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Title: The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley [Vol. I of II]
Author: Shelley, Percy Bysshe
Language: English
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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.
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