Chapter 2

No. XVII. of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_, contains a paper of much interest to the playgoer as well as to the lover of dramatic literature--on two French dramas of great celebrity--_La Maréchale d'Ancre_, by de Vigny; and _Marion Delorme_, by Victor Hugo. We quote a scene from the former. Concini, the principal character, is a favourite of Louis XIII.; the Maréchale, his wife, has a first love, Borgia, a Corsican, who, disappointed in his early suit by the stratagems of Concini, has married the beautiful but uncultivated Isabella Monti. On the conflicting feelings of this strange personage, his hatred to the husband, and his relenting towards the wife; and the licentious plans of Concini for the seduction of Isabella, whom he has seen without knowing her to be the wife of his deadly enemy, the interest of the piece is made to turn. The jealous Isabella is at last persuaded that the Maréchale has robbed her of the attachment of her husband, and appears as a witness against her on the pretended charge of witchcraft and sorcery.

While the Maréchal, even in the dungeon of the Bastile, is awing her oppressors into silence, bands of murderers are seeking Concini through the streets of Paris. As he issues from the house of the Jew which contains Isabella, he hears through the obscurity of the tempestuous night the cries of the populace, but he thinks they are but the indications of some passing tumult. He rests for a moment against a pillar on the pavement, but recoils again, as from a serpent, for he perceives it is the stone on which Ravaillac had planted his foot when he assassinated Henry, and in that murder it is darkly insinuated he had a share. Through the darkness of the Rue de la Ferronnerie, Michael Borgia is seen advancing, conducting the two children of his rival. He has promised to the Maréchale to save them from the dangers of the night, and has brought them in safety to his own threshold. But his promise of safety extended not to Concini. The wild ferocity of the following scene has many parallels in the actual duels of the time, as delineated in Froissart and Brantome.

_Borgia (with the children.)_--Poor children! come in; you will be safer here than in the houses to which they have pursued us.

_The Boy_.--Ah! there is a man standing up.

_Borgia (turning the lantern which the child holds towards Concini.)_--Concini!

_Concini_.--Borgia! (_Each raises his dagger, and seizes with the left arm the right of his enemy. They remain motionless, and gazing at each other. The children escape into the street and disappear_.)

_Concini_.--Let go my arm, and I will liberate yours.

_Borgia_.--What shall be my security?

_Concini_.--Those children whom you have with you.

_Borgia_.--I am labouring to save them. Your palace is on fire--your wife is arrested--your fortune is wrecked--base, senseless adventurer!

_Concini_.--Have done--let go--let us fight!

_Borgia_ (_pushing him from him_.)--Back, then, and draw your sword.

_Concini_ (_draws_.)--Begin.

_Borgia_.--Remove those children--they would be in our way.

_Concini_.--They are gone.

_Borgia_.--Take these letters, assassin! I had promised to restore them to you. (_He hands to Concini a black portfolio_.)

_Concini_.--I would have taken them from your body.

_Borgia_.--I have performed my promise--and now, ravisher! look to yourself.

_Concini_.--Base seducer, defend _thyself_.

_Borgia_.--The night is dark, but I shall feel you by my hate: Plant your foot against the wall, that you may not retreat.

_Concini_.--Would I could chain yours to the pavement, that I might be sure of my mark!

_Borgia_.--Agree that the first who is wounded shall inform the other.

_Concini_.--Yes, for we should not see the blood. I swear it by the thirst I feel for yours.--But not that the affair should end there.

_Borgia_.--No, only to begin again with more spirit.

_Concini_--To continue till we can lift the sword no longer.

_Borgia_.--Till the death of one or other of us.

_Concini_--I see you not. Are you in front of me?

_Borgia_.--Yes, wretch! Parry that thrust. Has it sped?

_Concini_.--No; take that in return.

_Borgia_.--I am untouched.

_Concini_.--What, still? Oh! would I could but see thy hateful visage. (_They continue to fight desperately, but without touching each other. Both rest for a little_.)

_Borgia_.--Have you a cuirass on, Concini?

_Concini_.--I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber.

_Borgia_.--Liar! (_He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are locked for a moment, and both are wounded_.)

_Concini_.--I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?

_Borgia_, (_leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his breast with, his handkerchief_.) No, let us begin again. There!

_Concini_ (_binding his scarf round his thigh_.)--One moment and I am with you. (_He staggers against the pillar_.)

_Borgia_, (_sinking on his knees_.)--Are you not wounded yourself?

_Concini_.--No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.

_Borgia_ (_endeavouring to rise, but unable_.)--I have struck my foot against a stone--wait an instant.

_Concini_ (_with delight_.)--Ah! you are wounded!

_Borgia_.--No, I tell you--'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.

_Concini_, (_feeling his sword_.)--My blade smells of blood.

_Borgia_.--Mine is dabbled in it.

_Concini_.--Come then, if you are not--come and finish me.

_Borgia_, (_with triumph_.)--Finish! then you are wounded.

_Concini_, (_with a voice of despair_.)--Were I not, would I not have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as severely handled.

_Borgia_--It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.

_Concini_.--Shall we now have done?

_Borgia_, (_enraged_.)--Both wounded--yet both living!

_Concini_.--What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.

_Borgia_.--O! were I but beside thee! _Enter_ Vitry, _followed by the Guards walking slowly. He holds the young_ Count de la Pene _by the hand; the boy leads his sister_.

_Vitry_, (_a pistol in his hand_.)--Well, my child, which is your father?

_Count de la Pene_.--Oh! protect him, sir,--that is he leaning against the pillar.

_Vitry_, (_aloud_.)--Draw tip--remain at that gate--Guards! (_The Guards advance with lanterns and flambeaux_.) Sir, I arrest you--your sword.

_Concini_, (_thrusting at him_.)--Take it. (Vitry _fires his pistol_--Du Hallier, D'Ornano, _and_ Person _fire at the same time_--Concini _falls dead_.)

The malice of Du Luynes, the inveterate enemy of the D'Ancres, and afterwards the minion of Louis, contrives that the Maréchale, in her way to execution, shall be conducted to this scene, where her husband lies dead, on the spot which had been stained with the blood of Henry, like Caesar at the foot of Pompey's statue; and the play concludes with her indignant and animated denunciation of this wretch, who stands calm and triumphant, while the Maréchale exacts from her son, over the body of Concini, an oath of vengeance against the destroyer of her house."

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THE MARTYR-STUDENT.

I am sick of the bird, And its carol of glee; It brings the voices heard In boyhood back to me: Our old village hall, Our church upon the hill, And the mossy gates--all My darken'd eyes fill.

No more gladly leaping With the choir I go, My spirit is weeping O'er her silver bow: From the golden quiver The arrows are gone, The wind from Death's river Sounds in it alone!

I sit alone and think In the silent room. I look up, and I shrink From the glimmering gloom. O, that the little one Were here with her shout!-- O, that my sister's arm My neck were roundabout!

I cannot read a book, My eyes are dim and weak; To every chair I look-- There is not one to speak! Could I but sit once more Upon that well-known chair, By my mother, as of yore, Her hand upon my hair!

My father's eyes seeking, In trembling hope to trace If the south wind had been breaking The shadows from my face;-- How sweet to die away Beside our mother's hearth, Amid the balmy light That shone upon our birth!

A wild and burning boy, I climb the mountain's crest, The garland of my joy Did leap upon my breast; A spirit walk'd before me Along the stormy night, The clouds melted o'er me, The shadows turn'd to light.

Among my matted locks The death-wind is blowing; I hear, like a mighty rush of plumes, The Sea of Darkness flowing! Upon the summer air Two wings are spreading wide; A shadow, like a pyramid, Is sitting by my side!

My mind was like a page Of gold-wrought story, Where the rapt eye might gaze On the tale of glory; But the rich painted words Are waxing faint and old, The leaves have lost their light, The letters their gold!

And memory glimmers On the pages I unrol, Like the dim light creeping Into an antique scroll. When the scribe is searching The writing pale and damp, At midnight, and the flame Is dying in the lamp.

_FRASER'S MAGAZINE._

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THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

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THE ITALIAN REPUBLICS.

M.J.C.L. De Sismondi, has, to suit the plan of the _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_, endeavoured to include in one of its volumes--a summary of Italian history from the fall of the Roman empire to the end of the Middle Age--a period of about six and a half centuries. What a succession of stirring scenes does this volume present; what fields of bloody action; what revelry of carnage; what schemes of petty ambition; what trampling on necks, what uncrowning of heads; what orgies of fire, sword, famine, and slaughter; what overtoppling of thrones, and unseating of rulers; what pantings after freedom; what slavery of passion; what sunny scenes of fortune to be shaded with melancholy pictures of desolation and decay--are comprised in these few pages of the history of a comparatively small portion of the world for a short period--a narrow segment of the cycle of time. What Sismondi so ably accomplished in sixteen volumes, he has here comprised in one. He tells us that he could sacrifice episodes and details without regret. The present is not, however, an abridgment of his great work, "but an entirely new history, in which, with my eyes fixed solely on the free people of the several Italian states, I have studied to portray their first deliverance, their heroism, and their misfortunes."

We quote a few sketchy extracts.

_Last Struggle of Rome for Liberty_.

"1453. Stefano Porcari, a Roman noble, willing to profit by the interregnum which preceded the nomination of Nicholas V., to make the Roman citizens demand the renewal and confirmation of their ancient rights and privileges, was denounced to the new pope as a dangerous person; and, so far from obtaining what he had hoped, he had the grief to see the citizens always more strictly excluded from any participation in public affairs. Those were entrusted only to prelates, who, being prepared for it neither by their studies nor sentiments, suffered the administration to fall into the most shameful disorder.

"In an insurrection of the people in the Piazza Navona, arising from a quarrel, which began at a bull-fight, Stefano Porcari endeavoured to direct their attention to a more noble object, and turn this tumult to the advantage of liberty. The pope hastily indulged all the fancies of the people, with respect to their games or amusements; but firmly rejected all their serious demands, and exiled Porcari to Bologna. The latter hoped to obtain by conspiracy what he had failed to accomplish by insurrection. There were not less than 400 exiled Roman citizens: he persuaded them all to join him, and appointed them a rendezvous at Rome, for the 5th of January, 1453, in the house of his brother-in-law. Having escaped the vigilance of the legate of Bologna, he proceeded there himself, accompanied by 300 soldiers, whom he had enlisted in his service. The whole band was assembled on the night of the appointed 5th of January; and Stefano Porcari was haranguing them, to prepare them for the attack of the capitol,--in which he reckoned on re-establishing the senate of the Roman republic,--when, his secret having been betrayed, the house was surrounded with troops, the doors suddenly forced, and the conspirators overcome by numbers before their arms had been distributed. Next morning, the body of Stefano Porcari, with those of nine of his associates, were seen hanging from the battlements of the castle of St. Angelo. In spite of their ardent entreaties, they had been denied confession and the sacrament. Eight days later, the executions, after a mockery of law proceedings, were renewed, and continued in great numbers. The pope succeeded in causing those who had taken refuge in neighbouring states to be delivered up to him; and thus the last spark of Roman liberty was extinguished in blood."

_General Mildness of Italian Warfare_.

"1492. The horses and armour of the Italian men at arms were reckoned superior to those of the transalpine nations against which they had measured themselves in France, during "the war of the public weal." The Italian captains had made war a science, every branch of which they thoroughly knew. It was never suspected for a moment that the soldier should be wanting in courage: but the general mildness of manners, and the progress of civilization, had accustomed the Italians to make war with sentiments of honour and humanity towards the vanquished. Ever ready to give quarter, they did not strike a fallen enemy. Often, after having taken from him his horse and armour, they set him free; at least, they never demanded a ransom so enormous as to ruin him. Horsemen who went to battle clad in steel, were rarely killed or wounded, so long as they kept their saddles. Once unhorsed, they surrendered. The battle, therefore, never became murderous. The courage of the Italian soldiers, which had accommodated itself to this milder warfare, suddenly gave way before the new dangers and ferocity of barbarian enemies. They became terror-struck when they perceived that the French caused dismounted horsemen to be put to death by their valets, or made prisoners only to extort from them, under the name of ransom, all they possessed. The Italian cavalry, equal in courage, and superior in military science, to the French, was for some time unable to make head against an enemy whose ferocity disturbed their imaginations."

_Battle of Marignano_.

"1515.--Francis I. succeeded Louis XII. on the 1st of January; on the 27th of June he renewed his predecessor's treaty of alliance with Venice; and on the 15th of August, entered the plains of Lombardy, by the marquisate of Saluzzo, with a powerful army. He met but little resistance in the provinces south of the Po, but the Swiss meanwhile arrived in great force to defend Maximilian Sforza, whom, since they had reseated him on the throne, they regarded as their vassal. Francis in vain endeavoured to negotiate with them; they would not listen to the voice of their commanders; democracy had passed from their _landsgemeinde_ into their armies, popular orators roused their passions; and on the 13th of September they impetuously left Milan to attack Francis I. at Marignano. Deep ditches lined with soldiers bordered the causeway by which they advanced; their commanders wished by some manoeuvre to get clear of them, or make the enemy change his position; but the Swiss, despising all the arts of war, expected to command success by mere intrepidity and bodily strength. They marched to the battery in full front; they repulsed the charge of the knights with their halberds, and threw themselves with fury into the ditches which barred their road. Some rushed on to the very mouths of the cannon, which guarded the king, and there fell. Night closed on the combatants; and the two armies mingled together fought on for four hours longer by moonlight. Complete darkness at length forced them to rest on their arms; but the king's trumpet continually sounded, to indicate to the bivouac where he was to be found; while the two famous horns of Uri and Unterwalden called the Swiss together. The battle was renewed on the 14th at daybreak: the unrelenting obstinacy was the same; but the French had taken advantage of the night to collect and fortify themselves. Marshal Trivulzio, who had been present at eighteen pitched battles, declared that every other seemed to him children's play in comparison with this "battle of giants," as he called it: 20,000 dead already covered the ground; of these two-thirds were Swiss. When the Swiss despaired of victory they retreated slowly,--but menacing and terrible. The French did not dare to pursue them."

The concluding paragraph of the volume is beautifully enthusiastic: it may almost be regarded as prophetic in connexion with events that are at this moment shaking Italy to her very base:

"Italy is crushed; but her heart still beats with the love of liberty, virtue, and glory: she is chained and covered with blood; but she still knows her strength and her future destiny: she is insulted by those for whom she has opened the way to every improvement; but she feels that she is formed to take the lead again: and Europe will know no repose till the nation which, in the dark ages, lighted the torch of civilization with that of liberty, shall be enabled herself to enjoy the light which she created."

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CHILD'S ARITHMETICAL TABLES.

The Seventh Edition, besides being well adapted for Schools, will be found useful in the business of life. It includes the monies, weights, and measures, mentioned in Scripture, the length of miles in different countries, astronomical signs, and other matters computed with great care.

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THE GEORGIAN ERA.

This work is intended to comprise Memoirs of the most eminent characters who have flourished in Great Britain during the reigns of the four Georges: the present volume being only a fourth of its extent, and containing the Royal Family, the Pretenders and their adherents, churchmen, dissenters, and statesmen. The importance of the chosen period is prefatorily urged by the editor: "In comparison with the Elizabethan or the Modern Augustan, (as the reign of Anne has been designated) that which may be appropriately termed the Georgian Era, possesses a paramount claim to notice; for not only has it been equally fertile in conspicuous characters, and more prolific of great events, but its influence is actually felt by the existing community of Great Britain."

The several memoirs, so far as a cursory glance enables us to judge, are edited with great care. Their uniformity of plan is very superior to hastily compiled biographies. Each memoir contains the life and labours of its subject, in the smallest space consistent with perspicuity; the dryness of names, dates, and plain facts being admirably relieved by characteristic anecdotes of the party, and a brief but judicious summary of character by the editor. In the latter consists the original value of the work. The reader need not, however, take this summary "for granted:" he is in possession of the main facts from which the editor has drawn his estimate, and he may, in like manner, "weigh and consider," and draw his own inference. The anecdotes, to borrow a phrase from Addison, are the "sweetmeats" of the book, but the caution with which they are admitted, adds to their worth. The running reader may say that much of this portion is not entirely new to him: granted; but it would be unwise to reject an anecdote for its popularity; as Addison thought of "Chevy Chase," its commonness is its worth. But, it should be added, that such anecdotes are not told in the circumlocutory style of gossip, nor nipt in the bud by undeveloped brevity. We have Selden's pennyworth of spirit without the glass of water: the quintessence of condensation, which, we are told, is the result of time and experience, which rejects what is no longer essential. Here circumspection was necessary, and it has been well exercised. The anecdotes are not merely amusing but useful, since only when placed in juxtaposition with a man's whole life, can such records be of service in appreciating his character.

Let us turn to the volume for a few examples, and take George the Fourth and Sheridan, for their contemporary interest; though the earlier characters are equally attractive. In the former the reader may better compare the editor's inference with his own impression.

_GEORGE THE FOURTH_.

"Endowed by nature with remarkably handsome features, and a form so finely proportioned, that at one period of his life it was deemed almost the best model of manly beauty in existence, George the Fourth, during the early part of his manhood, eclipsed the whole of his gay associates in fashion and gallantry, as much by personal attractions, as pre-eminence in birth. Byron describes him as having possessed "fascination in his very bow;" and it is said, that a young peeress, on hearing of the prince's attentions to one of her fair friends, exclaimed, "I sincerely hope that it may not be my turn next, for to repel him is impossible." Towards the middle period of his life, he became so enormously fat, that four life-guardsmen could not, without difficulty, lift him on horseback; but, as he advanced in years, although still corpulent, his inconvenient obesity gradually diminished.