of eternal salvation is dear to me, I will do all in my power to fulfil it—all, should it involve my state, my life, my honor! Tell me-relieve me from this torturetell me who it is I can save!' 'Lupo,' answered the maiden, sobbing. "Who? That vassal of the monastery of St. Ambrose, who has been condemned to capital punishment?' "Yes-he is son to my father's falconer, and brother to a favorite handmaiden of mine. Oh! if you could have seen them!' "Well, weep no more-Lupo is safe. I give him to you. Could I thus purchase with my blood one of those tears! Come. Ermelinda, Ermelinda! You make me rave! Bice, weep no more-Lupo shall not die!" "Do you say that he shall not die?' "Yes, I swear it, on my soul!' one of hers. What avails it to dissemble longer? Know, Bice, from the moment I first beheld you, my destiny was immutably fixed. I also await fearfully from your lips a sentence of life or death.' "The young girl trembled like an aspen leaf, and struggled to disengage herself. But Visconti, interrupting himself, as if suddenly struck by a new thought, which at that instant flashed upon his mind, relaxed his hold upon her hand, so that Bice could withdraw it, and with a startling change in his countenance, after a moment of silence, asked in a severe tone: ""Tell me, this Lupo, is he not squire to some one you mentioned to me just now?' "Yes, he is his squire.' "His?-whose?' "His-your cousin's-that cavalier's,' replied the maiden, who could not bring herself to utter the name. "Tell me, whose?' insisted he more eagerly. "Ottorino's,' answered Bice, her whole face crim "At these words the maiden sprang up, and rushed towards Visconti, to throw herself again, in a transport of gratitude, at his feet; but he, anticipating the motion, withheld her by force, and she, confused, agi-soning as she spoke. tated and palpitating, faint with excess of joy, sank "Now answer, as you would answer your confessor breathless into his arms. Marco's frame thrilled at the on a death-bed,' said Marco in a hollow and trembling touch of so dear a burthen, as he felt the grateful tears voice, 'was it to gratify him you came to ask of me of the lovely girl fall on his hand, and felt her heart Lupo's pardon?' beat against his agitated bosom. Half maddened with his passion, he stooped over, and kissed her fair forehead. Bice was conscious of the caress; but it disturbed her no more than would the kiss of a fatherand quietly disengaging herself, with her eyes yet red with weeping, on her face that still bore the traces of emotion, appeared the smile of joy. So after the rain, | breaks forth bright and clear the sunshine through the parting clouds, in the misty heaven of spring! "The hero was in the hand of a girl. Marco approached a table, and standing, wrote a few lines to the Abbot of St. Ambrose, confused expressions of entreaty, command and menace, signifying that he should instantly set at liberty that Lupo, of whom they had spoken a few days ago. Having secured the letter with a silken string, on which he placed his seal he wrote the superscription, and giving it to Bice, 'Let this be sent to the Abbot,' said he, 'and Lupo shall be restored to you.' "It was my father who came to ask it.' "This is no reply to my question. Tell me, on your life, was it he who urged you to this step?' "Yes, he besought my father, because he, being under your displeasure, could not succeed see 666 'Ah, you know all his secrets! and when did you him ?' "A few moments before we entered your palace.' "And you see him every day, do you not? and the promise-your promise which you have given him-tell me-was it from your heart? Are you his ?-speak— speak-in the name of God!' "Bice, in affright, remained silent. "No-I do not deny it,' faltered the maiden. 'We― are betrothed.' "Death and damnation!" exclaimed Marco, in a voice of suppressed rage; and snatching, while he spoke, the letter from Bice's hands, rushed up to her furiously, as if about to tear her in pieces. The poor girl felt her limbs totter, her sight failed, and she fell in "The Lord will reward you for having spared this innocent blood,' said the maiden, for the tears you have wiped away; his family will pray for you-a swoon upon the floor. ever-ever;' and she went towards the door. "Visconti stood a moment gazing on her sternly; "Bice,' said Marco, and he motioned her to remain, his hand grasped his dagger involuntarily, but he 'grant me yet a moment; you have time enough till | quickly relinquished it; placed the letter in the girdle to-morrow to send the letter. Listen, this night I depart on a long journey, but the remembrance of this hour-your remembrance-Bice-believe me, you will be always in my thoughts-' "And I too-will never forget the favor you have granted me. I too will pray for you; and to think I had such a dread of your presence-before; my mother told me so that you have a good and generous heart.' "Your mother does not hate me, then?-she has forgiven me;—and you, Bice, forgive me too?-you cannot hate me?' of the senseless girl, hastened from the apartment, and down a private staircase, till he reached a small interior court. Feeling at the moment a suffocating, frenzied desire of motion in the open air, he leaped upon the horse, which stood ready for his journey that night, and spurred him to his utmost speed along the first road that presented itself. One only among the many squires who were to accompany him, was in time to ride after his lord, and without being able to overtake him, followed at a distance. Such was the temper of that soul; at the first effervescence of passion, the present feeling overpowered every thought of the past and "I?-what do you say? My gratitude-my ho- the future, and absorbed him entirely. mage-' "Is not sufficient for me-is not what I ask of you!' exclaimed Visconti, taking between his trembling hands "He rode as if flying from a pursuing enemy; but his enemy was still behind him, clung to him, and left him neither peace nor a breathing space. "In his furious speed, in the midst of the darkness, | secret league with the Germans to betray the town, the feeling on his face the cool night breeze, which yielded governorship of which is promised him in case of suchim a feeling of something like refreshment, he conti- cess. This project, when all but successful, is defeated nued to rush on like a madman, hearing nothing around by the promptness and intrepidity of our friend Lupo, him but the trampling of his horse, and the whistling and the Germans are driven back. Lodrisio, disapof the air, that blew back the damp hair from his fore-pointed and enraged, betakes himself to other schemes head. of villainy. Ottorino and Bice are secretly married, "The noble steed, with the bridle loose, and bleed- with the consent of her parents, and set off for a castle ing flanks, rushed impetuously on, devouring the road belonging to him, which after a few days they design without perceiving it, galloping to the right, to the left, to leave for the Holy Land. They are overtaken on through unbeaten pathways, over fields, through mea- the way by a courier, bearing a letter signed by Marco, dows and thickets, leaping bushes, and ditches, and tor-couched in terms of kindness and contrition, expressing rents, at the risk of breaking his rider's neck against a | a desire to make amends for wrong done, and requesttree, or tumbling into some stream. The cavalier, who ing an interview with Ottorino alone at Castel Seprio, a in the rapidity of his course, and his impetuous bound-few miles distant. The young cavalier, who is anxious ings, felt some relief to the madness that tore his heart, to recover the favor of his kinsman, and is ignorant of ceased not to urge his horse forward with voice and what had passed between him and Bice, departs in spite spurs, which he had planted deep in the sides of the of her entreaties, promising to return in two hours. poor animal, and in a sort of delirium, was conscious After several hours have elapsed, his anxious bride only of a frantic desire to escape from all the world, sends Lupo in quest of him; and soon after a messenand plunge into oblivion." ger arrives, saying he is despatched from Ottorino to Lupo's scenes in the prison with Vinciquerra, and request she will proceed to Castelletto, the place of their his interview with his father Ambrose, who brings his destination, under his guidance, where her lord will join pardon, are admirable, but we have no room to notice her on the morrow. She is not destined, however, so them. We had also marked for extraction the descrip- soon to meet her lover. The letter was a forgery; the tion of the tournament, but must forego the pleasure of whole plot has been contrived by the villain Lodrisia presenting it to our readers, spirited as it is, from the and Pelagrua to get her into their power, hoping thereby same imperative want. All the nobility of the city are to obtain ascendancy over Marco. Instead of being present to honor this trial of martial skill. Ottorino is conducted to Castelletto, she is led to Rosate, a castle proclaimed victor of the field on the first day; Bice owned by Visconti, and under the charge of Pelagrua; hears of his honors, and is sufficiently recovered from there, deceived, she awaits from day to day the promised her indisposition to attend in company with her father arrival of Ottorino. Her parents, who visit Castelletto the day succeeding. An unknown knight, in complete believing here there, are desperate at her loss; no clue panoply of steel, with his visor down, and undistin- for her recovery is found, till Lupo, delivered from prison guished by any badge or device, appears on the field, through the agency of our old acquaintance Tremarides up to the shield of Ottorino, and instead of touch-coldo, informs the afflicted mother of the snare which ing it with his lance as was the custom, pulls down and had been laid for them. Ermelinda writes an appeal, reverses it; that being the greatest insult that could being letter to Marco, and commits it to the care of Lupo, offered a cavalier, and the signal of a challenge a tutto transito, or, as we say, a challenge to mortal combat. This scene, which is probably suggested by a similar one in Ivanhoe, is highly wrought; the stranger shows considerable emotion when Lupo sounds the war-cry of his master, which is echoed by all lips-Viva Marco Visconti! After nearly breaking his lance in a crevice, they begin the charge; Ottorino is overthrown and wounded severely-his life having only been saved by the breaking of the lance, which had been so providentially disabled before the beginning of the action. who, after narrowly escaping assassination on the road, traces Visconti from Lucca to Florence, and places the letter in his hands. The indignation of that cavalier at the fraud practised in his name, and his grief at the reflection that Ermelinda believes him guilty of the abduction of her daughter, know no bounds. He hastens to Milan, and is conducted by Lupo at night to the palace of the Count. We must make room for the interview between him and Ermelinda. "Marco having loosened his helmet, took it off and laid it on the table; then threw himself on a seat to Marco Visconti becomes master of Lucca, which city await the entrance of Ermelinda. Twenty-five years had recently belonged to Castruccio Castracani, his had passed since he had seen her; what changes, what friend. His bitter reflections on Castruccio's fate, and revolutions in both their fates from that time to this! that of his beggared family, whose inheritance he has How had he left her! How should he find her! With acquired, give us a deeper insight into the mind of this what courage sustain her look, which would reproach singular man. The sight of his friend's portrait poi-him for the death of a father and her present desolation, sons all the joy arising from the glory of conquest, the sight of his domain, and the shouts with which his vassals hail their new lord. Pelagrua, the factor who figured in the first chapters, arrives with letters from Milan; is questioned minutely concerning the family of the Count di Balzo, and from his patron's manifestations of extreme interest, divines the secret of his pas-white loose dress, with her hair simply arranged, but sion for Bice. The city of Milan is besieged by the Emperor Louis. Lodrisio, an unworthy kinsman of Marco, enters into a after so much love and so much virtue! "At every slight noise, every stirring of the air, every flitting shadow, he would exclaim, 'It is she!' and a cold shiver ran through all his frame. "But he remained not long in expectation; he saw the door open softly, and a female figure enter, in a without disorder. A faint color was in her cheeks, evidently brought there by some extraordinary agitation, and soon yielding to her usual paleness. In her eyes, swollen and red with weeping and long vigils, a ray of hope was seen, disturbed apparently, however, by some secret despondency. "Visconti was not at first certain that it was she; so much had years and, more than they, afflictions changed her; and though from her appearance in that place, from her evident emotion, he inferred that it could be no other than the mother of Bice, he was not sufficiently assured to address her. The lady, who had stopped some paces from him, frankly extended her hand, and with downcast eyes, asked, 'Is it you?' "It was the same sweet tone, the same gentle voice, whose melody had so often intoxicated his youth. He sprang to his feet as if bewildered, almost in awe, and fixed his astonished eyes once more upon her face, as if seeking and hoping to find in that moment of surprise, the same beauty, the same enchanting loveliness that had been so many years the light of his existence; whose remembrance alone had inspired him with his passion for Bice-but the next instant, in returning consciousness, he dropped his eyes once more on the ground, and stood in troubled silence. "Is it you?' continued Ermelinda, in accents of deep yet calm sorrow, 'come in person to restore me life? The Lord will reward you for this work of mercy. I said it ever in my heart, when he knows the misery he has caused, he cannot hold out against it-for he is noble and generous.' blinded my judgment. Oh! could I have laid a crown at her feet! have made her the arbitress of my fate! There was a moment in which I tasted the sweetness of such a hope, and in that moment I was lost; the secret poison ran through my veins, and rushed like a torrent through my heart. When I was assured that the maiden was already pledged to another, it was too late; the wound was incurable. I will not tell you by what long and bitter grief I was led to the madness of meditating the death of my kinsman, my noble, generous friend! I shudder yet when I reflect that I was on the point of imbruing in his blood this hand, which he has so often clasped with the warm respectful affection of a son !' "You speak of Ottorino ?' "Yes. The unknown cavalier who encountered him with murderous arms on the day of the tournament, was he who now stands before you.' "The Countess mildly raised her eyes to Visconti's face, and was about to speak; but he went on with still increasing vehemence: 'No-first hear all. You know at that time I was obliged to leave this place; well, in departing I left behind an iniquitous command ; I enjoined it on a villain that he should prevent the marriage of that youth with your daughter. My gold in his hands bought a traitor in your very house, among your most confidential domestics. But I repeat it, Ermelinda, I did not command the carrying off of Bice, nor had the least knowledge of it—but the wretch to whom I gave so infamous a charge, probably took courage to go even to that extreme. In any case I am a miserable-dishonored "Marco at these words, moved with strong emotion, sympathy for her sufferings, and filled with confusion and self-loathing, waved his hand angrily, at which motion the Countess started in dismay. 'I noble? I generous?' cried he with faltering voice; 'for pity, Er- "No, no, Marco; I pray you do not use such lanmelinda, cease this cruel mockery. I-I am a wretch-guage; it becomes you not; he cannot be depraved a madman-most unhappy; but not so utterly depraved that I feel it not that I find not consolation in confess ing it-in confessing it to you who feels such deep remorse for his fault. The tempest of your passions might draw you from the right path, but the heart of Marco, I am sure,-I never doubted it, the heart of Marco was never base.' "Oh, my consoling angel!' exclaimed Marco, quite softened, 'what a balm for me are your words! Ermelinda, Ermelinda! had you been ever at my side, my "Oh! talk not so; God forgive you; I have already forgiven you; the joy you make me feel in this moment, compensates for past anguish. Now, tell me, where is my child? when shall I see her again?' "Have you not then succeeded in gaining intelli-light and guide in the gloomy and joyless path of life, gence of her by means of the minstrel who was sent to trace her?' asked Marco, eagerly. "At this the Countess seemed suddenly disconcerted; a cloud came over her face, which had been lighted with hope; she looked into Visconti's face, then answered hesitatingly: 'The minstrel, do you say? No -he has never appeared. But you-do you ask of me' and she could not go on. "I understand you, Ermelinda,' said her companion. 'You believe that I caused the abduction of Bice; but it is not so. Know "O God! what do I hear!-where is she then? Marco, forgive me; I do not question your word, but did you not just now yourself confess it. And I have long known, too, your feelings towards my unhappy child.' "Listen to me,' said Visconti, looking down like a culprit, and speaking in a slow and faltering voice, which became from time to time broken with agitation; 'listen to me, Ermelinda. It is true, I loved your daughter; I loved her with a frantic passion. It was your image impressed on her features, your spirit that seemed transfused into hers, that charmed me, and my days had passed tranquil and innocent, full of the joys of conjugal and parental love! now in the decline of years, would the past have to bear the grievous weight of such wanderings! You do not believe me depraved? I thank you, Ermelinda, I thank you! Since you say it, even I will believe myself not utterly so. How could a heart be quite corrupted, which ever burns with the flame kindled by your angelic loveliness and virtue. Yes, Ermelinda, I believe it, believe it for your sake, that I am yet less guilty than unhappy.' "The Countess hid her face in her hands and wept silently, Now I am all yours,' continued Marco, in accents of still deeper feeling. 'Could my blood make atonement for what you have suffered, how willingly would I shed it, even to the last drop! I will seek for Bice to give her back to you; to make her happy in the husband of her choice; I will find Ottorino, this shall be my care, and bestow on him with my own hand the bride I envied him. His happiness shall stand in account against the ills I have made him suffer; against my long and harsh ingratitude to so much devotion and fidelity. I shall not be at peace till I see you all I something she could not distinctly utter. Her mother happy; till I have dragged into the light this secret iniquity.' "Here he paused a moment and fixed his eyes on the face of the Countess, who was still weeping; then grasping his dagger, exclaimed in furious tones, 'Let the villains tremble who have to render account for those tears! Wo, wo to them all! Hear me, Ermelinda, if I should have to tear them one by one from the altar, I swear to you-I swear by hell "Nay, Marco,' interrupted the Countess, lifting up her head with a gentle dignity, 'let not blasphemy be heard from christian lips. How can you hope the Lord will bless the work of mercy to which you have devoted yourself, if it be undertaken with revenge in your heart? What trust can I place in the deeds of one who has not God with him?' "'You are an angel,' exclaimed Visconti, 'and I-I am only a wretch. Now away; before the dawn, I shall be at my castle of Rosate; to-morrow's sun shall see your wishes fulfilled. Adieu.'" guessed her thoughts, and turning to the young man : "Yet one petition your bride has bequeathed you,' continued the priest, 'that you lay aside, if your heart ever cherished them, all thoughts of revenging her death. Vengeance belongeth unto God.' "Her eyes were fixed anxiously on the countenance of the young man, who stood in silence with his head dropped on his breast; but the confessor seeing his irresolution, took him by the arm-'Come!' he demanded in a grave and severe tone, 'Will you promise it? Will you promise it to her who, on the last step between life and death, between time and eternity, asks it of you as a grace, imposes it on you as a duty, in the name of that God before whom she is about to appear?' But the good resolutions of Marco are too late. After "Yes-I promise it!' answered Ottorino, bursting much search, Bice is found insensible in a vault of the into passionate tears. Bice thanked him with a look castle of Rosate, where with her faithful maiden Lau-full of angelic sweetness, signifying clearly that she retta, she had wandered in endeavoring to escape. She is brought into her chamber and restored to the embraces of her parents, but her protracted sufferings have proved too much for her feeble frame. Her last scenes with her friends are simple and pathetic. The following account of her death cannot fail to give our readers a favorable impression of the powers of our author: "But on a sudden the profound quiet that reigned in those apartments was broken by the noise of hasty footsteps ascending the stairs; the keeper's wife arose, and met at the entrance two persons who were earnestly exchanging a few words. One of the two paused at the door; the other rushed into the chamber, flung himself on his knees at the bed-side, and grasping and kissing the drapery, watered it with his tears. Ermelinda, the Count and Lauretta recognised Ottorino; the rest knew it could be no other. "The young man had just arrived from the castle of Binasco, accompanied by him in whose name he had been made prisoner, and who had hastened in person to liberate him. "The dying girl, disturbed by the sudden confusion, opened her eyes languidly, and without being able to discover the cause, those standing around intercepting her sight, asked what it was. ""Give thanks to God,' said the confessor, tenderly; 'you have taken the bitter cup at his hands; have taken it with peace and gratitude; with the same spirit receive now the joy he offers you, that both may contribute to the welfare of your soul.' had nothing further to desire in this world. "The priest then made sign to those around, and as they knelt, resumed the interrupted prayers. Only in a moment of suspense and universal silence, the expiring girl heard a sound of suppressed sobbing, that came from the adjoining chamber, and lifting her eyes feebly to her mother's face, seemed to ask who was there. The Countess hid her face between her hands, for she could no longer command herself to articulate a word; but the priest bending over the dying, said in a low tone, 'Pray also for him, chiefly for him; it is Marco Visconti.' The maiden gently inclined her head to signify that she did so, and was not seen to raise it again; she was dead." The other personages of the tale are soon disposed of. Marco, in his vindictive pursuit of Lodrisio, is betrayed by him, through false accusations sent to Azzo Visconti, into the power of the latter, by whose servants he is basely murdered. The last chapter closes with a lament or sirvente on the death of this celebrated chief. Bice is buried at Limonta, where the Count and Countess continue to reside. Ottorino departs for the Holy Land. Our extracts from these volumes have been tolerably copious, and we trust have convinced the reader that Marco Visconti is a production of no ordinary merit. Grossi, the author, has been some years known in Italy by his poetical works, La Fuggitiva, I Lombardi alla prima Orociata, and Ildegonda. The latter is a touching story in verse, illustrating the evils of bigotry and ambition. But it needed not his previous reputation to account for the high popularity of this novel. The incidents are abundant, and succeed each other natu"It is your husband,' replied the priest, and turning rally, contributing ever to the developement of the plot, to the youth he raised and led him nearer the bed. as well as the illustration of individual or national chaBice fixed on his countenance her eyes, in which gleam-racter. The domestic details are most skilfully blended ed the last rays of life, and stretched out her hand, over which he bent his face, agonized yet no longer tearful. After an instant, the dying girl drew the hand feebly towards her, and looked up at him, signing at the same time to her mother, and striving apparently to say "What-Ottorino?" asked the invalid, making a last effort to pronounce the name. with incidents of political interest. The dialogue is spirited and natural; and this is a rare merit in Italian novelists. The exhibition of the manners of the times, and the pictures of persons and ceremonies, are graphic without being too minute. It is a fault with many wriVOL. III.-19 ters of this class, that the interest is frequently sus | pended, and the reader detained, to attend to some trifling description of dress or scene. We have here no occasion to complain. To crown all, this work is full of character. Marco has all the interest of reality; bold and generous, but self-willed, ambitious and haughty, his actions arise from blended motives. His disappointments excite our sympathy, and his nobleness frequently commands our admiration. Even in the depths of his remorse and self-humiliation, he preserves the dignity that adorned his power. Ottorino is a highspirited youth, full of loyal devotion for his cousin and the protector of his childhood, who, even in the midst of his jealous hatred, knows him too noble for any act of treachery. The Count is weak and over cautious; and his contemptible selfishness is well contrasted with the firmness and noble-minded dignity of Ermelinda. Bice is a lovely creation; ingenuous, affectionate and high-minded, she has no care on earth but her attachment to her parents and her passionate love for Ottorino. The minor personages are not less strongly marked. Lupo, who has indeed a right to be called the hero of the tale, is drawn with a pen worthy of Scott. The numerous individuals besides these, entitled to notice, are described with masterly touches, and show that our author did not lavish his skill upon one or two favorite characters. We are far from imagining that, by our brief and imperfect outline of this story, we have lessened its interest to our readers; so rich is the book in interesting incident and description. Will not some admirer of Italian literature present it to the public in an English dress? Superior to most of the novels of the present day, in this country and England, and not as yet surpassed by any in Italy, we are confident the success of a translation would well reward such an enterprize, and therefore recommend it to the attention of the scholar. ON READING THE "PAUL AND VIRGINIA" Of St. Pierre. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Whence those portentous sounds Do yon wild sea-birds fly? Why doth he roam the beach and bend the anxious car? Haste lofty Ship! with banners proudly streaming, Thou, who dost bear in beauty brightly beaming From Gallia's shore to that lone isle returning, In lingering gold a tropic sun is burning; Where from the rock the silvery fount is springing, And touch the bamboo-tops with flame, Red lightning's pierce the sky, And Ocean's depths reply. The Ship! The Ship!-she foils the gazer's eye, Plunging 'neath the surges proud, And then her rent sails quivering fly Above the cleaving cloud, Wild o'er her deck the breakers roar Tossing their vengeful crests. Dark Storm! what wilt Save thou more? Come to the sounding beach, for she is there where the sea-weed its damp mesh hath braided; The rose-leaf on her cheek hath faded Where are those visions bright Rest, gentle Voyager! thy dirge is swelling, And sad the mournful train Unclose for thee that narrow dwelling Where tempests beat in vain. Fast by that hallowed fane Where in pure prayer was bow'd thine infant head Thy virgin grave is spread: Fragrant blossoms deck the bier, And o'er thy turf-crown'd bed flows forth Affection's tear. Yet one there is, with years and sorrows bent, Wither'd the plants, their garden's cherish'd pride, All, all are gone!-Yet weep not, thou whose eye Beyond this changeful sky Scanneth the mansions of the blest, Where the earth-chasten'd and the pure ones rest, Safe from the surging sea, the tempest's breath, O'er whose dark mountain tops and shadowy vales The pang of pining love, or ruthless shaft of death. |