Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net
GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1848. NO. 5.
THE BRIDE OF FATE.
A TALE: FOUNDED UPON EVENTS IN THE EARLY HISTORY OF VENICE.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
It was a glad day in Venice. The eve of the feast of the Purification
had arrived, and all those maidens of the Republic, whose names had
been written in the "Book of Gold," were assembled with their parents,
their friends and lovers--a beautiful and joyous crowd--repairing, in
the gondolas provided by the Republic, to the church of San Pietro de
Castella, at Olivolo, which was the residence of the Patriarch. This
place was on the extreme verge of the city, a beautiful and isolated
spot, its precincts almost without inhabitants, a ghostly and small
priesthood excepted, whose grave habits and taciturn seclusion seemed
to lend an additional aspect of solitude to the neighborhood. It was,
indeed, a solitary and sad-seeming region, which, to the thoughtless
and unmeditative, might be absolutely gloomy. But it was not the less
lovely as a place suited equally for the picturesque and the
thoughtful; and, just now, it was very far from gloomy or solitary.
The event which was in hand was decreed to enliven it in especial
degree, and, in its consequences, to impress its characteristics on
the memory for long generations after. It was the day of St. Mary's
Eve--a day set aside from immemorial time for a great and peculiar
festival. All, accordingly, was life and joy in the sea republic. The
marriages of a goodly company of the high-born, the young and the
beautiful, were to be celebrated on this occasion, and in public,
according to the custom. Headed by the Doge himself, Pietro Candiano,
the city sent forth its thousands. The ornamented gondolas plied
busily from an early hour in the morning, from the city to Olivolo;
and there, amidst music and merry gratulations of friends and kindred,
the lovers disembarked. They were all clad in their richest array.
Silks, which caught their colors from the rainbow, and jewels that had
inherited, even in their caverns, their beauties from the sun and
stars, met the eye in all directions. Wealth had put on all its
riches, and beauty, always modest, was not satisfied with her
intrinsic loveliness. All that could delight the eye, in personal
decorations and nuptial ornaments, was displayed to the eager gaze of
curiosity, and, for a moment, the treasures of the city were
transplanted to the solitude and waste.
But gorgeous and grand as was the spectacle, and joyous as was the
crowd, there were some at the festival, some young, throbbing hearts,
who, though deeply interested in its proceedings, felt any thing but
gladness. While most of the betrothed thrilled only with rapturous
anticipations that might have been counted in the strong pulsations
that made the bosom heave rapidly beneath the close pressure of the
virgin zone, there were yet others, who felt only that sad sinking of
the heart which declares nothing but its hopelessness and desolation.
There were victims to be sacrificed as well as virgins to be made
happy, and girdled in by thousands of the brave and goodly--by golden
images and flaunting banners, and speaking symbols--by music and by
smiles--there were more hearts than one that longed to escape from
all, to fly away to some far solitude, where the voices of such a joy
as was now present could vex the defrauded soul no more. As the fair
procession moved onward and up through the gorgeous avenues of the
cathedral to the altar-place, where stood the venerable Patriarch in
waiting for their coming, in order to begin the solemn but grateful
rites, you might have marked, in the crowding column, the face of one
meek damsel, which declared a heart very far removed from hope or
joyful expectation. Is that tearful eye--is that pallid cheek--that
lip, now so tremulously convulsed--are these proper to one going to a
bridal, and that her own? Where is her anticipated joy? It is not in
that despairing vacancy of face--not in that feeble, faltering, almost
fainting footstep--not, certainly, in any thing that we behold about
the maiden, unless we seek it in the rich and flaming jewels with
which she is decorated and almost laden down; and these no more
declare for her emotions than the roses which encircle the neck of
the white lamb, as it is led to the altar and the priest. The fate of
the two is not unlike, and so also is their character. Francesca Ziani
is decreed for a sacrifice. She was one of those sweet and winning,
but feeble spirits, which know how to submit only. She has no powers
of resistance. She knows that she is a victim; she feels that her
heart has been wronged even to the death, by the duty to which it is
now commanded; she feels that it is thus made the cruel but unwilling
instrument for doing a mortal wrong to the heart of another; but she
lacks the courage to refuse, to resist, to die rather than submit. Her
nature only teaches her submission; and this is the language of the
wo-begone, despairing glance--but one--which she bestows, in passing
up the aisle, upon one who stands beside a column, close to her
progress, in whose countenance she perceives a fearful struggle,
marking equally his indignation and his grief.
Giovanni Gradenigo was one of the noblest cavaliers of Venice--but
nobleness, as we know, is not always, perhaps not often, the
credential in behalf of him who seeks a maiden from her parents. He
certainly was not the choice of Francesca's sire. The poor girl was
doomed to the embraces of one Ulric Barberigo, a man totally destitute
of all nobility, that alone excepted which belonged to wealth. This
shone in the eyes of Francesca's parents, but failed utterly to
attract her own. She saw, through the heart's simple, unsophisticated
medium, the person of Giovanni Gradenigo only. Her sighs were given to
him, her loathings to the other. Though meek and finally submissive,
she did not yield without a remonstrance, without mingled tears and
entreaties, which were found unavailing. The ally of a young damsel is
naturally her mother, and when she fails her, her best human hope is
lost. Alas! for the poor Francesca! It was her mother's weakness,
blinded by the wealth of Ulric Barberigo, that rendered the father's
will so stubborn. It was the erring mother that wilfully beheld her
daughter led to the sacrifice, giving no heed to the heart which was
breaking, even beneath its heavy weight of jewels. How completely that
mournful and desponding, that entreating and appealing glance to her
indignant lover, told her wretched history. There he stood, stern as
well as sad, leaning, as if for support, upon the arm of his kinsman,
Nicolo Malapieri. Hopeless, helpless, and in utter despair, he thus
lingered, as if under a strange and fearful fascination, watching the
progress of the proceedings which were striking fatally, with every
movement, upon the sources of his own hope and happiness. His
resolution rose with his desperation, and he suddenly shook himself
free from his friend.
"I will not bear this, Nicolo," he exclaimed, "I must not suffer it
without another effort, though it be the last."
"What would you do, Giovanni," demanded his kinsman, grasping him by
the wrist as he spoke, and arresting his movement.
"Shall I see her thus sacrificed--delivered to misery and the grave!
Never! they shall not so lord it over true affections to their loss
and mine. Francesca was mine--is mine--even now, in the very sight of
Heaven. How often hath she vowed it! Her glance avows it now. My lips
shall as boldly declare it again; and as Heaven has heard our vows,
the church shall hear them. The Patriarch shall hear. Hearts must not
be wronged--Heaven must not thus be defrauded. That selfish, vain
woman, her mother--that mercenary monster, miscalled her father, have
no better rights than mine--none half so good. They shall hear me.
Stand by me, Nicolo, while I speak!"
This was the language of a passion, which, however true, was equally
unmeasured and imprudent. The friend of the unhappy lover would have
held him back.
"It is all in vain, Giovanni! Think! my friend, you can do nothing
now. It is too late; nor is there any power to prevent this
consummation. Their names have been long since written in the 'Book of
Gold,' and the Doge himself may not alter the destiny!"
"The Book of Gold!" exclaimed the other. "Ay, the 'Bride of Gold!' but
we shall see!" And he again started forward. His kinsman clung to him.
"Better that we leave this place, Giovanni. It was wrong that you
should come. Let us go. You will only commit some folly to remain."
"Ay! it is folly to be wronged, and to submit to it, I know! folly to
have felt and still to feel! folly, surely, to discover, and to live
after the discovery, that the very crown that made life precious is
lost to you forever! What matter if I should commit this folly! Well,
indeed, if they who laugh at the fool, taste none of the wrath that
they provoke."
"This is sheer madness, Giovanni."
"Release me, Nicolo."
The kinsman urged in vain. The dialogue, which was carried on in under
tones, now enforced by animated action, began to attract attention.
The procession was moving forward. The high anthem began to swell, and
Giovanni, wrought to the highest pitch of frenzy by the progress of
events, and by the opposition of Nicolo, now broke away from all
restraint, and hurried through the crowd. The circle, dense and deep,
had already gathered closely about the altar-place, to behold the
ceremony. The desperate youth made his way through it. The crowd gave
way at his approach, and under the decisive pressure of his person.
They knew his mournful history--for when does the history of love's
denial and defeat fail to find its way to the world's curious hearing.
Giovanni was beloved in Venice. Such a history as his and Francesca's
was sure to beget sympathy, particularly with all those who could find
no rich lovers for themselves or daughters, such as Ulric Barberigo.
The fate of the youthful lovers drew all eyes upon the two. A tearful
interest in the event began to pervade the assembly, and Giovanni
really found no such difficulty as would have attended the efforts of
any other person to approach the sacred centre of the bridal circle.
He made his way directly for the spot where Francesca stood. She felt
his approach and presence by the most natural instincts, though
without ever daring to lift her eye to his person. A more deadly
paleness than ever came over her, and as she heard the first sounds of
his voice, she faltered and grasped a column for support. The
Patriarch, startled by the sounds of confusion, rose from the sacred
cushions, and spread his hands over the assembly for silence; but as
yet he failed to conceive the occasion for commotion. Meanwhile, the
parents and relatives of Francesca had gathered around her person, as
if to guard her from an enemy. Ulric Barberigo, the millionaire, put
on the aspect of a man whose word was law on 'change. He, too, had his
retainers, all looking daggers at the intruder. Fortunately for
Giovanni, they were permitted to wear none at these peaceful
ceremonials. Their looks of wrath did not discourage the approach of
our lover. He did not seem, indeed, to see them, but gently putting
them by, he drew near to the scarcely conscious maiden. He lifted the
almost lifeless hand from her side, and pressing it within both his
own, a proceeding which her mother vainly endeavored to prevent, he
addressed the maiden with all that impressiveness of tone which
declares a stifled but still present and passionate emotion in the
heart. His words were of a touching sorrow.
"And is it thus, my Francesca, that I must look upon thee for the last
time? Henceforth are we to be dead to one another? Is it thus that I
am to hear that, forgetful of thy virgin vows to Gradenigo, thou art
here calling Heaven to witness that thou givest thyself and affections
to another?"
"Not willingly, O! not willingly, Giovanni, as I live! I have not
forgotten--alas! I cannot forget that I have once vowed myself to
thee. But I pray thee to forget, Giovanni. Forget me and
forgive--forgive!"
Oh! how mournfully was this response delivered. There was a dead
silence through the assembly; a silence which imposed a similar
restraint even upon the parents of the maiden, who had showed a desire
to arrest the speaker. They had appealed to the Patriarch, but the
venerable man was wise enough to perceive that this was the last open
expression of a passion which must have its utterance in some form,
and if not this, must result in greater mischief. His decision tacitly
sanctioned the interview as we have witnessed. It was with increased
faltering, which to the bystanders seemed almost fainting, that the
unhappy Francesca thus responded to her lover. Her words were little
more than whispers, and his tones, though deep, were very low and
subdued, as if spoken while the teeth were shut. There was that in the
scene which brought forward the crowd in breathless anxiety to hear,
and the proud heart of the damsel's mother revolted at an exhibition
in which her position was by no means a grateful one. She would have
wrested, even by violence, the hand of her daughter from the grasp of
Giovanni; but he retained it firmly, the maiden herself being scarcely
conscious that he did so. His eye was sternly fixed upon the mother,
as he drew Francesca toward himself. His words followed his looks:
"Have you not enough triumphed, lady, in thus bringing about your
cruel purpose, to the sacrifice of two hearts--your child's no less
than mine. Mine was nothing to you--but hers! what had she done that
you should trample upon hers? This hast thou done! Thou hast
triumphed! What would'st thou more? Must she be denied the mournful
privilege of saying her last parting with him to whom she vowed
herself, ere she vows herself to another! For shame, lady; this is a
twofold and a needless tyranny!"
As he spoke, the more gentle and sympathizing spirits around looked
upon the stern mother with faces of the keenest rebuke and
indignation. Giovanni once more addressed himself to the maiden.
"And if you do not love this man, my Francesca, why is it that you so
weakly yield to his solicitings? Why submit to this sacrifice at any
instance? Have they strength to subdue thee?--has he the art to
ensnare thee?--canst thou not declare thy affections with a will? What
magic is it that they employ which is thus superior to that of
love?--and what is thy right--if heedless of the affections of _thy_
heart--to demand the sacrifice of _mine_? Thou hadst it in thy
keeping, Francesca, as I fondly fancied I had thine!"
"Thou hadst--thou hast!--"
"Francesca, my child!" was the expostulating exclamation of the
mother; but it failed, except for a single instant, to arrest the
passionate answer of the maiden.
"Hear me and pity, Giovanni, if you may not forgive! Blame me for my
infirmity--for the wretched weakness which has brought me to this
defeat of thy heart--this desolation of mine--but do not doubt that I
have loved thee--that I shall ever--"
"Stay!" commanded the imperious father.
"What is it thou wouldst say, Francesca? Beware!" was the stern
language of the mother.
The poor girl shrunk back in trembling. The brief impulse of courage
which the address of her lover, and the evident sympathy of the crowd,
had imparted, was gone as suddenly as it came. She had no more
strength for the struggle; and as she sunk back nerveless, and closed
her eyes as if fainting under the terrible glances of both her
parents, Giovanni dropped her hand from his grasp. It now lay lifeless
at her side, and she was sustained from falling by some of her
sympathizing companions. The eyes of the youth were bent upon her with
a last look.
"It is all over then," he exclaimed. "Thy hope, unhappy maiden, like
mine, must perish because of thy weakness. Yet there will be bitter
memories for this," he exclaimed, and his eye now sought the
mother--"bitter, bitter memories! Francesca, farewell! Be happy if
thou canst!"
She rushed toward him as he moved away, recovering all her strength
for this one effort. A single and broken sentence--"Forgive me, O
forgive!"--escaped her lips, as she sunk senseless upon the floor. He
would have raised her, but they did not suffer him.
"Is this not enough, Giovanni?" said his friend reproachfully. "Seest
thou not that thy presence but distracts her?"
"Thou art right, Nicolo; let us go. I am myself choking--undo me this
collar!--There! Let us depart."
The organ rolled its anthem--a thousand voices joined in the hymn to
the Virgin, and as the sweet but painful sounds rushed to the senses
of the youth he darted through the crowd, closely followed by his
friend. The music seemed to pursue him with mockery. He rushed
headlong from the temple, as if seeking escape from some suffocating
atmosphere in the pure breezes of heaven, and hurried forward with
confused and purposeless footsteps. The moment of his disappearance
was marked by the partial recovery of Francesca. She unclosed her
eyes, raised her head and looked wildly around her. Her lips once more
murmured his name.
"Giovanni!"
"He is gone," was the sympathizing answer from more than one lip in
the assembly; and once more she relapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER II.
Giovanni Gradenigo was scarcely more conscious than the maiden when he
left. He needed all the guidance of his friend.
"Whither?" asked Nicolo Malapiero.
"What matter! where thou wilt," was the reply.
"For the city then;" and his friend conducted him to the gondola which
was appointed to await them. In the profoundest silence they glided
toward the city. The gondola stopped before the dwelling of Nicolo,
and he, taking the arm of the sullen and absent Giovanni within his
own, ascended the marble steps, and was about to enter, when a shrill
voice challenged their attention by naming Giovanni.
"How now, signor," said the stranger. "Is it thou? Wherefore hast thou
left Olivolo? Why didst thou not wait the bridal."
The speaker was a strange, dark-looking woman, in coarse woollen
garments. She hobbled as she walked, assisted by a heavy staff, and
seeming to suffer equally from lameness and from age. Her thin
depressed lips, that ever sunk as she spoke into the cavity of the
mouth, which, in the process of time, had been denuded of nearly all
its teeth; her yellow wrinkled visage, and thin gray hairs, that
escaped from the close black cap which covered her head, declared the
presence of very great age. But her eye shone still with something
even more lively and impressive than a youthful fire. It had a sort of
spiritual intensity. Nothing, indeed, could have been more brilliant,
or, seemingly, more unnatural. But hers was a nature of which we may
not judge by common laws. She was no common woman, and her whole life
was characterized by mystery. She was known in Venice as the "Spanish
Gipsy;" was supposed to be secretly a Jewess, and had only escaped
from being punished as a sorceress by her profound and most exemplary
public devotions. But she was known, nevertheless, as an enchantress,
a magician, a prophetess; and her palmistry, her magic, her symbols,
signs and talismans, were all held in great repute by the
superstitious and the youthful of the ocean city. Giovanni Gradenigo
himself, obeying the popular custom, had consulted her; and now, as he
heard her voice, he raised his eyes, and started forward with the
impulse of one who suddenly darts from under the gliding knife of the
assassin. Before Nicolo could interfere, he had leapt down the steps,
and darted to the quay from which the old woman was about to step into
a gondola. She awaited his coming with a smile of peculiar meaning, as
she repeated her inquiry:
"Why are not you at Olivolo?"
He answered the question by another, grasping her wrist violently as
he spoke.
"Did you not promise that she should wed with me--that she should be
mine--mine only?"
"Well!" she answered calmly, without struggling or seeking to
extricate her arm from the strong hold which he had taken upon it.
"Well! and even now the rites are in progress which bind her to Ulric
Barberigo!"
"She will never wed Ulric Barberigo," was the quiet answer. "Why left
you Olivolo?" she continued.
"Could I remain and look upon these hated nuptials--could I be patient
and see her driven like a sheep to the sacrifice? I fled from the
spectacle, as if the knife of the butcher were already in my own
heart."
"You were wrong; but the fates have spoken, and their decrees are
unchangeable. I tell you I have seen your bridal with Francesca Ziani.
No Ulric weds that maiden. She is reserved for you alone. You alone
will interchange with her the final vows before the man of God. But
hasten, that this may find early consummation. I have seen other
things! Hasten--but hasten not alone, nor without your armor! A sudden
and terrible danger hangs over San Pietro di Castella, and all within
its walls. Gather your friends, gather your retainers. Put on the
weapons of war and fly thither with all your speed. I see a terrible
vision, even now, of blood and struggle! I behold terrors that
frighten even me! Your friend is a man of arms. Let your war-galleys
be put forth, and bid them steer for the Lagune of Caorlo. There will
you win Francesca, and thenceforth shall you wear her--you only--so
long as it may be allowed you to wear any human joy!"
Her voice, look, manner, sudden energy, and the wild fire of her eyes,
awakened Giovanni to his fullest consciousness. His friend drew
nigh--they would have conferred together, but the woman interrupted
them.
"You would deliberate," said she, "but you have no time! What is to be
done must be done quickly. It seems wild to you, and strange, and
idle, what I tell you, but it is nevertheless true; and if you heed me
not now bitter will be your repentance hereafter. You, Giovanni, will
depart at least. Heed not your friend--he is too cold to be
successful. He will always be safe, and do well, but he will do
nothing further. Away! if you can but gather a dozen friends and man a
single galley, you will be in season. But the time is short. I hear a
fearful cry--the cry of women--and the feeble shriek of Francesca
Ziani is among the voices of those who wail with a new terror! I see
their struggling forms, and floating garments, and disheveled hair!
Fly, young men, lest the names of those whom Venice has written in her
Book of Gold, shall henceforth be written in a Book of Blood!"
The reputation of the sybil was too great in Venice to allow her wild
predictions to be laughed at. Besides, our young Venetians--Nicolo no
less than Giovanni, in spite of what the woman had spoken touching his
lack of enthusiasm--were both aroused and eagerly excited by her
speech. Her person dilated as she spoke--her voice seemed to come up
from a fearful depth, and went thrillingly deep into the souls of the
hearers. They were carried from their feet by her predictions. They
prepared to obey her counsels. Soon had they gathered their friends
together, enough to man three of the fastest galleys of the city.
Their prows were turned at once toward the Lagune of Caorlo, whither
the woman had directed them. She, meanwhile, had disappeared, but the
course of her gondola lay for Olivolo.
CHAPTER III.
It will be necessary that we should go back in our narrative but a
single week before the occurrence of these events. Let us penetrate
the dim and lonesome abode on the confines of the "Jewish Quarter,"
but not within it, where the "Spanish Gipsy" delivered her
predictions. It is midnight, and still she sits over her incantations.
There are vessels of uncouth shape and unknown character before her.
Huge braziers lie convenient, on one of which, amidst a few coals, a
feeble flame may be seen to struggle. The atmosphere is impregnated
with a strong but not ungrateful perfume, and through its vapors
objects appear with some indistinctness. A circular plate of brass or
copper--it could not well be any more precious metal--rests beneath
the eye and finger of the woman. It is covered with strange and mystic
characters, which she seems busily to explore, as if they had a real
significance in her mind. She evidently united the highest departments
of her art with its humblest offices; and possessed those nobler
aspirations of the soul, which, during the middle ages, elevated in
considerable degree the professors of necromancy. But our purpose is
not now to determine her pretensions. We have but to exhibit and to
ascertain a small specimen of her skill in the vulgar business of
fortune-telling--an art which will continue to be received among men,
to a greater or less extent, so long as they shall possess a hope
which they cannot gratify, and feel a superstition which they cannot
explain. Our gipsy expects a visiter. She hears his footstep. The door
opens at her bidding and a stranger makes his appearance. He is a tall
and well made man, of stern and gloomy countenance, which is half
concealed beneath the raised foldings of his cloak. His beard, of
enormous length, is seen to stream down upon his breast; but his
cheek is youthful, and his eye is eagerly and anxiously bright. But
for a certain repelling something in his glance, he might be
considered a very handsome man--perhaps by many persons he was thought
so. He advanced with an air of dignity and power. His deportment and
manner--and when he spoke, his voice--all seemed to denote a person
accustomed to command. The woman did not look up as he approached--on
the contrary she seemed more intent than ever in the examination of
the strange characters before her. But a curious spectator might have
seen that a corner of her eye, bright with an intelligence that looked
more like cunning than wisdom, was suffered to take in all of the face
and person of the visiter that his muffling costume permitted to be
seen.
"Mother," said the stranger, "I am here."
"You say not who you are," answered the woman.
"Nor shall say," was the abrupt reply of the stranger. "That, you
said, was unnecessary to your art--to the solution of the questions
that I asked you."
"Surely," was the answer. "My art, that promises to tell thee of the
future, would be a sorry fraud could it not declare the present--could
it not say who thou art, as well as what thou seekest."
"Ha! and thou knowest!" exclaimed the other, his hand suddenly feeling
within the folds of his cloak, as he spoke, as if for a weapon, while
his eye glared quickly around the apartment, as if seeking for a
secret enemy.
"Nay, fear nothing," said the woman calmly. "I care not to know who
thou art. It is not an object of my quest, otherwise it would not long
remain a secret to me."
"It is well! mine is a name that must not be spoken among the homes of
Venice. It would make thee thyself to quail couldst thou hear it
spoken."
"Perhaps! but mine is not the heart to quail at many things, unless it
be the absolute wrath of Heaven. What the violence or the hate of man
could do to this feeble frame, short of death, it has already
suffered. Thou knowest but little of human cruelty, young man, though
thy own deeds be cruel!"
"How knowest thou that my deeds are cruel?" was the quick and
passionate demand, while the form of the stranger suddenly and
threateningly advanced. The woman was unmoved.
"Saidst thou not that there was a name that might not be spoken in the
homes of Venice? Why should thy very name make the hearts of Venice to
quail unless for thy deeds of cruelty and crime? But I see further. I
see it in thine eyes that thou art cruel. I hear it in thy voice that
thou art criminal. I know, even now, that thy soul is bent on deeds of
violence and blood, and the very quest that brings thee to me now is
less the quest of love than of that wild and selfish passion which so
frequently puts on his habit."
"Ha! speak to me of that! This damsel, Francesca Ziani! 'Tis of her
that I would have thee speak. Thou saidst that she should be mine, yet
lo! her name is written in the "Book of Gold," and she is allotted to
this man of wealth, this Ulric Barberigo."
"She will never be the wife of Ulric Barberigo."
"Thou saidst she should be mine."
"Nay; I said not that."
"Ha!--but thou liest!"
"No! Anger me not, young man! I am slower, much slower to anger than
thyself--slower than most of those who still chafe within this mortal
covering--yet am I mortal like thyself, and not wholly free from such
foolish passions as vex mortality. Chafe me, and I will repulse thee
with scorn. Annoy me, and I close upon thee the book of fate, leaving
thee to the blind paths which thy passions have ever moved thee to
take."
The stranger muttered something apologetically.
"Make me no excuses. I only ask thee to forbear and submit. I said not
that Francesca Ziani should be _thine_! I said only that I beheld her
in thy arms."
"And what more do I ask!" was the exulting speech of the stranger, his
voice rising into a sort of outburst, which fully declared the
ruffian, and the sort of passions by which he was governed.
"If that contents thee, well!" said the woman, coldly, her eye
perusing with a seeming calmness the brazen plate upon which the
strange characters were inscribed.
"That, then, thou promisest still?" demanded the stranger.
"Thou shalt see for thyself," was the reply. Thus speaking the woman
slowly arose and brought forth a small chafing-dish, also of brass or
copper, not much larger than a common plate. This she placed over the
brazier, the flame of which she quickened by a few smart puffs from a
little bellows which lay beside her. As the flame kindled, and the
sharp, red jets rose like tongues on either side of the plate, she
poured into it something like a gill of a thick tenacious liquid, that
looked like, and might have been, honey. Above this she brooded for
awhile with her eyes immediately over the vessel; and the keen ear of
the stranger, quickened by excited curiosity, could detect the
muttering of her lips, though the foreign syllables which she employed
were entirely beyond his comprehension. Suddenly, a thick vapor went
up from the dish. She withdrew it from the brazier and laid it before
her on the table. A few moments sufficed to clear the surface of the
vessel, the vapor arising and hanging languidly above her head.
"Look now for thyself and see!" was her command to the visiter; she
herself not deigning a glance upon the vessel, seeming thus to be
quite sure of what it would present, or quite indifferent to the
result. The stranger needed no second summons. He bent instantly over
the vessel, and started back with undisguised delight.
"It is she!" he exclaimed. "She droops! whose arm is it that supports
her--upon whose breast is it that she lies--who bears her away in
triumph?"
"Is it not thyself?" asked the woman, coldly.
"By Hercules, it is! She is mine! She is in my arms! She is on my
bosom! I have her in my galley! She speeds with me to my home! I see
it all, even as thou hast promised me!"
"I promise thee nothing. I but show thee only what is written."
"And when and how shall this be effected?"
"How, I know not," answered the woman, "this is withheld from me. Fate
shows what her work is only as it appears when done, but not the
manner of the doing."
"But when will this be?" was the question.
"It must be ere she marries with Ulric Barberigo, for him she will
never marry."
"And it is appointed that he weds with her on the day of St. Mary's
Eve. That is but a week from hence, and the ceremony takes place--"
"At Olivolo."
"Ha! at Olivolo!" and a bright gleam of intelligence passed over the
features of the stranger, from which his cloak had by this time
entirely fallen. The woman beheld the look, and a slight smile, that
seemed to denote scorn rather than any other emotion, played for a
moment over her shriveled and sunken lips.
"Mother," said the stranger, "must all these matters be left to fate?"
"That is as thou wilt."
"But the eye of a young woman may be won--her heart may be touched--so
that it shall be easy for fate to accomplish her designs. I am young;
am indifferently well fashioned in person, and have but little reason
to be ashamed of the face which God has given me. Beside, I have much
skill in music, and can sing to the guitar as fairly as most of the
young men of Venice. What if I were to find my way to the damsel--what
if I play and sing beneath her father's palace? I have disguises, and
am wont to practice in various garments; I can--"
The woman interrupted him.
"Thou mayest do as thou wilt. It is doubtless as indifferent to the
fates what thou doest, as it will be to me. Thou hast seen what I have
shown--I can no more. I am not permitted to counsel thee. I am but a
voice; thou hast all that I can give thee."
The stranger lingered still, but the woman ceased to speak, and
betrayed by her manner that she desired his departure. Thus seeing, he
took a purse from his bosom and laid it before her. She did not seem
to notice the action, nor did she again look up until he was gone.
With the sound of his retreating footsteps, she put aside the brazen
volume of strange characters which seemed her favorite study, and her
lips slowly parted in soliloquy,
"Ay! thou exultest, fierce ruffian that thou art, in the assurance
that fate yields herself to thy will! Thou shall, indeed, have the
maiden in thy arms, but it shall profit thee nothing; and that single
triumph shall exact from thee the last penalties which are sure to
follow on the footsteps of a trade like thine. Thou thinkest that I
know thee not, as if thy shallow masking could baffle eyes and art
like mine; but I had not shown thee thus much, were I not in
possession of yet further knowledge--did I not see that this lure was
essential to embolden thee to thy own final overthrow. Alas! that in
serving the cause of innocence, in saving the innocent from harm, we
cannot make it safe in happiness. Poor Francesca, beloved of three,
yet blest with neither! Thou shalt be wedded, yet be no bride; shall
gain all that thy fond young heart craveth, yet gain nothing! Be
spared the embraces of him thou loathest, yet rest in his arms whom
thou hast most need to fear, and shalt be denied, even when most
assured, the only embrace which might bring thee blessings! Happy at
least that thy sorrows shall not last thee long--their very keenness
and intensity being thy security from the misery which holds through
years like mine!"
Let us leave the woman of mystery--let us once more change the scene.
Now pass we to the pirate's domain at Istria, a region over which, at
the period of our narrative, the control of Venice was feeble,
exceedingly capricious, and subject to frequent vicissitudes. At this
particular time, it was maintained by the fiercest band of pirates
that ever swept the Mediterranean with their bloody prows.
CHAPTER IV.
It was midnight when the galley of the chief glided into the harbor of
Istria. The challenge of the sentinel was answered from the vessel,
and she took her place beside the shore, where two other galleys were
at anchor. Suddenly her sails descended with a rattle; a voice hailed
throughout the ship, was answered from stem to stern, and a deep
silence followed. The fierce chief of the pirates, Pietro Barbaro, the
fiercest, strongest, wisest, yet youngest of seven brothers, all
devoted to the same fearful employment, strode in silence to his
cabin. Here, throwing himself upon a couch, he prepared rather to rest
his limbs than to sleep. He had thoughts to keep him wakeful. Wild
hopes, and tenderer joys than his usual occupations offered, were
gleaming before his fancy. The light burned dimly in his floating
chamber, but the shapes of his imagination rose up before his mind's
eye not the less vividly because of the obscurity in which he lay.
Thus musing over expectations of most agreeable and exciting aspect,
he finally lapsed away in sleep.
He was suddenly aroused from slumber by a rude hand that lay heavily
on his shoulder.
"Who is it?" he asked of the intruder.
"Gamba," was the answer.
"Thou, brother!"
"Ay," continued the intruder; "and here are all of us."
"Indeed! and wherefore come you? I would sleep--I am weary. I must
have rest."
"Thou hast too much rest, Pietro," said another of the brothers. "It
is that of which we complain--that of which we would speak to thee
now."
"Ha! this is new language, brethren! Answer me--perhaps I am not well
awake; am I your captain, or not?"
"Thou art--the fact seems to be forgotten by no one but thyself.
Though the youngest of our mother's children, we made thee our
leader."
"For what did ye this, my brothers, unless that I might command ye?"
"For this, in truth, and this only, did we confer upon thee this
authority. Thou hadst shown thyself worthy to command--"
"Well!"
"Thy skill--thy courage--thy fortitude--"
"In brief, ye thought me best fitted to command ye?"
"Yes."
"Then I command ye hence! Leave me, and let me rest!"
"Nay, brother, but this cannot be;" was the reply of another of the
intruders. "We must speak with thee while the night serves us, lest
thou hear worse things with the morrow. Thou art, indeed, our captain;
chosen because of thy qualities of service, to conduct and counsel us;
but we chose thee not that thou shouldst sleep! Thou wert chosen that
our enterprises might be active and might lead to frequent profit."
"Has it not been so?" demanded the chief.
"For a season it was so, and there was no complaint of thee."
"Who now complains?"
"Thy people--all!"
"And can ye not answer them?"
"No! for we ourselves need an answer! We, too, complain."
"Of what complain ye?"
"That our enterprises profit us nothing."
"Do ye not go forth in the galleys? Lead ye not, each of you, an armed
galley? Why is it that your enterprises profit ye nothing?"
"Because of the lack of our captain."
"And ye can do nothing without me; and because ye are incapable, I
must have no leisure for myself."
"Nay, something more than this, Pietro. Our enterprises avail us
nothing, since you command that we no longer trouble the argosies of
Venice. Venice has become thy favorite. Thou shieldest her only, when
it is her merchants only who should give us spoil. This, brother, is
thy true offence. For this we complain of thee; for this thy people
complain of thee. They are impoverished by thy new-born love for
Venice, and they are angry with thee. Brother, their purpose is to
depose thee?"
"Ha! and ye--"
"We are men as well as brethren. We cherish no such attachment for
Venice as that which seems to fill thy bosom. When the question shall
be taken in regard to thy office, our voices shall be against thee,
unless--"
There was a pause. It was broken by the chief.
"Well, speak out. What are your conditions?"
"Unless thou shalt consent to lead us on a great enterprise against
the Venetians. Hearken to us, brother Pietro. Thou knowest of the
annual festival at Olivolo, when the marriage takes place of all those
maidens, whose families are favorites of the Signiory, and whose names
are written in the "Book of Gold" of the Republic."
The eyes of the pirate chief involuntarily closed at the suggestion,
but his head nodded affirmatively. The speaker continued.
"It is now but a week when this festival takes place. On this
occasion assemble the great, the noble and the wealthy of the sea
city. Thither they bring all that is gorgeous in their apparel, all
that is precious among their ornaments and decorations. Nobility and
wealth here strive together which shall most gloriously display
itself. Here, too, is the beauty of the city--the virgins of
Venice--the very choice among her flocks. Could there be prize more
fortunate? Could there be prize more easy of attainment? The church of
San Pietro di Castella permits no armed men within its holy
sanctuaries. There are no apprehensions of peril; the people who
gather to the rites are wholly weaponless. They can offer no defense
against our assault; nor can this be foreseen? What place more lonely
than Olivolo? Thither shall we repair the day before the festival, and
shelter ourselves from scrutiny. At the moment when the crowd is
greatest, we will dart upon our prey. We lack women; we desire wealth.
Shall we fail in either, when we have in remembrance the bold deeds of
our ancient fathers, when they looked with yearning on the fresh
beauties of the Sabine virgins? These Venetian beauties are our
Sabines. Thou, too, if the bruit of thy followers do thee no
injustice, thou, too, hast been overcome by one of these. She will
doubtless be present at this festival. Make her thine, and fear not
that each of thy brethren will do justice to his tastes and thine own.
Here, now, thou hast all. Either thou agreest to that which thy people
demand, or the power departs from thy keeping. Fabio becomes our
leader!"
There was a pause. At length the pirate-chief addressed his brethren.
"Ye have spoken! ye threaten, too! This power, of which ye speak, is
precious in your eyes. I value it not a zecchino; and wert thou to
depose me to-morrow, I should be the master of ye in another month,
did it please me to command a people so capricious. But think not,
though I speak to ye in this fashion, that I deny your demand. I but
speak thus to show ye that I fear you not. I will do as ye desire; but
did not your own wishes square evenly with mine own, I should bide the
issue of this struggle, though it were with knife to knife."
"It matters not how thou feelest, or what movest thee, Pietro, so that
thou dost as we demand. Thou wilt lead us to this spoil?"
"I will."
"It is enough. It will prove to thy people that they are still the
masters of the Lagune--that they are not sold to Venice."
"Leave me now."
The brethren took their departure. When they had gone, the chief spoke
in brief soliloquy, thus:
"Verily, there is the hand of fate in this. Methinks I see the history
once more, even as I beheld it in the magic liquor of the Spanish
Gipsy. Why thought I not of this before, dreaming vainly like an idiot
boy, as much in love with his music as himself, who hopes by the
tinkle of his guitar to win his beauty from the palace of her noble
sire, to the obscure retreats of his gondola. These brethren shall not
vex me. They are but the creatures of a fate!"
CHAPTER V.
Let us now return to Olivolo, to the altar-place of the church of San
Pietro di Castella, and resume the progress of that strangely mingled
ceremonial--mixed sunshine and sadness--which was broken by the
passionate conduct of Giovanni Gradenigo. We left the poor, crushed
Francesca, in a state of unconsciousness, in the arms of her
sympathizing kindred. For a brief space the impression was a painful
one upon the hearts of the vast assembly; but as the deep organ rolled
its ascending anthems, the emotion subsided. The people had assembled
for pleasure and an agreeable spectacle; and though sympathizing, for
a moment, with the pathetic fortunes of the sundered lovers, quite as
earnestly as it is possible for mere lookers-on to do, they were not
to be disappointed in the objects for which they came. The various
shows of the assemblage--the dresses, the jewels, the dignitaries, and
the beauties--were quite enough to divert the feelings of a populace,
at all times notorious for its levities, from a scene which, however
impressive at first, was becoming a little tedious. Sympathies are
very good and proper things; but the world seldom suffers them to
occupy too much of its time. Our Venetians did not pretend to be any
more humane than the rest of the great family; and the moment that
Francesca had fainted, and Giovanni had disappeared, the multitude
began to express their impatience of any further delay by all the
means in their possession. There was no longer a motive to resist
their desires, and simply reserving the fate of the poor Francesca to
the last, or until she should sufficiently recover to be fully
conscious of the sacrifice which she was about to make, the ceremonies
were begun. There was a political part to be played by the Doge, in
which the people took particular interest; and to behold which,
indeed, was the strongest reason of their impatience. The government
of Venice, as was remarked by quaint and witty James Howell, was a
compound thing, mixed of all kinds of governments, and might be said
to be composed of "a _grain_ of monarchy, a _dose_ of democracy, and a
_dram_, if not an _ounce_ of optimacy." It was in regard to this
_dose_ of democracy, that the government annually assigned marriage
portions to twelve young maidens, selected from the great body of the
people, of those not sufficiently opulent to secure husbands, or find
the adequate means for marriage, without this help. To bestow these
maidens upon their lovers, and with them the portions allotted by the
state, constituted the first, and in the eyes of the masses, the most
agreeable part of the spectacle. The Doge, on this occasion, who was
the thrice renowned Pietro Candiano, "did his spiriting gently," and
in a highly edifying manner. The bishop bestowed his blessings, and
confirmed by the religious, the civil rites, which allied the chosen
couples. To these succeeded the _voluntary_ parties, if we may thus
presume upon a distinction between the two classes, which we are yet
not sure that we have a right to make. The high-born and the wealthy,
couple after couple, now approached the altar, to receive the final
benediction which committed them to hopes of happiness which it is not
in the power of any priesthood to compel. No doubt there was a great
deal of hope among the parties, and we have certainly no reason to
suppose that happiness did not follow in every instance.
But there is poor Francesca Ziani. It is now her turn. Her cruel
parents remain unsubdued and unsoftened by her deep and touching
sorrows. She is made to rise, to totter forward to the altar, scarcely
conscious of any thing, except, perhaps, that the worthless, but
wealthy, Ulric Barberigo is at her side. Once more the mournful
spectacle restores to the spectators all their better feelings. They
perceive, they feel the cruelty of that sacrifice to which her kindred
are insensible. In vain do they murmur "shame!" In vain does she turn
her vacant, wild, but still expressive eyes, expressive because of
their very soulless vacancy, to that stern, ambitious mother, whose
bosom no longer responds to her child with the true maternal feeling.
Hopeless of help from that quarter, she lifts her eyes to Heaven, and,
no longer listening to the words of the holy man, she surrenders
herself only to despair.
Is it Heaven that hearkens to her prayer? Is it the benevolent office
of an angel that bursts the doors of the church at the very moment
when she is called upon to yield that response which dooms her to
misery forever? To her ears, the thunders which now shook the church
were the fruits of Heaven's benignant interposition. The shrieks of
women on every hand--the oaths and shouts of fierce and insolent
authority--the clamors of men--the struggles and cries of those who
seek safety in flight or entreat for mercy--suggest no other idea to
the wretched Francesca, than that she is saved from the embraces of
Ulric Barberigo. She is only conscious that, heedless of her, and of
the entreaties of her mother, he is the first to endeavor selfishly to
save himself by flight. But her escape from Barberigo is only the
prelude to other embraces. She knows not, unhappy child! that she is
an object of desire to another, until she finds herself lifted in the
grasp of Pietro Barbaro, the terrible chief of the Istrute pirates. He
and his brothers have kept their pledges to one another, and they have
been successful in their prey. Their fierce followers have subdued to
submission the struggles of a weaponless multitude, who, with horror
and consternation, behold the loveliest of their virgins, the just
wedded among them, borne away upon the shoulders of the pirates to
their warlike galleys. Those who resist them perish. Resistance was
hopeless. The fainting and shrieking women, like the Sabine damsels,
are hurried from the sight of their kinsmen and their lovers, and the
Istrute galleys are about to depart with their precious freight.
Pietro Barbaro, the chief, stands with one foot upon his vessel's side
and the other on the shore. Still insensible, the lovely Francesca
lies upon his breast. At this moment the skirt of his cloak is plucked
by a bold hand. He turns to meet the glance of the Spanish Gypsy. The
old woman leered on him with eyes that seemed to mock his triumph,
even while she appealed to it.
"Is it not even as I told thee--as I showed thee?" was her demand.
"It is!" exclaimed the pirate-chief, as he flung her a purse of gold.
"Thou art a true prophetess. Fate has done her work!"
He was gone; his galley was already on the deep, and he himself might
now be seen kneeling upon the deck of the vessel, bending over his
precious conquest, and striving to bring back the life into her
cheeks.
"Ay, indeed!" muttered the Spanish Gipsy, "thou hast had her in thy
arms, but think not, reckless robber that thou art, that fate has
_done_ its work. The work is but _begun_. Fate has kept its word to
thee; it is thy weak sense that fancied she had nothing more to say or
do!"
Even as she spoke these words, the galleys of Giovanni Gradenigo were
standing for the Lagune of Caorlo. He had succeeded in collecting a
gallant band of cavaliers who tacitly yielded him the command. The
excitement of action had served, in some measure, to relieve the
distress under which he suffered. He was no longer the lover, but the
man; nor the man merely, but the leader of men. Giovanni was endowed
for this by nature. His valor was known. It had been tried upon the
Turk. Now that he was persuaded by the Spanish Gipsy, whom all
believed and feared, that a nameless and terrible danger overhung his
beloved, which was to be met and baffled only by the course he was
pursuing, his whole person seemed to be informed by a new spirit. The
youth, his companions, wondered to behold the change. There was no
longer a dreaminess and doubt about his words and movements, but all
was prompt, energetic, and directly to the purpose. Giovanni was now
the confident and strong man. Enough for him that there _was_ danger.
Of this he no longer entertained a fear. Whether the danger that was
supposed to threaten Francesca, was still suggestive of a hope--as the
prediction of the Spanish Gipsy might well warrant--may very well be
questioned. It was in the very desperation of his hope, perhaps, that
his energies became at once equally well-ordered and intense. He
prompted to their utmost the energies of others. He impelled all his
agencies to their best exertions. Oar and sail were busy without
intermission, and soon the efforts of the pursuers were rewarded. A
gondola, bearing a single man, drifted along their path. He was a
fugitive from Olivolo, who gave them the first definite idea of the
foray of the pirates. His tidings, rendered imperfect by his terrors,
were still enough to goad the pursuers to new exertions. Fortune
favored the pursuit. In their haste the pirate galleys had become
entangled in the lagune. The keen eye of Giovanni was the first to
discover them. First one bark, and then another, hove in sight, and
soon the whole piratical fleet were made out, as they urged their
embarrassed progress through the intricacies of the shallow waters.
"Courage, bold hearts!" cried Giovanni to his people; "they are ours!
We shall soon be upon them. They cannot now escape us!"
The eye of the youthful leader brightened with the expectation of the
struggle. His exulting, eager voice declared the strength and
confidence of his soul, and cheered the souls of all around him. The
sturdy oarsmen "gave way" with renewed efforts. The knights prepared
their weapons for the conflict. Giovanni _signaled_ the other galleys
by which his own was followed.
"I am for the red flag of Pietro Barbaro himself. I know his banner.
Let your galleys grapple with the rest. Cross their path--prevent
their flight, and bear down upon the strongest. Do your parts, and
fear not but we shall do ours."
With these brief instructions, our captain led the way with the
Venetian galleys. The conflict was at hand. It came. They drew nigh
and hailed the enemy. The parley was a brief one. The pirates could
hope no mercy, and they asked none. But few words, accordingly, were
exchanged between the parties, and these were not words of peace.
"Yield thee to the mercy of St. Mark!" was the stern summons of
Giovanni, to the pirate-chief.
"St. Mark's mercy has too many teeth!" was the scornful reply of the
pirate. "The worthy saint must strike well before Barbaro of Istria
sues to him for mercy.
With the answer the galleys grappled. The Venetians leapt on board of
the pirates, with a fury that was little short of madness. Their wrath
was terrible. Under the guidance of the fierce Giovanni, they smote
with an unforgiving vengeance. It was in vain that the Istrutes fought
as they had been long accustomed. It needed something more than
customary valor to meet the fury of their assailants. All of them
perished. Mercy now was neither asked nor given. Nor, as it seemed,
did the pirates care to live, when they beheld the fall of their
fearful leader. He had crossed weapons with Giovanni Gradenigo, in
whom he found his fate. Twice, thrice, the sword of the latter drove
through the breast of the pirate. Little did his conqueror conjecture
the import of the few words which the dying chief gasped forth at his
feet, his glazed eyes striving to pierce the deck, as if seeking some
one within.
"I have, indeed, had thee in my arms, but--"
There was no more--death finished the sentence! The victory was
complete, but Giovanni was wounded. Pietro Barbaro was a fearful
enemy. He was conquered, it is true, but he had made his mark upon his
conqueror. He had bitten deep before he fell.
The victors returned with their spoil. They brought back the captured
brides in triumph. That same evening preparations were made to
conclude the bridal ceremonies which the morning had seen so fearfully
arrested. With a single exception, the original distribution of the
"brides" was persevered in. That exception, as we may well suppose,
was Francesca Ziani. It was no longer possible for her unnatural
parents to withstand the popular sentiment. The Doge himself, Pietro
Candiano, was particularly active in persuading the reluctant mother
to submit to what was so evidently the will of destiny. But for the
discreditable baseness and cowardice of Ulric Barberigo, it is
probable she never would have yielded. But his imbecility and unmanly
terror in the moment of danger, had been too conspicuous. Even his
enormous wealth could not save him from the shame that followed; and
however unwillingly, the parents of Francesca consented that she
should become the bride of Giovanni, as the only proper reward for the
gallantry which had saved her, and so many more, from shame.
But where was Giovanni? His friends have been dispatched for him; why
comes he not? The maid, now happy beyond her hope, awaits him at the
altar. And still he comes not. Let us go back for a moment to the
moment of his victory over the pirate-chief. Barbaro lies before him
in the agonies of death. His sword it is which has sent the much
dreaded outlaw to his last account. But he himself is wounded--wounded
severely, but not mortally by the man whom he has slain. At this
moment he received a blow from the axe of one of the brothers of
Barbaro. He had strength left barely to behold and to shout his
victory, when he sunk fainting upon the deck of the pirate vessel. His
further care devolved upon his friend, Nicolo, who had followed his
footsteps closely through all the paths of danger. In a state of
stupor he lies upon the couch of Nicolo, when the aged prophetess, the
"Spanish Gipsy," appeared beside his bed.
"He is called," she said. "The Doge demands his presence. They will
bestow upon him his bride, Francesca Ziani. You must bear him
thither."
The surgeon shook his head.
"It may arouse him," said Nicolo. "We can bear him thither on a
litter, so that he shall feel no pain."
"It were something to wake him from this apathy," mused the surgeon.
"Be it as thou wilt."
Thus, grievously wounded, was the noble Giovanni borne into the midst
of the assembly for each member of which he had suffered and done so
much. The soft music which played around, awakened him. His eyes
unclosed to discover the lovely Francesca, tearful, but hopeful,
bending fondly over him. She declared herself his. The voice of the
Doge confirmed the assurance; and the eye of the dying man brightened
into the life of a new and delightful consciousness. Eagerly he spoke;
his voice was but a whisper.
"Make it so, I pray thee, that I may live!"
The priest drew nigh with the sacred unction. The marriage service was
performed, and the hands of the two were clasped in one.
"Said I not?" demanded an aged woman, who approached the moment after
the ceremonial, and whose face was beheld by none but him whom she
addressed. "She is thine!"
The youth smiled, but made no answer. His hand drew that of Francesca
closer. She stooped to his kiss, and whispered him, but he heard her
not. With the consciousness of the sweet treasure that he had won
after such sad denial, the sense grew conscious no longer--the lips of
the youth were sealed for ever. The young Giovanni, the bravest of
the Venetian youth, lay lifeless in the embrace of the scarcely more
living Francesca. It was a sad day, after all, in Venice, since its
triumph was followed by so great a loss; but the damsels of the ocean
city still declare that the lovers were much more blest in this
fortune, than had they survived for the embrace of others less
beloved.
[The touching and romantic incident upon which this little tale is
founded, has been made use of by Mr. Rogers, in his poem of "Italy."
It is one of those events which enrich and enliven, for romance, the
early histories of most states and nations that ever arrive at
character and civilization. It occurs in the first periods of Venetian
story, about 932, under the Doge Candiano II. I have divided my sketch
into _five_ parts, having originally designed a dramatic piece with
the same divisions. That I have since thought proper to write the tale
in the narrative and not the dramatic form, is not because of any
insusceptibility of the material to such uses. I still think that the
story, as above given, might easily and successfully be dramatized,
giving it a mixed character--that of the melo-dramatic opera, and only
softening the close to a less tragical denouement.]
ODE TO THE MOON.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
I.
Myriads have sung thy praise,
Fair Dian, virgin-goddess of the skies!
And myriads will raise
Their songs, as time yet onward flies,
To _thee_, chaste prompter of the lover's sighs,
And of the minstrel's lays!
Yet still exhaustless as a theme
Shall be thy name--
While lives immortal Fame--
As when to people the first poet's dream
Thy inspiration came.
II.
None ever lived, or loved,
Who hath not thine oblivious influence felt--
As if a silver veil hid outward things,
While some bright spirit's wings
Mysteriously moved
The world of fancies that within him dwelt--
Regent of Night! whence is this charm in thee,
That sways the human soul with potent witchery?
III.
When first the infant learns to look on high,
While twilight's drapery his heart appals,
Thy full-orbed presence captivates his eye;
Or when, 'mid shadows grim upon the walls,
Are sent thy pallid rays,
'Tis awe his bosom fills,
And trembling joy that thrills
His tiny frame, and fastens his young gaze:
Thy spell is on that heart,
And childhood may depart,
But it shall gather strength with youthful days;
For oft as thou, capricious moon!
Shalt wax and wane,
He, now perchance a love-sick swain,
Will watch thee at night's stilly noon,
Pouring his passion in an amorous strain:
Or, with the mistress of his soul--
Lighted by thy love-whispering beams--
In some secluded garden stroll,
Bewildered in ambrosial dreams;
Nor once suspect, while his full pulses move,
That thou, whom tides obey, may'st turn the tide of love!
IV.
The watcher on the deep--
Though weary be his eye--
Forgets even drowsy sleep,
When thou art in the sky!
For with thine image on the silvery sea
A thousand forms of memory
Whirl in a mazy dance;
And when he upward looks to thee,
In thy far-reaching glance
There is a sacred bond of sympathy
'Twixt sea and land;
For on his native strand
That glance awakens kindred souls
To kindred thought,
And though the deep between them rolls,
Hearts are together brought;
While tears that fall from eyes at home,
And those that wet the sailor's cheek,
From the same sacred fountains come--
The same emotion speak.
V.
The watcher on the land--
Who holds the burning hand
Of one whom scorching fever wastes--
Beholds thee, orient moon!
With reddened face, expanded in the east,
Till Superstition chills his breast,
While tremulous he hastes
To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on:
But when the far-spent night
Is streaked with dawning light,
Again, to look on thee,
He lifts the drapery,
And hope divine now triumphs over fear,
As in the zenith far
A pale, small orb thou dost appear,
While eastward rises morn's resplendent star!
And Fancy sees the passing soul ascend
Where thy mild glories with the azure blend.
VI.
Even on the face of Death thou lookest calm,
Fair Dian! as when watchful thou didst keep
Love's holy vigils o'er Endymion's sleep,
Drinking the breath of youth's perpetual balm.
Thy beams are kissing now
The icy brow
Of many a youth in slumber deep,
Who cannot yield to thee
The incense of Love's perfumed breath,
For no response gives Death!
Ah, 'tis a fearful sight to see
Thy lustre on a human face
Where the Promethean spark has left no trace,
As if it shone upon
The marble cold,
Of that famed ruin old--
The grand, but empty Parthenon!
VII.
Dian, enchantress of all hearts!
While mine in song now worships thee,
From thy far-shooting bow the silver darts
Fall thick and fast on me:
Oh, beautiful in light and shade,
By thee is this fair landscape made!
Gems sparkle on the river's breast--
Now covered by an icy vest--
Upon the frozen hills
A regal glory shines!
And all the scene, as Fancy wills,
Shifts into new designs.
Yet night is still as Death's unbroken realms,
And solemnly thy light, wan orb, is cast
Through the arched branches of these reverend elms,
As though it through the Gothic windows passed
Of some old abbey or cathedral vast.
VIII.
In awe my spirit kneels--
And seems before a hallowed shrine;
Yet not the majesty of Art it feels,
But Nature's law divine--
The presence of her mighty Architect!
Who piled these pyramidal hills sublime,
That still, pure moon, thy radiance will reflect,
And still defy the crumbling touch of Time:
Who built this temple of gigantic trees,
Where Nature's worshipers repair
To pray the heart's unuttered prayer,
Whose veiled thought the great Omniscient sees.
IX.
Oh, I could wonder, and adore
Religious Night! and thee, her queen!
Till golden Phoebus should restore
His splendor to the scene!
But the same natural laws control
Thy motions and the poet's will;
So, that while tireless roves the soul,
This actual life must weary still.
And oh, inspirer of my song!
While close these eyes upon thy beams,
Watching, amid thy starry throng,
Be thou the goddess of my dreams.
MY BIRD.
BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.
Ring out, ring out, thy clear sweet note!
Art longing to be free--
To break thy bars and heavenward float?
My bird, this may not be.
Thou ne'er hast known another home
Than in that cage of thine,
And shouldst thou from its shelter roam,
Where meet a love like mine?
When the gay wealth of leaves and flowers
Wreathes every fragrant bough,
And hides thee all the summer hours
From noontide's sultry glow--
And when the limpid grass-fringed brook
Reflects thy yellow wing,
And thou may'st seek each quiet nook
Where sweets are blossoming--
And warble there the cheerful song
That oft has charmed mine ear,
Thou might'st, those leafy shades among,
Be happier far than here.
But when sad Autumn sheds abroad
The stillness of decay,
And leaves beneath the feet are trod
Where young winds love to play--
When icy chains the streams have bound,
Gems hang from every tree,
And but the snow-bird skims the ground,
Where would my trembler flee?
Ah, fold thy wing and rest thee there,
Nor trust deceitful skies,
Though balmy now the gentle air,
Dark tempests will arise.
And Freedom! 'tis a glorious word!
But should the rude winds come,
Then wouldst thou wish, my warbling bird,
For thine own quiet home.
My bird! I too would take my flight,
I long to soar away
To those far realms where all is bright,
Where beams an endless day.
I may not tread a holier sphere,
I may not upward move,
But bound like thee, I linger here
And trust a Father's love.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE RINGLET.
BY GIFTIE.
CHAPTER I.
If to be seated, on a bright winter's day, before a glowing fire of
anthracite, with one's feet on the fender, and one's form half-buried
in the depths of a cushioned easy-chair, holding the uncut pages of
the last novel, be indeed the practical definition of happiness, then
Emma Leslie was to be envied as she sat thus cosily, one afternoon,
listening to an animated discussion going on between an elderly lady
and gentleman on the opposite side of the fire-place. The discussion
ran on a grave subject--a very grave subject--one which has puzzled
the heads of wise men, and turned the wits of weak ones. But though
the argument grew every moment more close and earnest, the fair
listener had the audacity to laugh, in clear, silvery tones, that told
there was not one serious thought in her mind, as she said,
"Nay, good uncle, a truce to these generalities. If, as I imagine, all
this talk upon woman's rights and woman's duties has been for my
special edification, pray be more explicit and tell me what part I am
to play in the general reform you propose?"
The gentleman thus addressed looked up at this interruption, and
replied in a tone slightly acidified,
"For your benefit also has been your Aunt Mary's clear exposition of
what woman may and should be. Perhaps you will profit as much by her
suggestions as you seem to do by mine."
"Do not give me up as incorrigible just as I am coming to be taught
how to be good," said Emma, with mock gravity. "With regard to this
subject of temperance, of which you were just speaking, and upon which
you say woman has so much influence, what shall I do? How can I
reclaim the drunkard while I move in a circle where the degraded
creatures are not admitted. They will not be influenced by a person
who has no feelings or sympathies in common with them, even were it
proper for me to descend to their level in order to help them."
"That may be. The tide of gay and fashionable life sweeps over and
buries in oblivion the ruin its forms and ceremonies help to make. Yet
there are some you might reach. Some who are just beginning to sink,
and whom men cannot influence because they are too proud to own their
danger."
"How less likely, then, would a woman be to influence them," replied
Emma. "You know how men try to conceal their vices and foibles from
us."
"True, but yet men do not suspect the weaker sex of doubting their
power to reform themselves, and are therefore more willing to be
advised and persuaded by them to abandon their bad habits, which have
not yet become fixed vices. Woman's intuitive perception of what
should be said, and the right moment to say it, men rarely possess;
and this gives your sex a superiority over ours in the work of
reform. Yet, alas! how often is this influence employed to lure the
wandering feet further and further from the path of virtue."
"Beware, uncle, I'll have no slander," replied Emma, half vexed.
"It is not slander. How often have I seen you, Emma, with smiles and
gay words, sipping that which, however harmless to you, is poison to
some of your thoughtless companions. Were you pure in word and deed
from all contamination in that behalf, how different would be your
influence. Yet you refused to join the Temperance Society I am
endeavoring to establish in our neighborhood."
"But you know," said Emma, with a proud curl of her ruby lip, "that I
am in no danger. Why should my name be mixed with the common herd?"
"That is false pride, unworthy a true-hearted woman. To refuse to aid
a reforming movement that will assist thousands, simply because it
will not benefit you, because you do not need its help. I did not
think you so selfish."
"I am not selfish. You shall not call me such ugly names," replied the
niece, striving to turn the conversation from the serious turn it had
taken. "You know very well it is only my humility that speaks. I don't
think women have any right to form societies and make laws. All that
honor and glory I am willing to leave to men, and only ask for my sex
the liberty of doing as they please in the humble station assigned to
them by the 'lords of creation.' You may rule the world, and give
orders, and we will--break them."
"Yes," said her uncle, rising to go, "you will break them,
indeed--break all laws of justice, honor and humanity in your giddy
course."
"Nay," said Emma, rising and holding his hands in hers as he was about
to leave the room,
'Put down your hat, don't take your stick,
Now, prithee, uncle, stay.'
I will not let you go thinking me so naughty and saucy. Don't look so
sober, or I shall certainly cry, and you know you hate scenes. I am
really half convinced by your arguments, but were I to sign the
pledge, what good would it do. I have no desire to go about with a
sermon on my lips, and a frown on my brow, to bestow on all the
luckless wights who 'touch, taste or handle.' It is not genteel to
scold, and I fancy they might think me impertinent were I to advise.
Who is there among my acquaintance who would not resent my
interference with their habits in this respect?"
"There is your cousin, Edward," replied her uncle, seating himself
again. "You know well how to lead him in your train through all kinds
of fun and folly, perhaps you might induce him to sign the temperance
pledge."
"But Edward is strictly temperate. He rarely takes even wine."
"True, and I don't think him in danger of becoming less so. But his
position in society gives him great influence over the young men with
whom he associates; and some who follow his example in refusing to
sign the pledge, are unable to follow him in controlling their
appetites."
"There is young Saville, too," said Aunt Mary. "It is whispered among
his friends, that unless something arrests his course, he will ere
long be ruined."
A flush passed over Emma's beautiful face as, in a tone of surprise
and horror, she exclaimed, "What, George Saville! with his genius and
eloquence--is he a slave to that vice?"
"They say," replied her aunt, "that much of his fiery eloquence arises
from the fumes of brandy, and the sparkling wit that makes him so
delightful is caught from the bubbles that dance on the wine-cup. When
the excitement, thus produced, passes away, he is dull and
spiritless."
"And will no one warn him--no one save him?" said Emma, thoughtfully.
"Who can do it so well as yourself?" said her uncle. "Is he not one of
the worshipers at your shrine? Of what avail is it to be young and
beautiful and wealthy, if the influence such accidents give be not
employed in the cause of truth and virtue?"
Emma did not reply, and her uncle left the room, where she remained a
long time in deep thought, roused and startled by the new ideas
presented to her mind, for giddy and thoughtless as she seemed, she
possessed a mind and heart capable of deep feeling and energetic
action.
The same evening she was seated by the piano, drawing thence a flood
of melody, while her Cousin Edward and George Saville stood beside
her. But the attention of the latter seemed more absorbed by the fair
musician than by the sweet sounds produced by her flying fingers; and
directing his companion's attention to the soft brown hair that fell
in long, shining ringlets around her pure brow, and over her snowy
neck, he said, in a tone intended to reach his ear alone,
"What would you give to possess one of those curls?"
Low as were the words, Emma heard them, and pausing suddenly, said,
"What would _you_ give?"
"Any thing--every thing," said the young man, eagerly.
"Would you give your liberty--would you bind yourself to do my
bidding?" asked the maiden, in a tone in which playful gayety strove
to hide a deeper feeling.
"The liberty to disobey your will, lady, has long been lost," replied
Saville, with a glance that well-nigh destroyed Emma's
self-possession. "It were a small matter to acknowledge it by my vow."
"On that condition it is yours," said Emma, while the rich blush that
mantled cheek and brow, made her more beautiful than ever as she
severed from her queenly head one of the longest of the luxurient
tresses with which nature had adorned it.
"Ma belle Emma," interposed Edward as she did this, "I cannot allow of
such partiality. Let me take the oath of allegiance and gain an equal
prize."
"Will you dare?" replied Emma, gayly. "Will you bow your haughty
spirit to do my bidding? Beware, for when you have vowed, you are
completely in my power."
"And a very tyrant you will be, no doubt, fair queen, yet I accept the
vow. Royalty needs new disciples when there are so many deserters."
"Kneel, then, Cousin Edward, and you also, Mr. Saville, and rise
Knights of the Ringlet, bound to serve in all things the will of your
sovereign lady." So saying, she placed half the ringlet on the
shoulder of each gentleman, as they knelt in mock humility before her.
Some unutterable feeling seemed to compel Saville to _look_ the thanks
he would have spoken, but Edward, with a conscious privilege, seized
her hand, and kissing it, exclaimed, as he threw himself into "an
attitude,"
"Thy will, and thine alone,
For ever and a day,
By sea and land, through fire and flood,
We promise to obey."