. - -Slow passed the time--slow did the clock at St. Mark’s toll the -revolving hours as languidly they passed away. - -Night came on, and the hour of midnight struck upon Matilda’s soul as -her death knell. - -A noise was heard in the passage which led to the prison. - -Matilda raised her head from the wall against which it was reclined, -and eagerly listened, as if in expectation of an event which would seal -her future fate. She still gazed, when the chains of the entrance were -unlocked. The door, as it opened, grated harshly on its hinges, and two -officials entered. - -“Follow me,” was the laconic injunction which greeted her terror-struck -ear. - -Trembling, Matilda arose: her limbs, stiffened by confinement, almost -refused to support her; but collecting fortitude from desperation, she -followed the relentless officials in silence. - -One of them bore a lamp, whose rays, darting in uncertain columns, -showed, by strong contrasts of light and shade, the extreme massiness -of the passages. - -The Gothic frieze above was worked with art; and the corbels, in -various and grotesque forms, jutted from the tops of clustered -pilasters. - -They stopped at a door. Voices were heard from within: their hollow -tones filled Matilda’s soul with unconquerable tremors. But she -summoned all her resolution--she resolved to be collected during -the trial; and even, if sentenced to death, to meet her fate with -fortitude, that the populace, as they gazed, might not exclaim--“The -poor Laurentini dared not to die.” - -These thoughts were passing in her mind during the delay which was -occasioned by the officials conversing with another whom they met there. - -At last they ceased--an uninterrupted silence reigned: the immense -folding doors were thrown open, and disclosed to Matilda’s view a vast -and lofty apartment. In the centre was a table, which a lamp, suspended -from the centre, overhung, and where two stern-looking men, habited in -black vestments, were seated. - -Scattered papers covered the table, with which the two men in black -seemed busily employed. - -Two officials conducted Matilda to the table where they sat, and, -retiring, left her there. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - “Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have; - Thou art the torturer of the brave.” - Marmion. - - -One of the inquisitors raised his eyes; he put back the papers which he -was examining, and in a solemn tone asked her name. - -“My name is Matilda; my title La Contessa di Laurentini,” haughtily she -answered; “nor do I know the motive for that inquiry, except it were to -exult over my miseries, which you are, I suppose, no stranger to.” - -“Waste not your time,” exclaimed the inquisitor, sternly, “in making -idle conjectures upon our conduct; but do you know for what you are -summoned here?” - -“No,” replied Matilda. - -“Swear that you know not for what crime you are here imprisoned,” said -the inquisitor. - -Matilda took the oath required. As she spoke, a dewy sweat burst from -her brow, and her limbs were convulsed by the extreme of horror, yet -the expression of her countenance was changed not. - -“What crime have you committed which might subject you to the notice of -this tribunal?” demanded he, in a determined tone of voice. - -Matilda gave no answer, save a smile of exulting scorn. She fixed her -regards upon the inquisitor: her dark eyes flashed fiercely, but she -spoke not. - -“Answer me,” exclaimed he, “what to confess might save both of us -needless trouble.” - -Matilda answered not, but gazed in silence upon the inquisitor’s -countenance. - -He stamped thrice--four officials rushed in, and stood at some distance -from Matilda. - -“I am unwilling,” said the inquisitor, “to treat a female of high birth -with indignity; but, if you confess not instantly, my duty will not -permit me to withhold the question.” - -A deeper expression of contempt shaded Matilda’s beautiful countenance: -she frowned, but answered not. - -“You will persist in this foolish obstinacy?” exclaimed the inquisitor. -“Officials, do your duty.” - -Instantly the four, who till now had stood in the background, rushed -forwards: they seized Matilda, and bore her into the obscurity of the -apartment. - -Her dishevelled ringlets floated in negligent luxuriance over her -alabaster bosom: her eyes, the contemptuous glance of which had now -given way to a confused expression of alarm, were almost closed; and -her symmetrical form, as borne away by the four officials, looked -interestingly lovely. - -The other inquisitor, who, till now, busied by the papers which lay -before him, had heeded not Matilda’s examination, raised his eyes, -and, beholding the form of a female, with a commanding tone of voice, -called to the officials to stop. - -Submissively they obeyed his order. Matilda, released from the fell -hands of these relentless ministers of justice, advanced to the table. - -Her extreme beauty softened the inquisitor who had spoken last. He -little thought that, under a form so celestial, so interesting, lurked -a heart depraved, vicious as a demon’s. - -He therefore mildly addressed her; and telling her that, on some future -day, her examination would be renewed, committed her to the care of the -officials, with orders to conduct her to an apartment better suited to -her rank. - -The chamber to which she followed the officials was spacious and well -furnished, but large iron bars secured the windows, which were high, -and impossible to be forced. - -Left again to solitude, again to her own gloomy thoughts--her -retrospection but horror and despair--her hopes of futurity none--her -fears many and horrible---Matilda’s situation is better conceived than -described. - -Floating in wild confusion, the ideas which presented themselves to her -imagination were too horrible for endurance. - -Deprived, as she was, of all earthly happiness, fierce as had been her -passion for Verezzi, the disappointment of which sublimed her brain to -the most infuriate delirium of resistless horror, the wretched Matilda -still shrunk at death--she shrunk at the punishment of those crimes, -in whose perpetration no remorse had touched her soul, for which, even -now, she repented not, but as they had deprived her of terrestrial -enjoyments. - -She thought upon the future state--she thought upon the arguments -of Zastrozzi against the existence of a Deity: her inmost soul now -acknowledged their falsehood, and she shuddered as she reflected that -her condition was irretrievable. - -Resistless horror revelled through her bosom: in an intensity of -racking thought she rapidly paced the apartment; at last, overpowered, -she sank upon a sofa. - -At last the tumultuous passions, exhausted by their own violence, -subsided: the storm, which so lately had agitated Matilda’s soul, -ceased: a serene calm succeeded, and sleep quickly overcame her -faculties. - -Confused visions flitted in Matilda’s imagination whilst under the -influence of sleep; at last they assumed a settled shape. - -Strangely brilliant and silvery clouds seemed to flit before her sight: -celestial music, enchanting as the harmony of the spheres, serened -Matilda’s soul, and, for an instant, her situation forgotten, she lay -entranced. - -On a sudden the music ceased; the azure concavity of heaven seemed -to open at the zenith, and a being, whose countenance beamed with -unutterable beneficence, descended. - -It seemed to be clothed in a transparent robe of flowing silver: -its eye scintillated with superhuman brilliancy, whilst her dream, -imitating reality almost to exactness, caused the entranced Matilda to -suppose that it addressed her in these words:-- - -“Poor sinning Matilda! repent, it is not yet too late.--God’s mercy is -unbounded. Repent! and thou mayest yet be saved.” - -These words yet tingled in Matilda’s ears; yet were her eyes lifted to -heaven, as if following the visionary phantom who had addressed her in -her dream, when, much confused, she arose from the sofa. - -A dream, so like reality, made a strong impression upon Matilda’s soul. - -The ferocious passions, which so lately had battled fiercely in her -bosom, were calmed: she lifted her eyes to heaven: they beamed with -an expression of sincerest penitence; for sincerest penitence at this -moment, agonised whilst it calmed Matilda’s soul. - -“God of mercy! God of heaven!” exclaimed Matilda; “my sins are many and -horrible, but I repent.” - -Matilda knew not how to pray; but God, who from the height of heaven -penetrates the inmost thoughts of terrestrial hearts, heard the outcast -sinner, as in tears of true and agonising repentance, she knelt before -him. - -She despaired no longer. She confided in the beneficence of her -Creator; and, in the hour of adversity, when the firmest heart must -tremble at his power, no longer a hardened sinner, demanded mercy. And -mercy, by the All-benevolent of heaven, is never refused to those who -humbly, yet trusting in his goodness, ask it. - -Matilda’s soul was filled with a celestial tranquillity. She remained -upon her knees in mute and fervent thought: she prayed; and, with -trembling, asked forgiveness of her Creator. - -No longer did that agony of despair torture her bosom. True, she was -ill at ease: remorse for her crimes deeply affected her; and though her -hopes of salvation were great, her belief in God and a future state -firm, the heavy sighs which burst from her bosom, showed that the -arrows of repentance had penetrated deeply. - -Several days passed away, during which the conflicting passions of -Matilda’s soul, conquered by penitence, were mellowed into a fixed and -quiet depression. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - Si fractus illabatur orbis, - Impavidum ferient ruinæ. - Horace. - - -At last the day arrived, when, exposed to a public trial, Matilda was -conducted to the tribunal of il Consiglio di Dieci. - -The inquisitors were not, as before, at a table in the middle of the -apartment; but a sort of throne was raised at one end, on which a -stern-looking man, whom she had never seen before, sat: a great number -of Venetians were assembled, and lined all sides of the apartment. - -Many, in black vestments, were arranged behind the superior’s throne; -among whom Matilda recognised those who had before examined her. - -Conducted by two officials, with a faltering step, a pallid cheek, and -downcast eye, Matilda advanced to that part of the chamber where sat -the superior. - -The dishevelled ringlets of her hair floated unconfined over her -shoulders: her symmetrical and elegant form was enveloped in a thin -white robe. - -The expression of her sparkling eyes was downcast and humble; yet, -seemingly unmoved by the scene before her, she remained in silence at -the tribunal. - -The curiosity and pity of every one, as they gazed on the loveliness of -the beautiful culprit, was strongly excited. - -“Who is she? who is she?” ran in inquiring whispers round the -apartment. No one could tell. - -Again deep silence reigned--not a whisper interrupted the appalling -calm. - -At last the superior, in a sternly solemn voice, said-- - -“Matilda Contessa di Laurentini, you are here arraigned on the murder -of La Marchesa di Strobazzo: canst thou deny it? canst thou prove to -the contrary? My ears are open to conviction. Does no one speak for the -accused?” - -He ceased: uninterrupted silence reigned. Again he was about--again, -with a look of detestation and horror, he had fixed his penetrating eye -upon the trembling Matilda, and had unclosed his mouth to utter the -fatal sentence, when his attention was arrested by a man who rushed -from the crowd, and exclaimed, in a hurried tone-- - -“La Contessa di Laurentini is innocent.” - -“Who are you, who dare assert that?” exclaimed the superior, with an -air of doubt. - -“I am,” answered he, “Ferdinand Zeilnitz, a German, the servant of La -Contessa di Laurentini, and I dare assert that she is innocent.” - -“Your proof,” exclaimed the superior, with a severe frown. - -“It was late,” answered Ferdinand, “when I entered the apartment, and -then I beheld two bleeding bodies, and La Contessa di Laurentini, who -lay bereft of sense on the sofa.” - -“Stop!” exclaimed the superior. - -Ferdinand obeyed. - -The superior whispered to one in black vestments, and soon four -officials entered, bearing on their shoulders an open coffin. - -The superior pointed to the ground: the officials deposited their -burden, and produced, to the terror-struck eyes of the gazing -multitude, Julia, the lovely Julia, covered with innumerable and -ghastly gashes. - -All present uttered a cry of terror--all started, shocked and amazed, -from the horrible sight; yet some, recovering themselves, gazed at the -celestial loveliness of the poor victim to revenge, which, unsubdued by -death, still shone from her placid features. - -A deep-drawn sigh heaved Matilda’s bosom; tears, spite of all her -firmness, rushed into her eyes; and she had nearly fainted with dizzy -horror; but, overcoming it, and collecting all her fortitude, she -advanced towards the corse of her rival, and, in the numerous wounds -which covered it, saw the fiat of her future destiny. - -She still gazed on it--a deep silence reigned--not one of the -spectators, so interested were they, uttered a single word--not a -whisper was heard through the spacious apartment. - -“Stand off! guilt-stained, relentless woman,” at last exclaimed the -superior fiercely: “is it not enough that you have persecuted, through -life, the wretched female who lies before you--murdered by you? Cease, -therefore, to gaze on her with looks as if your vengeance was yet -insatiated. But retire, wretch: officials, take her into your custody; -meanwhile, bring the other prisoner.” - -Two officials rushed forward, and led Matilda to some distance from -the tribunal: four others entered, leading a man of towering height -and majestic figure. The heavy chains with which his legs were bound -rattled as he advanced. - -Matilda raised her eyes--Zastrozzi stood before her. - -She rushed forwards--the officials stood unmoved. - -“Oh Zastrozzi!” she exclaimed--“dreadful, wicked has been the tenor -of our lives; base, ignominious, will be its termination: unless -we repent, fierce, horrible, may be the eternal torments which -will rack us, ere four-and-twenty hours are elapsed. Repent then, -Zastrozzi; repent! and as you have been my companion in apostasy from -virtue, follow me likewise in dereliction of stubborn and determined -wickedness.” - -This was pronounced in a low and faltering voice. - -“Matilda,” replied Zastrozzi, whilst a smile of contemptuous atheism -played over his features--“Matilda, fear not: fate wills us to die: and -I intend to meet death, to encounter annihilation, with tranquillity. -Am I not convinced of the non-existence of a Deity? am I not convinced -that death will but render this soul more free, more unfettered? Why -need I then shudder at death? why need any one, whose mind has risen -above the shackles of prejudice, the errors of a false and injurious -superstition.” - -Here the superior interposed, and declared he could allow private -conversation no longer. - -Quitting Matilda, therefore, Zastrozzi, unappalled by the awful scene -before him, unshaken by the near approach of agonising death, which -he now fully believed he was about to suffer, advanced towards the -superior’s throne. - -Every one gazed on the lofty stature of Zastrozzi, and admired his -dignified mien and dauntless composure, even more than they had the -beauty of Matilda. - -Every one gazed in silence, and expected that some extraordinary charge -would be brought against him. - -The name of Zastrozzi, pronounced by the superior, had already broken -the silence, when the culprit, gazing disdainfully on his judge, told -him to be silent, for he would spare him much needless trouble. - -“I am a murderer,” exclaimed Zastrozzi; “I deny it not: I buried my -dagger in the heart of him who injured me; but the motives which led me -to be an assassin were at once excellent and meritorious: for I swore, -at a loved mother’s death-bed, to avenge her betrayer’s falsehood. - -“Think you that whilst I perpetrated the deed I feared the punishment? -or whilst I revenged a parent’s cause, that the futile torments which I -am doomed to suffer here, had any weight in my determination? No--no. -If the vile deceiver, who brought my spotless mother to a tomb of -misery, fell beneath the dagger of one who swore to revenge her--if I -sent him to another world, who destroyed the peace of one I loved more -than myself in this, am I to be blamed?” - -Zastrozzi ceased, and with an expression of scornful triumph, folded -his arms. - -“Go on!” exclaimed the superior. - -“Go on! go on!” echoed from every part of the immense apartment. - -He looked around him. His manner awed the tumultuous multitude; and, -in uninterrupted silence, the spectators gazed upon the unappalled -Zastrozzi, who, towering as a demi-god, stood in the midst. - -“Am I then called upon,” said he, “to disclose things which bring -painful remembrances to my mind? Ah, how painful! But no matter; you -shall know the name of him who fell beneath this arm: you shall know -him, whose memory, even now, I detest more than I can express. I care -not who knows my actions, convinced as I am, and convinced to all -eternity as I shall be, of their rectitude. Know then, that Olivia -Zastrozzi was my mother; a woman in whom every virtue, every amiable -and excellent quality, I firmly believe to have been centred. - -“The father of him, who, by my arts committed suicide but six days ago -in La Contessa di Laurentini’s mansion, took advantage of a moment of -weakness, and disgraced her who bore me. He swore, with the most sacred -oaths, to marry her--but he was false. - -“My mother soon brought me into the world. The seducer married another; -and, when the destitute Olivia begged a pittance to keep her from -starving, her proud betrayer spurned her from his door, and tauntingly -bade her exercise her profession. ‘The crime I committed with thee, -perjured one!’ exclaimed my mother, as she left his door, ‘shall be -my last!’--and, by heavens! she acted nobly. A victim to falsehood, -she sank early to the tomb; and, ere her thirtieth year, she died--her -spotless soul fled to eternal happiness. Never shall I forget--though -but fourteen when she died--never shall I forget her last commands. -‘My son,’ said she, ‘my Pietrino, revenge my wrongs--revenge them on -the perjured Verezzi--revenge them on his progeny for ever!’ - -“And, by heaven! I think I have revenged them. Ere I was twenty-four, -the false villain, though surrounded by seemingly impenetrable -grandeur; though forgetful of the offence to punish which this arm was -nerved, sank beneath my dagger. But I destroyed his _body_ alone,” -added Zastrozzi, with a terrible look of insatiated vengeance: “time -has taught me better: his son’s _soul_ is hell-doomed to all eternity: -he destroyed himself; but my machinations, though unseen, effected his -destruction. - -“Matilda di Laurentini! Hah! why do you shudder? When, with repeated -stabs, you destroyed her who now lies lifeless before you in her -coffin, did you not reflect upon what must be your fate? You have -enjoyed him whom you adored--you have even been married to him--and, -for the space of more than a month, have tasted unutterable joys; and -yet you are unwilling to pay the price of your happiness--by heavens, I -am not!” added he, bursting into a wild laugh. “Ah, poor fool, Matilda, -did you think it was from friendship I instructed you to gain Verezzi? -No, no--it was revenge which induced me to enter into your schemes with -zeal; which induced me to lead her whose lifeless form lies yonder, -to your house, foreseeing the effect it would have upon the strong -passions of your husband. - -“And now,” added Zastrozzi, “I have been candid with you. Judge, pass -your sentence--but I know my doom; and, instead of horror, experience -some degree of satisfaction at the arrival of death, since all I have -to do on earth is completed.” - -Zastrozzi ceased; and, unappalled, fixed his expressive gaze upon the -superior. - -Surprised at Zastrozzi’s firmness, and shocked at the crimes of which -he had made so unequivocal an avowal, the superior turned away in -horror. - -Still Zastrozzi stood unmoved, and fearlessly awaited the fiat of his -destiny. - -The superior whispered to one in black vestments. Four officials rushed -in, and placed Zastrozzi on the rack. - -Even whilst writhing under the agony of almost insupportable torture -his nerves were stretched, Zastrozzi’s firmness failed him not; but, -upon his soul-illumined countenance, played a smile of most disdainful -scorn--and, with a wild, convulsive laugh of exulting revenge, he died. - - -THE END. - - - - -ST. IRVYNE; - -OR, - -_THE ROSICRUCIAN_: - -A ROMANCE. - -BY - -A GENTLEMAN - -OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. - -_LONDON_: -Printed for J. J. Stockdale, -41, Pall Mall. -1811. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -ST. IRVYNE; - -OR, - -_THE ROSICRUCIAN_. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirlwind, -floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon: the -rising fierceness of the blast sighed through the stunted shrubs, -which, bending before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon -they grew: over the blackened expanse of heaven, at intervals, -was spread the blue lightning’s flash; it played upon the granite -heights, and, with momentary brilliancy, disclosed the terrific -scenery of the Alps, whose gigantic and misshapen summits, reddened -by the transitory moonbeam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments -of the tempest-cloud. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, and -the thunder-peals, with louder and more deafening crash, to shake -the zenith, till the long-protracted war echoing from cavern to -cavern, died, in indistinct murmurs, amidst the far-extended chain -of mountains. In this scene, then, at this horrible and tempestuous -hour, without one existent earthly being whom he might claim as -friend, without one resource to which he might fly as an asylum from -the horrors of neglect and poverty, stood Wolfstein;--he gazed upon -the conflicting elements; his youthful figure reclined against a -jutting granite rock; he cursed his wayward destiny, and implored the -Almighty of Heaven to permit the thunderbolt, with crash terrific -and exterminating, to descend upon his head, that a being useless to -himself and to society might no longer, by his existence, mock Him -who ne’er made aught in vain. “And what so horrible crimes have I -committed,” exclaimed Wolfstein, driven to impiety by desperation; -“what crimes which merit punishment like this? What, what is death? Ah, -dissolution! thy pang is blunted by the hard hand of long-protracted -suffering--suffering unspeakable, indescribable!” As thus he spoke, -a more terrific paroxysm of excessive despair revelled through every -vein; his brain swam around in wild confusion, and, rendered delirious -by excess of misery, he started from his flinty seat, and swiftly -hastened towards the precipice, which yawned widely beneath his feet. -“For what then should I longer drag on the galling chain of existence?” -cried Wolfstein; and his impious expression was borne onwards by the -hot and sulphurous thunder-blast. - -The midnight meteors danced above the gulf upon which Wolfstein -wistfully gazed. Palpable, impenetrable darkness seemed to hang upon -it; impenetrable even by the flaming thunderbolt. “Into this then -shall I plunge myself?” soliloquized the wretched outcast, “and by one -rash act endanger, perhaps, eternal happiness;--deliver myself up, -perhaps, to the anticipation and experience of never-ending torments? -Art thou the God then, the Creator of the universe, whom canting -monks call the God of mercy and forgiveness, and sufferest thou thy -creatures to become the victims of tortures such as fate has inflicted -on me? Oh, God! take my soul; why should I longer live?” Thus having -spoken, he sank on the rocky bosom of the mountains. Yet, unheeding the -exclamations of the maddened Wolfstein, fiercer raged the tempest. -The battling elements, in wild confusion, seemed to threaten nature’s -dissolution; the ferocious thunderbolt, with impetuous violence, -danced upon the mountains, and, collecting more terrific strength, -severed gigantic rocks from their else eternal basements; the masses, -with sound more frightful than the bursting thunder-peal, dashed -towards the valley below. Horror and desolation marked their track. -The mountain-rills, swoln by the waters of the sky, dashed with direr -impetuosity from the Alpine summits; their foaming waters were hidden -in the darkness of midnight, or only became visible when the momentary -scintillations of the lightning rested on their whitened waves. Fiercer -still than nature’s wildest uproar were the feelings of Wolfstein’s -bosom; his frame, at last, conquered by the conflicting passions of -his soul, no longer was adequate to sustain the unequal contest, but -sank to the earth. His brain swam wildly, and he lay entranced in total -insensibility. - -What torches are those that dispel the distant darkness of midnight, -and gleam, like meteors, athwart the blackness of the tempest? They -throw a wavering light over the thickness of the storm: they wind along -the mountains: they pass the hollow valleys. Hark! the howling of the -blast has ceased,--the thunderbolts have dispersed, but yet reigns -darkness. Distant sounds of song are borne on the breeze; the sounds -approach. A low bier holds the remains of one whose soul is floating -in the regions of eternity: a black pall covers him. Monks support -the lifeless clay: others precede, bearing torches, and chanting a -requiem for the salvation of the departed one. They hasten towards the -convent of the valley, there to deposit the lifeless limbs of one who -has explored the frightful path of eternity before them. And now they -had arrived where lay Wolfstein: “Alas!” said one of the monks, “there -reclines a wretched traveller. He is dead; murdered, doubtlessly, by -the fell bandits who infest these wild recesses.” - -They raised from the earth his form: yet his bosom throbbed with the -tide of life: returning animation once more illumed his eye: he started -on his feet, and wildly inquired why they had awakened him from that -slumber which he had hoped to have been eternal. Unconnected were his -expressions, strange and impetuous the fire darting from his restless -eyeballs. At length, the monks succeeded in calming the desperate -tumultuousness of his bosom, calming at least in some degree; for he -accepted their proffered tenders of a lodging, and essayed to lull to -sleep, for awhile, the horrible idea of dereliction which pressed upon -his loaded brain. - -While thus they stood, loud shouts rent the air, and, before Wolfstein -and the monks could well collect their scattered faculties, they found -that a troop of Alpine bandits had surrounded them. Trembling, from -apprehension, the monks fled every way. None, however, could escape. -“What! old grey-beards,” cried one of the robbers, “do you suppose -that we will permit you to evade us: you who feed upon the strength of -the country, in idleness and luxury, and have compelled many of our -noble fellows, who otherwise would have been ornaments to their country -in peace, thunderbolts to their enemies in war, to seek precarious -subsistence as Alpine bandits? If you wish for mercy, therefore, -deliver unhesitatingly your joint riches.” The robbers then despoiled -the monks of whatever they might adventitiously have taken with them, -and, turning to Wolfstein, the apparent chieftain told him to yield his -money likewise. Unappalled, Wolfstein advanced towards them. The chief -held a torch; its red beams disclosed the expression of stern severity -and unyielding loftiness which sate upon the brow of Wolfstein. -“Bandit,” he answered fearlessly, “I have none,--no money--no hope--no -friends; nor do I care for existence! Now judge if such a man be a fit -victim for fear! No! I never trembled!” - -A ray of pleasure gleamed in the countenance of the bandit as Wolfstein -spoke. Grief, in inerasible traces, sate deeply implanted on the front -of the outcast. At last, the chief, advancing to Wolfstein, who stood -at some little distance, said, “My companions think that so noble a -fellow as you appear to be, would be no unworthy member of our society; -and, by Heaven, I am of their opinion. Are you willing to become one of -us?” - -Wolfstein’s dark gaze was fixed upon the ground: his contracted eyebrow -evinced deep thought: he started from his reverie, and, without -hesitation, consented to their proposal. - -Long was it past the hour of midnight when the banditti troop, with -their newly-acquired associate, advanced along the pathless Alps. -The red glare of the torches which each held, tinged the rocks and -pine-trees, through woods of which they occasionally passed, and alone -dissipated the darkness of night. Now had they arrived at the summit -of a wild and rocky precipice, but the base indeed of another which -mingled its far-seen and gigantic outline with the clouds of heaven. A -door, which before had appeared part of the solid rock, flew open at -the chieftain’s touch, and the whole party advanced into the spacious -cavern. Over the walls of the lengthened passages putrefaction had -spread a bluish clamminess; damps hung around, and, at intervals, -almost extinguished the torches, whose glare was scarcely sufficient -to dissipate the impenetrable obscurity. After many devious windings -they advanced into the body of the cavern: it was spacious and -lofty. A blazing wood fire threw its dubious rays upon the misshapen -and ill-carved walls. Lamps suspended from the roof, dispersed the -subterranean gloom, not so completely however, but that ill-defined -shades lurked in the arched distances, whose hollow recesses led to -different apartments. - -The gang had sate down in the midst of the cavern to supper, which -a female, whose former loveliness had left scarce any traces on her -cheek, had prepared. The most exquisite and expensive wines apologised -for the rusticity of the rest of the entertainment, and induced freedom -of conversation, and wild, boisterous merriment, which reigned until -the bandits, overcome by the fumes of the wine which they had drunk, -sank to sleep. Wolfstein, left again to solitude and silence, reclining -on his mat in a corner of the cavern, retraced, in mental, sorrowing -review, the past events of his life: ah! that eventful existence whose -fate had dragged the heir of a wealthy potentate in Germany from the -lap of luxury and indulgence, to become a vile associate of viler -bandits, in the wild and trackless deserts of the Alps. Around their -dwellings, lofty inaccessible acclivities reared their barren summits; -they echoed to no sound save the wild hoot of the night-raven, or the -impatient yelling of the vulture, which hovered on the blast in quest -of scanty sustenance. These were the scenes without: noisy revelry and -tumultuous riot reigned within. The mirth of the bandits appeared to -arise independently of themselves; their hearts were void and dreary. -Wolfstein’s limbs pillowed on the flinty bosom of the earth: those -limbs which had been wont to recline on the softest, the most luxurious -sofas. Driven from his native country by an event which imposed upon -him an insuperable barrier to ever again returning thither, possessing -no friends, not having one single resource from which he might obtain -support, where could the wretch, the exile, seek for an asylum but with -those whose fortunes, expectations, and characters were desperate, and -marked as darkly, by fate, as his own? - -Time fled, and each succeeding day inured Wolfstein more and more to -the idea of depriving his fellow-creatures of their possessions. In a -short space of time the high-souled and noble Wolfstein, though still -high-souled and noble, became an experienced bandit. His magnanimity -and courage, even whilst surrounded by the most threatening dangers, -and the unappalled expression of countenance with which he defied -the dart of death, endeared him to the robbers; whilst with him they -all asserted that they felt, as it were, instinctively impelled to -deeds of horror and danger, which, otherwise, must have remained -unattempted even by the boldest. His was every daring expedition, -his the scheme which demanded depth of judgment and promptness of -execution. Often, whilst at midnight the band lurked perhaps beneath -the overhanging rocks, which were gloomily impended above them, in -the midst, perhaps, of one of those horrible tempests whereby the -air, in those Alpine regions, is so frequently convulsed, would the -countenance of the bandits betray some slight shade of alarm and awe; -but that of Wolfstein was fixed, unchanged, by any variation of scenery -or action. One day it was when the chief communicated to the banditti -notice which he had received by means of spies, that an Italian Count -of immense wealth was journeying from Paris to his native country, and, -at a late hour the following evening, would pass the Alps near this -place; “They have but few attendants,” added he, “and those few will -not come this way; the postilion is in our interest, and the horses are -to be overcome with fatigue when they approach the destined spot: you -understand.” - -The evening came. “I,” said Wolfstein, “will roam into the country, but -will return before the arrival of our wealthy victim.” Thus saying, he -left the cavern, and wandered out amidst the mountains. - -It was autumn. The mountain-tops, the scattered oaks which occasionally -waved their lightning-blasted heads on the summits of the far-seen -piles of rock, were gilded by the setting glory of the sun; the trees, -yellowed by the waning year, reflected a glowing teint from their thick -foliage; and the dark pine-groves which were stretched half-way up the -mountain sides, added a more deepened gloom to the shades of evening, -which already began to gather rapidly above the scenery. - -It was at this dark and silent hour, that Wolfstein, unheeding the -surrounding objects,--objects which might have touched with awe, or -heightened to devotion, any other breast,--wandered alone--pensively -he wandered--dark images for futurity possessed his soul: he shuddered -when he reflected upon what had passed; nor was his present situation -calculated to satisfy a mind eagerly panting for liberty and -independence. Conscience too, awakened conscience, upbraided him for -the life which he had selected, and, with silent whisperings, stung his -soul to madness. Oppressed by thoughts such as these, Wolfstein yet -proceeded, forgetful that he was to return before the arrival of their -destined victim--forgetful indeed was he of every external existence; -and, absorbed in himself, with arms folded, and eyes fixed upon the -earth, he yet advanced. At last he sank on a mossy bank, and, guided by -the impulse of the moment, inscribed on a tablet the following lines; -for the inaccuracy of which, the perturbation of him who wrote them, -may account; he thought of past times while he marked the paper with-- - - ’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; - One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; - Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, - Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,-- - They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. - - ’Twas then that I started!--the wild storm was howling. - Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky; - Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, - And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by. - - My heart sank within me: unheeded the war - Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke; - Unheeded the thunder-peal crash’d in mine ear-- - This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; - But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. - - ’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, - The ghost of the murder’d Victoria strode; - In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding, - She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. - I wildly then call’d on the tempest to bear me---- - - -Overcome by the wild retrospection of ideal horror, which these -swiftly-written lines excited in his soul, Wolfstein tore the paper, -on which he had written them, to pieces, and scattered them about -him. He arose from his recumbent posture, and again advanced through -the forest. Not far had he proceeded, ere a mingled murmur broke upon -the silence of night--it was the sound of human voices. An event so -unusual in these solitudes, excited Wolfstein’s momentary surprise; -he started, and looking around him, essayed to discover whence those -sounds proceeded. What was the astonishment of Wolfstein, when he found -that a detached party, who had been sent in pursuit of the Count, had -actually overtaken him, and, at this instant, were dragging from the -carriage the almost lifeless form of a female, whose light symmetrical -figure, as it leant on the muscular frame of the robber who supported -it, afforded a most striking contrast. They had, before his arrival, -plundered the Count of all his riches, and, enraged at the spirited -defence which he had made, had inhumanly murdered him, and cast his -lifeless body adown the yawning precipice. Transfixed by a jutting -point of granite rock, it remained there to be devoured by the ravens. -Wolfstein joined the banditti; and, although he could not recall the -deed, lamented the wanton cruelty which had been practised upon the -Count. As for the female, whose grace and loveliness made so strong an -impression upon him, he demanded that every soothing attention should -be paid to her, and his desire was enforced by the commands of the -chief, whose dark eye wandered wildly over the beauties of the lovely -Megalena de Metastasio, as if he had secretly destined them for himself. - -At last they arrived at the cavern; every resource which the cavern -of a gang of lawless and desperate villains might afford, was -brought forward to restore the fainted Megalena to life: she soon -recovered--she slowly opened her eyes, and started with surprise to -behold herself surrounded by a rough set of desperadoes, and the gloomy -walls of the cavern, upon which darkness hung, awfully visible. Near -her sate a female, whose darkened expression of countenance seemed -perfectly to correspond with the horror prevalent throughout the -cavern; her face, though bearing the marks of an undeniable expression -of familiarity with wretchedness, had some slight remains of beauty. - -It was long past midnight when each of the robbers withdrew to repose. -But his mind was too much occupied by the events of the evening to -allow the unhappy Wolfstein to find quiet;--at an early hour he rose -from his sleepless couch, to inhale the morning breeze. The sun had but -just risen; the scene was beautiful; everything was still, and seemed -to favour that reflection, which even propinquity to his abandoned -associates imposed no indefinably insuperable bar to. In spite of his -attempts to think upon other subjects, the image of the fair Megalena -floated in his mind. Her loveliness had made too deep an impression -on it to be easily removed; and the hapless Wolfstein, ever the -victim of impulsive feeling, found himself bound to her by ties, more -lasting than he had now conceived the transitory tyranny of woe could -have imposed. For never had Wolfstein beheld so singularly beautiful -a form;--her figure cast in the mould of most exact symmetry; her -blue and love-beaming eyes, from which occasionally emanated a wild -expression, seemingly almost superhuman; and the auburn hair which hung -in unconfined tresses down her damask cheek--formed a resistless _tout -ensemble_. - -Heedless of every external object, Wolfstein long wandered. The -protracted sound of the bandits’ horn struck at last upon his ear, and -aroused him from his reverie. On his return to the cavern, the robbers -were assembled at their meal; the chief regarded him with marked and -jealous surprise as he entered, but made no remark. They then discussed -their uninteresting and monotonous topics, and the meal being ended, -each villain departed on his different business. - -Megalena, finding herself alone with Agnes (the only woman, save -herself, who was in the cavern, and who served as an attendant on the -robbers), essayed, by the most humble entreaties and supplications, to -excite pity in her breast: she conjured her to explain the cause for -which she was thus imprisoned, and wildly inquired for her father. The -guilt-bronzed brow of Agnes was contracted by a sullen and malicious -frown: it was the only reply which the inhuman female deigned to -return. After a pause, however, she said, “Thou thinkest thyself my -superior, proud girl; but time may render us equals. Submit to that, -and you may live on the same terms as I do.” - -There appeared to lurk a meaning in these words, which Megalena found -herself incompetent to develop; she answered not, therefore, and -suffered Agnes to depart unquestioned. The wretched Megalena, a prey -to despair and terror, endeavoured to revolve in her mind the events -which had brought her to this spot, but an unconnected stream of ideas -pressed upon her brain. The sole light in her cell was that of a dismal -lamp which, by its uncertain flickering, only dissipated the almost -palpable obscurity, in a sufficient degree more assuredly to point -out the circumambient horrors. She gazed wistfully around, to see if -there were any outlet; none there was, save the door whereby Agnes -had entered, which was strongly barred on the outside. In despair -she threw herself on the wretched pallet. “For what cause, then, am -I thus entombed alive?” soliloquized the hapless Megalena; “would -it not be preferable at once to annihilate the spark of life which -burns but faintly within my bosom? O my father! where art thou? Thy -tombless corpse, perhaps, is torn into a thousand pieces by the fury -of the mountain cataract.--Little didst thou presage misfortunes such -as these!--little didst thou suppose that our last journey would have -caused thy immature dissolution--my infamy and misery, not to end but -with my hapless existence! Here there is none to comfort me, none to -participate my miseries!” Thus speaking, overcome by a paroxysm of -emotion, she sank on the bed, and bedewed her fair face with tears. - -Whilst, oppressed by painful retrospection, the outcast orphan was -yet kneeling, Agnes entered, and, not even noticing her distress, -bade her prepare to come to the banquet where the troop of bandits -was assembled. In silence, along the vaulted and gloomy passages, she -followed her conductress, from whose stern and forbidding gaze her -nature shrunk back enhorrored, till they reached that apartment of the -cavern where the revelry waited but for her arrival to commence. On -her entering, Cavigni, the chief, led her to a seat on his right hand, -and paid her every attention which his froward nature could stoop to -exercise towards a female; she received his civilities with apparent -complacency; but her eye was frequently fascinated, as it were, towards -the youthful Wolfstein, who had caught her attention the evening -before. His countenance, spite of the shade of woe with which the hard -hand of suffering had marked it, was engaging and beautiful; not that -beauty which may be freely acknowledged, but inwardly confessed by -every beholder with sensations penetrating and resistless; his figure -majestic and lofty, and the fire which flashed from his expressive eye, -indefinably to herself, penetrated the inmost soul of the isolated -Megalena. Wolfstein regarded Cavigni with indignation and envy; and, -though almost ignorant himself of the dreadful purpose of his soul, -resolved in his own mind an horrible deed. Cavigni was enraptured with -the beauty of Megalena, and secretly vowed that no pains should be -spared to gain to himself the possession of an object so lovely. The -anticipated delight of gratified voluptuousness revelled in every vein -as he gazed upon her; his eye flashed with a triumphant expression of -lawless love, yet he determined to defer the hour of his happiness -till he might enjoy more free, unrestrained delight, with his adored -fair one. She gazed on the chief, however, with an ill-concealed -aversion; his dark expression of countenance, the haughty severity, and -contemptuous frown, which habitually sate on his brow, invited not, but -rather repelled a reciprocality of affection, which the haughty chief, -after his own attachment, entertained not the most distant doubt of. He -was, notwithstanding, conscious of her coldness, but attributing it to -virgin modesty, or to the novel situation into which she had suddenly -been thrown, paid her every attention; nor did he omit to promise her -every little comfort which might induce her to regard him with esteem. -Still, though veiled beneath the most artful dissimulation, did the -fair Megalena pant ardently for liberty--for, oh! liberty is sweet, -sweeter even than all the other pleasures of life, to full satiety, -without it. - -Cavigni essayed, by every art, to gain her over to his desires; but -Megalena, regarding him with aversion, answered with an haughtiness -which she was unable to conceal, and which his proud spirit might ill -brook. Cavigni could not disguise the vexation which he felt, when, -increased by resistance, Megalena’s dislike towards him remained no -longer a secret: “Megalena,” said he, at last, “fair girl, thou shalt -be mine--we will be wedded to-morrow, if you think the bands of love -not sufficiently forcible to unite us.” - -“No bands shall ever unite me to you!” exclaimed Megalena. “Even though -the grave were to yawn beneath my feet, I would willingly precipitate -myself into its gulf, if the alternative of that, or an union with you, -were proposed to me.” - -Rage swelled Cavigni’s bosom almost to bursting--the conflicting -passions of his soul were too tumultuous for utterance;--in an hurried -tone, he commanded Agnes to show Megalena to her cell: she obeyed, and -they both quitted the apartment. - -Wolfstein’s soul, sublimed by the most infuriate paroxysms of -contending emotions, battled wildly. His countenance retained, however, -but one expression,--it was of dark and deliberate revenge. His stern -eye was fixed upon Cavigni;--he decided at this instant to perpetrate -the deed he had resolved on. Leaving his seat, he intimated his -intention of quitting the cavern for an instant. - -Cavigni had just filled his goblet. Wolfstein, as he passed, -dexterously threw a little white powder into the wine of the chief. - -When Wolfstein returned, Cavigni had not yet quaffed the deadly -draught: rising, therefore, he exclaimed aloud, “Fill your goblets, -all.” Every one obeyed, and sat in expectation of the toast which he -was about to propose. - -“Let us drink,” he exclaimed, “to the health of the chieftain’s -bride--let us drink to their mutual happiness.” A smile of pleasure -irradiated the countenance of the chief:--that he whom he had supposed -to be a dangerous rival, should thus publicly forego any claim to the -affections of Megalena, was indeed pleasure. - -“Health and mutual happiness to the chieftain and his bride!” re-echoed -from every part of the table. - -Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips: he was about to quaff the tide -of death, when Ginotti, one of the robbers, who sat next to him, -upreared his arm, and dashed the cup of destruction to the earth. -A silence, as if in expectation of some terrible event, reigned -throughout the cavern. - -Wolfstein turned his eyes towards the chief;--the dark and mysterious -gaze of Ginotti arrested his wandering eyeball; its expression was -too marked to be misunderstood:--he trembled in his inmost soul, but -his countenance yet retained its unchangeable expression. Ginotti -spoke not, nor willed he to assign any reason for his extraordinary -conduct; the circumstance was shortly forgotten, and the revelry went -on undisturbed by any other event. - -Ginotti was one of the boldest of the robbers; he was the distinguished -favourite of the chief, and, although mysterious and reserved, -his society was courted with more eagerness, than such qualities -might, abstractedly considered, appear to deserve. None knew his -history--_that_ he concealed within the deepest recesses of his own -bosom; nor could the most suppliant entreaties, or threats of the most -horrible punishments, have wrested from him one particular concerning -it. Never had he once thrown off the mysterious mask, beneath which his -character was veiled, since he had become an associate of the band. -In vain the chief required him to assign some reason for his late -extravagant conduct; he said it was mere accident, but with an air, -which more than convinced every one that something lurked behind which -yet remained unknown. Such, however, was their respect for Ginotti, -that the occurrence passed almost without a comment. - -Long now had the hour of midnight gone by, and the bandits had retired -to repose. Wolfstein retired too to his couch, but sleep closed not his -eyelids; his bosom was a scene of the wildest anarchy; the conflicting -passions revelled dreadfully in his burning brain:--love, maddening, -excessive, unaccountable idolatry, as it were, which possessed him for -Megalena, urged him on to the commission of deeds which conscience -represented as beyond measure wicked, and which Ginotti’s glance -convinced him were by no means unsuspected. Still so unbounded was his -love for Megalena (madness rather than love), that it overbalanced -every other consideration, and his unappalled soul resolved to -persevere in its determination even to destruction! - -Cavigni’s commands respecting Megalena had been obeyed:--the door of -her cell was fastened, and the ferocious chief resolved to let her lie -there till the suffering and confinement might subdue her to his will. -Megalena endeavoured, by every means, to soften the obdurate heart -of her attendant; at length, her mildness of manner induced Agnes to -regard her with pity; and before she quitted her cell, they were so -far reconciled to each other that they entered into a comparison of -their mutual situations; and Agnes was about to relate to Megalena the -circumstances which had brought her to the cavern, when the fierce -Cavigni entered, and, commanding Agnes to withdraw, said, “Well, proud -girl, are you now in a better humour to return the favour with which -your superior regards you?” - -“No!” heroically answered Megalena. - -“Then,” rejoined the chief, “if within four-and-twenty hours you hold -yourself not in readiness to return my love, force shall wrest the -jewel from its casket.” Thus having said, he abruptly quitted the cell. - -So far had Wolfstein’s proposed toast, at the banquet, gained on the -unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that he accepted the former’s -artful tender of service, in the way of persuasion with Megalena, -supposing, by Wolfstein’s manner, that they had been cursorily -acquainted before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of -Megalena. - -At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recumbent posture, and -hastened joyfully to meet him; for she remembered that Wolfstein had -rescued her from the insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening -which had subjected her to their control. - -“Lovely, adored girl,” he exclaimed, “short is my time: pardon, -therefore, the abruptness of my address. The chief has sent me to -persuade you to become united to him; but I love you, I adore you to -madness. I am not what I seem. Answer me!--time is short.” - -An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through the -passion-quivering frame of Megalena. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I will--I -love you----” At this instant the voice of Cavigni was heard in the -passage. Wolfstein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand -presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed hastily to give an -account of his mission to the anxious Cavigni, who restrained himself -in the passage without, and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about -to advance to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation, -when Wolfstein quitted Megalena. - -Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the scenes which -had been lately acted. She thought upon the words of Wolfstein, -unconscious wherefore they were a balm to her mind: she reclined upon -her wretched pallet. It was now night: her thoughts took a different -turn; the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the cavern, -and the dismal sound of rain, which pattered fast, inspired mournful -reflection. She thought of her father,--her beloved father;--a solitary -wanderer on the face of the earth; or, most probably, thought she, his -soul rests in death. Horrible idea! If the latter, she envied his fate; -if the former, she even supposed it preferable to her present abode. -She again thought of Wolfstein; she pondered on his last words:--an -escape from the cavern: oh, delightful idea! Again her thoughts -recurred to her father: tears bedewed her cheeks; she took a pencil, -and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, inscribed on the wall of -her prison these lines:-- - - Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling - Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,[1] - When o’er the dark ether the tempest is swelling, - And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past? - - For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, - Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; - Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury, - Whilst around me, I thought, echo’d murmurs of death. - - And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, - O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; - In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, - It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar. - - On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain - Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead; - On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain, - Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. - -Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her imagination, -obliterated from the wall the characters which she had traced: the wind -still howled dreadfully: in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she -threw herself on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which -impended over her. - -Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed by ten thousand -conflicting passions; revenge and disappointed love agonized his soul -to madness; and he resolved to quench the rude feelings of his bosom -in the blood of his rival. But, again he thought of Ginotti; he -thought of the mysterious intervention which his dark glances proved -not to be accidental. To him it was an inexplicable mystery; which the -more he reflected upon, the less able was he to unravel. He had mixed -the poison, unseen, as he thought, by any one; certainly unseen by -Ginotti, whose back was unconcernedly turned at the time. He planned, -therefore, a second attempt, unawed by what had happened before, for -the destruction of Cavigni, which he resolved to put into execution -this night. - -Before he had become an associate with the band of robbers, the -conscience of Wolfstein was clear; clear, at least, from the commission -of any wilful and deliberate crime; for, alas! an event almost too -dreadful for narration, had compelled him to quit his native country, -in indigence and disgrace. His courage was equal to his wickedness; -his mind was unalienable from its purpose; and whatever his will might -determine, his boldness would fearlessly execute, even though hell -and destruction were to yawn beneath his feet, and essay to turn his -unappalled soul from the accomplishment of his design. Such was the -guilty Wolfstein; a disgraceful fugitive from his country, a vile -associate of a band of robbers, and a murderer, at least in intent, if -not in deed. He shrunk not at the commission of crimes; he was now the -hardened villain; eternal damnation, tortures inconceivable on earth, -awaited him. “Foolish, degrading idea!” he exclaimed, as it momentarily -glanced through his mind; “am I worthy of the celestial Megalena, -if I shrink at the price which it is necessary I should pay for her -possession?” This idea banished every other feeling from his heart; -and, smothering the stings of conscience, a decided resolve of murder -took possession of him--the determining, within himself, to destroy the -very man who had given him an asylum, when driven to madness by the -horrors of neglect and poverty. He stood in the night-storm on the -mountains; he cursed the intervention of Ginotti, and secretly swore -that nor heaven nor hell again should dash the goblet of destruction -from the mouth of the detested Cavigni. The soul of Wolfstein too, -insatiable in its desires, and panting for liberty, ill could brook the -confinement of idea, which the cavern of the bandits must necessarily -induce. He longed again to try his fortune; he longed to re-enter that -world which he had never tried but once, and that indeed for a short -time; sufficiently long, however, to blast his blooming hopes, and to -graft on the stock, which otherwise might have produced virtue, the -fatal seeds of vice. - - -[1] Taken almost word for word from the poem of Lachin y Gair in -Byron’s _Hours of Idleness_. Newark, 1807, p. 130.--Ed. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - The fiends of fate are heard to rave, - And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave. - - -It was midnight; and all the robbers were assembled in the -banquet-hall, amongst whom, bearing in his bosom a weight of -premeditated crime, was Wolfstein; he sat by the chief. They discoursed -on indifferent subjects; the sparkling goblet went round; loud laughter -succeeded. The ruffians were rejoicing over some plunder which they -had taken from a traveller, whom they had robbed of immense wealth; -they had left his body a prey to the vultures of the mountains. The -table groaned with the pressure of the feast. Hilarity reigned around: -reiterated were the shouts of merriment and joy; if such could exist in -a cavern of robbers. - -It was long past midnight: another hour, and Megalena must be -Cavigni’s. This idea rendered Wolfstein callous to every sting of -conscience; and he eagerly awaited an opportunity when he might, -unperceived, infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him. -Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein: his arms were folded, and his gaze -rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance of the murderer. Wolfstein -shuddered when he beheld the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted, -his marked features wrapped in inexplicable mystery. - -All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain who destined murder; -and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, whose reservedness and mystery, not even -the hilarity of the present hour could dispel. - -Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, “Steindolph, you -know some old German stories; cannot you tell one, to deceive the -lagging hours?” - -Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical spectre tales, and -the gang were frequently wont to hang delighted on the ghostly wonders -which he related. - -“Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it,” said Steindolph, “and I will -with pleasure. I learnt it whilst in Germany; my old grandmother taught -it me, and I can repeat it as a ballad.”--“Do, do,” re-echoed from -every part of the cavern.--Steindolph thus began: - - - Ballad. - - I. - - The death-bell beats! - The mountain repeats - The echoing sound of the knell; - And the dark monk now - Wraps the cowl round his brow, - As he sits in his lonely cell. - - II. - - And the cold hand of death - Chills his shuddering breath, - As he lists to the fearful lay - Which the ghosts of the sky, - As they sweep wildly by, - Sing to departed day. - And they sing of the hour - When the stern fates had power - To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. - - III. - - But that hour is past; - And that hour was the last - Of peace to the dark monk’s brain. - Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast: - And he strove to suppress them in vain. - - IV. - - Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor, - When the death-knell struck on his ear. - Delight is in store - For her evermore; - But for me is fate, horror, and fear. - - V. - - Then his eyes wildly roll’d, - When the death-bell toll’d, - And he raged in terrific woe. - And he stamp’d on the ground, - But when ceased the sound - Tears again began to flow. - - VI. - - And the ice of despair - Chill’d the wide throb of care, - And he sat in mute agony still; - Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, - And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. - - VII. - - Then he knelt in his cell:-- - And the horrors of hell - Were delights to his agonized pain. - And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell, - Which else must for ever remain. - - VIII. - - And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, - Till the abbey bell struck One: - His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: - A voice hollow and horrible murmur’d around, - “The term of thy penance is done!” - - IX. - - Grew dark the night; - The moonbeam bright - Wax’d faint on the mountain high; - And, from the black hill, - Went a voice cold and still,-- - “Monk! thou art free to die.” - - X. - - Then he rose on his feet, - And his heart loud did beat, - And his limbs they were palsied with dread; - Whilst the grave’s clammy dew - O’er his pale forehead grew; - And he shudder’d to sleep with the dead. - - XI. - - And the wild midnight storm - Raved around his tall form, - As he sought the chapel’s gloom: - And the sunk grass did sigh - To the wind, bleak and high, - As he searched for the new-made tomb. - - XII. - - And forms, dark and high, - Seem’d around him to fly, - And mingle their yells with the blast - And on the dark wall - Half-seen shadows did fall, - As enhorror’d he onward pass’d. - - XIII. - - And the storm-fiend’s wild rave - O’er the new-made grave, - And dread shadows, linger around. - The Monk call’d on God his soul to save, - And, in horror, sank on the ground. - - XIV. - - Then despair nerved his arm - To dispel the charm, - And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder. - And the fierce storm did swell - More terrific and fell, - And louder peal’d the thunder. - - XV. - - And laugh’d, in joy, the fiendish throng, - Mix’d with ghosts of the mouldering dead: - And their grisly wings, as they floated along, - Whistled in murmurs dread. - - XVI. - - And her skeleton form the dead Nun rear’d, - Which dripp’d with the chill dew of hell. - In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appear’d, - And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared, - As he stood within the cell. - - XVII. - - And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain; - But each power was nerved by fear.-- - “I never, henceforth, may breathe again; - Death now ends mine anguish’d pain.-- - The grave yawns,--we meet there.” - - XVIII. - - And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, - So deadly, so lone, and so fell, - That in long vibrations shudder’d the ground; - And as the stern notes floated around, - A deep groan was answer’d from hell. - - - -As Steindolph concluded, an universal shout of applause echoed through -the cavern. Every one had been so attentive to the recitation of the -robber, that no opportunity of perpetrating his resolve had appeared to -Wolfstein. Now all again was revelry and riot, and the wily designer -eagerly watched for the instant when universal confusion might favour -his attempt to drop, unobserved, the powder into the goblet of the -chief. With a gaze of insidious and malignant revenge was the eye of -Wolfstein fixed upon the chieftain’s countenance. Cavigni perceived it -not; for he was heated with wine, or the unusual expression of his -associate’s face must have awakened suspicion, or excited remark. Yet -was Ginotti’s gaze fixed upon Wolfstein, who, like a sanguinary and -remorseless ruffian, sat expectantly waiting the instant of death. The -goblet passed round:--at the moment when Wolfstein mingled the poison -with Cavigni’s wine, the eyes of Ginotti, which before had regarded him -with the most dazzling scrutiny, were intentionally turned away. He -then arose from the table, and, complaining of sudden indisposition, -retired. Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips-- - -“Now, my brave fellows,” he exclaimed, “the hour is late; but before we -retire, I here drink success and health to every one of you.” - -Wolfstein involuntarily shuddered.--Cavigni quaffed the liquor to the -dregs!--the cup fell from his trembling hand. The chill dew of death -sat upon his forehead: in terrific convulsions he fell headlong; and, -inarticulately uttering, “I am poisoned,” sank seemingly lifeless -on the earth. Sixty robbers at once rushed forward to raise him; -and, reclining in their arms, with an horrible and harrowing shriek, -the spark of life fled from his body for ever. A robber, skilled -in surgery, opened a vein; but no blood followed the touch of the -lancet.--Wolfstein advanced to the body, unappalled by the crime -which he had committed; and tore aside the vest from its bosom; that -bosom was discoloured by large spots of livid purple, which, by their -premature appearance, declared the poison which had been used to -destroy him, to be excessively powerful. - -Every one regretted the death of the brave Cavigni; every one was -surprised at the mode of his death; and, by his abruptly quitting the -apartment, the suspicion fell upon Ginotti, who was consequently sent -for by Ardolph, a robber whom they had chosen chieftain, Wolfstein -having declined the proffered distinction. - -Ginotti arrived. His stern countenance was changed not by the -execrations showered on him by everyone. He yet remained unmoved, and -apparently careless what sentiments others might entertain of him; -he deigned not even to deny the charge. This coolness seemed to have -convinced everyone, the new chief in particular, of his innocence. - -“Let every one,” said Ardolph, “be searched; and if his pockets contain -poison which could have effected this, let him die.” This method was -universally applauded. As soon as the acclamations were stilled, -Wolfstein advanced forwards and spoke thus: - -“Any longer to conceal that it was I who perpetrated the deed, were -useless. Megalena’s loveliness inflamed me:--I envied one who was about -to possess it.--I have murdered him!” - -Here he was interrupted by the shouts of the bandits; and he was about -to be delivered to death, when Ginotti advanced. His superior and -towering figure inspired awe even in the hearts of the bandits. They -were silent. - -“Suffer Wolfstein,” he exclaimed, “to depart unhurt. _I_ will answer -for his never publishing our retreat: _I_ will promise that never more -shall you behold him.” - -Every one submitted to Ginotti: for who could resist the superior -Ginotti? From the gaze of Ginotti Wolfstein’s soul shrank, enhorrored, -in confessed inferiority: he who had shrunk not at death, had shrunk -not to avow himself guilty of murder, and had prepared to meet its -reward, started from Ginotti’s eye-beam as from the emanation of some -superior and preter-human being. - -“Quit the cavern!” said Ginotti.--“May I not remain here until the -morrow?” inquired Wolfstein.--“If to-morrow’s rising sun finds you in -this cavern,” returned Ginotti, “I must deliver you up to the vengeance -of those whom you have injured.” - -Wolfstein retired to his solitary cell, to retrace, in his mind, the -occurrences of this eventful night. What was he now? an isolated -wicked wanderer; not a being on earth whom he could call a friend, -and carrying with him that never-dying tormentor--conscience. In -half-waking dreams passed the night; the ghost of him whom he had so -inhumanly destroyed, seemed to cry for justice at the throne of God; -bleeding, pale, and ghastly, it pressed on his agonized brain; and -confused, inexplicable visions flitted in his imagination, until the -freshness of the morning breeze warned him to depart. He collected -together all those valuables which had fallen to his share as plunder, -during his stay in the cavern: they amounted to a large sum. He rushed -from the cavern; he hesitated;--he knew not whither to fly. He walked -fast, and essayed, by exercise, to smother the feelings of his soul; -but the attempt was fruitless. Not far had he proceeded, ere, stretched -on the earth apparently lifeless, he beheld a female form. He advanced -towards it--it was Megalena! - -A tumult of exulting and inconceivable transport rushed through his -veins as he beheld her--her for whom he had plunged into the abyss of -crime. She slept, and, apparently overcome by the fatigues which she -had sustained, her slumber was profound. Her head reclined upon the -jutting root of a tree; the tint of health and loveliness sat upon her -cheek. - -When the fair Megalena awakened, and found herself in the arms of -Wolfstein, she started: yet, turning her eyes, she beheld it was no -enemy, and the expression of terror gave way to pleasure. In the -general confusion had Megalena escaped from the abode of the bandits. -The destinies of Wolfstein and Megalena were assimilated by similarity -of situations; and, before they quitted the spot, so far had this -reciprocal feeling prevailed, that they swore mutual affection. -Megalena then related her escape from the cavern, and showed Wolfstein -jewels, to an immense amount, which she had secreted. - -“At all events, then,” said Wolfstein, “we may defy poverty; for I have -about me jewels to the value of ten thousand zechins.” - -“We will go to Genoa,” said Megalena. - -“We will, my fair one. There, entirely devoted to each other, we will -defy the darts of misery.” - -Megalena returned no answer, save a look of else inexpressible love. - -It was now the middle of the day; neither Wolfstein nor Megalena had -tasted food since the preceding night; and faint from fatigue, Megalena -scarce could move onwards. “Courage, my love,” said Wolfstein; “yet -a little way, and we shall arrive at a cottage, a sort of inn, where -we may wait until the morrow, and hire mules to carry us to Placenza, -whence we can easily proceed to the goal of our destination.” - -Megalena collected her strength: in a short time they arrived at the -cottage, and passed the remainder of the day in plans respecting the -future. Wearied with unusual exertions, Megalena early retired to -an inconvenient bed, which, however, was the best the cottage could -afford; and Wolfstein, lying along the bench by the fireplace, resigned -himself to meditation; for his mind was too much disturbed to let him -sleep. - -Although Wolfstein had every reason to rejoice at the success which -had crowned his schemes; although the very event had occurred which -his soul had so much and so eagerly panted for; yet, even now, in -possession of all he held valuable on earth, was he ill at ease. -Remorse for his crimes tortured him: yet, steeling his conscience, he -essayed to smother the fire which burned in his bosom; to change the -tenour of his thoughts--in vain! he could not. Restless passed the -night, and the middle of the day beheld Wolfstein and Megalena far from -the habitation of the bandits. - -They intended, if possible, to reach Breno that night, and thence, on -the following day, to journey towards Genoa. They had descended the -southern acclivity of the Alps. It was now hastening towards spring, -and the whole country began to gleam with the renewed loveliness of -nature. Odoriferous orange-groves scented the air. Myrtles bloomed on -the sides of the gentle eminences which they occasionally ascended. -The face of nature was smiling and gay; so was Megalena’s heart: with -exulting and speechless transport it bounded within her bosom. She -gazed on him who possessed her soul; although she felt no inclination -in her bosom to retrace the events, by means of which an obscure -bandit, undefinable to herself, had gained the eternal love of the -former haughty Megalena de Metastasio. - -They soon arrived at Breno. Wolfstein dismissed the muleteer, and -conducted Megalena into the interior of the inn, ordering at the same -time a supper. Again were repeated protestations of eternal affection, -avowals of indissoluble love; but it is sufficient to conceive what -cannot be so well described. - -It was near midnight; Wolfstein and Megalena sat at supper, and -conversed with that unrestrainedness and gaiety which mutual confidence -inspired, when the door was opened, and the innkeeper announced the -arrival of a man who wished to speak with Wolfstein. - -“Tell him,” exclaimed Wolfstein, rather surprised, and wishing to guard -against the possibility of danger, “that I will not see him.” - -The landlord left the room, and in a short time returned. A man -accompanied him: he was of gigantic stature, and masked. “He would take -no denial, signor,” said the landlord, in exculpation, as he left the -room. - -The stranger advanced to the table at which Wolfstein and Megalena -sat: he threw aside his mask, and disclosed the features of--Ginotti! -Wolfstein’s frame became convulsed with involuntary horror: he started. -Megalena was surprised. - -Ginotti, at length, broke the terrible silence. - -“Wolfstein,” he said, “I saved you from, otherwise, inevitable death; -by _my_ means alone have you gained Megalena:--what do I then deserve -in return?” Wolfstein looked on the countenance: it was stern and -severe, yet divested of the terrible expression which had before caused -his frame to shudder with excess of alarm. - -“My eternal gratitude,” returned Wolfstein, hesitatingly. - -“Will you promise, that when, destitute and a wanderer, I demand your -protection, when I beseech you to listen to the tale which I shall -relate, you _will_ listen to me; that, when I am dead, you will bury -me, and suffer my soul to rest in the endless slumber of annihilation? -Then will you repay me for the benefits which I have conferred upon -you?” - -“I will,” replied Wolfstein; “I will perform all that you require.” - -“Swear it!” exclaimed Ginotti. - -“I swear.” - -Ginotti then abruptly quitted the apartment; the sound of his footsteps -was heard descending the stairs; and, when they were no longer audible, -a weight seemed to have been taken from the breast of Wolfstein. - -“How did that man save your life?” inquired Megalena. - -“He was one of our band,” replied Wolfstein, evasively; “and, on a -plundering excursion, his pistol-ball entered the heart of the man, -whose sabre, lifted aloft, would else have severed my head from my -body.” - -“Dear Wolfstein, who are you?--whence came you?--for you were not -always an Alpine bandit?” - -“That is true, my adored one; but fate presents an insuperable -barrier to my ever relating the events which occurred previously to my -connexion with the banditti. Dearest Megalena, if you love me, never -question me concerning my _past_ life, but rest satisfied with the -conviction, that my future existence shall be devoted to you, and to -you alone.” Megalena felt surprise; but, although eagerly desiring to -unravel the mystery in which Wolfstein shrouded himself, desisted from -inquiry. - -Ginotti’s mysterious visit had made too serious an impression on the -mind of Wolfstein to be lightly erased. In vain he essayed to appear -easy and unembarrassed, while he conversed with Megalena. He attempted -to drown thought in wine--but in vain:--Ginotti’s strange injunction -pressed, like a load of ice, upon his breast. At last, the hour being -late, they both retired to their respective rooms. - -Early on the following morning, Wolfstein arose, to arrange the -necessary preparations for their journey to Genoa; whither he had sent -a servant whom he hired at Breno, to prepare accommodations for their -arrival. Needless were it minutely to describe each trivial event which -occurred during their journey to Genoa. - -On the morning of the fourth day, they found themselves within a -short distance of the city. They determined on the plan they should -adopt, and, in a short space of time, arriving at Genoa, took up their -residence in a mansion on the outermost extremity of the city. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape, - That darest, though grim and terrible, advance - Thy miscreated front athwart my way?-- - Paradise Lost. - -Time passed; and, settled in their new habitation, Megalena and -Wolfstein appeared to defy the arrows of vengeful destiny. - -Wolfstein resolved to allow some time to elapse before he spoke of the -subject nearest to his heart, of herself, to Megalena. One evening, -however, overcome by the passion which, by mutual indulgence, had -become resistless, he cast himself at her feet, and, avowing most -unbounded love, demanded the promised return. A slight spark of virtue -yet burned in the bosom of the wretched girl; she essayed to fly from -temptation; but Wolfstein, seizing her hand, said, “And is my adored -Megalena a victim then to prejudice? Does she believe, that the Being -who created us gave us passions which never were to be satiated? Does -she suppose that Nature created us to become the tormentors of each -other?” - -“Ah! Wolfstein,” Megalena said tenderly, “rise!--You know too well the -chain which unites me to you is indissoluble; you know that I must be -thine; where, therefore, is there an appeal?” - -“To thine own heart, Megalena; for, if my image implanted there is not -sufficiently eloquent to confirm your hesitating soul, I would wish not -for a casket that contains a jewel unworthy of my possession.” - -Megalena involuntarily started at the strength of his expression; -she felt how completely she was his, and turned her eyes upon his -countenance, to read in it the meaning of his words.--His eyes gleamed -with excessive and confiding love. - -“Yes,” exclaimed Megalena, “yes, prejudice avaunt! once more -reason takes her seat, and convinces me that to be Wolfstein’s is -not criminal. O Wolfstein! if for a moment Megalena has yielded to -the imbecility of nature, believe that she yet knows how to recover -herself, to reappear in her proper character. Ere I knew you, a void -in my heart, and a tasteless carelessness of those objects which -now interest me, confessed your unseen empire; my heart longed for -something which now it has attained. I scruple not, Wolfstein, to aver -that it is you:--Be mine, then, and let our affection end not but with -our existence!” - -“Never, never shall it end!” enthusiastically exclaimed Wolfstein. -“Never!--What can break the bond joined by congeniality of sentiment, -cemented by an union of soul which must endure till the intellectual -particles which compose it become annihilated? Oh! never shall it end; -for when, convulsed by nature’s latest ruin, sinks the fabric of this -perishable globe; when the earth is dissolved away, and the face of -heaven is rolled from before our eyes like a scroll; then will we seek -each other, and, in eternal, indivisible, although immaterial union, -shall we exist to all eternity.” - -Yet the love with which Wolfstein regarded Megalena, notwithstanding -the strength of his expressions, though fervent and excessive, at -first, was not of that nature which was likely to remain throughout -existence; it was like the blaze of the meteor at midnight, which -glares amid the darkness for awhile, and then expires; yet did -he love her now; at least if heated admiration of her person and -accomplishments, independently of mind, be love. - - * * * * * - -Blessed in mutual affection, if so it may be called, the time passed -swift to Wolfstein and Megalena. No incident worthy of narration -occurred to disturb the uninterrupted tenour of their existence. -Tired, at last, even with delight, which had become monotonous -from long continuance, they began to frequent the public places. It -was one evening, nearly a month subsequent to their first residence -at Genoa, that they went to a party at the Duca di Thice. It was -there that he beheld the gaze of one of the crowd fixed upon him. -Indefinable to himself were the emotions which shook him; in vain -he turned to every part of the saloon to avoid the scrutiny of the -stranger’s gaze; he was not able to give formation, in his own mind, -to the ideas which struck him; they were acknowledged, however, in -his heart, by sensations awful, and not to be described. He knew that -he had before seen the features of the stranger; but he had forgotten -Ginotti; for it was Ginotti--from whose scrutinizing glance Wolfstein -turned appalled;--it was Ginotti, of whose strangely and fearfully -gleaming eyeball Wolfstein endeavoured to evade the fascination in -vain. His eyes, resistlessly attracted to the sphere of chill horror -that played around Ginotti’s glance, in vain were fixed on vacuity; -in vain attempted to notice other objects. Complaining to Megalena of -sudden and violent indisposition, Wolfstein with her retired, and they -quickly reached the steps of their mansion. Arrived there, Megalena -tenderly inquired the cause of Wolfstein’s illness, but his vague -answers and unconnected exclamations, soon led her to suppose it was -not corporeal. She entreated him to acquaint her with the reason of his -indisposition; Wolfstein, however, wishing to conceal from Megalena -the true cause of his emotions, evasively told her that he had felt -excessively faint from the heat of the assembly; she well knew, by his -manner, that he had not told her truth, but affected to be satisfied, -resolving, at some future period, to develop the mystery with which he -evidently was environed. Retired to rest, Wolfstein’s mind, torn by -contending paroxysms of passion, admitted not of sleep; he ruminated -on the mysterious reappearance of Ginotti; and the more he reflected, -the more did the result of his reflections lead him astray. The strange -gaze of Ginotti, and the consciousness that he was completely in the -power of so indefinable a being; the consciousness that, wheresoever -he might go, Ginotti would still follow him, pressed upon Wolfstein’s -heart. Ignorant of what connexion they could have with this mysterious -observer of his actions, his crimes recurred in hideous and disgustful -array to the bewildered mind of Wolfstein; he reflected, that, although -now exulting in youthful health and vigour, the time would come, the -dreadful day of retribution, when endless damnation would yawn beneath -his feet, and he would shrink from eternal punishment before the -tribunal of that God whom he had insulted. To evade death, unconscious -why, became an idea on which he dwelt with earnestness; he thought on -it for a time, and being mournfully convinced of its impossibility, -strove to change the tenour of his reflections. - -While these thoughts dwelt in his mind, sleep crept imperceptibly over -his senses; yet, in his visions, was Ginotti present. He dreamed that -he stood on the brink of a frightful precipice, at whose base, with -deafening and terrific roar, the waves of the ocean dashed; that, above -his head, the blue glare of the lightning dispelled the obscurity of -midnight, and the loud crashing of the thunder was rolled franticly -from rock to rock; that, along the cliff on which he stood, a figure, -more frightful than the imagination of man is capable of portraying, -advanced towards him, and was about to precipitate him headlong from -the summit of the rock whereon he stood, when Ginotti advanced, and -rescued him from the grasp of the monster; that no sooner had he done -this, than the figure dashed Ginotti from the precipice--his last -groans were borne on the blast which swept the bosom of the ocean. -Confused visions then obliterated the impressions of the former, and he -rose in the morning restless and unrefreshed. - -A weight which his utmost efforts could not remove, pressed upon -the bosom of Wolfstein; his mind, superior and towering as it was, -found all its energies inefficient to conquer it. As a last resource, -therefore, this wretched victim of vice and folly sought the -gaming-table; a scene which alone could raise the spirits of one who -required something important, even in his pastimes, to interest him. He -staked large sums; and, although he concealed his haunts from Megalena, -she soon discovered them. For a time, fortune smiled; till one evening -he entered his mansion, desperate from ill luck, and, accusing his own -hapless destiny, could no longer conceal the truth from Megalena. She -reproved him mildly, and her tenderness had such an effect on Wolfstein -that he burst into tears, and promised her that never again would he -yield to the vicious influence of folly. - -The rapid days rolled on, and each one brought the conviction to -Wolfstein more strongly, that Megalena was not the celestial model of -perfection which his warm imagination had portrayed; he began to find -in her, not the exhaustless mine of interesting converse which he had -once supposed. Possession, which, when unassisted by real, intellectual -love, clogs man, increases the ardent, uncontrollable passions of -woman even to madness. Megalena yet adored Wolfstein with most fervent -love:--although yet greatly attached to Megalena, although he would -have been uneasy were she another’s, Wolfstein no longer regarded her -with that idolatrous affection which had filled his bosom towards her. -Feelings of this nature naturally drove Wolfstein occasionally from -home to seek for employment--and what employment, save gaming, could -Genoa afford to Wolfstein? In what other occupation was it possible -that he could engage? It was done: he broke his promise to Megalena, -and became even a more devoted votary to gambling than before. - -How powerful are the attractions of delusive vice! Wolfstein soon -staked large sums--larger even than ever. With what anxiety did -he watch the dice! How were his eyeballs strained with mingled -anticipation of wealth and poverty! Now fortune smiled; yet he -concealed even his good luck from Megalena. At length the tide changed -again: he lost immense sums; and desperate from a series of ill -success, cursed his hapless destiny, and with wildest emotions rushed -into the street. Again he solemnly swore to Megalena, that never more -would he risk their mutual happiness by his folly. - -Still, hurried away by the impulse of a burning desire of interesting -his deadened feelings, did Wolfstein, false to his promise, seek the -gaming-table; he had staked an enormous amount; and the fatal throw was -at this instant about to decide the fate of the unhappy Wolfstein. - -A pause, as if some dreadful event were about to occur, ensued; each -gazed upon the countenance of Wolfstein, which, desperate from danger, -retained, however, an expressive firmness. - -A stranger stood before Wolfstein on the opposite side of the table. -He appeared to have no interest in what was going forward, but, with -unmoved gaze, fixed his eyes upon his countenance. - -Wolfstein felt an instinctive shuddering thrill through his frame, -when, oh horrible confirmation of his wildest apprehensions! it -was--Ginotti!--the terrible, the mysterious Ginotti, whose dire -scrutiny, resting upon Wolfstein, chilled his soul with excessive -affright. - -A sensation of extreme and conflicting emotions shook the inmost -recesses of Wolfstein’s heart; for an instant his brain swam around in -wildest commotion, yet he steeled his resolution, even to the horrors -of hell and destruction; he gazed on the mysterious scrutineer who -stood before him, and, regardless of the sum he had staked, and which -before had engaged his whole attention, and excited his liveliest -interest, dashed the box convulsively upon the table, and followed -Ginotti, who was about to quit the apartment, resolving to clear up a -fatality which hung around him, and appeared to blast his prospects; -for of the misfortunes which had succeeded his association with the -bandits, he had not the slightest doubt in his own mind, that Ginotti -was the cause. - -With reflections a scene of the wildest anarchy, Wolfstein resolved to -unravel the mystery in which he saw Ginotti was shrouded; and resolved, -therefore, to devote that night towards finding out his abode. With -feelings such as these, he rushed into the street, and followed the -gigantic form of Ginotti, who stalked onwards majestically, as if -conscious of safety, and wholly ignorant of the eager scrutiny with -which Wolfstein watched his every movement. - -It was midnight--yet they continued to advance; a feeling of -desperation urged Wolfstein onwards; he resolved to follow Ginotti, -even to the extremity of the universe. They passed through many bye and -narrow streets; the darkness was complete; but the rays of the lamps, -as they fell upon the lofty form of Ginotti, guided the footsteps of -Wolfstein. - -They had reached the end of the Strada Nuova; the lengthened sound of -Ginotti’s footsteps was all that struck upon Wolfstein’s ear. On a -sudden, Ginotti’s figure disappeared from Wolfstein’s gaze; in vain he -looked around him, in vain he searched every recess, wherein he might -have secreted himself--Ginotti was gone! - -To describe the surprise mingled with awe, which possessed Wolfstein’s -bosom, is impossible. In vain he searched every part. He proceeded -to the bridge; a party of fishermen were waiting there; he inquired -of them, had they seen a man of superior stature pass? they appeared -surprised at his question, and unanimously answered in the negative. -While varying emotions tumultuously contended within his bosom, -Wolfstein, ever the victim of extraordinary events, paused awhile, -revolving the mystery both of Ginotti’s appearance and disappearance. -That business of an important nature led him to Genoa, he doubted -not; his indifference at the gaming-table, his particular regard of -Wolfstein, left, in the mind of the latter, no doubt, but that he took -a terrible and mysterious interest in whatever related to him. - -All now was silent. The inhabitants of Genoa lay wrapped in sleep, -and, save the occasional conversation of the fishermen who had just -returned, no sound broke on the uninterrupted stillness, and thick -clouds obscured the star-beams of heaven. - -Again Wolfstein searched that part of the city which lay near Strada -Nuova; but no one had seen Ginotti; although all wondered at the wild -expressions and disordered mien of Wolfstein. The bell tolled the hour -of three ere Wolfstein relinquished his pursuit; finding, however, -further inquiry fruitless, he engaged a chair to take him to his -habitation, where he doubted not that Megalena anxiously awaited his -return. - -Proceeding along the streets, the obscurity of the night was not so -great but that he observed the figure of one of the chairmen to be -above that of common men, and that he had drawn his hat forwards -to conceal his countenance. His appearance, however, excited no -remark; for Wolfstein was too much absorbed in the idea which related -individually to himself, to notice what, perhaps, at another time, -might have excited wonder. The wind sighed moaningly along the stilly -colonnades, and the grey light of morning began to appear above the -eastern eminences. - -They entered the street which soon led to the abode of Wolfstein, who -fixed his eyes upon the chairman. His gigantic proportions struck him -with involuntary awe: such is the unaccountable connexion of idea in -the mind of man. He shuddered. Such a man, thought he, is Ginotti: such -a man is he who watches my every action, whose power I feel within -myself is resistless, and not to be evaded. He sighed deeply when he -reflected on the terrible connexion, dreadful although mysterious, -which subsisted between himself and Ginotti. His soul sank within him -at the idea of his own littleness, when a fellow-mortal might be able -to gain so strong, though sightless, an empire over him. He felt that -he was no longer independent. Whilst these thoughts agitated his mind, -the chair had stopped at his habitation. He turned round to discharge -the chairman’s fare, when, casting his eyes on his countenance, which -hitherto had remained concealed--oh, horrible and chilling conviction! -he recognized in his dark features those of the terrific Ginotti. As -if hell had yawned at the feet of the hapless Wolfstein, as if some -spectre of the night had blasted his straining eyeball, so did he stand -transfixed. His soul shrank with mingled awe and abhorrence from a -being who, even to himself, was confessedly superior to the proud and -haughty Wolfstein. Ere well he could calm his faculties, agitated by so -unexpected an interview, Ginotti said, - -“Wolfstein! long have I known you; long have I marked you as the only -man who now exists, worthy, and appreciating the value of what I have -in store for you. Inscrutable are my intentions; seek not, therefore, -to develop them: time will do it in a far more complete manner. You -shall not now know the motive for my, to you, unaccountable actions: -strive not, therefore, to unravel them: You may frequently see me: -never attempt to speak or follow; for, if you do----” Here the eyes of -Ginotti flashed with coruscations of inexpressible fire, and his every -feature became animated by the tortures which he was about to describe; -but he suddenly checked himself, and only added: “Attend to these my -directions, but try, if possible, to forget me. I am not what I seem. -The time may come, _will_ most probably arrive, when I shall appear in -my real character to you. You, Wolfstein, have I singled out from the -whole world to make the depositary----” He ceased, and abruptly quitted -the spot. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - --Nature shrinks back - Enhorror’d from the lurid gaze of vengeance, - E’en in the deepest caverns, and the voice - Of all her works lies hush’d. - Olympia. - - -On Wolfstein’s return to his habitation, he found Megalena in anxious -expectation of his arrival. She feared that some misfortune had -befallen him. Wolfstein related to her the events of the preceding -night; they appeared to her mysterious and inexplicable: nor could she -offer any consolation to the wretched Wolfstein. - -The occurrences of the preceding evening left a load upon his breast, -which all the gaieties of Genoa were insufficient to dispel: eagerly he -longed for the visit of Ginotti. Slow dragged the hours: each day did -he expect it, and each succeeding day brought but disappointment to his -expectations. - -Megalena too, the beautiful, the adored Megalena, was no longer what -formerly she was, the innocent girl hanging on his support, and -depending wholly upon him for defence and protection; no longer, with -mild and love-beaming eyes, she regarded the haughty Wolfstein as a -superior being, whose look or slightest word was sufficient to decide -her on any disputed point. No; dissipated pleasures had changed the -former mild and innocent Megalena. Far, far different was she than -when she threw herself into his arms on their escape from the cavern, -and, with a blush, smiled upon the first declaration of Wolfstein’s -affection. - -Now, immersed in a succession of gay pleasures, Megalena was no -longer the gentle interesting she, whose soul of sensibility would -tremble if a worm beneath her feet expired; whose heart would sink -within her at the tale of others’ woe. She had become a fashionable -belle, and forgot, in her new character, the fascinations of her -old one. Still, however, was she ardently, solely, and resistlessly -attached to Wolfstein: his image was implanted in her soul, never to -be effaced by casualty, never erased by time. No coolness apparently -took place between them; but, although unperceived and unacknowledged -by each, an indifference evidently did exist between them. Among the -various families whom their residence in Genoa had rendered familiar -to Wolfstein and Megalena, none were more so than that of il Conte -della Anzasca; it consisted of himself, la Contessa, and a daughter of -exquisite loveliness, named Olympia. - -This girl, mistress of every fascinating accomplishment, uniting -in herself to great brilliancy and playfulness of wit, a person -alluring beyond description, was in her eighteenth year. From habitual -indulgence, her passions, naturally violent and excessive, had become -irresistible; and when once she had fixed a determination in her mind, -that determination must either be effected, or she must cease to exist. -Such, then, was the beautiful Olympia, and as such she conceived a -violent and unconquerable passion for Wolfstein. His towering and -majestic form, his expressive and regular features, beaming with -somewhat of softness; yet pregnant with a look as if woe had beat -to the earth a mind whose native and unconfined energies aspired to -heaven--all, all told her, that, without him, she must either cease -to be, or drag on a life of endless and irremediable woe. Nourished -by restless imagination, her passion soon attained a most unbridled -height: instead of conquering a feeling which honour, generosity, -virtue, all forbade ever to be gratified, she gloried within herself -at having found one on whom she might with justice fix her burning -attachment; for although the object of them had never before been -present to her mind, the desires for that object, although unseen, had -taken root long, long ago. A false system of education, and a wrong -expansion of ideas, as they became formed, had been put in practice -with respect to her youthful mind; and indulgence strengthened the -passions which it behoved restraint to keep within proper bounds, -and which have unfolded themselves as coadjutors of virtue, and not -as promoters of vicious and illicit love. Fiercer, nevertheless, in -proportion as greater obstacles appeared in the prosecution of her -resolve, flamed the passion of the devoted Olympia. Her brain was -whirled round in the fiercest convulsions of expectant happiness; the -anticipation of gratified voluptuousness swelled her bosom even to -bursting, yet did she rein-in the boiling emotions of her soul, and -resolved to be sufficiently cool, more certainly to accomplish her -purpose. - -It was one night when Wolfstein’s mansion was the scene of gaiety, that -this idea first suggested itself to the mind of Olympia, and unfolded -itself to her, as it really was, love for Wolfstein. In vain the -suggestions of generosity, the voice of conscience, which told her how -doubly wicked would be the attempt of alienating from her the lover of -her friend Megalena, in audible, though noiseless, accents spoke; in -vain the native modesty of her sex represented in its real and hideous -colours what she was about to do: still Olympia was resolved. - -That night, in the solitude of her own chamber, in the palazzo of her -father, she retraced in her mind the various events which had led -to her present uncontrollable passion, which had employed her whole -thoughts, and rendered her, as it were, dead to every other outward -existence. The wild transports of maddening desire raved terrific -within her breast: she endeavoured to smother the ideas which presented -themselves; but the more she strove to erase them from her mind, the -more vividly were they represented in her heated and enthusiastic -imagination. “And will he not return my love?” she exclaimed: “will -he not?--ah! a bravo’s dagger shall pierce his heart, and thus will I -reward him for his contempt of Olympia della Anzasca. But no! it is -impossible. I will cast myself at his feet; I will avow to him the -passion which consumes me,--will swear to be ever, ever his! Can he -then cast me from him? Can he despise a woman whose only fault is love, -nay, idolatry, adoration for him?” - -She paused.--The tumultuous passions of her soul were now too fierce -for utterance--too fierce for concealment or restraint. The hour was -late; the moon poured its mildly-lustrous beams upon the lengthened -colonnades of Genoa, when Olympia, overcome by emotions such as these, -quitted her father’s palazzo, and hastened, with rapid and unequal -footsteps, towards the mansion of Wolfstein. The streets were by no -means crowded; but those who yet lingered in them gazed with slight -surprise on the figure of Olympia, which, light and symmetrical as a -celestial sylphid, passed swiftly onwards. - -She soon arrived at the habitation of Wolfstein, and sent the domestic -to announce that one wished to speak with him, whose business was -pressing and secret. She was conducted into an apartment, and there -awaited the arrival of Wolfstein. A confused expression of awe played -upon his features as he entered; but it suddenly gave place to that of -surprise. He started upon perceiving Olympia, and said, - -“To what, Lady Olympia, do I owe the unforeseen pleasure of your visit? -What so mysterious business have you with me?” continued he playfully. -“But come, we had just sat down to supper; Megalena is within.”----“Oh! -if you wish to see me expire in horrible torments at your feet, -inhuman Wolfstein, call for Megalena! and then will your purpose be -accomplished.”--“Dearest Lady Olympia, compose yourself, I beseech -you,” said Wolfstein: “what, what agitates you?”--“Oh! pardon, pardon -me,” she exclaimed, with maniac wildness, “pardon a wretched female who -knows not what she does! Oh! resistlessly am I impelled to this avowal: -resistlessly am I impelled to declare to you, that I love you! adore -you to distraction!--Will you return my affection? But ah! I rave! -Megalena, the beloved Megalena, claims you as her own; and the wretched -Olympia must moan the blighted prospects which were about to open fair -before her eyes.” - -“For Heaven’s sake, dear lady, compose yourself; recollect who you are; -recollect the loftiness of birth and loveliness of form which are so -eminently yours. This, this is far beneath Olympia.” - -“Oh!” she exclaimed, franticly casting herself at his feet, and -bursting into a passion of tears, “what are birth, fame, fortune, and -all the advantages which are casually given to me! I swear to thee, -Wolfstein, that I would sacrifice not only these, but even all my -hopes of future salvation, even the forgiveness of my Creator, were -it required from me. O Wolfstein, kind, pitying Wolfstein, look down -with an eye of indulgence on a female whose only crime is resistless, -unquenchable adoration of you.” - -She panted for breath, her pulses beat with violence, her eyes swam, -and overcome by the conflicting passions of her soul, the frame of -Olympia fell, sickening with faintness, on the ground. Wolfstein raised -her, and tenderly essayed to recall the senses of the hapless girl. -Recovering, and perceiving her situation, Olympia started, seemingly, -horrified, from the arms of Wolfstein. The energies of her high mind -instantly resumed their functions, and she exclaimed, “Then, base and -ungrateful Wolfstein, you refuse to unite your fate with mine? My love -is ardent and excessive, but the revenge which may follow the despiser -of it is far more impetuous; reflect well then ere you drive Olympia -della Anzasca to despair.”--“No reflection, in the present instance, is -needed, lady,” replied Wolfstein, coolly, yet determinedly. “What man -of honour needs a moment’s rumination to discover what nature has so -inerasibly implanted in his bosom--the sense of right and wrong? I am -connected with a female whom I love, who confides in me; in what manner -should I merit her confidence, if I join myself to another? nor can the -loveliness, the exquisite, the unequalled loveliness of the beautiful -Olympia della Anzasca compensate me for breaking an oath sworn to -another.” - -He paused.--Olympia spake not, but appeared to be awaiting the dreadful -fiat of her destiny. - -“Olympia,” Wolfstein continued, “pardon me! Were I not irrevocably -Megalena’s, I must be thine: I esteem you, I admire you, but my love is -another’s.” - -The passion which before had choked Olympia’s utterance, appeared to -give way to the impetuousness of her emotions. - -“Then,” she said, as a solemnity of despair toned her voice to -firmness, “then you are irrevocably another’s?” - -“I am compelled to be explicit; I am compelled to say, I am another’s -for ever!” fervently returned Wolfstein. - -Again fainting from the excess of painful feeling which vibrated -through her frame, Olympia fell at Wolfstein’s feet: again he raised -her, and, in anxious solicitude, watched her varying countenance. At -the critical instant when Olympia had just recovered from the faintness -which had oppressed her, the door burst open, and disclosed to the -view of the passion-grieving Olympia, the detested form of Megalena. A -silence, resembling that when a solemn pause in the midnight-tempest -announces that the elements only hesitate to collect more terrific -force for the ensuing explosion, took place, while Megalena surveyed -Olympia and Wolfstein. Still she spoke not; yet the silence, even more -terrible than the commotion which followed, continued to prevail. -Olympia dashed by Megalena, and faintly articulating “Vengeance!” -rushed into the street, and bent her rapid flight to the Palazzo di -Anzasca. - -“Wolfstein,” said Megalena, her voice quivering with excessive emotion, -“Wolfstein, how have I deserved this? How have I deserved a dereliction -so barbarous and unprovoked? But no!” she added in a firmer tone, -“no, I will leave you! I will show that I can bear the tortures of -disappointed love, better than you can evade the scrutiny of one who -did adore thee.” - -In vain Wolfstein put in practice every soothing art to tranquillize -the agitation of Megalena. Her frame trembled with violent shuddering; -yet her soul, as it were, superior to the form which enshrined it, -loftily towered, and retained its firmness amidst the frightful chaos -which battled within. - -“Now,” said she to Wolfstein, “I will leave you.” - -“O God! Megalena, dearest, adored Megalena!” exclaimed Wolfstein, -passionately, “stop--I love you, must ever love you: deign, at least, -to hear me.” - -“What good would accrue from that?” gloomily inquired Megalena. - -Wolfstein rushed towards her; he threw himself at her feet and -exclaimed, “If ever, for one instant, my soul was alienated from -thee--if ever it swerved from the affection which I have sworn to -thee--may the red right hand of God instantaneously dash me beneath -the lowest abyss of hell! O Megalena! is it as a victim of groundless -jealousy that I have immolated myself at the altar of thy perfections? -Have I only raised myself to this summit of happiness to feel more -deeply the fall of which thou art the cause? O Megalena! if yet one -spark of thy former love lingers in thy breast, oh! believe one who -swears that he must be thine even till the particles which compose the -soul devoted to thee, become annihilated.”--He paused. - -Megalena heard his wildly enthusiastic expressions in sullen silence. -She looked upon him with a stern and severe gaze:--he yet lay at her -feet, and, hiding his face upon the earth, groaned deeply. “What -proof,” exclaimed Megalena, impatiently, “what proof will Wolfstein, -the deceiver, bring to satisfy me that his love is still mine?” - -“Seek for proof in my heart,” returned Wolfstein, “that heart which yet -is bleeding from the thorns which thou, cruel girl, hast implanted in -it: seek it in my every action, and then will the convinced Megalena -know that Wolfstein is hers irrevocably--body and soul, for ever!” - -“Yet, I believe thee not!” said Megalena: “for the haughty Olympia -della Anzasca would scarcely recline in the arms of a man who was not -entirely devoted to her.” - -Yet were the charms of Megalena unfaded; yet their empire over -Wolfstein excessive and complete. - -“Still I believe thee not,” continued she, as a smile of expectant -malice sat upon her cheek. “I require some proof which will assuredly -convince me that I am yet beloved: give me proof, and Megalena will -again be Wolfstein’s.”--“Oh!” said Wolfstein, mournfully, “what -farther proof can I give, but my oath, that never in soul or body have -I broken the allegiance that I formerly swore to thee?” - -“The death of Olympia!” gloomily returned Megalena. - -“What mean you?” said Wolfstein, starting. - -“I mean,” continued Megalena, collectedly, as if what she was about to -utter had been the result of serious cogitation: “I mean that, if ever -you wish again to possess my affections, ere to-morrow morning, Olympia -must expire!” - -“Murder the innocent Olympia?” - -“Yes!” - -A pause ensued, during which the mind of Wolfstein, torn by ten -thousand warring emotions, knew not on what to resolve. He gazed upon -Megalena: her symmetrical form shone with tenfold loveliness to his -enraptured imagination: again he resolved to behold those eyes beam -with affection for him, which were now gloomily fixed upon the ground. -“Will nothing else convince Megalena that Wolfstein is eternally hers?” - -“Nothing.” - -“’Tis done, then,” exclaimed Wolfstein, “’tis done. Yet,” he muttered, -“I may suffer for this premeditated act tortures now inconceivable; I -may writhe, convulsed, in immaterial agony, for ever and for ever--ah! -I cannot. No!” he continued, “Megalena, I am again yours; I will -immolate the victim which thou requirest as a sacrifice to our love. -Give me a dagger, which may sweep off from the face of the earth one -who is hateful to thee! Adored creature, give me the dagger, and I will -restore it to thee dripping with Olympia’s hated blood; it shall have -first been buried in her heart.” - -“Then, then again art thou mine own! again art thou the idolized -Wolfstein, whom I was wont to love!” said Megalena, enfolding him in -her embrace. Perceiving her returning softness, Wolfstein essayed -to induce her to spare him the frightful proof of the ardour of his -attachment; but she started from his arms as he spoke, and exclaimed: - -“Ah! base deceiver, do you hesitate?” - -“Oh, no! I do not hesitate, dearest Megalena;--give me a dagger, and I -go.” - -“Here, follow me then,” returned Megalena. He followed her to the -supper-room. - -“It is useless to go yet, it has but yet struck one; the inhabitants -of il Palazzo della Anzasca will, about two, be nearly all retired -to rest; till then, let us converse on what we were about to do.” So -far did Megalena’s seductive blandishment, her artful selection of -converse, win upon Wolfstein, that, when the destined hour approached, -his sanguinary soul thirsted for the blood of the comparatively -innocent Olympia. - -“Well!” he cried, swallowing down an overflowing goblet of wine, “now -the time is come; now suffer me to go, and tear the soul of Olympia -from her hated body.” His fury amounted almost to delirium, as, -masked, and having a dagger, which Megalena had given him, concealed -beneath his garments, he proceeded rapidly along the streets towards -the Palazzo della Anzasca. So eager was he to shed the life-blood of -Olympia, that he flew, rather than ran, along the silent streets of -Genoa. The colonnades of the lofty Palazzo della Anzasca resounded to -his rapid footsteps; he stopped at its lofty portal:--it was open; -unperceived he entered, and, hiding himself behind a column, according -to the directions of Megalena, waited there. Soon advancing through the -hall, he saw the sylph-like figure of the lovely Olympia; with silent -tread he followed it, experiencing not the slightest sentiment of -remorse within his bosom for the deed which he was about to perpetrate. -He followed her to her apartment, and secreting himself until Olympia -might have sunk into sleep, with sanguinary and remorseless patience, -when her loud breathing convinced him that her slumber was profound, he -arose from his place of concealment, and advanced to the bed, wherein -Olympia lay. Her light tresses, disengaged from the band which had -confined them, floated around a countenance, superhumanly beautiful, -and whose expression, even in slumber, appeared to be tinted by -Wolfstein’s refusal; convulsive sighs heaved her fair bosom, and tears, -starting from under her eyelids, fell profusely down her damask cheek. -Wolfstein gazed upon her in silence. “Cruel, inhuman Megalena!” he -mentally soliloquized, “could nothing but immolation of this innocence -appease thee?” Again he stifled the stings of rebelling conscience; -again the unquenchable ardour of his love for Megalena stimulated him -to the wildest pitch of fury: he raised high the dagger, and, drawing -aside the covering which veiled her alabaster bosom, paused an instant, -to decide in what place it were most instantaneously destructive to -strike. Again a mournful smile irradiated her lovely features; it -played with a sweet softness on her countenance: it seemed as though -she smiled in defiance of the arrows of destiny, but that her soul, -nevertheless, lingered with the wretch who sought her life. Maddened by -the sight of so much beauteous innocence, even the desperate Wolfstein, -forgetful of the danger which he must thereby incur, hurled the dagger -from him. The sound awakened Olympia: she started up in surprise; -but her alarm was changed into ecstasy, when she beheld the idolized -possessor of her soul standing before her. - -“I was dreaming of you,” said Olympia, scarcely knowing whether this -were not a dream; but, impulsively following the first emotions of -her soul. “I dreamed that you were about to murder me. It is not so, -Wolfstein, no! you would not murder one who adores you?” - -“Murder Olympia! O God! no!--I take Heaven to witness, that I never -_now_ could do it!” - -“Nor could you ever, I hope, dear Wolfstein; but drive away thoughts -like these, and remember that Olympia lives but for thee; and the -moment which takes from her your affections seals the death-like fiat -of her destiny.” These asseverations, strengthened by the most solemn -and deadly vows that he would return to Megalena the destroyer of -Olympia, flashed across Wolfstein’s mind. Perpetrate the deed, now, he -could not; his soul became a scene of most terrific agony. “Wilt thou -be mine?” exclaimed the enraptured Olympia, as a ray of hope arose in -her mind. “Never! never can I,” groaned the agitated Wolfstein; “I -am irrevocably, indissolubly another’s.” Maddened by this death-blow -to all expectations of happiness, which the deluded Olympia had so -fondly anticipated, she leaped wildly from the bed. A light and flowing -night-dress alone veiled her form, her alabaster bosom was shaded by -the light ringlets of her hair which rested unconfined upon it. She -threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, as if struck by -some thought, she started convulsively from the earth: for an instant -she paused. - -The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the apartment, fell full -upon the dagger of Wolfstein. Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it; and, -ere Wolfstein was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her -bosom. Weltering in purple gore, she fell; no groan, no sigh escaped -her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolution could not dispel, -played on her convulsed countenance; it irradiated her features with -celestially awful, although terrific expression. “Ineffectually have I -endeavoured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul; now I overcome -them,” were her last words. She uttered them in a tone of firmness, -and, falling back, expired in torments, which her fine, her expressive -features declared that she gloried in. - -All was silent in the chamber of death: the stillness was frightful. -The agonies which Wolfstein endured were past description: for a time -he neither moved nor spoke. The pale glare of the lamp fell upon the -features of Olympia, from which the tinge of life had fled for ever. -Suddenly, and in despite of himself, were the affections of Wolfstein -turned from Megalena: he could not but now regard her as a fiend, -who had been the cause of Olympia’s destruction; who had urged him -to a deed from which his nature now shrunk as from annihilation. A -wild paroxysm of awful alarm seized upon him: he knelt by the side -of Olympia’s corpse; he kissed it, bathed it with his tears, and -imprecated a thousand curses on himself. Her features, although -convulsed by the agonies of violent dissolution, retained an unchanging -image of loveliness, which never might fade away. Her beautiful -bosom, in which her hand yet held the fatal dagger, was discoloured -with blood, and those affection-beaming orbs were now closed in the -never-ending slumber of the grave. Unable longer to endure a sight of -so much horror, Wolfstein started up, and forgetful of everything save -the frightful deed which he had witnessed, rushed from the Palazzo -della Anzasca, and mechanically retraced his way towards his own -habitation. - -Not once that night had Megalena closed her eyes. Her infuriate -passions had wound her soul up to a deadly calmness of expectation. -She had not, during the whole of the night, retired to rest, but sat, -with sanguinary patience, cursing the lagging hours that they passed -so slowly, and waiting to hear tidings of death. Morning had begun -to streak the eastern sky with gray, when Wolfstein hurried into the -supper-room, where Megalena still sat, wildly exclaiming, “The deed -is done!” Megalena entreated him to be calm, and more collectedly, to -communicate the events which had occurred during the night. - -“In the first place,” he said in an accent of feigned horror, “the -officers of justice are alarmed!” - -Deadly affright chilled the soul of Megalena: she turned pale, and, -gasping for breath, inquired eagerly respecting the success of his -attempt. - -“O God!” exclaimed Wolfstein, “that has succeeded but too well! the -hapless Olympia welters in her life-blood!” - -“Joy! joy!” franticly exclaimed Megalena, her eagerness for revenge -overcoming, for the moment, every other feeling. - -“But, Megalena,” continued Wolfstein, “she fell not by my hand: no, she -smiled on me in her sleep, and when she awoke, finding me deaf to her -solicitations, snatched my dagger, and buried it in her bosom.” - -“Did you _wish_ to prevent the deed?” inquired Megalena. - -“Oh, good God of Heaven! thou knowest my heart: I would sacrifice every -remaining earthly good were Olympia again alive!” - -Megalena spoke not, but a smile of exquisitely gratified malice -illumined her features with terrific flame. - -“We must instantly quit Genoa,” said Wolfstein: “the name on the mask -which I left in the Palazzo della Anzasca, will remove all doubt that I -was the murderer of Olympia. Yet indeed I care not much for death; if -you will it so, Megalena, we will even, as it is, remain in Genoa.” - -“Oh! no, no!” eagerly cried Megalena: “Wolfstein, I love you beyond -expression, and Genoa is destruction; let us seek, therefore, some -retired spot, where we may for awhile at least secrete ourselves. But, -Wolfstein, are you persuaded that I love you? need there more proof be -required than that I wished the death of another for thee? it was on -_that_ account alone that I desired the destruction of Olympia, that -thou mightest be more completely and irresistibly mine.” - -Wolfstein answered not: the feelings of his soul were far different; -the expression of his countenance plainly evinced them: and Megalena -regretted that her effervescent passions should have led her to so rash -an avowal of her contempt of virtue. They then separated to arrange -their affairs, prior to their departure, which, on account of the -pressing necessity of the case, must take place immediately. They took -with them but two domestics, and collecting all their stock of money, -they were soon far from pursuit and Genoa. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - Yes! ’tis the influence of that sightless fiend, - Who guides my every footstep, that I feel: - An iron grasp arrests each fluttering sense, - And a fell voice howls in mine anguish’d ear, - “Wretch, thou mayest rest no more.” - Olympia. - - -How sweet are the scenes endeared to us by ideas which we have -cherished in the society of one we have loved! How melancholy to -wander amongst them again after an absence, perhaps of years; years, -which have changed the tenour of our existence,--have changed even the -friend, the dear friend, for whose sake alone the landscape lives in -the memory, for whose sake tears flow at the each varying feature of -the scenery, which catches the eye of one who has never seen them since -he saw them with the being who was dear to him! - -Dark, autumnal, and gloomy was the hour; the winds whistled hollow, -and over the expanse of heaven was spread an unvarying sombreness -of vapour: nothing was heard save the melancholy shriekings of the -nightbird, which, soaring on the evening blast, broke the stillness -of the scene, interrupting the meditations of frenzied enthusiasm; -mingled with the sighing of the wind, which swept in languid and -varying cadence amidst the leafless boughs. - -Ah! of whom shall the poor outcast wanderer demand protection? Far, -far, has she wandered. The vice and unkindness of the world hath torn -her tender heart. In whose bosom shall she repose the secret of her -sufferings? Who will listen with pity to the narrative of her woe, and -heal the wounds which the selfish unkindness of man hath made, and then -sent her with them, unbound, on the wide and pitiless world? Lives -there one whose confidence the sufferer might seek? - -Cold and dreary was the night: November’s blast had chilled the air. Is -the blast so pitiless as ingratitude and selfishness? Ah, no! thought -the wanderer; it is unkind indeed, but not _so_ unkind as that. Poor -Eloise de St. Irvyne! many, many are in thy situation; but few have a -heart so full of sensibility and excellence for the demoniac malice -of man to deform, and then glut itself with hellish pleasure in the -conviction of having ravaged the most lovely of the works of their -Creator. She gazed upon the sky: the moon had just risen; its full -orb was occasionally shaded by a passing cloud: it rose from behind -the turrets of le Château de St. Irvyne. The poor girl raised her -eyes towards it, streaming with tears: she scarce could recognize the -once-loved building. She thanked God for permitting her again to behold -it; and hastened on with steps tottering from fatigue, yet nerved with -the sanguineness of anticipation. - -Yes, St. Irvyne was the same as when she had left it five years ago. -The same ivy mantled the western tower; the same jasmine, which bloomed -so luxuriantly when she left it, was still there, though leafless -from the season. Thus was it with poor Eloise: she had left St. -Irvyne, blooming, and caressed by every one; she returned to it, pale, -downcast, and friendless. The jasmine encircled the twisted pillars -which supported the portal. Alas! whose assistance had prevented Eloise -from sinking to the earth?--no one’s. She knocked at the door--it was -opened, and an instant’s space beheld her in the arms of a beloved -sister. Needless were it to describe the mutual pleasure, needless to -describe the delight, of recognition; suffice it to say, that Eloise -once more enjoyed the society of her dearest friend; and, in the -happiness of her society, forgot the horrors which had preceded her -return to St. Irvyne. - -Now were it well to leave Eloise at St. Irvyne, and retrace the -events which, since five years, had so darkly tinged the fate of -the unsuspecting female, who trusted to the promises of man. It was -a beautiful morning in May, and the loveliness of the season had -spread a deeper shade of gloom over the features of Eloise, for she -knew that not long would her mother live. They journeyed on towards -Geneva, whither the physicians had ordered Madame de St. Irvyne to -repair, as the last resort of a hope that she might, thereby, escape -a rapid decline. On account of the illness of her mother, they -proceeded slowly; and ere long they had entered the region of the Alps, -the shades of evening, which rapidly began to increase, announced -approaching night. They had expected, before this time, to have reached -a town; but, either owing to a miscalculation of their route, or the -remissness of the postilion, they had not yet done so. The majestic -moon which hung above their heads, tinged with silver the fleecy clouds -which skirted the far-seen horizon; and, borne on the soft wing of the -evening zephyr, shadowy lines of vapour, at intervals, crossed her -orbit; then vanishing into the dark blue expansiveness of ether, their -fantastic forms, like the phantoms of midnight, became invisible. Now -might we almost suppose, that the sightless spirits of the departed -good, enthroned on the genial breeze of night, watched over those whom -they had loved on earth, and poured into the bosom, to the dictates of -which, in this world, they had listened with idolatrous attention, that -tranquillity and confidence in the goodness of the Creator, which is -necessary for us to experience ere we go to the next. Such tranquillity -felt Madame de St. Irvyne: she tried to stifle the ideas which arose -within her mind; but the more she strove to repress them, in the more -vivid characters were they imprinted on the imagination. - -Now had they gained the summit of the mountain, when, suddenly, a crash -announced that the carriage had given way. - -“What is to be done?” inquired Eloise. The postilion appeared to take -no notice of her question. “What is to be done?” again she inquired. - -“Why, I scarcely know,” answered the postilion; “but ’tis impossible to -proceed.” - -“Is there no house nearer than----” - -“Oh yes,” replied he; “here is a house quite near, but a little out of -the way; and, perhaps, Ma’am’selle will not----” - -“Oh, lead on, lead on to it,” quickly rejoined Eloise. - -They followed the postilion, and soon arrived at the house. It was -large and plain; and although there were lights in some of the windows, -it bore an indefinable appearance of desolation. - -In a large hall sat three or four men, whose marked countenances -almost announced their profession to be bandits. _One_ of superior and -commanding figure, whispering to the rest, and himself advancing with -the utmost and most unexpected politeness, accosted the travellers. For -the ideas with which the countenance of this man inspired Eloise she in -vain endeavoured to account. It appeared to her that she had seen him -before; that the deep tone of his voice was known to her; and that eye, -scintillating with a coruscation of mingled sternness and surprise, -found some counterpart in herself. Of gigantic stature, yet formed -in the mould of exactest symmetry, was the figure of the stranger who -sate before Eloise. His countenance of excessive beauty even, but dark, -emanated with an expression of superhuman loveliness; not that grace -which may freely be admired, but acknowledged in the inmost soul by -sensations mysterious, and before unexperienced. He tenderly inquired, -whether the night air had injured the ladies, and pressed them to -partake of a repast which the other three men had prepared; he appeared -to unbend a severity, which evidently was habitual, and by extreme -brilliancy and playfulness of wit, joined to talents for conversation -possessed by few, made Madame de St. Irvyne forget that she was dying; -and her daughter, as in rapturous attention she listened to each accent -of the stranger, remembered no more that she was about to lose her -mother. - -In the stranger’s society, they almost forgot the lapse of time: a -pause in the conversation at last occurred. - -“Can Ma’am’selle sing?” inquired the stranger. - -“I can,” replied Eloise; “and with pleasure.” - - - Song. - - How swiftly through heaven’s wide expanse - Bright day’s resplendent colours fade! - How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance - With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade! - - No cloud along the spangled air, - Is borne upon the evening breeze; - How solemn is the scene! how fair - The moonbeams rest upon the trees! - - Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, - Upon it sits the mournful owl; - Along the stillness of the night, - Her melancholy shriekings roll. - - But not alone on Irvyne’s tower, - The silver moonbeam pours her ray; - It gleams upon the ivied bower, - It dances in the cascade’s spray. - “Ah! why do darkening shades conceal - The hour, when man must cease to be?[2] - Why may not human minds unveil - The dim mists of futurity? - - “The keenness of the world hath torn - The heart which opens to its blast; - Despised, neglected, and forlorn, - Sinks the wretch in death at last.” - - -She ceased;--the thrilling accents of her interestingly sweet voice -died away in the vacancy of stillness;--yet listened the charmed -auditors; their imaginations prolonged the tender strain; the -uncouth attendants of the stranger were chained in silence, and the -enthusiastic gaze of their host was fixed upon the timid countenance of -Eloise with wild and mysterious expression. It seemed to say to Eloise, -“We meet again;”--and, as the idea struck her imagination, convulsed by -a feeling of indescribable and excessive awe, she started. - -At last, the hour being late, they all retired. Eloise sought the -couch prepared for her; her mind, perturbed by emotions, the cause of -which she in vain essayed to develop, could bring its intellectual -energies to act on no one particular point; her imagination was -fertile, and, under its fantastic guidance, she felt her judgment -and reason irresistibly fettered. The image of the fascinating, yet -awful stranger, dwelt on her mind. She sank on her knees to return -thanks to her Creator for his mercies; yet even then, faithless to -the task on which it was employed, her mind returned to the stranger. -She felt no particular affection or esteem for him;--no, she rather -feared him; and, when she endeavoured to connect the chain of ideas -which pressed upon her mind, tears started into her eyes, and she -looked around the apartment with the timid terror of a person who -converses at midnight on a subject at once awful and interesting: but -poor Eloise was no philosopher; and to explain sensations like these, -were even beyond the power of the wisest of them. She felt alarmed, -herself, at the violence of the feelings which shook her bosom, and -attempted to compose herself to sleep. Yet even in her dream was the -stranger present. She thought that she met him on a flowery plain; -that the feelings of her bosom, whether she would or not, impelled her -towards him; that, before she had been enfolded in his arms, a torrent -of scintillating flame, accompanied by a terrific crash of thunder, -made the earth yawn beneath her feet;--the gay vision vanished from -her fancy, and, in place of the flowery plain, a rugged and desolate -heath extended far before her; its monotonous solitude unbroken, -save by the low and barren rocks which rose occasionally from its -surface. From dreams such as these, dreams which left on her mind -painful presentiments of her future life, Eloise arose, restless and -unrefreshed from slumber. - -Why gleams that dark eyeball upon the countenance of Eloise, as -she tenderly inquired for the health of her mother? Why did a -hidden expression of exulting joy light up that demoniac gaze, when -Madame de St. Irvyne said to her daughter, “I feel rather faint -to-day, my child;--would we were at Geneva!” It beams with hell and -destruction!--Let me look again: that, when I see another eye which -gleams so fiendishly, I may know that it is a villain’s.--Thus might -have thought the sightless minister of the beneficence of God, as it -hovered round the spotless Eloise. But, hush! what was that scream -which was heard by the ear of listening enthusiasm? It was the shriek -of the fair Eloise’s better genius; it screamed to see the foe of the -innocent girl so near--it is fled fast to Geneva. “There, Eloise, will -we meet again,” methought it whispered; whilst a low hollow tone, -hoarse from the dank vapours of the grave, seemed lowly to howl in the -ear of rapt Fancy, “We meet again likewise.” - -Their courteous host conducted Madame de St. Irvyne and Eloise to -their chaise, which was now repaired, and ready for the journey; the -stranger bowed respectfully as they went away. The expression of his -dark eye, as he beheld them for the last time, was even stronger than -ever; it seemed not to affect her mother; but the mystic feelings which -it excited in the bosom of Eloise were beyond description powerful. -The paleness of Madame de St. Irvyne’s cheek, on which the only teint -was an occasional and hectic flush, announced that the illness which -consumed her, rapidly increased, and would soon lead her gently to the -gates of death. She talked calmly of her approaching dissolution, and -only regretted, that to no one protector could she entrust the care -of her orphaned daughters. Marianne, her eldest daughter, had, by her -mother’s particular desire, remained at the château; and though much -wishing to accompany her mother, she urged it no longer, when she knew -Madame de St. Irvyne to be resolved against it. Now had the illness -which had attacked her assumed so serious and so decided an appearance, -that she could no longer doubt the event; could no longer doubt that -she was quickly about to enter a better world. - -“My daughter,” said she, “there is a banker at Geneva, a worthy man, -to whom I shall bequeath the guardianship of my child; on that head -are all my doubts quieted. But, Eloise, my child, you are yet young; -you know not the world; but bear in mind these words of your dying -mother, so long as you remember herself:--When you see a man enveloped -in deceit and mystery; when you see him dark, reserved, and suspicious, -carefully avoid him. Should such a man seek your friendship or -affection, should he seek, by any means, to confer an obligation upon -you, or make you confer one on him, spurn him from you as you would a -serpent; as one who aimed to lure your unsuspecting innocence to the -paths of destruction.” - -The affecting solemnity of her voice, as thus she spoke, touched Eloise -deeply; she wept. “I must remember my mother for ever,” was her almost -inarticulate reply; deep sobs burst from her agitated bosom; and the -varying crowds of imagery which followed each other in her mind, were -too complicated to be defined. Still, though deeply grieved at the -approaching death of her mother, was the mysterious stranger uppermost -in her thoughts; his image excited ideas painful and unpleasant. She -wished to turn the tide of them; but the more she attempted it, with -the more painful recurrence of almost _mechanical_ force, did his -recollection press upon her disturbed intellect. - -Eloise de St. Irvyne was a girl, whose temper and disposition was most -excellent; she was, indeed, too, possessed of uncommon sensibility; -yet was her mind moulded in an inferior degree of perfection. She was -susceptible of prejudice, to a great degree; and resigned herself, -careless of the consequences which might follow, to the feelings of -the moment. Every accomplishment, it is true, she enjoyed in the -highest excellence; and the very convent at which she was educated, -which afforded the adventitious advantages so highly esteemed by the -world, prevented her mind from obtaining that degree of expansiveness -and excellence which, otherwise, might have rendered Eloise nearer -approaching to perfection; the very routine of a convent education gave -a false and pernicious bias to the ideas, as, luxuriant in youth, they -unfolded themselves; and those sentiments which, had they been allowed -to take the turn which nature intended, would have become coadjutors -of virtue, and strengtheners of that mind, which now they had rendered -_comparatively_ imbecile. Such was Eloise, and as such she required -unexampled care to prevent those feelings which agitate every mind -of sensibility, to get the better of the judgment which had, by an -erroneous system of education, become relaxed. Her mother was about to -die--who now would care for Eloise? - -They entered Geneva at the close of a fine, yet sultry day. The -illness of Madame de St. Irvyne had increased so as now to threaten -instant danger: she was conveyed to bed. A deadly paleness sat on her -cheek: it was flushed, however, as she spoke, with momentary hectics; -and, as she conversed with her daughter, a fire which almost partook -of ethereality, shone in her sunken eye. It was evening; the yellow -beams of the sun, as his orb shed the parting glory on the verge of -the horizon, penetrated the bed-curtains; and by their effulgence -contrasted the deadliness of her countenance. The poor Eloise sat, -watching, with eyes dimmed by tears, each variation in the countenance -of her mother. Silent, from an ecstasy of grief, she gazed fixedly upon -her, and felt every earthly hope die within her, when the conviction -of a fast-approaching dissolution pressed upon her disturbed brain. -Madame de St. Irvyne, at length exhausted, fell into a quiet slumber; -Eloise feared to disturb her, but, motionless with grief, sate behind -the curtain. Now had sunk the orb of day, and the shades of twilight -began to scatter duskiness through the chamber of death. All was -silent; and, save by the catchings of breath in her mother’s slumber, -the stillness was uninterrupted. Yet even in this awful, this terrific -crisis of her existence, the mind of Eloise seemed compelled to exert -its intellectual energies but on one subject;--in vain she essayed to -pray;--in vain she attempted to avert the horror of her meditations, -by contemplating the pallid features of her dying mother; her thoughts -were not within her own control, and she trembled as she reflected on -the appalling and mysterious influence which the image of a man, whom -she had seen but once, and whom she neither loved nor cared for, had -gained over her mind. With the indefinable terror of one who dreads -to behold some phantom, Eloise fearfully cast her eyes around the -gloomy apartment; occasionally she shrank from the ideal form which an -unconnected imagination had conjured up, and could scarcely but suppose -that the _stranger’s_ gaze, as last he had looked upon her, met her -own with an horrible and mixed scintillation of mysterious cunning -and interest. She felt no prepossession in his favour; she rather -detested him, and gladly would never have again beheld him. Yet, were -the circumstances which introduced him to their notice alluded to, she -would turn pale, and blush, by turns; and Jeanette, their maid, was -fully persuaded in her own mind, and prided herself on her penetration -in the discovery, that Ma’am’selle was violently in love with the -hospitable Alpine hunter. - -Madame de St. Irvyne had now awakened; she beckoned her daughter to -approach. Eloise obeyed; and, kneeling, kissed the chill hand of her -mother, in a transport of sorrow, and bathed it with her tears. - -“Eloise,” said her mother, her voice trembling from excessive weakness, -“Eloise, my child, farewell--farewell for ever. I feel I am about -to die; but, before I die, willingly would I say much to my dearest -daughter. You are now left on the hard-hearted, pitiless world; and -perhaps, oh! perhaps, about to become an immolated victim of its -treachery. Oh!----” Here, overcome by extreme pain, she fell backwards; -a transient gleam of animation lighted up her expressive countenance; -she smiled, and--expired. All was still; and over the gloomy chamber -reigned silence and horror. The yellow moonbeam, with sepulchral -effulgence, gleamed on the countenance of her who had expired, and -lighted her features, sweet even in death, with a dire and horrible -contrast to the dimness which prevailed around! Ah! such was the -contrast of the peace enjoyed by the spirit of the departed one, with -the misery which awaited the wretched Eloise. Poor Eloise! she had now -lost almost her only friend! - -In excessive and silent grief, knelt the mourning girl; she spoke -not, she wept not; her sorrow was too violent for tears, but, oh! her -heart was torn by pangs of unspeakable acuteness. But even amid the -alarm which so melancholy an event must have excited, the idea of the -_stranger in the Alps_ sublimed the soul of Eloise to the highest -degree of horror, and despair the most infuriate. For the ideas which -crowded into her mind at this crisis, so eventful, so terrific, she -endeavoured to account; but, alas! her attempt was fruitless! Still -knelt she; still did she press to her burning lips the lifeless hand -of departed excellence, when the morning’s ray announced to her -that longer continuing there might excite suspicion of intellectual -derangement. She arose, therefore, and, quitting the apartment, -announced the melancholy event which had taken place. She gave orders -for the funeral; it was to be solemnized as soon as decency would -permit, as the poor friendless Eloise wished speedily to quit Geneva. -She wrote to announce the fatal event to her sister. Slowly dragged the -time. Eloise followed to its latest bed the corpse of her mother, and -was returning from the convent, when a stranger put into her hand a -note, and quickly disappeared:-- - -“Will Eloise de St. Irvyne meet her friend at ---- Abbey, to-morrow -night, at ten o’clock?” - - -[2] These two lines are taken _verbatim_ from Byron’s _Hours of -Idleness_.--Ed. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - ----Why then unbidden gush’d the tear? - - * * * * * - - Then would cold shudderings seize his brain, - As gasping he labour’d for breath; - The strange gaze of his meteor eye, - Which, frenzied, and rolling dreadfully, - Glared with hideous gleam, - Would chill like the spectre gaze of Death, - As, conjured by feverish dream, - He seems o’er the sick man’s couch to stand, - And shakes the fell lance in his skeleton hand. - Wandering Jew.[3] - - -Yes;--they fled from Genoa; they had eluded pursuit and justice, but -could not escape the torments of an outraged and avenging conscience, -which, with stings the most acute, pursued them whithersoever they -might go. Fortune even seemed to favour them: for fortune will, -sometimes, in this world, appear to side with the wicked. Wolfstein had -received notice that an uncle, possessed of immense wealth, had died -in Bohemia, and bequeathed to him the whole of his estate. Thither, -then, with Megalena, went Wolfstein. Their journey produced no event -of consequence; suffice it to say, that they arrived at the spot where -Wolfstein’s possessions were situated. - -Dark and desolate were the scenes which surrounded the no less desolate -castle. Gloomy heaths, in unvarying sadness of immensity, stretched far -and wide. A scathed pine or oak, blasted by the thunderbolts of heaven, -alone broke the monotonous sameness of the imagery. Needless were it -to describe the castle, built like all those of the Bohemian barons, -in mingled Gothic and barbarian architecture. Over the dark expanse -the dim moon beaming, and faintly, with its sepulchral radiance, -dispersing the thickness of the vapours which lowered around (for her -waning horn, which hung low above the horizon, added but tenfold horror -to the terrific desolation of the scene); the night-raven pouring on -the dull ear of evening her frightful screams, and breaking on the -otherwise uninterrupted stillness,--were the melancholy greetings to -their new habitation. - -They alighted at the antique entrance, and passing through a vast -and comfortless hall, were conducted into a saloon not much less so. -The coolness of the evening, for it was late in the autumn, made the -wood fire, which had been lighted, disperse a degree of comfort; and -Wolfstein, having arranged his domestic concerns, continued talking -with Megalena until midnight. - -“But you have never yet correctly explained to me,” said Megalena, -“the mystery which encircled that strange man whom we met at the inn -at Breno. I think I have seen him once since, or I should not now have -thought of the circumstance.” - -“Indeed, Megalena, I know of no mystery. I suppose the man was mad, or -wished to make us think so; for my part, I have never thought of him -since; nor intend to think of him.” - -“Do you not?” exclaimed a voice, which enchained motionless to his -seat the horror-struck Wolfstein--when turning round, and starting -in agonized frenzy from his chair, Ginotti himself--_Ginotti_--from -whose terrific gaze never had he turned unappalled, stood in cool and -fearless contempt before him! - -“Do you not?” continued the mysterious stranger. “Never again intendest -thou to think of me?--me! who have watched each expanding idea, -conscious to what I was about to apply them, conscious of the great -purpose for which each was formed. Ah! Wolfstein, by my agency shalt -thou----” He paused, assuming a smile expressive of exultation and -superiority. - -“Oh! do with me what thou wilt, strange, inexplicable being!--Do with -me what thou wilt!” exclaimed Wolfstein, as an ecstasy of frenzied -terror overpowered his astonished senses. Megalena still sat unmoved: -she was surprised, it is true; but most was she surprised, that an -event like this should have power so to shake Wolfstein; for even then -he stood gazing in enhorrored silence on the majestic figure of Ginotti. - -“Fool, then, that thou art, to deny me!” continued Ginotti, in a tone -less solemn, but more severe. “Wilt thou promise me that, when I come -to demand what thou covenantedst with me at Breno, I meet no fears, -no scruples, but that, then, thou wilt perform what there thou didst -swear, and that _this_ oath shall be inviolable?” - -“It shall,” replied Wolfstein. - -“Swear it.” - -“As I keep my vows with you, may God reward me hereafter!” - -“’Tis done, then,” returned Ginotti. “Ere long shall I claim the -performance of this covenant--now farewell.” Speaking thus, Ginotti -dashed away; and, mounting a horse which stood at the gate, sped -swiftly across the heath. His form lessened in the clear moonlight; and -when it was no longer visible to the straining eyeballs of Wolfstein, -he felt, as it were, a spell which had enthralled him, to be dissolved. - -Reckless of Megalena’s earnest entreaties, he threw himself into a -chair, in deep and gloomy melancholy; he answered them not, but, -immersed in a train of corroding ideas, remained silent. Even when -retired to repose, and he could, occasionally, sink into a transitory -slumber, would he again start from it, as he thought that Ginotti’s -majestic form leaned over him, and that the glance which, last, his -fearful eye had thrown, chilled his breast with indescribable agony. -Slowly lagged the time to Wolfstein: Ginotti, though now gone, and -far away perhaps, dwelt in his disturbed mind; his image was there -imprinted in characters terrific and indelible. Oft would he wander -along the desolate heath; on every blast of wind which sighed over the -scattered remnants of what was once a forest, Ginotti’s, the terrific -Ginotti’s voice seemed to float; and in every dusky recess, favoured -by the descending shades of gloomy night, his form appeared to lurk, -and, with frightful glare, his eye to penetrate the conscience-stricken -Wolfstein as he walked. A falling leaf, or a hare starting from her -heathy seat, caused him to shrink with affright; yet, though dreading -loneliness, he was irresistibly compelled to seek for solitude. -Megalena’s charms had now no longer power to speak comfort to his soul: -ephemeral are the friendships of the wicked, and involuntary disgust -follows the attachment founded on the visionary fabric of passion or -interest. It sinks in the merited abyss of ennui, or is followed by -apathy and carelessness, which amply its origin deserved. - -The once ardent and excessive passion of Wolfstein for Megalena, -was now changed into disgust and almost detestation; he sought to -conceal it from her, but it was evident, in spite of his resolution. -He regarded her as a woman capable of the most shocking enormities; -since, without any adequate temptation to vice, she had become -sufficiently depraved to consider an inconsequent crime the wilful -and premeditated destruction of a fellow-creature; still, whether it -were from the indolence which he had contracted, or an indefinably -sympathetic connexion of soul, which forbade them to part during -their mortal existence, was Wolfstein irremediably linked to his -mistress, who was as depraved as himself, though originally of a better -disposition. He likewise had, at first, resisted the allurements of -vice; but, overpowered by its incitements, had resigned himself, indeed -reluctantly, to its influence. But Megalena had courted its advances, -and endeavoured to conquer neither the suggestions of crime, nor the -dictates of a nature prone to the attacks of _appetite_--let me not -call it passion. - -Fast advanced winter; cheerless and solitary were the days. Wolfstein, -occasionally, followed the chase; but even _that_ was wearisome: -and the bleeding image of the murdered Olympia, or the still more -dreaded idea of the terrific Ginotti, haunted him in the midst of its -tumultuous pleasures, and embittered every moment of his existence. The -pale corpse too of Cavigni, blackened by poison, reigned in his chaotic -imagination and stung his soul with tenfold remorse, when he reflected -that he had murdered one who never had injured him, for the sake of -a being whose depraved society every succeeding day rendered more -monotonous and insipid. - -It was one evening when, according to his custom, Wolfstein wandered -late: it was in the beginning of December, and the weather was -peculiarly mild for the season and latitude. Over the cerulean expanse -of ether the dim moon, shrouded in the fleeting fragments of vapour, -which, borne on the pinions of the northern blast, crossed her pale -orb; at intervals, the dismal hooting of the owl, which, searching for -prey, flitted her white wings over the dusky heath; the silver beams -which slept on the outline of the far-seen forests, and the melancholy -stillness, uninterrupted save by these concomitants of gloom, conduced -to sombre reflection. Wolfstein reclined upon the heath; he retraced, -in mental review, the past events of his life, and shuddered at the -darkness of his future destiny. He strove to repent of his crimes; but, -though conscious of the connexion which existed between the ideas, as -often as repentance presented itself to his mind, Ginotti rushed upon -his troubled imagination, and a dark veil seemed to separate him for -ever from contrition, notwithstanding he was constantly subjected -to the tortures inflicted by it. At last, wearied with the corroding -recollections, the acme of which progressively increased, he bent his -steps again towards his habitation. - -As he was entering the portal, a grasp of iron arrested his arm, -and, turning round, he recognized the tall figure of Ginotti, which, -enveloped in a mantle, had leaned against a jutting buttress. -Amazement, for a time, chained the faculties of Wolfstein in motionless -surprise: at last he recollected himself, and, in a voice trembling -from agitation, inquired, did he now demand the performance of the -promise? - -“I come,” he said, “I come to demand it, Wolfstein! Art thou willing to -perform what thou hast promised?--but come----” - -A degree of solemnity, mixed with concealed fierceness, toned his -voice as he spoke; yet was he fixed in the attitude in which first he -had addressed Wolfstein. The pale ray of the moon fell upon his dark -features, and his coruscating eye fixed on his trembling victim’s -countenance, flashed with almost intolerable brilliancy. A chill horror -darted through Wolfstein’s sickening frame; his brain swam around -wildly, and most appalling presentiments of what was about to happen, -pressed upon his agonized intellect. “Yes, yes, I have promised, and -I will perform the covenant I have entered into,” said Wolfstein; “I -swear to you that I will!” and as he spoke, a kind of mechanical and -inspired feeling steeled his soul to fortitude; it seemed to arise -independently of himself; nor could he, though he eagerly desired -to do so, control in the least his _own_ resolves. Such an impulse -as this had first induced him to promise at all. Ah! how often in -Ginotti’s absence had he resisted it! but when the mysterious disposer -of the events of his existence was before him, a consciousness of -the inutility of his refusal compelled him to submit to the mandates -of a being, whom his heart sickening to acknowledge, it unwillingly -confessed as a superior. - -“Come,” continued Ginotti; “the hour is late, I must dispatch.” - -Unresisting, yet speaking not, Wolfstein conducted Ginotti to an -apartment. - -“Bring wine, and light a fire,” said he to his servant, who quickly -obeyed him. Wolfstein swallowed an overflowing goblet, hoping thereby -to acquire courage; for he found that, with every moment of Ginotti’s -stay, the visionary and awful terrors of his mind augmented. - -“Do you not drink?” - -“No,” replied Ginotti, sullenly. - -A pause ensued; during which the eyes of Ginotti, glaring with -demoniacal scintillations, spoke tenfold terrors to the soul of -Wolfstein. He knitted his brows, and bit his lips, in vain attempting -to appear unembarrassed. “Wolfstein!” at last said Ginotti, breaking -the fearful silence; “Wolfstein!” - -The colour fled from the cheek of his victim, as thus Ginotti spoke: he -moved his posture, and awaited, in anxious and horrible solicitude, the -declaration which was, as he supposed, to ensue. “My name, my family, -and the circumstances which have attended my career through existence, -it neither boots you to know, nor me to declare.” - -“Does it not?” said Wolfstein, scarcely knowing what to say; yet -convinced, from the pause, that something was expected. - -“No! nor canst thou, nor any other existent being, even attempt to dive -into the mysteries which envelope me. Let it be sufficient for you to -know, that every event in your life has not only been known to me, but -has occurred under my particular machinations.” - -Wolfstein started. The terror which had blanched his cheek now gave way -to an expression of fierceness and surprise; he was about to speak, -but Ginotti, noticing not his motion, thus continued: - -“Every opening idea which has marked, in so decided and so eccentric -an outline, the fiat of your future destiny, has not been unknown -to or unnoticed by me. I rejoiced to see in you, whilst young, the -progress of that genius which in mature time would entitle you to the -reward which I destine for you, and for you alone. Even when far, -far away, when the ocean perhaps has roared between us, have I known -your thoughts, Wolfstein; yet have I known them neither by conjecture -nor inspiration. Never would your mind have attained that degree of -expansion or excellence, had not I watched over its every movement, -and taught the sentiment, as it unfolded itself, to despise contented -vulgarity. For this, and for an event far more important than any your -existence yet has been subjected to, have I watched over you: say, -Wolfstein, have I watched in vain?” - -Each feeling of resentment vanished from Wolfstein’s bosom, as the -mysterious intruder spoke: his voice at last died, in a clear and -melancholy cadence, away; and his expressive eye, divested of its -fierceness and mystery, rested on Wolfstein’s countenance with a mild -benignity. - -“No, no; thou hast not watched in vain, mysterious disposer of my -existence. Speak! I burn with curiosity and solicitude to learn for -what thou hast thus superintended me:” and, as thus he spoke, a feeling -of resistless anxiety to know what would be the conclusion of the -night’s adventure, took place of horror. Inquiringly he gazed on the -countenance of Ginotti, the features of whom were brightened with -unwonted animation. “Wolfstein,” said Ginotti, “often hast thou sworn -that I should rest in the grave in peace:--now listen.” - - -[3] See vol. iii., p. 91. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - If Satan had never fallen, - Hell had been made for thee. - The Revenge. - - -Ah! poor, unsuspecting innocence! and is that fair flower about to -perish in the blasts of dereliction and unkindness? Demon indeed must -be he who could gaze on those mildly-beaming eyes, on that perfect -form, the emblem of sensibility, and yet plunge the spotless mind of -which it was an index, into a sea of repentance and unavailing sorrow. -I should scarce suppose even a demon would act so, were there not -many with hearts more depraved even than those of fiends, who first -have torn some unsophisticated soul from the pinnacle of excellence, -on which it sat smiling, and then triumphed in their hellish victory -when it writhed in agonized remorse, and strove to hide its unavailing -regret in the dust from which the fabric of her virtues had arisen. -“_Ah! I fear me, the unsuspecting girl will go_;” she knows not the -malice and the wiles of perjured man--and she is gone! - -It was late in the evening, and Eloise had returned from her mother’s -funeral, sad and melancholy; yet, even amidst the oppression of grief, -surprise, and astonishment, pleasure and thankfulness, that any one -should notice her, possessed her mind as she read over and over the -characters traced on the note which she still held in her hand. The -hour was late, the moon was down, yet countless stars bedecked the -almost boundless hemisphere. The mild beams of Hesper slept on the -glassy surface of the lake, as, scarcely agitated by the zephyr of -evening, its waves rolled in slow succession; the solemn umbrage of -the pine-trees, mingled with the poplar, threw their undefined shadows -on the water; and the nightingale, sitting solitary in the hawthorn, -poured on the listening stillness of evening, her grateful lay of -melancholy. Hark! her full strains swell on the silence of night; and -now they die away, with lengthened and solemn cadence, insensibly into -the breeze, which lingers, with protracted sweep, along the valley. -Ah! with what enthusiastic ecstasy of melancholy does he whose friend, -whose dear friend, is far, far away, listen to such strains as these! -perhaps he has heard them with that friend,--with one he loves: -never again may they meet his ear. Alas! ’tis melancholy; I even now -see him sitting on the rock which looks over the lake, in frenzied -listlessness; and counting in mournful review, the days which are past -since they fled so quickly with one who was dear to him. - -It was to the ruined abbey which stood on the southern side of the lake -that, so swiftly, Eloise is hastening. A presentiment of awe filled -her mind; she gazed, in inquiring terror, around her, and scarce could -persuade herself that shapeless forms lurked not in the gloomy recesses -of the scenery. - -She gained the abbey; in melancholy fallen grandeur its vast ruins -reared their pointed casements to the sky. Masses of disjointed stone -were scattered around; and, save by the whirrings of the bats, the -stillness which reigned, was uninterrupted. Here then was Eloise to -meet the strange one who professed himself to be her friend. Alas! poor -Eloise believed him. It yet wanted an hour to the time of appointment; -the expiration of that hour Eloise awaited. The abbey brought to her -recollection a similar ruin which stood near St. Irvyne; it brought -with it the remembrance of a song which Marianne had composed soon -after her brother’s death. She sang, though in a low voice:-- - - - Song. - - How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, - As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier, - As enanguish’d he turns from the laugh of the scorner, - And drops, to perfection’s remembrance, a tear; - When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, - When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, - Or, if lull’d for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, - And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. - - Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, - Or summer succeed to the winter of death? - Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save - The spirit, that faded away with the breath. - Eternity points in its amaranth bower, - Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower, - Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, - When woe fades away like the mist of the heath. - - -She ceased: the melancholy cadence of her angelic voice died in faint -reverberations of echo away, and once again reigned stillness. - -Now fast approached the hour; and, ere ten had struck, a stranger of -towering and gigantic proportions walked along the ruined refectory: -without stopping to notice other objects, he advanced swiftly to -Eloise, who sat on a misshapen piece of ruin, and throwing aside the -mantle which enveloped his figure, discovered to her astonished sight -the stranger of the Alps, who of late had been incessantly present to -her mind. Amazement, for a time, chained each faculty in stupefaction; -she would have started from her seat, but the stranger, with gentle -violence grasping her hand, compelled her to remain where she was. - -“Eloise,” said the stranger, in a voice of the most fascinating -tenderness--“Eloise!” - -The softness of his accents changed, in an instant, what was passing in -the bosom of Eloise. She felt no surprise that he knew her name: she -experienced no dread at this mysterious meeting with a person, at the -bare mention of whose name she was wont to tremble: no, the ideas which -filled her mind were indefinable. She gazed upon his countenance for a -moment, then, hiding her face in her hands, sobbed loudly. - -“What afflicts you, Eloise?” said the stranger: “how cruel, that such a -breast as thine should be tortured by pain!” - -“Ah!” cried Eloise, forgetting that she spoke to a stranger; “how can -one avoid sorrow, when there, perhaps, is scarce a being in the world -whom I can call my friend; when there is no one on whom I lay claim for -protection?” - -“Say not, Eloise,” cried the stranger, reproachfully, yet benignly; -“say not that you can claim none as a friend--you may claim me. Ah! -that I had ten thousand existences, that each might be devoted to -the service of one whom I love more than myself! Make me then the -repository of your every sorrow and secret. I love you, indeed I do, -Eloise, and why will you doubt me?” - -“I do not doubt you, stranger,” replied the unsuspecting girl; “why -should I doubt you? for you could have no interest in saying so, if you -did not.--I thank you for loving one who is quite, quite friendless; -and, if you will allow me to be your friend, I will love you too. I -never loved any one, before, but my poor mother and Marianne. Will you -then, if you are a friend to me, come and live with me and Marianne, at -St. Irvyne’s?” - -“St. Irvyne’s!” exclaimed the stranger, almost convulsively, as he -interrupted her; then, as fearing to betray his emotions, he paused, -yet quitted not the grasp of Eloise’s hand, which trembled within his -with feelings which her mind distrusted not. - -“Yes, sweet Eloise, I love you indeed,” at last he said, -affectionately. “And I thank you much for believing me; but I cannot -live with you at St. Irvyne’s. Farewell, for to-night, however; for my -poor Eloise has need of sleep.” He then was quitting the abbey, when -Eloise stopped him to inquire his name. - -“Frederic de Nempere.” - -“Ah! then I shall recollect Frederic de Nempere, as the name of a -friend, even if I never again behold him.” - -“Indeed I am not faithless; soon shall I see you again. Farewell, -beloved Eloise.” Thus saying, with rapid step he quitted the ruin. - -Though he was now gone, the sound of his tender farewell yet seemed -to linger on the ear of Eloise; but with each moment of his absence, -became lessened the conviction of his friendship, and heightened the -suspicions which, though unaccountable to herself, possessed her bosom. -She could not conceive what motive could have led her to own her love -for one whom she feared, and felt a secret terror, from the conviction -of the resistless empire which he possessed within her: yet though -she shrank from the bare idea of ever becoming his, did she ardently, -though scarcely would she own it to herself, desire again to see him. - -Eloise now returned to Geneva: she resigned herself to sleep, but even -in her dreams was the image of Nempere present to her imagination. Ah! -poor deluded Eloise, didst thou think a _man_ would merit thy love -through disinterestedness? didst thou think that one who supposed -himself superior, yet inferior in reality, to you, in the scale of -existent beings, would desire thy society from _love_? yet superior as -the fool here supposes himself to be to the creature whom he injures, -superior as he boasts himself, he may howl with the fiends of darkness, -in never-ending misery, whilst thou shalt receive, at the throne of the -God whom thou hast loved, the rewards of that unsuspecting excellence, -which he who boasts his superiority, shall _suffer_ for trampling -upon. Reflect on _this_, ye libertines, and, in the full career of -the lasciviousness which has unfitted your souls for enjoying the -_slightest_ real happiness here or hereafter, tremble! Tremble! I say; -for the day of retribution will arrive. But the poor Eloise need not -tremble; the victims of your detested cunning need not fear that day: -no!--then will the cause of the broken-hearted be avenged by Him to -whom their wrongs cry for redress. - -Within a few miles of Geneva, Nempere possessed a country-house: -thither did he persuade Eloise to go with him; “For,” said he, “though -I cannot come to St. Irvyne’s, yet my friend will live with me.” - -“Yes, indeed I will,” replied Eloise; for, whatever she might feel -when he was absent, in his presence she felt insensibly softened, -and a sentiment nearly approaching to love would, at intervals, take -possession of her soul. Yet was it by no means an easy task to lure -Eloise from the paths of virtue; it is true she knew but little, nor -was the expansion of her mind such as might justify the exultations -of a fiend at a triumph over her virtue; yet was it that very timid, -simple innocence which prevented Eloise from understanding to what the -deep-laid sophistry of her false friend tended; and, not understanding -it, she could not be influenced by its arguments. Besides, the -principles and morals of Eloise were such as could not _easily_ be -shaken by the allurements which temptation might throw out to her -unsophisticated innocence. - -“Why,” said Nempere, “are we taught to believe that the union of two -who love each other is wicked, unless authorized by certain rites and -ceremonials, which certainly cannot change the tenour of sentiments -which it is destined that these two people should entertain of each -other?” - -“It is, I suppose,” answered Eloise, calmly, “because God has willed -it so; besides,” continued she, blushing at she knew not what, “it -would---- - -“And is then the superior and towering soul of Eloise subjected to -sentiments and prejudices so stale and vulgar as these?” interrupted -Nempere indignantly. “Say, Eloise, do not you think it an insult to -two souls, united to each other in the irrefragable covenants of love -and congeniality, to promise, in the sight of a Being whom they know -not, that fidelity which is certain otherwise?” - -“But I do know that Being!” cried Eloise, with warmth; “and when I -cease to know him, may I die! I pray to him every morning, and, when I -kneel at night, I thank him for the mercy which he has shown to a poor -friendless girl like me! He is the protector of the friendless, and I -love and adore him!” - -“Unkind Eloise! how canst thou call thyself friendless? Surely, -the adoration of two beings unfettered by restraint, must be most -acceptable!--But, come, Eloise, this conversation is nothing to the -purpose: I see we both think alike, although the _terms_ in which -we express our sentiments are different. Will you sing to me, dear -Eloise?” Willingly did Eloise fetch her harp; she wished not to -scrutinize what was passing in her mind, but, after a short prelude, -thus began:-- - - - Song. - - I. - - Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, - Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; - Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, - She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. - I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, - As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; - And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, - “Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.” - - II. - - High swell’d in her bosom the throb of affection - As lightly her form bounded over the lea, - And arose in her mind every dear recollection; - “I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.” - How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, - When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving, - And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, - Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee! - - III. - - Oh! dark lower’d the clouds on that horrible eve, - And the moon dimly gleam’d through the tempested air; - Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? - Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair? - Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving, - O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; - But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, - In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there. - - -“How soft is that strain!” cried Nempere, as she concluded. - -“Ah!” said Eloise, sighing deeply: “’tis a melancholy song; my poor -brother wrote it, I remember, about ten days before he died. ’Tis a -gloomy tale concerning him; he ill deserved the fate he met. Some -future time I will tell it you; but now, ’tis very late.--Good-night.” - -Time passed, and Nempere, finding that he must proceed more warily, -attempted no more to impose upon the understanding of Eloise by such -palpably baseless arguments; yet, so great and so unaccountable an -influence had he gained on her unsuspecting soul, that ere long, on -the altar of vice, pride, and malice, was immolated the innocence of -the spotless Eloise. Ah, ye proud! in the severe consciousness of -unblemished reputation, in the fallacious opinion of the world, why -turned ye away, as if fearful of contamination, when yon poor frail -one drew near? See the tears which steal adown her cheek!--_She_ has -repented, _ye_ have not! - -And thinkest thou, libertine, from a principle of depravity--thinkest -thou that thou hast raised thyself to the level of Eloise, by trying -to sink her to thine own?--No!--Hopest thou that thy curse has -passed away unheeded or unseen? The God whom thou hast insulted has -marked thee!--In the everlasting tablets of heaven, is thine offence -written!--but poor Eloise’s crime is obliterated by the mercy of Him, -who knows the innocence of her heart. - - * * * * * - -Yes--thy sophistry hath prevailed, Nempere!--’tis but blackening -the memoir of thine offences! Hark! what shriek broke upon the -enthusiastic silence of twilight? ’Twas the fancied scream of one who -loved Eloise long ago, but now is--dead. It warns thee--alas! ’tis -unavailing!!--’Tis fled, but not for ever. - -It is evening; the moon, which rode in cloudless and unsullied majesty, -in the leaden-coloured east, hath hidden her pale beams in a dusky -cloud, as if blushing to contemplate a scene of so much wickedness. - -’Tis done; and amidst the vows of a transitory delirium of pleasure, -regret, horror, and misery, arise! they shake their Gorgon locks at -Eloise! appalled she shudders with affright, and shrinks from the -contemplation of the consequences of her imprudence. Beware, Eloise!--a -precipice, a frightful precipice yawns at thy feet! advance yet a step -further, and thou perishest! No, give not up thy religion--it is that -alone which can support thee under the miseries, with which imprudence -has so darkly marked the progress of thine existence! - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - The elements respect their Maker’s seal! - Still like the scathed pine-tree’s height. - Braving the tempests of the night. - Have I ’scaped the bickering flame. - Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands - Of faded grandeur, which the brands - Of the tempest-shaken air - Have riven on the desolate heath; - Yet it stands majestic even in death, - And rears its wild form there. - Wandering Jew. - - -Yet, in an attitude of attention, Wolfstein was fixed, and, gazing upon -Ginotti’s countenance, awaited his narrative. - -“Wolfstein,” said Ginotti, “the circumstances which I am about to -communicate to you are, many of them, you may think, trivial; but I -must be minute, and, however the recital may excite your astonishment, -suffer me to proceed without interruption.” - -Wolfstein bowed affirmatively--Ginotti thus proceeded:-- - -“From my earliest youth, before it was quenched by complete satiation, -_curiosity_, and a desire of unveiling the latent mysteries of nature, -was the passion by which all the other emotions of my mind were -intellectually organized. This desire first led me to cultivate, and -with success, the various branches of learning which led to the gates -of wisdom. I then applied myself to the cultivation of philosophy, -and the éclât with which I pursued it, exceeded my most sanguine -expectations. _Love_ I cared not for; and wondered why men perversely -sought to ally themselves with weakness. Natural philosophy at last -became the peculiar science to which I directed my eager inquiries; -thence was I led into a train of labyrinthic meditations. I thought -of _death_--I shuddered when I reflected, and shrank in horror from -the idea, _selfish and self-interested_ as I was, of entering a new -existence to which I was a stranger. I must either dive into the -recesses of futurity, or I must not, I cannot die. ‘Will not this -nature--will not the _matter_ of which it is composed--exist to all -eternity? Ah! I know it will; and, by the exertions of the energies -with which nature has gifted me, well I know it shall.’ This was my -opinion at that time: I then believed that there existed no God. Ah! -at what an exorbitant price have I bought the conviction that there -is one!!! Believing that priestcraft and superstition were all the -religion which _man_ ever practised, it could not be supposed that -I thought there existed supernatural beings of any kind. I believed -_nature_ to be self-sufficient and excelling; I supposed not, -therefore, that there could be anything beyond nature. - -“I was now about seventeen: I had dived into the depths of metaphysical -calculations. With sophistical arguments had I convinced myself of the -non-existence of a First Cause, and, by every combined modification -of the essences of matter, had I apparently proved that no existences -could possibly be, unseen by human vision. I had lived, hitherto, -completely for myself; I cared not for others; and, had the hand -of fate swept from the list of the living every one of my youthful -associates, I should have remained immoved and fearless. I had not a -friend in the world;--I cared for nothing but _self_. Being fond of -calculating the effects of poison, I essayed one, which I had composed, -upon a youth who had offended me; he lingered a month, and then expired -in agonies the most terrific. It was returning from his funeral, -which all the students of the college where I received my education -(Salamanca) had attended, that a train of the strangest thought pressed -upon my mind. I feared, more than ever, now, to die; and, although I -had no right to form hopes or expectations for longer life than is -allotted to the rest of mortals, yet did I think it were possible to -protract existence. And why, reasoned I with myself, relapsing into -melancholy, why am I to suppose that these muscles or fibres are made -of stuff more durable than those of other men? I have no right to -suppose otherwise than that, at the end of the time allotted by nature, -for the existence of the atoms which compose my being, I must, like all -other men, perish, perhaps everlastingly. Here, in the bitterness of my -heart, I cursed that nature and chance which I believed in; and, in a -paroxysmal frenzy of contending passions, cast myself, in desperation, -at the foot of a lofty ash-tree, which reared its fantastic form over a -torrent which dashed below. - -“It was midnight; far had I wandered from Salamanca; the passions which -agitated my brain, almost to delirium, had added strength to my nerves, -and swiftness to my feet; but, after many hours’ incessant walking, I -began to feel fatigued. No moon was up, nor did one star illume the -hemisphere. The sky was veiled by a thick covering of clouds; and, -to my heated imagination, the winds, which in stern cadence swept -along the night-scene, whistled tidings of death and annihilation. I -gazed on the torrent, foaming beneath my feet; it could scarcely be -distinguished through the thickness of the gloom, save at intervals, -when the white-crested waves dashed at the base of the bank on which I -stood. ’Twas then that I contemplated self-destruction; I had almost -plunged into the tide of death, had rushed upon the unknown regions of -eternity, when the soft sound of a bell from a neighbouring convent, -was wafted in the stillness of the night. It struck a chord in unison -with my soul; it vibrated on the secret springs of rapture. I thought -no more of suicide, but, reseating myself at the root of the ash-tree, -burst into a flood of tears;--never had I wept before; the sensation -was new to me; it was inexplicably pleasing. I reflected by what rules -of science I could account for it: _there_ philosophy failed me. I -acknowledged its inefficacy; and, almost at _that_ instant, allowed -the existence of a superior and beneficent _Spirit_, in whose image is -made the soul of man; but quickly chasing these ideas, and, overcome by -excessive and unwonted fatigue of mind and body, I laid my head upon a -jutting projection of the tree, and, forgetful of every thing around -me, sank into a profound and quiet slumber. Quiet, did I say? No--It -was not quiet. I dreamed that I stood on the brink of a most terrific -precipice, far, far above the clouds, amid whose dark forms which -lowered beneath, was seen the dashing of a stupendous cataract: its -roarings were borne to mine ear by the blast of night. Above me rose, -fearfully embattled and rugged, fragments of enormous rocks, tinged -by the dimly gleaming moon; their loftiness, the grandeur of their -misshapen proportions, and their bulk, staggering the imagination; and -scarcely could the mind itself scale the vast loftiness of their aërial -summits. I saw the dark clouds pass by, borne by the impetuosity of the -blast, yet felt no wind myself. Methought darkly gleaming forms rode on -their almost palpable prominences. - -“Whilst thus I stood, gazing on the expansive gulf which yawned -before me, methought a silver sound stole on the quietude of night. -The moon became as bright as polished silver, and each star sparkled -with scintillations of inexpressible whiteness. Pleasing images stole -imperceptibly upon my senses, when a ravishingly sweet strain of -dulcet melody seemed to float around. Now it was wafted nearer, and -now it died away in tones to melancholy dear. Whilst I thus stood -enraptured, louder swelled the strain of seraphic harmony; it vibrated -on my inmost soul, and a mysterious softness lulled each impetuous -passion to repose. I gazed in eager anticipation of curiosity on the -scene before me; for a mist of silver radiance rendered every object -but myself imperceptible; yet was it brilliant as the noon-day sun. -Suddenly, whilst yet the full strain swelled along the empyrean sky, -the mist in one place seemed to dispart, and through it, to roll -clouds of deepest crimson. Above them, and seemingly reclining on the -viewless air, was a form of most exact and superior symmetry. Rays -of brilliancy, surpassing expression, fell from his burning eye, and -the emanations from his countenance tinted the transparent clouds -below with silver light. The phantasm advanced towards me; it seemed -then, to my imagination, that his figure was borne on the sweet strain -of music which filled the circumambient air. In a voice which was -fascination itself, the being addressed me, saying, ‘Wilt thou come -with me? wilt thou be mine?’ I felt a decided wish never to be his. -‘No, no,’ I unhesitatingly cried, with a feeling which no language can -either explain or describe. No sooner had I uttered these words, than -methought a sensation of deadly horror chilled my sickening frame; an -earthquake rocked the precipice beneath my feet; the beautiful being -vanished; clouds, as of chaos, rolled around, and from their dark -masses flashed incessant meteors. I heard a deafening noise on every -side; it appeared like the dissolution of nature; the blood-red moon, -whirled from her sphere, sank beneath the horizon. My neck was grasped -firmly, and, turning round in an agony of horror, I beheld a form more -hideous than the imagination of man is capable of portraying, whose -proportions, gigantic and deformed, were seemingly blackened by the -inerasible traces of the thunderbolts of God; yet in its hideous and -detestable countenance, though seemingly far different, I thought I -could recognize that of the lovely vision: ‘Wretch!’ it exclaimed, in a -voice of exulting thunder; ‘saidst thou that thou wouldst not be mine? -Ah! thou art mine beyond redemption; and I triumph in the conviction, -that no power can ever make thee otherwise. Say, art thou willing to be -mine?’ Saying this, he dragged me to the brink of the precipice: the -contemplation of approaching death frenzied my brain to the highest -pitch of horror. ‘Yes, yes, I am thine,’ I exclaimed. No sooner had -I pronounced these words than the visionary scene vanished, and I -awoke. But even when awake, the contemplation of what I had suffered, -whilst under the influence of sleep, pressed upon my disordered fancy; -my intellect, wild with unconquerable emotions, could fix on no one -particular point to exert its energies; they were strained beyond their -power of exerting. - -“Ever, from that day, did a deep-corroding melancholy usurp the throne -of my soul. At last, during the course of my philosophical inquiries, I -ascertained the method by which _man_ might exist for ever, and it was -connected with my dream. It would unfold a tale of too much horror to -trace, in review, the circumstances as then they occurred; suffice it -to say, that I became acquainted that a _superior_ being really exists; -and ah! how dear a price have I paid for the knowledge! To one man -alone, Wolfstein, may I communicate this secret of immortal life: then -must I forego _my_ claim to it,--and oh! with what pleasure shall I -forego it! To you I bequeath the secret; but first you must swear that -if ... you wish God may....” - -“I swear,” cried Wolfstein, in a transport of delight; burning ecstasy -revelled through his veins; pleasurable coruscations were emitted from -his eyes. “I swear,” continued he; “and if ever ... may God....” - -“Needless were it for me,” continued Ginotti, “to expatiate further -upon the _means_ which I have used to become master over your every -action; that will be sufficiently explained when you have followed my -directions. Take,” continued Ginotti, “---- and ---- and ----; mix them -according to the directions which this book will communicate to you. -Seek, at midnight, the ruined abbey near the castle of St. Irvyne, in -France; and there--I need say no more--there you will meet with me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -The varying occurrences of time and change, which bring anticipation -of better days, brought none to the hapless Eloise. Nempere now -having gained the point which his villainy had projected, felt little -or no attachment left for the unhappy victim of his baseness; he -treated her indeed most cruelly, and his unkindness added greatly -to the severity of her afflictions. One day, when, weighed down by -the extreme asperity of her woes, Eloise sat leaning her head on her -hand, and mentally retracing, in sickening and mournful review, the -concatenated occurrences which had led her to become what she was, she -sought to change the bent of her ideas, but in vain. The feelings of -her soul were but exacerbated by the attempt to quell them. Her dear -brother’s death, that brother so tenderly beloved, added a sting to her -sensations. Was there any one on earth to whom she was now attracted by -a wish of pouring in the friend’s bosom ideas and feelings indefinable -to any one else? Ah, no! that friend existed not; never, never more -would she know such a friend. Never did she really love any one; and -now had she sacrificed her conviction of right and wrong to a man who -neither knew how to appreciate her excellence, nor was adequate to -excite other sensation than of terror and dread. - -Thus were her thoughts engaged, when Nempere entered the apartment, -accompanied by a gentleman, whom he unceremoniously announced as the -Chevalier Mountfort, an Englishman of rank, and his friend. He was -a man of handsome countenance and engaging manners. He conversed -with Eloise with an ill-disguised conviction of his own superiority, -and seemed indeed to assert, as it were, a right of conversing with -her; nor did Nempere appear to dispute his apparent assumption. The -conversation turned upon music; Mountfort asked Eloise her opinion; -“Oh!” said Eloise, enthusiastically, “I think it sublimes the soul to -heaven; I think it is, of all earthly pleasures, the most excessive. -Who, when listening to harmoniously-arranged sounds of music, exists -there, but must forget his woes, and lose the memory of every earthly -existence in the ecstatic emotions which it excites? Do you not think -so, Chevalier?” said she; for the liveliness of his manner enchanted -Eloise, whose temper, naturally elastic and sprightly, had been damped -as yet by misery and seclusion. Mountfort smiled at the energetic -avowal of her feelings; for, whilst she yet spoke, her expressive -countenance became irradiated by the emanation of sentiment. - -“Yes,” said Mountfort, “it is indeed powerfully efficient to excite -the interests of the soul; but does it not, by the very act of -resuscitating the feelings, by working upon the, perhaps, long dead -chords of secret and enthusiastic rapture, awaken the powers of grief -as well as pleasure?” - -“Ah! it may do both,” said Eloise, sighing. - -He approached her at that instant. Nempere arose, as if intentionally, -and left the room. Mountfort pressed her hand to his heart with -earnestness: he kissed it, and then resigning it, said, “No, no, -spotless untainted Eloise; untainted even by surrounding depravity: -not for worlds would I injure you. Oh! I can conceal it no longer--will -conceal it no longer--Nempere is a villain.” - -“Is he?” said Eloise, apparently resigned, _now_, to the severest -shocks of fortune: “then, then indeed I know not with whom to seek an -asylum. Methinks all are villains.” - -“Listen then, injured innocence, and reflect in whom thou hast -confided. Ten days ago, in the gaming-house at Geneva, Nempere was -present. He engaged in play with me, and I won of him considerable -sums. He told me that he could not pay me now, but that he had a -beautiful girl, whom he would give to me, if I would release him -from the obligation. ‘Est elle une fille de joie?’ I inquired. ‘Oui, -et de vertu praticable.’ This quieted my conscience. In a moment of -licentiousness, I acceded to his proposal; and, as money is almost -valueless to me, I tore the bond for three thousand zechins: but did -I think that an angel was to be sacrificed to the degraded avarice -of the being to whom her fate was committed? By heavens, I will this -moment seek him--upbraid him with his inhuman depravity,--and----” “Oh! -stop, stop,” cried Eloise, “do not seek him; all, all is well--I will -leave him. Oh! how I thank you, stranger, for this unmerited pity to -a wretch who is, alas! too conscious that she deserves it not.”--“Ah! -you deserve every thing,” interrupted the impassioned Mountfort; “you -deserve paradise. But leave this perjured villain; and do not say, -unkind fair-one, that you have no friend: indeed, you have a most warm, -disinterested friend in me.”--“Ah! but,” said Eloise, hesitatingly, -“what will the----” - -“World say,” she was about to have added; but the conviction of having -so lately and so flagrantly violated every regard to its opinion--she -only sighed. “Well,” continued Mountfort, as if not perceiving her -hesitation; “you will accompany me to a cottage ornée, which I possess -at some little distance hence? Believe that your situation shall be -treated with the deference which it requires; and, however I may have -yielded to habitual licentiousness, I have too much honour to disturb -the sorrows of one who is a victim to that of another.” Licentious and -free as had been the career of Mountfort’s life, it was by no means -the result of a nature naturally prone to vice; it had been owing to -the unchecked sallies of an imagination not sufficiently refined. At -the desolate situation of Eloise, however, every good propensity in -his nature urged him to take compassion on her. His heart, originally -susceptible of the finest feelings, was touched, and he really and -sincerely--yes, a libertine, but not one from principle, sincerely -meant what he said. - -“Thanks, generous stranger,” said Eloise, with energy; “indeed I _do_ -thank you.” For not yet had acquaintance with the world sufficiently -bidden Eloise distrust the motives of its disciples. “I accept your -offer, and only hope that my compliance may not induce you to regard me -otherwise than I am.” - -“Never, never can I regard you as other than a suffering angel,” -replied the impassioned Mountfort. Eloise blushed at what the energetic -force of Mountfort’s manner assured her was not intended as a -compliment. - -“But may I ask my generous benefactor, _how_, _where_, and _when_ am I -to be released?” - -“Leave that to me,” returned Mountfort: “be ready to-morrow night at -ten o’clock. A chaise will wait beneath.” - -Nempere soon entered; their conversation was uninterrupted, and the -evening passed away uninteresting and slow. - -Swiftly fled the intervening hours, and fast advanced the moment when -Eloise was about to try, again, the compassion of the world. Night -came, and Eloise entered the chaise; Mountfort leaped in after her. -For awhile her agitation was excessive. Mountfort at last succeeded in -calming her; “Why, my dearest Ma’am’selle,” said he, “why will you thus -needlessly agitate yourself? I _swear_ to hold your honour far dearer -than my own life; and my companion----” - -“What companion?” Eloise interrupted him, inquiringly. - -“Why,” replied he, “a friend of mine, who lives at my cottage; he is -an Irishman, and so _very_ moral, and so averse to every species of -_gaieté de cœur_, that you need be under no apprehensions. In short, -he is a love-sick swain, without ever having found what he calls a -_congenial_ female. He wanders about, writes poetry, and, in short, is -much _too sentimental_ to occasion you any alarm on that account. And, -I assure you,” added he, assuming a more serious tone, “although I may -not be quite so far gone in romance, yet I have feelings of honour and -humanity which teach me to respect your sorrows as my own.” - -“Indeed, indeed I believe you, generous stranger; nor do I think that -you _could_ have a friend whose principles are dishonourable.” - -Whilst yet she spoke, the chaise stopped, and Mountfort springing from -it, handed Eloise into his habitation. It was neatly fitted up in the -English taste. - -“Fitzeustace,” said Mountfort to his friend, “allow me to introduce you -to Madame Eloise de ----” Eloise blushed, as did Fitzeustace. - -“Come,” said Fitzeustace, to conquer _mauvaise honte_, “supper is -ready, and the lady doubtlessly fatigued.” - -Fitzeustace was finely formed, yet there was a languor which pervaded -even his whole figure: his eyes were dark and expressive, and as, -occasionally, they met those of Eloise, gleamed with excessive -brilliancy, awakened doubtlessly by curiosity and interest. He said but -little during supper, and left to his more vivacious friend the whole -of Eloise’s conversation, who, animated at having escaped a persecutor, -and one she hated, displayed extreme command of social powers. Yes, -once again was Eloise vivacious: the sweet spirit of social intercourse -was not dead within,--that spirit which illumes even slavery, which -makes its horrors less terrific, and is not annihilated in the dungeon -itself. - -At last arrived the hour of retiring.--Morning came. - -The cottage was situated in a beautiful valley. The odorous perfume -of roses and jasmine wafted on the zephyr’s wing, the flowery steep -which rose before it, and the umbrageous loveliness of the surrounding -country, rendered it a spot the most fitted for joyous seclusion. -Eloise wandered out with Mountfort and his friend to view it; and so -accommodating was her spirit, that, ere long, Fitzeustace became known -to her as familiarly as if they had been acquainted all their lives. - -Time fled on, and each day seemed only to succeed the other purposely -to vary the pleasures of this delightful retreat. Eloise sung in the -summer evenings, and Fitzeustace, whose taste for music was most -exquisite, accompanied her on his oboe. - -By degrees the society of Fitzeustace, to which before she had -preferred Mountfort’s, began to be more interesting. He insensibly -acquired a power over the heart of Eloise, which she herself was not -aware of. She involuntarily almost sought his society; and when, which -frequently happened, Mountfort was absent at Geneva, her sensations -were indescribably ecstatic in the society of his friend. She sat in -mute, in silent rapture, listening to the notes of his oboe, as they -floated on the stillness of evening: she feared not for the future, -but, as it were, in a dream of rapturous delight, supposed that she -must ever be as now--happy; not reflecting that, were he who caused -that happiness absent, it would exist no longer. - -Fitzeustace madly, passionately doted on Eloise; in all the energy of -incontaminated nature, he sought but the happiness of the object of his -whole affections. He sought not to investigate the causes of his woe; -sufficient was it for him to have found one who could _understand_, -could _sympathize in_, the feelings and sensations which every child -of nature, whom the world’s refinements and luxury have not vitiated, -must feel,--that affection, that contempt of selfish gratification, -which every one, whose soul towers at all above the multitude, must -acknowledge. He destined Eloise, in his secret soul, for his own. He -resolved to die--he wished to live with her; and would have purchased -one instant’s happiness for her with ages of hopeless torments to -be inflicted on himself. He loved her with passionate and excessive -tenderness: were he absent from her but a moment, he would sigh with -love’s impatience for her return; yet he feared to avow his flame, lest -this, perhaps, baseless dream of rapturous and enthusiastic happiness -might fade;--then, indeed, Fitzeustace felt that he must die. - -Yet was Fitzeustace mistaken: Eloise loved him with all the tenderness -of innocence; she confided in him unreservedly; and, though -unconscious of the nature of the love she felt for him, returned each -enthusiastically energetic prepossession of his towering mind with -ardour excessive and unrestrained. Yet did Fitzeustace suppose that she -loved him not. Ah! why did he think so? - -Late one evening, Mountfort had gone to Geneva, and Fitzeustace -wandered with Eloise towards that spot which Eloise selected as their -constant evening ramble on account of its superior beauty. The tall -ash and oak, in mingled umbrage, sighed far above their heads; beneath -them were walks, artificially cut, yet imitating nature. They wandered -on, till they came to a pavilion which Mountfort had caused to be -erected. It was situated on a piece of land entirely surrounded by -water, yet peninsulated by a rustic bridge which joined it to the walk. - -Hither, urged mechanically, for their thoughts were otherwise employed, -wandered Eloise and Fitzeustace. Before them hung the moon in cloudless -majesty; her orb was reflected by every movement of the crystalline -water, which, agitated by the gentle zephyr, rolled tranquilly. -Heedless yet of the beauties of nature, the loveliness of the scene, -they entered the pavilion. - -Eloise convulsively pressed her hand on her forehead. - -“What is the matter, my dearest Eloise?” inquired Fitzeustace, whom -awakened tenderness had thrown off his guard. - -“Oh! nothing, nothing; but a momentary faintness. It will soon go off; -let us sit down.” - -They entered the pavilion. - -“’Tis nothing but drowsiness,” said Eloise, affecting gaiety; “’twill -soon go off. I sate up late last night; that I believe was the -occasion.” - -“Recline on this sofa, then,” said Fitzeustace, reaching another pillow -to make the couch easier; “and I will play some of those Irish tunes -which you admire so much.” - -Eloise reclined on the sofa, and Fitzeustace, seated on the floor, -began to play; the melancholy plaintiveness of his music touched -Eloise; she sighed, and concealed her tears in her handkerchief. At -length she sunk into a profound sleep: still Fitzeustace continued -playing, noticing not that she slumbered. He now perceived that she -spoke, but in so low a tone, that he knew she slept. - -He approached. She lay wrapped in sleep; a sweet and celestial smile -played upon her countenance, and irradiated her features with a tenfold -expression of etheriality. Suddenly the visions of her slumbers -appeared to have changed; the smile yet remained, but its expression -was melancholy; tears stole gently from under her eyelids:--she sighed. - -Ah! with what eagerness of ecstasy did Fitzeustace lean over her form! -He dared not speak, he dared not move; but pressing a ringlet of hair -which had escaped its band, to his lips, waited silently. - -“Yes, yes; I think--it may----” at last she muttered; but so -confusedly, as scarcely to be distinguishable. - -Fitzeustace remained rooted in rapturous attention, listening. - -“I thought, I thought he looked as if he could love me,” scarcely -articulated the sleeping Eloise. “Perhaps, though he may not love me, -he may allow me to love him.--Fitzeustace!” - -On a sudden, again were changed the visions of her slumbers; terrified -she started from sleep, and cried, “Fitzeustace!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - For love is heaven, and heaven is love. - Lay of the Last Minstrel. - - -Needless were it to expatiate on their transports; they loved each -other, and that is enough for those who have felt like Eloise and -Fitzeustace. - -One night, rather later indeed than it was Mountfort’s custom to -return from Geneva, Eloise and Fitzeustace sat awaiting his arrival. -At last it was too late any longer even to expect him; and Eloise was -about to bid Fitzeustace good-night, when a knock at the door aroused -them. Instantly, with a hurried and disordered step, his clothes -stained with blood, his countenance convulsed and pallid as death, in -rushed Mountfort. - -An involuntary exclamation of surprise burst from the terrified Eloise. - -“What--what is the matter?” - -“Oh, nothing, nothing!” answered Mountfort, in a tone of hurried, yet -desperate agony. The wildness of his looks contradicted his assertions. -Fitzeustace, who had been inquiring whether he was wounded, on finding -that he was not, flew to Eloise. - -“Oh! go, go!” she exclaimed. “Something, I am convinced, is wrong. Tell -me, dear Mountfort, what it is--in pity tell me.” - -“Nempere is dead!” replied Mountfort, in a voice of deliberate -desperation; then, pausing for an instant, he added in an under -tone: “And the officers of justice are in pursuit of me. Adieu, -Eloise!--Adieu, Fitzeustace! You know I must part with you--you know -how unwillingly. My address is at--London.--Adieu!--once again adieu!” - -Saying this, as by a convulsive effort of despairing energy, he darted -from the apartment, and, mounting a horse which stood at the gate, -swiftly sped away. Fitzeustace well knew the impossibility of his -longer stay; he did not seem surprised, but sighed. - -“Ah! well I know,” said Eloise, violently agitated, “I well know myself -to be the occasion of these misfortunes. Nempere sought for me; the -generous Mountfort would not give me up; and now is he compelled to -fly--perhaps may not even escape with life. Ah! I fear it is destined -that every friend must suffer in the fatality which environs me. -Fitzeustace!” she uttered this with such tenderness, that, almost -involuntarily, he clasped her hand, and pressed it to his bosom, in the -silent, yet expressive enthusiasm of love. “Fitzeustace! you will not -likewise desert the poor isolated Eloise?” - -“Say not isolated, dearest love. Can, can you fear my love, whilst -your Fitzeustace exists? Say, adored Eloise, shall we _now_ be united, -_never, never_ to part again? Say, will you consent to our immediate -union? - -“Know you not,” exclaimed Eloise, in a low, faltering voice, “know you -not that I _have been_ another’s?” - -“Oh! suppose me not,” interrupted the impassioned Fitzeustace, “the -slave of such vulgar and narrow-minded prejudice. Does the frightful -vice and ingratitude of Nempere sully the spotless excellence of my -Eloise’s soul? No, no,--that must ever continue uncontaminated by the -frailty of the body in which it is enshrined. It must rise superior -to the earth: ’tis that which I adore, Eloise. Say, say, was _that_ -Nempere’s?” - -“Oh! no, never!” cried Eloise, with energy. “Nothing but _fear_ was -Nempere’s.” - -“Then why say you that ever you were _his_?” said Fitzeustace, -reproachfully. “You never _could_ have been his, destined as you were -for mine, from the first instant the particles composing the soul which -I adore, were assimilated by the God whom I worship.” - -“Indeed, believe me, dearest Fitzeustace, I love you, far beyond -anything existing--indeed, existence were valueless, unless enjoyed -with you!” - -Eloise, though a _something_ prevented her from avowing them, _felt_ -the enthusiastic and sanguine ideas of Fitzeustace to be true: her -soul, susceptible of the most exalted virtue and expansion, though -cruelly nipped in its growth, thrilled with delight unexperienced -before, when she found a being who could understand and perceive -the truth of her feelings, and indeed _anticipate_ them, as did -Fitzeustace; and _he_, while gazing on the index of that soul, which -associated with his, and animated the body of Eloise, but for him, -felt delight, which, glowing and enthusiastic as had been his picture -of happiness, he never expected to know. His dark and beautiful -eye gleamed with tenfold lustre; his every nerve, his every pulse, -confessed the awakened consciousness, that _she_, on whom his soul had -doted, ever since he acknowledged the existence of his intellectuality, -was present before him. - -A short space of time passed, and Eloise gave birth to the son of -Nempere. Fitzeustace cherished it with the affection of a father; and, -when occasionally he necessarily must be absent from the apartment of -his beloved Eloise, his whole delight was to gaze on the child, and -trace in its innocent countenance the features of the mother who was so -beloved by him. - -Time no longer dragged heavily to Eloise and Fitzeustace: happy in the -society of each other, they wished nor wanted other joys; united by the -laws of their God, and assimilated by congeniality of sentiment, they -supposed that each succeeding month must be like this, must pass like -this, in the full satiety of every innocent union of mental enjoyment. -While thus the time sped in rapturous succession of delight, autumn -advanced. - -The evening was late, when, at the usual hour, Eloise and Fitzeustace -took the way to their beloved pavilion. Fitzeustace was unusually -desponding, and his ideas for futurity were marked by the melancholy -of his mind. Eloise in vain attempted to soothe him; the contention of -his mind was but too visible. She led him to the pavilion. They entered -it. The autumnal moon had risen; her dimly-gleaming orb, scarcely now -visible, was shrouded in the darkness of the atmosphere: like the -spirit of the spotless ether, which shrinks from the obtrusive gaze -of man, she hung behind a leaden-coloured cloud. The wind in low and -melancholy whispering sighed among the branches of the towering trees; -the melody of the nightingale, which floated upon its dying cadences, -alone broke on the solemnity of the scene. Lives there, whose soul -experiences no degree of delight, is susceptible of no gradations of -feelings, at change of scenery? Lives there, who can listen to the -cadence of the evening zephyr, and not acknowledge, in his mind, the -sensations of celestial melancholy which it awakens? for, if he does, -his life were valueless, his death were undeplored. Ambition, avarice, -ten thousand mean, ignoble passions, had extinguished within him that -soft, but indefinable sensorium of unallayed delight, with which his -soul, whose susceptibility is not destroyed by the demands of selfish -appetite, thrills exultingly, and wants but the union of another, of -whom the feelings are in unison with his own, to constitute almost -insupportable delight. - -Let Epicureans argue, and say, “There is no pleasure but in the -gratification of the senses.” Let them enjoy their own opinion; I want -not _pleasure_, when I can enjoy _happiness_. Let Stoics say, “Every -idea that there are fine feelings, is weak; he who yields to them -is even weaker.” Let those too, wise in their own conceit, indulge -themselves in sordid and degrading hypotheses; let them suppose human -nature capable of no influence from any thing but materiality; so long -as I enjoy the innocent and _congenial_ delight, which it were needless -to define to those who are strangers to it, I am satisfied. - -“Dear Fitzeustace,” said Eloise, “tell me what afflicts you; why are -you so melancholy?--Do not we mutually love, and have we not the -unrestrained enjoyment of each other’s society?” - -Fitzeustace sighed deeply; he pressed Eloise’s hand. “Why does my -dearest Eloise suppose that I am unhappy?” The tone of his voice was -tremulous, and a deadly settled paleness dwelt on his cheek. - -“Are you not unhappy, then, Fitzeustace?” - -“I know I ought not to be so,” he replied, with a faint smile;--he -paused--“Eloise,” continued Fitzeustace, “I know I ought not to grieve, -but you will, perhaps, pardon me when I say, that a father’s curse, -whether from the prejudice of education, or the innate consciousness -of its horror, agitates my mind. I cannot leave you, I cannot go to -England; and will you then leave your country, Eloise, to accommodate -me? No, I do not, I ought not to expect it.” - -“Oh! with pleasure; what is country? what is everything without you? -Come, my love, dismiss these fears, we yet may be happy.” - -“But before we go to England, before my father will see us, it is -necessary that we should be married--nay, do not start, Eloise; I view -it in the light that you do: I consider it an human institution, and -incapable of furnishing that bond of union by which alone can intellect -be conjoined; I regard it as but a chain, which, although it keeps the -body bound, still leaves the soul unfettered: it is not so with love. -But still, Eloise, to those who think like us, it is at all events -harmless; it is but yielding to the prejudices of the world wherein we -live, and procuring moral expediency, at a slight sacrifice of what we -conceive to be right.” - -“Well, well, it shall be done, Fitzeustace,” resumed Eloise; “but take -the assurance of _my_ promise that I cannot love you more.” - -They soon agreed on a point of, in their eyes, so trifling importance, -and arriving in England, tasted that happiness, which love and -innocence alone can give. Prejudice may triumph for awhile, but virtue -will be eventually the conqueror. - - - - -CONCLUSION. - - -It was night--all was still: not a breeze dared to move, not a sound -to break the stillness of horror. Wolfstein has arrived at the village -near which St. Irvyne stood; he has sped him to the château, and has -entered the edifice; the garden door was open, and he entered the -vaults. - -For a time, the novelty of his situation, and the painful recurrence of -past events, which, independently of his own energies, would gleam upon -his soul, rendered him too much confused to investigate minutely the -recesses of the cavern. Arousing himself, at last, however, from this -momentary suspension of faculty, he paced the vaults in eager desire -for the arrival of midnight. How inexpressible was his horror when he -fell on a body which appeared motionless and without life! He raised -it in his arms, and, taking it to the light, beheld, pallid in death, -the features of Megalena. The laugh of anguish which had convulsed her -expiring frame, still played around her mouth, as a smile of horror -and despair; her hair was loose and wild, seemingly gathered in knots -by the convulsive grasp of dissolution. She moved not; his soul was -nerved by almost superhuman powers; yet the ice of despair chilled his -burning brain. Curiosity, resistless curiosity, even in a moment such -as this, reigned in his bosom. The body of Megalena was breathless, and -yet no visible cause could be assigned for her death. Wolfstein dashed -the body convulsively on the earth, and, wildered by the suscitated -energies of his soul almost to madness, rushed into the vaults. - -Not yet had the bell announced the hour of midnight. Wolfstein sate -on a projecting mass of stone; his frame trembled with a burning -anticipation of what was about to occur; a thirst of knowledge -scorched his soul to madness; yet he stilled his wild energies,--yet -he awaited in silence the coming of Ginotti. At last the bell struck; -Ginotti came; his step was rapid, and his manner wild; his figure -was wasted almost to a skeleton, yet it retained its loftiness and -grandeur; still from his eye emanated that indefinable expression which -ever made Wolfstein shrink appalled. His cheek was sunken and hollow, -yet was it flushed by the hectic of despairing exertion. “Wolfstein,” -he said, “Wolfstein, part is past--the hour of agonizing horror is -past; yet the dark and icy gloom of desperation braces this soul to -fortitude;--but come, let us to business.” He spoke, and threw his -mantle on the ground. “I am blasted to endless torment,” muttered -the mysterious. “Wolfstein, dost thou deny thy Creator?”--“Never, -never.”--“Wilt thou not?”--“No, no,--anything but that.” - -Deeper grew the gloom of the cavern. Darkness almost visible seemed -to press around them; yet did the scintillations which flashed from -Ginotti’s burning gaze dance on its bosom. Suddenly a flash of -lightning hissed through the lengthened vaults; a burst of frightful -thunder seemed to convulse the universal fabric of nature; and, -borne on the pinions of hell’s sulphurous whirlwind, he himself, the -frightful prince of terror, stood before them. “Yes,” howled a voice -superior to the bursting thunder-peal; “yes, thou shalt have eternal -life, Ginotti.” On a sudden Ginotti’s frame mouldered to a gigantic -skeleton, yet two pale and ghastly flames glared in his eyeless -sockets. Blackened in terrible convulsions, Wolfstein expired; over him -had the power of hell no influence. Yes, endless existence is thine, -Ginotti--a dateless and hopeless eternity of horror. - - * * * * * - -Ginotti is Nempere. Eloise is the sister of Wolfstein. Let then the -memory of these victims to hell and malice live in the remembrance of -those who can pity the wanderings of error; let remorse and repentance -expiate the offences which arise from the delusion of the passions, and -let endless life be sought from Him who alone can give an eternity of -happiness. - - - - -AN ADDRESS, -TO THE -IRISH PEOPLE. - - * * * * * - -BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - * * * * * - -ADVERTISEMENT. - - _The lowest possible price is set on this publication, - because it is the intention of the Author to awaken in - the minds of the Irish poor, a knowledge of their real - state, summarily pointing out the evils of that state, - and suggesting rational means of remedy.--Catholic - Emancipation, and a Repeal of the Union Act, (the latter, - the most successful engine that England ever wielded - over the misery of fallen Ireland,) being treated of in - the following address, as grievances which unanimity and - resolution may remove, and associations conducted with - peaceable firmness, being earnestly recommended, as means - for embodying that unanimity and firmness, which must - finally be successful._ - - * * * * * - -Dublin: - - * * * * * - -1812. - -_Price--5d_. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. - - -Fellow men,--I am not an Irishman, yet I can feel for you. I hope -there are none among you who will read this address with prejudice or -levity, because it is made by an Englishman; indeed, I believe there -are not. The Irish are a brave nation. They have a heart of liberty in -their breasts, but they are much mistaken if they fancy that a stranger -cannot have as warm a one. Those are my brothers and my countrymen who -are unfortunate. I should like to know what there is in a man being an -Englishman, a Spaniard, or a Frenchman that makes him worse or better -than he really is. He was born in one town, you in another, but that -is no reason why he should not feel for you, desire your benefit, or -be willing to give you some advice, which may make you more capable -of knowing your own interest, or acting so as to secure it. There are -many Englishmen who cry down the Irish, and think it answers their -ends to revile all that belongs to Ireland: but it is not because -these men are Englishmen that they maintain such opinions, but because -they wish to get money, and titles, and power. They would act in this -manner to whatever country they might belong, until mankind is much -altered for the better, which reform, I hope, will one day be effected. -I address you, then, as my brothers and my fellow-men, for I should -wish to see the Irishman who, if England was persecuted as Ireland is, -who, if France was persecuted as Ireland is, who, if any set of men -that helped to do a public service, were prevented from enjoying its -benefits as Irishmen are--I should like to see the man, I say, who -would see these misfortunes, and not attempt to succour the sufferers -when he could, just that I might tell him that he was no Irishman, -but some bastard mongrel bred up in a court, or some coward fool who -was a democrat to all above him, and an aristocrat to all below him. -I think there are few true Irishmen who would not be ashamed of such -a character, still fewer who possess it. I know that there are some, -not among you, my friends, but among your enemies, who, seeing the -title of this piece, will take it up with a sort of hope that it may -recommend violent measures, and thereby disgrace the cause of freedom, -that the warmth of an heart desirous that liberty should be possessed -equally by all, will vent itself in abuse on the enemies of liberty, -bad men who deserve the contempt of the good, and ought not to excite -their indignation to the harm of their cause. But these men will be -disappointed--I know the warm feelings of an Irishman sometimes carries -him beyond the point of prudence. I do not desire to root out, but to -moderate this honourable warmth. This will disappoint the pioneers of -oppression, and they will be sorry that through this address nothing -will occur which can be twisted into any other meaning but what is -calculated to fill you with that moderation which they have not, and -make you give them that toleration which they refuse to grant to you. -You profess the Roman Catholic religion which your fathers professed -before you. Whether it is the best religion or not, I will not here -inquire: all religions are good which make men good; and the way that -a person ought to prove that his method of worshipping God is best, -is for himself to be better than all other men. But we will consider -what your religion was in old times and what it is now; you may say -it is not a fair way for me to proceed as a Protestant, but I am not -a Protestant nor am I a Catholic, and therefore not being a follower -of either of these religions, I am better able to judge between them. -A Protestant is my brother, and a Catholic is my brother. I am happy -when I can do either of them a service, and no pleasure is so great to -me than that which I should feel if my advice could make men of any -professions of faith, wiser, better, and happier. - -The Roman Catholics once persecuted the Protestants, the Protestants -now persecute the Roman Catholics. Should we think that one is as bad -as the other? No, you are not answerable for the faults of your fathers -any more than the Protestants are good for the goodness of their -fathers. I must judge of people as I see them; the Irish Catholics are -badly used. I will not endeavour to hide from them their wretchedness; -they would think that I mocked at them if I should make the attempt. -The Irish Catholics now demand for themselves and proffer for others -unlimited toleration, and the sensible part among them, which I am -willing to think constitutes a very large portion of their body, know -that the gates of Heaven are open to people of every religion, provided -they are good. But the Protestants, although they may think so in their -hearts, which certainly, if they think at all, they must seem to act as -if they thought that God was better pleased with them than with you; -they trust the reins of earthly government only to the hands of their -own sect. In spite of this, I never found one of them impudent enough -to say that a Roman Catholic, or a Quaker, or a Jew, or a Mahometan, -if he was a virtuous man, and did all the good in his power, would -go to Heaven a bit the slower for not subscribing to the thirty-nine -articles--and if he should say so, how ridiculous in a foppish courtier -not six feet high to direct the spirit of universal harmony in what -manner to conduct the affairs of the universe! - -The Protestants say that there was a time when the Roman Catholics -burnt and murdered people of different sentiments, and that their -religious tenets are now as they were then. This is all very true. -You certainly worship God in the same way that you did when these -barbarities took place, but is that any reason that you should now be -barbarous? There is as much reason to suppose it as to suppose that -because a man’s great-grandfather, who was a Jew, had been hung for -sheep-stealing, that I, by believing the same religion as he did, -must certainly commit the same crime. Let us then see what the Roman -Catholic religion has been. No one knows much of the early times of the -Christian religion until about three hundred years after its beginning; -two great Churches, called the Roman and the Greek Churches, divided -the opinions of men. They fought for a very long time--a great many -words were wasted, and a great deal of blood shed. - -This, as you may suppose, did no good. Each party, however, thought -they were doing God a service, and that he would reward them. If they -had looked an inch before their noses, they might have found that -fighting and killing men, and cursing them and hating them, was the -very worst way for getting into favour with a Being who is allowed -by all to be best pleased with deeds of love and charity. At last, -however, these two religions entirely separated, and the popes reigned -like kings and bishops at Rome, in Italy. The Inquisition was set up, -and in the course of one year 30,000 people were burnt in Italy and -Spain for entertaining different opinions from those of the pope and -the priests. There was an instance of shocking barbarity which the -Roman Catholic clergy committed in France by order of the pope. The -bigoted monks of that country, in cold blood, in one night massacred -80,000 Protestants; this was done under the authority of the Pope, and -there was only one Roman Catholic bishop who had virtue enough to -refuse to help. The vices of monks and nuns in their convents were in -those times shameful. People thought that they might commit any sin, -however monstrous, if they had money enough to prevail upon the priests -to absolve them. In truth, at that time the priests shamefully imposed -upon the people; they got all the power into their own hands; they -persuaded them that a man could not be entrusted with the care of his -own soul, and by cunningly obtaining possession of their secrets, they -became more powerful than kings, princes, dukes, lords, or ministers. -This power made them bad men; for although rational people are very -good in their natural state, there are now, and ever have been, very -few whose good dispositions despotic power does not destroy. I have now -given a fair description of what your religion was; and, Irishmen, my -brothers, will you make your friend appear a liar, when he takes upon -himself to say for you that you are not now what the professors of the -same faith were in times of yore? Do I speak false when I say that the -Inquisition is the object of your hatred? Am I a liar if I assert that -an Irishman prizes liberty dearly, that he will preserve that right, -and if it be wrong, does not dream that money can give to a priest, -or the talking of another man erring like himself, can in the least -influence the judgment of the eternal God? I am not a liar if I affirm -in your name, that you believe a Protestant equally with yourself to -be worthy of the kingdom of Heaven, if he be equally virtuous, that -you will treat men as brethren wherever you may find them, and that -difference of opinion in religious matters shall not, does not, in the -least on your part obstruct the most perfect harmony on every other -subject. Ah! no, Irishmen, I am not a liar. I seek your confidence, not -that I may betray it, but that I may teach you to be happy and wise and -good. If you will not repose any trust in me I shall lament; but I will -do everything in my power that is honourable, fair, and open to gain -it. Some teach you that others are heretics, that you alone are right; -some teach that rectitude consists in religious opinions, without which -no morality is good. Some will tell you that you ought to divulge your -secrets to one particular set of men. Beware, my friends, how you -trust those who speak in this way. They will, I doubt not, attempt to -rescue you from your present miserable state, but they will prepare a -worse. It will be out of the frying-pan into the fire. Your present -oppressors, it is true, will then oppress you no longer, but you will -feel the lash of a master a thousand times more bloodthirsty and cruel. -Evil designing men will spring up who will prevent you thinking as you -please--will burn you if you do not think as they do. There are always -bad men who take advantage of hard times. The monks and priests of old -were very bad men; take care no such abuse your confidence again. You -are not blind to your present situation; you are villanously treated; -you are badly used. That this slavery shall cease, I will venture to -prophesy. Your enemies dare not to persecute you longer, the spirit of -Ireland is bent, but it is not broken, and that they very well know. -But I wish your views to embrace a wider scene--I wish you to think for -your children and your children’s children; to take great care (for it -all rests with you) that whilst one tyranny is destroyed, another more -terrible and fierce does not spring up. Take care then of smooth-faced -impostors, who talk indeed of freedom, but who will cheat you into -slavery. Can there be worse slavery than the depending for the safety -of your soul on the will of another man? Is one man more favoured than -another by God? No, certainly, they are all favoured according to the -good they do, and not according to the rank and profession they hold. -God values a poor man as much as a priest, and has given him a soul as -much to himself. The worship that a kind Being must love is that of a -simple affectionate heart, that shows its piety in good works, and not -in ceremonies, or confessions, or burials, or processions, or wonders. -Take care then that you are not led away. Doubt everything that leads -you not to charity, and think of the word “heretic” as a word which -some selfish knave invented for the ruin and misery of the world, to -answer his own paltry and narrow ambition. Do not inquire if a man -be a heretic, if he be a Quaker, a Jew, or a Heathen; but if he be a -virtuous man, if he loves liberty and truth, if he wish the happiness -and peace of human kind. If a man be ever so much a believer and love -not these things, he is a heartless hypocrite, a rascal, and a knave. -Despise and hate him as ye despise a tyrant and a villain. Oh, Ireland! -thou emerald of the ocean, whose sons are generous and brave, whose -daughters are honourable and frank and fair, thou art the isle on whose -green shores I have desired to see the standard of liberty erected--a -flag of fire--a beacon at which the world shall light the torch of -Freedom! - -We will now examine the Protestant religion. Its origin is called the -Reformation. It was undertaken by some bigoted men who showed how -little they understood the spirit of reform by burning each other. You -will observe that these men burnt each other, indeed they universally -betrayed a taste for destroying, and vied with the chiefs of the -Roman Catholic religion in not only hating their enemies, but those -men who least of all were their enemies, or anybody’s enemies. Now do -the Protestants or do they not hold the same tenets as they did when -Calvin burnt Servetus? They swear that they do. We can have no better -proof. Then with what face can the Protestants object to Catholic -Emancipation on the plea that Catholics once were barbarous; when their -own establishment is liable to the very same objections, on the very -same grounds? I think this is a specimen of barefaced intoleration, -which I had hoped would not have disgraced this age; this age, which is -called the age of reason, of thought diffused, of virtue acknowledged, -and its principles fixed--oh! that it may be so. I have mentioned the -Catholic and Protestant religions more to show that any objection to -the toleration of the one forcibly applies to the non-permission of -the other, or rather to show that there is no reason why both might -not be tolerated; why every religion, every form of thinking might -not be tolerated. But why do I speak of _toleration_? This word seems -to mean that there is some merit in the person who tolerates: he has -this merit, if it be one, of refraining to do an evil act, but he will -share the merit with every other peaceable person who pursues his own -business, and does not hinder another of his rights. It is not a merit -to tolerate, but it is a crime to be intolerant: it is not a merit in -me that I sit quietly at home without murdering any one, but it is a -crime if I do so. Besides, no act of a national representation can make -anything wrong which was not wrong before; it cannot change virtue and -truth, and for a very plain reason: because they are unchangeable. -An Act passed in the British Parliament to take away the rights of -Catholics to act in that assembly, does not really take them away. It -prevents them from doing it by force. This is in such cases the last -and only efficacious way. But force is not the test of truth; they -will never have recourse to violence who acknowledge no other rule of -behaviour but virtue and justice. - -The folly of persecuting men for their religion will appear if we -examine it. Why do we persecute them? to make them believe as we do. -Can anything be more barbarous or foolish? For, although we may make -them say they believe as we do, they will not in their hearts do any -such thing, indeed they cannot; this devilish method can only make them -false hypocrites. For what is belief? We cannot believe just what we -like, but only what we think to be true; for you cannot alter a man’s -opinion by beating or burning, but by persuading him that what you -think is right, and this can only be done by fair words and reason. It -is ridiculous to call a man a heretic because he thinks differently -from you; he might as well call you one. In the same sense the word -orthodox is used; it signifies “to think rightly,” and what can be more -vain, presumptuous in any man or any set of men, to put themselves -so out of the ordinary course of things as to say--“What we think is -right, no other people throughout the world have opinions anything like -equal to ours.” Anything short of unlimited toleration, and complete -charity with all men, on which you will recollect that Jesus Christ -principally insisted, is wrong, and for this reason. What makes a man -to be a good man? Not his religion, or else there could be no good men -in any religion but one, when yet we find that all ages, countries, and -opinions have produced them. Virtue and wisdom always so far as they -went produced liberty or happiness long before any of the religions -now in the world had ever [been] heard of. The only use of a religion -that ever I could see, is to make men wiser and better; so far as it -does this it is a good one. Now, if people are good, and yet have -sentiments differing from you, then all the purposes are answered which -any reasonable man could want, and whether he thinks like you or not -is of too little consequence to employ means which must be disgusting -and hateful to candid minds; nay, they cannot approve of such means. -For, as I have before said, you cannot believe or disbelieve what you -like--perhaps some of you may doubt this, but just try. I will take a -common and familiar instance. Suppose you have a friend of whom you -wish to think well; he commits a crime which proves to you that he is a -bad man. It is very painful to you to think ill of him, and you would -still think well of him if you could. But, mark the word, you _cannot_ -think well of him, not even to secure your own peace of mind can you do -so. You try, but your attempts are vain. This shows how little power -a man has over his belief, or rather, that he cannot believe what -he does not think true. And what shall we think now? What fools and -tyrants must not those men be who set up a particular religion, say -that this religion alone is right, and that everyone who disbelieves -it ought to be deprived of certain rights which are really his, and -which would be allowed him if he believed. Certainly if you cannot help -disbelief, it is not any fault in you. To take away a man’s rights and -privileges, to call him a heretic, or to think worse of him, when at -the same time you cannot help owning that he has committed no fault, -is the grossest tyranny and intoleration. From what has been said I -think we may be justified in concluding that people of all religions -ought to have an equal share in the State, that the words heretic and -orthodox were invented by a vain villain, and have done a great deal -of harm in the world, and that no person is answerable for his belief -whose actions are virtuous and moral, that the religion is best whose -members are the best men, and that no person can help either his belief -or disbelief. Be in charity with all men. It does not therefore signify -what your religion _was_, or what the Protestant religion _was_, we -must consider them as we find them. What are they _now_? Yours is not -intolerant; indeed, my friends, I have ventured to pledge myself for -you that it is not. You merely desire to go to Heaven in your own way, -nor will you interrupt fellow travellers, although the road which you -take may not be that which they take. Believe me that goodness of -heart and purity of life are things of more value in the eye of the -Spirit of Goodness, than idle earthly ceremonies and things which may -have anything but charity for their object. And is it for the first -or the last of these things that you or the Protestants contend? It -is for the last. Prejudiced people indeed are they who grudge to the -happiness and comfort of your souls things which can do harm to no one. -They are not compelled to share in these rites. Irishmen! knowledge is -more extended than in the early period of your religion, people have -learned to think, and the more thought there is in the world, the more -happiness and liberty will there be:--men begin now to think less of -idle ceremonies and more of realities. From a long night have they -risen, and they can perceive its darkness. I know no men of thought -and learning who do not consider the Catholic idea of purgatory much -nearer the truth than the Protestant one of eternal damnation. Can -you think that the Mahometans and the Indians, who have done good -deeds in this life, will not be rewarded in the next? The Protestants -believe that they will be eternally damned, at least they swear that -they do. I think they appear in a better light as perjurers than -believers in a falsehood so hurtful and uncharitable as this. I propose -unlimited toleration, or rather the destruction both of toleration -and intoleration. The act permits certain people to worship God after -such a manner, which, in fact, if not done, would as far as in it lay -prevent God from hearing their address. Can we conceive anything more -presumptuous, and at the same time more ridiculous, than a set of men -granting a licence to God to receive the prayers of certain of his -creatures? Oh, Irishmen! I am interested in your cause; and it is not -because you are Irishmen or Roman Catholics that I feel with you and -feel for you; but because you are men and sufferers. Were Ireland at -this moment peopled with Brahmins, this very same Address would have -been suggested by the same state of mind. You have suffered not merely -for your religion, but some other causes which I am equally desirous -of remedying. The Union of England with Ireland has withdrawn the -Protestant aristocracy and gentry from their native country, and with -these their friends and connexions. Their resources are taken from -this country, although they are dissipated in another; the very poor -people are most infamously oppressed by the weight of burden which -the superior ranks lay upon their shoulders. I am no less desirous of -the reform of these evils (with many others) than for the Catholic -Emancipation. - -Perhaps you all agree with me on both these subjects. We now come to -the method of doing these things. I agree with the Quakers so far -as they disclaim violence, and trust their cause wholly and solely -to its own truth. If you are convinced of the truth of your cause, -trust wholly to its truth; if you are not convinced, give it up. In -no case employ violence; the way to liberty and happiness is never to -transgress the rules of virtue and justice. Liberty and happiness are -founded upon virtue and justice; if you destroy the one you destroy -the other. However ill others may act, this will be no excuse for you -if you follow their example; it ought rather to warn you from pursuing -so bad a method. Depend upon it, Irishmen, your cause shall not be -neglected. I will fondly hope that the schemes for your happiness and -liberty, as well as those for the happiness and liberty of the world, -will not be wholly fruitless. One secure method of defeating them is -violence on the side of the injured party. If you can descend to use -the same weapons as your enemy, you put yourself on a level with him -on this score: you must be convinced that he is on these grounds your -superior. But appeal to the sacred principles of virtue and justice, -then how is he awed into nothing! How does truth show him in his real -colours, and place the cause of toleration and reform in the clearest -light! I extend my view not only to you as Irishmen, but to all of -every persuasion, of every country. Be calm, mild, deliberate, patient; -recollect that you can in no measure more effectually forward the -cause of reform than by employing your leisure time in reasoning or -the cultivation of your minds. Think and talk and discuss: the only -subjects you ought to propose are those of happiness and liberty. Be -free and be happy, but first be wise and good. For you are not all wise -or good. You are a great and a brave nation, but you cannot yet be all -wise or good. You may be at some time, and then Ireland will be an -earthly paradise. You know what is meant by a mob. It is an assembly -of people who, without foresight or thought, collect themselves to -disapprove of by force any measure which they dislike. An assembly -like this can never do anything but harm; tumultuous proceedings must -retard the period when thought and coolness will produce freedom and -happiness, and that to the very people who make the mob. But if a -number of human beings, after thinking of their own interests, meet -together for any conversation on them, and employ resistance of the -mind, not resistance of the body, these people are going the right way -to work. But let no fiery passions carry them beyond this point. Let -them consider that in some sense the whole welfare of their countrymen -depends on their prudence, and that it becomes them to guard the -welfare of others as their own. Associations for purposes of violence -are entitled to the strongest disapprobation of the real reformist. -Always suspect that some knavish rascal is at the bottom of things of -this kind, waiting to profit by the confusion. All secret associations -are also bad. Are you men of deep designs, whose deeds love darkness -better than light? Dare you not say what you think before any man? -Can you not meet in the open face of day in conscious innocence? Oh, -Irishmen, ye can! Hidden arms, secret meetings, and designs violently -to separate England from Ireland are all very bad. I do not mean to -say the very end of them is bad; the object you have in view may be -just enough, whilst the way you go about it is wrong--may be calculated -to produce an opposite effect. Never do evil that good may come; always -think of others as well as yourself, and cautiously look how your -conduct may do good or evil, when you yourself shall be mouldering in -the grave. Be fair, open, and you will be terrible to your enemies. A -friend cannot defend you, much as he may feel for your sufferings, if -you have recourse to methods of which virtue and justice disapprove. No -cause is in itself so dear to liberty as yours. Much depends on you; -far may your efforts spread either hope or despair: do not then cover -in darkness wrongs at which the face of day and the tyrants who bask in -its warmth ought to blush. Wherever has violence succeeded? The French -Revolution, although undertaken with the best intentions, ended ill -for the people, because violence was employed. The cause which they -vindicated was that of truth, but they gave it the appearance of a lie -by using methods which will suit the purposes of liars as well as their -own. Speak boldly and daringly what you think; an Irishman was never -accused of cowardice, do not let it be thought possible that he is a -coward. Let him say what he thinks; a lie is the basest and meanest -employment of men: leave lies and secrets to courtiers and lordlings. -Be open, sincere, and single-hearted. Let it be seen that the Irish -votaries of Freedom dare to speak what they think; let them resist -oppression, not by force of arms, but by power of mind and reliance on -truth and justice. Will any be arraigned for libel--will imprisonment -or death be the consequences of this mode of proceeding? Probably not. -But if it were so? Is danger frightful to an Irishman who speaks for -his own liberty and the liberty of his wife and children? No; he will -steadily persevere, and sooner shall pensioners cease to vote with -their benefactors than an Irishman swerve from the path of duty. But -steadily persevere in the system above laid down, its benefits will -speedily be manifested. Persecution may destroy some, but cannot -destroy all, or nearly all; let it do its will. Ye have appealed to -truth and justice, show the goodness of your religion by persisting -in a reliance on these things, which must be the rules even of the -Almighty’s conduct. But before this can be done with any effect, habits -of Sobriety, Regularity, and Thought must be entered into, and firmly -resolved upon. - -My warm-hearted friends who meet together to talk of the distresses of -your countrymen until social chat induces you to drink rather freely, -as ye have felt passionately, so reason coolly. Nothing hasty can be -lasting; lay up the money with which you usually purchase drunkenness -and ill-health to relieve the pains of your fellow sufferers. Let -your children lisp of freedom in the cradle--let your deathbed be the -school for fresh exertions--let every street of the city and field of -the country be connected with thoughts which liberty has made holy. Be -warm in your cause, yet rational and charitable and tolerant--never let -the oppressor grind you into justifying his conduct by imitating his -meanness. - -Many circumstances, I will own, may excuse what is called rebellion, -but no circumstances can ever make it good for your cause, and however -honourable to your feelings, it will reflect no credit on your -judgments. It will bind you more closely to the block of the oppressor, -and your children’s children, whilst they talk of your exploits, will -feel that you have done them injury instead of benefit. - -A crisis is now arriving which shall decide your fate. The King of -Great Britain has arrived at the evening of his days. He has objected -to your emancipation; he has been inimical to you; but he will in a -certain time be no more. The present Prince of Wales will then be -king. It is said that he has promised to restore you to freedom: your -real and natural right will, in that case, be no longer kept from you. -I hope he has pledged himself to this act of justice, because there -will then exist some obligation to bind him to do right. Kings are but -too apt to think little as they should do: they think everything in the -world is made for them; when the truth is, that it is only the vices of -men that make such people necessary, and they have no other right of -being kings but in virtue of the good they do. - -The benefit of the governed is the origin and meaning of government. -The Prince of Wales has had every opportunity of knowing how he ought -to act about Ireland and liberty. That great and good man Charles Fox, -who was your friend and the friend of freedom, was the friend of the -Prince of Wales. He never flattered nor disguised his sentiments, but -spoke them _openly_ on every occasion, and the Prince was the better -for his instructive conversation. He saw the truth, and he believed -it. Now I know not what to say; his staff is gone, and he leans upon a -broken reed; his present advisers are not like Charles Fox, they do not -plan for liberty and safety, not for the happiness, but for the glory -of their country; and what, Irishmen, is the glory of a country divided -from their happiness? It is a false light hung out by the enemies of -freedom to lure the unthinking into their net. Men like these surround -the Prince, and whether or no he has really promised to emancipate -you--whether or no he will consider the promise of a Prince of Wales -binding to a King of England, is yet a matter of doubt. We cannot at -least be quite certain of it: on this you cannot certainly rely. But -there are men who, wherever they find a tendency to freedom, go there -to increase, support, and regulate that tendency. These men, who join -to a rational disdain of danger a practice of speaking the truth, -and defending the cause of the oppressed against the oppressor--these -men see what is right and will pursue it. On such as these you may -safely rely: they love you as they love their brothers; they feel for -the unfortunate, and never ask whether a man is an Englishman or an -Irishman, a catholic, a heretic, a christian, or a heathen, before -their hearts and their purses are opened to feel with their misfortunes -and relieve their necessities: such are the men who will stand by you -for ever. Depend then not upon the promises of princes, but upon those -of virtuous and disinterested men: depend not upon force of arms or -violence, but upon the force of the truth of the rights which you have -to share equally with others, the benefits and the evils of government. - -The crisis to which I allude as the period of your emancipation is not -the death of the present King, or any circumstance that has to do with -kings, but something that is much more likely to do you good: it is -the increase of virtue and wisdom which will lead people to find out -that force and oppression are wrong and false; and this opinion, when -it once gains ground, will prevent government from severity. It will -restore those rights which Government has taken away. Have nothing -to do with force or violence, and things will safely and surely make -their way to the right point. The Ministers have now in Parliament a -very great majority, and the Ministers are against you. They maintain -the falsehood that, were you in power, you would prosecute[4] and -burn, on the plea that you once did so. They maintain many other -things of the same nature. They command the majority of the House of -Commons, or rather the part of that assembly who receive pensions from -Government or whose relatives receive them. These men of course are -against you, because their employers are. But the sense of the country -is not against you; the people of England are not against you--they -feel warmly for you--in some respects they feel with you. The sense -of the English and of their governors is opposite--there must be an -end of this; the goodness of a Government consists in the happiness -of the governed. If the governed are wretched and dissatisfied, the -government has failed in its end. It wants altering and mending. It -will be mended, and a reform of English government will produce good -to the Irish--good to all human kind, excepting those whose happiness -consists in others’ sorrows, and it will be a fit punishment for these -to be deprived of their devilish joy. This I consider as an event which -is approaching, and which will make the beginning of our hopes for that -period which may spread wisdom and virtue so wide as to leave no hole -in which folly or villany may hide themselves. I wish you, O Irishmen, -to be as careful and thoughtful of your interests as are your real -friends. Do not drink, do not play, do not spend any idle time, do not -take everything that other people say for granted--there are numbers -who will tell you lies to make their own fortunes: you cannot more -certainly do good to your own cause than by defeating the intentions -of these men. Think, read, and talk; let your own condition and that -of your wives and children fill your minds; disclaim all manner of -alliance with violence: meet together if you will, but do not meet in -a mob. If you think and read and talk with a real wish of benefiting -the cause of truth and liberty, it will soon be seen how true a service -you are tendering, and how sincere you are in your professions; but -mobs and violence must be discarded. The certain degree of civil -and religious liberty which the usage of the English Constitution -allows, is such as the worst of men are entitled to, although you -have it not; but that liberty which we may one day hope for, wisdom -and virtue can alone give you a right to enjoy. This wisdom and this -virtue I recommend on every account that you should _instantly begin_ -to practise. Lose not a day, not an hour, not a moment. Temperance, -sobriety, charity, and independence will give you virtue; and reading, -talking, thinking, and searching will give you wisdom; when you have -those things you may defy the tyrant. It is not going often to chapel, -crossing yourselves, or confessing that will make you virtuous; many a -rascal has attended regularly at mass, and many a good man has never -gone at all. It is not paying priests or believing in what they say -that makes a good man, but it is doing good actions or benefiting -other people; this is the true way to be good, and the prayers and -confessions and masses of him who does not these things are good for -nothing at all. Do your work regularly and quickly: when you have -done, think, read, and talk; do not spend your money in idleness and -drinking, which so far from doing good to your cause, will do it harm. -If you have anything to spare from your wife and children, let it do -some good to other people, and put them in a way of getting wisdom -and virtue, as the pleasure that will come from these good acts will -be much better than the headache that comes from a drinking bout. And -never quarrel between each other; be all of one mind as nearly as you -can; do these things, and I will promise you liberty and happiness. But -if, on the contrary of these things, you neglect to improve yourselves, -continue to use the word heretic, and demand from others the toleration -which you are unwilling to give, your friends and the friends of -liberty will have reason to lament the death-blow of their hopes. I -expect better things from you: it is for yourselves that I fear and -hope. Many Englishmen are prejudiced against you; they sit by their own -firesides, and certain rumours artfully spread are ever on the wing -against you. But these people who think ill of you and of your nation -are often the very men who, if they had better information, would feel -for you most keenly. Wherefore are these reports spread? How do they -begin? They originate from the warmth of the Irish character, which -the friends of the Irish nation have hitherto encouraged rather than -repressed; this leads them in those moments, when their wrongs appear -so clearly, to commit acts which justly excite displeasure. They begin -therefore from yourselves, although falsehood and tyranny artfully -magnify and multiply the cause of offence. Give no offence. - -I will for the present dismiss the subject of the Catholic -Emancipation; a little reflection will convince you that my remarks are -just. Be true to yourselves, and your enemies shall not triumph. I fear -nothing, if charity and sobriety mark your proceedings. Everything is -to be dreaded--you yourselves will be unworthy of even a restoration -to your rights, if you disgrace the cause, which I hope is that of -truth and liberty, by violence; if you refuse to others the toleration -which you claim for yourselves. But this you will not do. I rely -upon it, Irishmen, that the warmth of your character will be shown -as much in union with Englishmen and what are called heretics, who -feel for you and love you, as in avenging your wrongs, or forwarding -their annihilation. It is the heart that glows and not the cheek. The -firmness, sobriety, and consistence of your outward behaviour will -not at all show any hardness of heart, but will prove that you are -determined in your cause, and are going the right way to work. I will -repeat that virtue and wisdom are necessary to true happiness and -liberty. The Catholic Emancipation, I consider, is certain. I do not -see that anything but violence and intolerance among yourselves can -leave an excuse to your enemies for continuing your slavery. The other -wrongs under which you labour will probably also soon be done away. -You will be rendered equal to the people of England in their rights -and privileges, and will be in all respects, so far as concerns the -State, as happy. And now, Irishmen, another and a more wide prospect -opens to my view. I cannot avoid, little as it may appear to have -anything to do with your present situation, to talk to you on the -subject. It intimately concerns the well-being of your children and -your children’s children, and will perhaps more than anything prove -to you the advantage and necessity of being thoughtful, sober, and -regular; of avoiding foolish and idle talk, and thinking of yourselves -as of men who are able to be much wiser and happier than you now are; -for habits like these will not only conduce to the successful putting -aside your present and immediate grievances, but will contain a seed -which in future times will spring up into the tree of liberty, and bear -the fruit of happiness. - -There is no doubt but the world is going wrong, or rather that it is -very capable of being much improved. What I mean by this improvement -is, the inducement of a more equal and general diffusion of happiness -and liberty. Many people are very rich and many are very poor. Which do -you think are happiest? I can tell you that neither are happy, so far -as their station is concerned. Nature never intended that there should -be such a thing as a poor man or a rich one. Being put in an unnatural -situation, they can neither of them be happy, so far as their situation -is concerned. The poor man is born to obey the rich man, though they -both come into the world equally helpless and equally naked. But the -poor man does the rich no service by obeying him--the rich man does the -poor no good by commanding him. It would be much better if they could -be prevailed upon to live equally like brothers--they would ultimately -both be happier. But this can be done neither to-day nor to-morrow; -much as such a change is to be desired, it is quite impossible. -Violence and folly in this, as in the other case, would only put off -the period of its event. Mildness, sobriety, and reason are the -effectual methods of forwarding the ends of liberty and happiness. - -Although we may see many things put in train during our life-time, we -cannot hope to see the work of virtue and reason finished now; we can -only lay the foundation for our posterity. Government is an evil; it -is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary -evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay. -So long as men continue foolish and vicious, so long will government, -even such a government as that of England, continue necessary in order -to prevent the crimes of bad men. Society is produced by the wants, -government by the wickedness, and a state of just and happy equality -by the improvement and reason of man. It is in vain to hope for any -liberty and happiness without reason and virtue, for where there is -no virtue there will be crime, and where there is crime there must be -government. Before the restraints of government are lessened, it is -fit that we should lessen the necessity for them. Before government is -done away with, we must reform ourselves. It is this work which I would -earnestly recommend to you. O Irishmen, Reform Yourselves, and I do not -recommend it to you particularly because I think that you most need it, -but because I think that your hearts are warm and your feelings high, -and you will perceive the necessity of doing it more than those of a -colder and more distant nature. - -I look with an eye of hope and pleasure on the present state of things, -gloomy and incapable of improvement as they may appear to others. It -delights me to see that men begin to think and to act for the good -of others. Extensively as folly and selfishness have predominated in -this age, it gives me hope and pleasure at least to see that many know -what is right. Ignorance and vice commonly go together: he that would -do good must be wise. A man cannot be truly wise who is not truly -virtuous. Prudence and wisdom are very different things. The prudent -man is he who carefully consults for his own good: the wise man is he -who carefully consults for the good of others. - -I look upon Catholic Emancipation and the restoration of the liberties -and happiness of Ireland, so far as they are compatible with the -English Constitution, as great and important events. I hope to see -them soon. But if all ended here, it would give me little pleasure, I -should still see thousands miserable and wicked; things would still be -wrong. I regard then the accomplishment of these things as the road -to a greater reform, that reform after which virtue and wisdom shall -have conquered pain and vice--when no government will be wanted but -that of your neighbour’s opinion. I look to these things with hope -and pleasure, because I consider that they will certainly happen, -and because men will not then be wicked and miserable. But I do not -consider that they will or can immediately happen; their arrival will -be gradual, and it all depends upon yourselves how soon or how late -these great changes will happen. If all of you to-morrow were virtuous -and wise, government which to-day is a safeguard, would then become a -tyranny. But I cannot expect a rapid change. Many are obstinate and -determined in their vice, whose selfishness makes them think only of -their own good, when in fact the best way even to bring that about is -to make others happy. I do not wish to see things changed now, because -it cannot be done without violence, and we may assure ourselves that -none of us are fit for any change, however good, if we condescend to -employ force in a cause which we think right. Force makes the side that -employs it directly wrong, and as much as we may pity we cannot approve -the headstrong and intolerant zeal of its adherents. - -Can you conceive, O Irishmen! a happy state of society--conceive men of -every way of thinking living together like brothers? The descendant of -the greatest prince would then be entitled to no more respect than the -son of a peasant. There would be no pomp and no parade; but that which -the rich now keep to themselves would then be distributed among the -people. None would be in magnificence, but the superfluities then taken -from the rich would be sufficient when spread abroad to make every one -comfortable. No lover would then be false to his mistress, no mistress -could desert her lover. No friend would play false; no rents, no debts, -no taxes, no frauds of any kind would disturb the general happiness: -good as they would be, wise as they would be, they would be daily -getting better and wiser. No beggars would exist, nor any of those -wretched women who are now reduced to a state of the most horrible -misery and vice by men whose wealth makes them villainous and hardened; -no thieves or murderers, because poverty would never drive men to take -away comforts from another when he had enough for himself. Vice and -misery, pomp and poverty, power and obedience, would then be banished -altogether. It is for such a state as this, Irishmen, that I exhort you -to prepare. “A camel shall as soon pass through the eye of a needle, as -a rich man enter the kingdom of heaven.” This is not to be understood -literally. Jesus Christ appears to me only to have meant that riches -have generally the effect of hardening and vitiating the heart; so has -poverty. I think those people then are very silly, and cannot see one -inch beyond their noses, who say that human nature is depraved; when -at the same time wealth and poverty, those two great sources of crime, -fall to the lot of a great majority of people; and when they see that -people in moderate circumstances are always most wise and good. People -say that poverty is no evil; they have never felt it, or they would -not think so; that wealth is necessary to encourage the arts--but are -not the arts very inferior things to virtue and happiness?--the man -would be very dead to all generous feelings who would rather see pretty -pictures and statues than a million free and happy men. - -It will be said that my design is to make you dissatisfied with your -present condition, and that I wish to raise a Rebellion. But how stupid -and sottish must those men be who think that violence and uneasiness of -mind have anything to do with forwarding the views of peace, harmony, -and happiness. They should know that nothing was so well fitted to -produce slavery, tyranny, and vice as the violence which is attributed -to the friends of liberty, and which the real friends of liberty are -the only persons who disdain. As to your being dissatisfied with your -present condition, anything that I may say is certainly not likely to -increase that dissatisfaction. I have advanced nothing concerning your -situation but its real case; but what may be proved to be true. I defy -any one to point out a falsehood that I have uttered in the course of -this Address. It is impossible but the blindest among you must see -that everything is not right. This sight has often pressed some of -the poorest among you to take something from the rich man’s store by -violence, to relieve his own necessities. I cannot justify, but I can -pity him. I cannot pity the fruits of the rich man’s intemperance. I -suppose some are to be found who will justify him. This sight has often -brought home to a day-labourer the truth which I wish to impress upon -you that all is not right. But I do not merely wish to convince you -that our present state is bad, but that its alteration for the better -depends on your own exertions and resolutions. - -But he has never found out the method of mending it who does not first -mend his own conduct, and then prevail upon others to refrain from any -vicious habits which they may have contracted, much less does the poor -man suppose that wisdom as well as virtue is necessary, and that the -employing his little time in reading and thinking, is really doing all -that he has in his power to do towards the state, when pain and vice -shall perish altogether. - -I wish to impress upon your minds that without virtue or wisdom there -can be no liberty or happiness; and that temperance, sobriety, charity, -and independence of soul will give you virtue, as thinking, inquiring, -reading, and talking will give you wisdom. Without the first the last -is of little use, and without the last the first is a dreadful curse to -yourselves and others. - -I have told you what I think upon this subject, because I wish to -produce in your minds an awe and caution necessary, before the happy -state of which I have spoken can be introduced. This cautious awe is -very different from the prudential fear which leads you to consider -yourself as the first object, as, on the contrary, it is full of that -warm and ardent love for others that burns in your hearts, O Irishmen! -and from which I have fondly hoped to light a flame that may illumine -and invigorate the world. - -I have said that the rich command and the poor obey, and that money is -only a kind of sign which shows that according to government the rich -man has a right to command the poor man, or rather that the poor man, -being urged by having no money to get bread, is forced to work for the -rich man, which amounts to the same thing. I have said that I think all -this very wrong, and that I wish the whole business was altered. I have -also said that we can expect little amendment in our own time, and that -we must be contented to lay the foundation of liberty and happiness by -virtue and wisdom. This, then, shall be my work; let this be yours, -Irishmen. Never shall that glory fail, which I am anxious that you -shall deserve--the glory of teaching to a world the first lessons of -virtue and wisdom. - -Let poor men still continue to work. I do not wish to hide from -them a knowledge of their relative condition in society, I esteem -it next [to] impossible to do so. Let the work of the labourer, of -the artificer--let the work of every one, however employed, still be -exerted in its accustomed way. The public communication of this truth -ought in no manner to impede the established usages of society, however -it is fitted in the end to do them away. For this reason it ought not -to impede them, because if it did, a violent and unaccustomed and -sudden sensation[5] would take place in all ranks of men, which would -bring on violence and destroy the possibility of the event of that -which in its own nature must be gradual, however rapid, and rational -however warm. It is founded on the reform of private men, and without -individual amendment it is vain and foolish to expect the amendment of -a state or government. I would advise them, therefore, whose feelings -this Address may have succeeded in affecting (and surely those feelings -which charitable and temperate remarks excite can never be violent and -intolerant), if they be, as I hope, those whom poverty has compelled -to class themselves in the lower orders of society, that they will -as usual attend to their business and the discharge of those public -or private duties which custom has ordained. Nothing can be more -rash and thoughtless than to show in ourselves singular instances of -any particular doctrine before the general mass of the people are so -convinced by the reasons of the doctrine, that it will be no longer -singular. That reasons as well as feelings may help the establishment -of happiness and liberty, on the basis of wisdom and virtue, be our -aim and intention. Let us not be led into any means which are unworthy -of this end, nor, as so much depends upon yourselves, let us cease -carefully to watch over our conduct, that when we talk of reform it be -not objected to us, that reform ought to begin at home. In the interval -that public or private duties and necessary labours allow, husband your -time so that you may do to others and yourselves the most real good. -To improve your own minds is to join these two views; conversation -and reading are the principal and chief methods of awaking the mind -to knowledge and goodness. Reading or thought will principally bestow -the former of these--the benevolent exercise of the powers of the mind -in communicating useful knowledge will bestow an habit of the latter; -both united will contribute so far as lies in your individual power -to that great reform which will be perfect and finished the moment -every one is virtuous and wise. Every folly refuted, every bad habit -conquered, every good one confirmed, are so much gained in this great -and excellent cause. - -To begin to reform the government is immediately necessary, however -good or bad individuals may be; it is the more necessary, if they are -eminently the latter, in some degree to palliate or do away the cause, -as political institution has even[6] the greatest influence on the -human character, and is that alone which differences the Turk from the -Irishman. - -I write now not only with a view for Catholic Emancipation, but -for universal emancipation; and this emancipation complete and -unconditional, that shall comprehend every individual of whatever -nation or principles, that shall fold in its embrace all that think -and all that feel: the Catholic cause is subordinate, and its success -preparatory to this great cause, which adheres to no sect but society, -to no cause but that of universal happiness, to no party but the -people. I desire Catholic Emancipation, but I desire not to stop here; -and I hope there are few, who having perused the preceding arguments, -will not concur with me in desiring a complete, a lasting, and a happy -amendment. That all steps, however good and salutary, which may be -taken, all reforms consistent with the English constitution that may -be effectuated, can only be subordinate and preparatory to the great -and lasting one which shall bring about the peace, the harmony, and the -happiness of Ireland, England, Europe, the World. I offer merely an -outline of that picture which your own hopes may gift with the colours -of reality. - -Government will not allow a peaceable and reasonable discussion -of its principles by any association of men who assemble for that -express purpose. But have not human beings a right to assemble to -talk upon what subject they please? Can anything be more evident than -that as government is only of use as it conduces to the happiness -of the governed, those who are governed have a right to talk on the -efficacy of the safeguard employed for their benefit? Can any topic -be more interesting or useful than one discussing how far the means -of government is or could be made in a higher degree effectual to -producing the end? Although I deprecate violence, and the cause which -depends for its influence on force, yet I can by no means think that -assembling together merely to talk of how things go on--I can by no -means think that societies formed for talking on any subject, however -Government may dislike them, come in any way under the head of force -or violence--I think that associations conducted in the spirit of -sobriety, regularity, and thought, are one of the best and most -efficient of those means which I would recommend for the production of -happiness, liberty, and virtue. - -Are you slaves or are you men? If slaves, then crouch to the rod and -lick the feet of your oppressors; glory [in] your shame; it will become -you, if brutes, to act according to your nature. But you are men: a -real man is free, so far as circumstances will permit him. Then firmly -yet quietly resist. When one cheek is struck, turn the other to the -insulting coward. You will be truly brave: you will resist and conquer. -The discussion of any subject is a right that you have brought into the -world with your heart and tongue. Resign your heart’s blood before you -part with this inestimable privilege of man. For it is fit that the -governed should inquire into the proceedings of government, which is of -no use the moment it is conducted on any other principle but that of -safety. You have much to think of. Is war necessary to your happiness -and safety? The interests of the poor gain nothing from the wealth or -extension of a nation’s boundaries, they gain nothing from glory, a -word that has often served as a cloak to the ambition or avarice of -statesmen. The barren victories of Spain, gained in behalf of a bigoted -and tyrannical government, are nothing to them. The conquests in India, -by which England has gained glory indeed, but a glory which is not -more honourable than that of Buonaparte, are nothing to them. The poor -purchase this glory and this wealth at the expense of their blood and -labour and happiness and virtue. They die in battle for this infernal -cause. Their labour supplies money and food for carrying it into -effect; their happiness is destroyed by the oppression they undergo; -their virtue is rooted out by the depravity and vice that prevail -throughout the army, and which under the present system are perfectly -unavoidable. Who does not know that the quartering of a regiment on any -town will soon destroy the innocence and happiness of its inhabitants? -The advocates for the happiness and liberty of the great mass of the -people, who pay for war with their lives and labour, ought never to -cease writing and speaking until nations see, as they must feel, the -folly of fighting and killing each other in uniform for nothing at -all. Ye have much to think of. The state of your representation in the -House, which is called the collective representation of the country, -demands your attention. - -It is horrible that the lower classes must waste their lives and -liberty to furnish means for their oppressors to oppress them yet more -terribly. It is horrible that the poor must give in taxes what would -save them and their families from hunger and cold;--it is still more -horrible that they should do this to furnish further means of their own -abjectedness and misery. But what words can express the enormity of the -abuse that prevents them from choosing representatives with authority -to inquire into the manner in which their lives and labour, their -happiness and innocence, are expended, and what advantages result from -their expenditure which may counterbalance so horrible and monstrous -an evil? There is an outcry raised against amendment; it is called -innovation and condemned by many unthinking people who have a good fire -and plenty to eat and drink. Hard-hearted or thoughtless beings, how -many are famishing whilst you deliberate, how many perish to contribute -to your pleasures? I hope that there are none such as these native -Irishmen, indeed I scarcely believe that there are. - -Let the object of your associations (for I conceal not my approval of -assemblies conducted with regularity, _peaceableness_, and thought for -any purpose) be the amendment of these abuses, it will have for its -object universal emancipation, liberty, happiness, and virtue. There -is yet another subject, “the Liberty of the Press.” The liberty of the -Press consists in a right to publish any opinion on any subject which -the writer may entertain. The Attorney-General in 1793, on the trial of -Mr. Percy, said, “I never will dispute the right of any man fully to -discuss topics respecting Government, and honestly to point out what -he may consider a proper remedy of grievances.” The liberty of the -Press is placed as a sentinel to alarm us when any attempt is made on -our liberties. It is this sentinel, oh, Irishmen, whom I now awaken! I -create to myself a freedom which exists not. There is no liberty of the -Press for the subjects of British government. - -It is really ridiculous to hear people yet boasting of this inestimable -blessing, when they daily see it successfully muzzled and outraged by -the lawyers of the Crown, and by virtue of what are called _ex officio_ -informations. Blackstone says, that “if a person publishes what is -improper, mischievous, or illegal, he must take the consequences of -his own temerity.” And Lord Chief Baron Comyns defines libel as “a -contumely, or reproach, published to the defamation of the Government, -of a magistrate, or of a private person.” Now I beseech you to consider -the words mischievous, improper, illegal, contumely, reproach, or -defamation. May they not make that mischievous or improper which they -please? Is not law with them as clay in the potter’s hand? Do not the -words contumely, reproach, or defamation express all degrees and forces -of disapprobation? It is impossible to express yourself displeased at -certain proceedings of Government, or the individuals who conduct it, -without uttering a reproach. We cannot honestly point out a proper -remedy of grievances with safety, because the very mention of these -grievances will be reproachful to the personages who countenance them; -and therefore will come under a definition of libel. For the persons -who thus directly or indirectly undergo reproach, will say for their -own sakes that the exposure of their corruption is mischievous and -improper; therefore the utterer of the reproach is a fit subject for -three years’ imprisonment. Is there anything like the liberty of the -Press in restrictions so positive yet pliant as these? The little -freedom which we enjoy in this most important point comes from the -clemency of our rulers, or their fear lest public opinion, alarmed at -the discovery of its enslaved state, should violently assert a right -to extension and diffusion. Yet public opinion may not always be so -formidable; rulers may not always be so merciful or so timid; at any -rate, evils, and great evils, do result from the present system of -intellectual slavery, and you have enough to think of if this grievance -alone remained in the constitution of society. I will give but one -instance of the present state of our Press. - -A countryman of yours is now confined in an English gaol. His health, -his fortune, his spirits suffer from close confinement. The air which -comes through the bars of a prison-grate does not invigorate the -frame nor cheer the spirits. But Mr. Finnerty, much as he has lost, -yet retains the fair name of truth and honour. He was imprisoned for -persisting in the truth. His judge told him on his trial that truth -and falsehood were indifferent to the law, and that if he owned the -publication, any consideration whether the facts that it related were -well or ill-founded, was totally irrelevant. Such is the libel law; -such the liberty of the Press--there is enough to think of. The right -of withholding your individual assent to war, the right of choosing -delegates to represent you in the assembly of the nation, and that of -freely opposing intellectual power to any measure of Government of -which you may disapprove, are, in addition to the indifference with -which the Legislative and the Executive power ought to rule their -conduct towards professors of every religion, enough to think of. - -I earnestly desire peace and harmony:--peace, that whatever wrongs -you may have suffered, benevolence and a spirit of forgiveness should -mark your conduct towards those who have persecuted you:--harmony, -that among yourselves may be no divisions, that Protestants and -Catholics unite in a common interest, and that whatever be the belief -and principles of your countryman and fellow sufferer, you desire to -benefit his cause at the same time that you vindicate your own. Be -strong and unbiassed by selfishness or prejudice--for, Catholics, your -religion has not been spotless, crimes in past ages have sullied it -with a stain, which let it be your glory to remove. Nor, Protestants, -hath your religion always been characterized by the mildness of -benevolence which Jesus Christ recommended. Had it anything to do with -the present subject I could account for the spirit of intolerance which -marked both religions; I will, however, only adduce the fact, and -earnestly exhort you to root out from your own minds everything which -may lead to uncharitableness, and to reflect that yourselves as well -as your brethren may be deceived. Nothing on earth is infallible. The -priests that pretend to it are wicked and mischievous impostors; but -it is an imposture which every one more or less assumes who encourages -prejudice in his breast against those who differ from him in opinion, -or who sets up his own religion as the only right and true one, when -no one is so blind as not to see that every religion is right and true -which makes men beneficent and sincere. I therefore earnestly exhort -both Protestants and Catholics to act in brotherhood and harmony, -never forgetting because the Catholics alone are heinously deprived of -religious rights, that the Protestants and a certain rank of people of -every persuasion, share with them all else that is terrible, galling, -and intolerable in the mass of political grievance. - -In no case employ violence or falsehood. I cannot too often or too -vividly endeavour to impress upon your minds that these methods will -produce nothing but wretchedness and slavery--that they will at the -same time rivet the fetters with which ignorance and oppression bind -you to abjectness, and deliver you over to a tyranny which shall render -you incapable of renewed efforts. Violence will immediately render -your cause a bad one. If you believe in a providential God, you must -also believe that he is a good one. And it is not likely a merciful -God would befriend a bad cause. Insincerity is no less hurtful than -violence; those who are in the habit of either, would do well to -reform themselves. A lying bravo will never promote the good of his -country--he cannot be a good man. The courageous and sincere may, at -the same time, successfully oppose corruption, by uniting their voice -with that of others, or individually raise up intellectual opposition -to counteract the abuses of Government and society. In order to -benefit yourselves and your country to any extent, habits of sobriety, -regularity, and thought are previously so necessary that, without these -preliminaries, all that you have done falls to the ground. You have -built on sand; secure a good foundation, and you may erect a fabric to -stand for ever--the glory and the envy of the world. - -I have purposely avoided any lengthened discussion on those grievances -to which your hearts are, from custom and the immediate interest of the -circumstances, probably most alive at present. I have not, however, -wholly neglected them. Most of all have I insisted on their instant -palliation and ultimate removal; nor have I omitted a consideration -of the means which I deem most effectual for the accomplishment of -this great end. How far you will consider the former worthy of your -adoption, so far shall I deem the latter probable and interesting -to the lovers of human kind. And I have opened to your view a new -scene--does not your heart bound at the bare possibility of your -posterity possessing that liberty and happiness of which, during -our lives, powerful exertions and habitual abstinence may give us a -foretaste? Oh! if your hearts do not vibrate at such as this, then ye -are dead and cold--ye are not men. - -I now come to the application of my principles, the conclusion of -my Address; and, O Irishmen, whatever conduct ye may feel yourselves -bound to pursue, the path which duty points to lies before me clear and -unobscured. Dangers may lurk around it, but they are not the dangers -which lie beneath the footsteps of the hypocrite or temporizer. - -For I have not presented to you the picture of happiness on which my -fancy doats as an uncertain meteor to mislead honourable enthusiasm, -or blindfold the judgment which makes virtue useful. I have not -proposed crude schemes, which I should be incompetent to mature, or -desired to excite in you any virulence against the abuses of political -institution; where I have had occasion to point them out, I have -recommended moderation whilst yet I have earnestly insisted upon energy -and perseverance; I have spoken of peace, yet declared that resistance -is laudable; but the intellectual resistance which I recommend, I deem -essential to the introduction of the millennium of virtue, whose period -every one can, so far as he is concerned, forward by his own proper -power. I have not attempted to show that the Catholic claims, or the -claims of the people to a full representation in Parliament, or any of -these claims to real rights, which I have insisted upon as introductory -to the ultimate claim of _all_, to universal happiness, freedom and -equality; I have not attempted, I say, to show that these can be -granted consistently with the spirit of the English Constitution;[7] -this is a point which I do not feel myself inclined to discuss, and -which I consider foreign to my subject. But I have shown that these -claims have for their basis truth and justice, which are immutable, -and which in the ruin of governments shall rise like a phœnix from -their ashes. - -Is any one inclined to dispute the possibility of a happy change in -society? Do they say that the nature of man is corrupt, and that he -was made for misery and wickedness? Be it so. Certain as are opposite -conclusions, I will concede the truth of this for a moment. What are -the means which I take for melioration? Violence, corruption, rapine, -crime? Do I do evil that good may come? I have recommended peace, -philanthropy, wisdom. So far as my arguments influence, they will -influence to these; and if there is any one _now_ inclined to say that -“private vices are public benefits,” and that peace, philanthropy, -and wisdom will, if once they gain ground, ruin the human race, he -may revel in his happy dreams; though were _I_ this man I should envy -Satan’s hell. The wisdom and charity of which I speak are the _only_ -means which I will countenance for the redress of your grievances and -the grievances of the world. So far as they operate, I am willing to -stand responsible for their evil effects. I expect to be accused of -a desire for renewing in Ireland the scenes of revolutionary horror -which marked the struggles of France twenty years ago. But it is the -renewal of that unfortunate era which I strongly deprecate, and which -the tendency of this Address is calculated to obviate. For can burthens -be borne for ever, and the slave crouch and cringe the while? Is misery -and vice so consonant to man’s nature that he will hug it to his heart? -But when the wretched one in bondage beholds the emancipation near, -will he not endure his misery awhile with hope and patience, then -spring to his preserver’s arms, and start into a man? - -It is my intention to observe the effect on your minds, O Irishmen, -which this Address, dictated by the fervency of my love and hope, -will produce. I have come to this country to spare no pains where -expenditure may purchase you real benefit. The present is a crisis -which of all others is the most valuable for fixing the fluctuation of -public feeling; as far as my poor efforts may have succeeded in fixing -it to virtue, Irishmen, so far shall I esteem myself happy. I intend -this Address as introductory to another. The organization of a society -whose institution shall serve as a bond to its members for the purposes -of virtue, happiness, liberty, and wisdom, by the means of intellectual -opposition to grievances, would probably be useful. For the formation -of such society I avow myself anxious. - -Adieu, my friends! May every sun that shines on your green island -see the annihilation of an abuse, and the birth of an embryon of -melioration! Your own hearts--may they become the shrines of purity and -freedom, and never may smoke to the Mammon of unrighteousness ascend -from the unpolluted altar of their devotion! - - No. 7, Lower Sackville Street, Feb. 22nd. - - * * * * * - -POSTSCRIPT. - -I have now been a week in Dublin, during which time I have endeavoured -to make myself more accurately acquainted with the state of the public -mind on those great topics of grievances which induced me to select -Ireland as a theatre, the widest and fairest, for the operations of the -determined friend of religious and political freedom. - -The result of my observations has determined me to propose an -association for the purposes of restoring Ireland to the prosperity -which she possessed before the Union Act; and the religious freedom -which the involuntariness of faith ought to have taught all -monopolists of Heaven long, long ago, that every one had a right to -possess. - -For the purpose of obtaining the emancipation of the Catholics from -the penal laws that aggrieve them, and a repeal of the Legislative -Union Act, and grounding upon the remission of the church-craft and -oppression, which caused these grievances; _a plan of amendment -and regeneration in the moral and political state of society, on a -comprehensive and systematic philanthropy which shall be sure though -slow in its projects: and as it is without the rapidity and danger of -revolution, so will it be devoid of the time-servingness of temporizing -reform_--which in its deliberate capacity, having investigated the -state of the Government of England, shall oppose those parts of it, by -intellectual force, which will not bear the touchstone of reason. - -For information respecting the principles which I possess, and the -nature and spirit of the association which I propose, I refer the -reader to a small pamphlet, which I shall publish on the subject in the -course of a few days. - -I have published the above Address (written in England) in the cheapest -possible form, and have taken pains that the remarks which it contains -should be intelligible to the most uneducated minds. Men are not -slaves and brutes because they are poor; it has been the policy of the -thoughtless or wicked of the higher ranks (as a proof of the decay of -which policy I am happy to see the rapid success of a comparatively -enlightened system of education) to conceal from the poor the truths -which I have endeavoured to teach them. In doing so I have but -translated my thoughts into another language; and, as language is only -useful as it communicates ideas, I shall think my style so far good as -it is successful as a means to bring about the end which I desire on -any occasion to accomplish. - -A Limerick paper, which I suppose professes to support certain -_loyal_ and _John Bullish_ principles of freedom, has, in an essay -for advocating the liberty of the Press, the following clause: “For -lawless licence of discussion never did we advocate, nor do we now.” -What is lawless licence of discussion? Is it not as indefinite as the -words _contumely_, _reproach_, _defamation_, that allow at present such -latitude to the outrages that are committed on the free expression -of individual sentiment? Can they not see that what is rational will -stand by its reason, and what is true stand by its truth, as all -that is foolish will fall by its folly, and all that is false be -controverted by its own falsehood? Liberty gains nothing by the reform -of politicians of this stamp, any more than it gains from a change -of Ministers in London. What at present is contumely and defamation, -would at the period of this Limerick amendment be “lawless licence of -discussion,” and such would be the mighty advantage which this doughty -champion of liberty proposes to effect. - -I conclude with the words of Lafayette, a name endeared by its peerless -bearer to every lover of the human race, “For a nation to love liberty -it is sufficient that she knows it, to be free it is sufficient that -she wills it.” - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[4] [Persecute?] - -[5] [Cessation?] - -[6] [Ever?] - -[7] The excellence of the Constitution of Great Britain appears -to me to be its indefiniteness and versatility, whereby it may be -unresistingly accommodated to the progression of wisdom and virtue. -Such accommodation I desire; but I wish for the cause before the -effect. - - - - - PROPOSALS - FOR AN - ASSOCIATION - OF THOSE - _PHILANTHROPISTS_, - - WHO CONVINCED OF THE INADEQUACY OF THE MORAL AND POLITICAL - STATE OF IRELAND TO PRODUCE BENEFITS WHICH ARE NEVERTHELESS - ATTAINABLE, ARE WILLING TO UNITE TO ACCOMPLISH ITS - REGENERATION. - - BY - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - - Dublin: - PRINTED BY I. ETON, WINETAVERN STREET. - [1812.] - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION, ETC. - - I propose an Association which shall have for its immediate - objects Catholic Emancipation and the Repeal of the Act - of Union between Great Britain and Ireland; and grounding - on the removal of these grievances, an annihilation or - palliation of whatever moral or political evil it may be - within the compass of human power to assuage or eradicate. - - -Man cannot make occasions, but he may seize those that offer. None are -more interesting to philanthropy than those which excite the benevolent -passions, that generalize and expand private into public feelings, -and make the hearts of individuals vibrate not merely for themselves, -their families, and their friends, but for posterity, _for a people_; -till their country becomes the world, and their family the sensitive -creation. - -A recollection of the absent, and a taking into consideration the -interests of those unconnected with ourselves, is a principal source of -that feeling which generates occasions wherein a love for human kind -may become eminently useful and active. Public topics of fear and hope, -such as sympathize with general grievance, or hold out hopes of general -amendment, are those on which the philanthropist would dilate with the -warmest feeling; because these are accustomed to place individuals at -a distance from self; for in proportion as he is absorbed in public -feeling, so will a consideration of his proper benefit be generalized. -In proportion as he feels with or for a nation or a world, so will man -consider himself less as that centre to which we are but too prone to -believe that every line of human concern does or ought to converge. - -I should not here make the trite remark that selfish motive biasses, -brutalizes, and degrades the human mind, did it not thence follow, that -to seize those occasions wherein the opposite spirit predominates, is -a duty which Philanthropy imperiously exacts of her votaries; that -occasions like these are the proper ones for leading mankind to their -own interest by awakening in their minds a love for the interest of -their fellows. A plant that grows in every soil, though too often it -is choked by tares before its lovely blossoms are expanded. Virtue -produces pleasure, it is as the cause to the effect; I feel pleasure in -doing good to my friend, because I love him. I do not love him for the -sake of that pleasure. - -I regard the present state of the public mind in Ireland to be one of -those occasions which the ardent votary of the religion of Philanthropy -dare not leave unseized. I perceive that the public interest is -excited, I perceive that individual interest has, in a certain degree, -quitted individual concern to generalize itself with universal -feeling. Be the Catholic Emancipation a thing of great or of small -misfortune,[8] be it a means of adding happiness to four millions of -people, or a reform which will only give honour to a few of the higher -ranks, yet a benevolent and disinterested feeling has gone abroad, and -I am willing that it should never subside. I desire that means should -be taken with energy and expedition in this important yet fleeting -crisis, to feed the unpolluted flame at which nations and ages may -light the torch of Liberty and Virtue! - -It is my opinion that the claims of the Catholic inhabitants of -Ireland, if gained to-morrow, would in a very small degree aggrandize -their liberty and happiness. The disqualifications principally affect -the higher orders of the Catholic persuasion, these would principally -be benefited by their removal. Power and wealth do not benefit, but -injure, the cause of virtue and freedom. I am happy, however, at the -near approach of this emancipation, because I am inimical to all -disqualifications for opinion. It gives me pleasure to see the approach -of this enfranchisement, not for the good which it will bring with -it, but because it is a sign of benefits approaching, a prophet of -good about to come; and therefore do I sympathize with the inhabitants -of Ireland in this great cause; a cause which though in its own -accomplishment will add not one comfort to the cottager, will snatch -not one from the dark dungeon, will root not out one vice, alleviate -not one pang, yet it is the foreground of a picture, in the dimness -of whose distance I behold the lion lay down with the lamb, and the -infant play with the basilisk. For it supposes the extermination of -the eyeless monster Bigotry, whose throne has tottered for two hundred -years. I hear the teeth of the palsied beldame Superstition chatter, -and I see her descending to the grave! Reason points to the open gates -of the Temple of Religious Freedom, Philanthropy kneels at the altar -of the common God! There, wealth and poverty, rank and abjectness, are -names known but as memorials of past time: meteors which play over the -loathsome pool of vice and misery, to warn the wanderer where dangers -lie. Does a God rule this illimitable universe? Are you thankful for -his beneficence--do you adore his wisdom--do you hang upon his altar -the garland of your devotion? Curse not your brother, though he hath -enwreathed with his flowers of a different hue; the purest religion is -that of Charity, its loveliness begins to proselyte the hearts of men. -The tree is to be judged of by its fruit. I regard the admission of the -Catholic claims and the Repeal of the Union Act as blossoms of that -fruit which the summer sun of improved intellect and progressive virtue -is destined to mature. - -I will not pass unreflected on the Legislative Union of Great Britain -and Ireland, nor will I speak of it as a grievance so tolerable or -unimportant in its own nature as that of Catholic disqualification. The -latter affects few, the former affects thousands. The one disqualifies -the rich from power, the other impoverishes the peasant, adds beggary -to the city, famine to the country, multiplies abjectedness, whilst -misery and crime play into each other’s hands under its withering -auspices. I esteem, then, the annihilation of this second grievance -to be something more than a mere sign of coming good. I esteem it to -be in itself a substantial benefit. The aristocracy of Ireland--(for -much as I may disapprove other distinctions than those of virtue and -talent, I consider it useless, hasty, and violent, not for the present -to acquiesce in their continuance)--the aristocracy of Ireland suck the -veins of its inhabitants and consume the blood in England. I mean not -to deny the unhappy truth that there is much misery and vice in the -world. I mean to say that Ireland shares largely of both.--England has -made her poor; and the poverty of a rich nation will make its people -very desperate and wicked. - -I look forward, then, to the redress of both these grievances; or -rather, I perceive the state of the public mind, that precedes them -as the crisis of beneficial innovation. The latter I consider to -be the cause of the former, as I hope it will be the cause of more -comprehensively beneficial amendments. It forms that occasion which -should energetically and quickly be occupied. The voice of the whole -human race; their crimes, their miseries, and their ignorance, invoke -us to the task. For the miseries of the Irish poor, exacerbated by the -union of their country with England, are not peculiar to themselves. -England, the whole civilized world, with few exceptions, is either -sunk in disproportioned abjectness, or raised to unnatural elevation. -The repeal of the Union Act will place Ireland on a level, so far as -concerns the well-being of its poor, with her sister nation. Benevolent -feeling has gone out in this country in favour of the happiness of -its inhabitants; may this feeling be corroborated, methodized, and -continued! May it never fail! But it will not be kept alive by each -citizen sitting quietly by his own fireside, and saying that things -are going on well, because the rain does not beat on _him_, because -_he_ has books and leisure to read them, because _he_ has money and -is at liberty to accumulate luxuries to _himself_. Generous feeling -dictates no such sayings. When the heart recurs to the thousands who -have no liberty and no leisure, it must be rendered callous by long -contemplation of wretchedness, if after such recurrence it can beat -with contented evenness. Why do I talk thus? Is there anyone who -doubts that the present state of politics and morals is wrong? They -say, Show us a safe method of improvement. There is no safer than the -corroboration and propagation of generous and philanthropic feeling, -than the keeping continually alive a love for the human race, than the -putting in train causes which shall have for their consequences virtue -and freedom; and, because I think that individuals acting singly, with -whatever energy, can never effect so much as a society, I propose -that all those whose views coincide with those that I have avowed, -who perceive the state of the public mind in Ireland, who think the -present a fit opportunity for attempting to fix its fluctuations at -Philanthropy, who love all mankind, and are willing actively to engage -in its cause, or passively to endure the persecutions of those who are -inimical to its success; I propose to these to form an association for -the purposes, first, of debating on the propriety of whatever measures -may be agitated; and secondly, for carrying, by united or individual -exertion, such measures into effect when determined on. That it should -be an association for discussing[9] knowledge and virtue throughout -the poorer classes of society in Ireland, for co-operating with any -enlightened system of education; for discussing topics calculated to -throw light on any methods of alleviation of moral and political evil, -and, as far as lays in its power, actively interesting itself, in -whatever occasions may arise for benefiting mankind. - -When I mention Ireland, I do not mean to confine the influence of the -association to this or to any other country, but for the time being. -Moreover, I would recommend that this association should attempt to -form others, and to actuate them with a similar spirit; and I am thus -indeterminate in my description of the association which I propose, -because I conceive that an assembly of men meeting to do all the good -that opportunity will permit them to do, must be in its nature as -indefinite and varying as the instances of human vice and misery that -precede, occasion, and call for its institution. - -As political institution and its attendant evils constitute the -majority of those grievances which philanthropists desire to remedy, it -is probable that existing Governments will frequently become the topic -of their discussions, the results of which may little coincide with -the opinions which those who profit by the supineness of human belief -desire to impress upon the world. It is probable that this freedom may -excite the odium of certain well-meaning people, who pin their faith -upon their grandmother’s apron-string. The minority in number are the -majority in intellect and power. The former govern the latter, though -it is by the sufferance of the latter that this originally delegated -power is exercised. This power is become hereditary, and hath ceased to -be necessarily united with intellect. - -It is certain, therefore, that any questioning of established -principles would excite the abhorrence and opposition of those who -derived power and honour (such as it is) from their continuance. - -As the association which I recommend would question those principles -(however they may be hedged in with antiquity and precedent) which -appeared ill adapted for the benefit of human kind, it would probably -excite the odium of those in power. It would be obnoxious to the -Government, though nothing would be farther from the views of -associated philanthropists than attempting to subvert establishments -forcibly, or even hastily. Aristocracy would oppose it, whether -oppositionists or ministerialists (for philanthropy is of no party), -because its ultimate views look to a subversion of all factitious -distinctions, although from its immediate intentions I fear that -aristocracy can have nothing to dread. The priesthood would oppose -it, because a union of Church and State--contrary to the principles -and practice of Jesus, contrary to that equality which he fruitlessly -endeavoured to teach mankind--is, of all institutions that from the -rust of antiquity are called venerable, the least qualified to stand -free and cool reasoning, because it least conduces to the happiness -of human kind; yet, did either the minister, the peer, or the bishop -know their true interest, instead of that virulent opposition which -some among them have made to freedom and philanthropy, they would -rejoice and co-operate with the diffusion and corroboration of those -principles that would remove a load of paltry equivocation, paltrier -grandeur, and of wigs that crush into emptiness the brains below them, -from their shoulders; and, by permitting them to reassume the degraded -and vilified title of man, would preclude the necessity of mystery and -deception, would bestow on them a title more ennobling, and a dignity -which, though it would be without the gravity of an ape, would possess -the ease and consistency of a man. - -For the reasons above alleged, falsely, prejudicedly, and narrowly, -will those very persons whose ultimate benefit is included in the -general good, whose promotion is the essence of a philanthropic -association, will they persecute those who have the best intentions -towards them, malevolence towards none. - -I do not, therefore, conceal that those who make the favour of -Government the sunshine of their moral day, confide in the political -creed-makers of the hour, are willing to think things that are rusty -and decayed venerable and are uninquiringly satisfied with evils as -these are, because they find them established and unquestioned as -they do sunlight and air when they come into existence; that they had -better not even think of philanthropy. I conceal not from them that the -discountenance which Government will show to such an association as I -am desirous to establish will come under their comprehensive definition -of danger: that virtue, and any assembly instituted under its auspices, -demands a voluntariness on the part of its devoted individuals, to -sacrifice personal to public benefit; and that it is possible that a -party of beings associated for the purposes of disseminating virtuous -principles, may, considering the ascendency which long custom has -conferred on opposite motives to action, meet with inconveniences that -may amount to personal danger. These considerations are, however, to -the mind of the philanthropist, as is a drop to an ocean; they serve -by their possible existence as tests whereby to discover the really -virtuous man from him who calls himself a patriot for dishonourable -and selfish purposes. I propose then, to such as think with me, a -Philanthropic Association, in spite of the danger that may attend the -attempt. I do not this beneath the shroud of mystery and darkness. I -propose not an Association of Secrecy. Let it [be?] open as the beam -of day. Let it rival the sunbeam in its stainless purity, as in the -extensiveness of its effulgence. - -I disclaim all connexion with insincerity and concealment. The latter -implies the former, as much as the former stands in need of the -latter. It is a very latitudinarian system of morality that permits -its professor to employ bad means for any end whatever. Weapons which -vice _can_ use are unfit for the hands of virtue. Concealment implies -falsehood; it is bad, and can therefore never be serviceable to the -cause of philanthropy. - -I propose therefore that the association shall be established and -conducted in the open face of day, with the utmost possible publicity. -It is only vice that hides itself in holes and corners, whose -effrontery shrinks from scrutiny, whose cowardice - - lets “I _dare not_” wait upon “I would,” - Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage.[10] - -But the eye of virtue, eagle-like, darts through the undazzling beam of -eternal truth, and from the undiminished fountain of its purity gathers -wherewith to vivify and illuminate a universe. - -I have hitherto abstained from inquiring whether the association which -I recommend be or be not consistent with the English Constitution. And -here it is fit briefly to consider what a constitution is. - -Government can have no rights, it is a delegation for the purpose of -securing them to others. Man becomes a subject of government, not that -he may be in a worse, but that he may be in a better state than that -of unorganized society. The strength of government is the happiness -of the governed. All government existing for the happiness of others -is just only so far as it exists by their consent, and useful only so -far as it operates to their well-being. Constitution is to government -what government is to law. Constitution may, in this view of the -subject, be defined to be not merely something constituted for the -benefit of any nation or class of people, but something constituted by -themselves for their own benefit. The nations of England and Ireland -have no constitution, because at no one time did the individuals -that compose them constitute a system for the general benefit. If a -system determined on by a very few, at a great length of time; if -Magna Charta, the Bill of Rights, and other usages for whose influence -the improved state of human knowledge is rather to be looked to than -any system which courtiers pretend to exist, and perhaps believe to -exist--a system whose spring of agency they represent as something -secret, undiscoverable, and awful as the law of nature; if these make -a constitution, then England has one. But if (as I have endeavoured to -show they do not) a constitution is something else, then the speeches -of kings or commissioners, the writings of courtiers, and the journals -of Parliament, which teem with its glory, are full of political cant, -exhibit the skeleton of national freedom, and are fruitless attempts to -hide evils in whose favour they cannot prove an alibi. As, therefore, -in the true sense of the expression, the spot of earth on which we live -is destitute of constituted government, it is impossible to offend -against its principles, or to be with justice accused of wishing to -subvert what has no real existence. If a man was accused of setting -fire to a house, which house never existed, and from the nature of -things could not have existed, it is impossible that a jury in their -senses would find him guilty of arson. The English Constitution then -could not be offended by the principles of virtue and freedom. In -fact, the manner in which the Government of England has varied since -its earliest establishment, proves that its present form is the result -of a progressive accommodation to existing principles. It has been -a continual struggle for liberty on the part of the people, and an -uninterrupted attempt at tightening the reins of oppression, and -encouraging ignorance and imposture, by the oligarchy to whom the first -William parcelled out the property of the aborigines at the conquest -of England by the Normans. I hear much of its being a tree so long -growing which to cut down is as bad as cutting down an oak where there -are no more. But the best way, on topics similar to these, is to tell -the plain truth, without the confusion and ornament of metaphor. I call -expressions similar to these, political cant, which, like the songs -of “Rule Britannia” and “God save the King,” are but abstracts of the -caterpillar creed of courtiers, cut down to the taste and comprehension -of a mob; the one to disguise to an alehouse politician the evils of -that devilish practice of war, and the other to inspire among clubs of -all descriptions a certain feeling which some call loyalty and others -servility. A Philanthropic Association has nothing to fear from the -English Constitution, but it may expect danger from its government. So -far, however, from thinking this an argument against its institution, -establishment, and augmentation, I am inclined to rest much of the -weight of the cause which my duties call upon me to support, on the -very fact that government forcibly interferes when the opposition that -is made to its proceedings is profoundly and undeniably nothing but -intellectual. A good cause may be shown to be good, violence instantly -renders bad what might before have been good. “Weapons that falsehood -can use are unfit for the hands of truth”--truth can reason, and -falsehood cannot. - -A political or religious system may burn and imprison those who -investigate its principles; but it is an invariable proof of their -falsehood and hollowness. Here there is another reason for the -necessity of a Philanthropic Association, and I call upon any fair and -rational opponent to controvert the argument which it contains; for -there is no one who even calls himself a philanthropist that thinks -personal danger or dishonour terrible in any other light than as it -affects his usefulness. - -Man has a heart to feel, a brain to think, and a tongue to utter. -The laws of his moral as of his physical nature are immutable, as -is everything of nature; nor can the ephemeral institutions of -human society take away those rights, annihilate or strengthen the -duties that have for their basis the imperishable relations of his -constitution. - -Though the Parliament of England were to pass a thousand bills, to -inflict upon those who determined to utter their thoughts a thousand -penalties, it could not render that criminal which was in its nature -innocent before the passing of such bills. - -Man has a right to feel, to think, and to speak, nor can any acts of -legislature destroy that right. He will feel, he must think, and he -_ought_ to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings with the -readiest sincerity and the strictest candour. A man must have a right -to do a thing before he can have a duty; this right must permit before -his duty can enjoin him to any act. Any law is bad which attempts to -make it criminal to do what the plain dictates within the breast of -every man tell him that he ought to do. - -The English Government permits a fanatic to assemble any number of -persons to teach them the most extravagant and immoral systems of -faith; but a few men meeting to consider its own principles are marked -with its hatred and pursued by its jealousy. - -The religionist who agonizes the death-bed of the cottager, and, by -picturing the hell which hearts black and narrow as his own alone -could have invented, and which exists but in their cores, spreads the -uncharitable doctrines which devote _heretics_ to eternal torments, -and represents heaven to be what earth is, a monopoly in the hands -of certain favoured ones whose merit consists in slavishness, whose -success is the reward of sycophancy. Thus much is permitted, but -a public inquiry that involves any doubt of their rectitude into -the principles of government is not permitted. When Jupiter and a -countryman were one day walking out, conversing familiarly on the -affairs of earth, the countryman listened to Jupiter’s assertions on -the subject for some time in acquiescence, at length, happening to -hint a doubt, Jupiter threatened him with his thunder. “Ah, ah,” says -the countryman, “now, Jupiter, I know that you are wrong; you are -always wrong when you appeal to your thunder.” The essence of virtue -is disinterestedness. Disinterestedness is the quality which preserves -the character of virtue distinct from that of either innocence or -vice. This, it will be said, is mere assertion. It is so: but it is an -assertion whose truth, I believe, the hearts of philanthropists are -disinclined to deny. Those who have been convinced by their grandam of -the doctrine of an original hereditary sin, or by the apostles of a -degrading philosophy of the necessary and universal selfishness of man, -cannot be philanthropists. Now, as an action, or a motive to action, -is only virtuous so far as it is disinterested, or partakes (I adopt -this mode of expression to suit the taste of some) of the nature of -generalized self-love, then reward or punishment, attached even by -omnipotence to any action, can in no wise make it either good or bad. - -It is no crime to act in contradiction to an English judge or an -English legislator, but it is a crime to transgress the dictates of -a monitor which feels the spring of every motive, whose throne is -the human sensorium, whose empire the human conduct. Conscience is a -government before which all others sink into nothingness; it surpasses, -and, where it can act, supersedes all other, as nature surpasses art, -as God surpasses man. - -In the preceding pages, during the course of an investigation of -the possible objections which might be urged by philanthropy to an -association such as I recommend, as I have rather sought to bring -forward than conceal my principles, it will appear that they have their -origin from the discoveries in the sciences of politics and morals -which preceded and occasioned the revolutions of America and France. It -is with openness that I confess, nay, with pride I assert, that they -are so. The names of Paine and Lafayette will outlive the p[o]etic -aristocracy of an expatriated Jesuit,[11] as the executive of a bigoted -policy will die before the disgust at the sycophancy of their eulogists -can subside. - -It will be said, perhaps, that much as principles such as these -may appear marked on the outside with peace, liberty, and virtue, -that their ultimate tendency is to a Revolution, which, like that -of France, will end in bloodshed, vice, and slavery. I must offer, -therefore, my thoughts on that event, which so suddenly and so -lamentably extinguished the overstrained hopes of liberty which it -excited. I do not deny that the Revolution of France was occasioned -by the literary labours of the encyclopædists. When we see two events -together, in certain cases, we speak of one as the cause, the other -the effect. We have no other idea of cause and effect but that which -arises from necessary connexion; it is, therefore, still doubtful -whether D’Alembert, Boulanger, Condorcet, and other celebrated -characters, were the causes of the overthrow of the ancient monarchy -of France. Thus much is certain, that they contributed greatly to -the extension and diffusion of knowledge, and that knowledge is -incompatible with slavery. The French nation was bowed to the dust by -ages of uninterrupted despotism. They were plundered and insulted by -a succession of oligarchies, each more bloodthirsty and unrelenting -than the foregoing. In a state like this her soldiers learned to fight -for Freedom on the plains of America, whilst at this very conjuncture -a ray of science burst through the clouds of bigotry that obscured -the moral day of Europe. The French were in the lowest state of human -degradation, and when the truth, unaccustomed to their ears, that they -were men and equals, was promulgated, they were the first to vent -their indignation on the monopolizers of earth, because they were most -glaringly defrauded of the immunities of nature. - -Since the French were furthest removed by the sophistications of -political institution from the genuine condition of human beings, they -must have been most unfit for that happy state of equal law which -proceeds from consummated civilization, and which demands habits of the -strictest virtue before its introduction. - -The murders during the period of the French Revolution, and the -despotism which has since been established, prove that the doctrines -of philanthropy and freedom were but shallowly understood. Nor was it -until after that period that their principles became clearly to be -explained, and unanswerably to be established. - -Voltaire was the flatterer of kings, though in his heart he despised -them--so far has he been instrumental in the present slavery of his -country. Rousseau gave licence by his writings to passions that only -incapacitate and contract the human heart--so far hath he prepared the -necks of his fellow-beings for that yoke of galling and dishonourable -servitude which at this moment it bears. Helvetius and Condorcet -established principles; but if they drew conclusions, their conclusions -were unsystematical, and devoid of the luminousness and energy of -method. They were little understood in the Revolution. But this age -of ours is not stationary. Philosophers have not developed the great -principles of the human mind that conclusions from them should be -unprofitable and impracticable. We are in a state of continually -progressive improvement. One truth that has been discovered can never -die, but will prevent the revivification of its apportioned opposite -falsehood. By promoting truth and discouraging its opposite--the means -of philanthropy are principally to be forwarded. Godwin wrote during -the Revolution of France, and certainly his writings were totally -devoid of influence with regard to its purposes. Oh! that they had -not! In the Revolution of France were engaged men whose names are -inerasable from the records of Liberty. Their genius penetrated with -a glance the gloom and glare which Church-craft and State-craft had -spread before the imposture and villany of their establishments. They -saw the world. Were they men? Yes! They felt for it! They risked their -lives and happiness for its benefit! Had there been more of those men, -France would not now be a beacon to warn us of the hazard and horror -of Revolutions, but a pattern of society rapidly advancing to a state -of perfection, and holding out an example for the gradual and peaceful -regeneration of the world. I consider it to be one of the effects of a -Philanthropic Association to assist in the production of such men as -these, in an extensive development of those germs of excellence whose -favourite soil is the cultured garden of the human mind. - -Many well-meaning persons may think that the attainment of the good -which I propose as the ultimatum of philanthropic exertion is visionary -and inconsistent with human nature; they would tell me not to make -people happy for fear of overstocking the world, and to permit those -who found dishes placed before them on the table of partial nature to -enjoy their superfluities in quietness, though millions of wretches -crowded around but to pick a morsel,[12] which morsel was still refused -to the prayers of agonizing famine. - -I cannot help thinking this an evil, nor help endeavouring, by the -safest means that I can devise, to palliate at present, and in fine to -eradicate, this evil. War, vice, and misery are undeniably bad, they -embrace all that we can conceive of temporal and eternal evil. Are -we to be told that these are remediless, because the earth would, in -case of their remedy, be overstocked? That the rich are still to glut, -that the ambitious are still to plan, that the fools whom these knaves -mould, are still to murder their brethren and call it glory, and that -the poor are to pay with their blood, their labour, their happiness, -and their innocence for the crimes and mistakes which the hereditary -monopolists of earth commit? Rare sophism! How will the heartless rich -hug thee to their bosoms, and lull their conscience into slumber with -the opiate of thy reconciling dogmas! - -But when the philosopher and philanthropist contemplates the universe, -when he perceives existing evils that admit of amendment, and hears -tell of other evils, which, in the course of sixty centuries, may again -derange the system of happiness which the amendment is calculated to -produce, does he submit to prolong a positive evil, because, if that -were eradicated, after a millennium of 6000 years (for such space of -time would it take to people the earth) another evil would take place? - -To how contemptible a degradation of grossest credulity will not -prejudice lower the human mind! We see in winter that the foliage of -the trees is gone, that they present to the view nothing but leafless -branches--we see that the loveliness of the flower decays, though the -root continues in the earth. What opinion should we form of that man -who, when he walked in the freshness of the spring, beheld the fields -enamelled with flowers, and the foliage bursting from the buds, should -find fault with this beautiful order, and murmur his contemptible -discontents because winter must come, and the landscape be robbed of -its beauty for a while again? Yet this man is Mr. Malthus. Do we not -see that the laws of nature perpetually act by disorganization and -reproduction, each alternately becoming cause and effect. The analogies -that we can draw from physical to moral topics are of all others the -most striking. - -Does anyone yet question the possibility of inducing radical reform -of moral and political evil? Does he object, from that impossibility, -to the association which I propose, which I frankly confess to be -one of the means whose instrumentality I would employ to attain this -reform. Let them look to the methods which I use. Let me put my object -out of their view and propose their own, how would they accomplish -it? By diffusing virtue and knowledge, by promoting human happiness. -Palsied be the hand, for ever dumb be the tongue that would by one -expression convey sentiments differing from these: I will use no bad -means for any end whatever. Know then, ye philanthropists--to whatever -profession of faith, or whatever determination of principles, chance, -reason, or education may have conducted you--that the endeavours of the -truly virtuous necessarily converge to one point, though it be hidden -from them what point that is; they all labour for one end, and that -controversies concerning the nature of that end serve only to weaken -the strength which for the interest of virtue should be consolidated. - -The diffusion of true and virtuous principles (for in the first -principles of morality _none_ disagree) will produce the best of -possible terminations. - -I invite to an Association of Philanthropy those, of whatever ultimate -expectations, who will employ the same means that I employ; let their -designs differ as much as they may from mine, I shall rejoice at their -co-operation: because, if the ultimatum of my hopes be founded on the -unity of truth, I shall then have auxiliaries in its cause, and if it -be false I shall rejoice that means are not neglected for forwarding -that which is true. - -The accumulation of evil which Ireland has for the last twenty years -sustained, and considering the unremittingness of its pressure I may -say patiently sustained; the melancholy prospect which the unforeseen -conduct of the Regent of England holds out of its continuance, demands -of every Irishman whose pulses have not ceased to throb with the -life-blood of his heart, that he should individually consult, and -unitedly determine on some measures for the liberty of his countrymen. -That those measures should be pacific though resolute, that their -movers should be calmly brave and temperately unbending, though the -whole heart and soul should go with the attempt, is the opinion which -my principles command me to give. - -And I am induced to call an association such as this occasion demands, -an Association of Philanthropy, because good men ought never to -circumscribe their usefulness by any name which denotes their exclusive -devotion to the accomplishment of its signification. - -When I began the preceding remarks, I conceived that on the removal -of the restrictions from the Regent a ministry less inimical than -the present to the interests of liberty would have been appointed. I -am deceived, and the disappointment of the hopes of freedom on this -subject affords an additional argument towards the necessity of an -Association. - -I conclude these remarks, which I have indited principally with a view -of unveiling my principles, with a proposal for an Association for -the purposes of Catholic Emancipation, a repeal of the Union Act, and -grounding upon the attainment of these objects a reform of whatever -moral or political evil may be within its compass of human power to -remedy. - -Such as are favourably inclined towards the institution would highly -gratify the Proposer if they would personally communicate with him on -this important subject; by which means the plan might be matured, -errors in the Proposer’s original system be detected, and a meeting for -the purpose convened with that resolute expedition which the nature of -the present crisis demands. - - No. 7, Lower Sackville Street. - - -DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. - -I. - -Government has no rights; it is a delegation from several individuals -for the purpose of securing their own. It is therefore just, only so -far as it exists by their consent, useful only so far as it operates to -their well-being. - -II. - -If these individuals think that the form of government which they -or their forefathers constituted is ill adapted to produce their -happiness, they have a right to change it. - -III. - -Government is devised for the security of Rights. The rights of man are -liberty, and an equal participation of the commonage of Nature. - -IV. - -As the benefit of the governed is, or ought to be, the origin of -government, no men can have any authority that does not expressly -emanate from _their_ will. - -V. - -Though all governments are not so bad as that of Turkey, yet none are -so good as they might be. The majority of every country have a right to -perfect their government. The minority should not disturb them; they -ought to secede, and form their own system in their own way. - -VI. - -All have a right to an equal share in the benefits and burdens of -Government. Any disabilities for opinion imply, by their existence, -bare-faced tyranny on the side of Government, ignorant slavishness on -the side of the governed. - -VII. - -The rights of man, in the present state of society, are only to be -secured by some degree of coercion to be exercised on their violator. -The sufferer has a right that the degree of coercion employed be as -slight as possible. - -VIII. - -It may be considered as a plain proof of the hollowness of any -proposition if power be used to enforce instead of reason to persuade -its admission. Government is never supported by fraud until it cannot -be supported by reason. - -IX. - -No man has a right to disturb the public peace by personally resisting -the execution of a law, however bad. He ought to acquiesce, using at -the same time the utmost powers of his reason to promote its repeal. - -X. - -A man must have a right to act in a certain manner, before it can be -his duty. He may, before he ought. - -XI. - -A man has a right to think as his reason directs; it is a duty he owes -to himself to think with freedom, that he may act from conviction. - -XII. - -A man has a right to unrestricted liberty of discussion. Falsehood is a -scorpion that will sting itself to death. - -XIII. - -A man has not only a right to express his thoughts, but it is his duty -to do so. - -XIV. - -No law has a right to discourage the practice of truth. A man ought to -speak the truth on every occasion. A duty can never be criminal; what -is not criminal cannot be injurious. - -XV. - -Law cannot make what is in its nature virtuous or innocent to be -criminal, any more than it can make what is criminal to be innocent. -Government cannot make a law; it can only pronounce that which was the -law before its organization; viz., the moral result of the imperishable -relations of things. - -XVI. - -The present generation cannot bind their posterity: the few cannot -promise for the many. - -XVII. - -No man has a right to do an evil thing that good may come. - -XVIII. - -Expediency is inadmissible in morals. Politics are only sound when -conducted on principles of morality: they are, in fact, the morals of -nations. - -XIX. - -Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does -so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of -murder. - -XX. - -Man, whatever be his country, has the same rights in one place as -another--the rights of universal citizenship. - -XXI. - -The government of a country ought to be perfectly indifferent to every -opinion. Religious differences, the bloodiest and most rancorous of -all, spring from partiality. - -XXII. - -A delegation of individuals, for the purpose of securing their rights, -can have no undelegated power of restraining the expression of their -opinion. - -XXIII. - -Belief is involuntary; nothing involuntary is meritorious or -reprehensible. A man ought not to be considered worse or better for his -belief. - -XXIV. - -A Christian, a Deist, a Turk, and a Jew, have equal rights: they are -men and brethren. - -XXV. - -If a person’s religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him -nevertheless. How different would yours have been had the chance of -birth placed you in Tartary or India! - -XXVI. - -Those who believe that Heaven is, what earth has been, a monopoly in -the hands of a favoured few, would do well to reconsider their opinion; -if they find that it came from their priest or their grandmother, they -could not do better than reject it. - -XXVII. - -No man has a right to be respected for any other possessions but those -of virtue and talents. Titles are tinsel, power a corruptor, glory a -bubble, and excessive wealth a libel on its possessor. - -XXVIII. - -No man has a right to monopolise more than he can enjoy; what the -rich give to the poor, whilst millions are starving, is not a perfect -favour, but an imperfect right. - -XXIX. - -Every man has a right to a certain degree of leisure and liberty, -because it is his duty to attain a certain degree of knowledge. He may, -before he ought. - -XXX. - -Sobriety of body and mind is necessary to those who would be free; -because, without sobriety, a high sense of philanthropy cannot actuate -the heart, nor cool and determined courage execute its dictates. - -XXXI. - -The only use of government is to repress the vices of man. If man -were to-day sinless, to-morrow he would have a right to demand that -government and all its evils should cease. - - * * * * * - -Man! thou whose rights are here declared, be no longer forgetful of the -loftiness of thy destination. Think of thy rights, of those possessions -which will give thee virtue and wisdom, by which thou mayest arrive -at happiness and freedom. They are declared to thee by one who knows -thy dignity, for every hour does his heart swell with honourable pride -in the contemplation of what thou mayest attain--by one who is not -forgetful of thy degeneracy, for every moment brings home to him the -bitter conviction of what thou art. - - _Awake!--arise!--or be for ever fallen._ - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[8] Query, a misprint for _importance_? - -[9] Query, _diffusing_? - -[10] Macbeth, act i. sc. 7. - -[11] See _Mémoires de Jacobinisme_, par l’Abbé Baruel. - -[12] See Malthus on _Population_. - - - - - A - REFUTATION - OF - DEISM: - IN - A DIALOGUE. - - * * * * * - - ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙΝ. - - - London: - - PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, - 13, Poland Street. - - * * * * * - - 1814. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -The object of the following Dialogue is to prove that the system -of Deism is untenable. It is attempted to shew that there is no -alternative between Atheism and Christianity; that the evidences of the -Being of a God are to be deduced from no other principles than those of -Divine Revelation. - -The Author endeavours to shew how much the cause of natural and -revealed Religion has suffered from the mode of defence adopted by -Theosophistical Christians. How far he will accomplish what he proposed -to himself, in the composition of this Dialogue, the world will finally -determine. - -The mode of printing this little work may appear too expensive, -either for its merits or its length. However inimical this practice -confessedly is, to the general diffusion of knowledge, yet it was -adopted in this instance with a view of excluding the multitude from -the abuse of a mode of reasoning, liable to misconstruction on account -of its novelty. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -EUSEBES AND THEOSOPHUS. - - -Eusebes. - -O Theosophus, I have long regretted and observed the strange -infatuation which has blinded your understanding. It is not without -acute uneasiness that I have beheld the progress of your audacious -scepticism trample on the most venerable institutions of our -forefathers, until it has rejected the salvation which the only -begotten Son of God deigned to proffer in person to a guilty and -unbelieving world. To this excess, then, has the pride of the human -understanding at length arrived? To measure itself with Omniscience! To -scan the intentions of Inscrutability! - -You can have reflected but superficially on this awful and important -subject. The love of paradox, an affectation of singularity, or the -pride of reason has seduced you to the barren and gloomy paths of -infidelity. Surely you have hardened yourself against the truth with a -spirit of coldness and cavil. - -Have you been wholly inattentive to the accumulated evidence which the -Deity has been pleased to attach to the revelation of his will? The -antient books in which the advent of the Messiah was predicted, the -miracles by which its truth has been so conspicuously confirmed, the -martyrs who have undergone every variety of torment in attestation of -its veracity? You seem to require mathematical demonstration in a case -which admits of no more than strong moral probability. Surely the merit -of that faith which we are required to repose in our Redeemer would be -thus entirely done away. Where is the difficulty of according credit -to that which is perfectly plain and evident? How is he entitled to a -recompense who believes what he cannot disbelieve? - -When there is satisfactory evidence that the witnesses of the Christian -miracles passed their lives in labours, dangers, and sufferings, and -consented severally to be racked, burned, and strangled, in testimony -of the truth of their account, will it be asserted that they were -actuated by a disinterested desire of deceiving others? That they -were hypocrites for no end but to teach the purest doctrine that ever -enlightened the world, and martyrs without any prospect of emolument -or fame? The sophist, who gravely advances an opinion thus absurd, -certainly sins with gratuitous and indefensible pertinacity. - -The history of Christianity is itself the most indisputable proof of -those miracles by which its origin was sanctioned to the world. It -is itself one great miracle. A few humble men established it in the -face of an opposing universe. In less than fifty years an astonishing -multitude was converted, as Suetonius,[13] Pliny,[14] Tacitus,[15] -and Lucian attest; and shortly afterwards thousands who had boldly -overturned the altars, slain the priests and burned the temples of -Paganism, were loud in demanding the recompense of martyrdom from the -hands of the infuriated heathens. Not until three centuries after -the coming of the Messiah did his holy religion incorporate itself -with the institutions of the Roman Empire, and derive support from -the visible arm of fleshly strength. Thus long without any assistance -but that of its Omnipotent author, Christianity prevailed in defiance -of incredible persecutions, and drew fresh vigour from circumstances -the most desperate and unpromising. By what process of sophistry can -a rational being persuade himself to reject a religion, the original -propagation of which is an event wholly unparalleled in the sphere of -human experience? - -The morality of the Christian religion is as original and sublime, as -its miracles and mysteries are unlike all other portents. A patient -acquiescence in injuries and violence; a passive submission to the -will of sovereigns; a disregard of those ties by which the feelings of -humanity have ever been bound to this unimportant world; humility and -faith, are doctrines neither similar nor comparable to those of any -other system.[16] Friendship, patriotism, and magnanimity; the heart -that is quick in sensibility, the hand that is inflexible in execution; -genius, learning and courage, are qualities which have engaged the -admiration of mankind, but which we are taught by Christianity to -consider as splendid and delusive vices. - -I know not why a Theist should feel himself more inclined to distrust -the historians of Jesus Christ than those of Alexander the Great. What -do the tidings of redemption contain which render them peculiarly -obnoxious to discredit? It will not be disputed that a revelation of -the Divine will is a benefit to mankind.[17] It will not be asserted -that even under the Christian revelation, we have too clear a solution -of the vast enigma of the Universe, too satisfactory a justification of -the attributes of God. When we call to mind the profound ignorance in -which, with the exception of the Jews, the philosophers of antiquity -were plunged; when we recollect that men, eminent for dazzling talents -and fallacious virtues, Epicurus, Democritus, Pliny, Lucretius,[18] -Euripides, and innumerable others, dared publicly to avow their -faith in Atheism with impunity, and that the Theists, Anaxagoras, -Pythagoras and Plato, vainly endeavoured by that human reason, -which is truly incommensurate to so vast a purpose, to establish -among philosophers the belief in one Almighty God, the creator and -preserver of the world; when we recollect that the multitude were -grossly and ridiculously idolatrous, and that the magistrates, if not -Atheists, regarded the being of a God in the light of an abstruse and -uninteresting speculation;[19] when we add to these considerations -a remembrance of the wars and the oppressions, which about the time -of the advent of the Messiah, desolated the human race, is it not -more credible that the Deity actually interposed to check the rapid -progress of human deterioration, than that he permitted a specious and -pestilent imposture to seduce mankind into the labyrinth of a deadlier -superstition? Surely the Deity has not created man immortal, and left -him for ever in ignorance of his glorious destination. If the Christian -Religion is false, I see not upon what foundation our belief in a moral -governor of the universe, or our hopes of immortality can rest. - -Thus then the plain reason of the case, and the suffrage of the -civilized world, conspire with the more indisputable suggestions of -faith, to render impregnable that system which has been so vainly and -so wantonly assailed. Suppose, however, it were admitted that the -conclusions of human reason and the lessons of worldly virtue should -be found, in the detail, incongruous with Divine Revelation; by the -dictates of which would it become us to abide? Not by that which errs -whenever it is employed, but by that which is incapable of error: not -by the ephemeral systems of vain philosophy, but by the word of God, -which shall endure for ever. - -Reflect, O Theosophus, that if the religion you reject be true, you -are justly excluded from the benefits which result from a belief in -its efficiency to salvation. Be not regardless, therefore, I entreat -you, of the curses so emphatically heaped upon infidels by the inspired -organs of the will of God: the fire which is never quenched, the worm -that never dies. I dare not think that the God in whom I trust for -salvation, would terrify his creatures with menaces of punishment which -he does not intend to inflict. The ingratitude of incredulity is, -perhaps, the only sin to which the Almighty cannot extend his mercy -without compromising his justice. How can the human heart endure, -without despair, the mere conception of so tremendous an alternative? -Return, I entreat you, to that tower of strength which securely -overlooks the chaos of the conflicting opinions of men. Return to that -God who is your creator and preserver, by whom alone you are defended -from the ceaseless wiles of your eternal enemy. Are human institutions -so faultless that the principle upon which they are founded may strive -with the voice of God? Know that faith is superior to reason, in as -much as the creature is surpassed by the Creator; and that whensoever -they are incompatible, the suggestions of the latter, not those of the -former, are to be questioned. - -Permit me to exhibit in their genuine deformity the errors which -are seducing you to destruction. State to me with candour the train -of sophisms by which the evil spirit has deluded your understanding. -Confess the secret motives of your disbelief; suffer me to administer a -remedy to your intellectual disease. I fear not the contagion of such -revolting sentiments: I fear only lest patience should desert me before -you have finished the detail of your presumptuous credulity. - - -Theosophus. - -I am not only prepared to confess, but to vindicate my sentiments. I -cannot refrain, however, from premising, that in this controversy I -labour under a disadvantage from which you are exempt. You believe -that incredulity is immoral, and regard him as an object of suspicion -and distrust whose creed is incongruous with your own. But truth is -the perception of the agreement or disagreement of ideas. I can no -more conceive that a man who perceives the disagreement of any ideas -should be persuaded of their agreement, than that he should overcome a -physical impossibility. The reasonableness or the folly of the articles -of our creed is therefore no legitimate object of merit or demerit; our -opinions depend not on the will, but on the understanding. - -If I am in error (and the wisest of us may not presume to deem himself -secure from all illusion) that error is the consequence of the -prejudices by which I am prevented, of the ignorance by which I am -incapacitated from forming a correct estimation of the subject. Remove -those prejudices, dispel that ignorance, make truth apparent, and fear -not the obstacles that remain to be encountered. But do not repeat to -me those terrible and frequent curses, by whose intolerance and cruelty -I have so often been disgusted in the perusal of your sacred books. Do -not tell me that the All-Merciful will punish me for the conclusions -of that reason by which he has thought fit to distinguish me from -the beasts that perish. Above all, refrain from urging considerations -drawn from reason, to degrade that which you are thereby compelled -to acknowledge as the ultimate arbiter of the dispute. Answer my -objections as I engage to answer your assertions, point by point, word -by word. - -You believe that the only and ever-present God begot a Son whom he sent -to reform the world, and to propitiate its sins; you believe that a -book, called the Bible, contains a true account of this event, together -with an infinity of miracles and prophecies which preceded it from the -creation of the world. Your opinion that these circumstances really -happened appears to me, from some considerations which I will proceed -to state, destitute of rational foundation. - -To expose all the inconsistency, immorality and false pretensions which -I perceive in the Bible, demands a minuteness of criticism at least -as voluminous as itself. I shall confine myself, therefore, to the -confronting of your tenets with those primitive and general principles -which are the basis of all moral reasoning. - -In creating the Universe, God certainly proposed to himself the -happiness of his creatures. It is just, therefore, to conclude that he -left no means unemployed, which did not involve an impossibility, to -accomplish this design. In fixing a residence for this image of his own -Majesty, he was doubtless careful that every occasion of detriment, -every opportunity of evil, should be removed. He was aware of the -extent of his powers, he foresaw the consequences of his conduct, and -doubtless modelled his being consentaneously with the world of which he -was to be the inhabitant, and the circumstances which were destined to -surround him. - -The account given by the Bible has but a faint concordance with the -surmises of reason concerning this event. - -According to this book, God created Satan, who, instigated by the -impulses of his nature, contended with the Omnipotent for the throne of -Heaven. After a contest for the empire, in which God was victorious, -Satan was thrust into a pit of burning sulphur. On man’s creation, God -placed within his reach a tree whose fruit he forbade him to taste, on -pain of death; permitting Satan, at the same time, to employ all his -artifice to persuade this innocent and wondering creature to transgress -the fatal prohibition. - -The first man yielded to this temptation; and to satisfy Divine Justice -the whole of his posterity must have been eternally burned in hell, -if God had not sent his only Son on earth, to save those few whose -salvation had been foreseen and determined before the creation of the -world. - -God is here represented as creating man with certain passions and -powers, surrounding him with certain circumstances, and then condemning -him to everlasting torments because he acted as omniscience had -foreseen, and was such as omnipotence had made him. For to assert that -the Creator is the author of all good, and the creature the author of -all evil, is to assert that one man makes a straight line and a crooked -one, and that another makes the incongruity.[20] - -Barbarous and uncivilized nations have uniformly adored, under -various names, a God of which themselves were the model: revengeful, -blood-thirsty, grovelling and capricious. The idol of a savage is a -demon that delights in carnage. The steam of slaughter, the dissonance -of groans, the flames of a desolated land, are the offerings which he -deems acceptable, and his innumerable votaries throughout the world -have made it a point of duty to worship him to his taste.[21] The -Phenicians, the Druids and the Mexicans have immolated hundreds at the -shrines of their divinity, and the high and holy name of God has been -in all ages the watchword of the most unsparing massacres, the sanction -of the most atrocious perfidies. - -But I appeal to your candour, O Eusebes, if there exist a record -of such grovelling absurdities and enormities so atrocious, a -picture of the Deity so characteristic of a demon as that which the -sacred writings of the Jews contain. I demand of you, whether as a -conscientious Theist you can reconcile the conduct which is attributed -to the God of the Jews with your conceptions of the purity and -benevolence of the divine nature. - -The loathsome and minute obscenities to which the inspired writers -perpetually descend, the filthy observances which God is described as -personally instituting,[22] the total disregard of truth and contempt -of the first principles of morality, manifested on the most public -occasions by the chosen favourites of Heaven, might corrupt, were they -not so flagitious as to disgust. - -When the chief of this obscure and brutal horde of assassins asserts -that the God of the Universe was enclosed in a box of shittim wood,[23] -“two feet long and three feet wide,”[24] and brought home in a new -cart, I smile at the impertinence of so shallow an imposture. But it is -blasphemy of a more hideous and unexampled nature to maintain that the -Almighty God expressly commanded Moses to invade an unoffending nation; -and, on account of the difference of their worship, utterly to destroy -every human being it contained, to murder every infant and unarmed man -in cold blood, to massacre the captives, to rip up the matrons, and -to retain the maidens alone for concubinage and violation.[25] At -the very time that philosophers of the most enterprising benevolence -were founding in Greece those institutions which have rendered it the -wonder and luminary of the world, am I required to believe that the -weak and wicked king of an obscure and barbarous nation, a murderer, -a traitor and a tyrant, was the man after God’s own heart? A wretch, -at the thought of whose unparalleled enormities the sternest soul must -sicken in dismay! An unnatural monster, who sawed his fellow beings in -sunder, harrowed them to fragments under harrows of iron, chopped them -to pieces with axes, and burned them in brick-kilns, because they bowed -before a different, and less bloody idol than his own. It is surely no -perverse conclusion of an infatuated understanding that the God of the -Jews is not the benevolent author of this beautiful world. - -The conduct of the Deity in the promulgation of the Gospel, appears -not to the eye of reason more compatible with his immutability and -omnipotence than the history of his actions under the law accords with -his benevolence. - -You assert that the human race merited eternal reprobation because -their common father had transgressed the divine command, and that the -crucifixion of the Son of God was the only sacrifice of sufficient -efficacy to satisfy eternal justice. But it is no less inconsistent -with justice and subversive of morality that millions should be -responsible for a crime which they had no share in committing, than -that, if they had really committed it, the crucifixion of an innocent -being could absolve them from moral turpitude. _Ferretne ulla civitas -latorem istiusmodi legis, ut condemnaretur filius, aut nepos, si pater -aut avus deliquisset?_ Certainly this is a mode of legislation peculiar -to a state of savageness and anarchy; this is the irrefragable logic of -tyranny and imposture. - -The supposition that God has ever supernaturally revealed his will -to man at any other period than the original creation of the human -race, necessarily involves a compromise of his benevolence. It assumes -that he withheld from mankind a benefit which it was in his power to -confer. That he suffered his creatures to remain in ignorance of truths -essential to their happiness and salvation. That during the lapse of -innumerable ages, every individual of the human race had perished -without redemption, from an universal stain which the Deity at length -descended in person to erase. That the good and wise of all ages, -involved in one common fate with the ignorant and wicked, have been -tainted by involuntary and inevitable error which torments infinite in -duration may not avail to expiate. - -In vain will you assure me with amiable inconsistency that the mercy of -God will be extended to the virtuous, and that the vicious will alone -be punished. The foundation of the Christian Religion is manifestly -compromised by a concession of this nature. A subterfuge thus palpable -plainly annihilates the necessity of the incarnation of God for the -redemption of the human race, and represents the descent of the Messiah -as a gratuitous display of Deity, solely adapted to perplex, to terrify -and to embroil mankind. - -It is sufficiently evident that an omniscient being never conceived -the design of reforming the world by Christianity. Omniscience would -surely have foreseen the inefficacy of that system, which experience -demonstrates not only to have been utterly impotent in restraining, but -to have been most active in exhaling the malevolent propensities of -men. During the period which elapsed between the removal of the seat of -empire to Constantinople in 328, and its capture by the Turks in 1453, -what salutary influence did Christianity exercise upon that world which -it was intended to enlighten? Never before was Europe the theatre of -such ceaseless and sanguinary wars; never were the people so brutalized -by ignorance and debased by slavery. - -I will admit that one prediction of Jesus Christ has been indisputably -fulfilled. _I come not to bring peace upon earth, but a sword._ -Christianity indeed has equalled Judaism in the atrocities, and -exceeded it in the extent of its desolation. Eleven millions of men, -women, and children, have been killed in battle, butchered in their -sleep, burned to death at public festivals of sacrifice, poisoned, -tortured, assassinated, and pillaged in the spirit of the Religion of -Peace, and for the glory of the most merciful God. - -In vain will you tell me that these terrible effects flow not from -Christianity, but from the abuse of it. No such excuse will avail -to palliate the enormities of a religion pretended to be divine. A -limited intelligence is only so far responsible for the effects of its -agency as it foresaw, or might have foreseen them; but Omniscience -is manifestly chargeable with all the consequences of its conduct. -Christianity itself declares that the worth of the tree is to be -determined by the quality of its fruit. The extermination of infidels; -the mutual persecutions of hostile sects; the midnight massacres and -slow burning of thousands, because their creed contained either more -or less than the orthodox standard, of which Christianity has been the -immediate occasion; and the invariable opposition which philosophy has -ever encountered from the spirit of revealed religion, plainly show -that a very slight portion of sagacity was sufficient to have estimated -at its true value the advantages of that belief to which some Theists -are unaccountably attached. - -You lay great stress upon the originality of the Christian system of -morals. If this claim be just, either your religion must be false, or -the Deity has willed that opposite modes of conduct should be pursued -by mankind at different times, under the same circumstances; which is -absurd. - -The doctrine of acquiescing in the most insolent despotism; of -praying for and loving our enemies; of faith and humility, appears -to fix the perfection of the human character in that abjectness and -credulity which priests and tyrants of all ages have found sufficiently -convenient for their purposes. It is evident that a whole nation of -Christians (could such an anomaly maintain itself a day) would become, -like cattle, the property of the first occupier. It is evident that ten -highwaymen would suffice to subjugate the world if it were composed of -slaves who dared not to resist oppression. - -The apathy to love and friendship, recommended by your creed, would, -if attainable, not be less pernicious. This enthusiasm of anti-social -misanthropy, if it were an actual rule of conduct, and not the -speculation of a few interested persons, would speedily annihilate -the human race. A total abstinence from sexual intercourse is not -perhaps enjoined, but is strenuously recommended,[26] and was actually -practised to a frightful extent by the primitive Christians.[27] - -The penalties inflicted by that monster Constantine, the first -Christian Emperor, on the pleasures of unlicensed love, are so -iniquitously severe, that no modern legislator could have affixed them -to the most atrocious crimes.[28] This cold-blooded and hypocritical -ruffian cut his son’s throat, strangled his wife, murdered his -father-in-law and his brother-in-law, and maintained at his court a -set of blood-thirsty and bigoted Christian Priests, one of whom was -sufficient to excite the one half of the world to massacre the other. - -I am willing to admit that some few axioms of morality, which -Christianity has borrowed from the philosophers of Greece and India, -dictate, in an unconnected state, rules of conduct worthy of regard; -but the purest and most elevated lessons of morality must remain -nugatory, the most probable inducements to virtue must fail of their -effect, so long as the slightest weight is attached to that dogma which -is the vital essence of revealed religion. - -Belief is set up as the criterion of merit or demerit; a man is to be -judged not by the purity of his intentions but by the orthodoxy of his -creed; an assent to certain propositions, is to outweigh in the balance -of Christianity the most generous and elevated virtue. - -But the intensity of belief, like that of every other passion, is -precisely proportioned to the degrees of excitement. A graduated scale, -on which should be marked the capabilities of propositions to approach -to the test of the senses, would be a just measure of the belief which -ought to be attached to them: and but for the influence of prejudice or -ignorance this invariably _is_ the measure of belief. That is believed -which is apprehended to be true, nor can the mind by any exertion avoid -attaching credit to an opinion attended with overwhelming evidence. -Belief is not an act of volition, nor can it be regulated by the mind: -it is manifestly incapable therefore of either merit or criminality. -The system which assumes a false criterion of moral virtue, must be as -pernicious as it is absurd. Above all, it cannot be divine, as it is -impossible that the Creator of the human mind should be ignorant of its -primary powers. - -The degree of evidence afforded by miracles and prophecies in favour of -the Christian Religion is lastly to be considered. - -Evidence of a more imposing and irresistible nature is required -in proportion to the remoteness of any event from the sphere of -our experience. Every case of miracles is a contest of opposite -improbabilities, whether it is more contrary to experience that a -miracle should be true, or that the story on which it is supported -should be false: whether the immutable laws of this harmonious world -should have undergone violation, or that some obscure Greeks and Jews -should have conspired to fabricate a tale of wonder. - -The actual appearance of a departed spirit would be a circumstance -truly unusual and portentous; but the accumulated testimony of twelve -old women that a spirit had appeared is neither unprecedented nor -miraculous. - -It seems less credible that the God whose immensity is uncircumscribed -by space, should have committed adultery with a carpenter’s wife, -than that some bold knaves or insane dupes had deceived the credulous -multitude.[29] We have perpetual and mournful experience of the latter: -the former is yet under dispute. History affords us innumerable -examples of the possibility of the one: Philosophy has in all ages -protested against the probability of the other. - -Every superstition can produce its dupes, its miracles, and its -mysteries; each is prepared to justify its peculiar tenets by an equal -assemblage of portents, prophecies and martyrdoms. - -Prophecies, however circumstantial, are liable to the same objection as -direct miracles: it is more agreeable to experience that the historical -evidence of the prediction really having preceded the event pretended -to be foretold should be false, or that a lucky conjuncture of events -should have justified the conjecture of the prophet, than that God -should communicate to a man the discernment of future events.[30] I -defy you to produce more than one instance of prophecy in the Bible, -wherein the inspired writer speaks so as to be understood, wherein his -prediction has not been so unintelligible and obscure as to have been -itself the subject of controversy among Christians. - -That one prediction which I except is certainly most explicit and -circumstantial. It is the only one of this nature which the Bible -contains. Jesus himself here predicts his own arrival in the clouds to -consummate a period of supernatural desolation, before the generation -which he addressed should pass away.[31] Eighteen hundred years have -past, and no such event is pretended to have happened. This single -plain prophecy, thus conspicuously false, may serve as a criterion of -those which are more vague and indirect, and which apply in an hundred -senses to an hundred things. - -Either the pretended predictions in the Bible were meant to be -understood, or they were not. If they were, why is there any dispute -concerning them: if they were not, wherefore were they written at all? -But the God of Christianity spoke to mankind in parables, that seeing -they might not see, and hearing they might not understand. - -The Gospels contain internal evidence that they were not written by -eye-witnesses of the event which they pretend to record. The Gospel of -St. Matthew was plainly not written until some time after the taking -of Jerusalem, that is, at least forty years after the execution of -Jesus Christ: for he makes Jesus say that _upon you may come all the -righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the blood of righteous Abel -unto the blood of Zacharias son of Barachias whom ye slew between -the altar and the temple_.[32] Now Zacharias, son of Barachias, was -assassinated between the altar and the temple by a faction of zealots, -during the siege of Jerusalem.[33] - -You assert that the design of the instances of supernatural -interposition which the Gospel records was to convince mankind that -Jesus Christ was truly the expected Redeemer. But it is as impossible -that any human sophistry should frustrate the manifestation of -Omnipotence, as that Omniscience should fail to select the most -efficient means of accomplishing its design. Eighteen centuries have -passed and the tenth part of the human race have a blind and mechanical -belief in that Redeemer, without a complete reliance on the merits -of whom, their lot is fixed in everlasting misery: surely if the -Christian system be thus dreadfully important its Omnipotent author -would have rendered it incapable of those abuses from which it has -never been exempt, and to which it is subject in common with all human -institutions, he would not have left it a matter of ceaseless cavil or -complete indifference to the immense majority of mankind. Surely some -more conspicuous evidences of its authenticity would have been afforded -than driving out devils, drowning pigs, curing blind men, animating a -dead body, and turning water into wine. Some theatre worthier of the -transcendent event, than Judea, would have been chosen, some historians -more adapted by their accomplishments and their genius to record the -incarnation of the immutable God. The humane society restores drowned -persons; every empiric can cure every disease; drowning pigs is no -very difficult matter, and driving out devils was far from being an -original or an unusual occupation in Judea. Do not recite these stale -absurdities as proofs of the Divine origin of Christianity. - -If the Almighty has spoken, would not the Universe have been convinced? -If he had judged the knowledge of his will to have been more important -than any other science to mankind, would he not have rendered it more -evident and more clear? - -Now, O Eusebes, have I enumerated the general grounds of my disbelief -of the Christian Religion.--I could have collated its Sacred Writings -with the Brahminical record of the early ages of the world, and -identified its institutions with the antient worship of the Sun. I -might have entered into an elaborate comparison of the innumerable -discordances which exist between the inspired historians of the same -event. Enough however has been said to vindicate me from the charge of -groundless and infatuated scepticism. I trust therefore to your candour -for the consideration, and to your logic for the refutation, of my -arguments. - - -Eusebes. - -I will not dissemble, O Theosophus, the difficulty of solving your -general objections to Christianity, on the grounds of human reason. -I did not assist at the councils of the Almighty when he determined -to extend his mercy to mankind, nor can I venture to affirm that it -exceeded the limits of his power to have afforded a more conspicuous or -universal manifestation of his will. - -But this is a difficulty which attends Christianity in common with the -belief in the being and attributes of God. This whole scheme of things -might have been, according to our partial conceptions, infinitely more -admirable and perfect. Poisons, earthquakes, disease, war, famine and -venomous serpents; slavery and persecution are the consequences of -certain causes, which according to human judgment might well have been -dispensed with in arranging the economy of the globe. - -Is this the reasoning which the Theist will choose to employ? Will he -impose limitations on that Deity whom he professes to regard with so -profound a veneration? Will he place his God between the horns of a -logical dilemma which shall restrict the fulness either of his power or -his bounty? - -Certainly he will prefer to resign his objections to Christianity, -than pursue the reasoning upon which they are found, to the dreadful -conclusions of cold and dreary Atheism. - -I confess that Christianity appears not unattended with difficulty to -the understanding which approaches it with a determination to judge its -mysteries by reason. I will ever[34] confess that the discourse, which -you have just delivered, ought to unsettle any candid mind engaged -in a similar attempt. The children of this world are wiser in their -generation than the children of light. - -But if I succeed in convincing you that reason conducts to conclusions -destructive of morality, happiness, and the hope of futurity, and -inconsistent with the very existence of human society, I trust that you -will no longer confide in a director so dangerous and faithless. - -I require you to declare, O Theosophus, whether you would embrace -Christianity or Atheism, if no other systems of belief shall be found -to stand the touchstone of enquiry. - - -Theosophus. - -I do not hesitate to prefer the Christian system, or indeed any -system of religion, however rude and gross, to Atheism. Here we truly -sympathize; nor do I blame, however I may feel inclined to pity, the -man who in his zeal to escape this gloomy faith, should plunge into the -most abject superstition. - -The Atheist is a monster among men. Inducements, which are omnipotent -over the conduct of others, are impotent for him. His private judgment -is his criterion of right and wrong. He dreads no judge but his own -conscience, he fears no hell but the loss of his self-esteem. He is -not to be restrained by punishments, for death is divested of its -terror, and whatever enters into his heart to conceive, that will he -not scruple to execute. _Iste non timet omnia providentem et -cogitantem, et animadvertentem, et omnia ad se pertinere putantem, -curiosum et plenum negotii Deum._ - -This dark and terrible doctrine was surely the abortion of some -blind speculator’s brain; some strange and hideous perversion of -intellect, some portentous distortion of reason. There can surely be -no metaphysician sufficiently bigoted to his own system to look upon -this harmonious world, and dispute the necessity of intelligence; to -contemplate the design and deny the designer; to enjoy the spectacle of -this beautiful Universe and not feel himself instinctively persuaded to -gratitude and adoration. What arguments of the slightest plausibility -can be adduced to support a doctrine rejected alike by the instinct of -the savage and the reason of the sage? - -I readily engage, with you, to reject reason as a faithless guide, if -you can demonstrate that it conducts to Atheism. So little, however, -do I mistrust the dictates of reason, concerning a supreme Being, that -I promise, in the event of your success, to subscribe the wildest and -most monstrous creed which you can devise. I will call credulity, -faith; reason, impiety; the dictates of the understanding shall be the -temptations of the Devil, and the wildest dreams of the imagination, -the infallible inspirations of Grace. - - -Eusebes. - -Let me request you then to state, concisely, the grounds of your belief -in the being of a God. In my reply I shall endeavour to controvert your -reasoning, and shall hold myself acquitted by my zeal for the Christian -religion, of the blasphemies which I must utter in the progress of my -discourse. - - -Theosophus. - -I will readily state the grounds of my belief in the being of a God. -You can only have remained ignorant of the obvious proofs of this -important truth, from a superstitious reliance upon the evidence -afforded by a revealed religion. The reasoning lies within an extremely -narrow compass; _quicquid enim nos vel meliores vel beatiores -facturum est, aut in aperto, nut in proximo posuit natura_. - -From every design we justly infer a designer. If we examine the -structure of a watch, we shall readily confess the existence of a -watch-maker. No work of man could possibly have existed from all -eternity. From the contemplation of any product of human art, we -conclude that there was an artificer who arranged its several parts. In -like manner, from the marks of design and contrivance exhibited in the -Universe, we are necessitated to infer a designer, a contriver. If the -parts of the Universe have been designed, contrived, and adapted, the -existence of a God is manifest. - -But design is sufficiently apparent. The wonderful adaptation of -substances which act to those which are acted upon; of the eye to -light, and of light to the eye; of the ear to sound, and of sound to -the ear; of every object of sensation to the sense which it impresses -prove that neither blind chance, nor undistinguishing necessity has -brought them into being. The adaptation of certain animals to certain -climates, the relation borne to each other by animals and vegetables, -and by different tribes of animals; the relation, lastly, between -man and the circumstances of his external situation are so many -demonstrations of Deity. - -All is order, design, and harmony, so far as we can descry the tendency -of things, and every new enlargement of our views, every new display of -the material world, affords a new illustration of the power, the wisdom -and the benevolence of God. - -The existence of God has never been the topic of popular dispute. There -is a tendency to devotion, a thirst for reliance on supernatural aid -inherent in the human mind. Scarcely any people, however barbarous, -have been discovered, who do not acknowledge with reverence and awe the -supernatural causes of the natural effects which they experience. They -worship, it is true, the vilest and most inanimate substances, but they -firmly confide in the holiness and power of these symbols, and thus own -their connexion with what they can neither see nor perceive. - -If there is motion in the Universe, there is a God.[35] The power of -beginning motion is no less an attribute of mind than sensation or -thought. Wherever motion exists it is evident that mind has operated. -The phenomena of the Universe indicate the agency of powers which -cannot belong to inert matter. - -Every thing which begins to exist must have a cause: every combination, -conspiring to an end, implies intelligence. - - -Eusebes. - -Design must be proved before a designer can be inferred. The matter -in controversy is the existence of design in the Universe, and it is -not permitted to assume the contested premises and thence infer the -matter in dispute. Insidiously to employ the words contrivance, design, -and adaptation before these circumstances are made apparent in the -Universe, thence justly inferring a contriver, is a popular sophism -against which it behoves us to be watchful. - -To assert that motion is an attribute of mind, that matter is inert, -that every combination is the result of intelligence is also an -assumption of the matter in dispute. - -Why do we admit design in any machine of human contrivance? Simply -because innumerable instances of machines having been contrived by -human art are present to our mind, because we are acquainted with -persons who could construct such machines; but if, having no previous -knowledge of any artificial contrivance, we had accidentally found a -watch upon the ground, we should have been justified in concluding -that it was a thing of Nature, that it was a combination of matter -with whose cause we were unacquainted, and that any attempt to account -for the origin of its existence would be equally presumptuous and -unsatisfactory. - -The analogy which you attempt to establish between the contrivances of -human art, and the various existences of the Universe, is inadmissible. -We attribute these effects to human intelligence, because we know -beforehand that human intelligence is capable of producing them. -Take away this knowledge, and the grounds of our reasoning will be -destroyed. Our entire ignorance, therefore, of the Divine Nature leaves -this analogy defective in its most essential point of comparison. - -What consideration remains to be urged in support of the creation -of the Universe by a supreme Being? Its admirable fitness for the -production of certain effects, that wonderful consent of all its -parts, that universal harmony by whose changeless laws innumerable -systems of worlds perform their stated revolutions, and the blood is -driven through the veins of the minutest animalcule that sports in -the corruption of an insect’s lymph: on this account did the Universe -require an intelligent Creator, because it exists producing invariable -effects, and inasmuch as it is admirably organised for the production -of these effects, so the more did it require a creative intelligence. - -Thus have we arrived at the substance of your assertion, “That whatever -exists, producing certain effects, stands in need of a Creator, and the -more conspicuous is its fitness for the production of these effects, -the more certain will be our conclusion that it would not have existed -from eternity, but must have derived its origin from an intelligent -creator.” - -In what respect then do these arguments apply to the Universe, and not -apply to God? From the fitness of the Universe to its end you infer -the necessity of an intelligent Creator. But if the fitness of the -Universe, to produce certain effects, be thus conspicuous and evident, -how much more exquisite fitness to his end must exist in the Author -of this Universe? If we find great difficulty from its admirable -arrangement in conceiving that the Universe has existed from all -eternity, and to resolve this difficulty suppose a Creator, how much -more clearly must we perceive the necessity of this very Creator’s -creation whose perfections comprehend an arrangement far more accurate -and just. - -The belief of an infinity of creative and created Gods, each more -eminently requiring an intelligent author of his being than the -foregoing, is a direct consequence of the premises which you have -stated. The assumption that the Universe is a design, leads to a -conclusion that there are [an] infinity of creative and created Gods, -which is absurd. It is impossible indeed to prescribe limits to -learned error, when Philosophy relinquishes experience and feeling for -speculation. - -Until it is clearly proved that the Universe was created, we may -reasonably suppose that it has endured from all eternity. In a case -where two propositions are diametrically opposite, the mind believes -that which is less incomprehensible: it is easier to suppose that the -Universe has existed from all eternity, than to conceive an eternal -being capable of creating it. If the mind sinks beneath the weight of -one, is it an alleviation to increase the intolerability of the burthen? - -A man knows, not only that he now is, but that there was a time when he -did not exist; consequently there must have been a cause. But we can -only infer, from effects, causes exactly adequate to those effects. -There certainly is a generative power which is effected by particular -instruments; we cannot prove that it is inherent in these instruments, -nor is the contrary hypothesis capable of demonstration. We admit -that the generative power is incomprehensible, but to suppose that -the same effects are produced by an eternal Omnipotent and Omniscient -Being, leaves the cause in the same obscurity, but renders it more -incomprehensible. - -We can only infer from effects causes exactly adequate to those -effects. An infinite number of effects demand an infinite number -of causes, nor is the philosopher justified in supposing a greater -connexion or unity in the latter, than is perceptible in the former. -The same energy cannot be at once the cause of the serpent and the -sheep; of the blight by which the harvest is destroyed, and the -sunshine by which it is matured; of the ferocious propensities by which -man becomes a victim to himself, and of the accurate judgment by which -his institutions are improved. The spirit of our accurate and exact -philosophy is outraged by conclusions which contradict each other so -glaringly. - -The greatest, equally with the smallest motions of the Universe, are -subjected to the rigid necessity of inevitable laws. These laws are -the unknown causes of the known effects perceivable in the Universe. -Their effects are the boundaries of our knowledge, their names the -expressions of our ignorance. To suppose some existence beyond, or -above them, is to invent a second and superfluous hypothesis to -account for what has already been accounted for by the laws of motion -and the properties of matter. I admit that the nature of these laws -is incomprehensible, but the hypothesis of a Deity adds a gratuitous -difficulty, which so far from alleviating those which it is adduced -to explain, requires new hypotheses for the elucidation of its own -inherent contradictions. - -The laws of attraction and repulsion, desire and aversion, suffice -to account for every phenomenon of the moral and physical world. A -precise knowledge of the properties of any object, is alone requisite -to determine its manner of action. Let the mathematician be acquainted -with the weight and volume of a cannon ball, together with the degree -of velocity and inclination with which it is impelled, and he will -accurately delineate the course it must describe, and determine the -force with which it will strike an object at a given distance. Let the -influencing motive, present to the mind of any person be given, and -the knowledge of his consequent conduct will result. Let the bulk and -velocity of a comet be discovered, and the astronomer, by the accurate -estimation of the equal and contrary actions of the centripetal and -centrifugal forces, will justly predict the period of its return. - -The anomalous motions of the heavenly bodies, their unequal velocities -and frequent aberrations, are corrected by that gravitation by which -they are caused. The illustrious Laplace has shewn that the approach -of the Moon to the Earth, and the Earth to the Sun, is only a secular -equation of a very long period, which has its maximum and minimum. The -system of the Universe then is upheld solely by physical powers. The -necessity of matter is the ruler of the world. It is vain philosophy -which supposes more causes than are exactly adequate to explain the -phenomena of things. _Hypotheses non fingo: quicquid enim ex -phænomenis non deducitur, hypothesis vocanda est; et hypotheses vel -metaphysicæ, vel physicæ, vel qualitatum occultarum, seu mechanicæ, in -philosophiâ locum non habent._ - -You assert that the construction of the animal machine, the fitness -of certain animals to certain situations, the connexion between the -organs of perception and that which is perceived; the relation between -everything which exists, and that which tends to preserve it in its -existence, imply design. It is manifest that if the eye could not see, -nor the stomach digest, the human frame could not preserve its present -mode of existence. It is equally certain, however, that the elements -of its composition, if they did not exist in one form, must exist in -another; and that the combinations which they would form, must so long -as they endured, derive support for their peculiar mode of being from -their fitness to the circumstances of their situation. - -It by no means follows, that because a being exists, performing certain -functions, he was fitted by another being to the performance of these -functions. So rash a conclusion would conduct, as I have before shewn, -to an absurdity; and it becomes infinitely more unwarrantable from -the consideration that the known laws of matter and motion, suffice -to unravel, even in the present imperfect state of moral and physical -science, the majority of those difficulties which the hypothesis of a -Deity was invented to explain. - -Doubtless no disposition of inert matter, or matter deprived of -qualities, could ever have composed an animal, a tree, or even a stone. -But matter deprived of qualities, is an abstraction, concerning which -it is impossible to form an idea. Matter, such as we behold it, is not -inert. It is infinitely active and subtile. Light, electricity, and -magnetism are fluids not surpassed by thought itself in tenuity and -activity: like thought they are sometimes the cause and sometimes the -effect of motion; and, distinct as they are from every other class of -substances with which we are acquainted, seem to possess equal claims -with thought to the unmeaning distinction of immateriality. - -The laws of motion and the properties of matter suffice to account -for every phenomenon, or combination of phenomena exhibited in the -Universe. That certain animals exist in certain climates, results -from the consentaneity of their frames to the circumstances of -their situation: let these circumstances be altered to a sufficient -degree, and the elements of their composition must exist in some new -combination no less resulting than the former from those inevitable -laws by which the Universe is governed. - -It is the necessary consequence of the organization of man, that his -stomach should digest his food: it inevitably results also from his -gluttonous and unnatural appetite for the flesh of animals that his -frame be diseased and his vigour impaired; but in neither of these -cases is adaptation of means to end to be perceived. Unnatural diet, -and the habits consequent upon its use are the means, and every -complication of frightful disease is the end, but to assert that these -means were adapted to this end by the Creator of the world, or that -human caprice can avail to traverse the precautions of Omnipotence, -is absurd. These are the consequences of the properties of organized -matter; and it is a strange perversion of the understanding to argue -that a certain sheep was created to be butchered and devoured by a -certain individual of the human species, when the conformation of the -latter, as is manifest to the most superficial student of comparative -anatomy, classes him with those animals who feed on fruits and -vegetables.[36] - -The means by which the existence of an animal is sustained, requires a -designer in no greater degree than the existence itself of the animal. -If it exists, there must be means to support its existence. In a world -where _omne mutatur nihil interit_, no organized being can exist -without a continual separation of that substance which is incessantly -exhausted, nor can this separation take place otherwise than by the -invariable laws which result from the relations of matter. We are -incapacitated only by our ignorance from referring every phenomenon, -however unusual, minute or complex, to the laws of motion and the -properties of matter; and it is an egregious offence against the first -principles of reason to suppose an immaterial creator of the world, -_in quo omnia moventur sed sine mutuâ passione_: which is equally a -superfluous hypothesis in the mechanical philosophy of Newton, and a -useless excrescence on the inductive logic of Bacon. - -What then is this harmony, this order which you maintain to have -required for its establishment, what it needs not for its maintenance, -the agency of a supernatural intelligence? Inasmuch as the order -visible in the Universe requires one cause, so does the disorder -whose operation is not less clearly apparent, demand another. Order -and disorder are no more than modifications of our own perceptions of -the relations which subsist between ourselves and external objects, -and if we are justified in inferring the operation of a benevolent -power from the advantages attendant on the former, the evils of the -latter bear equal testimony to the activity of a malignant principle, -no less pertinacious in inducing evil out of good, than the other is -unremitting in procuring good from evil. - -If we permit our imagination to traverse the obscure regions of -possibility, we may doubtless imagine, according to the complexion of -our minds, that disorder may have a relative tendency to unmingled -good, or order be relatively replete with exquisite and subtile evil. -To neither of these conclusions, which are equally presumptuous -and unfounded, will it become the philosopher to assent. Order and -disorder are expressions denoting our perceptions of what is injurious -or beneficial to ourselves, or to the beings in whose welfare we are -compelled to sympathize by the similarity of their conformation to our -own.[37] - -A beautiful antelope panting under the fangs of a tiger, a defenceless -ox, groaning beneath the butcher’s axe, is a spectacle which instantly -awakens compassion in a virtuous and unvitiated breast. Many there -are, however, sufficiently hardened to the rebukes of justice and the -precepts of humanity, as to regard the deliberate butchery of thousands -of their species, as a theme of exultation and a source of honour, and -to consider any failure in these remorseless enterprises as a defect in -the system of things. The criteria of order and disorder are as various -as those beings from whose opinions and feelings they result. - -Populous cities are destroyed by earthquakes, and desolated by -pestilence. Ambition is everywhere devoting its millions to -incalculable calamity. Superstition, in a thousand shapes, is employed -in brutalizing and degrading the human species, and fitting it to -endure without a murmur the oppression of its innumerable tyrants. All -this is abstractedly neither good nor evil, because good and evil are -words employed to designate that peculiar state of our own perceptions, -resulting from the encounter of any object calculated to produce -pleasure or pain. Exclude the idea of relation, and the words good and -evil are deprived of import. - -Earthquakes are injurious to the cities which they destroy, beneficial -to those whose commerce was injured by their prosperity, and -indifferent to others which are too remote to be affected by their -influence. Famine is good to the corn-merchant, evil to the poor, -and indifferent to those whose fortunes can at all times command a -superfluity. Ambition is evil to the restless bosom it inhabits, to -the innumerable victims who are dragged by its ruthless thirst for -infamy, to expire in every variety of anguish, to the inhabitants of -the country it depopulates, and to the human race whose improvement it -retards; it is indifferent with regard to the system of the Universe, -and is good only to the vultures and the jackalls that track the -conqueror’s career, and to the worms who feast in security on the -desolation of his progress. It is manifest that we cannot reason -with respect to the universal system from that which only exists in -relation to our own perceptions. - -You allege some considerations in favour of a Deity from the -universality of a belief in his existence. - -The superstitions of the savage, and the religion of civilized Europe -appear to you to conspire to prove a first cause. I maintain that it -is from the evidence of revelation alone that this belief derives the -slightest countenance. - -That credulity should be gross in proportion to the ignorance of the -mind which it enslaves, is in strict consistency with the principles -of human nature. The idiot, the child, and the savage, agree in -attributing their own passions and propensities[38] to the inanimate -substances by which they are either benefited or injured. The former -become Gods and the latter Demons; hence prayers and sacrifices, by the -means of which the rude Theologian imagines that he may confirm the -benevolence of the one, or mitigate the malignity of the other. He has -averted the wrath of a powerful enemy by supplications and submission; -he has secured the assistance of his neighbour by offerings; he has -felt his own anger subside before the entreaties of a vanquished foe, -and has cherished gratitude for the kindness of another. Therefore does -he believe that the elements will listen to his vows. He is capable of -love and hatred towards his fellow beings, and is variously impelled -by those principles to benefit or injure them. The source of his error -is sufficiently obvious. When the winds, the waves and the atmosphere, -act in such a manner as to thwart or forward his designs, he attributes -to them the same propensities of whose existence within himself he is -conscious when he is instigated by benefits to kindness, or by injuries -to revenge. The bigot of the woods can form no conception of beings -possessed of properties differing from his own: it requires, indeed, a -mind considerably tinctured with science, and enlarged by cultivation -to contemplate itself, not as the centre and model of the Universe, but -as one of the infinitely various multitude of beings of which it is -actually composed. - -There is no attribute of God which is not either borrowed from the -passions and powers of the human mind, or which is not a negation. -Omniscience, Omnipotence, Omnipresence, Infinity, Immutability, -Incomprehensibility, and Immateriality, are all words which designate -properties and powers peculiar to organised beings, with the addition -of negations, by which the idea of limitation is excluded.[39] - -That the frequency of a belief in God (for it is not universal) should -be any argument in its favour, none to whom the innumerable mistakes of -men are familiar, will assert. It is among men of genius and science -that Atheism alone is found, but among these alone is cherished an -hostility to those errors, with which the illiterate and vulgar are -infected. - -How small is the proportion of those who really believe in God, to the -thousands who are prevented by their occupations from ever bestowing -a serious thought upon the subject, and the millions who worship -butterflies, bones, feathers, monkeys, calabashes and serpents. The -word God, like other abstractions, signifies the agreement of certain -propositions, rather than the presence of any idea. If we found our -belief in the existence of God on the universal consent of mankind, we -are duped by the most palpable of sophisms. The word God cannot mean -at the same time an ape, a snake, a bone, a calabash, a Trinity, and a -Unity. Nor can that belief be accounted universal against which men of -powerful intellect and spotless virtue have in every age protested. -_Non pudet igitur physicum, id est speculatorem venatoremque -naturæ, ex animis consuetudine imbutis petere testimonium veritatis?_ - -Hume has shewn, to the satisfaction of all philosophers, that the only -idea which we can form of causation is derivable[40] from the constant -conjunction of objects, and the consequent inference of one from the -other. We denominate that phenomenon the cause of another which we -observe with the fewest exceptions to precede its occurrence. Hence it -would be inadmissible to deduce the being of a God from the existence -of the Universe; even if this mode of reasoning did not conduct to the -monstrous conclusion of an infinity of creative and created Gods, each -more eminently requiring a Creator than its predecessor. - -If Power[41] be an attribute of existing substance, substance could not -have derived its origin from power. One thing cannot be at the same -time the cause and the effect of another.--The word power expresses the -capability of any thing to be or act. The human mind never hesitates to -annex the idea of power to any object of its experience. To deny that -power is the attribute of being, is to deny that being can be. If power -be an attribute of substance, the hypothesis of a God is a superfluous -and unwarrantable assumption. - -Intelligence is that attribute of the Deity, which you hold to be most -apparent in the Universe. Intelligence is only known to us as a mode of -animal being. We cannot conceive intelligence distinct from sensation -and perception, which are attributes to organized bodies. To assert -that God is intelligent, is to assert that he has ideas; and Locke has -proved that ideas result from sensation. Sensation can exist only in -an organized body, an organised body is necessarily limited both in -extent and operation. The God of the rational Theosophis is a vast and -wise animal. - -You have laid it down as a maxim that the power of beginning motion is -an attribute of mind as much as thought and sensation. - -Mind cannot create, it can only perceive. Mind is the recipient of -impressions made on the organs of sense, and without the action of -external objects we should not only be deprived of all knowledge of -the existence of mind, but totally incapable of the knowledge of any -thing. It is evident, therefore, that mind deserves to be considered as -the effect, rather than the cause of motion. The ideas which suggest -themselves too are prompted by the circumstances of our situation, -these are the elements of thought, and from the various combinations of -these our feelings, opinions, and volitions inevitably result. - -That which is infinite necessarily includes that which is finite. The -distinction therefore between the Universe, and that by which the -Universe is upheld, is manifestly erroneous. To devise the word God, -that you may express a certain portion of the universal system, can -answer no good purpose in philosophy: In the language of reason, the -words God and Universe are synonymous. _Omnia enim per Dei -potentiam facta sunt, imo, quia naturæ potentia nulla est nisi ipsa Dei -potentia, artem est nos catemus Dei potentiam non intelligere quatenus -causas naturales ignoramus; adeoque stultè ad eandam Dei -potentiam recurritur, quando rei alicujus, causam naturalem, sive est, -ipsam Dei potentiam ignoramus._[42] - -Thus from the principles of that reason to which you so rashly appealed -as the ultimate arbiter of our dispute, have I shewn that the popular -arguments in favour of the being of a God are totally destitute of -colour. I have shewn the absurdity of attributing intelligence to the -cause of those effects which we perceive in the Universe, and the -fallacy which lurks in the argument from design. I have shewn that -order is no more than a peculiar manner of contemplating the operation -of necessary agents, that mind is the effect, not the cause of motion, -that power is the attribute, not the origin of Being. I have proved -that we can have no evidence of the existence of a God from the -principles of reason. - -You will have observed, from the zeal with which I have urged arguments -so revolting to my genuine sentiments, and conducted to a conclusion -in direct contradiction to that faith which every good man must -eternally preserve, how little I am inclined to sympathise with those -of my religion who have pretended to prove the existence of God by -the unassisted light of reason. I confess that the necessity of a -revelation has been compromised by treacherous friends to Christianity, -who have maintained that the sublime mysteries of the being of a God -and the immortality of the soul are discoverable from other sources -than itself. - -I have proved that on the principles of that philosophy to which -Epicurus, Lord Bacon, Newton, Locke and Hume were addicted, the -existence of God is a chimera. - -The Christian Religion then, alone, affords indisputable assurance that -the world was created by the power, and is preserved by the Providence -of an Almighty God, who, in justice has appointed a future life for the -punishment of the vicious and the remuneration of the virtuous. - -Now, O Theosophus, I call upon you to decide between Atheism and -Christianity; to declare whether you will pursue your principles to the -destruction of the bonds of civilized society, or wear the easy yoke of -that religion which proclaims “peace upon earth, good-will to all men.” - - -Theosophus. - -I am not prepared at present, I confess, to reply clearly to your -unexpected arguments. I assure you that no considerations, however -specious, should seduce me to deny the existence of my Creator. - -I am willing to promise that if, after mature deliberation, the -arguments which you have advanced in favour of Atheism should appear -incontrovertible, I will endeavour to adopt so much of the Christian -scheme as is consistent with my persuasion of the goodness, unity, and -majesty of God. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[13] _Judæi, impulsore Chresto, turbantes, facile -comprimuntur._--_Suet. in Tib._ - -_Affecti suppliciis Christiani, genus hominum superstitionis novæ et -maleficæ._--_Id. in Nerone._ - -[14] _Multi omnis ætatis utriusque sexus etiam; neque enim civitates -tantum, sed vicos etiam et agros superstitionis istius contagio -pervagata est._--_Plin. Epist._ - -[15] Tacit. Annal L. xv., Sect. xlv. - -[16] See the _Internal Evidence of Christianity_; see also Paley’s -Evidences, Vol. II., p 27. - -[17] Paley’s Evidences, Vol. I., p. 3. - -[18] Plin. Nat. His. Cap. de Deo., Euripides, Bellerophon, Frag. xxv. - - _Hunc igitur terrorem animi, tenebrasque necesse est_ - _Non radii solis, neque lucida tela diei_ - _Discutient, sed naturæ species ratioque:_ - _Principium hinc cujus nobis exordia sumet_, - Nullam rem nihilo gigni divinitus unquam. - Luc. de Rer. Nat. Lib. 1 [_v._ 147-151]. - -[19] See Cicero de Natura Deorum. - -[20] Hobbes. - -[21] See Preface to Le Bon Sens. - -[22] See Hosea, chap. i., chap. ix. Ezekiel, chap. iv., chap. xvi., -chap. xxiii. Heyne, speaking of the opinions entertained of the Jews by -ancient poets and philosophers, says:--_Meminit quidem superstitionis -Judaicæ Horatius, verum ut eam risu exploderet._--_Heyn. ad Virg. Poll. -in Arg._ - -[23] I. Sam. chap. v., 8. - -[24] Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads. - -[25] Then Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, Who is on the -Lord’s side? let him come unto me. And all the sons of Levi gathered -themselves together unto him. And he said unto them, _Thus saith the -Lord God of Israel_, Put every man his sword by his side, and go in -and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, _and slay every man his -brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbour_. And -the children of Levi did according to the word of Moses: and there fell -of the people on that day twenty-three thousand men.--_Exodus_ xxxii., -26. - -And they warred against the Midianites, as the Lord commanded Moses; -and they slew all the males. And the children of Israel took all the -women of Midian captives, and their little ones, and took the spoil -of all their cattle, and all their flocks, and all their goods. And -they burned all their huts wherein they dwelt, and all their goodly -castles, with fire. And Moses, and Eleazar the priest, and all the -princes of the congregation, went forth to meet them without the camp. -And Moses was [wroth] with the officers of the host, with the captains -over thousands, and captains over hundreds, which came from the battle. -And Moses said unto them, _Have ye saved all the women alive?_ behold, -these caused the children of Israel, through the counsel of Balaam, to -commit trespass against the Lord in the matter of Peor, and there was -a plague among the congregation of the Lord. _Now therefore kill every -male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by -lying with him. But all the women-children, that have not known a man -by lying with him_, KEEP ALIVE FOR YOURSELVES.--_Numbers_ xxxi., 7-18. - -And we utterly destroyed them, as we did unto Sihon, king of Heshbon, -utterly destroying the men, women, and children of every city.--_Deut._ -iii., 6. - -And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and -woman, young and old, and ox and sheep and ass, with the edge of the -sword.--_Joshua._ - -So Joshua fought against Debir, and utterly destroyed all the souls -that were therein: he left none remaining, but utterly destroyed all -that breathed, as the Lord God of Israel commanded.--_Joshua_, chap. x. - -And David gathered all the people together, and went to Rabbah, and -took it. And he brought forth the people therein, and _put them under -saws, and under harrows of iron, and made them pass through the brick -kiln; this did he also unto all the children of Ammon._--_II. Sam._ -xii., 29. - -[26] Now concerning the things whereof ye wrote to me; it is good for a -man not to touch a woman. - -I say, therefore, to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if -they abide even as I. But if they cannot contain, let them marry; it is -better to marry than burn.--_I. Cor._ chap. vii. - -[27] _See_ Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall,” vol. ii., p. 210. - -[28] Ibid. Vol. ii., p. 269. - -[29] See Paley’s Evidences. Vol. i. chap. 1. - -[30] See the Controversy of Bishop Watson and Thomas Paine.--Paine’s -Criticism on the xixth chapter of Isaiah. - -[31] Immediately after the tribulation of these days shall the sun be -darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall -fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken: and -then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven, and then shall -all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man -coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. And he shall -send his angel with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather -together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the -other. _Verily I say unto you, this generation shall not pass, until -all these things be fulfilled._--_Matt._ chap, xxiv. - -[32] See Matthew, chap. xxiii. v. 35. - -[33] Josephus. - -[34] Qy.? _even_. - -[35] See Dugald Stewart’s Outlines of Moral Philosophy, and Paley’s -Natural Theology. - -[36] See Cuvier Leçons d’Anat. Comp. tom. iii. p. 169, 373, 448, 465, -480. Rees’ Cyclopædia, Art. Man. - -Ουκ αιδεισθε τους ἡμερους καρπους αιματι και φονῳ μιγνυοντες; αλλὰ -δράκοντας ἀγρίους καλεῖτε καὶ παρδάλεις καἰ λέοντας, αὐτοὶ δὲ -μιαιφονεῖτε εἰς ὠμότητα καταλιπόντες ἐκείνοις οὐδέν. Ἐκείνοις μὲν γὰρ ὁ -φόνος τροφὴ, ὑμῖν δε ὄψον ἐστίν. - -Ὅτι γὰρ οὐκ ἔστιν ἀνθρώπῳ κατὰ φύσιν τὸ σαρκοφαγεῖν, πρῶτον μὲν ἀπὸ τῶν -σωμάτων δηλοῦται τῆς κατασκευῆς. Οὐδενὶ γὰρ ἔοικε τὸ ἀνθρώπου σῶμα τῶν -ἐπὶ σαρκοφαγίᾳ γεγονότων, οὐ γρυπότης χείλους, οὐκ ὀξύτης ὄνυχοϛ, οὐ -τραχύτης ὀδόντων πρόσεστιν, οὐ κοιλίας εὐτονία καὶ πνεύματος θερμότης, -τρέψαι καὶ κατεργάσασθαι δυνατὴ τὸ βαρὺ καὶ κρεῶδες. Ἀλλ’ αὐτόθεν ἡ -φύσις τῇ λειότητι τῶν ὀδόντων, καὶ τῇ σμικρότητι τοῦ στόματος, καὶ τῇ -μαλακότητι τῆς γλώσσης, καὶ τῇ πρὸς πέψιν ἀμβλύτητι τοῦ πνευματος, -ἐξόμνυται τὴν σαρκοφαγίαν. Εἰ δὲ λέγεις, πεφυκέναι σεαυτὸν ἐπὶ τοιαύτην -ἐδωδὴν, ὅ βούλει φαγεῖν, πρῶτος αὐτὸς ἀπόκτεινον· αλλ’ αὐτὸς, διὰ -σεαυτοῦ, μὴ χρησάμενος κοπίδι, μηδὲ τυμπάνῳ τινὶ μηδὲ πελέκει· ἀλλὰ, -ὡς λύκοι καὶ ἄρκτοι, καὶ λεόντες αὐτοὶ ὡς ἐσθίουσι φονευούσιν, ἄνελε -δήγματι βοῦν, ἢ σώματι σῦν, ἢ ἄρνα ἤ λαγωὸν διάῤῥηξον, καὶ φάγε -προσπεσῶν ἔτι ζῶντος ὡς ἐκεῖνα. - -Πλουτ. περὶ Σαρκοφαγ. Λογ. β. - -[The same passage is quoted in the Notes to Queen Mab (Vol. iii. p. -359-360).] - -[37] See Godwin’s Political Justice, Vol. i. p. 449. - -[38] See Southey’s History of Brazil, p. 255. - -[39] See Le Systeme de la Nature: this book is one of the most eloquent -vindications of Atheism. - -[40] Printed _deniable_. - -[41] For a very profound disquisition on this subject, see Sir William -Drummond’s Academical Questions, chap. i. p. 1. - -[42] Spinosa. Tract. Theologico.-Pol., chap. i. p. 14. [Quoted also in -the Notes to Queen Mab (Vol. iii. p. 328).] - - - - - HISTORY - OF - A SIX WEEKS’ TOUR - - THROUGH - A PART OF FRANCE, - SWITZERLAND, GERMANY, AND HOLLAND: - - WITH LETTERS - DESCRIPTIVE OF - A SAIL ROUND THE LAKE OF GENEVA, AND OF - THE GLACIERS OF CHAMOUNI. - - - LONDON: - - * * * * * - - PUBLISHED BY T. HOOKHAM, JUN. - OLD BOND STREET; - AND C. AND J. OLLIER, - WELBECK STREET. - - * * * * * - - 1817. - - - - -[_The two following Letters were addressed by_ Shelley _to_ Thomas -Love Peacock. _The remainder of the little volume was written by_ Mrs. -Shelley.] - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -To T. P. Esq. - -MELLERIE--CLARENS--CHILLON--VEVAI--LAUSANNE. - - - Montalegre, near Coligni. Geneva, July 12th, 1816. - -It is nearly a fortnight since I have returned from Vevai. This journey -has been on every account delightful, but most especially, because -then I first knew the divine beauty of Rousseau’s imagination, as it -exhibits itself in _Julie_. It is inconceivable what an enchantment -the scene itself lends to those delineations, from which its own most -touching charm arises. But I will give you an abstract of our voyage, -which lasted eight days, and if you have a map of Switzerland, you can -follow me. - -We left Montalegre at half-past two on the 23rd of June. The lake -was calm, and after three hours of rowing we arrived at Hermance, -a beautiful little village, containing a ruined tower, built, the -villagers say, by Julius Cæsar. There were three other towers similar -to it, which the Genevese destroyed for their own fortifications -in 1560. We got into the tower by a kind of window. The walls are -immensely solid, and the stone of which it is built so hard, that it -yet retained the mark of chisels. The boatmen said, that this tower -was once three times higher than it is now. There are two staircases -in the thickness of the walls, one of which is entirely demolished, -and the other half ruined, and only accessible by a ladder. The town -itself, now an inconsiderable village inhabited by a few fishermen, -was built by a Queen of Burgundy, and reduced to its present state by -the inhabitants of Berne, who burnt and ravaged everything they could -find. - -Leaving Hermance, we arrived at sunset at the village of Nerni. After -looking at our lodgings, which were gloomy and dirty, we walked out by -the side of the lake. It was beautiful to see the vast expanse of these -purple and misty waters broken by the craggy islets near to its slant -and “beached margin.” There were many fish sporting in the lake, and -multitudes were collected close to the rocks to catch the flies which -inhabited them. - -On returning to the village, we sat on a wall beside the lake, looking -at some children who were playing at a game like nine-pins. The -children here appeared in an extraordinary way deformed and diseased. -Most of them were crooked, and with enlarged throats; but one little -boy had such exquisite grace in his mien and motions, as I never -before saw equalled in a child. His countenance was beautiful for the -expression with which it overflowed. There was a mixture of pride and -gentleness in his eyes and lips, the indications of sensibility, which -his education will probably pervert to misery or seduce to crime; but -there was more of gentleness than of pride, and it seemed that the -pride was tamed from its original wildness by the habitual exercise of -milder feelings. My companion gave him a piece of money, which he took -without speaking, with a sweet smile of easy thankfulness, and then, -with an unembarrassed air, turned to his play. All this might scarcely -be; but the imagination surely could not forbear to breathe into the -most inanimate forms some likeness of its own visions, on such a serene -and glowing evening, in this remote and romantic village, beside the -calm lake that bore us hither. - -On returning to our inn, we found that the servant had arranged our -rooms, and deprived them of the greater portion ot their former -disconsolate appearance. They reminded my companion of Greece: it was -five years, he said, since he had slept in such beds. The influence -of the recollections excited by this circumstance on our conversation -gradually faded, and I retired to rest with no unpleasant sensations, -thinking of our journey to-morrow, and of the pleasure of recounting -the little adventures of it when we return. - -The next morning we passed Yvoire, a scattered village with an ancient -castle, whose houses are interspersed with trees, and which stands at a -little distance from Nerni, on the promontory which bounds a deep bay, -some miles in extent. So soon as we arrived at this promontory, the -lake began to assume an aspect of wilder magnificence. The mountains of -Savoy, whose summits were bright with snow, descended in broken slopes -to the lake: on high, the rocks were dark with pine-forests, which -become deeper and more immense, until the ice and snow mingle with the -points of naked rock that pierce the blue air; but below, groves of -walnut, chesnut, and oak, with openings of lawny fields, attested the -milder climate. - -As soon as we had passed the opposite promontory, we saw the river -Drance, which descends from between a chasm in the mountains, and makes -a plain near the lake, intersected by its divided streams. Thousands -of _besolets_, beautiful water-birds, like sea-gulls, but smaller, -with purple on their backs, take their station on the shallows, where -its waters mingle with the lake. As we approached Evian, the mountains -descended more precipitously to the lake, and masses of intermingled -wood and rock overhung its shining spire. - -We arrived at this town about seven o’clock, after a day which involved -more rapid changes of atmosphere than I ever recollect to have observed -before. The morning was cold and wet; then an easterly wind, and the -clouds hard and high; then thunder showers, and wind shifting to every -quarter; then a warm blast from the south, and summer clouds hanging -over the peaks, with bright blue sky between. About half an hour after -we had arrived at Evian, a few flashes of lightning came from a dark -cloud, directly overhead, and continued after the cloud had dispersed. -“Diespiter, per pura tonantes egit equos:” a phenomenon which -certainly had no influence on me, corresponding with that which it -produced on Horace. - -The appearance of the inhabitants of Evian is more wretched, diseased, -and poor, than I ever recollect to have seen. The contrast indeed -between the subjects of the King of Sardinia and the citizens of the -independent republics of Switzerland, affords a powerful illustration -of the blighting mischiefs of despotism, within the space of a few -miles. They have mineral waters here, _eaux savonneuses_, they call -them. In the evening we had some difficulty about our passports, but so -soon as the syndic heard my companion’s rank and name, he apologized -for the circumstance. The inn was good. During our voyage, on the -distant height of a hill, covered with pine-forests, we saw a ruined -castle, which reminded me of those on the Rhine. - -We left Evian on the following morning, with a wind of such violence as -to permit but one sail to be carried. The waves also were exceedingly -high, and our boat so heavily laden, that there appeared to be some -danger. We arrived, however, safe at Mellerie, after passing with great -speed mighty forests which overhung the lake, and lawns of exquisite -verdure, and mountains with bare and icy points, which rose immediately -from the summit of the rocks, whose bases were echoing to the waves. - -We here heard that the Empress Maria Louisa had slept at Mellerie, -before the present inn was built, and when the accommodations were -those of the most wretched village, in remembrance of St. Preux. How -beautiful it is to find that the common sentiments of human nature can -attach themselves to those who are the most removed from its duties -and its enjoyments, when Genius pleads for their admission at the gate -of Power. To own them was becoming in the Empress, and confirms the -affectionate praise contained in the regret of a great and enlightened -nation. A Bourbon dared not even to have remembered Rousseau. She owed -this power to that democracy which her husband’s dynasty outraged, and -of which it was, however, in some sort the representative among the -nations of the earth. This little incident shows at once how unfit and -how impossible it is for the ancient system of opinions, or for any -power built upon a conspiracy to revive them, permanently to subsist -among mankind. We dined there, and had some honey, the best I have ever -tasted, the very essence of the mountain flowers, and as fragrant. -Probably the village derives its name from this production. Mellerie -is the well-known scene of St. Preux’s visionary exile; but Mellerie -is indeed enchanted ground, were Rousseau no magician. Groves of pine, -chesnut, and walnut overshadow it; magnificent and unbounded forests -to which England affords no parallel. In the midst of these woods are -dells of lawny expanse, inconceivably verdant, adorned with a thousand -of the rarest flowers and odorous with thyme. - -The lake appeared somewhat calmer as we left Mellerie, sailing close -to the banks, whose magnificence augmented with the turn of every -promontory. But we congratulated ourselves too soon: the wind gradually -increased in violence, until it blew tremendously; and as it came from -the remotest extremity of the lake, produced waves of a frightful -height, and covered the whole surface with a chaos of foam. One of -our boatmen, who was a dreadfully stupid fellow, persisted in holding -the sail at a time when the boat was on the point of being driven -under water by the hurricane. On discovering his error, he let it -entirely go, and the boat for a moment refused to obey the helm; in -addition, the rudder was so broken as to render the management of it -very difficult; one wave fell in, and then another. My companion, an -excellent swimmer, took off his coat; I did the same, and we sat with -our arms crossed, every instant expecting to be swamped. The sail was -however again held, the boat obeyed the helm, and, still in imminent -peril from the immensity of the waves, we arrived in a few minutes at a -sheltered port, in the village of St. Gingoux. - -I felt in this near prospect of death a mixture of sensations, among -which terror entered, though but subordinately. My feelings would have -been less painful had I been alone; but I know that my companion would -have attempted to save me, and I was overcome with humiliation, when -I thought that his life might have been risked to preserve mine. When -we arrived at St. Gingoux, the inhabitants, who stood on the shore, -unaccustomed to see a vessel as frail as ours and fearing to venture at -all on such a sea, exchanged looks of wonder and congratulation with -our boatmen, who, as well as ourselves, were well pleased to set foot -on shore. - -St. Gingoux is even more beautiful than Mellerie; the mountains are -higher, and their loftiest points of elevation descend more abruptly -to the lake. On high, the aerial summits still cherish great depths of -snow in their ravines, and in the paths of their unseen torrents. One -of the highest of these is called Roche de St. Julien, beneath whose -pinnacles the forests become deeper and more extensive; the chesnut -gives a peculiarity to the scene, which is most beautiful, and will -make a picture in my memory, distinct from all other mountain scenes -which I have ever before visited. - -As we arrived here early, we took a _voiture_ to visit the mouth of -the Rhone. We went between the mountains and the lake, under groves of -mighty chesnut trees, beside perpetual streams, which are nourished by -the snows above, and form stalactites on the rocks, over which they -fall. We saw an immense chesnut tree, which had been overthrown by the -hurricane of the morning. The place where the Rhone joins the lake -was marked by a line of tremendous breakers; the river is as rapid as -when it leaves the lake, but is muddy and dark. We went about a league -farther on the road to La Valais, and stopped at a castle called La -Tour de Bouverie, which seems to be the frontier of Switzerland and -Savoy, as we were asked for our passports, on the supposition of our -proceeding to Italy. - -On one side of the road was the immense Roche de St. Julien, which -overhung it; through the gateway of the castle we saw the snowy -mountains of La Valais, clothed in clouds, and on the other side was -the willowy plain of the Rhone, in a character of striking contrast -with the rest of the scene, bounded by the dark mountains that overhang -Clarens, Vevai, and the lake that rolls between. In the midst of the -plain rises a little isolated hill, on which the white spire of a -church peeps from among the tufted chesnut-woods. We returned to St. -Gingoux before sunset, and I passed the evening in reading _Julie_. - -As my companion rises late, I had time before breakfast, on the ensuing -morning, to hunt the waterfalls of the river that fall into the lake -at St. Gingoux. The stream is indeed, from the declivity over which -it falls, only a succession of waterfalls, which roar over the rocks -with a perpetual sound, and suspend their unceasing spray on the leaves -and flowers that overhang and adorn its savage banks. The path that -conducted along this river sometimes avoided the precipices of its -shores, by leading through meadows; sometimes threaded the base of the -perpendicular and caverned rocks. I gathered in these meadows a nosegay -of such flowers as I never saw in England, and which I thought more -beautiful for that rarity. - -On my return, after breakfast, we sailed for Clarens, determining first -to see the three mouths of the Rhone, and then the castle of Chillon; -the day was fine, and the water calm. We passed from the blue waters of -the lake over the stream of the Rhone, which is rapid even at a great -distance from its confluence with the lake; the turbid waters mixed -with those of the lake, but mixed with them unwillingly. (_See Nouvelle -Héloise, Lettre 17, Part 4._) I read _Julie_ all day; an overflowing, -as it now seems, surrounded by the scenes which it has so wonderfully -peopled, of sublimest genius, and more than human sensibility. -Mellerie, the Castle of Chillon, Clarens, the mountains of La Valais -and Savoy, present themselves to the imagination as monuments of things -that were once familiar, and of beings that were once dear to it. They -were created indeed by one mind, but a mind so powerfully bright as to -cast a shade of falsehood on the records that are called reality. - -We passed on to the Castle of Chillon, and visited its dungeons and -towers. These prisons are excavated below the lake; the principal -dungeon is supported by seven columns, whose branching capitals -support the roof. Close to the very walls, the lake is 800 feet deep; -iron rings are fastened to these columns, and on them were engraven a -multitude of names, partly those of visitors, and partly doubtless of -the prisoners, of whom now no memory remains, and who thus beguiled a -solitude which they have long ceased to feel. One date was as ancient -as 1670. At the commencement of the Reformation, and indeed long after -that period, this dungeon was the receptacle of those who shook, or who -denied the system of idolatry from the effects of which mankind is -even now slowly emerging. - -Close to this long and lofty dungeon was a narrow cell, and beyond it -one larger and far more lofty and dark, supported upon two unornamented -arches. Across one of these arches was a beam, now black and rotten, -on which prisoners were hung in secret. I never saw a monument more -terrible of that cold and inhuman tyranny which it has been the delight -of man to exercise over man. It was indeed one of those many tremendous -fulfilments which render the “pernicies humani generis” of the great -Tacitus, so solemn and irrefragable a prophecy. The gendarme, who -conducted us over this castle, told us that there was an opening to -the lake, by means of a secret spring, connected with which the whole -dungeon might be filled with water before the prisoners could possibly -escape! - -We proceeded with a contrary wind to Clarens, against a heavy swell. I -never felt more strongly than on landing at Clarens, that the spirit -of old times had deserted its once cherished habitation. A thousand -times, thought I, have Julia and St. Preux walked on this terrassed -road, looking towards these mountains which I now behold; nay, treading -on the ground where I now tread. From the window of our lodging our -landlady pointed out “le bosquet de Julie.” At least the inhabitants -of this village are impressed with an idea, that the persons of that -romance had actual existence. In the evening we walked thither. It is -indeed Julia’s wood. The hay was making under the trees; the trees -themselves were aged, but vigorous, and interspersed with younger ones, -which are destined to be their successors, and in future years, when we -are dead, to afford a shade to future worshippers of nature, who love -the memory of that tenderness and peace of which this was the imaginary -abode. We walked forward among the vineyards, whose narrow terraces -overlook this affecting scene. Why did the cold maxims of the world -compel me at this moment to repress the tears of melancholy transport -which it would have been so sweet to indulge, immeasurably, even until -the darkness of night had swallowed up the objects which excited them? - -I forgot to remark, what indeed my companion remarked to me, that our -danger from the storm took place precisely in the spot where Julie -and her lover were nearly overset, and where St. Preux was tempted to -plunge with her into the lake. - -On the following day we went to see the castle of Clarens, a square -strong house, with very few windows, surrounded by a double terrace -that overlooks the valley, or rather the plain of Clarens. The road -which conducted to it wound up the steep ascent through woods of walnut -and chesnut. We gathered roses on the terrace, in the feeling that they -might be the posterity of some planted by Julia’s hand. We sent their -dead and withered leaves to the absent. - -We went again to the “bosquet de Julie,” and found that the precise -spot was now utterly obliterated, and a heap of stones marked the place -where the little chapel had once stood. Whilst we were execrating -the author of this brutal folly, our guide informed us that the land -belonged to the convent of St. Bernard, and that this outrage had been -committed by their orders. I knew before, that if avarice could harden -the hearts of men, a system of prescriptive religion has an influence -far more inimical to natural sensibility. I know that an isolated man -is sometimes restrained by shame from outraging the venerable feelings -arising out of the memory of genius, which once made nature even -lovelier than itself; but associated man holds it as the very sacrament -of his union to forswear all delicacy, all benevolence, all remorse, -all that is true, or tender, or sublime. - -We sailed from Clarens to Vevai. Vevai is a town more beautiful in its -simplicity than any I have ever seen. Its market-place, a spacious -square interspersed with trees, looks directly upon the mountains of -Savoy and La Valais, the lake, and the valley of the Rhone. It was at -Vevai that Rousseau conceived the design of _Julie_. - -From Vevai we came to Ouchy, a village near Lausanne. The coasts of the -Pays de Vaud, though full of villages and vineyards, present an aspect -of tranquillity and peculiar beauty which well compensates for the -solitude which I am accustomed to admire. The hills are very high and -rocky, crowned and interspersed with woods. Waterfalls echo from the -cliffs, and shine afar. In one place we saw the traces of two rocks of -immense size, which had fallen from the mountain behind. One of these -lodged in a room where a young woman was sleeping, without injuring -her. The vineyards were utterly destroyed in its path, and the earth -torn up. - -The rain detained us two days at Ouchy. We, however, visited Lausanne, -and saw Gibbon’s house. We were shown the decayed summer-house where -he finished his History, and the old acacias on the terrace from which -he saw Mont Blanc after having written the last sentence. There is -something grand and even touching in the regret which he expresses at -the completion of his task. It was conceived amid the ruins of the -Capitol. The sudden departure of his cherished and accustomed toil must -have left him, like the death of a dear friend, sad and solitary. - -My companion gathered some acacia leaves to preserve in remembrance -of him. I refrained from doing so, fearing to outrage the greater and -more sacred name of Rousseau; the contemplation of whose imperishable -creations had left no vacancy in my heart for mortal things. Gibbon had -a cold and unimpassioned spirit. I never felt more inclination to rail -at the prejudices which cling to such a thing, than now that Julie -and Clarens, Lausanne and the Roman empire, compelled me to a contrast -between Rousseau and Gibbon. - -When we returned, in the only interval of sunshine during the day, I -walked on the pier which the lake was lashing with its waves. A rainbow -spanned the lake, or rather rested one extremity of its arch upon the -water, and the other at the foot of the mountains of Savoy. Some white -houses, I know not if they were those of Mellerie, shone through the -yellow fire. - -On Saturday the 30th of June we quitted Ouchy, and after two days of -pleasant sailing arrived on Sunday evening at Montalegre. - - S. - - * * * * * - -TO T. P. ESQ. - -ST. MARTIN--SERVOZ--CHAMOUNI--MONTANVERT--MONT BLANC. - - Hôtel de Londres, Chamouni, July 22nd, 1816. - -Whilst you, my friend, are engaged in securing a home for us, we are -wandering in search of recollections to embellish it. I do not err in -conceiving that you are interested in details of all that is majestic -or beautiful in nature; but how shall I describe to you the scenes -by which I am now surrounded? To exhaust the epithets which express -the astonishment and the admiration--the very excess of satisfied -astonishment, where expectation scarcely acknowledged any boundary, -is this to impress upon your mind the images which fill mine now even -till it overflow? I too have read the raptures of travellers; I will -be warned by their example; I will simply detail to you all that I can -relate, or all that, if related, would enable you to conceive of what -we have done or seen since the morning of the 20th, when we left Geneva. - -We commenced our intended journey to Chamouni at half-past eight in the -morning. We passed through the champain country, which extends from -Mont Salève to the base of the higher Alps. The country is sufficiently -fertile, covered with corn-fields and orchards, and intersected by -sudden acclivities with flat summits. The day was cloudless and -excessively hot, the Alps were perpetually in sight, and as we -advanced, the mountains, which form their outskirts, closed in around -us. We passed a bridge over a stream, which discharges itself into the -Arve. The Arve itself, much swoln by the rains, flows constantly to the -right of the road. - -As we approached Bonneville through an avenue composed of a beautiful -species of drooping poplar, we observed that the corn-fields on each -side were covered with inundation. Bonneville is a neat little town, -with no conspicuous peculiarity, except the white towers of the prison, -an extensive building overlooking the town. At Bonneville the Alps -commence, one of which, clothed by forests, rises almost immediately -from the opposite bank of the Arve. - -From Bonneville to Cluses the road conducts through a spacious and -fertile plain, surrounded on all sides by mountains, covered like -those of Mellerie with forests of intermingled pine and chesnut. -At Cluses the road turns suddenly to the right, following the Arve -along the chasm, which it seems to have hollowed for itself among the -perpendicular mountains. The scene assumes here a more savage and -colossal character: the valley becomes narrow, affording no more space -than is sufficient for the river and the road. The pines descend to -the banks, imitating with their irregular spires, the pyramidal crags -which lift themselves far above the regions of forest into the deep -azure of the sky, and among the white dazzling clouds. The scene, at -the distance of half a mile from Cluses, differs from that of Matlock -in little else than in the immensity of its proportions, and in its -untameable, inaccessible solitude, inhabited only by the goats which we -saw browsing on the rocks. - -Near Maglans, within a league of each other, we saw two waterfalls. -They were no more than mountain rivulets, but the height from which -they fell, at least of _twelve_ hundred feet, made them assume a -character inconsistent with the smallness of their stream. The first -fell from the overhanging brow of a black precipice on an enormous -rock, precisely resembling some colossal Egyptian statue of a female -deity. It struck the head of the visionary image, and, gracefully -dividing there, fell from it in folds of foam more like to cloud than -water, imitating a veil of the most exquisite woof. It then united, -concealing the lower part of the statue, and hiding itself in a winding -of its channel, burst into a deeper fall, and crossed our route in its -path towards the Arve. - -The other waterfall was more continuous and larger. The violence with -which it fell made it look more like some shape which an exhalation had -assumed than like water, for it streamed beyond the mountain, which -appeared dark behind it, as it might have appeared behind an evanescent -cloud. - -The character of the scenery continued the same until we arrived at -St. Martin (called in the maps Sallanches), the mountains perpetually -becoming more elevated, exhibiting at every turn of the road more -craggy summits, loftier and wider extent of forests, darker and more -deep recesses. - -The following morning we proceeded from St. Martin on mules to -Chamouni, accompanied by two guides. We proceeded, as we had done the -preceding day, along the valley of the Arve, a valley surrounded on -all sides by immense mountains, whose rugged precipices are intermixed -on high with dazzling snow. Their bases were still covered with the -eternal forests, which perpetually grew darker and more profound as we -approached the inner regions of the mountains. - -On arriving at a small village, at the distance of a league from St. -Martin, we dismounted from our mules, and were conducted by our guides -to view a cascade. We beheld an immense body of water fall two hundred -and fifty feet, dashing from rock to rock, and casting a spray which -formed a mist around it, in the midst of which hung a multitude of -sunbows, which faded or became unspeakably vivid, as the inconstant sun -shone through the clouds. When we approached near to it, the rain of -the spray reached us, and our clothes were wetted by the quick-falling -but minute particles of water. The cataract fell from above into a deep -craggy chasm at our feet, where, changing its character to that of a -mountain stream, it pursued its course towards the Arve, roaring over -the rocks that impeded its progress. - -As we proceeded, our route still lay through the valley, or rather, as -it had now become, the vast ravine, which is at once the couch and the -creation of the terrible Arve. We ascended, winding between mountains -whose immensity staggers the imagination. We crossed the path of a -torrent, which three days since had descended from the thawing snow, -and torn the road away. - -We dined at Servoz, a little village, where there are lead and copper -mines, and where we saw a cabinet of natural curiosities, like those -of Keswick and Bethgelert. We saw in this cabinet some chamois’ horns, -and the horns of an exceedingly rare animal called the bouquetin, which -inhabits the deserts of snow to the south of Mont Blanc: it is an -animal of the stag kind; its horns weigh at least twenty-seven English -pounds. It is inconceivable how so small an animal could support so -inordinate a weight. The horns are of a very peculiar conformation, -being broad, massy, and pointed at the ends, and surrounded with a -number of rings, which are supposed to afford an indication of its age: -there were seventeen rings on the largest of these horns. - -From Servoz three leagues remain to Chamouni.--Mont Blanc was before -us--the Alps, with their innumerable glaciers on high all around, -closing in the complicated windings of the single vale--forests -inexpressibly beautiful, but majestic in their beauty--intermingled -beech and pine, and oak, overshadowed our road, or receded, whilst -lawns of such verdure as I have never seen before occupied these -openings, and gradually became darker in their recesses. Mont Blanc -was before us, but it was covered with cloud; its base, furrowed with -dreadful gaps, was seen above. Pinnacles of snow intolerably bright, -part of the chain connected with Mont Blanc, shone through the clouds -at intervals on high. I never knew--I never imagined what mountains -were before. The immensity of these aerial summits excited, when -they suddenly burst upon the sight, a sentiment of ecstatic wonder, -not unallied to madness. And remember this was all one scene, it all -pressed home to our regard and our imagination. Though it embraced a -vast extent of space, the snowy pyramids which shot into the bright -blue sky seemed to overhang our path; the ravine, clothed with gigantic -pines, and black with its depth below, so deep that the very roaring -of the untameable Arve, which rolled through it, could not be heard -above--all was as much our own, as if we had been the creators of such -impressions in the minds of others as now occupied our own. Nature was -the poet, whose harmony held our spirits more breathless than that of -the divinest. - -As we entered the valley of Chamouni (which in fact may be considered -as a continuation of those which we have followed from Bonneville and -Cluses) clouds hung upon the mountains at the distance perhaps of 6000 -feet from the earth, but so as effectually to conceal not only Mont -Blanc, but the other _aiguilles_, as they call them here, attached and -subordinate to it. We were travelling along the valley, when suddenly -we heard a sound as of the burst of smothered thunder rolling above; -yet there was something earthly in the sound, that told us it could not -be thunder. Our guide hastily pointed out to us a part of the mountain -opposite, from whence the sound came. It was an avalanche. We saw the -smoke of its path among the rocks, and continued to hear at intervals -the bursting of its fall. It fell on the bed of a torrent, which it -displaced, and presently we saw its tawny-coloured waters also spread -themselves over the ravine, which was their couch. - -We did not, as we intended, visit the _Glacier de Boisson_ to-day, -although it descends within a few minutes’ walk of the road, wishing -to survey it at least when unfatigued. We saw this glacier which -comes close to the fertile plain, as we passed; its surface was -broken into a thousand unaccountable figures: conical and pyramidical -crystallizations, more than fifty feet in height, rise from its -surface, and precipices of ice, of dazzling splendour, overhang the -woods and meadows of the vale. This glacier winds upwards from the -valley, until it joins the masses of frost from which it was produced -above, winding through its own ravine like a bright belt flung over -the black region of pines. There is more in all these scenes than mere -magnitude of proportion: there is a majesty of outline; there is an -awful grace in the very colours which invest these wonderful shapes--a -charm which is peculiar to them, quite distinct even from the reality -of their unutterable greatness. - - * * * * * - - July 24. - -Yesterday morning we went to the source of the Arveiron. It is -about a league from this village; the river rolls forth impetuously -from an arch of ice, and spreads itself in many streams over a vast -space of the valley, ravaged and laid bare by its inundations. The -glacier by which its waters are nourished, overhangs this cavern and -the plain, and the forests of pine which surround it, with terrible -precipices of solid ice. On the other side rises the immense glacier of -Montanvert, fifty miles in extent, occupying a chasm among mountains -of inconceivable height, and of forms so pointed and abrupt, that they -seem to pierce the sky. From this glacier we saw, as we sat on a rock -close to one of the streams of the Arveiron, masses of ice detach -themselves from on high, and rush with a loud dull noise into the vale. -The violence of their fall turned them into powder, which flowed over -the rocks in imitation of waterfalls, whose ravines they usurped and -filled. - -In the evening I went with Ducrée, my guide, the only tolerable person -I have seen in this country, to visit the glacier of Boisson. This -glacier, like that of Montanvert, comes close to the vale, overhanging -the green meadows and the dark woods with the dazzling whiteness -of its precipices and pinnacles, which are like spires of radiant -crystal, covered with a net-work of frosted silver. These glaciers flow -perpetually into the valley, ravaging in their slow but irresistible -progress the pastures and the forests which surround them, performing a -work of desolation in ages which a river of lava might accomplish in an -hour, but far more irretrievably; for where the ice has once descended -the hardiest plant refuses to grow; if even, as in some extraordinary -instances, it should recede after its progress has once commenced. -The glaciers perpetually move onward, at the rate of a foot each day, -with a motion that commences at the spot where, on the boundaries of -perpetual congelation, they are produced by the freezing of the waters -which arise from the partial melting of the eternal snows. They drag -with them from the regions whence they derive their origin all the -ruins of the mountain, enormous rocks, and immense accumulations of -sand and stones. These are driven onwards by the irresistible stream -of solid ice; and when they arrive at a declivity of the mountain, -sufficiently rapid, roll down, scattering ruin. I saw one of these -rocks which had descended in the spring (winter here is the season of -silence and safety) which measured forty feet in every direction. - -The verge of a glacier, like that of Boisson, presents the most vivid -image of desolation that it is possible to conceive. No one dares to -approach it; for the enormous pinnacles of ice which perpetually fall, -are perpetually reproduced. The pines of the forest, which bound it at -one extremity, are overthrown and shattered to a wide extent at its -base. There is something inexpressibly dreadful in the aspect of the -few branchless trunks, which, nearest to the ice rifts, still stand -in the uprooted soil. The meadows perish, overwhelmed with sand and -stones. Within this last year, these glaciers have advanced three -hundred feet into the valley. Saussure, the naturalist, says, that they -have their periods of increase and decay: the people of the country -hold an opinion entirely different; but as I judge, more probable. It -is agreed by all, that the snow on the summit of Mont Blanc and the -neighbouring mountains perpetually augments, and that ice, in the form -of glaciers, subsists without melting in the valley of Chamouni during -its transient and variable summer. If the snow which produces this -glacier must augment, and the heat of the valley is no obstacle to the -perpetual existence of such masses of ice as have already descended -into it, the consequence is obvious; the glaciers must augment and -will subsist, at least until they have overflowed this vale. - -I will not pursue Buffon’s sublime but gloomy theory--that this globe -which we inhabit will at some future period be changed into a mass of -frost by the encroachments of the polar ice, and of that produced on -the most elevated points of the earth. Do you, who assert the supremacy -of Ahriman, imagine him throned among these desolating snows, among -these palaces of death and frost, so sculptured in this their terrible -magnificence by the adamantine hand of necessity, and that he casts -around him, as the first essays of his final usurpation, avalanches, -torrents, rocks, and thunders, and above all these deadly glaciers, at -once the proof and symbols of his reign;--add to this, the degradation -of the human species--who in these regions are half deformed or -idiotic, and most of whom are deprived of anything that can excite -interest or admiration. This is a part of the subject more mournful and -less sublime; but such as neither the poet nor the philosopher should -disdain to regard. - -This morning we departed, on the promise of a fine day, to visit the -glacier of Montanvert. In that part where it fills a slanting valley, -it is called the Sea of Ice. This valley is 950 toises, or 7600 feet -above the level of the sea. We had not proceeded far before the rain -began to fall, but we persisted until we had accomplished more than -half our journey, when we returned, wet through. - - * * * * * - - Chamouni, July 25th. - -We have returned from visiting the glacier of Montanvert, or, as it is -called, the Sea of Ice, a scene in truth of dizzying wonder. The path -that winds to it along the side of a mountain, now clothed with pines, -now intersected with snowy hollows, is wide and steep. The cabin of -Montanvert is three leagues from Chamouni, half of which distance is -performed on mules, not so sure footed, but that on the first day the -one which I rode fell in what the guides call a _mauvais pas_, so that -I narrowly escaped being precipitated down the mountain. We passed -over a hollow covered with snow, down which vast stones are accustomed -to roll. One had fallen the preceding day, a little time after we had -returned: our guides desired us to pass quickly, for it is said that -sometimes the least sound will accelerate their descent. We arrived at -Montanvert, however, safe. - -On all sides precipitous mountains, the abodes of unrelenting frost, -surround this vale: their sides are banked up with ice and snow, -broken, heaped high, and exhibiting terrific chasms. The summits are -sharp and naked pinnacles, whose overhanging steepness will not even -permit snow to rest upon them. Lines of dazzling ice occupy here and -there their perpendicular rifts, and shine through the driving vapours -with inexpressible brilliance: they pierce the clouds like things not -belonging to this earth. The vale itself is filled with a mass of -undulating ice, and has an ascent sufficiently gradual even to the -remotest abysses of these horrible deserts. It is only half a league -(about two miles) in breadth, and seems much less. It exhibits an -appearance as if frost had suddenly bound up the waves and whirlpools -of a mighty torrent. We walked some distance upon its surface. The -waves are elevated about 12 or 15 feet from the surface of the mass, -which is intersected by long gaps of unfathomable depth, the ice of -whose sides is more beautifully azure than the sky. In these regions -everything changes, and is in motion. This vast mass of ice has one -general progress, which ceases neither day nor night; it breaks and -bursts for ever: some undulations sink while others rise; it is never -the same. The echo of rocks, or of the ice and snow which fall from -their overhanging precipices, or roll from their aerial summits, -scarcely ceases for one moment. One would think that Mont Blanc, like -the god of the Stoics, was a vast animal, and that the frozen blood for -ever circulated through his stony veins. - -We dined (M----, C----, and I) on the grass, in the open air, -surrounded by this scene. The air is piercing and clear. We returned -down the mountain, sometimes encompassed by the driving vapours, -sometimes cheered by the sunbeams, and arrived at our inn by seven -o’clock. - - * * * * * - - Montalegre, July 28th. - -The next morning we returned through the rain to St. Martin. The -scenery had lost something of its immensity, thick clouds hanging over -the highest mountains; but visitings of sunset intervened between the -showers, and the blue sky shone between the accumulated clouds of -snowy whiteness which brought them; the dazzling mountains sometimes -glittered through a chasm of the clouds above our heads, and all the -charm of its grandeur remained. We repassed _Pont Pellisier_, a wooden -bridge over the Arve, and the ravine of the Arve. We repassed the -pine-forests which overhang the defile, the château of St. Michel, -a haunted ruin, built on the edge of a precipice, and shadowed over -by the eternal forest. We repassed the vale of Servoz, a vale more -beautiful, because more luxuriant, than that of Chamouni. Mont Blanc -forms one of the sides of this vale also, and the other is inclosed by -an irregular amphitheatre of enormous mountains, one of which is in -ruins, and fell fifty years ago into the higher part of the valley; the -smoke of its fall was seen in Piedmont, and people went from Turin to -investigate whether a volcano had not burst forth among the Alps. It -continued falling many days, spreading, with the shock and thunder of -its ruin, consternation into the neighbouring vales. In the evening we -arrived at St. Martin. The next day we wound through the valley, which -I have described before, and arrived in the evening at our home. - -We have bought some specimens of minerals and plants, and two or three -crystal seals, at Mont Blanc, to preserve the remembrance of having -approached it. There is a cabinet of _Histoire Naturelle_ at Chamouni, -just as at Keswick, Matlock, and Clifton, the proprietor of which is -the very vilest specimen of that vile species of quack that, together -with the whole army of aubergistes and guides, and indeed the entire -mass of the population, subsist on the weakness and credulity of -travellers as leeches subsist on the sick. The most interesting of my -purchases is a large collection of all the seeds of rare alpine plants, -with their names written upon the outside of the papers that contain -them. These I mean to colonize in my garden in England, and to permit -you to make what choice you please from them They are companions which -the Celandine--the classic Celandine, need not despise; they are as -wild and more daring than he, and will tell him tales of things even as -touching and sublime as the gaze of a vernal poet. - -Did I tell you that there are troops of wolves among these mountains? -In the winter they descend into the valleys, which the snow occupies -six months of the year, and devour everything that they can find out -of doors. A wolf is more powerful than the fiercest and strongest dog. -There are no bears in these regions. We heard, when we were at Lucerne, -that they were occasionally found in the forests which surround that -lake. Adieu. - - S. - - - - - A Proposal - - FOR PUTTING - REFORM TO THE VOTE - _THROUGHOUT THE KINGDOM_. - - - BY THE HERMIT OF MARLOW. - - - LONDON: - - PRINTED FOR C. AND J. OLLIER, - 3, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE; - _By C. H. Reynell, 21, Piccadilly_. - - 1817. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -A PROPOSAL, &c. - - -A great question is now agitating in this nation, which no man or -party of men is competent to decide; indeed there are no materials of -evidence which can afford a foresight of the result. Yet on its issue -depends whether we are to be slaves or free men. - -It is needless to recapitulate all that has been said about Reform. -Every one is agreed that the House of Commons is not a representation -of the people. The only theoretical question that remains is, whether -the people ought to legislate for themselves, or be governed by laws -and impoverished by taxes originating in the edicts of an assembly -which represents somewhat less than a thousandth part of the entire -community. I think they ought not to be so taxed and governed. An -hospital for lunatics is the only theatre where we can conceive so -mournful a comedy to be exhibited as this mighty nation now exhibits: a -single person bullying and swindling a thousand of his comrades out of -all they possessed in the world, and then trampling and spitting upon -them, though he were the most contemptible and degraded of mankind, -and they had strength in their arms and courage in their hearts. Such -a parable realized in political society is a spectacle worthy of the -utmost indignation and abhorrence. - -The prerogatives of Parliament constitute a sovereignty which is -exercised in contempt of the People, and it is in strict consistency -with the laws of human nature that it should have been exercised -for the People’s misery and ruin. Those whom they despise, men -instinctively seek to render slavish and wretched, that their scorn may -be secure. It is the object of the Reformers to restore the People to a -sovereignty thus held in their contempt. It is my object, or I would be -silent now. - -Servitude is sometimes voluntary. Perhaps the People choose to be -enslaved; perhaps it is their will to be degraded and ignorant and -famished; perhaps custom is their only God, and they its fanatic -worshippers will shiver in frost and waste in famine rather than deny -that idol, perhaps the majority of this nation decree that they will -not be represented in Parliament, that they will not deprive of power -those who have reduced them to the miserable condition in which they -now exist. It is _their_ will--it is their own concern. If such be -their decision, the champions of the rights and the mourners over the -errors and calamities of man, must retire to their homes in silence, -until accumulated sufferings shall have produced the effect of reason. - -The question now at issue is, whether the majority of the adult -individuals of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland desire -or no a complete representation in the Legislative Assembly. - -I have no doubt that such is their will, and I believe this is the -opinion of most persons conversant with the state of the public -feeling. But the fact ought to be formally ascertained before we -proceed. If the majority of the adult population should solemnly state -their desire to be, that the representatives whom they might appoint -should constitute the Commons House of Parliament, there is an end to -the dispute. Parliament would then be required, not petitioned, to -prepare some effectual plan for carrying the general will into effect; -and if Parliament should then refuse, the consequences of the contest -that might ensue would rest on its presumption and temerity. Parliament -would have rebelled against the People then. - -If the majority of the adult population shall, when seriously called -upon for their opinion, determine on grounds, however erroneous, that -the experiment of innovation by Reform in Parliament is an evil of -greater magnitude than the consequences of misgovernment to which -Parliament has afforded a constitutional sanction, then it becomes us -to be silent; and we should be guilty of the great crime which I have -conditionally imputed to the House of Commons, if after unequivocal -evidence that it was the national will to acquiesce in the existing -system we should, by partial assemblies of the multitude, or by any -party acts, excite the minority to disturb this decision. - -The first step towards Reform is to ascertain this point. For which -purpose I think the following plan would be effectual:-- - -That a Meeting should be appointed to be held at the _Crown and -Anchor_ Tavern on the ---- of ----, to take into consideration the -most effectual measures for ascertaining whether or no, a Reform in -Parliament is the will of the majority of the individuals of the -British Nation. - -That the most eloquent and the most virtuous and the most venerable -among the Friends of Liberty, should employ their authority and -intellect to persuade men to lay aside all animosity and even -discussion respecting the topics on which they are disunited, and -by the love which they bear to their suffering country conjure them -to contribute all their energies to set this great question at -rest--whether the Nation desires a Reform in Parliament or no? - -That the friends of Reform, residing in any part of the country, be -earnestly entreated to lend perhaps their last and the decisive effort -to set their hopes and fears at rest; that those who can should go to -London, and those who cannot, but who yet feel that the aid of their -talents might be beneficial, should address a letter to the Chairman -of the Meeting, explaining their sentiments: let these letters be -read aloud, let all things be transacted in the face of day. Let -Resolutions, of an import similar to those that follow be proposed. - -1. That those who think that it is the duty of the People of this -nation to exact such a Reform in the Commons House of Parliament, as -should make that House a complete representation of their will, and -that the People have a right to perform this duty, assemble here for -the purpose of collecting evidence as to how far it is the will of -the majority of the People to acquit themselves of this duty, and to -exercise this right. - -2. That the population of Great Britain and Ireland be divided into -three hundred distinct portions, each to contain an equal number of -inhabitants, and three hundred persons be commissioned, each personally -to visit every individual within the district named in his commission, -and to inquire whether or no that individual is willing to sign the -declaration contained in the third Resolution, requesting him to annex -to his signature any explanation or exposure of his sentiments which -he might choose to place on record. That the following Declaration be -proposed for signature:-- - -3. That the House of Commons does not represent the will of the People -of the British Nation; we the undersigned therefore declare, and -publish, and our signatures annexed shall be evidence of our firm and -solemn conviction that the liberty, the happiness, and the majesty of -the great nation to which it is our boast to belong, have been brought -into danger and suffered to decay through the corrupt and inadequate -manner in which Members are chosen to sit in the Commons House of -Parliament; we hereby express, before God and our country, a deliberate -and unbiassed persuasion, that it is our duty, if we shall be found in -the minority in this great question, incessantly to petition; if among -the majority, to require and exact that that House should originate -such measures of Reform as would render its Members the actual -Representatives of the Nation. - -4. That this Meeting shall be held day after day, until it determines -on the whole detail of the plan for collecting evidence as to the will -of the nation on the subject of a Reform in Parliament. - -5. That this Meeting disclaims any design, however remote, of lending -their sanction to the revolutionary and disorganizing schemes which -have been most falsely imputed to the Friends of Reform, and declares -that its object is purely constitutional. - -6. That a subscription be set on foot to defray the expenses of this -Plan. - -In the foregoing proposal of Resolutions, to be submitted to a National -Meeting of the Friends of Reform, I have purposely avoided detail. If -it shall prove that I have in any degree afforded a hint to men who -have earned and established their popularity by personal sacrifices and -intellectual eminence such as I have not the presumption to rival, let -it belong to them to pursue and develop all suggestions relating to the -great cause of liberty which has been nurtured (I am scarcely conscious -of a metaphor) with their very sweat, and blood, and tears: some have -tended it in dungeons, others have cherished it in famine, all have -been constant to it amidst persecution and calumny, and in the face of -the sanctions of power:--so accomplish what ye have begun. - -I shall mention therefore only one point relating to the practical -part of my Proposal. Considerable expenses, according to my present -conception, would be necessarily incurred: funds should be created by -subscription to meet these demands. I have an income of a thousand a -year, on which I support my wife and children in decent comfort, and -from which I satisfy certain large claims of general justice. Should -any plan resembling that which I have proposed be determined on by you, -I will give £100, being a tenth part of one year’s income, towards its -object; and I will not deem so proudly of myself, as to believe that -I shall stand alone in this respect, when any rational and consistent -scheme for the public benefit shall have received the sanction of those -great and good men who have devoted themselves for its preservation. - -A certain degree of coalition among the sincere Friends of Reform, in -whatever shape, is indispensable to the success of this proposal. The -friends of Universal or of Limited Suffrage, of Annual or Triennial -Parliaments, ought to settle these subjects on which they disagree, -when it is known whether the Nation desires that measure on which they -are all agreed. It is trivial to discuss what species of Reform shall -have place, when it yet remains a question whether there will be any -Reform or no. - -Meanwhile, nothing remains for me but to state explicitly my sentiments -on this subject of Reform. The statement is indeed quite foreign to the -merits of the Proposal in itself, and I should have suppressed it until -called upon to subscribe such a requisition as I have suggested, if the -question which it is natural to ask, as to what are the sentiments of -the person who originates the scheme, could have received in any other -manner a more simple and direct reply. It appears to me that Annual -Parliaments ought to be adopted as an immediate measure, as one which -strongly tends to preserve the liberty and happiness of the Nation; it -would enable men to cultivate those energies on which the performance -of the political duties belonging to the citizen of a free state as -the rightful guardian of its prosperity essentially depends; it would -familiarize men with liberty by disciplining them to an habitual -acquaintance with its forms. Political institution is undoubtedly -susceptible of such improvements as no rational person can consider -possible, so long as the present degraded condition to which the vital -imperfections in the existing system of government has reduced the vast -multitude of men, shall subsist. The securest method of arriving at -such beneficial innovations, is to proceed gradually and with caution; -or in the place of that order and freedom which the Friends of Reform -assert to be violated now, anarchy and despotism will follow. Annual -Parliaments have my entire assent. I will not state those general -reasonings in their favour which Mr. Cobbett and other writers have -already made familiar to the public mind. - -With respect to Universal Suffrage, I confess I consider its adoption, -in the present unprepared state of public knowledge and feeling, a -measure fraught with peril. I think that none but those who register -their names as paying a certain small sum in _direct taxes_ ought -at present to send Members to Parliament. The consequences of the -immediate extension of the elective franchise to every male adult, -would be to place power in the hands of men who have been rendered -brutal and torpid and ferocious by ages of slavery. It is to suppose -that the qualities belonging to a demagogue are such as are sufficient -to endow a legislator. I allow Major Cartwright’s arguments to be -unanswerable; abstractedly it is the right of every human being to -have a share in the government. But Mr. Paine’s arguments are also -unanswerable; a pure republic may be shown, by inferences the most -obvious and irresistible, to be that system of social order the fittest -to produce the happiness and promote the genuine eminence of man. Yet -nothing can less consist with reason, or afford smaller hopes of any -beneficial issue, than the plan which should abolish the regal and the -aristocratical branches of our constitution, before the public mind, -through many gradations of improvement, shall have arrived at the -maturity which can disregard these symbols of its childhood. - - - - - “WE PITY THE PLUMAGE, BUT FORGET THE DYING BIRD.” - - * * * * * - - AN ADDRESS to the PEOPLE ON - _The Death of the Princess Charlotte_. - - * * * * * - - BY - The Hermit of Marlow. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -AN ADDRESS, &c. - - -I. The Princess Charlotte is dead. She no longer moves, nor thinks, -nor feels. She is as inanimate as the clay with which she is about to -mingle. It is a dreadful thing to know that she is a putrid corpse, -who but a few days since was full of life and hope; a woman young, -innocent, and beautiful, snatched from the bosom of domestic peace, and -leaving that single vacancy which none can die and leave not. - -II. Thus much the death of the Princess Charlotte has in common with -the death of thousands. How many women die in childbed and leave -their families of motherless children and their husbands to live on, -blighted by the remembrance of that heavy loss? How many women of -active and energetic virtues; mild, affectionate, and wise, whose life -is as a chain of happiness and union, which once being broken, leaves -those whom it bound to perish, have died, and have been deplored with -bitterness, which is too deep for words? Some have perished in penury -or shame, and their orphan baby has survived, a prey to the scorn and -neglect of strangers. Men have watched by the bedside of their expiring -wives, and have gone mad when the hideous death-rattle was heard within -the throat, regardless of the rosy child sleeping in the lap of the -unobservant nurse. The countenance of the physician had been read by -the stare of this distracted husband, till the legible despair sunk -into his heart. All this has been and is. You walk with a merry heart -through the streets of this great city, and think not that such are -the scenes acting all around you. You do not number in your thought -the mothers who die in childbed. It is the most horrible of ruins:--In -sickness, in old age, in battle, death comes as to his own home; but in -the season of joy and hope, when life should succeed to life, and the -assembled family expects one more, the youngest and the best beloved, -that the wife, the mother--she for whom each member of the family was -so dear to one another, should die!--Yet thousands of the poorest poor, -whose misery is aggravated by what cannot be spoken now, suffer this. -And have they no affections? Do not their hearts beat in their bosoms, -and the tears gush from their eyes? Are they not human flesh and blood? -Yet none weep for them--none mourn for them--none when their coffins -are carried to the grave (if indeed the parish furnishes a coffin for -all) turn aside and moralize upon the sadness they have left behind. - -III. The Athenians did well to celebrate, with public mourning, the -death of those who had guided the republic with their valour and -their understanding, or illustrated it with their genius. Men do -well to mourn for the dead; it proves that we love something beside -ourselves; and he must have a hard heart who can see his friend depart -to rottenness and dust, and speed him without emotion on his voyage to -“that bourne whence no traveller returns.” To lament for those who have -benefited the State, is a habit of piety yet more favourable to the -cultivation of our best affections. When Milton died it had been well -that the universal English nation had been clothed in solemn black, -and that the muffled bells had tolled from town to town. The French -nation should have enjoined a public mourning at the deaths of Rousseau -and Voltaire. We cannot truly grieve for every one who dies beyond -the circle of those especially dear to us; yet in the extinction of -the objects of public love and admiration, and gratitude, there is -something, if we enjoy a liberal mind, which has departed from within -that circle. It were well done also, that men should mourn for any -public calamity which has befallen their country or the world, though -it be not death. This helps to maintain that connexion between one man -and another, and all men considered as a whole, which is the bond of -social life. There should be public mourning when those events take -place which make all good men mourn in their hearts,--the rule of -foreign or domestic tyrants, the abuse of public faith, the wresting of -old and venerable laws to the murder of the innocent, the established -insecurity of all those, the flower of the nation, who cherish an -unconquerable enthusiasm for public good. Thus, if Horne Tooke and -Hardy had been convicted of high treason, it had been good that there -had been not only the sorrow and the indignation which would have -filled all hearts, but the external symbols of grief. When the French -Republic was extinguished, the world ought to have mourned. - -IV. But this appeal to the feelings of men should not be made lightly, -or in any manner that tends to waste, on inadequate objects, those -fertilizing streams of sympathy, which a public mourning should be -the occasion of pouring forth. This solemnity should be used only to -express a wide and intelligible calamity, and one which is felt to be -such by those who feel for their country and for mankind; its character -ought to be universal, not particular. - -V. The news of the death of the Princess Charlotte, and of the -execution of Brandreth, Ludlam, and Turner, arrived nearly at the same -time. If beauty, youth, innocence, amiable manners, and the exercise -of the domestic virtues could alone justify public sorrow when they -are extinguished for ever, this interesting Lady would well deserve -that exhibition. She was the last and the best of her race. But there -were thousands of others equally distinguished as she, for private -excellences, who have been cut off in youth and hope. The accident -of her birth neither made her life more virtuous nor her death more -worthy of grief. For the public she had done nothing either good or -evil; her education had rendered her incapable of either in a large -and comprehensive sense. She was born a Princess; and those who are -destined to rule mankind are dispensed with acquiring that wisdom and -that experience which is necessary even to rule themselves. She was -not like Lady Jane Grey, or Queen Elizabeth, a woman of profound and -various learning. She had accomplished nothing, and aspired to nothing, -and could understand nothing respecting those great political questions -which involve the happiness of those over whom she was destined to -rule. Yet this should not be said in blame, but in compassion: let -us speak no evil of the dead. Such is the misery, such the impotence -of royalty--Princes are prevented from the cradle from becoming -anything which may deserve that greatest of all rewards next to a good -conscience, public admiration and regret. - -VI. The execution of Brandreth, Ludlam, and Turner is an event of -quite a different character from the death of the Princess Charlotte. -These men were shut up in a horrible dungeon for many months, with the -fear of a hideous death and of everlasting hell thrust before their -eyes; and at last were brought to the scaffold and hung. They too had -domestic affections, and were remarkable for the exercise of private -virtues. Perhaps their low station permitted the growth of those -affections in a degree not consistent with a more exalted rank. They -had sons, and brothers, and sisters, and fathers, who loved them, it -should seem, more than the Princess Charlotte could be loved by those -whom the regulations of her rank had held in perpetual estrangement -from her. Her husband was to her as father, mother, and brethren. -Ludlam and Turner were men of mature years, and the affections were -ripened and strengthened within them. What these sufferers felt shall -not be said. But what must have been the long and various agony of -their kindred may be inferred from Edward Turner, who, when he saw -his brother dragged along upon the hurdle, shrieked horribly and fell -in a fit, and was carried away like a corpse by two men. How fearful -must have been their agony, sitting in solitude on that day when the -tempestuous voice of horror from the crowd, told them that the head -so dear to them was severed from the body! Yes--they listened to the -maddening shriek which burst from the multitude: they heard the rush -of ten thousand terror-stricken feet, the groans and the hootings -which told them that the mangled and distorted head was then lifted -into the air. The sufferers were dead. What is death? Who dares to -say that which will come after the grave?[43] Brandreth was calm, and -evidently believed that the consequences of our errors were limited by -that tremendous barrier. Ludlam and Turner were full of fears, lest God -should plunge them in everlasting fire. Mr. Pickering, the clergyman, -was evidently anxious that Brandreth should not by a false confidence -lose the single opportunity of reconciling himself with the Ruler of -the future world. None knew what death was, or could know. Yet these -men were presumptuously thrust into that unfathomable gulf, by other -men, who knew as little and who reckoned not the present or the future -sufferings of their victims. Nothing is more horrible than that man -should for any cause shed the life of man. For all other calamities -there is a remedy or a consolation. When that Power through which we -live ceases to maintain the life which it has conferred, then is grief -and agony, and the burthen which must be borne: such sorrow improves -the heart. But when man sheds the blood of man, revenge, and hatred, -and a long train of executions, and assassinations, and proscriptions -is perpetuated to remotest time. - -VII. Such are the particular, and some of the general considerations -depending on the death of these men. But, however deplorable, if it -were a mere private or customary grief, the public as the public should -not mourn. But it is more than this. The events which led to the death -of those unfortunate men are a public calamity. I will not impute blame -to the jury who pronounced them guilty of high treason, perhaps the -law requires that such should be the denomination of their offence. -Some restraint ought indeed to be imposed on those thoughtless men who -imagine they can find in violence a remedy for violence, even if their -oppressors had tempted them to this occasion of their ruin. They are -instruments of evil, not so guilty as the hands that wielded them, but -fit to inspire caution. But their death, by hanging and beheading, -and the circumstances of which it is the characteristic and the -consequence, constitute a calamity such as the English nation ought to -mourn with an unassuageable grief. - -VIII. Kings and their ministers have in every age been distinguished -from other men by a thirst for expenditure and bloodshed. There -existed in this country, until the American war, a check, sufficiently -feeble and pliant indeed, to this desolating propensity. Until America -proclaimed itself a Republic, England was perhaps the freest and most -glorious nation subsisting on the surface of the earth. It was not -what is to the full desirable that a nation should be, but all that -it can be, when it does not govern itself. The consequences, however, -of that fundamental defect soon became evident. The government which -the imperfect constitution of our representative assembly threw into -the hands of a few aristocrats, improved the method of anticipating -the taxes by loans, invented by the ministers of William III., until -an enormous debt had been created. In the war against the Republic of -France, this policy was followed up, until now, the _mere interest_ -of the public debt amounts to more than twice as much as the lavish -expenditure of the public treasure, for maintaining the standing army, -and the royal family, and the pensioners, and the placemen. The effect -of this debt is to produce such an unequal distribution of the means -of living, as saps the foundation of social union and civilized life. -It creates a double aristocracy, instead of one which was sufficiently -burthensome before, and gives twice as many people the liberty of -living in luxury and idleness on the produce of the industrious and -the poor. And it does not give them this because they are more wise -and meritorious than the rest, or because their leisure is spent in -schemes of public good, or in those exercises of the intellect and -the imagination, whose creations ennoble or adorn a country. They are -not like the old aristocracy, men of pride and honour, _sans peur et -sans tache_, but petty peddling slaves, who have gained a right to -the title of public creditors, either by gambling in the funds, or -by subserviency to government, or some other villainous trade. They -are not the “Corinthian capital of polished society,” but the petty -and creeping weeds which deface the rich tracery of its sculpture. -The effect of this system is, that the day labourer gains no more -now by working sixteen hours a day than he gained before by working -eight. I put the thing in its simplest and most intelligible shape. -The labourer, he that tills the ground and manufactures cloth, is the -man who has to provide, out of what he would bring home to his wife -and children, for the luxuries and comforts of those whose claims are -represented by an annuity of forty-four millions a year levied upon the -English nation. Before, he supported the army and the pensioners, and -the royal family, and the landholders; and this is a hard necessity -to which it was well that he should submit. Many and various are the -mischiefs flowing from oppression, but this is the representative -of them all--namely, that one man is forced to labour for another -in a degree not only not necessary to the support of the subsisting -distinctions among mankind, but so as by the excess of the injustice to -endanger the very foundations of all that is valuable in social order, -and to provoke that anarchy which is at once the enemy of freedom, and -the child and the chastiser of misrule. The nation, tottering on the -brink of two chasms, began to be weary of a continuance of such dangers -and degradations, and the miseries which are the consequence of them; -the public voice loudly demanded a free representation of the people. -It began to be felt that no other constituted body of men could meet -the difficulties which impend. Nothing but the nation itself dares -to touch the question as to whether there is any remedy or no to the -annual payment of forty-four millions a year, beyond the necessary -expenses of State, for ever and for ever. A nobler spirit also went -abroad, and the love of liberty, and patriotism, and the self-respect -attendant on those glorious emotions, revived in the bosoms of men. The -government had a desperate game to play. - -IX. In the manufacturing districts of England discontent and -disaffection had prevailed for many years; this was the consequence -of that system of double aristocracy produced by the causes before -mentioned. The manufacturers, the helots of luxury, are left by this -system famished, without affections, without health, without leisure -or opportunity for such instruction as might counteract those habits -of turbulence and dissipation, produced by the precariousness and -insecurity of poverty. Here was a ready field for any adventurer who -should wish, for whatever purpose, to incite a few ignorant men to acts -of illegal outrage. So soon as it was plainly seen that the demands -of the people for a free representation must be conceded if some -intimidation and prejudice were not conjured up, a conspiracy of the -most horrible atrocity was laid in train. It is impossible to know how -far the higher members of the government are involved in the guilt of -their infernal agents. It is impossible to know how numerous or how -active they have been, or by what false hopes they are yet inflaming -the untutored multitude to put their necks under the axe and into the -halter. But thus much is known, that so soon as the whole nation lifted -up its voice for parliamentary reform, spies were sent forth. These -were selected from the most worthless and infamous of mankind, and -dispersed among the multitude of famished and illiterate labourers. It -was their business if they found no discontent to create it. It was -their business to find victims, no matter whether right or wrong. It -was their business to produce upon the public an impression, that if -any attempt to attain national freedom, or to diminish the burthens of -debt and taxation under which we groan, were successful, the starving -multitude would rush in, and confound all orders and distinctions, and -institutions and laws, in common ruin. The inference with which they -were required to arm the ministers was, that despotic power ought to -be eternal. To produce this salutary impression, they betrayed some -innocent and unsuspecting rustics into a crime whose penalty is a -hideous death. A few hungry and ignorant manufacturers, seduced by the -splendid promises of these remorseless blood-conspirators, collected -together in what is called rebellion against the State. All was -prepared, and the eighteen dragoons assembled in readiness, no doubt, -conducted their astonished victims to that dungeon which they left -only to be mangled by the executioner’s hand. The cruel instigators of -their ruin retired to enjoy the great revenues which they had earned -by a life of villainy. The public voice was overpowered by the timid -and the selfish, who threw the weight of fear into the scale of public -opinion, and Parliament confided anew to the executive government those -extraordinary powers which may never be laid down, or which may be -laid down in blood, or which the regularly constituted assembly of the -nation must wrest out of their hands. Our alternatives are a despotism, -a revolution, or reform. - -X. On the 7th of November, Brandreth, Turner, and Ludlam ascended the -scaffold. We feel for Brandreth the less, because it seems he killed a -man. But recollect who instigated him to the proceedings which led to -murder. On the word of a dying man, Brandreth tells us, that “Oliver -_brought him to this_”--that, “_but for_ Oliver _he would not have been -there_.” See, too, Ludlam and Turner, with their sons, and brothers, -and sisters, how they kneel together in a dreadful agony of prayer. -Hell is before their eyes, and they shudder and feel sick with fear, -lest some unrepented or some wilful sin should seal their doom in -everlasting fire. With that dreadful penalty before their eyes--with -that tremendous sanction for the truth of all he spoke, Turner -exclaimed loudly and distinctly, _while the executioner was putting the -rope round his neck_, “this is all Oliver and the Government.” What -more he might have said we know not, because the chaplain prevented -any further observations. Troops of horse, with keen and glittering -swords, hemmed in the multitudes collected to witness this abominable -exhibition. “When the stroke of the axe was heard, there was a burst of -horror from the crowd.[44] The instant the head was exhibited, there -was a tremendous shriek set up, and the multitude ran violently in -all directions, as if under the impulse of sudden frenzy. Those who -resumed their stations, groaned and hooted.” It is a national calamity, -that we endure men to rule over us, who sanction for whatever ends a -conspiracy which is to arrive at its purpose through such a frightful -pouring forth of human blood and agony. But when that purpose is to -trample upon our rights and liberties for ever, to present to us the -alternatives of anarchy and oppression, and triumph when the astonished -nation accepts the latter at their hands, to maintain a vast standing -army, and add year by year to a public debt, which already, they know, -cannot be discharged; and which, when the delusion that supports it -fails, will produce as much misery and confusion through all classes -of society as it has continued to produce of famine and degradation to -the undefended poor; to imprison and calumniate those who may offend -them at will; when this, if not the purpose, is the effect of that -conspiracy, how ought we not to mourn? - -XI. Mourn then people of England. Clothe yourselves in solemn black. -Let the bells be tolled. Think of mortality and change. Shroud -yourselves in solitude and the gloom of sacred sorrow. Spare no symbol -of universal grief. Weep--mourn--lament. Fill the great city--fill the -boundless fields with lamentation and the echo of groans. A beautiful -Princess is dead:--she who should have been the Queen of her beloved -nation, and whose posterity should have ruled it for ever. She loved -the domestic affections, and cherished arts which adorn, and valour -which defends. She was amiable and would have become wise, but she was -young, and in the flower of youth the destroyer came. Liberty is dead. -Slave! I charge thee disturb not the depth and solemnity of our grief -by any meaner sorrow. If One has died who was like her that should have -ruled over this land, like Liberty, young, innocent, and lovely, know -that the power through which that one perished was God, and that it was -a private grief. But man has murdered Liberty, and whilst the life was -ebbing from its wound, there descended on the heads and on the hearts -of every human thing, the sympathy of an universal blast and curse. -Fetters heavier than iron weigh upon us, because they bind our souls. -We move about in a dungeon more pestilential than damp and narrow -walls, because the earth is its floor and the heavens are its roof. Let -us follow the corpse of British Liberty slowly and reverentially to its -tomb: and if some glorious Phantom should appear, and make its throne -of broken swords and sceptres and royal crowns trampled in the dust, -let us say that the Spirit of Liberty has arisen from its grave and -left all that was gross and mortal there, and kneel down and worship it -as our Queen. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[43] - -“Your death has eyes in his head--mine is not painted so.” _Cymbeline._ - - -[44] These expressions are taken from _The Examiner_, Sunday, Nov. -9th.--_Author’s Note._ - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT.[45] - - -Letter I. - - Lyons, _March 22, 1818_. - -My dear Friend,--Why did you not wake me that night before we left -England, you and Marianne? I take this as rather an unkind piece of -kindness in you; but which, in consideration of the six hundred miles -between us, I forgive. - -We have journeyed towards the spring that has been hastening to meet -us from the south; and though our weather was at first abominable, we -have now warm sunny days, and soft winds, and a sky of deep azure, the -most serene I ever saw. The heat in this city to-day, is like that of -London in the midst of summer. My spirits and health sympathize in the -change. Indeed, before I left London, my spirits were as feeble as my -health, and I had demands upon them which I found difficult to supply. -I have read _Foliage_:--with most of the poems I was already familiar. -What a delightful poem the “Nymphs” is! especially the second part. -It is truly _poetical_ in the intense and emphatic sense of the word. -If six hundred miles were not between us, I should say what pity that -_glib_ was not omitted, and that the poem is not as faultless as it is -beautiful. But for fear I should _spoil_ your next poem, I will not let -slip a word on the subject. Give my love to Marianne and her sister, -and tell Marianne she defrauded me of a kiss by not waking me when -she went away, and that as I have no better mode of conveying it, I -must take the best, and ask you to pay the debt. When shall I see you -all again? Oh that it might be in Italy! I confess that the thought of -how long we may be divided, makes me very melancholy. Adieu, my dear -friend. Write soon. - - Ever most affectionately yours, - P. B. S. - - * * * * * - - Livorno, _August 15, 1819_. - -My dear Friend,--How good of you to write to us so often, and such kind -letters! But it is like lending to a beggar. What can I offer in return? - -Though surrounded by suffering and disquietude, and latterly almost -overcome by our strange misfortune, I have not been idle. My Prometheus -is finished, and I am also on the eve of completing another work, -totally different from anything you might conjecture that I should -write, of a more popular kind; and, if anything of mine could deserve -attention, of higher claims. “Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest -chuck, till thou approve the performance.” - -I send you a little poem[46] to give to Ollier for publication, but -_without my name_: Peacock will correct the proofs. I wrote it with the -idea of offering it to the Examiner, but I find it is too long. It was -composed last year at Este; two of the characters you will recognize; -the third is also in some degree a painting from nature, but, with -regard to time and place, ideal. You will find the little piece, I -think, in some degree consistent with your own ideas of the manner in -which poetry ought to be written. I have employed a certain familiar -style of language to express the actual way in which people talk with -each other, whom education and a certain refinement of sentiment have -placed above the use of vulgar idioms. I use the word _vulgar_ in its -most extensive sense; the vulgarity of rank and fashion is as gross in -its way, as that of poverty, and its cant terms equally expressive of -base conceptions, and therefore equally unfit for poetry. Not that the -familiar style is to be admitted in the treatment of a subject wholly -ideal, or in that part of any subject which relates to common life, -where the passion, exceeding a certain limit, touches the boundaries -of that which is ideal. Strong passion expresses itself in metaphor, -borrowed from all objects alike remote or near, _and casts over all the -shadow at its own greatness_. But what am I about? if my grandmother -sucks eggs, was it I who taught her? - -If _you_ would really correct the proof, I need not trouble Peacock, -who, I suppose has enough. Can you take it as a compliment that I -prefer to trouble you? - -I do not particularly wish this poem to be known as mine, but, at all -events, I would not put my name to it. I leave you to judge whether -it is best to throw it into the fire, or to publish it. So much for -self--_self_, that burr will stick to one. Your kind expressions about -my Eclogue[47] gave me great pleasure: indeed, my great stimulus in -writing is to have the approbation of those who feel kindly towards me. -The rest is mere duty. I am also delighted to hear that you think of -us, and form fancies about us. We cannot yet come home. - - * * * * * - - Most affectionately yours, - P. B. Shelley. - - * * * * * - - - Livorno, _September 3rd, 1819_. - -My dear Friend,--At length has arrived Ollier’s parcel, and with it the -portrait. What a delightful present! It is almost yourself, and we sate -talking with it, and of it, all the evening.... It is a great pleasure -to us to possess it, a pleasure in a time of need; coming to us when -there are few others. How we wish it were you, and not your picture! -How I wish we were with you! - -This parcel, you know, and all its letters, are now a year old; some -older. There are all kinds of dates, from March to August, 1818, and -“your date,” to use Shakespeare’s expression, “is better in a pie or a -pudding, than in your letter.” “Virginity,” Parolles says,--but letters -are the same thing in another shape. - -With it came, too, Lamb’s Works. I have looked at none of the other -books yet. What a lovely thing is his “Rosamond Gray!” how much -knowledge of the sweetest and deepest part of our nature in it! When I -think of such a mind as Lamb’s,--when I see how unnoticed remain things -of such exquisite and complete perfection, what should I hope for -myself, if I had not higher objects in view than fame? - -I have seen too little of Italy and of pictures. Perhaps Peacock has -shown you some of my letters to him. But at Rome I was very ill, seldom -able to go out without a carriage; and though I kept horses for two -months there, yet there is so much to see! Perhaps I attended more to -sculpture than painting,--its forms being more easily intelligible -than those of the latter. Yet I saw the famous works of Raphael, whom -I agree with the whole world in thinking the finest painter. Why, I -can tell you another time. With respect to Michael Angelo, I dissent, -and think with astonishment and indignation on the common notion that -he equals, and in some respects exceeds Raphael. He seems to me to -have no sense of moral dignity and loveliness; and the energy for -which he has been so much praised, appears to me to be a certain rude, -external, mechanical quality, in comparison with anything possessed -by Raphael; or even much inferior artists. His famous painting in the -Sistine Chapel, seems to me deficient in beauty and majesty, both in -the conception and the execution. He has been called the Dante of -painting; but if we find some of the gross and strong outlines, which -are employed in the few most distasteful passages of the Inferno, where -shall we find your Francesca,--where, the spirit coming over the sea -in a boat, like Mars rising from the vapours of the horizon,--where, -Matilda gathering flowers, and all the exquisite tenderness, and -sensibility, and ideal beauty, in which Dante excelled all poets except -Shakespeare? - -As to Michael Angelo’s _Moses_--but you have seen a cast of that in -England.--I write these things, Heaven knows why! - -I have written something and finished it,[48] different from any thing -else, and a new attempt for me; and I mean to dedicate it to you. I -should not have done so without your approbation, but I asked your -picture last night, and it smiled assent. If I did not think it in -some degree worthy of you, I would not make you a public offering of -it. I expect to have to write to you soon about it. If Ollier is not -turned Christian, Jew, or become infected with _the Murrain_, he will -publish it. Don’t let him be frightened, for it is nothing which by any -courtesy of language can be termed either moral or immoral. - -Mary has written to Marianne for a parcel, in which I beg you will make -Ollier enclose what you know would most interest me,--your “Calendar” -(a sweet extract from which I saw in the Examiner), and the other poems -belonging to you; and for some friends of mine, my Eclogue. This -parcel, which must be sent instantly, will reach me by October; but -don’t trust letters to it, except just a line or so. When you write, -write by the post. - - Ever your affectionate, - P. B. S. - -My love to Marianne and Bessy, and Thornton too, and Percy, &c., and if -you could imagine any way in which I could be useful to them here, tell -me. I will inquire about the Italian chalk. You have no idea of the -pleasure this portrait gives us. - - * * * * * - - Firenze, _Nov. 13, 1819_. - -My dear Friend,--Yesterday morning Mary brought me a little boy. She -suffered but two hours’ pain, and is now so well that it seems a wonder -that she stays in bed. The babe is also quite well, and has begun to -suck. You may imagine this is a great relief and a great comfort to me, -amongst all my misfortunes, past, present, and to come. - -Since I last wrote to you, some circumstances have occurred, not -necessary to explain by letter, which make my pecuniary condition a -very difficult one. The physicians absolutely forbid my travelling to -England in the winter, but I shall probably pay you a visit in the -spring. With what pleasure, among all the other sources of regret and -discomfort with which England abounds for me, do I _think_ of looking -on the original of that kind and earnest face which is now opposite -Mary’s bed. It will be the only thing which Mary will envy me, or will -need to envy me, in that journey: for I shall come alone. Shaking hands -with you is worth all the trouble; the rest is clear loss. - -I will tell you more about myself and my pursuits in my next letter. - -Kind love to Marianne, Bessie, and all the children. Poor Mary begins -(for the first time) to look a little consoled. For we have spent, as -you may imagine, a miserable five months. - - Good-bye, my dear Hunt, - Your affectionate friend, - P. B. S. - -I have had no letter from you for a _month_. - - * * * * * - - Florence, _Nov. 23rd, 1819_. - -My dear Hunt,--_Why_ don’t you write to us? I was preparing to send you -something for your “Indicator,” but I have been a drone instead of a -bee in this business, thinking that perhaps, as you did not acknowledge -any of my late enclosures, it would not be welcome to you, whatever I -might send. - -What a state England is in! But you will never write politics. I -don’t wonder;--but I wish, then, that you would write a paper in “The -Examiner,” on the actual state of the country, and what, under all the -circumstances of the conflicting passions and interests of men, we are -to expect. Not what we ought to expect, or what, if so and so were to -happen, we might expect,--but what, as things are, there is reason to -believe will come;--and send it me for my information. Every word a man -has to say is valuable to the public now; and thus you will at once -gratify your friend, nay, instruct, and either exhilarate him or force -him to be resigned,--and awaken the minds of the people. - -I have no spirits to write what I do not know whether you will care -much about; I know well, that if I were in great misery, poverty, &c., -you would think of nothing else but how to amuse and relieve me. You -omit me if I am prosperous. - -I could laugh if I found a joke, in order to put you in good humour -with me after my scolding;--in good humour enough to write to us. -* * * * * Affectionate love to and from all. This ought not only to be -the _vale_ of a letter, but a superscription over the gate of life. - - Your sincere friend, - P. B. Shelley. - -I send you a _sonnet_. I don’t expect you to publish it; but you may -show it to whom you please. - - * * * * * - - Florence, _November 1819_. - -My dear Friend,--Two letters, both bearing date Oct 20, arrive on the -same day:--one is always glad of twins. - -We hear of a box arrived at Genoa with books and clothes: it must be -yours. Meanwhile the babe is wrapped in flannel petticoats, and we -get on with him as we can. He is small, healthy, and pretty. Mary is -recovering rapidly. Marianne, I hope, is quite recovered. - -You do not tell me whether you have received my lines on the Manchester -affair. They are of the exoteric species, and are meant, not for “The -Indicator,” but “The Examiner.” I would send for the former, if you -like, some letters on such subjects of art as suggest themselves in -Italy. Perhaps I will, at a venture, send you a specimen of what I mean -next post. I enclose you in this a piece for “The Examiner;” or let it -share the fate, whatever that fate may be, of the “Mask of Anarchy.” - -I am sorry to hear that you have employed yourself in translating -“Aminta,” though I doubt not it will be a just and beautiful -translation. You ought to write Amintas. You ought to exercise your -fancy in the perpetual creation of new forms of gentleness and beauty. - - * * * * * - -With respect to translation, even _I_ will not be seduced by it; -although the Greek plays, and some of the ideal dramas of Calderon -(with which I have lately, and with inexpressible wonder and delight, -become acquainted), are perpetually tempting me to throw over their -perfect and glowing forms the grey veil of my own words. And you know -me too well to suspect, that I refrain from the belief that what I -would substitute for them would deserve the regret which yours would, -if suppressed. I have confidence in my moral sense alone; but that is -a kind of originality. I have only translated the Cyclops of Euripides -when I could absolutely do nothing else, and the Symposium of Plato, -which is the delight and astonishment of all who read it:--I mean the -original, or so much of the original as is seen in my translation, not -the translation itself. * * * * * - -I think I have an accession of strength since my residence in Italy, -though the disease itself in the side, whatever it may be, is not -subdued. Some day we shall return from Italy. I fear that in England -things will be carried violently by the rulers, and that they will not -have learned to yield in time to the spirit of the age. The great thing -to do is to hold the balance between popular impatience and tyrannical -obstinacy: to inculcate with fervour both the right of resistance and -the duty of forbearance. You know, my principles incite me to take all -I can get in politics, for ever aspiring to something more. I am one of -those whom nothing will fully satisfy, but who am ready to be partially -satisfied, by all that is practicable. We shall see. - -Give Bessy a thousand thanks from me for writing out in that pretty -neat hand your kind and powerful defence. Ask what she would like best -from Italian land. We mean to bring you all something; and Mary and I -have been wondering what it shall be. Do you, each of you, choose. - - * * * * * - - Adieu, my dear friend, - Yours affectionately ever, - P. B. S. - - * * * * * - - Pisa, _August 26th, 1821_. - -My Dearest Friend,--Since I last wrote to you, I have been on a visit -to Lord Byron, at Ravenna. The result of this visit was a determination -on his part to come and live at Pisa, and I have taken the finest -palace on the Lung’ Arno for him. But the material part of my visit -consists in a message which he desires me to give you, and which I -think ought to add to your determination--for such a one I hope you -have formed--of restoring your shattered health and spirits by a -migration to these “regions mild of calm and serene air.” - -He proposes that you should come and go shares with him and me, in a -periodical work, to be conducted here; in which each of the contracting -parties should publish all their original compositions, and share the -profits. He proposed it to Moore, but for some reason it was never -brought to bear. There can be no doubt that the _profits_ of any scheme -in which you and Lord Byron engage must, from various yet co-operating -reasons, be very great. As to myself, I am, for the present, only a -sort of link between you and him, until you can know each other and -effectuate the arrangement; since (to entrust you with a secret which, -for your sake, I withhold from Lord Byron) nothing would induce me to -share in the profits, and still less in the borrowed splendour, of such -a partnership. You and he, in different manners, would be equal, and -would bring, in a different manner, but in the same proportion, equal -stocks of reputation and success; do not let my frankness with you, nor -my belief that you deserve it more than Lord Byron, have the effect -of deterring you from assuming a station in modern literature, which -the universal voice of my contemporaries forbids me either to stoop or -aspire to. I am, and I desire to be, nothing. - -I did not ask Lord Byron to assist me in sending a remittance for your -journey; because there are men, however excellent, from whom we would -never receive an obligation, in the worldly sense of the word; and I am -as jealous for my friend as for myself. I, as you know, have it not; -but I suppose that at last I shall make up an impudent face, and ask -Horace Smith to add to the many obligations he has conferred on me. I -know I need only ask. - -I think I have never told you how very much I like your “Amyntas;” it -almost reconciles me to translations. In another sense I still demur. -You might have written another poem such as the “Nymphs,” with no -great access of effort. I am full of thoughts and plans, and should -do something if the feeble and irritable frame which incloses it was -willing to obey the spirit. I fancy then that I should do great things. -Before this you will have seen “Adonais.” Lord Byron, I suppose from -modesty on account of his being mentioned in it, did not say a word -of “Adonais,” though he was loud in his praise of “Prometheus,” and -what you will not agree with him in, censure of the “Cenci.” Certainly -if “Marino Faliero” is a dream, the “Cenci” is not: but that between -ourselves. Lord Byron is reformed, as far as gallantry goes, and lives -with a beautiful and sentimental Italian lady, who is as much attached -to him as may be. I trust greatly to his intercourse with you, for -his creed to become as pure as he thinks his conduct is. He has many -generous and exalted qualities, but the canker of aristocracy wants to -be cut out. - - * * * * * - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[45] Originally printed by Leigh Hunt in his work on _Lord Byron and -some of his Contemporaries_, 1828; afterwards included by Mrs. Shelley -in her collection of Shelley’s _Letters from Abroad_.--Ed. - -[46] Julian and Maddalo. - -[47] Rosalind and Helen. - -[48] The Cenci. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - -THE COLISEUM. - -A FRAGMENT.[49] - - -At the hour of noon, on the feast of the Passover, an old man, -accompanied by a girl, apparently his daughter, entered the Coliseum at -Rome. They immediately passed through the Arena, and seeking a solitary -chasm among the arches of the southern part of the ruin, selected a -fallen column for their seat, and clasping each other’s hands, sate as -in silent contemplation of the scene. But the eyes of the girl were -fixed upon her father’s lips, and his countenance, sublime and sweet, -but motionless as some Praxitelean image of the greatest of poets, -filled the silent air with smiles, not reflected from external forms. - -It was the great feast of the Resurrection, and the whole native -population of Rome, together with all the foreigners who flock from all -parts of the earth to contemplate its celebration, were assembled round -the Vatican. The most awful religion of the world went forth surrounded -by emblazonry of mortal greatness, and mankind had assembled to wonder -at and worship the creations of their own power. No straggler was to -be met with in the streets and grassy lanes which led to the Coliseum. -The father and daughter had sought this spot immediately on their -arrival. - -A figure, only visible at Rome in night or solitude, and then only to -be seen amid the desolated temples of the Forum, or gliding among the -weed-grown galleries of the Coliseum, crossed their path. His form, -which, though emaciated, displayed the elementary outlines of exquisite -grace, was enveloped in an ancient chlamys, which half concealed his -face; his snow-white feet were fitted with ivory sandals, delicately -sculptured in the likeness of two female figures, whose wings met upon -the heel, and whose eager and half-divided lips seemed quivering to -meet. It was a face, once seen, never to be forgotten. The mouth and -the moulding of the chin resembled the eager and impassioned tenderness -of the statues of Antinous; but instead of the effeminate sullenness of -the eye, and the narrow smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression -of profound and piercing thought; the brow was clear and open, and -his eyes deep, like two wells of crystalline water which reflect the -all-beholding heavens. Over all was spread a timid expression of -womanish tenderness and hesitation, which contrasted, yet intermingled -strangely, with the abstracted and fearless character that predominated -in his form and gestures. - -He avoided, in an extraordinary degree, all communication with the -Italians, whose language he seemed scarcely to understand, but was -occasionally seen to converse with some accomplished foreigner, whose -gestures and appearance might attract him amid his solemn haunts. He -spoke Latin, and especially Greek, with fluency, and with a peculiar -but sweet accent; he had apparently acquired a knowledge of the -northern languages of Europe. There was no circumstance connected -with him that gave the least intimation of his country, his origin, -or his occupation. His dress was strange, but splendid and solemn. He -was forever alone. The literati of Rome thought him a curiosity, but -there was something in his manner unintelligible but impressive, which -awed their obtrusions into distance and silence. The countrymen, whose -path he rarely crossed, returning by starlight from their market at -Campo Vaccino, called him, with that strange mixture of religious and -historical ideas so common in Italy, _Il Diavolo di Bruto_. - -Such was the figure which interrupted the contemplations, if they were -so engaged, of the strangers, by addressing them in the clear, and -exact, but unidiomatic phrases of their native language:--“Strangers, -you are two; behold the third in this great city, to whom alone the -spectacle of these mighty ruins is more delightful than the mockeries -of a superstition which destroyed them.” - -“I see nothing,” said the old man. - -“What do you here, then?” - -“I listen to the sweet singing of the birds, and the sound of my -daughter’s breathing composes me like the soft murmur of water--and I -feel the sun-warm wind--and this is pleasant to me.” - -“Wretched old man, know you not that these are the ruins of the -Coliseum?”-- - -“Alas! stranger,” said the girl, in a voice like mournful music, “speak -not so--he is blind.”-- - -The stranger’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and the lines of -his countenance became relaxed. “Blind!” he exclaimed, in a tone of -suffering, which was more than an apology; and seated himself apart -on a flight of shattered and mossy stairs which wound up among the -labyrinths of the ruin. - -“My sweet Helen,” said the old man, “you did not tell me that this was -the Coliseum.” - -“How should I tell you, dearest father, what I knew not? I was on -the point of inquiring the way to that building, when we entered this -circle of ruins, and, until the stranger accosted us, I remained -silent, subdued by the greatness of what I see.” - -“It is your custom, sweetest child, to describe to me the objects that -gave you delight. You array them in the soft radiance of your words, -and whilst you speak I only feel the infirmity which holds me in such -dear dependence, as a blessing. Why have you been silent now?” - -“I know not--first the wonder and pleasure of the sight, then the words -of the stranger, and then thinking on what he had said, and how he had -looked--and now, beloved father, your own words.” - -“Well, tell me now, what do you see?” - -“I see a great circle of arches built upon arches, and shattered stones -lie around, that once made a part of the solid wall. In the crevices, -and on the vaulted roofs, grow a multitude of shrubs, the wild olive -and the myrtle--and intricate brambles, and entangled weeds and plants -I never saw before. The stones are immensely massive, and they jut out -one from the other. There are terrible rifts in the wall, and broad -windows through which you see the blue heaven. There seems to be more -than a thousand arches, some ruined, some entire, and they are all -immensely high and wide. Some are shattered, and stand forth in great -heaps, and the underwood is tufted on their crumbling summits. Around -us lie enormous columns, shattered and shapeless--and fragments of -capitals and cornice, fretted with delicate sculptures.”-- - -“It is opened to the blue sky?” said the old man. - -“Yes. We see the liquid depth of heaven above through the rifts and the -windows; and the flowers, and the weeds, and the grass and creeping -moss, are nourished by its unforbidden rain. The blue sky is above--the -wide, bright, blue sky--it flows through the great rents on high, and -through the bare boughs of the marble rooted fig-tree, and through the -leaves and flowers of the weeds, even to the dark arcades beneath. -I see--I feel its clear and piercing beams fill the universe, and -impregnate the joy-inspiring wind with life and light, and casting the -veil of its splendour over all things--even me. Yes, and through the -highest rift the noonday waning moon is hanging, as it were, out of the -solid sky, and this shows that the atmosphere has all the clearness -which it rejoices me that you feel.” - -“What else see you?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Nothing?” - -“Only the bright-green mossy ground, speckled by tufts of dewy -clover-grass that run into the interstices of the shattered arches, and -round the isolated pinnacles of the ruin.” - -“Like the lawny dells of soft short grass which wind among the pine -forests and precipices in the Alps of Savoy?” - -“Indeed, father, your eye has a vision more serene than mine.” - -“And the great wrecked arches, the shattered masses of precipitous -ruin, overgrown with the younglings of the forest, and more like chasms -rent by an earthquake among the mountains, than like the vestige of -what was human workmanship--what are they?” - -“Things awe-inspiring and wonderful.” - -“Are they not caverns such as the untamed elephant might choose, amid -the Indian wilderness, wherein to hide her cubs; such as, were the sea -to overflow the earth, the mightiest monsters of the deep would change -into their spacious chambers?” - -“Father, your words image forth what I would have expressed, but, alas! -could not.” - -“I hear the rustling of leaves, and the sound of waters--but it does -not rain,--like the fast drops of a fountain among woods.” - -“It falls from among the heaps of ruin over our heads--it is, I -suppose, the water collected in the rifts by the showers.” - -“A nursling of man’s art, abandoned by his care, and transformed by -the enchantment of Nature into a likeness of her own creations, and -destined to partake their immortality! Changed into a mountain cloven -with woody dells, which overhang its labyrinthine glades, and shattered -into toppling precipices. Even the clouds, intercepted by its craggy -summit, feed its eternal fountains with their rain. By the column on -which I sit, I should judge that it had once been crowned by a temple -or a theatre, and that on sacred days the multitude wound up its craggy -path to spectacle or the sacrifice----It was such itself![50] Helen, -what sound of wings is that?” - -“It is the wild pigeons returning to their young. Do you not hear the -murmur of those that are brooding in their nests?” - -“Ay, it is the language of their happiness. They are as happy as we -are, child, but in a different manner. They know not the sensations -which this ruin excites within us. Yet it is pleasure to them to -inhabit it; and the succession of its forms as they pass, is connected -with associations in their minds, sacred to them, as these to us. The -internal nature of each being is surrounded by a circle, not to be -surmounted by his fellows; and it is this repulsion which constitutes -the misfortune of the condition of life. But there is a circle which -comprehends, as well as one which mutually excludes all things which -feel. And, with respect to man, his public and his private happiness -consists in diminishing the circumference which includes those -resembling himself, until they become one with him, and he with them. -It is because we enter into the meditations, designs and destinies of -something beyond ourselves, that the contemplation of the ruins of -human power excites an elevating sense of awfulness and beauty. It is -therefore, that the ocean, the glacier, the cataract, the tempest, -the volcano, have each a spirit which animates the extremities of our -frame with tingling joy. It is therefore, that the singing of birds, -and the motion of leaves, the sensation of the odorous earth beneath, -and the freshness of the living wind around, is sweet. And this is -Love. This is the religion of eternity, whose votaries have been exiled -from among the multitude of mankind. O, Power!” cried the old man, -lifting his sightless eyes towards the undazzling sun, “thou which -interpenetratest all things, and without which this glorious world were -a blind and formless chaos, Love, Author of Good, God, King, Father! -Friend of these thy worshippers! Two solitary hearts invoke thee, may -they be divided never! If the contentions of mankind have been their -misery; if to give and seek that happiness which thou art, has been -their choice and destiny; if, in the contemplation of these majestic -records of the power of their kind, they see the shadow and the -prophecy of that which thou mayst have decreed that he should become; -if the justice, the liberty, the loveliness, the truth, which are thy -footsteps, have been sought by them, divide them not! It is thine to -unite, to eternize; to make outlive the limits of the grave those who -have left among the living, memorials of thee. When this frame shall be -senseless dust, may the hopes, and the desires, and the delights which -animate it now, never be extinguished in my child; even as, if she were -borne into the tomb, my memory would be the written monument of all her -nameless excellencies!” - -The old man’s countenance and gestures, radiant with the inspiration of -his words, sunk, as he ceased, into more than its accustomed calmness, -for he heard his daughter’s sobs, and remembered that he had spoken of -death,--“My father, how can I outlive you?” said Helen. - -“Do not let us talk of death,” said the old man, suddenly changing -his tone. “Heraclitus, indeed, died at my age, and if I had so sour -a disposition, there might be some danger. But Democritus reached a -hundred and twenty, by the mere dint of a joyous and unconquerable -mind. He only died at last, because he had no gentle and beloved -ministering spirit, like my Helen, for whom it would have been his -delight to live. You remember his gay old sister requested him to put -off starving himself to death until she had returned from the festival -of Ceres; alleging, that it would spoil her holiday if he refused to -comply, as it was not permitted to appear in the procession immediately -after the death of a relation; and how good-temperedly the sage acceded -to her request.” - -The old man could not see his daughter’s grateful smile, but he felt -the pressure of her hand by which it was expressed.--“In truth,” -he continued, “that mystery, death, is a change which neither for -ourselves nor for others is the just object of hope or fear. We know -not if it be good or evil, we only know, it is. The old, the young, -may alike die; no time, no place, no age, no foresight exempts us from -death, and the chance of death. We have no knowledge, if death be a -state of sensation, of any precaution that can make those sensations -fortunate, if the existing series of events shall not produce that -effect. Think not of death, or think of it as something common to us -all. It has happened,” said he, with a deep and suffering voice, “that -men have buried their children.” - -“Alas! then, dearest father, how I pity you. Let us speak no more.” - -They rose to depart from the Coliseum, but the figure which had first -accosted them interposed itself:--“Lady,” he said, “if grief be an -expiation of error, I have grieved deeply for the words which I spoke -to your companion. The men who anciently inhabited this spot, and those -from whom they learned their wisdom, respected infirmity and age. -If I have rashly violated that venerable form, at once majestic and -defenceless, may I be forgiven?” - -“It gives me pain to see how much your mistake afflicts you,” she said; -“if you can forget, doubt not that we forgive.” - -“You thought me one of those who are blind in spirit,” said the old -man, “and who deserve, if any human being can deserve, contempt and -blame. Assuredly, contemplating this monument as I do, though in -the mirror of my daughter’s mind, I am filled with astonishment and -delight; the spirit of departed generations seems to animate my limbs, -and circulate through all the fibres of my frame. Stranger, if I have -expressed what you have ever felt, let us know each other more.” - -“The sound of your voice, and the harmony of your thoughts, are -delightful to me,” said the youth, “and it is a pleasure to see any -form which expresses so much beauty and goodness as your daughter’s; -if you reward me for my rudeness, by allowing me to know you, my error -is already expiated, and you remember my ill words no more. I live a -solitary life, and it is rare that I encounter any stranger with whom -it is pleasant to talk; besides, their meditations, even though they -be learned, do not always agree with mine; and, though I can pardon -this difference, they cannot. Nor have I ever explained the cause -of the dress I wear, and the difference which I perceive between my -language and manners, and those with whom I have intercourse. Not but -that it is painful to me to live without communion with intelligent and -affectionate beings. You are such, I feel.” - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[49] Imperfectly printed in _The Shelley Papers_, 1833: first printed -correctly and completely in the two-volume edition of Shelley’s Essays -and Letters, edited by Mrs. Shelley. - -[50] Nor does a recollection of the use to which it may have been -destined interfere with these emotions. Time has thrown its purple -shadow athwart this scene, and no more is visible than the broad and -everlasting character of human strength and genius, that pledge of all -that is to be admirable and lovely in ages yet to come. Solemn temples, -where the senate of the world assembled, palaces, triumphal arches, and -cloud-surrounded columns, loaded with the sculptured annals of conquest -and domination--what actions and deliberations have they been destined -to enclose and commemorate? Superstitious rites, which in their mildest -form, outrage reason, and obscure the moral sense of mankind; schemes -for wide-extended murder, and devastation, and misrule, and servitude; -and, lastly, these schemes brought to their tremendous consummations, -and a human being returning in the midst of festival and solemn joy, -with thousands and thousands of his enslaved and desolated species -chained behind his chariot, exhibiting, as titles to renown, the labour -of ages, and the admired creations of genius, overthrown by the brutal -force, which was placed as a sword within his hand, and,--contemplation -fearful and abhorred!--he himself a being capable of the gentlest and -best emotions, inspired with the persuasion that he has done a virtuous -deed! We do not forget these things.... - - - - -CRITICAL NOTICES OF THE SCULPTURE IN THE FLORENCE GALLERY.[51] - - -On the Niobe. - -Of all that remains to us of Greek antiquity, this figure is perhaps -the most consummate personification of loveliness, with regard to its -countenance, as that of the Venus of the Tribune is with regard to -its entire form of woman. It is colossal; the size adds to its value; -because it allows to the spectator the choice of a greater number of -points of view, and affords him a more analytical one, in which to -catch a greater number of the infinite modes of expression, of which -any form approaching ideal beauty is necessarily composed. It is the -figure of a mother in the act of sheltering, from some divine and -inevitable peril, the last, we may imagine, of her surviving children. - -The little creature, terrified, as we may conceive, at the strange -destruction of all its kindred, has fled to its mother and is hiding -its head in the folds of her robe, and casting back one arm, as in a -passionate appeal for defence, where it never before could have been -sought in vain. She is clothed in a thin tunic of delicate woof; and -her hair is fastened on her head into a knot, probably by that mother -whose care will never fasten it again. Niobe is enveloped in profuse -drapery, a portion of which the left hand has gathered up, and is in -the act of extending it over the child in the instinct of shielding her -from what reason knows to be inevitable. The right (as the restorer has -properly imagined,) is drawing up her daughter to her: and with that -instinctive gesture, and by its gentle pressure, is encouraging the -child to believe that it can give security. The countenance of Niobe is -the consummation of feminine majesty and loveliness, beyond which the -imagination scarcely doubts that it can conceive anything. - -That masterpiece of the poetic harmony of marble expresses other -feelings. There is embodied a sense of the inevitable and rapid -destiny which is consummating around her, as if it were already over. -It seems as if despair and beauty had combined, and produced nothing -but the sublimity of grief. As the motions of the form expressed the -instinctive sense of the possibility of protecting the child, and the -accustomed and affectionate assurance that she would find an asylum -within her arms, so reason and imagination speak in the countenance -the certainty that no mortal defence is of avail. There is no terror -in the countenance, only grief--deep, remediless grief. There is no -anger:--of what avail is indignation against what is known to be -omnipotent? There is no selfish shrinking from personal pain--there is -no panic at supernatural agency--there is no adverting to herself as -herself: the calamity is mightier than to leave scope for such emotions. - -Everything is swallowed up in sorrow: she is all tears; her -countenance, in assured expectation of the arrow piercing its last -victim in her embrace, is fixed on her omnipotent enemy. The pathetic -beauty of the expression of her tender, and inexhaustible, and -unquenchable despair, is beyond the effect of sculpture. As soon as -the arrow shall pierce her last tie upon earth, the fable that she was -turned into stone, or dissolved into a fountain of tears, will be but a -feeble emblem of the sadness of hopelessness, in which the few and evil -years of her remaining life, we feel, must flow away. - -It is difficult to speak of the beauty of the countenance, or to make -intelligible in words, from what such astonishing loveliness results. - -The head, resting somewhat backward upon the full and flowing contour -of the neck, is as in the act of watching an event momently to arrive. -The hair is delicately divided on the forehead, and a gentle beauty -gleams from the broad and clear forehead, over which its strings are -drawn. The face is of an oval fulness, and the features conceived -with the daring of a sense of power. In this respect it resembles the -careless majesty which Nature stamps upon the rare masterpieces of her -creation, harmonising them as it were from the harmony of the spirit -within. Yet all this not only consists with, but is the cause of the -subtlest delicacy of clear and tender beauty--the expression at once of -innocence and sublimity of soul--of purity and strength--of all that -which touches the most removed and divine of the chords that make -music in our thoughts--of that which shakes with astonishment even the -most superficial. - - -The Minerva. - -The head is of the highest beauty. It has a close helmet, from which -the hair delicately parted on the forehead, half escapes. The attitude -gives entire effect to the perfect form of the neck, and to that full -and beautiful moulding of the lower part of the face and mouth, which -is in living beings the seat of the expression of a simplicity and -integrity of nature. Her face, upraised to heaven, is animated with -a profound, sweet, and impassioned melancholy, with an earnest, and -fervid, and disinterested pleading against some vast and inevitable -wrong. It is the joy and poetry of sorrow making grief beautiful, -and giving it that nameless feeling which, from the imperfection of -language, we call pain, but which is not all pain, though a feeling -which makes not only its possessor, but the spectator of it, prefer -it to what is called pleasure, in which all is not pleasure. It -is difficult to think that this head, though of the highest ideal -beauty, is the head of Minerva, although the attributes and attitude -of the lower part of the statue certainly suggest that idea. The -Greeks rarely, in their representations of the characters of their -gods,--unless we call the poetic enthusiasm of Apollo a mortal -passion,--expressed the disturbance of human feeling; and here is deep -and impassioned grief animating a divine countenance. It is, indeed, -divine. Wisdom (which Minerva may be supposed to emblem,) is pleading -earnestly with Power,--and invested with the expression of that grief, -because it must ever plead so vainly. The drapery of the statue, the -gentle beauty of the feet, and the grace of the attitude, are what may -be seen in many other statues belonging to that astonishing era which -produced it; such a countenance is seen in few. - -This statue happens to be placed on a pedestal, the subject of whose -relief is in a spirit wholly the reverse. It was probably an altar -to Bacchus--possibly a funeral urn. Under the festoons of fruits and -flowers that grace the pedestal, the corners of which are ornamented -with the skulls of goats, are sculptured some figures of Mænads under -the inspiration of the god. Nothing can be conceived more wild and -terrible than their gestures, touching, as they do, the verge of -distortion, into which their fine limbs and lovely forms are thrown. -There is nothing, however, that exceeds the possibility of nature, -though it borders on its utmost line. - -The tremendous spirit of superstition, aided by drunkenness, producing -something beyond insanity, seems to have caught them in its whirlwinds, -and to bear them over the earth, as the rapid volutions of a tempest -have the ever-changing trunk of a waterspout, or as the torrent of a -mountain river whirls the autumnal leaves resistlessly along in its -full eddies. The hair, loose and floating, seems caught in the tempest -of their own tumultuous motion; their heads are thrown back, leaning -with a strange delirium upon their necks, and looking up to heaven -whilst they totter and stumble even in the energy of their tempestuous -dance. - -One represents Agave with the head of Pentheus in one hand, and in the -other a great knife; a second has a spear with its pine cone, which -was the Thyrsus; another dances with mad voluptuousness; the fourth is -beating a kind of tambourine. - -This was indeed a monstrous superstition, even in Greece, where it -was alone capable of combining ideal beauty and poetical and abstract -enthusiasm with the wild errors from which it sprung. In Rome it had -a more familiar, wicked, and dry appearance; it was not suited to the -severe and exact apprehensions of the Romans, and their strict morals -were violated by it, and sustained a deep injury, little analogous -to its effects upon the Greeks, who turned all things--superstition, -prejudice, murder, madness--to beauty. - - -On the Venus called Anadyomine. - -She has just issued from the bath, and yet is animated with the -enjoyment of it. - -She seems all soft and mild enjoyment, and the curved lines of -her fine limbs flow into each other with a never-ending sinuosity -of sweetness. Her face expresses a breathless, yet passive and -innocent voluptuousness, free from affectation. Her lips, without the -sublimity of lofty and impetuous passion, the grandeur of enthusiastic -imagination of the Apollo of the Capitol, or the union of both, like -the Apollo Belvidere, have the tenderness of arch, yet pure and -affectionate desire, and the mode of which the ends of the mouth are -drawn in, yet lifted or half-opened, with the smile that for ever -circles round them, and the tremulous curve into which they are wrought -by inextinguishable desire, and the tongue lying against the lower lip, -as in the listlessness of passive joy, express love, still love. - -Her eyes seem heavy and swimming with pleasure, and her small forehead -fades on both sides into that sweet swelling and thin declension of -the bone over the eye, in the mode which expresses simple and tender -feelings. - -The neck is full, and panting as with the aspiration of delight, and -flows with gentle curves into her perfect form. - -Her form is indeed perfect. She is half-sitting and half-rising from -a shell, and the fulness of her limbs, and their complete roundness -and perfection, do not diminish the vital energy with which they seem -to be animated. The position of the arms, which are lovely beyond -imagination, is natural, unaffected, and easy. This, perhaps, is the -finest personification of Venus, the deity of superficial desire, in -all antique statuary. Her pointed and pear-like person, ever virgin, -and her attitude modesty itself. - - -A Bas-relief. - -_Probably the sides of a Sarcophagus._ - -The lady is lying on a couch, supported by a young woman, and looking -extremely exhausted; her dishevelled hair is floating about her -shoulder, and she is half-covered with drapery that falls on the couch. - -Her tunic is exactly like a chemise, only the sleeves are longer, -coming half way down the upper part of the arm. An old wrinkled -woman, with a cloak over her head, and an enormously sagacious look, -has a most _professional_ appearance, and is taking hold of her arm -gently with one hand, and with the other is supporting it. I think -she is feeling her pulse. At the side of the couch sits a woman as -in grief, holding her head in her hands. At the bottom of the bed is -another matron tearing her hair, and in the act of screaming out most -violently, which she seems, however, by the rest of her gestures, to do -with the utmost deliberation, as having come to the resolution, that -it was a correct thing to do so. Behind her is a gossip of the most -ludicrous ugliness, crying, I suppose, or praying, for her arms are -crossed upon her neck. There is also a fifth setting up a wail. To the -left of the couch a nurse is sitting on the ground dangling the child -in her arms, and wholly occupied in so doing. The infant is swaddled. -Behind her is a female who appears to be in the act of rushing in with -dishevelled hair and violent gesture, and in one hand brandishing a -whip or a thunderbolt. This is probably some emblematic person, the -messenger of death, or a fury, whose personification would be a key to -the whole. What they are all wailing at, I know not; whether the lady -is dying, or the father has directed the child to be exposed; but if -the mother be not dead, such a tumult would kill a woman in the straw -in these days. - -The other compartment, in the second scene of the drama, tells the -story of the presentation of the child to its father. An old man has -it in his arms, and with professional and mysterious officiousness -is holding it out to the father. The father, a middle-aged and very -respectable-looking man, perhaps not long married, is looking with the -admiration of a bachelor on his first child, and perhaps thinking, -that he was once such a strange little creature himself. His hands -are clasped, and he is gathering up between his arms the folds of his -cloak, an emblem of his gathering up all his faculties to understand -the tale the gossip is bringing. - -An old man is standing beside him, probably his father, with some -curiosity, and much tenderness in his looks. Around are collected a -host of his relations, of whom the youngest, a handsome girl, seems -the least concerned. It is altogether an admirable piece, quite in the -spirit of the comedies of Terence.[52] - - -Michael Angelo’s Bacchus. - -The countenance of this figure is a most revolting mistake of the -spirit and meaning of Bacchus. It looks drunken, brutal, narrow-minded, -and has an expression of dissoluteness the most revolting. The lower -part of the figure is stiff, and the manner in which the shoulders -are united to the breast, and the neck to the head, abundantly -inharmonious. It is altogether without unity, as was the idea of the -deity of Bacchus in the conception of a Catholic. On the other hand, -considered only as a piece of workmanship, it has many merits. The -arms are executed in a style of the most perfect and manly beauty. -The body is conceived with great energy, and the manner in which the -lines mingle into each other, of the highest boldness and truth. It -wants unity as a work of art--as a representation of Bacchus it wants -everything. - - -A Juno. - -A statue of great merit. The countenance expresses a stern and -unquestioned severity of dominion, with a certain sadness. The lips are -beautiful--susceptible of expressing scorn--but not without sweetness. -With fine lips a person is never wholly bad, and they never belong -to the expression of emotions wholly selfish--lips being the seat of -imagination. The drapery is finely conceived, and the manner in which -the act of throwing back one leg is expressed, in the diverging folds -of the drapery of the left breast fading in bold yet graduated lines -into a skirt, as it descends from the left shoulder, is admirably -imagined. - - -An Apollo, - -with serpents twining round a wreath of laurel on which the quiver is -suspended. It probably was, when complete, magnificently beautiful. The -restorer of the head and arms, following the indication of the muscles -of the right side, has lifted the arm, as in triumph, at the success -of an arrow, imagining to imitate the Lycian Apollo in that, so finely -described by Apollonius Rhodius, when the dazzling radiance of his -beautiful limbs shone over the dark Euxine. The action, energy, and -godlike animation of these limbs speak a spirit which seems as if it -could not be consumed. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[51] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. A facsimile of the title-page of -this little volume, edited by Captain Medwin, has already been given in -the third volume of Shelley’s Poetical Works--Ed. - -[52] This bas-relief is not antique. It is of the Cinquecento. - - - - -ARCH OF TITUS.[53] - - -On the inner compartment of the Arch of Titus, is sculptured in deep -relief, the desolation of a city. On one side, the walls of the Temple, -split by the fury of conflagration, hang tottering in the act of ruin. -The accompaniments of a town taken by assault, matrons and virgins and -children and old men gathered into groups, and the rapine and licence -of a barbarous and enraged soldiery, are imaged in the distance. The -foreground is occupied by a procession of the victors, bearing in -their profane hands the holy candlesticks and the tables of shewbread, -and the sacred instruments of the eternal worship of the Jews. On the -opposite side, the reverse of this sad picture, Titus is represented -standing in a chariot drawn by four horses, crowned with laurel, and -surrounded by the tumultuous numbers of his triumphant army, and the -magistrates, and priests, and generals, and philosophers, dragged in -chains beside his wheels. Behind him stands a Victory eagle-winged. - -The arch is now mouldering into ruins, and the imagery almost erased by -the lapse of fifty generations. Beyond this obscure monument of Hebrew -desolation, is seen the tomb of the Destroyer’s family, now a mountain -of ruins. - -The Flavian amphitheatre has become a habitation for owls and dragons. -The power, of whose possession it was once the type, and of whose -departure it is now the emblem, is become a dream and a memory. Rome is -no more than Jerusalem. - - -[53] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. - - - - -REMARKS ON “MANDEVILLE” AND MR. GODWIN.[54] - - -The author of “Mandeville” is one of the most illustrious examples of -intellectual power of the present age. He has exhibited that variety -and universality of talent which distinguishes him who is destined to -inherit lasting renown, from the possessors of temporary celebrity. If -his claims were to be measured solely by the accuracy of his researches -into ethical and political science, still it would be difficult to name -a contemporary competitor. Let us make a deduction of all those parts -of his moral system which are liable to any possible controversy, and -consider simply those which only to allege is to establish, and which -belong to that most important class of truths which he that announces -to mankind seems less to teach than to recall. - -“Political Justice” is the first moral system explicitly founded upon -the doctrine of the negativeness of rights and the positiveness of -duties,--an obscure feeling of which has been the basis of all the -political liberty and private virtue in the world. But he is also the -author of “Caleb Williams”; and if we had no record of a mind, but -simply some fragment containing the conception of the character of -Falkland, doubtless we should say, “This is an extraordinary mind, and -undoubtedly was capable of the very sublimest enterprises of thought.” - -St. Leon and Fleetwood are moulded with somewhat inferior distinctness, -in the same character of a union of delicacy and power. The Essay on -Sepulchres has all the solemnity and depth of passion which belong to -a mind that sympathises, as one man with his friend in the interest of -future ages, in the concerns of the vanished generations of mankind. - -It may be said with truth, that Godwin has been treated unjustly -by those of his countrymen, upon whose favour temporary distinction -depends. If he had devoted his high accomplishments to flatter the -selfishness of the rich, or enforced those doctrines on which the -powerful depend for power, they would, no doubt, have rewarded him -with their countenance, and he might have been more fortunate in that -sunshine than Mr. Malthus or Dr. Paley. But the difference would have -been as wide as that which must for ever divide notoriety from fame. -Godwin has been to the present age in moral philosophy what Wordsworth -is in poetry. The personal interest of the latter would probably have -suffered from his pursuit of the true principles of taste in poetry, as -much as all that is temporary in the fame of Godwin has suffered from -his daring to announce the true foundations of minds, if servility, and -dependence, and superstition, had not been too easily reconcileable -with his species of dissent from the opinions of the great and the -prevailing. It is singular that the other nations of Europe should have -anticipated, in this respect, the judgment of posterity; and that the -name of Godwin and that of his late illustrious and admirable wife, -should be pronounced, even by those who know but little of English -literature, with reverence and admiration; and that the writings of -Mary Wollstonecraft should have been translated, and universally read, -in France and Germany, long after the bigotry of faction has stifled -them in our own country. - -“Mandeville” is Godwin’s last production. In interest it is perhaps -inferior to “Caleb Williams.” There is no character like Falkland, -whom the author, with that sublime casuistry which is the parent of -toleration and forbearance, persuades us personally to love, whilst -his actions must for ever remain the theme of our astonishment and -abhorrence. Mandeville challenges our compassion, and no more. His -errors arise from an immutable necessity of internal nature, and from -much constitutional antipathy and suspicion, which soon spring up -into hatred and contempt, and barren misanthropy, which, as it has no -root in genius or virtue, produces no fruit uncongenial with the soil -wherein it grew. Those of Falkland sprang from a high, though perverted -conception of human nature, from a powerful sympathy with his species, -and from a temper which led him to believe that the very reputation of -excellence should walk among mankind unquestioned and unassailed. So -far as it was a defect to link the interest of the tale with anything -inferior to Falkland, so is Mandeville defective. But the varieties -of human character, the depth and complexity of human motive,--those -sources of the union of strength and weakness--those powerful -sources of pleading for universal kindness and toleration,--are just -subjects for illustration and development in a work of fiction; as -such, “Mandeville” yields in interest and importance to none of the -productions of the author. The events of the tale flow like the stream -of fate, regular and irresistible, growing at once darker and swifter -in their progress: there is no surprise, no shock: we are prepared -for the worst from the very opening of the scene, though we wonder -whence the author drew the shadows which render the moral darkness, -every instant more fearful, at last so appalling and so complete. The -interest is awfully deep and rapid. To struggle with it, would be the -gossamer attempting to bear up against the tempest. In this respect -it is more powerful than “Caleb Williams”; the interest of “Caleb -Williams” being as rapid, but not so profound, as that of “Mandeville.” -It is a wind that tears up the deepest waters of the ocean of mind. - -The language is more rich and various, and the expressions more -eloquently sweet, without losing that energy and distinctness which -characterize “Political Justice” and “Caleb Williams.” The moral -speculations have a strength, and consistency, and boldness, which has -been less clearly aimed at in his other works of fiction. The pleadings -of Henrietta to Mandeville, after his recovery from madness, in favour -of virtue and of benevolent energy, compose, in every respect, the -most perfect and beautiful piece of writing of modern times. It is the -genuine doctrine of “Political Justice,” presented in one perspicacious -and impressive river, and clothed in such enchanting melody of -language, as seems, not less than the writings of Plato, to realize -those lines of Milton: - - How charming is divine philosophy-- - Not harsh and crabbed-- - But musical as is Apollo’s lute! - -Clifford’s talk, too, about wealth, has a beautiful, and readily to be -disentangled intermixture of truth and error. Clifford is a person, -who, without those characteristics which usually constitute the -sublime, is sublime from the mere excess of loveliness and innocence. -Henrietta’s first appearance to Mandeville, at Mandeville House, is -an occurrence resplendent with the sunrise of life; it recalls to -the memory many a vision--or perhaps but one--which the delusive -exhalations of unbaffled hope have invested with a rose-like lustre as -of morning, yet unlike morning--a light which, once extinguished, never -can return. Henrietta seems at first to be all that a susceptible heart -imagines in the object of its earliest passion. We scarcely can see -her, she is so beautiful. There is a mist of dazzling loveliness which -encircles her, and shuts out from the sight all that is mortal in her -transcendent charms. But the veil is gradually undrawn, and she “fades -into the light of common day.” Her actions, and even her sentiments, -do not correspond to the elevation of her speculative opinions, and -the fearless sincerity which should be the accompaniment of truth -and virtue. But she has a divided affection, and she is faithful -there only where infidelity would have been self-sacrifice. Could the -spotless Henrietta have subjected her love to Clifford, to the vain -and insulting accident of wealth and reputation, and the babbling of a -miserable old woman, and yet have proceeded unshrinking to her nuptial -feast from the expostulations of Mandeville’s impassioned and pathetic -madness? It might be well in the author to show the foundations of -human hope thus overthrown, for his picture might otherwise have been -illumined with one gleam of light. It was his skill to enforce the -moral, “that all things are vanity,” and “that the house of mourning -is better than the house of feasting”; and we are indebted to those -who make us feel the instability of our nature, that we may lay the -knowledge (which is its foundation) deep, and make the affections -(which are its cement) strong. But one regrets that Henrietta,--who -soared far beyond her contemporaries in her opinions, who was so -beautiful that she seemed a spirit among mankind,--should act and feel -no otherwise than the least exalted of her sex; and still more, that -the author, capable of conceiving something so admirable and lovely, -should have been withheld, by the tenour of the fiction which he chose, -from executing it in its full extent. It almost seems in the original -conception of the character of Henrietta, that something was imagined -too vast and too uncommon to be realized; and the feeling weighs like -disappointment on the mind. But these objections, considered with -reference to the close of the story, are extrinsical. - -The reader’s mind is hurried on as he approaches the end with -breathless and accelerated impulse. The noun _smorfia_ comes at last, -and touches some nerve which jars the inmost soul, and grates, as it -were, along the blood; and we can scarcely believe that that grin which -must accompany Mandeville to his grave, is not stamped upon our own -visage. - - -[54] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. - - - - -ON “FRANKENSTEIN.”[55] - - -The novel of “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus,” is undoubtedly, -as a mere story, one of the most original and complete productions of -the day. We debate with ourselves in wonder, as we read it, what could -have been the series of thoughts--what could have been the peculiar -experiences that awakened them--which conduced, in the author’s mind, -to the astonishing combinations of motives and incidents, and the -startling catastrophe, which compose this tale. There are, perhaps, -some points of subordinate importance, which prove that it is the -author’s first attempt. But in this judgment, which requires a very -nice discrimination, we may be mistaken; for it is conducted throughout -with a firm and steady hand. The interest gradually accumulates and -advances towards the conclusion with the accelerated rapidity of a -rock rolled down a mountain. We are led breathless with suspense and -sympathy, and the heaping up of incident on incident, and the working -of passion out of passion. We cry “hold, hold! enough!”--but there is -yet something to come; and, like the victim whose history it relates, -we think we can bear no more, and yet more is to be borne. Pelion is -heaped on Ossa, and Ossa on Olympus. We climb Alp after Alp, until the -horizon is seen blank, vacant, and limitless; and the head turns giddy, -and the ground seems to fail under our feet. - -This novel rests its claim on being a source of powerful and profound -emotion. The elementary feelings of the human mind are exposed to -view; and those who are accustomed to reason deeply on their origin -and tendency will, perhaps, be the only persons who can sympathize, -to the full extent, in the interest of the actions which are their -result. But, founded on nature as they are, there is perhaps no reader, -who can endure anything beside a new love-story, who will not feel -a responsive string touched in his inmost soul. The sentiments are -so affectionate and so innocent--the characters of the subordinate -agents in this strange drama are clothed in the light of such a mild -and gentle mind--the pictures of domestic manners are of the most -simple and attaching character: the father’s is irresistible and deep. -Nor are the crimes and malevolence of the single Being, though indeed -withering and tremendous, the offspring of any unaccountable propensity -to evil, but flow irresistibly from certain causes fully adequate to -their production. They are the children, as it were, of Necessity and -Human Nature. In this the direct moral of the book consists; and it is -perhaps the most important, and of the most universal application, of -any moral that can be enforced by example. Treat a person ill, and he -will become wicked. Requite affection with scorn;--let one being be -selected, for whatever cause, as the refuse of his kind--divide him, a -social being, from society, and you impose upon him the irresistible -obligations--malevolence and selfishness. It is thus that, too often -in society, those who are best qualified to be its benefactors and its -ornaments, are branded by some accident with scorn, and changed, by -neglect and solitude of heart, into a scourge and a curse. - -The Being in “Frankenstein” is, no doubt, a tremendous creature. It was -impossible that he should not have received among men that treatment -which led to the consequences of his being a social nature. He was an -abortion and an anomaly; and though his mind was such as its first -impressions framed it, affectionate and full of moral sensibility, -yet the circumstances of his existence are so monstrous and uncommon, -that, when the consequences of them became developed in action, -his original goodness was gradually turned into inextinguishable -misanthropy and revenge. The scene between the Being and the blind De -Lacey in the cottage, is one of the most profound and extraordinary -instances of pathos that we ever recollect. It is impossible to -read this dialogue,--and indeed many others of a somewhat similar -character,--without feeling the heart suspend its pulsations with -wonder, and the “tears stream down the cheeks.” The encounter and -argument between Frankenstein and the Being on the sea of ice, almost -approaches, in effect, to the expostulation of Caleb Williams with -Falkland. It reminds us, indeed, somewhat of the style and character of -that admirable writer, to whom the author has dedicated his work, and -whose productions he seems to have studied. - -There is only one instance, however, in which we detect the least -approach to imitation; and that is the conduct of the incident of -Frankenstein’s landing in Ireland. The general character of the tale, -indeed, resembles nothing that ever preceded it. After the death of -Elizabeth, the story, like a stream which grows at once more rapid and -profound as it proceeds, assumes an irresistible solemnity, and the -magnificent energy and swiftness of a tempest. - -The churchyard scene, in which Frankenstein visits the tombs of his -family, his quitting Geneva, and his journey through Tartary to the -shores of the Frozen Ocean, resemble at once the terrible reanimation -of a corpse and the supernatural career of a spirit. The scene in the -cabin of Walton’s ship--the more than mortal enthusiasm and grandeur of -the Being’s speech over the dead body of his victim--is an exhibition -of intellectual and imaginative power, which we think the reader will -acknowledge has seldom been surpassed. - - -[55] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. - - - - -ON THE REVIVAL OF LITERATURE.[56] - - -In the fifteenth century of the Christian era, a new and extraordinary -event roused Europe from her lethargic state, and paved the way to -her present greatness. The writings of Dante in the thirteenth, -and of Petrarch in the fourteenth, were the bright luminaries -which had afforded glimmerings of literary knowledge to the almost -benighted traveller toiling up the hill of Fame. But on the taking of -Constantinople, a new and sudden light appeared: the dark clouds of -ignorance rolled into distance, and Europe was inundated by learned -monks, and still more by the quantity of learned manuscripts which they -brought with them from the scene of devastation. The Turks settled -themselves in Constantinople, where they adopted nothing but the -vicious habits of the Greeks: they neglected even the small remains -of its ancient learning, which, filtered and degenerated as it was by -the absurd mixture of Pagan and Christian philosophy, proved, on its -retirement to Europe, the spark which spread gradually and successfully -the light of knowledge over the world. - -Italy, France, and England,--for Germany still remained many centuries -less civilized than the surrounding countries,--swarmed with monks and -cloisters. Superstition, of whatever kind, whether earthly or divine, -has hitherto been the weight which clogged man to earth, and prevented -his genius from soaring aloft amid its native skies. The enterprises, -and the effects of the human mind, are something more than stupendous: -the works of nature are material and tangible: we have a half insight -into their kind, and in many instances we predict their effects with -certainty. But mind seems to govern the world without visible or -substantial means. Its birth is unknown; its action and influence -unperceived; and its being seems eternal. To the mind both humane and -philosophical, there cannot exist a greater subject of grief, than -the reflection of how much superstition has retarded the progress of -intellect, and consequently the happiness of man. - -The monks in their cloisters were engaged in trifling and ridiculous -disputes: they contented themselves with teaching the dogmas of their -religion, and rushed impatiently forth to the colleges and halls, -where they disputed with an acrimony and meanness little befitting the -resemblance of their pretended holiness. But the situation of a monk is -a situation the most unnatural that bigotry, proud in the invention of -cruelty, could conceive; and their vices may be pardoned as resulting -from the wills and devices of a few proud and selfish bishops, who -enslaved the world that they might live at ease. - -The disputes of the schools were mostly scholastical; it was the -discussion of words, and had no relation to morality. Morality,--the -great means and end of man,--was contained, as they affirmed, in the -extent of a few hundred pages of a certain book, which others have -since contended were but scraps of martyrs’ last dying words, collected -together and imposed on the world. In the refinements of the scholastic -philosophy, the world seemed in danger of losing the little real wisdom -that still remained as her portion; and the only valuable part of their -disputes was such as tended to develop the system of the Peripatetic -Philosophers. Plato, the wisest, the profoundest, and Epicurus, the -most humane and gentle among the ancients, were entirely neglected by -them. Plato interfered with their peculiar mode of thinking concerning -heavenly matters; and Epicurus, maintaining the rights of man to -pleasure and happiness, would have afforded a seducing contrast to -their dark and miserable code of morals. It has been asserted, that -these holy men solaced their lighter moments in a contraband worship -of Epicurus and profaned the philosophy which maintained the rights -of all by a selfish indulgence of the rights of a few. Thus it is: the -laws of nature are invariable, and man sets them aside that he may have -the pleasure of travelling through a labyrinth in search of them again. - -Pleasure, in an open and innocent garb, by some strange process of -reasoning, is called vice; yet man (so closely is he linked to the -chains of necessity--so irresistibly is he impelled to fulfil the end -of his being,) must seek her at whatever price: he becomes a hypocrite, -and braves damnation with all its pains. - -Grecian literature,--the finest the world has ever produced,--was at -length restored: its form and mode we obtained from the manuscripts -which the ravages of time, of the Goths, and of the still more savage -Turks, had spared. The burning of the library at Alexandria was an evil -of importance. This library is said to have contained volumes of the -choicest Greek authors. - - -[56] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. - - - - -A SYSTEM OF GOVERNMENT BY JURIES. - -A FRAGMENT.[57] - - -Government, as it now subsists, is perhaps an engine at once the most -expensive and inartificial that could have been devised as a remedy -for the imperfections of society. Immense masses of the product of -labour are committed to the discretion of certain individuals for the -purpose of executing its intentions, or interpreting its meaning. These -have not been consumed, but wasted, in the principal part of the past -history of political society. - -Government may be distributed into two parts:--First, the -fundamental--that is, the permanent forms, which regulate the -deliberation or the action of the whole; from which it results that -a state is democratical, or aristocratical, or despotic, or a -combination of all these principles. - -And Secondly--the necessary or accidental--that is, those that -determine, _not_ the forms according to which the deliberation or -the action of the mass of the community is to be regulated, but the -opinions or moral principles which are to govern the particular -instances of such action or deliberation. These may be called, -with little violence to the popular acceptation of those terms, -Constitution, and Law: understanding by the former, the collection -of those written institutions or traditions which determine the -individuals who are to exercise, in a nation, the discretionary right -of peace and war, of death or imprisonment, fines and penalties, and -the imposition and collection of taxes, and their application, thus -vested in a king, or an hereditary senate, or in a representative -assembly, or in a combination of all; and by the latter, the mode -of determining those opinions, according to which the constituted -authorities are to decide on any action; for law is either a collection -of opinions expressed by individuals without constitutional authority, -or the decision of a constitutional body of men, the opinion of some or -all of whom it expresses--and no more. - -To the former, or constitutional topics, this treatise has no direct -reference. Law may be considered, simply--an opinion regulating -political power. It may be divided into two parts--General Law, or -that which relates to the external and integral concerns of a nation, -and decides on the competency of a particular person or collection of -persons to discretion in matters of war and peace--the assembling of -the representative body--the time, place, manner, form, of holding -judicial courts, and other concerns enumerated before, and in reference -to which this community is considered as a whole;--and Particular -Law, or that which decides upon contested claims of property, which -punishes or restrains violence and fraud, which enforces compacts, -and preserves to every man that degree of liberty and security, the -enjoyment of which is judged not to be inconsistent with the liberty -and security of another. - -To the former, or what is here called general law, this treatise has no -direct reference. How far law, in its general form or constitution, as -it at present exists in the greater part of the nations of Europe, may -be affected by inferences from the ensuing reasonings, it is foreign -to the present purpose to inquire--let us confine our attention to -particular law, or law strictly so termed. - -The only defensible intention of law, like that of every other human -institution, is very simple and clear--the good of the whole. If law -is found to accomplish this object very imperfectly, that imperfection -makes no part of the design with which men submit to its institution. -Any reasonings which tend to throw light on a subject hitherto so dark -and intricate, cannot fail, if distinctly stated, to impress mankind -very deeply, because it is a question in which the life and property -and liberty and reputation of every man are vitally involved. - -For the sake of intelligible method, let us assume the ordinary -distinctions of law, those of civil and criminal law, and of the -objects of it, private and public wrongs. The author of these pages -ought not to suppress his conviction, that the principles on which -punishment is usually inflicted are essentially erroneous; and that, -in general, ten times more is apportioned to the victims of law, than -is demanded by the welfare of society, under the shape of reformation -or example. He believes that, although universally disowned, the -execrable passion of vengeance, exasperated by fear, exists as a chief -source among the secret causes of this exercise of criminal justice. He -believes also, that in questions of property, there is a vague but most -effective favouritism in courts of law and among lawyers, against the -poor to the advantage of the rich--against the tenant in favour of the -landlord--against the creditor in favour of the debtor; thus enforcing -and illustrating that celebrated maxim, against which moral science -is a perpetual effort: _To whom much is given, of him shall much be -required; and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the -more._ - -But the present purpose is, not the exposure of such mistakes as -actually exist in public opinion, but an attempt to give to public -opinion its legitimate dominion, and an uniform and unimpeded influence -to each particular case which is its object. - -When law is once understood to be no more than the recorded opinion of -men, no more than the apprehensions of individuals on the reasoning of -a particular case, we may expect that the sanguinary or stupid mistakes -which disgrace the civil and criminal jurisprudence of civilized -nations will speedily disappear. How long, under its present sanctions, -do not the most exploded violations of humanity maintain their -ground in courts of law, after public opinion has branded them with -reprobation; sometimes even until by constantly maintaining their post -under the shelter of venerable names, they out-weary the very scorn and -abhorrence of mankind, or subsist unrepealed and silent, until some -check, in the progress of human improvement, awakens them, and that -public opinion, from which they should have received their reversal, -is infected by their influence. Public opinion would never long -stagnate in error, were it not fenced about and frozen over by forms -and superstitions. If men were accustomed to reason, and to hear the -arguments of others, upon each particular case that concerned the life, -or liberty, or property, or reputation of their peers, those mistakes, -which at present render these possessions so insecure to all but those -who enjoy enormous wealth, never could subsist. If the administration -of law ceased to appeal from the common sense, or the enlightened minds -of twelve contemporary _good and true men_, who should be the peers of -the accused, or, in cases of property, of the claimant, to the obscure -records of dark and barbarous epochs, or the precedents of what venal -and enslaved judges might have decreed to please their tyrants, or the -opinion of any man or set of men who lived when bigotry was virtue, -and passive obedience that discretion which is the better part of -valour,--all those mistakes now fastened in the public opinion, would -be brought at each new case to the * * * * * - - -[57] From _The Shelley Papers_, 1833. - - - - -ON LOVE.[58] - - -What is Love? Ask him who lives what is life; ask him who adores what -is God. - -I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even of thine -whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they -resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to -appeal to something in common and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I -have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage -land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the -wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance -have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to -sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have -everywhere sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment. - -_Thou_ demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards -all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find -within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek -to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience -within ourselves. If we reason we would be understood; if we imagine -we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within -another’s; if we feel we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to -our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix -and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply -to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood:--this is -Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man -with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the -world, and there is something within us, which from the instant that -we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in -correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom -of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the development of -our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature, a miniature -as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn -or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely -that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. -Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the -minutest particles of which our nature is composed[59]: a mirror whose -surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness: a soul within -our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which -pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer -all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble and correspond with -it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding -capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should -enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which -we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret, with a frame, -whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the -accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of -our own; and a combination of all these in such proportion as the type -within demands: this is the invisible and unattainable point to which -Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to -arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which, -there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules. Hence in -solitude, or that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings -and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, -the waters, and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, -in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our -heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the -flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by -their inconceivable relation to something within the soul awaken the -spirits to dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious -tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or -the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he -were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or -power is dead, man becomes a living sepulchre of himself, and what yet -survives is the mere husk of what once he was. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[58] Printed in The Keepsake, Lond. 1829. - -[59] These words are ineffectual and metaphorical. Most words are -so,--no help! - - - - - INDEX. - - - Addison, his _Cato_, ii. 16 - - Æschylus, quoted, ii. 340 - - Alfieri, ii. 390 - - Alps, the, i. 119, 120, 348 - - Anacreon’s swallow, ii. 359 - - _Anastasius_, ii. 341 - - Annual Parliaments, i. 364, 365 - - Apollodorus, a pupil of Socrates, ii. 49 - - Apollonius Rhodius, i. 410 - - Ariosto, tomb of, ii. 245; - his arm-chair, 246; - handwriting of, 247 - - Aristotle, ii. 49 - - Aspasia, ii. 134, 135 - - - Bacon, quoted, ii. 4; - a poet, 8, 49 - - Barthélemi, ii. 44 - - Bisham wood, ii. 278 - - Blackstone, quoted, i. 254 - - Boccaccio, ii. 294, 295 - - Buffon, his sublime but gloomy theory respecting the future of this - globe, i. 352 - - Byron, Lord, his _Hours of Idleness_, quotations or plagiarisms from? - i. 132, 174; - visit to, at Ravenna, 390, 391; - his meeting with “Monk” Lewis, ii. 208; - at Venice, 226; - a gondoliere’s opinion of, 236; - Shelley’s visit to, at Venice, 237; - his _Don Juan_, 241; - his _Childe Harold_, 259; - his low debauchery, _ib._; - a great poet, 260; - visit to, at Ravenna, 332-345; - his Letter to Bowles, 342; - his _Cain_, 355; - at Leghorn, 362, 364 - - - Calderon, i. 388, ii. 14, 305, 306; - his _Magico Prodigioso_, 353, 354 - - Calvin and Servetus, i. 229 - - Castlereagh, ii. 268 - - Catholic emancipation, i. 242 _sqq._ - - Charlotte, Princess, death of, i. 369 - - Chaucer, ii. 27 - - Chesterfield, Lord, his distinction between simulation and - dissimulation, ii. 394 - - Chillon, castle of, i. 340 - - Cicero, ii. 8, 49 - - Clarens, i. 341 - - Cobbett, William, on Annual Parliaments, i. 365; ii. 276, 289 - - Coleridge, S. T., his tragedy of _Remorse_, ii. 292, 353, 354 - - Coliseum, the, i. 394; ii. 260 - - Como, ii. 223-225 - - Comyns, Lord Chief Baron, his definition of libel, i. 254 - - Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, atrocities of, i. 306; - arch of, ii. 261, 280, 281 - - Correggio, two pictures of, ii. 249, 250 - - Dante, i. 385; ii. 24; - the first religious reformer, 27, 40; - tomb of, 344 - - Danube, the, i. 15, 32 - - Democritus, i. 400 - - Diotima, the prophetess, ii. 88, 89 - - Dowden, Professor, ii. 387 - - Drummond, Sir William, his _Academical Questions_, i. 327; ii. 176 - - - Eaton, Daniel Isaac, sentence on, for publishing Paine’s _Age of - Reason_, ii. 369-386 - - Ellenborough, Lord, Shelley’s letter to, ii. 369-386 - - Epicurus, i. 421 - - Evian, town of, i. 335, 336 - - - Finnerty, Mr. Peter, i. 255; ii. 399 - - Fitzwilliam, Lord, recall of, ii. 303 - - Fletcher, John, his _Two Noble Kinsmen_, ii. 255 - - Forsyth’s Travels in Italy, ii. 285 - - Fox, Charles James, i. 238 - - Franceschini, pictures of, ii. 251, 252 - - Fust, specimens of his press, ii. 344 - - - Genoa, i. 153 - - George III., i. 237 - - George IV., i. 238 - - Gibbon, his house at Lausanne, i. 343 - - Gisborne, Mr. and Mrs., letters to, ii. 229-231, 290-291, 296-299, - 301-309, 312-319, 326-330, 350-356 - - Gisborne, Mrs., ii. 228, 229 - - Godwin, William, his novels, i. 412-416; - letter to, ii. 231-233, 317; - his answer to Malthus, 352; - his law-suit and pecuniary embarrassments, 360, 361 - - Goethe, his _Faust_, ii. 353 - - Guercino, pictures by, ii. 253 - - Guiccioli, Contessa, Byron’s liaison with, ii. 333, 337, 340; - her letter to Shelley, 343, 350, 351 - - Guido, his picture of the Rape of Proserpine, ii. 249; - his Samson, 250; - his Murder of the Innocents, 250, 251; - his “Fortune,” 251; - his “Madonna Lattante,” _ib._; - his picture of Beatrice Cenci, 293 - - - Heraclitus, i. 400 - - Hermance, village of, described, i. 333 - - Hesiod, quoted, ii. 61 - - Heyne, on the opinions entertained of the Jews by ancient poets and - philosophers, i. 301 - - Hogg, Thomas Jefferson, his _Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff_, ii. - 387-396 - - Homer, quoted, ii. 56, 62; - on Calamity, 80, 81; - the most admirable of all poets, 115; - quoted, 124, 126, 127 - - Horace, quoted, i. 105; ii. 275 - - Hume, on causation, i. 327 - - Hunt, Leigh, letters to, i. 381-391; - invited by Lord Byron to Italy, ii. 268; - letter to, 294-296, 317, 362, 364 - - - Kean, Edmund, ii. 293 - - Keats, John, his _Endymion_, ii. 322-324; - his sufferings, 323; - death of, 327 - - - Lafayette, words of, i. 262 - - Lamb, Charles, i. 384; ii. 295 - - Laplace, demonstration of, i. 319 - - Lausanne, i. 343 - - Lear, King, ii. 14 - - Lewis, M. G., his ghost stories, ii. 208-212 - - Livy, ii. 9; - description by, 256 - - Lloyd, Charles, ii. 295 - - Locke, on sensation, i. 327 - - Lucretius, quoted, i. 296 - - Luther, ii. 27 - - Lyttelton, Lord, ii. 210, 211, 212 - - - _Macbeth_, quoted, i. 47, 93, 273; ii. 21, 31, 375 - - Macchiavelli, on political institutions, ii. 17 - - Malthus, i. 280, 281; - Godwin’s answer to, ii. 232, 352; - a very clever man, 243 - - Marlow, ii. 223; - Shelley’s house at, 226 - - Marsyas, ii. 106, 107 - - Mellerie, i. 336, 337 - - Michael Angelo, i. 384, 385; - his Bacchus, 409 - - Milan Cathedral, ii. 225 - - Milton, death of, i. 370 - - Milton, his _Paradise Lost_ quoted, i. 146, 415; - stood alone, ii. 16; - his _Paradise Lost_, 25, 33; - quoted, 35 - - Mirabaud’s _Système de la Nature_, i. 326 - - Mont Blanc, i. 348 - - Moore, Thomas, ii. 339, 357, 358, 361 - - Music, ii. 70, 71 - - - Nerni, village of, described, i. 334 - - Newton, Sir Isaac, ii. 374 - - - Obscenity, blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, ii. 17 - - O’Neill, Miss, part of Beatrice Cenci fitted for, ii. 293 - - Oxford, reminiscence of, ii. 193 - - - Paine, Thomas, i. 278 - - Peacock, Thomas Love, letters to, ii. 221-229, 241-290, 291-293 - - Petrarch, ii. 40 - - Petronius, poetical description of, ii. 265 - - Plato, i. 421; - essentially a poet, ii. 7, 22, 24; - the greatest among the Greek philosophers, 48; - his Symposium, 232 - - Pliny quoted, i. 294 - - Pompeii, ii. 270-275 - - - _Queen Mab_, piratical republication of, ii. 328, 350 - - - Raphael, i. 384; - his St. Cecilia, ii. 252, 253 - - Ravenna, ii. 338 - - Reveley, Henry, letters to, ii. 299-301, 309-312, 325, 326 - - Richardson, Samuel, his _Grandison_ quoted, ii. 237 - - Rome, a city of the dead, ii. 261; - English burying-place at, 262 - - Rousseau, his _Julie_, i. 333, 337, 339-341, 343; - essentially a poet, ii. 30 - - - Schiller, his _Jungfrau von Orleans_, ii. 352 - - Scott’s _Lay of the Last Minstrel_ quoted, i. 47, 212; - _Marmion_ quoted, 100 - - Shakespeare, quoted, i. 384; - the greatest individual mind, ii. 40; - attribution to him of part of _The Two Noble Kinsmen_, 255 - - Shelley, Mrs., her _Frankenstein_, i. 417-419 - - Socrates, ii. 53-135, 381 - - Sophocles, ii. 317 - - Southey, Robert, Shelley’s visit to, at Keswick, ii. 295 - - Spinosa, quoted, i. 328 - - St. Gingoux, village of, i. 338 - - St. Peter’s, Rome, ii. 282, 283 - - Suetonius, quoted, i. 294 - - - Tasso, bold and true words of, ii. 35, 175; - manuscripts of, 246, 247 - - Terence, i. 409 - - Theocritus, ii. 19; - quoted, 291 - - Thomson, quoted, i. 77 - - Translation, vanity of, ii. 7 - - Tuberose, odour of the, ii. 17 - - - Vallière, Madame de la, ii. 214 - - Velino, cataract of the, ii. 257 - - Venice, i. 87, 88; ii. 241 - - Vesuvius, ii. 263, 265-267 - - Vevai, i. 343 - - Virgil, quoted, ii. 25; - his Sixth Æneid, 264 - - - Wellesley, Marquis, quotation from a speech of, ii. 369 - - Wieland, his novels, ii. 44 - - Wollstonecraft, Mary, her writings, i. 413 - - Wordsworth, i. 413; - quoted, ii. 206, 263, 353 - - - Yvoire, village of, i. 335 - - - - -END OF VOL. I. - - - _Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. - _Edinburgh and London_ - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -A number of typographical errors were corrected silently. - -Cover image is in the public domain. - -The chapter number jump from VIII(8) to X(10) in the Zastrossi -section is in the original text. - -Index was copied from Vol II of this work. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WORKS OF PERCY BYSSHE -SHELLEY [VOL. I OF II] *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |