To deeds of useless cruelty descend? The embrace of noble love? Arrigo. Leoniero! An hundred fold will wrath be wrought against thee. Our father promised safety. Arrigo. Cease, father, cease! Thy sorrow may infect I do not violate, these tears are lawful. If thou inexorable dost demand A victim, give, O give back to his children Arrigo. No-never! Enzo! Enzo. Immutable my sentence: wo if thou Uggero. My lord, your father hath besought me He mounted; thence beheld the axe that menaced Somewhat can proffer, shall secure the safety Enzo. What would he say? Can he prevail (to the Count) Is it not noble victory, to my power (soldiers on the walls drag forward Enzo's hostages) Soldiers. Death-death! Hostages. To thy presence, Enzo, by hostile fury we are dragged. Is this the virtue, armed in which, but now Leoniero. Dost thou not homage to such minds? My son, Enzo. Sire, to Auberto Leoniero. Pity thyself: my soul A fearful fate; nor is that future distant. Now deprecate the wrath of Heaven. Its mandate Enzo. Open those gates to me, or the first sound Voices. Enzo. Ha! Sounds his knell ! (bell sounds) Leoniero. Enzo! Have pity! 'Tis in vain! Oh Heaven, I cannot save without it. Hear, Auberto, To the new lord obedience! Auberto and others. Obedience Auberto. Since vain my prayer has been for a son's life, Brave warriors! With unmerited disdain Enzo, behold thy friends! We slay! One of the Hostages. Have pity! say what crime toward thee Have we committed, that to such a fate We are betrayed! Ubaldo, Berengario Enzo. Who are my friends, Who traitors, I discern not. This, Corrado, Is this thy faith? Thus hath thy kinsman opened Auberto. Unworthy calumny! Leoniero-Ha! he comes. Can it be so? His face, so wan indeed, and mien deject Bespeak him changed. Ghielmo. Auberto, no! High thoughts He sure revolves! SCENE IV. To them enter Leoniero and Eloisa. His squadrons fly! Soldiers (from the castle.) Victory! Auberto. (rushing forward) My son-thou here! I clasp thee once again! Where is the hero, Leoniero. Fled is the foe--my country saved--and I- I have done all I could! This blood--the blood Of a monster--but that monster was my son! I slew him--and I weep--and cannot hate him! Leoniero. If thou once didst hate, Auberto, Arrigo. O noble, lofty spirit! Thy virtue further!" Is there one can measure It might have been extended-where it ceased? With dread and reverence o'erpowered, thou leav'st us! Prostrate he fall-brand ye his name with sloth? There is none on the earth can equal thee! When his breath fails, say ye--" Yet other rocks Herodias. To die in shame! Audacious! bold! Herodias. After the murder of Zephora, tortured by the upbraid. ing of a guilty conscience, the queen sends again for the Prophet, to implore peace at his hands, though she is unwilling quite to renounce her sins; he on his part, thunders forth no maledictions upon her head; even his rebuke breathes the mild spirit of the religion of love. When she confesses the deed to which her fury has impelled her, he involuntarily utters an exclamation of abhorrence. Though the incidents of this piece are chiefly of a political nature, interest is excited for the feelings of Eloisa and the father. But the sacrifice he makes in immolating his son, if it does not revolt us, is hardly fit for exhibition when the scene is laid in an age so nearly resembling our own in the influence of religion and public sentiment. The slaughter of a son by a Roman parent for the good of his country may compel our admiration; but such outrages upon nature are more fit to be marvelled at in history than used for the pur-It was imposedposes of tragedy. The same objection does not apply to the catastrophe of Esther d'Engaddi, another of Pellico's dramas, though it is even more harrowing to the Than live in guilt. feelings; her despair is perfectly natural, when hopeless of vindicating herself by other means, she drinks of the poisoned cup proposed as a test of her innocence. The Herodiad contains much finer poetry and more pathos than the preceding tragedies; much has been made of an apparently unpromising subject. The character of Herodias is one of those mixtures of good and ill, the one principle perpetually struggling with and overpowering the other, which are so well adapted to the purposes of the drama; with a powerful mind, disposed to virtue by the influence of early habits, she is under the dominion of a haughty and ambitious temper, excited by her absorbing passion for Herod, who possesses not half her strength of intellect. Zephora, the rightful spouse of the king, had been driven from the court to make room for her rival, who had also abandoned her own husband. Herodias, influenced by the remonstrances of John the Baptist, and the persuasions of the virtuous Anna, her friend and confidant, who had become a convert to christianity, is at one time induced to leave the court of Herod; and the queen Zephora, who comes to render herself a hostage for the security of Herod against her native tribes, is received by the king. Herodias, however, who had been insulted by the populace on quitting the palace, soon returns to dispute her place with Zephora, and at length, wrought to madness by jealousy and rage, stabs the unhappy queen, ordering one of the guards to conceal the body. She is now quite abandoned to the dominion of her passions, which hurry her to destruction. The conflict of emotions in her breast is evident throughout the play, yet it is skilfully managed. In the festival scene, where her daughter dances before the king, and pleases him so that he engages to grant whatever she shall ask, even to the half of his kingdom-the wretched queen is tortured by contending passions, which are inexplicable to the mind of Herod. She now craves music; now drives the singers from her presence with maniac execrations. With the Prophet her madness for a time is quelled; she submits to reproof from his lips, and condescends to vindicate herself. The following reply to his remonstrance against her desertion of her lawful husband, is characteristic. Herodias. Patience 'mid insults had I not? Who then Shall dare to say to me-"Thou should'st have urged John. Monster! Herodias. 'Tis not for thee John. There is indeed a bound, which past, excludes And I Renounce it not. Console me; oh extinguish Herodias. I will. Amend. But hence hypocrisy-a heart's deceit That hopes to hide itself from God, and form say to thee, That throned at Herod's side, even as before, Herodias. No reformation is there-none-for me! Now know I all. Expect the axe!-He goes Tranquil to death-and I who slay him-tremble! Herodias then instructs her daughter to claim as her promised boon from the King, the head of John. Herod grants it reluctantly, but would stipulate for the safety of Zephora; and is horror struck at the story of her death. Then comes the punishment. The daughter of Herodias is struck dead in her mother's arms, who reproaches the King as the cause of her crimes and misfortunes. Herod. Remove her from the cruel sight. Is yet more horrible than death. Accursed This is terror-frenzy! Alas! with her own desperate hands she tears Her streaming hair! Help! help! Herod! our names The finger of the Lord hath blotted out! Herodias. The of a character adapted to the romantic school. last dramatic production from the pen of Silvio Pellico which has reached this country is Thomas More, of which we have left ourselves but brief space to speak. It is almost, if not altogether, a failure. The representation of the historical personages of the Court of Henry VIII. in a piece in which not the slightest local or na tional coloring is preserved, has a singularly feeble effect on minds familiar with the graphic power of the English dramatists. With this association the scenes are unusually bald and desolate; the characters, which might have been Italians or Greeks for ought appearing to the contrary, save in their names, (and those have a Tuscan twist,) walk through the chill desert of their parts with more than classic monotony. Not that we believe Pellico could have succeeded, even had he attempted the task, in exhibiting a faithful picture of the manners of that court and those times, or in painting English character; we simply regard it as unfortunate that he should ever have thought of writing a drama on a subject in our history. Alfieri's Maria Stuarda ought to have been a warning to deter him from such an effort. The chief business of the piece in question is to exhibit the integrity and virtue of More, the fallen Chancellor, and victim of tyranny, through trials and persecutions. These, of course, avail nothing to turn him from the path of duty; and the reader, foreseeing from the beginning the certain catastrophe, is conducted by slow steps through the play, as through a long avenue of cypresses terminating with a scaffold. An effort is indeed made, in the last Act, to divert attention by exciting hopes of a deliverance, but it is fecbly effected. The historical answer of More to his enemies is preserved; "As St. Paul, who took part in the murder of Stephen, is with the martyr in heaven, so may you, my judges, and I, be saved alike in the mercy of the Lord." Pellico does not want energy, but he lacks that concentration of sentiment and passion which is one of the greatest merits in dramatic poetry. His style is two diffuse; his eloquence, though graceful, often devoid of boldness and vehemenee. No striking imagery is to be found in his pages, though such is the genuine and universal language of emotion. He never labors to produce effect by a single sentence. Yet he excels his contemporaries and most of his predecessors in the delineation of feeling, and in the interest imparted to his dramas; especially in the expression of tender emotions. All with him is unaffected and simple; and his faults are rather deficiencies than offences against nature and taste. Had he studied to give a local interest to his pieces, and appreciated the advantages of a knowledge of the scene and times, his success might have been unbounded. Man may be man when stripped of costume, but he is not man as we know him and as he moves in the world; nor is any thing gained by removing from our view those external circumstances which so universally influence his character and actions. Sir John Hill, who passed for the translator of Swammerdan's work on insects, understood not a word of Dutch. He was to receive 50 guincas for the translation, and bargained with another translator for 25—this other being in a like predicament paid a third person Thus ends this tragedy; which in energy and character is not inferior to the best of our author's compositions. The chief personage bears some resemblance to the Saul of Alfieri, and has, like him, the ingredients | 12 pounds for the job. MONODY On the Death of Mrs. Susan G. Blanchard, wife of Lieut. A. G. Blanchard, of the United States Army, and only Sister of the Sister! they've laid thee in the silent earth! And many suns have set upon thy grave- I was not there-to catch thy parting breath! Yet Sister! I shall weep, till grief will dim Mem'ry shall haunt thee! wheresoe'er I go— And thy pure sainted image shall be mine I would my weary spirit were with thine For Susan! I shall cling to life, no more-- Perchance that angel spirit hovers nigh And on the wintry air whispers—that I Weeping, I grasp at this ephem❜ral dream, And dedicate my breaking heart, oh Grief! A CONTRAST, BY PAULINA. It was a calm autumnal evening. The late bright green that had clothed the forests, had given place to a rich and almost endless variety of colors. In other lands the fairy pencillings of fancy may have pictured beauties like these, but in our own American woods there is a charm art and genius may strive in vain to imitate or describe. And who is it that can gaze on such a scene without a soft, delicious melancholy? It has a voice to the contemplative mind impressive yet sweet. The rustling of the fallen leaves-the murmur of the breeze through the thinly clad boughs—the gay and almost magic hues of the richly variegated foliage—more lovely as it approaches more nearly to its fall-all conspire to still the troubled passions of the mind-to elevate the spirit above the transitory things of time, and remind us of the solemn truth, that all the beauties and pleasures of this world are fleeting as the summer flower-transient as the splendor of an autumn wood. Ten years had passed since last I stood beneath the lofty oaks that cast their shade over the silent sepulchres of the dead. Tired of the greetings of friends and gaze of strangers, I sought the spot where rested the ashes of those that once had been among the friends of my youth. I strolled from tomb to tomb, and sought on the pages of memory the history of many I had once known and loved, but often did I inquire of my companion, to gather more fully the recollection which time had partially obscured. At length a simple, yet elegant tomb attracted my attention. Near it stood one of an impos ing appearance, in which art and munificence seemed to have exerted their skill, to make it tower above the rest. On the first was this simple, but affecting inscrip tion SACRED To the memory of On living tablets of the heart, Then seek not on the works of art, It bore no dates, but was evidently recently erected. The name I did not recognize, but the tender, unpretending inscription, sensibly touched my heart, and I felt a strong desire to know the history of her whose virtues needed no external record. My friend read my feelings, and immediately drew my attention to the next tomb-stone. It bore a long list of lineage, beauty, amiability, &c. &c. and as I read the long and beautiful detail, I almost questioned the justice of Omnipotence in thus snatching, in early life, from mortal gaze, so pure, so beautiful a pattern of every female grace and excellence. "Only twenty-four," I exclaimed," and yet so highly exalted, so much beloved." My friend smiled archly and remarked, “Have you seen so much of the world and not yet learned that real merit rarely has loud trumpeters?" Her manner surprised me, and I inquired the meaning. It is too late now, said she, to enter into the narrative about which you feel so much interested; to-morrow I will relate the history of both these women, whose tombs are not more strikingly dif ferent than were their lives and characters. United in life by a strange destiny, or rather by strange circumstances, it is fit that their last dwellings should be near each other, and that their monuments, like their characters, should stand forth in striking contrast. Matilda Clayton was the only daughter of the poor widow who removed to this village a short time before you left here, and who for years has taught the village school. Perhaps you remember the interest her coming gave to all the lovers of mystery in our circle. She was dressed in black. Her child was about twelve or fourteen; beautiful as a fairy, and seemingly a visitor from some etherial sphere—so delicate, so gentle was her every glance and movement. They brought with them an elegant harp and guitar, and two richly painted portraits. Of their characters or former home, nothing could be gathered. She rented that house which you see among those lofty oaks, and furnished it in a style of neat simplicity and taste. Soon after she came, she issued proposals for a school, but few at first seemed disposed to patronize her; and though curiosity was strongly manifested to know who and what she was, all that could be gathered was the assertion that she was the widow of an officer, whose untimely death had left her friendless, and induced her, to seek among strangers, a home and support. Months passed by, and her correct deportment-the pure elegance of her manners, and her various accomplishments, gained her the good-will and confidence of some of the leading characters in the village, by whose influence a considerable number of scholars was soon procured. Among her friends and patrons was Mr. Wilton; and his daughter Clara, then about the age of Matilda, was the first committed to | Matilda was admired-beloved. Many sought her soher care. Soon did the widow and her daughter engage the affections of the scholars, and a great intimacy took place between Matilda and Clara. The Wiltons were wealthy, and their influence great; yet, notwithstanding their efforts to induce Mrs. Clayton to mingle with society, she and Matilda remained secluded from all the gaieties and pleasures of the village. Often did their acquaintances stroll to the cottage to listen to their sweet voices as they sung to their instruments; and never shall I forget the tender tears I shed as I stood one moonlight evening near the lattice, and heard the widow play and sing these touching lines: How hard it is with calmness to survey, The scenes which memory bringeth to my view; ciety-she treated all with that amiable politeness which springs from a pure heart: but few could gain her confidence or tempt her from that deep retirement she had learned to love. Clara still loved Matilda. Though fashion, folly, show and pleasure had filled her mind, still she often left the bustle of gay life, to spend an hour in that quiet, lovely spot, where she had spent her happiest days. Often did she strive to enlist Matilda under the banners of her leading pleasures, but she strove in vain. When crossed or afflicted at any real or imaginary loss, she told her the troubles that annoyed her; and often did Matilda point out the transitory nature of her favorite joys, and point her unsatisfied heart to the only foun tain of perfect bliss. Clara had many admirers, and frequently had the cottage been visited in her evening rambles by her and her friends, to listen to the elegant performance of its inmates, while Clara often joined the concert with her own clear and highly cultivated voice. Among the number who had thus become known to Matilda, was James Williams, long an ardent admirer and evident favorite of Miss Wilton's. Long had he solicited her hand, but she would not decide his fate. Almost constantly with her, he had From wealth's high summit, when the wretch is hurled, imagined her necessary to his happiness, and so long Alone they're left their misery to deplore: But conscious virtue will our solace be- And to our God our evening hymn we'll raise, The widow's spouse-the orphan's friend we'll praise, had been kept in a feverish excitement of love, and hope, and doubt, that he scarcely cared to have his case permanently fixed. Believing himself beloved, he ra ther enjoyed than disliked her frequent changes of deportment towards him, and had not yet learned that there was a deep and holy feeling meant by love, that he had never yet enjoyed. shackled, and how to break his bonds he knew Only one means presented itself, and that was to urge Clara to a decided and immediate step relative to him. She, unsuspecting his motive, and believing his happiness in her power, rejected him, vainly expecting to hear renewed declarations of affection, and to witness a sorrow and despair which she would, ere long, turn into hope and gladness. But he saw Matilda. Again and again he repaired Even now I almost fancy I can hear her sweet tremu-to the cottage, and ere he knew that he was in danlous voice, as it rose on the silent evening breeze, and ger, he found himself completely enslaved by the artstill I seem to gaze on that lovely, though pallid face, as less, lovely manners, and rich and highly cultivated with tearful uplifted eye she sang those last lines of ten-mind of her who never thought of conquest. But he der heart-touching piety and faith. But I have wander-was ed from my narrative. Years rolled by, and still the wi-not. dow's school increased, and with it love and respect for her and her daughter. Clara Wilton had been the constant companion of the latter for near three years, and her proficiency in both solid and ornamental branches of education should have satisfied even her ambitious parents. But the fashionable error that a young lady's education could never be completed at home, had found its way here, and Clara, with others, was removed from Mrs. Clayton's maternal care, to mix with strangers, careless of their principles, and uninterested in their happiness. But, like the captive bird, who after weeks of imprisonment finds the door of his cage unbarred, he exulted in his newly gained liberty, and with delightful speed burst asunder every tie that bound him to his captor, and sought again those joys which he had feared were lost to him forever. Clara loved him, if the heart of a that in the lowly Matilda she could find a rival, and that too, in the only heart whose worship she had ever really valued. But in his speaking countenance she read that her rejection gave no pain, nor was she long in discovering the cause of his alienated affections. Clara was You, who have known the course pursued in fashionable boarding schools-you who have seen the disap-gay unthinking girl could love. Little had she dreamed pointed hopes-the perverted minds-the corrupted hearts which have been the result of injudicious plans of education, will not wonder when I tell you that the artless, affectionate Clara returned home, after two years polish, an altered, a sadly altered being. Matilda was now assisting her mother in the duties of the school-now awoke from more sleeps than one-she had awoke room. That budding beauty which in childhood charmed, was mellowed, refined, by the graces and dignity of the woman. That quiet spirit, whose benign influence had been felt by so many in the morning of life, now shed its purifying influence in a more extended circle. from confidence in love, to prove that she had been bewildered with an ignis fatuus; her feelings of resentment, envy and revenge, which had slumbered so long, were now aroused and glowed with the intensity of a long smothered flame. VOL. II-99 |