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KXd/r»^ 




iL 




W. F. R. WELDON. 

St. JOHN'S COLLEGE. 

CAMBRIDGE. 




SHELLEY'S WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE 



VOLUME V 



The rule of criticism to be adopted in judging of the life, actions, 
and words of a man who has acted any conspicuous part in the 
revolutions of the world, should not be narrow. We ought to form 
a general image of his character and of his doctrines, and refer to 
this whole the distinct portions of action and speech by which they 
are diversified. 




A^ti^ ^Jffc^^r)} 4i;^^ ■j^.r^Uf 



THE WORKS 



OF 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



IN VERSE AND PROSE 



NOW FIRST BROUGHT TOGETHER 

WITH MANY PIECES NOT BEFORE PUBLISHED 



EDITED 
BY 

HARRY BUXTON FORMAN 



IN EIGHT VOLUMES 



Fifth Volume — Prose I 



LONDON 

REEVES AND TURNER 196 STRAND 

1880 



CONTENTS. 



P4ftl 

Preface bt the Editor ix 

The Pedigree of Shellet — ^Proofs .... xxxr 



Zastrozzi, a Romance 

Editor*s Note before Zastrozzi .... 2 

Chapter I 5 

Chapter II 12 

Chapter III 18 

Chapter IV 24 

Chapter V 87 

Chapter VI 46 

Chapter VIII 56 

Chapter IX 69 

Chapter X 82 

Chapter XI 98 

Chapter XII 100 

Chapter XIII ... .111 

Chapter XIV 126 

Chapter XV 188 

Chapter XVI 144 

Chapter XVII 161 

PROSE. VOL. I. b 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAOI 

St. Irvtne ; or, the Rosicrucian 

Editor's Note before St. Irvtne . . 162 

Chapter I 165 

Chapter II , 188 

Chapter HI . . . 203 

Chapter IV 215 

Chapter VII 233 

Chapter VIII 248 

Chapter IX 258 

Chapter X 269 

Chapter XI 277 

Chapter XII . . .... 288 

Conclusion 296 

The Necessity of Atheism 

Editor's Note before The Necessity of Atheism . 300 

Advertisement by Shelley 303 

The Necessity of Atheism .... 305 

An Address to the Irish People 

Editor's Note before the Address . .312 

Advertisement by Shelley (on Title-paoe) . 313 

An Address &c 315 

Postscript by Shelley 359 

Proposals for an Association 

Editor's Note before the Proposals , . 364 

Proposals for an Association &c. . . 367 

Declaration of Rights 

Editor's Note before the Declaration . . 392 

Declaration of Rights 393 

Editor's Note after the Declaration . . . 399 



CONTENTS. 

A Letter to Lord Ellenborouqh, Occasioned by the 
Sentence which he passed on Mr. D. I, Baton, 
AS Publisher of the Third Part of Paine's 
"Age of Reason" 

Editor's Note before the Letter 

Advertisement by Shelley 

JLjc< 1 1 KR •>•••«•« 



vu 



TAOS 



402 
405 
407 



ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I. 

Portrait of Shelley painted by Miss Curran and 

etched by W. B. Scott . . . Frontispiece 

Shelley*s Pedigree, with quartered Shields of Arms, 

as recorded in the College of Arms Opposite xxxiv 
Shelley Shield of Twenty-one Quarterings from 

the Records of the College of Arms . . xxxv 
Brasses on Gravestone in Penshurst Church . xxxvii 
Shield from Monument in Worminghurst Church . xxxviii 
Shield from Monument in Worth Church . xxxix 

Shield prom Mural Monument in Worth Church . xl 



i2 



PREFACE, 



BY THE EDITOR. 



The plau on which the present edition of Shelley's Prose 
Works is arranged is substantially the same as that 
adopted in the Library Edition of his Poetry. The 
Works issued by Shelley himself are reproduced chrono- 
logically with all their title-pages &c., in the same 
exact manner, no change, however minute, being made 
without a record of it; and the posthumous writings 
follow in a separate arrangement. Of these I have, as 
in dealing with the Poetry, separated original wiitings 
from Translations; and while the independent division 
of *' Juvenilia " has been dropped, it has been necessary, 
in the nature of things, to introduce a new division of 
writings not intended for publication — the Letters. 

The reason for abandoning the division " Juvenilia " 
for the Prose Works is that the distinction between 
Shelley's last immature prose publication and his firstmature 
one is not marked in the same broad and unmistakable 
way as the distinction between the last published Poem 
of his boyhood and the* first of his maturity. Between 
Queen Mob and Alaslor there is a great gulf fixed; 



X EDITOU'S PREFACE. 

because they must be judged as Works of Art ; but the 
Prose Works which he published illustrate the practical 
side of Ills character more than the poetic side, the 
developement of his intellectual powers rather than the 
growth and culture of those moral forces which con- 
stitute the poetic temperament. And the two worthless 
Komances of his boyhood are just as remarkable instances 
of practical energy and prompt realization of a scheme 
as any of the admirable works by which they were 
succeeded. The first really good thing he published is 
in prose, the Letter to Lord Mleniorough ; and that 
issued from the press more than three years earlier than 
his first good volume of Poetry, Alastor. The Letter 
would be distinctly out of place in an Appendix of 
"Juvenilia"; and what the mature Shelley's fame loses 
(if it can indeed be said to lose) by the insertion of the 
two absurd Komances at the beginning of his Prose 
Works, his character for practical energy gains by the 
arrangement of all his prose publications in one series. 
None of us can do anything for his glory as a Poet — it is 
assured, eternal, and radiant; but I submit that the 
practical boy and man is not yet half appreciated ; and 
it is mainly in illustration of this side of his character 
that a number of early letters on literary subjects have 
been introduced into this collection. 

A very large proportion of the posthumous prose writings 
is comprised in the two volumes of Essays, Letters, 



editor's preface. xi 

Translations and Fragments issued by Mrs. Shelley in 

1840; but not one of Shelley's own prose publications 

was reissued in that collection, unless we reckon as his 

the History of a Six Weeks' Toiir, in which he certainly 

took a very active part. While bringing that posthumous 

collection and his own publications together, I have 

also included every essay or fragment of an essay known 

to me as having been published in any of the numerous 

books about Shelley : I have been fortunate enough to 

obtain a good deal that was unpublished ; and, although 

it has been no part of the scheme to make a complete 

collection of Shelley's Letters, it will be seen that the 

sixty-eight given by Mrs. Shelley have grown to a 

hundred and twenty-seven, — twenty-one letters written 

in the years preceding Shelley's final departure from 

England in 1818, and a hundred and six " Letters from 

Italy." The greater part of the additional letters are from 

outlying sources : they include nearly all the scattered 

letters of Shelley given in lives of the poet and books and 

articles about him ; but the great mass of letters in Hogg's 

Life of Shelley has not been drawn upon at all, the book 

being accessible and the letters mainly of biographical 

rather than literary interest; and the letters in the 

Shelley Memorials, a stereotyped book of high authority in 

good circulation, have not been incorporated, as they of 

course should be in a collection of Shelley's miscellaneous 

letters. 



xii editor's pkeface. 

Before each Work or Section in these volumes will be 
found, in a note, such particulars as to histoiy and biblio- 
graphy as seem essential ; but a consideration of these 
prose writings in the mass and seriatim has suggested a 
few additional observations which may more fitly be made 
in a Preface to the first collected edition of Shelley's Prose 
Works, — ^an edition embodying, it is believed, all his prose 
essays of any importance which are extant. 

First, then, as to the two Bomances, — a somewhat 
curious speculation suggests itself. Ever since Shelley's 
works have been a subject of serious study to me, I have 
had an impression that there was something more in the 
method of manufacture of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne than 
mere indebtedness to Zofloya o?* the Moor and so on, — 
that in fact a good deal in these two juvenilities was 
translated or paraphrased from another tongue. The 
grounds upon which this impression obtained were the 
notable frequency of foreign idioms, the precocity of 
certain descriptions of passionate scenes, and the fact 
that in St. Irvyne there are two distinct sets of charac- 
ters and incidents alternating in the story and very 
clumsily put together. In Zastrozzi the impression is 
more of laboured imitation than of actual translation. It 
seems to me that the repeated accounts of Matilda's 
violent passions are beyond the probabilities of so youth- 
ful an imagination, as Shelley's at that time, and were 
more likely to have bef;n taken from some unpleasant 



EDITORS PREFACE. Xlll 

foreign book which he did not more than half under- 
stand. I doubt whether he would not have thought the 
first half of page 108 indelicate, had it conveyed a 
distinct series of impressions to his mind. And the 
grotesque exuberance of page 115 has much the same 
character. These and many other passages it seems to me 
almost impossible to regard as the inventions of a boy. 

But in SL L^yne, beside the two ill-fitting threads of 
fable, representing, or meant to represent, continental 
life, and altogether extremely un-English in treatment, 
we have a great number of instances in which the idiom 
is no more English than the conception. At page 223 
Wolfstein says " Seek for proof in my heart, . . . and 
then will tlie convirieed Megalena know " &c. At page 
235 we read " Noio were it toell for a while to leave 
Eloise at St. Irvyne, and reti-ace the events which, since 
five years" &c. Page 236 contains the words " ere long 
they had entered " in the sense of " not long after they 
had entered," the phrase "Now might we almost sup- 
pose," and again " Now had they gained the summit of 
the mountain." At page 243 we are told that Eloise 
" required unexampled care to prevent those feelings . . . 
to get the better of the judgment"; and on the next 
page we find the sentence " Now had sunk the orb of 
day, and the shades of twilight began to scatter duskiness 
through the chamber of death." At page 252 is the 
following scrap of philosophy : — " involuntary disgust 



Xiv KDITOU'S I'REFACE. 



follows the attachment fouuded on the visionary fabric 
of passion or interest. It sinks in the merited abyss of 
ennui, or is followed by apathy and carelessness, which 
amply its origin deserved," — instead of " which its origin 
amply deserved." On the same page inconsequent is 
used to signify of no conseqtience {importance), as if un- 
vnchtig had been wrongly rendered through oversight. 
At page 267 is an equally notable suggestion of Grer- 
man, in the sentence " Never would your mind have 
attained " &c., " had not I watched over its every move- 
ment, and taught tlie sentiment, as it unfolded itself, to 
despise contented vulgarity." Here it is difficult to 
believe that the inappropriate expression the sentiment is 
other than a wrong rendering of das Gefiihl, the mean- 
ing of which, according to the context, may be either the 
sentim,ent in the concrete, or feeling, sensibility in the 
abstract. The separation of away from died, in another 
sentence on the same page, " his voice died, in a clear 
and melancholy cadence, away," is also very suggestive, 
and recurs at the top of page 261. Page 263 yields 
the extraordinary construction, "with each moment of 
his absence, became lessened tlie conviction of his friend- 
ship, and heightened the suspicions which . . . pos- 
sessed her bosom." 

The internal evidences of which these are samples 
might be insufficient by themselves to justify me in 
calling attention to this aspect of the Komancos ; but 



EDITOK'S preface. XV 



there is something in the shape of external evidence. 
Mr. Eossetti, in the memoir prefixed to his 1878 edition 

■ 

of Shelley's Poetical Works, has called attention to an 
article in Fraser*s Magazine for June 1841, Chapter IV 
of A Newspaper Editor's Reminiscences, in which there is 
a good deal about " the early history of Shelley." Among 
other things the Newspaper Editor tells us that, 
apparently at some time between October 1811 and 
March 1812, that is to say clearly after the publication 
of Zastrozzi and St, Irvyne, Shelley came up to London 
and passed three days with him. " On this visit to the 
metropolis, he had brought with him the MS. of tliree 
tales, one original, the other two translations from the 
German, which were written in a common school 
ciphering book. He offered them to three or four 
booksellers for ten pounds, but could not find a purchaser. 
On the evening which preceded my departure, he 
insisted upon my accepting them as a token for remem- 
brance. They were of a very wild and romantic descrip- 
tion, but full of energy. I ' kept them," says the 
writer, " until about the year 1822, when I lent them for 
perusal to a friend . . . When I applied for them again 
at the end of some months, I had the mortification of 
hearing that they had been lost. Two years ago, taking 
up by chance a paper called the Novelist, I saw in it one 
of those tales as a reprint. How it obtained publication 
I know not. I am quite sure, from the style of the 



xvi editor's preface. 



MS. presented to nie, that it was not a copy of a paper 
of which Shelley had preserved the original ; and I am 
equally certain that my friend did not deceive me when 
he informed me that he had lost the book in which it 
was written." 

We are of course to understand that the manuscript 
shewed too much revision to be " a copy of a paper of 
which Shelley had preserved the original" ; and the 
Newspaper Editor does not seem to have been struck by 
the alteiiiative that his friend's gift might be the original 
of a copy from which publication had already been 
effected. Such however was certainly the case in regard 
to the tale which he identified, and I think very probably 
in regard to the whole bookful. Mr. Eossetti clearly 
shews that the newspaper editor was very inaccurate in 
many points ; but we are now in a position to certify to a 
further inaccuracy ; for whereas The Necessity of Atheism 
will be seen from the reprint in the present edition 
to have issued from a Worthing press, the Newspaper 
Editor records that it was printed at Brighton. Thus 
we must not trust the writer for exactness of detail, and 
may, I think, having regard to the general tone and 
character of his remarks, classify him with Medwin as a 
well-intentioned narrator with an essentially inexact 
turn of mind. This Novelint then, in which he found 
his friend's early tale as a reprint, is not to be found by 
any one else ; but the title is a fairly good shot. In The 



editor's preface. xvii 

Romandst wnd Novelist's Library, No. 10, we find Zastrozzi 

reprinted ; and if the fifty-two numbers of The Borrumoist 

which compose the two volumes dated 1839 are really 

the fifty-two weekly numbers for that year, this issue 

took place just two years and about three months 

before the appearance of the Fraser article. There 

is no reasonable doubt that this reprint of Zastrozzi is 

what the Newspaper Editor means : for St. Irvyne was 

not reprinted in The Bamancist till about a year later than 

Zastrozzi ; and I know of nothing else that can possibly 

be referred to. I should be indisposed to doubt that the 

manuscript book given away by Shelley on this occasion 

really purported to contain an original tale and two 

translations from the German. Now our informant does 

not say whether the tale he found reprinted was the 

original one or one of the translations; but we can 

scarcely doubt that it was Zastrozzi ; and upon my theory 

of careful imitation that would of course be the " originar* 

one. What then were the two translations ? Perhaps 

something of which we have no knowledge beyond this 
record; but, if I am right in surmising two German 

originals for the two threads of St. Irvyns, it is by no 

means unlDcely that these two translated tales in the 

ciphering book were the rough material from which the 

" Gentleman of the University of Oxford" put together 

the eccentric Somance of St. Irvyne, 

In connection with the poet's biography, it would be 

PROSE. ^VOL. I, c 



xviii editor's prbface. 

worth while to find out the originals of this book, if such 
exist; and I am induced to give prominence to these 
circumstances by the hope that some one intimately ac- 
quainted with Grerman Fiction may be led to read these 
two early works of Shelley's, and may throw some 
light upon the method of their production by pointing 
out the sources of some of the memorably curious passages. 
Such light would have additional value as clearing a 
point in controversy — ^whether Shelley had begun the 
study of German thus early. Hogg says not ; but my 
impression is that Medwin's statement in his Life of 
Shelley (Vol. I, page 118) is too explicit to be whoUy 
baseless. He says that at the Oxford period Shelley 
shewed him, on a visit, '' a volume of tales which he had 
himself rendered" from the German. '* During half an 
hour that we were together, (I passed the whole day 
with him) I perused thesd MSS.," says Medwin, '*and 
they gave me a very low idea of the literature of that 
country, then almost unknown in England. It was 
evident that the books that had fallen into his hands 
were from the pens of very inferior writers ; and I told 
him he had lost his time and labour in clothing them in 
his own language, and that I thought he could write 
much better things himself." It seems to me very likely 
that the manuscript book of this passage is identical with 
that given to the Newspaper Editor. 

The importance of Tht Necessity of Atheism is rather 



editor's preface. xix 

biographical and illustrative than literary. It is true the 
little tract is put together cleverly, and apparently with 
perfect good faith; but from a strictly literary stand- 
point it could not be said that an irreparable loss would 
be sustained by its destruction. None the less its 
recovery seems to me a matter for great congratulation. 
So much hung upon this tract, — Shelley's expulsion and 
all its momentous issues, — so much has been said and 
written about it, — ^that to have it before us exactly as it 
issued from the Press at Worthing and was offered to 
the Oxford worthies and undergraduates was highly 
desirable. I had, before obtaining access to a copy of 
the pamphlet, restored it conjecturally upon certain 
data furnished by Hogg, Medwin, and a number of The 
Brighton Magazine, wherein it was reviewed with extracts ; 
and my provisional text did not vary substantially from 
that now given ; but the reading public is much beholden 
to Sir Percy and Lady Shelley for permitting their copy 
of the original to be used, and thus furnishing a final 
instead of a provisional text of this curious little work. 

Some such observations would be true of the Letter to 
Lard Mlenioroiigh, of which Sir Percy and Lady Shelley's 
copy is the only one known to me. But here the gift is 
still more substantial, for the Letter is excellent, and the 
provisional reconstruction I had made of it, on inadequate 
data, from the SheUey Memorials and the Queen Mob note 

in which parts of it appear, would have been very inferior 

c2 



XX editor's preface. 

to the real thing, because much longer and more discursive. 
It was made up from the right materials; but I had 
incorporated too much of them, — ^had not divined, that 
is to say, how much, in the note to Queen Mab, Shelley 
had added to the original Letter, when eliminating the 
passages personal to Eaton and Lord EUenborough. The 
Letter as now read in its integrity will be found to be a 
notable advance upon the two Irish pamphlets which 
it follows. It has a more convincing tone of earnestness, 
a closer method of developing the subject, a less faulty 
rhetoric, and a far smaller tendency to repetition. The 
subject has its advantages; and certainly Shelley was 
much more distinctly in his true j)lace when championing 
the cause of a free press and imfettered thought in the 
widest sense, than when agitating for catholic emancipa- 
tion, coupled with a repeal of the Union Act, as the two- 
fold remedy for all the griefs of Ireland. 

Queen Mab of course shewed a marked accession of 
power when compared with the Letter to Lord Ellen- 
borough; but then it shewed also such an enormous 
advance in literary ambition that, notwithstanding the 
increase of force, it remains to confess that the Poem 
falls far short of its object, while the Letter does not. 
The reissue of the Queen Mab note against flesh-eating, as 
a pamphlet, with additions, and its publication through a 
medical bookseller at the price of eighteen pence, was a 
further proof of Shelley's practical bent, and is hardly a 



editor's preface. XXI 

literary episode ; while the dialogue published in the 
following year, A Refutation of Deisniy is more distinctly 
literary than any serious work of Shelley's issued up to 
that time except Queen Mob. It marks, indeed, the close 
of a period, — the period in which the true poet was yet 
imborn — the period of practical activity and wide-eyed 
search after truth, when justice had far greater 
attractions for Shelley's mind than beauty had, and truth 
far greater attractions than both, — ^when the great balance 
between the good, the beautiful and the true had not 
dawned on him, and when his uncompromising rectitude 
and eager propagandism had rather the colour of a 
conviction of the mind than of a passion of the whole 
souL But in this ver}*^ year came a great and sudden 
change, — a, change of which Alastor was the first full 
and perfect fruit, but of which earlier fruit is now in 
evidence : I refer to the fragment of a Bomance entitled 
The Assassins. 

Intellectual brilliancy, earnestness, great ease in the 
use of rhetoric, and an egregious practical energy, are 
abeady among the qualities to be credited to Shelley 
by a reader who has followed him step by step from his 
early boyhood- to the time of the first continental trip. 
But in T/ie Assassins there is the touch of a new quality. 
Eccentric, and even revolting in detail as one may find 
the manner of introducing the Wandering Jew, found by 
Albedir impaled upon a tall cedar, battling with a huge 



xxii editob's pbeface. 

serpent, and with a vulture waiting for his share of the 
man's carcass, there is yet, in the method of treating that 
awful picture, trace of an infinite yearning over the 
miseries of suffering humanity : there is no such thing as 
this in the admirable Letter to Lord EllenJborough, no such 
thing in all Queen Mob or its Notes, no such thing in the 
brilliant sophistries of the Refutation of Deism. But 
this divine tenderness, which is eventually and for ever 
the distinctive characteristic of Shelley beyond all others 
who have risen to supremacy in executive art, appears 
much more clearly in the descriptive passages which 
make up the greater part of The Assassins, and perhaps 
above all in the account of Abdallah and Maimuna sport- 
ing with the snake. 

In these passages, and more than all in that final one, 
we come to know that Shelley's moral nature has under- 
gone, not so much a change as a developement, — a great 
and apparently sudden developement. The tenderness 
that lay dormant, so far as expression in literature is 
concerned, has been brought forth ; and the man discem- 
able at the back of this extravagant story is that Shelley 
who in some circumstances might have been the Saviour 
of the World, who was and is the great lyric poet of the 
modem English-speaking world, the man whose mere 
broken and piecemeal achievements have radiated in 
powerful influences over the whole habitable globe. 

In this place we need not pause to enquire whence this 



editor's preface. xxiii 

developement of the moral nature ; but we must not omit 
to note the persistency of impression that brought out 
again in the first Canto of La/cm and Cythna a portion 
of the fabric of ITie Assassins. It is well worthy of 
remark that the one picture, in the series of pictures 
embodied in that Canto, which impresses us as a thing 
we have seen, and not merely as a thing which some one 
else has seen or dreamed, is the figure of the woman 
standing on the shore, chaunting to the wounded snake 
until it crawls up out of the water and takes haven and 
shelter in her bosom. 

We think of these things and remember the anecdote of 
the " great old snake" of Field Place, beloved of the 
little Percy, and killed by the scythe of the gardener ; 
and almost wonder what inarticulate dirge the little boy 
uttered over his mutilated favourite. We inevitably re- 
call a world of serpentine allusions in his writings ; and at 
length the mind reverts to the curious nickname of " the 
Snake," given him by Byron, then to his own reference to 
his "fellow serpent" who was to have been burnt for 
sacrilege at Lucca, till we wonder how much of serious 
douhk entendre is in the opening line of that lovely poem 
to Williams — 

The serpent is shut out from Paradise. 

In all compositions dating after the middle of the 
year 1814 a ne^ tone prevails. In view of the ultimate 



xxiY editor's preface. 

glories of Prometheus Urdxmnd and HeUas it is assuredly 
permissible for Shellejr's most loyal and ardent admirers 
to avow the impression that the humanitarianism of 
the Irish pamphlets, and even of Queen Mab, has a 
slightly histrionic air ; but that air never reappears 
after 1814, — ^we see the last of it in ^ BefutcUian of 
Deism. The new Shelley became within a short time 
one of the most powerful and vivid of the great descrip- 
tive writers who write straight from the heart. The 
letters which he sent to Peacock in 1814 are not in 
evidence, or we should probably find them full of fine 
landscape-painting : Alastor has certainly some of the 
best landscapes that exist in literature — spiritualized 
landscapes rather than naturalistic, it is true ; and the 
two long letters of 1816 from Switzerland are as fine as 
the descriptive ones in the Italian series. This loving 
attitude towards external nature is balanced in the new 
Shelley by an intenser interest in profound questions, — 
a burning desire to deal with them to some good result ; 
but iU health and the idea that he was not destined to 
live long appear to have unsettled the poet's mind, and 
thus to have led to the abandonment of scheme after 
scheme. By the autumn of 1815 he had begun to work 
upon " several literary plans," which, according to a letter 
printed in the third volume (page 347), he contemplated 
finishing in the winter. It seems likely that the frag- 
ments on the Punishment of Death, on life, Love, and a 



editor's preface. XXV 

Future State, the Speculations on Metaphysics and on 
Morals, the fragment on the Bevival of Literature, and 
the Essay on Christianity, are relics of this season of ardent 
but broken activity. The Essay on the Devil has the 
air of belonging to a period of greater power of concen- 
tration and unusually high spirits, — probably the Mar- 
low period, one of the most eventful and fruitful in 
Shelley's career, and one which need not be examined in 
this place. 

A few words are perhaps necessary on the subject of 
certain prose writings which Shelley is recorded to have 
been engaged on at different times, but which do not 
appear in these volumes. I believe nothing of any 
consequence is wanting; and it is doubtful whether 
anything meant for publication and not now published is 
extant 

In a letter to Oilier dated the 15th of December, 
1819 {Shelley Memorials, page 123), Shelley says, " I am 
preparing an octavo on reform — a commonplace kind of 
book — which, now that I see the passion of party will 
postpone the great struggle till another year, I shall 
not trouble myself to finish for this season. I intend it 
to be an instructive and readable book^ appealing from 
the passions to the reason of men." I presume the 
abandoned fragment of this work to be what Mrs. Shel- 
ley referred to in her preface to the Essays &c. (1840), 
when at page xviii she stated that " A Treatise on Poli- 



xxvi editor's preface. 

tical Beform and other fragments remain, to be pub- 
lished when his works assume a complete shape." Mr. 
Bossetti's allusion to a book on Beform at page 147 of 
the memoir prefixed to his edition of Shelley's Poetical 
Works (1878), is based upon these two passages. Mr. 
Garnett, who is familiar with the family archives, tells 
me he can find no trace of such a book, or any further 
evidence of Shelley's employment upon one in 1819. 
The impression appears to be that Mrs. Shelley's refer- 
ence was to the Marlow Pamphlet on Beform ; and it 
seems to me possible that, as Shelley had no notion of 
getting the book done in 1819, he laid it aside alto- 
gether after having sketched one or two sections to add 
to the original pamphlet If that be so the fragment 
called A System of Grovemment hy Juries^ and the 
smaller fragment on Beform from the Eelics, given in 

the second volume, may be all that remains of these 
additions.^ If these two fragments do belong to the 

1819 Beform scheme, their position would probably be 

after instead of before the Essays on Christianity and 

the Devil, and the literary Essays at the beginning of 

the third volume ; but the dates of many of these prose 

fragments are at present uncertain. 

. Mr. Bossetti's chronological summary of minor writings 

(pages 148 to 150 of the , memoir prefixed to his 1878 

edition of Shelley's Poetry) includes (1) a fragment of a 

^ See, however, the note At p. 399 of thia volume. 



"T* 



editok's preface. xxvii 

wild romance about a witch begun in conjunction with 
Medwin about the beginning of 1809 ; (2) a novel, " to 
be a deathblow to intolerance," projected at the end of 
1810, "apparently the same novel which we find him 
soon afterwards writing in conjunction with Hogg, in the 
form of letters" (see Hogg's life of Shelley, Vol. I, 
page 882) ; (3) a translation of a treatise by Bufifon 
made in 1811 ; (4) a translation of Baron d'Holbach's 
Systdme de la Nature projected in 1812, but probably 
never begun ; (5) Biblical Hxtracts compiled in 1812, — " a 
collection of passages from the Scriptures, embodying 
exalted moral truths and precepts, to the exclusion of 
dogma" ; (6) " an essay or treatise of some French philo- 
sopher on the Perfectibility of the Human Species," 
translated in 1818; (7) Plutarch's two essays wtpi rrig 
aapKo^ayiaQ also translated in 1818; (8) a translation 
from Spinoza dictated to Mrs. Shelley in March 1820, 
probably the same that he was dictating to Williams in 
November 1821 (see Vol. IV, page 812), and, if so, the 
work of which a fragment is given in the third volume of 
this edition. Mr. Gamett teUs me he has some reason to 
think this portion of the translation was made towards the 
end of 1817, adding that Mr. F. Pollock, who is engaged 
on a work on Spinoza, says the translation is undoubtedly 
from the Latin, and not, as Middleton said in a letter to 
The Athencmm, from the French. Had I recovered more 
of this translation I would gladly have given it; and 



xxviii editor's preface. 



there might have been some temptation to publish any 
one of these pieces if fortune had brought them to 
light. But as far as I am aware these remain in much 
the same position as the lost volumes of published poetry 
and a certain number of unpublished verses which Shel- 
ley is known to have left. At present I have no evi- 
dence of the existence of any one of these prose fragments 
and translations ; but if none of them are ever recovered, 
the reading public will stiU be in possession of a far 
greater mass of work from the hand of Shelley than it 
had any reason to expect. To recover his Boman Note- 
book, and complete the publication of his rough notes on 
sculpture, would be to confer a greater benefit on the 
public than would accrue from the finding of all the 
juvenile works just enumerated ; and I find a far greater 
satisfaction in the recovery of the Florentine notes given 
in the third volume than I could imaginably have found 
in reprinting the Poetical Essay on the Existing State of 
Things and the Original Poetry by Victor and Ca>zire, if 
I had succeeded in obtaining copies of those two lost 
juvenilia. 

Neither the lost volumes nor the missing manuscripts, 
however, need we deem irrecoverable in these days of 
eager and ceaseless disinterment. When the library edition 
of Shelley's Poetry was begun, the world was certainly 
not aware of the existence of Shelley's copy of Loon and 
Cythna, or that his own Queen Mob revised for The Daemon 



editor's preface. jucix 



of the World was still extant : the exquisite finished manu- 
script of Julian avd Maddalo was unknown, and the exist- 
ence of the sonnets to the Nile and to Dante unsuspected. 
Since those and the numerous other manuscripts used in the 
course of my labours came to light, the public has had word, 
successively, of the papers of Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne, and 
those of Mr. Oilier, Shelley's publisher, among which last 
were the manuscript of the Marlow Reform Pamphlet, and 
the copy of Hellas written out by Williams and revised 
for the press by Shelley. Later still, Mrs. Shelley's 
copy of Qtieen Mob with autograph inscriptions by herself 
and Shelley has been found and sold by public auction ; 
and in the present collection of prose writings will be 
found several things that were not supposed to exist, such as 
the numerous additional Notes on Sculptures, the Lucianic 
fragment called T?ie Elysian Fields, the review of 
Peacock's Ehododaphne (thought to have been lost), a 
large portion of the translation of Plato's Ion, not till 
now known to have been finished by Shelley, several of 
the poet's letters, and last, but not least, the invaluable 
letter from Mrs. Shelley to Mrs. Gisborne, giving a 
detailed account of the life at Spezia and its tragic 
close.* 

The whole of the docimients mentioned above have 
been more or less waifs and strays. The Essay On the 

> Published in AfacmtZ/an*« Maga" with notes and remarks by myself, 
tine with a number of highly inter- while these volumes were passing 
esting documents in May, 18S0, through the press. 



XXX editor's preface. 

Devil, and Devils, and the Letter to Leigh Hunt on the 
Trial of Richard Carlile, are in a difiTerent category, 
having been carefully preserved in the poet's family. 
And here begins the agreeable task of recording my 
gratitude to those who have given me help in getting 
together an authentic edition of all Shelley's Works. To 
Sir Percy and Lady SheUey I owe, not only the privilege 
of giving the world this long-expected Essay and long- 
desired Letter, but also most important aid in other 
matters. It is with Sir Percy Shelley's concurrence that a 
great number of letters and fragments are brought into 
the Collection ; and it is through Lady Shelley's special 
courtesy that I am enabled to reprint The Necessity of 
Atheism and A Letter to Lord Ellenborough, and to 
include among the posthumous Essays that on Christianity 
which was first published in the SheUey Memorials 
and has not till now appeared among Shelley's Works. 
To Mr. Gramett I owe, beside what all the world 
of Shelley's lovers owes him, hearty thanks for his 
frank concession now of the prose as formerly of the 
poetic portions of his Rdics of Shelley. These and his 
valuable articles in Macrnillan's MagaMne and The 
Fortnightly Beview, of which Mr. Garnett has allowed me 
to avail myself, will be found to have enriched these 
volumes very largely ; but beyond that I have derived 
much help from Mr. Gamett's readiness to correspond 
with me on points of diflSculty and give me the advan- 



editor's preface. xxxi 

tage of his special knowledge and judgment. Mr. W. M. 
Kossetti I have found equally ready to enter upon 
questions in which his far-reaching knowledge of 
Shelleyan literature and documents cooperates with his 
judicial thoroughness in dealing with facts to make his 
opinion of special value. My thanks are due to Mr. 
J. R P. Kirby of Great Russell Street and to Mr. C. W. 
Frederickson of New York for furnishing me with 
transcripts of letters in their possession, — ^to Messrs. 
Longman & Co. for their ready concurrence in the 
reproduction of the letters published by Peacock in 
Fraser's Magaaine, — to Messrs. Macmillan & Co. for their 
consent to the immediate reappearance of Mrs. Shelley's 
letter already referred to, — and to Mr. Trelawny for the 
like courtesy in regard to the letters reprinted from his 
Records. Sonie other debts will be found to be acknow- 
ledged in notes stottered tlirough the volumes ; but I 
desire to record here my hearty acknowledgment of all 
help given me, specified or unspecified. 

Of the illustrations there are a few words to say. Mr. 
W. B. Scott has bestowed the most loving care on the 
reproduction of the only authentic portrait of the mature 
Shelley which is known to exist, — ^that by Miss Curran, 
in Sir Percy Shelley's possession ; and it seems to me 
that some subtleties of expression have here been caught 
and rendered with the etching-point in a manner which 
the more mechanical method of the current engravings 



xxxii editor's preface. 

almost of necessity precluded. The view of the comer 
of Field Place was taken by Dr. Evershed when he did 
the front view for the fourth volume of the Poetical 
Works, — ^that is to say in June 1877. At that time Dr. 
Evershed's sketches represented with absolute fidelity 
the fine old mansion where the poet was bom ; and pos- 
sibly they do so still ; but, if the pretty vignette lately 
issued on the title-page of the Oolden Treasury selection 
from Shelley's Poetry be correct, considerable alterations 
must have been recently made in the front of the house. 
The comer view given as a frontispiece to the third of the 
present volumes has for its special object to shew the 
other aspect of that part of the house where the poet first 
saw the light. The chimney-stack indicates the position 
of the upstau^ room where he was bom, and the window 
is in the front 6f the house. The event is commemorated 
by means of an engraved plate over the fire-place : the 
inscription is as follows — 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

WAS BORN IN THIS CHAMBER 

AUGUST 4th 1792. 

SHRINB OF THE DAWNING SPEECH AND THOUGHT 

or SHELLET, SACRED BE 

TO ALL WHO BOW WHERE TIMf HAS BROUGHT 

GIFTS TO ETERNITT.* 

I It is right to record that the quatrain is by Mr. Oamett. 



editor's preface. xxxiii 

The etching of Gasa Magni shews Shelley's last dwelling 
place and its beautiful surroundings as they now are. 
The house has been heightened since it was occupied by 
the Shelleys and their friends; but I was anxious to 
secure an exact record of it while yet standing, for I am 
told the sea is encroaching and must inevitably demolish 
the Villa. For this record I am indebted to Mr. Henry 
Boderick Newman of Florence, who went to Lerici last 
year and made for me an excellent and faithful water- 
colour drawing, which has been reproduced as an etching 
by Dr. Evershed, The frontispiece to the second volume 
is a fac-simUe of one of Shelley's sketches of trees, of 
which Hunt and others have spoken. It is a very happy 
specimen of the poet's undisciplined art ; and Mr. 6. F. 
Tupper has reproduced it so exactly that the pubUc can 
form an accurate opinion of Shelley's graceful draughts- 
manship. 

It only remains to speak of the Shelley Pedigree. As 
far as I am aware no Pedigree of the poet has ever been 
published; and this seemed to me so notable a want 
that I enquired at the College of Arms what Pedigree 
was among the records there. Mr. Stephen Tucker 
with the readiest kindness made the search for me, and 
found the remarkable Genealogy which is inserted in the 
present volume. I am told that not even an extract 
from it has ever been printed; and I ^h to record 
my warm thanks to Mr. Tucker for placing at my 

PROSE. VOL. I. d 



xxxiv editor's preface. 



( 



disposal a certified copy of the Pedigree and its Proofs 
from which the documents are here given. The Pedi- 
gree speaks for itself to any careful reader ; and a glance 
at the shield of twenty-one quarterings on the following 
page will, to those who have the slightest knowledge of 
heraldry, be highly significant in regard to the ancestry of 
England's second great republican poet, Percy Bysshe 
Shelley. 

H. BUXTON FORMAN. 



38, Marlborongh Hill, St. John's Wood, 
Jtme, 1880. 



t 

f 

4 






♦'. 



I ♦ 



i 



' 



I ♦ 



I' 



» ; • ' -• - 



' ii 



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t', i 



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pjcoote to tbe foregotng peMgrec or SbeKc?. 



Copied ftota an ancient Manuscript in the possession 

of the Family. 

Edward the eldest Son of Henry Shelley died in his 

young yeares. 
Henry the second Sonn of Henry Shelley married Fiys- 
vith the daughter of S'. Tho. Walaingbam - Knight 



XXXVl PROOFS TO THE PEDIGREE OF SHELLEY. 

who dyed leaving no Issue. Then he tooke to his 

second Wife Barbara the eldest daughter of William 

Crowmer of Tunstoll in Kent Esquier (by his 

second Wife Elizabeth the daughter of S'. John 

Guldeford Knight) & hath Issue, 
Thomas, Henry, Richard, Walter, Ambrose, and James, 

Barbara, Frances, Mary & Elizabeth. 
Barbara Shelley the daughter of Henry SheUey dyed a 

Mayde. 
Thomas the eldest Son of Henry Shelley married Mary 

the eldest daughter of Edward Groringe of Okehurst 

Esquier and hath Issue, 
Henry, Thomas, Edward, John, William, George, Barbara, 

Dorothy & Mary. 
Henry y* 2 Sonn of Henry Shelley is yet Unmarried. 
Richard y* 8^ Sonn of Henry Shelley married Jone y* 

daughter & Heire of John Fuste and hath Issue, 
John, Edward & Richard. 
Walter Ambrose & James y* 4*^. 5*^. & 6***. Sonnes of Henry 

Shelley ar yet unmarried. 
Barbara y^ eldest daughter of Henry Shelley married 

Thd. the eldest Sonn of John Middleton of Horsham 

Esqui'. & hath Issue John and Francis a Daughter. 
Francis y* 2 daughter of Henry Shelley married William 

Holland of Chichester Gen. & hath Issue. 
Mary & Elisabeth y* daughters of Henry Shelley ar yet 

not married. 



PROOFS TO THE FEDIGBEE OF SHELLEY. 




PKOOFS TO THE PEDIGREE OF f 



On a large MonwmetU of Sussex Marble OrTtamented wiih 
Braises in the Chaiuxl of Worminghurst Church. 




Of your Charite pray for the Soules of Edvard Shelley 
Esquier some time one of the four Masters of the Hous- 
holde with the Most Virtuous Prince King Henry the VIII 
and King Edward the VI and to our Sov'ayn Lady Quene 
Maiye. and Johan his Wyfe daughter and Heyre of Poll 
Iden of Kent which Edwarde dyed the IX day of 
October A°. Bni M". V° liiij and the aayd Johane dyed the 
V day of February IS.". V. liij whose Soules Jeha Pedon. 



PROOFS TO THE PEDIOBEE OF SHELLEY. 



In the Church 0/ Worth in the Cc^. of Sussex. 

Hear Liee Enterd the Body of Ann Bysshe Wife of 
Roger Bysshe of Fenn Place Esq', and Daughter of Philip 
Jermaiu of LordiDgton in this County Esq'. Sai^nt at 
Law. 

She departed this life the 28"*. Oct'. Anno Com: 1661 
.£ta£ia vie 32. 




PROOFS TO THE PEDIGREE OF SHELLEY. 



On a Mural Monument at the Fast end of the Have in the 

Church of Worth aforesaid. 




In a Vault beneath this Monument is Entered the 
Bodies of Eoger Bysshe of Fenn Place in the Parish of 
Worth Esq', who departed this life March the 21f* 1702 
in the 81? year of his age and of Ellen his 2? Wife 
daughter of John Parr of Kempes in the Kingdom of 
Ireland Gent : She departed this life June the 18?" 1700 
aged 62 years whose consumate Virtues were so ex- 
emplary as may be a pattern to all their Posterity. 
They left two Daughters Elizabeth married to Francis 
Wyatt of Freemans in Sussex Esq', and Hellen married 
to John Shelley of Fenn Place Esq'. This Monument 
was erected at the Charge of Mr". Elizabeth Bradford 
She died May the 18^ 1725 and is buried near this 
place was Daughter of John Bradford D. D. by Jane his 
Wife daughter of John Parr of Kempes Gent. 



ZAwSTROZZI, 



A ROMANCE. 



[Zcutrozd appears to be the first substantive work issued by Shelley : 
Medwin {Shelley Papert^ 1833, p. 10) says Shelley told him that some 
chapters of it were written by Harriet Grove, the poet*s cousin and first 
love. Mr. D. F. MacCarthy {SheUey't Early Life, 1872, pp. 11 and 12) 
records that it was published on the 6th of June, 1810, and advertized 
in The Timet on the 5th and 12th. There are at least three 
extant though unpublished letters of Shelley's bearing on the date 
of ZtutroezVi composition and publication. In one dated the 7th 
of May, 1809, he says he means to finish and publish " a Romance," 
of which he has already written "a large portion,'* but does not 
expect " any pecuniary advantage." In one dated the 1st of April, 
1810, he complains that Robinson "will take no trouble about the re- 
viewers," makes arrangements therefore himself for the "venal villains" 
to be " pouched," asks that the reviews may be sent to Field Place, and 
says seriously that " it is of consequence in fiction to establish your name 
as high as you can in the literary lists." In the third letter dated the 
29th of May, 1810, he requests that a copy of Ziutroai may be sent 
'* directly " to a correspondent to whom he has already written to say it 
is coming : that is all there is about it in the letter ; and I think if it 
had not been published at that time, there would have been a great deal 
about hurrying on the printer and publisher. This Romance is a duo- 
decimo volume, consisting of fiy-title, Zattrotd, a Romance^ with imprint 
at foot, Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge, title-page as given opposite, 
and 262 pages of text with the head- line Zattroai throughout. This 
book was reprinted as the work of Shelley in No. 10 of The Jtomaneitt, and 
Novelitt't Library (London, 1839).— H. B. F.] 



Z A 8 T R O Z.Z I, 



A ROl^ANCE. 



BY 



P. B. S. 



^That their God 

May prove their foe, and with repenting hand 
Abolish his own works — ^This woald surpass 
Common revenge. 

PABADI8E LOST. 



LONDON: 

PEIKTBB FOB O. WILKIB AWB J. BOBINSOW 
57, PATEBNOSTEB BOW. 

1810. 



ZASTROZZI, 



A BOMANOB. 



CHAPTER I. 

XoRN from the society of all he held dear on earth, the 
victim of secret enemies, and exiled from happiness, was 
the wretched Verezzi ! 

All was quiet ; a pitchy darkness involved the face of 
things, when, urged by fiercest revenge, Zastrozzi placed 
himself at the door of the inn where, undisturbed, Verezzi 
slept. 

Loudly he called the landlord. The landlord, to 
whom the bare name of Zastrozzi was terrible, trembling 
obeyed the summons. 

" Thou knowest Verezzi the Italian ? he lodges 
here." " He does," answered the landlord. 

" Him, then, have I devoted to destruction," exclaimed 
Zastrozzi " Let Ugo and Bernardo follow you to his 
apartment; I will be with you to prevent mischief." 



6 ZASTROZZI. 

Cautiously they ascended — successfully they executed 
their revengeful purpose, and bore the sleeping Verezzi to 
the place, where a chariot waited to convey the vindictive 
Zastrozzi's prey to the place of its destination. 

Ugo and Bernardo lifted the still sleeping Verezzi into 
the chariot Bapidly they travelled onwards for several 
hours. Verezzi was still wrapped in deep sleep, from 
which all the movements he had undergone had been 
insufficient to rouse him. 

Zastrozzi and Ugo were masked, as was Bernardo, who 
acted as postilion. 

It was still dark, when they stopped at a small inn, on 
a remote and desolate heath ; and waiting but to change 
horses, again advanced. At last day appeared — still the 
slumbers of Verezzi remained unbroken. 

Ugo fearfully questioned Zastrozzi as to the cause of 
his extraordinary sleep. Zastrozzi, who, however, was 
well acquainted with it, gloomily answered, "I know 
not" 

Swiftly they travelled during the whole of the day, 
over which nature seemed to have drawn her most gloomy 
curtain. — They stopped occasionaJly at inns to change 
horses and obtain refreshments. 

Night came on — ^they forsook the beaten track, and, 
entering an immense forest, made their way slowly 
through the rugged imderwood. 



ZASTROZZI. i 

At last they stopped — ^they lifted their victim from 
the chariot, and bore him to a cavern, which yawned in 
a dell close by. 

Not long did the hapless victim of unmerited persecu- 
tion enjoy an oblivion which deprived him of a know- 
ledge of his horrible situation. He awoke — ^and over- 
come by excess of terror, started violently from the 
ruffians' arms. 

They had now entered the cavern — Verezzi supported 
himself against a fragment of rock which jutted out. 

'* Resistance is useless," exclaimed Zastrozzi ; " following 
us in submissive silence can alone procure the slightest 
mitigation of your punishment." 

Verezzi followed as fast as his frame, weakened by 
unnatural sleep, and enfeebled by recent illness, would 
permit ; yet, scarcely beUeving that he was awake, and 
not thoroughly convinced of the reality of the scene 
before him, he viewed every thing with that kind of 
inexplicable horror, which a terrible dream is wont to 
excite. 

After winding down the rugged descent for some time, 
they arrived at an iron door, which at first sight appeared 
to be part of the rock itself. Every thing had till now 
been obscured by total darkness ; and Verezzi, for the 
first time, saw the masked faces of his persecutors, which 
a torch brought by Bernardo rendered visible. 

The massy door flew open. 



8 ZASTROZZI. 

The torches from without rendered the darkness which 
reigned within still more horrible ; and Verezzi beheld 
the interior of this cavern as a place whence he was never 
again about to emerge — as his grave. Again he struggled 
with his persecutors, but his enfeebled frame was insuffi- 
cient to support a conflict with the strong-nerved Ugo, 
and, subdued, he sank fainting into his arms. 

His triumphant persecutor bore him into the damp 
cell, and chained him to the wall. An iron chain 
encircled his waist ; his limbs, which not even a little 
straw kept from the rock, were fixed by immense staples 
to the flinty floor ; and but one of his hands was left at 
liberty, to take the scanty pittance of bread and water 
which was daily allowed him. 

Every thing was denied him but thought, which, by 
comparing the present with the past, was his greatest 
torment. 

Ugo entered the cell every morning and evening, to 
bring coarse bread, and a pitcher of water, seldom, yet 
sometimes, accompanied by ZastrozzL 

In vain did he implore mercy, pity, and even death : 
useless were all his enquiries concerning the cause of his 
barbarous imprisonment — a stem silence was maintained 
by his relentless gaoler. 

Languishing in painful captivity, Verezzi passed days 
and nights seemingly countless, in the same monotonous 
uniformity of horror and despair. He scarcely now 
shuddered when the slimy lizard crossed his naked and 



zASTRozzi. y 

motionless limbs. The large earth-worms, which tvrined 
themselves in his long and matted hair, almost ceased to 
excite sensations of horror. 

Days and nights were undistinguishable from each 
other ; and the period which he had passed there, though 
in reality but a few weeks, was lengthened by his per- 
turbed imagination into many years. Sometimes he 
scarcely supposed that his torments were earthly, but 
that Ugo, whose countenance bespoke him a demon, was 
the fury who blasted his reviving hopes. His mysterious 
removal from the inn near Munich also confused his 
ideas, and he never could bring his thoughts to any con- 
clusion on the subject which occupied them. 

One evening, overcome by long watching, he sank to 
sleep, lor almost the first time since his confinement, 
when he was aroused by a loud crash, which seemed to 
burst over the cavern. Attentively he listened — ^he even 
hoped, though hope was almost dead within his breast. 
Again he listened — again the same noise was repeated — 
it was but a violent thunder-storm which shook the 
elements above. 

Convinced of the folly of hope, he addressed a prayer 
to his Creator — to Him who hears a suppliant from the 
bowels of the earth. His thoughts were elevated above 
terrestrial enjoymentSrr-his sufferings sank into nothing 
on the comparison. 

Whilst his thoughts were thus employed, a more 
violent crash shook the cavern. A scintillating flame 



10 ZASTROZZI. 

darted from the ceiling ' to the floor. Almost at the same 
instant the roof fell in. 

A large fragment of the rock was laid athwart the 
cavern ; one end being grooved into the solid wall, the 
other having almost forced open the massy iron door. 

Verezzi was chained to a piece of lock which re- 
mained immoveable. The violence of the storm was 
past, but the hail descended rapidly, each stone of wliich 
wounded his naked limbs. Every flash of lightning, 
although now distant, dazzled his eyes, unaccustomed as 
they had been to the least ray of light. 

The storm at last ceased, the pealing thunders died 
away in indistinct murmurs, and the lightning was too 
faint to be visible. Day appeared — no one had yet 
been to the cavern — ^Verezzi concluded that they either 
intended him to perish with hunger, or that some mis- 
fortime, by which they themselves had suflfered, had 
occurred. In the most solemn manner, therefore, he 
now prepared himself for death, which he was fully 
convinced within himself was rapidly approaching. 

His pitcher of water was broken by the falling frag- 
ments, and a small crust of bread was aJl that now 
remained of his scanty allowance of provisions. 

A burning fever raged through his veins; and, 
delirious with despairing illness, he cast from him the 

^ In the original, ciding. 



ZASTROZZI. II 

crust which alone could now retard the rapid advances 
of death. 

Oh! what ravages did the united efforts of disease 
and suffering make on the manly and handsome figure 
of Verezzi ! His bones had almost started through his 
skin ; his eyes were sunken and hollow ; and his hair, 
matted with the damps, hung in strings upon his faded 
cheek. The day passed as had the morning — death 
was every instant before his eyes— a lingering death by 
famine — ^he felt its approaches : night came, but with it 
brought no change. He was aroused by a noise against 
the iron door : it was the time when Ugo usuaJly brought 
fresh provisions. The noise lessened, at last it totally 
ceased — ^with it ceased all hope of life in Verezzi's 
bosom. A cold tremor pervaded his limbs — ^his eyes but 
faintly presented to his imagination the mined cavern — 
he sank, as far as the chain which encircled his waist 
would permit him, upon the flinty pavement ; and, in the 
crisis of the fever which then occurred, his youth and 
good constitution prevailed. 



CHAPTER 11. 

In the meantiine Ugo, who had received orders from 
Zastrozzi not to allow Verezzi to die, came at the accus- 
tomed hour to bring provisions, but finding that, in the 
last night*s storm, the rock had been struck by lightning, 
concluded that Verezzi had lost his life amid the ruins, 
and he went with this news to ZastrozzL — Zastrozzi, 
who, for inexplicable reasons, wished not Verezzi's death, 
sent Ugo and Bernardo to search for him. 

After a long scrutiny, they discovered their hapless 
victim. He was chained to the rock where they had left 
him, but in that exhausted condition, which want of food, 
and a violent fever, had reduced him to. 

They unchained him, and lifting him into a chariot, 
after four hours rapid travelling, brought the insensible 
Verezzi to a cottage, inhabited by an old woman alone. 
The cottage stood on an immense heath, lonely, desolate, 
and remote from other human habitation. 

Zastrozzi awaited their arrival with impatience : 
eagerly he flew to meet them, and, with a demoniac 



ZASTROZZI. 13 

smile^ surveyed the agonised features of his prey, who 
lay insensible and stretched on the shoulders of Ugo. 

" His life must not be lost/' exclaimed Zastrozzi ; " I 
have need of it. Tell Bianca, therefore, to prepare a 
bed." 

Ugo obeyed, and Bernardo foUowed, bearing the 
emaciated Yerezzi A physician was sent for, who 
declared, that the crisis of the fever which had attacked 
him being past, proper care might reinstate him; but 
that the disorder having attacked his brain, a tranquillity 
of mind was absolutely necessary for his recovery. 

Zastrozzi, to whom the life, though not the happiness 
of Yerezzi was requisite, saw that his too eager desire 
for revenge had carried him beyond his point. He saw 
that some deception was requisite ; he accordingly 
instructed the old woman to inform him, when he 
recovered, that he was placed in this situation, because 
the physicians had asserted that the air of this country 
was necessary for a recovery from a brain fever which 
had attacked him. 

It was long before Yerezzi recovered — ^long did he 
languish in torpid insensibility, during which his soul 
seemed to have winged its way to happier regions. 

At last, however, he recovered, and the first use he 
made of his senses was to inquire where he was. 

The old woman told him the story, which she had 
been instructed in by Zastrozzi 



14 ZASTROZZI. 

" Who ordered me then to be chained in that desolate 
and dark cavern," inquired Verezzi, ** where I have been 
for many years, and suffered most insupportable tor- 
ments ? " 

" Lord bless me ! " said the old woman : " why, baron, 
how strangely you talk ! I begin to fear you will again 
lose your senses, at the very time when you ought to be 
thanking God for sufifering them to return to you. What 
can you mean by being chained in a cavern ? I declare 
I am frightened at the very thought : pray do compose 
yourself." 

Verezzi was much perplexed by the old woman's 
assertions. That Julia should send him to a mean 
cottage, and desert him, was impossible. 

The old woman's relation seemed so well connected, 
and told with such an air of characteristic simplicity, 
that he could not disbelieve her. 

But to doubt the evidence of his own senses, and the 
strong proofs of his imprisonment, which the deep marks 
of the chains had left till now, was impossible. 

Had not those marks still remained, he would have 
conceived the horrible events which had led him thither 
to have been but the dreams of his perturbed imagina- 
tion. He, however, thought it better to yield, since, as 
Ugo and Bernardo attended him in the short walks he 
was able to take, an escape was impossible, and its 
attempt would but make his situation more unpleasant. 



ZASTROZZI. 16 

He often expressed a wish to write to Julia, but the 
old woman said she had orders neither to permit him to 
write nor receive letters — on pretence of not agitating 
his mind; and to avoid the consequences of despair, 
knives were denied him. 

As Yerezzi recovered, and his mind obtained that firm 
tone which it was wont to possess, he perceived that it 
was but a device of his enemies that detained him at the 
cottage, and his whole thoughts were now bent upon the 
means for efifecting his escape. 

It was late one evening, when, tempted by the peculiar 
beauty of the weather, Verezzi wandered beyond the 
usual limits, attended by Ugo and Bernardo, who nar- 
rowly watched his every movement. Immersed in 
thought, he wandered onwards, till he came to a woody 
eminence, whose beauty tempted him to rest a little, in a 
seat carved in the side of an ancient oak. Forgetful of 
his unhappy and dependent situation, he sat there some 
time, until Ugo told him that it was time to return. 

In their absence, Zastrozzi had arrived at the cottage. 
He had impatiently enquired for Verezzi. 

" It is the baron's custom to walk every evening," said 
Bianca ; " I soon expect him to return." 

Verezzi at last arrived. 

Not knowing Zastrozzi as he entered, he started back, 
overcome by the likeness he bore to one of the men he 
had seen in the cavern. 



] 6 ZASTKOZZI. 

He was now convinced that all the sufferings which 
he had undergone in that horrible abode of misery were 
not imaginary, and that he was at this instant in the 
power of his bitterest enemy. 

Zastrozzi's eyes were fixed on him with an expression 
too manifest to be misunderstood; and with an air in 
which he struggled to disguise the natural malevolence 
of his heart, he said, that he hoped Yerezzfs health had 
not suffered from the evening air. 

Enraged beyond measure at this hypocrisy, from a 
man whom he now no longer doubted to be the cause of 
all his misfortunes, he could not forbear inquiring for 
what purpose he had conveyed him hither, and told him 
instantly to release him. 

Zastrozzi's cheeks turned pale with passion, his lips 
quivered, his eyes darted revengeful glances, as thus he 
spoke : — 

"Retire to your chamber, young fool, which is the 
fittest place for you to reflect on, and repent of, the 
insolence shown to one so much your superior." 

" I fear nothing," interrupted Verezzi, " from your vain 
threats and empty denunciations of vengeance : justice. 
Heaven ! is on my side, and I must eventually triumph." 

What can be a greater proof of the superiority of 
virtue, than that the terrible, the dauntless Zastrozzi 
trembled ! for he did tremble ; and, conquered by the 
emotions of the moment, paced the circumscribed apart* 



IH 



ZASTROZZI. 17 

ment with unequal steps. For an instant he shrunk 
within himself: he thought of his past life, and his 
awakened conscience reflected images of horror. But 
again revenge drowned the voice of virtue — ^again passion 
obscured the light of reason, and his steeled soul 
persisted in its scheme. 

Whilst he still thought, Ugo entered. Zastrozzi, 
smothering his stinging conscience, told Ugo to follow 
him to the heath. — Ugo obeyed. 



PROSE. VOL. I. 



CHAPTER III. 

Zastrozzi and Ugo proceeded along the heath, on the 
skirts of which stood the cottage. Verezzi leaned 
against the casement, when a low voice, which floated in 
indistinct murmurs on the silence of the evening, reached 
his ear. — He listened attentively. He looked into the 
darkness, and saw the towering form of Zastrozzi, and 
Ugo, whose awkward, ruffian-like gait, could never be 
mistaken. He could not hear their discourse, except a 
few detached words which reached his ears. They 
seemed to be denunciations of anger ; a low tone after- 
wards succeeded, and it appeared as if a dispute, which 
had arisen between them, was settled : their voices at 
last died away in distance. 

Bernardo now left the room : Bianca entered ; but 
Verezzi plainly heard Bernardo lingering at the door. 

The old woman continued sitting in silence at a 
remote comer of the chamber. It was Verezzi's hour for 
supper: — he desired Bianca to bring it. She obeyed, 
and brought some dried raisins in a plate. He was 
surprised to see a knife was likewise brought ; an indul- 



ZASTBOZZI. 19 

gence he imputed to the inadvertency of the old 
woman. — A thought started across his mind — ^it was now 
time to escape. 

He seized the knife — ^he looked expressively at the 
old woman — she trembled. He advanced from the case- 
ment to the door: he called for Bernardo — Bernardo 
entered, and Verezzi, lifting his arm high, aimed the 
knife at the villain's heart. — Bernardo started aside, and 
the knife was fixed firmly in the doorcase. Verezzi 
attempted by one effort to extricate it. The eflfort was 
vain. Bianca, as fast as her tottering limbs could carry 
her, hastened through the opposite door, calling loudly 
for Zastrozzi. 

Verezzi attempted to rush through the open door, but 
^Jernardo opposed himself to it. A long and violent con- 
test ensued, and Bernardo's superior strength was on the 
point of overcoming Verezzi, when the latter, by a dex- 
terous blow, precipitated him down the steep and narrow 
staircase. 

Not waiting to see the event of his victory, he rushed 
through the opposite door, and meeting with no opposi- 
tion, ran swiftly across the heath. 

The moon, in tranquil majesty, hung high in air, and 
showed the immense extent of the plain before him. He 
continued rapidly advancing, and the cottage was soon 
out of sight. He thought that he heard Zastrozzi's voice 
in every gale. Turning round, he thought Zastrozzi's eye 
glanced over his shoulder. — But even had Bianca taken 

c 2 



20 ZASTROZZI. 

the right road, and found Zastrozzi, Verezzi's speed would 
have mocked pursuit 

He ran several miles, still the dreary extent of the 
heath was before him : no cottage yet appeared where 
he might take shelter. He cast himself, for an instant, 
on the bank of a rivulet, which stole slowly across tlie 
heath. The moon-beam played upon its surface — he 
started at liis own reflected image — he thought that 
voices were wafted on the western gale, and, nerved 
anew, pursued his course across the plain. 

The moon had gained the zenith before Verezzi rested 
again. Two pine trees, of extraordinary size, stood on a 
small eminence : he climbed one, and found a convenient 
seat in its immense branches. 

Fatigued, he sank to sleep. 

Two hours he lay hushed in oblivion, when he was 
awakened by a noise. It is but the hooting of the night- 
raven, thought he. 

Day had not yet appeared, but faint streaks in the 
east presaged the coming morn. Verezzi heard the 
clattering of hoofs — What was his horror to see that 
Zastrozzi, Bernardo, and Ugo, were the horsemen ! Over- 
come by terror, he clung to the rugged branch. His 
persecutors advanced to the spot — they stopped under the 
tree wherein he was. 

" Eternal curses," exclaimed Zastrozzi, " upon Verezzi ! 
I swear never to rest until I find him, and then I will 



ZASTROZZI. 21 

accomplish the purpose of my soul. — But come, Ugo, 
Bernardo, let us proceed." 

" Signor," said Ugo, " let us the rather stop here to 
refresh ourselves and our horses. You, perhaps, will not 
make this pine your couch, but I will get up, for I think 
I spy an excellent bed above there." 

" No, no," answered Zastrozzi ; " did not I resolve 
never to rest until I had found Verezzi ? Mount, villain, 
or die." 

Ugo sullenly obeyed. They galloped off, and were 
quickly out of sight. 

Verezzi returned thanks to Heaven for his escape ; for 
he thought that Ugo's eye, as the villain pointed to the 
branch where he reposed, met his. 

It was now morning. Verezzi surveyed the heath, 
and thought he saw buildings at a distance. Could he 
gain a town or city, he might defy Zastrozzi's power. 

He descended the pine-tree, and advanced as quickly 
as he could towards the distant buildings. He proceeded 
across the heath for half an hour, and perceived that, at 
last, he had arrived at its termination. 

The country assumed a new aspect, and the number 
of cottages and villas showed him that he was in the 
neighbourhood of some city. A large road which he now 
entered confirmed his opinion. He saw two peasants, and 



22 ZASTROZZI. 

asked them where the road led. — " To Passau," was .the 
answer. 

It was yet very early in the morning, when he walked 
through the principal street of Passau. He felt very 
faint with his recent and imusual exertions ; and, over- 
come by languor, sank on some lofty stone steps, which 
led to a magnificent mansion, and resting his head on 
his arm, soon fell asleep. 

He had been there nearly an hour, when he was 
awakened by an old woman. She had a basket on her 
arm, in which were flowers, which it was her custom to 
bring to Passau every market-day. Hardly knowing 
where he was, he answered the old woman's inquiries in 
a vague and unsatisfactory manner. By degrees, how- 
ever, they became better acquainted; and as Verezzi 
had no money, nor any means of procuring it, he accepted 
of an ofifer which Claudine (for that was the old woman's 
name) made him, to work for her, and share her cottage, 
which, together with a little garden, was all she could 
call her own. Claudine quickly disposed of her flowers, 
and accompanied by Verezzi, soon arrived at a httle 
cottage near Passau. It was situated on a pleasant and 
cultivated spot; at the foot of a small eminence, on 
which it was situated, flowed the majestic Danube, and 
on the opposite side was a forest belonging to the Baron 
of Schwepper, whose vassal Claudine was. 

Her little cottage was kept extremely neat ; and, by 
the charity of the Baron, wanted none of those little 
comforts which old age requires. 



ZASTROZZI. 23 

Verezzi thought that, in so retired a spot, he might at 
least pass his time tranquilly, and elude Zastrozzi. 

" What induced you," said he to Claudine, as in the 
evening they sat before the cottage-door, " what induced 
you to make that ofifer this morning to me ? " 

" Ah ! " said the old woman, " it was but last week 
that I lost my dear son, who was every thing to me : he 
died by a fever which he caught by his too great exer- 
tions in obtaining a livelihood for me ; and I came to the 
market yesterday, for the first time since my son's deatli, 
hoping to find some peasant who would fiU his place, 
when chance threw you in my way. 

" I had hoped that he would have outlived me, as I 
am quickly hastening to the grave, to which I look 
forward as to the coming of a friend, who would relieve 
me from those cares which, alas! but increase with my 
years." 

Verezzi's heart was touched with compassion for the 
forlorn situation of Claudine. He tenderly told her 
that he would not forsake her ; but if any opportunity 
occurred for ameliorating her situation, she should no 
longer continue in poverty. 



CHAPTER IV. 

But let us return to Zastrozzi — ^He had walked with 
Ugo on the heath, and had returned late. He was sur- 
prised to see no light in the cottage. He advanced to 
the door — he rapped violently — no one answered. " Very 
strange ! " exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he burst open the door 
with his foot. He entered the cottage — no one was 
there : he searched it, and at last saw Bernardo lying, 
seemingly lifeless, at the foot of the staircase. Zastrozzi 
advanced to him, and lifted him from the ground : he 
had been but in a trance, and immediately recovered. 

As soon as his astonishment was dissipated, he told 
Zastrozzi what had happened. 

" What ! " exclaimed Zastrozzi, interrupting him, 
" Verezzi escaped ! Hell and furies ! Villain, you 
deserve instant death ; but thy life is at present neces- 
sary to me. Arise, go instantly to Eosenheim, and 
bring three of my horses from the inn there — make 
haste ! begone ! " 

Bernardo trembling arose, and obe)dng Zastrozzi's 



ZASTROZZI. 25 

commands, crossed the heath quickly towards Rosenheim, 
a village about half a league distant on the north. 

Whilst he was gone, Zastrozzi, agitated by contending 
passions, knew scarcely what to do. With hurried strides 
he paced the cottage. He sometimes spoke lowly to 
himself. The feelings of his soul flashed from his eyes 
— ^his frown was terrible. 

"Would I had his heart reeking on my dagger. 
Signer ! " said Ugo. " Kill him when you catch him, 
which you soon will, I am sure." 

" Ugo," said Zastrozzi, " you are my friend ; you 
advise me weU. — But, no ! he must not die. — Ah 1 by 
what horrible fetters am I chained — fool that I was — 
Ugo I he shall die — die by the most hellish torments. 
I give myself up to fate : — I will taste revenge ; for 
revenge is sweeter than life : and even were I to die 
with him, and, as the punishment of my crime, be 
instantly plunged into eternal torments, I should taste 
superior joy in recollecting the sweet moment of his 
destruction. ! would that destruction could be 
eternal ! " 

The clattering of hoofs was heard, and Zastrozzi was 
How interrupted by the arrival of Bernardo — they 
instantly mounted, and the high-spirited steeds bore 
them swiftly across the heath. 

Rapidly, for some time, were Zastrozzi and his com- 
panions borne across the plain. They took the same 



26 ZASTROZZI. 

road as Verezzi had. They passed the pines where lie 
reposed. They hurried on. 

The fainting horses were scarce able to bear their 
guilty burthens. No one had spoken since they had left 
the clustered pines. 

Bernardo's horse, overcome by excessive fatigue, sank 
on the ground ; that of Zastrozzi scarce appeared in better 
condition. — They stopped. 

" What ! " exclaimed Zastrozzi, " must we give up the 
search ! Ah ! I am afraid we must ; our horses can 
proceed no farther — curse on the horses. 

" But let us proceed on foot — ^Verezzi shall not escape 
me — nothing shall now retard the completion of my just 
revenge." 

As he thus spoke, Zastrozzi's eye gleamed with 
impatient revenge ; and, with rapid steps, he advanced 
towards the south of the heath. 

Day-light at length appeared ; still were the villain's 
efiforts to find Verezzi inefficient. Hunger, thirst, and 
fatigue, conspired to make them relinquish the pursuit — 
they lay at intervals upon the stony soiL 

"This is but an uncomfortable couch. Signer," muttered 
Ugo. 

Zastrozzi, whose whole thoughts were centred in 
revenge, heeded him not, but nerved anew by impatient 
vengeance, he started from the bosom of the earth, and 



ZASTROZZI. 27 

muttering curses upon the innocent object of his hatred, 
proceeded onwards. The day passed as had the morning 
and preceding night. Their hunger was scantily allayed 
by the wild berries which grew amid the heathy shrubs ; 
and their thirst but increased by the brackish pools of 
water which alone they met with. They perceived a 
wood at some distance. "That is a likely place for 
Verezzi to have retired to, for the day is hot, and he 
must want, repose as well as ourselves," said Bernardo. 
"True" replied Zastrozzi, as he advanced towards it. 
They quickly arrived at its borders : it was not a wood, 
but an immense forest, which stretched southward as far 
as Schauflfhausen. They advanced into it. 

The tall trees rising above their heads warded oflf the 
meridian sun ; tlie mossy banks beneath invited repose : 
but Zastrozzi, little recking a scene so fair, hastily 
scrutinised every recess which miglit afiford an asylum to 
Verezzi. 

Useless were all his researches — fruitless his endea- 
vours: still, however, though faint with hunger, and 
weary with exertion, he nearly sank upon the turf. His 
mind was superior to corporeal toil ; for that, nerved by 
revenge, was indefatigable. 

Ugo and Bernardo, overcome by the extreme fatigue 
which they had undergone, and strong as the assassins 
were, fell fainting on the earth. 

The sun began to decline ; at last it sank beneath the 
western mountain, and the forest*tops were tinged 



28 ZASTROZZI. 

by its departing ray. The shades of night rapidly 
thickened. 

Zastrozzi sat awhile upon the decayed trunk of a 
scathed oak. 

The sky was serene; the blue ether was spangled 
with countless myriads of stars : the tops of the lofty 
forest-trees waved mournfully in the evening wind ; and 
the moon-beam penetrating at intervals, as they moved, 
through the matted branches, threw dubious shades 
upon the dark underwood beneath. 

Ugo and Bernardo, conquered by irresistible torpor, 
sank to rest upon the dewy turf. 

A scene so fair — a scene so congenial to those who 
can reflect upon theii* past lives with pleasure, and 
anticipate the future with the enthusiasm of innocence, 
ill accorded with the ferocious soul of Zastrozzi, which 
at one time agitated by revenge, at another by agonising 
remorse, or contending passions, could derive no pleasure 
from the past — anticipate no happiness in futurity. 

Zastrozzi sat for some time immersed in heart-rending 
contemplations ; but though conscience for a while re- 
flected his past life in images of horror, again was his 
heart steeled by fiercest vengeance ; and, aroused by 
images of insatiate revenge, he hastily arose, and, waking 
Ugo and Bernardo, pursued his course. 

The night was calm and serene — not a cloud obscured 
the azure brilliancy of the spangled concave above 



ZASTKOZZI. 29 

— not a wind ruffled the tranquillity of the atmosphere 
below. 

Zastrozzi, Ugo, and Bernardo, advanced into the forest. 
They had tasted no food, save the wild berries of the 
wood, for some time, and were anxious to arrive at some 
cottage, where they might procure refreshments. For 
some time the deep silence which reigned was un- 
interrupted. 

" What is that V exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he beheld a 
large and magnificent bmlding, whose battlements rose 
above the lofty trees. It was built in the Gothic style 
of architecture, and appeared to be inhabited. 

The building reared its pointed casements loftily to 
the sky ; their treillaged ornaments were silvered by 
the clear moon-light, to which the dark shades of the 
arches beneath formed a striking contrast. A large 
portico jutted out : they advanced towards it, and Zas- 
trozzi attempted to open the door. 

An open window on one side of the casement arrested 
Zastrozzi's attention. " Let us enter that," said he. — 
They entered. It was a hxge saloon, with many win- 
dows. Every thing within was arranged with princely 
magnificence. — Four ancient and immense sofas in the 
apartment invited repose. 

Near one of the windows stood a table, with an escri- 
toire * on it ; a paper lay on the ground near it. 

^ In the origmal edition eseratoire. 



30 ZASTROZZI. 

• 

Zastrozzi, as he passed, heedlessly took up the paper. 
He advanced nearer to the window, thinking his senses 
had deceived him when he read, " La Contessa di 
Laurentini ;" but they had not done so, for La Contessa 
di Laurentini still continued on the paper. He hastily 
opened it ; and the letter, though of no importance, con- 
vinced him that this must have been the place to which 
Matilda said that she had removed. 

Ugo and Bernardo lay sleeping on the sofas. Zastrozzi, 
leaving them as they were, opened an opposite door — it 
led into a vaulted hall — a large flight of stairs rose from 
the opposite side — ^he ascended them — He advanced 
along a lengthened corridor — a female in white robes 
stood at the other end — a lamp burnt near her on the 
balustrade. She was in a reclining attitude, and had not 
observed his approach. Zastrozzi recognised her for 
Matilda. He approached her, and beholding Zastrozzi 
before her, she started back with surprise. For a while 
she gazed on him in silence, and at last exclaimed, 
" Zastrozzi ! ah ! are we revenged on Julia ? am I happy ? 
Answer me quickly. Well by your silence do I perceive 
that our plans have been put into execution. Excellent 
Zastrozzi ! accept my most fervent thanks, my eternal 
gratitude." 

" Matilda ! " returned Zastrozzi, " would I could say 
that we were happy ! but, alas ! it is but misery and 
disappointment that causes this my so unexpected visit. I 
know nothing of the Marchesa di Strobazzo — less of 
Verezzi. I fear that I must wait till age has imstrung my 
now so fervent energies ; and when time has damped 
your passion, perhai)8 you may gain Verezzi*s love. Julia 



ZASTROZZI. 31 

is returned to Italy — ^is even now in Naples ; and, secure 
in the immensity of her possessions, laughs at our trifling 
vengeance. But it shall not be always thus,** continued 
Zastrozzi, his eyes sparkling with inexpressible brilliancy ; 
" I will accomplish my purpose ; and, Matilda, thine shall 
likewise be effected. But, come, I have not tasted food 
for these two days." 

" Oh ! supper is prepared below," said Matilda. 
Seated at the supper-table, the conversation, enlivened 
by wine, took an animated turn. After some subjects, 
irrelevant to this history, being discussed, Matilda said, 
" Ha ! but I forgot to tell you, that I have done some 
good : I have secured that diabolical Paulo, Julia's ser- 
vant, who was of great service to her, and, by penetrating 
our schemes, might have even discomfited our grand 
design. I have lodged him in the lowest cavern of those 
dungeons which are under this building — will you go and 
see him ?" Zastrozzi answered in the affirmative, and 
seizing a lamp which burnt in a recess of the apartment, 
followed Matilda. 

The rays of the lamp but partially dissipated the 
darkness as they advanced through the antiquated pas- 
sages. They arrived at a door : Matilda opened it, and 
they quickly crossed a grass-grown court-yard. 

The grass which grew on the lofty battlements waved 
mournfully in the rising blast, as Matilda and Zastrozzi 
entered a dark and narrow casement. — Cautiously they 
descended the slippery and precipitous steps. The lamp, 
obscured by the vapours, burnt dimly as they advanced. 
They arrived at the foot of the staircase. " Zastrozzi !" 



82 ZASTROZZI. 

exclaimed Matilda. Zastrozzi turned quickly, and, per- 
ceiving a door, obeyed Matilda's directions. 

ft 

On some straw, chained to the wall, lay Paulo. 

" pity ! stranger, pity !" exclaimed the miserable 
Paulo. 

No answer, save a smile of most expressive scorn, was 
given by Zastrozzi They again ascended the narrow 
staircase, and, passing the court-yard, arrived at the 
supper-room. 

" But," said Zastrozzi, again taking his seat, " what 
use is that fellow Paulo in the dungeon ? why do you 
keep him there ? " 

" Oh !" answered Matilda, " I know not ; but if you 
wish"— 

She paused, but her eye expressively filled up the 
sentence. 

Zastrozzi poiu-ed out an overflowing goblet of wine. 
He summoned Ugo and Bernardo — " Take that," said 
Matilda, presenting them a key — One of the villains 
took it, and in a few moments returned with the hapless 
Paulo. 

" Paulo ! " exclaimed Zastrozzi loudly, " I have 
prevailed on La Contessa to restore your freedom : 
here," added he, "take this ; I pledge to your future 
happiness." 



ZASTROZZI. 33 

Paulo bowed low — he drank the poisoned potion to 
the dregs, and, overcome by sudden and irresistible faint- 
ness, fell at Zastrozzi's feet. Sudden convulsions shook 
his frame, his lips trembled, his eyes rolled horribly, 
and, uttering an agonised and lengthened groan, he 
expired. 

" Ugo ! Bernardo ! take that body and bury it imme- 
diately," cried Zastrozzi. "There, Matilda, by such 
means must Julia die : you see, that the poisons which I 
possess are quick in their effect." 

A pause ensued, during which the eyes of Zastrozzi 
and Matilda spoke volumes to each guilty soul. 

The silence was interrupted by Matilda. Not shocked 
at the dreadful outrage which had been committed, she 
told Zastrozzi to come out into the forest, for that she 
had something for his private ear. 

" Matilda," said Zastrozzi, as they advanced along the 
forest, "I must not stay here, and waste moments in 
inactivity, which might be more usefully employed: I. 
must quit you to-morrow — ^I must destroy Julia." 

"Zastrozzi," returned Matilda, "I am so far from 
wishing you to spend your time here in ignoble listless- 
ness, that I will myself join your search. You shall to 
Italy — to Naples — watch Julia's every movement attend 
her every step, and in the guise of a friend destroy her : 
but beware, whilst you assume the softness of the dove, 
to forget not the cunning of the serpent. On you I 
depend for destroying her, my own exertions shall find 

PBOSE. VOL. I. D 



34 ZASTROZZI. 

Verezzi; I myself will gain his love — Julia must die, 
and expiate the crime of daring to rival me, with her 
hated blood." 

Whilst thus they conversed, whilst they planned these 
horrid schemes of destruction, the night wore away. 

The moon-beam darting her oblique rays from under 
volumes of louring vapour, threatened an approaching 
storm. The lurid sky was tinged with a yellowish lustre 
-^the forest-tops rustled in the rising tempest — ^big drops 
fell — a flash of lightning, and, instantly after, a peal of 
bui-sting thunder, struck with sudden terror the bosom of 
Matilda. She, however, immediately overcame it, and 
regarding the battling: element with indiflference, con- 
tinued her discourse with Zastrozzi. 

They wore out the night in many visionary plans for 
the future, and now and then a gleam of remorse assailed 
Matilda's heart. Heedless of the storm, they had remained 
in the forest late. Flushed with wickedness, they at last 
sought their respective couches, but sleep forsook their 
pillow. 

In all the luxuriance of extravagant fancy, Matilda 
portrayed the sjrmmetrical form, the expressive coun- 
tenance, of Verezzi; whilst Zastrozzi, who played a 
double part, anticipated, with ferocious exultation, the 
torments which he she loved was eventually fated to 
endxu'e, and changed his plan, for a sublimer mode of 
vengeance was opened to his view. 

Matilda passed a night of restlessness and agitation : 



ZASTROZZI. 35 

her mind was harassed by contending passions, and her 
whole soul wound up to deeds of horror and wickedness. 
Zastrozzi's countenance, as she met him in the breakfast- 
parlour, wore a settled expression of determined revenge 
— " I almost shudder," exclaimed Matilda, " at the sea of 
wickedness on which I am about to embark ! But still, 
Verezzi — ah ! for him would I even lose my hopes of 
eternal happiness. In the sweet idea of calling him 
mine, no scrupulous delicacy, no mistaken superstitious 
fear, shall prevent me from deserving him by daring 
acts — No ! I am resolved," continued Matilda, as, recol- 
lecting his graceful form, her soul was assailed by tenfold 
love — 

" And I am likewise resolved," said Zastrozzi ; " I 
am resolved on revenge — ^my revenge shall be gratified. 
Julia shall die, and Verezzi — " 

Zastrozzi paused ; his eye gleamed with a peculiar 
expression, and Matilda thought he meant more than he 
had said — she raised her eyes — they encountered his. 

The guilt-bronzed cheek of Zastrozzi was tinged with 
a momentary blush, but it quickly passed away, and his 
countenance recovered its wonted firm and determined 
expression. 

" Zastrozzi ! " exclaimed Matilda, — " should you be 
false — should you seek to deceive me — But, no, it is 
impossible. — Pardon, my friend — I meant not what I 
said — my thoughts are crazed — " 

" Tis well," said Zastrozzi, haughtily. 

D 2 



86 ZASTROZZI. 

" But you forgive my momentary, unmeaning doubt ? " 
said Matilda, and fixed her unmeaning' eyes on his 
countenance. 

" It is not for us to dwell on vain, unmeaning ex- 
pressions, which the soul dictates not," returned Zastrozzi; 
**aud I sue for pardon from you, for ha\'ing, by 
ambiguous expressions, caused the least agitation: but, 
believe me, Matilda, we will not forsake each other; 
your cause is mine; distrust between us is foolish. — 
But, farewell for the present ; I must order Bernardo to 
go to Passau, to purchase horses." 

The day passed on; each waited with impatience 
for the arrival of Bernardo. — " Farewell, Matilda," 
exclaimed Zastrozzi, as he mounted the horses' which 
Bernardo brought ; and, taking the route of Italy, 
galloped off. 



^ Probably a niiBprint for mean- ' The origiDal edition really re- 

ing, arising from the use of the prescnte the hero as performing this 

word unmeaning immediately be- feat : no qualifying words have been 

fore and immediately afterwards. here omitted. 



CHAPTER V. 

Her whole soul wrapped up in one idea, the guilty 
Matilda threw herself into a chariot which waited at 
the door, and ordered the equipage to proceed towards 
Passau. 

Left to indulge reflection in solitude, her mind recurred 
to the object nearest her heart — ^to Verezzi. 

Her bosom was scorched by an ardent and unquench- 
able fire; and while she thought of him, she even 
shuddered at the intenseness of her own sensations. 

"He shall love me — he shall be mine — mine for 
ever," mentally ejaculated Matilda. 

The streets of Passau echoed to La Contessa di 
Laurentini's equipage, before, roused from her reverie, she 
found herself at the place of her destination ; and she 
was seated in her hotel in that city, before she had well 
arranged her unsettled ideas. She summoned Ferdinand, 
a trusty servant, to whom she confided every thing. — 
" Ferdinand," said she, " you have many claims on my 



38 ZASTROZZI. 

gi-atitude : I have never had cause to reproach you with 
infidelity in executing my purposes — ^add another deht to 
that which I abeady owe you : find II Conte Verezzi 
within three days, and you are my best friend." Fer- 
dinand bowed, and prepared to execute her commands. 
Two days passed, during which Matilda failed not to 
make every personal inquiry, even in the suburbs of 
Passau. 

Alternately depressed by fear, and revived by hoj)e, 
for three days was Matilda's mind in a state of disturb- 
ance and fluctuation. The evening of the third day, 
of the day on which Ferdinand was to return, arrived. 
Matilda's mind, wound up to the extreme of impatience, 
was the scene of conflicting passions. — She paced the 
room rapidly. 

A servant entered, and announced supper. 

" Is Ferdinand returned ? " hastily inquired Matilda. 

The domestic answered in the negative. — She sighed 
deeply, and struck her forehead. 

Footsteps were heard in the antichamber without. 

" There is Ferdinand ! " exclaimed Matilda, exultingly, 
as he entered — " Well, well ! have yau found Verezzi ? 
Ah ! speak quickly ! ease me of this horrible suspense." 

" Signora 1 " said Ferdinand, " it grieves me much to 
be obliged to declare, that aU my endeavours have been 
inefficient to find II Conte Verezzi — " 



ZASTROZZI. 39 

" Oh, madness ! madness!" exclaimed Matilda ; "is it 
for this that I have plunged into the dark abyss of 
crime ? — is it for this that I liave despised the delicacy 
of my sex, and, braving consequences, have offered my 
love to one who despises me — who shuns me, as does the 
barbarous Verezzi ? But if he is in Fassau — if he is in 
the environs of the city, I will find him." 

Thus saying, despising the remonstrances of her 
domestics, casting ofif all sense of decorum, she rushed 
into the streets of Passau. A gloomy silence reigned 
through the streets of the city; it was past midnight, 
and every inhabitant seemed to be sunk in sleep — sleep 
which Matilda was almost a stranger to. Her white 
robes floated on the night air — her shadowy and dis- 
hevelled hair flew over her form, which, as she passed 
the bridge, seemed to strike the boatmen below with the 
idea of some supernatural and ethereal form. 

She hastily crossed the bridge — she entered the fields 
on the right — the Danube, whose placid stream was 
scarcely agitated by the wind, reflected her symmetrical 
form, as, scarcely knowing what direction she pursued, 
Matilda hastened along its banks. Sudden horror, 
resistless despair, seized her brain, maddened as it was 
by hopeless love. 

" What have I to do in this world, my fairest prospect 
blighted, my fondest hope rendered futile ? " exclaimed 
the frantic Matilda, as, wound up to the highest pitch 
of desperation, she attempted to plunge herself into the 
river. 



40 ZASTROZZI. 

But life fled ; for Matilda, caught by a stranger's arm, 
was prevented from the desperate act. 

Overcome by horror, she fainted. 

Some time did she lie in a state of torpid insensibility, 
till the stranger, filling his cap with water from the river, 
and sprinkling her pallid countenance with it, recalled to 
life the miserable Matilda. 

What was her surprise, what was her mingled emotion 
of rapture and doubt, when the moon-beam disclosed to 
her view the countenance of Verezzi, as in anxious 
solicitude he bent over her elegantly-proportioned 
form! 

" By what chance," exclaimed the surprised Verezzi, 
** do I see here La Contessa di Laurentini ? did not I 
leave you at your Italian castella? I had hoped you 
would have ceased to persecute me, when I told you that 
I was irrevocably another's." 

" Oh, Verezzi ! " exclaimed Matilda, casting herself 
at his feet, " I adore you to madness — I love you to 
distraction. If you have one spark of compassion, let 
me not sue in vain — reject not one who feels it im- 
possible to overcome the fatal, resistless passion which 
consumes her." 



" Eise, Signora," returned Verezzi — " rise ; this dis- 
course is improper — it is not suiting the dignity of your 
rank, or the delicacy of your sex: but sufler me to 



ZASTROZZI. 41 

conduct you to yon cottage, where, perhaps, you may 
deign to refresh yourself, or pass the night." 

The moon-beams played upon the tranquil waters of 
the Danube, as Verezzi silently conducted the beautiful 
Matilda to the humble dwelling where he resided. 

Claudine waited at the door, and had begun to fear 
that some mischance had befallen Verezzi, as, when he 
arrived at the cottage-door, it was long past his usual 
hour of return. 

It was his custom, during those hours when the 
twilight of evening cools the air, to wander through the 
adjacent rich scenery, though he seldom prolonged his 
walks till midnight. 

He supported the fainting form of Matilda as he 
advanced towards Claudine. The old woman's eyes had 
lately failed her, from extreme age ; and it was not until 
Verezzi called to her that she saw him, accompanied by 
La Contessa di Laurentini. 

" Claudine," said Verezzi, " I have another claim upon 
your kindness : this lady, who has wandered beyond her 
knowledge, will honour our cottage so far as to pass 
the night here. If you would prepare the pallet which 
I usually occupy for her, I will repose this evening on 
the turf, and will now get supper ready. Signora," 
continued he, addressing Matilda, "some wine would, I 
think, refresh your spirits ; permit me to fill you a glass 
of wine." 



42 ZASTBOZZI. 

Matilda silently accepted his offer — ^their eyes met — 
those of Matilda were sparkling and full of meaning. 

"Verezzi!" exclaimed Matilda, "I arrived but four 
days since at Passau — I have eageriy inquired for you — 
oh ! how eagerly I — Will you accompany me to-morrow 
to Passau ?" 



« 



Yes," said Verezzi, hesitatingly. 



Claudine soon joined them. Matilda exulted in tlie 
success of her schemes, and Claudine being present, the 
conversation took a general turn. The lateness of the hour, 
at last, warned them to separate. 

Verezzi, left to solitude and his own reflections, threw 
himself on the turf, which extended to the Danube 
below. — Ideas of the most gloomy nature took possession 
of his soul ; and, in the event of the evening, he saw the 
foundation of the most bitter misfortunes. 

He could not love Matilda ; and though he never had 
seen her but in the most amiable light, he found it 
impossible to feel any sentiment towards her, save cold 
esteem. Never had he beheld those dark shades in her 
character, which, if developed, could excite nothing but 
horror and detestation : he regarded her as a woman of 
strong passions, who, having resisted them to the utmost 
of her power, was at last borne away in the current — 
whose brilliant virtues one fault had obscured — as such 
he pitied her : but still could he not help observing a 
comparison between her and Julia, whose feminine 



ZASTROZZI. 43 

delicacy shrunk from the slightest suspicion, even of 
indecorum. Her fragile form, her mild heavenly coun- 
tenance, was contrasted with all the partiality of love, to 
the scintillating eye, the commanding countenance, the 
hold expressive gaze, of Matilda. 

He must accompany her on the morrow to Passau. — 
During their walk, he determined to observe a strict 
silence; or, at all events, not to hazard one equivocal 
expression, which might be construed into what it was 
not meant for. 

The night passed away — morning came, and the 

toj)s of the far-seen mountains were gilded by the 
rising sun. 

Exulting in the success of her schemes, and scarcely 
able to disguise the vivid feelings of her heart, the wily 
Matilda, as early she descended to the narrow parlour, 
where Claudine had prepared a simple breakfast, affected 
a gloom she was far from feeling. 

An unequivocal expression of innocent and mild 
tenderness marked her manner towards Verezzi : her 
eyes were cast on the ground, and her every movement 
spoke meekness and sensibility. 

At last, breakfast being finished, the time arrived 
when Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi, pursued the 
course of the river, to retrace her footsteps to Passau. 
A gloomy silence for some time prevailed — at last 
Matilda spoke. 



44 ZASTROZZI. 

" Unkind Verezzi ! is it thus that you will ever slight 
me ? is it for this that I have laid aside the delicacy of 
my sex, and owned to you a passion which waa but too 
violent to be concealed ? — Ah ! at least pity me ! I love 
you : oh ! I adore you to madness ! " 

She paused — the peculiar expression which beamed 
in her dark eye, told the tumultuous wishes of her 
bosom. 

" Distress not yourself and me, Signora," said Verezzi, 
" by these unavailing protestations. Is it for you — is it 
for Matilda,*' continued he, his countenance assuming a 
smile of bitterest scorn, " to talk of love to the lover of 
Julia ? " 

Eapid tears coursed down Matilda's cheek. She 
sighed — the sigh seemed to rend her inmost bosom. 

So unexpected a reply conquered Verezzi. He had 
been prepared for reproaches, but his feelings could not 
withstand Matilda's tears. 

" Ah ! forgive me, Signora," exclaimed Verezzi, " if my 
brain, crazed by disappointments, dictated words which 
my heart intended not." 

" Oh 1" replied Matilda, " it is I who am wrong : led 
on by the violence of my passion, I have uttered words, 
the bare recollection of which fills me with horror. Oh 1 
forgive, forgive an unhappy woman, whose only fault is 
loving you too well." 



ZASTKOZZI. 45 

As thus she spoke, they entered the crowded streets of 
Passau, and, proceeding rapidly onwards, soon arrived at 
La Contessa di Laurentini's hotel. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The character of Matilda has been already so far re- 
vealed, as to render it unnecessary to expatiate upon it 
farther. Suffice it to say, that her syren illusions, and 
well-timed blandishments, obtained so great a power over 
the imagination of Verezzi, that his resolution to return 
to Claudine*8 cottage before sun-set became every instant 
fainter and fainter. 

" And will you thus leave me ?" exclaimed Matilda, in 
accents of the bitterest anguish, as Verezzi prepared to 
depart — "will you thus leave unnoticed, her who, for 
your sake alone, casting aside the pride of high birth, 
has wandered, unknown, through foreign climes ? Oh ! 
if I have (led away by love for you) outstepped the 
bounds of modesty, let me not, oh 1 let me not be injured 
by others with impunity. Stay, I entreat thee, Verezzi, 
if yet one spark of compassion lingers in your breast — 
stay and defend me from those who vainly seek one who 
is irrevocably thine." 

With words such as these did the wily Matilda work 
upon the generous passions of Verezzi Emotions of 



ZASTKOZZI. 47 

pity, of compassion, for one whose only fault he sup- 
posed to be love for him, conquered Verezzi's softened soul. 

" Oh ! Matilda," said he, " though I cannot love thee 
— though my soul is irrevocably another's — ^yet, believe 
me, I esteem, I admire thee ; and it grieves me that a 
heart, fraught with so many and so brilliant virtues, has 
fixed itself on one who is incapable of appreciating its 
value." » 

The time passed away, and each returning sun beheld 
Verezzi still at Passau — still under Matilda's roof. That 
softness, that melting tenderness, which she knew so well 
how to assume, began to convince Verezzi of the injustice 
of the involuntary hatred which had filled his soul 
towards her. Her conversation was fraught with sense 
and elegant ideas. She played to him in the cool of the 
evening ; and often, after sun-set, they rambled together 
into the rich scenery and luxuriant meadows which are 
washed by the Danube. 

Claudine was not forgotten: indeed, Matilda first 
recollected her, and, by placing her in an independent 
situation, added a new claim to the gratitude of Verezzi. 

In this manner three we6ks passed away. Every day 
did Matilda practise new arts, employ new blandishments, 
to detain under her roof the fascinated Verezzi. 

The most select parties in Passau, flitted in varied 
movements to exquisite harmony, when Matilda perceived 
Verezzi's spirits to be ruffled by recollection. 

^ Quotation mark wanting in the original. 



48 ZASTROZZI. 

When he seemed to prefer solitude, a moonlight walk 
by the Danube was proposed by Matilda; or, with skilful 
fingers, she drew from her harp sounds of the most 
heart-touching, most enchanting melody. Her behaviour 
towards him was soft, tender, and quiet, and might rather 
have characterised the mild, serene love of a friend or 
sister, than the ardent, unquenchable fire, which burnt, 
though concealed, within Matilda's bosom. 

It was one calm evening that Matilda and Verezzi 
sat in a back saloon, which overlooked the gliding 
Danube. Verezzi was listening, with all the enthusiasm 
of silent rapture, to a favourite soft air which Matilda 
sang, when a loud rap at the hall door startled them. A 
domestic entered, and told Matilda that a stranger, on par- 
ticular business, waited to speak with her. 

" Oh !" exclaimed Matilda, " I cannot attend to him 
now ; bid him wait." 

The stranger was impatient, and would not be 
denied. 



« 



Desire him to come in, then," said Matilda. 



The domestic hastened to obey her commands. 

Verezzi had arisen to leave the room. *' No," cried 
Matilda, " sit still ; I shall soon dismiss the feUow ; be- 
sides, I have no secrets from you." Verezzi took his seat. 

The wide folding-doors which led into the passage 
were open. 



ZASTROZZI. 49 

Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through . 
them, to grow pale. 

He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa 
at the other end of the saloon. 

Suddenly she started from her seat — her whole frame 
seemed convulsed by agitation, as she rushed through the 
door. 

Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, " Go ! go ! 
to-morrow morning ! " 

Matilda returned— she seated herself again at the harp 
which she had quitted, and essayed to compose herself ; 
but it was in vain — she was too much agitated. 

Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to 
perform its office ; and her humid hands, as they swept 
the strings of the harp, violently trembled. 

" Matilda," said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone, " what 
has agitated you ? Make me a repository of your sor- 
rows : I would, if possible, alleviate them." 

" Oh no," said Matilda, affecting unconcern ; " nothing 
— nothing has happened. I was even myself uncon- 
scious that I appeared agitated." 

Verezzi afiPected to believe her, and assumed a com- 
posure which he felt not. The conversation changed, 
and Matilda assumed her wonted mien. The lateness 
of the hour at last warned them to separate. 

PBOSE. ^VOL. I. K 



50 ZASTROZZI. 

The more Verezzi thought upon the evening's occur- 
rence, the more did a conviction in his mind, inexplicable 
even to himself, strengthen, that Matilda's agitation 
originated in something of consequence. He knew her 
mind to be superior to common cu*cumstance and 
fortuitous casualty, which might have ruffled an inferior 
soul. Besides, the words which he had heard her utter 
— " Go ! go ! to-morrow morning ! " — ^and though he re- 
solved to disgiiise his real sentiments, and seem to let 
the subject drop, he determined narrowly to scrutinise 
Matilda's conduct ; and, particularly, to know what took 
place on the following morning. — An indefinable pre- 
sentiment that something horrible was about to occur, 
filled Verezzi's mind. A long chain of retrospection 
ensued — he could not foi^et the happy hours which he 
had passed with Julia; her interesting softness, her 
ethereal form, pressed on his aching sense. 

Still did he feel his soul irresistibly softened towards 
Matilda — ^her love for him flattered his vanity ; and 
though he could not feel reciprocal affection towards 
her, yet her kindness in rescuing him from his former 
degraded situation, her altered manner towards him, 
and her unremitting endeavours to please, to humour 
him in every thing, called for his warmest, his sincerest 
gratitude. 

The morning came — Verezzi arose from a sleepless 
couch, and descending into the breakfast-parlour, there 
found Matilda. 

He endeavoured to appear the same as usual, but in 



ZASTROZZI. 51 

vain ; for an expression of reserve and scrutiny was 
apparent on his features. 

Matilda perceived it, and shrunk abashed from his 
keen gaze. 

The meal passed away in silence. 

" Excuse me for an hour or two," at last stammered 
out Matilda — *' my steward has accounts to settle ;" and 
she left the apartment. 

Verezzi had now no doubt but that the stranger, who 
had caused Matilda's agitation the day before, was now 
returned to finish his business. 

He moved towards the door to follow her — he 
stopped. 

What right have I to pry into the secrets of another ? 
thought Verezzi : besides, the business which this stranger 
has with Matilda cannot possibly concern me. . 

Still was he compelled, by an irresistible fascination, 
as it were, to unravel what appeared to him so myste- 
rious an affair. He endeavoured to believe it to be as 
she affirmed ; he endeavoured to com^Dose himself : he 
took a book, but liis eyes wandered insensibly. 

Thrice he hesitated — thrice he shut the door of the 
apartment ; till at last, a curiosity, unaccountable even 
to himself, propelled him to seek Matilda. 

E 2 



52 ZASTROZZI. 

Mechanically he moved along the passage. He met 
one of the domestics — he inquired where Matilda was. 



t< 



In the grand saloon," was the reply. 



With trembling steps he advanced towards it — The 
folding-doors were open — He saw Matilda and the 
stranger standing at the remote end of the apartment. 

The stranger's figure, which was towering and majestic, 
was rendered more peculiarly striking, by the elegantly 
proportioned form of Matilda, who leant on a marble 
table near her; and her gestures, as she conversed with 
him, manifested the most eager impatience, the deepest 
interest. 

At so great a distance, Verezzi could not hear their 
conversation ; but, by the low murmurs which occasion- 
ally reached his ear, he perceived that, whatever it 
might be, they were both equally interested in the 
subject. 

For some time he contemplated them with mingled 
surprise and curiosity — he tried to arrange the confused 
murmurs of their voices, which floated along the immense 
and vaulted apartment, but no articulate sound reached 
his ear. 

At last Matilda took the stranger's hand : she pressed 
it to her lips with an eager and impassioned gesture, and 
led him to the opposite door of the saloon. 

Suddenly the stranger turned, but as quickly regained 



ZASTROZZI. 53 

his former position, as he retreated through the door; 
not quickly enough, however, but, in the stranger's fire- 
darting eye, Verezzi recognised him who had declared 
eternal enmity at the cottage on the heath. 

Scarcely knowing where he was, or what to believe, for 
a few momenta Verezzi stood bewildered, and unable to 
arrange the confusion of ideas which floated in his brain, 
and assailed his terror-struck imagination. He knew 
not what to believe — what phantom it could be that, 
in the shape of Zastrozzi, blasted his straining eye-balls 
— Could it really be Zastrozzi ? Could his most ran- 
corous, his bitterest enemy, be thus beloved, thus confided 
in, by the perfidious Matilda ? 

For several moments he stood doubting what he should 
resolve upon. At one while he determined to reproach 
Matilda with treachery and baseness, and overwhelm her 
in the mid career of wickedness ; but at last concluding 
it to be more politic to dissemble and subdue his emotions, 
he went into the breakfast-parlour which lie had left, and 
seated himself as if nothing had happened, at a drawing 
which he had left incoipplete. 

Besides, perhaps Matilda might not be guilty — 
perhaps she was deceived ; and though some scheme of 
villany and destruction to himself was preparing, she 
might be the dupe, and not the coadjutor, of Zastrozzi. 
The idea that she was innocent soothed him ; for he was 
anxious to make up, in his own mind, for the injustice 
which he had been guilty of towards her : and though 
he could not conquer the disgusting ideas, the unaccount- 
able detestations, which often, in spite of liimself, filled 



54 ZASTROZZI. 

his soul towards her, he was willing to overcome what he 
considered but as an illusion of the imagination, and to 
pay that just tribute of esteem to her virtues which they 
demanded. 

Whilst these ideas, although confused and uncon- 
nected, passed in Verezzi's brain, Matilda again entered 
the apartment. 

Her countenance exhibited the strongest marks of 
agitation, and full of inexpressible and confused meaning 
was her dark eye, as she addressed some trifling question 
to Verezzi, in a hurried accent, and threw herself into a 
chair beside him. 

" Verezzi ! " exclaimed Matilda, after a pause equally 
padnful to both — " Verezzi ! I am deeply grieved to be 
the messenger of bad news — willingly would I withhold 
the fatal truth from you ; yet, by some other means, it 
may meet your unprepared ear. I have something 
dreadful, shocking, to relate : can you bear the recital ? " 

The nerveless fingers of Verezzi dropped the pencil — 
he seized Matilda's hand, and, in accents almost inar- 
ticulate from terror, conjured her to explain her horrid 
Huimises. 

" Oh ! ray friend ! my sister 1 " exclaimed Matilda, as 
well-feigned tears coursed down her cheeks, — ** oh ! she 
is " 

"What! what!" interrupted Verezzi, as the idea of 
something having befallen his adored Julia filled his 



ZASTROZZI. 55 

maddened brain with tenfold horror: for often had 
Matilda declared, that since she could not become his 
wife, she would willingly be his friend, and had even 
called Julia her sister. 

" Oh ! " exclaimed Matilda, hiding her face in her 
hands, " Julia-^ulia — ^whom you love, is dead." 

Unable to withhold his fleeting faculties from a sudden 
and chilly horror which seized them, Verezzi sank for- 
ward, and, fainting, fell at Matilda's feet. ' 

In vain, for some time, was every effort to recover 
him. Every restorative which was administered, for a 
long time, was unavailing : at last his lips unclosed — ^he 
seemed to take his breath easier — he moved — he slowly 
opened his eyes. 



CHAPTEE VIII.^ 

His head reposed upon Matilda's bosom ; he started fi'om 
it violently, as if stung by a scorpion, and fell upon the 
floor. His eyes roUed horribly, and seemed as if starting 
from their sockets. 

" Is she then dead ? is Julia dead ? " in accents 
scarcely articulate exclaimed Verezzi. " Ah, Matilda ! 
was it you then who destroyed her? was it by thy 
jealous hand that she sank to an untimely grave ? — ^Ah, 
Matilda ! Matilda ! say that she yet lives ! Alas ! what 
have I to do in this world without Julia ? — ^an empty 
uninteresting void ! " 

Every word uttered by the hapless Verezzi spoke 
daggers to the agitated Matilda. 

Again overpowered by the acuteness of his sensations, 
he sank on the floor, and, in violent convulsions, he 
remained bereft of sense. 



1 There is no Chapter VII. 



ZASTROZZI. 57 

Matilda again raised him — again laid his throbbing 
head upon her bosom. — Again, as recovering, the wretch- 
ed Verezzi perceived his situation — overcome by agonising 
reflection, he relapsed into insensibility. 

One fit rapidly followed another, and at last, in a state 
of the wildest delirium, he was conveyed to bed. 

Matilda found, that a too eager impatience had carried 
her too far. She had prepared hei-self for violent grief, 
but not for the paroxysms of madness which now 
seemed really to have seized the brain of the devoted 
Verezzi. 

She sent for a physician — ^he arrived, and his opinion 
of Verezzi*8 danger almost drove the wretched Matilda trj 
desperation. 

Exhausted by contending passions, she threw herself 
on a sofa: she thought of the deeds wliich she had 
perpetrated to gain Verezzi's love ; she considered that, 
should her purpose be defeated, at the very instant which 
her heated imagination had portrayed as the commence- 
ment of her triumph ; should all the wickedness, all the 
crime>s, into which she had plunged herself, be of no 
avail — this idea, more than remorse for her enormities, 
affected her. 

She sat for a time absorbed in a confusion of contend- 
ing thought: her mind was the scene of anarchy and 
horror : at last, exhausted by their own violence, a deep, 
a desperate calm took possession of her faculties. She 



58 ZASTROZZI. . 

started from the sofa, and, maddened by the idea of 
Verezzi's danger, sought his apartment. 

On a bed lay Verezzi. 

A thick film overapread his eye, and he seemed sunk 
in insensibility. 

Matilda approached him — she pressed her burning 
lips to his — she took his hand — it was cold, and at 
intervals slightly agitated by convulsions. 

A deep sigh, at this instant, burst from his lips — a 
momentary hectic flushed his cheek, as the miserable 
Verezzi attempted to rise. 

Matilda, though cdmost too much agitated to command 
her emotions, threw herself into a chair behind the 
curtain, and prepared to watch his movements. 

" Julia ! Julia ! '* exclaimed he, starting from the bed, 
as his flaming eye-balls were unconsciously fixed upon 
the agitated Matilda, " where art thou ? Ah ! thy fair 
form now moulders in the dark sepulchre ! would I were 
laid beside thee ! thou art now an ethereal spirit ! " and 
then, in a seemingly triumphant accent, he added, " But, 
ere long, I will seek thy unspotted soul — ere long I will 
again . clasp my lost Julia ! " Overcome by resistless 
delirium, he was for an instant silent — his starting eyes 
seemed to foUow some form, which imagination had por- 
trayed in vacuity. He dashed his head against the wall, 
and sank, overpowered by insensibility, on the floor. 



ZASTROZZI. 59 

Accustomed as she was to scenes of horror, and firm 
and dauntless as was Matilda's soul, yet this was too 
much to behold with composure. She rushed towards 
him, and lifted him from the floor. In a delirium of 
terror, she wildly called for help. Unconscious of every 
thing around her, she feared Verezzi had destroyed 
himself. She clasped him to her bosom, and called on 
his name, in an ecstasy of terror. 

The domestics, alarmed by her exclamations, rushed 
in. Once again they lifted the insensible Verezzi into 
the bed — every spark of life seemed now to have been 
extinguished; for the transport of horror which had 
torn his soul was almost too much to be sustained. A 
physician was again sent for — Matilda, maddened by 
desperation, in accents ahnost inarticulate from terror, 
demanded hope or despair from the physician. 

He, who was a man of sense, declared his opinion, 
that Verezzi would speedily recover, though he knew 
not the event which might take place in the crisis of the 
disorder, which now rapidly approached. 

The remonstrances of those around her were unavail- 
ing, to draw Matilda from the bed-side of Verezzi* 

She sat there, a prey to disappointed passion, silent, 
and watching every turn of the hapless Verezzi's coun- 
tenance, as, bereft of sense, he lay extended on the bed 
before her. 

The animation which was wont to illumine his spark- 
ling eye was fled : the roseate colour which had tinged 



60 ZASTROZZT. 

his cheek had given way to an ashy paleness — he was 
insensible to all around him. Matilda sat there the 
whole day, and silently administered medicines to the 
unconscious Verezzi, as occasion required. 

Towards night, the physician again came. Matilda's 
head thoughtfully leant upon her arm as he entered the 
apartment. 

" Ah, what hope ? what hope ? " wildly she exclaimed. 

The physician calmed her, euid bid her not despair : 
then observing her pallid countenance, he said, he believed 
she required his skill as much as his patient. 

" Oh ! heed me not," she exclaimed ; " but how is 
Verezzi ? will he live or die ?" 

The physician advanced towards the emaciated Verezzi 
— he took his hand. 

A burning fever raged through his veins. 

" Oh, how is he ? " exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously 
watching the humane physician's countenance, she 
thought a shade of sorrow spread itself over his features 
— " but tell me my fate quickly," continued she : " I am 
prepared to hear the worst — ^prepared to hear that he is 
even dead already." 

As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity over- 
spread her features — she seized the physician's arm, and 
looked steadfastly on his countenance, and then, as if 



ZASTROZZI. 61 

overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank fainting at his 
feet. 

Tlie physician raised her, and soon succeeded in re- 
calling her fleeted faculties. 

Overcome by its own violence, Matilda's despair be- 
came softened, and the words of the physician operated 
as a balm upon her soul, and bid her feel hope. 

She again resumed her seat, and waited with smothered 
impatience for the event of the decisive crisis, which the 
physician could now no longer conceal. 

She pressed his burning hand in hers, and waited, 
with apparent composure, for eleven o'clock. 

Slowly the hours passed — the clock of Passau tolled 
each lingering quarter as they rolled away, and hastened 
towards the appointed time, when the chamber-door of 
Verezzi was slowly opened by Ferdinand. 

"Ha! why do you disturb me now?" exclaimed 
Matilda, whom the entrance of Ferdinand had roused 
from a profound reverie. 

" Signora ! " whispered Ferdinand — " Signer Zastrozzi 
waits below : he wishes to see you there." 

" Ah ! " said Matilda thoughtfully, " conduct him here." 

Ferdinand departed to obey her — footsteps were heard 



62 ZASTSOZZI. 

in the passage, and immediately afterwards Zastrozzi 
stood before Matilda. 

" Matilda ! " exclaimed he, " why do I see you here ? 
what accident has happened which confines you to this 
chamber ? " 

" Ah ! " replied Matilda, in an under- voice, " look in 
that bed — behold Verezzi ! emaciated and insensible — in 
a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all animation will be fled 
— ^fled for ever ! " continued she, as a deeper expression 
of despair shaded her beautiful features. 

Zastrozzi advanced to the foot of the bed — Verezzi 
lay, as if dead, before his eyes ; for the ashy hue of his 
lips, and his simken inexpressive eye, almost declared 
that his spirit was fled. 

Zastrozzi gazed upon him with an indefinable expres- 
sion of insatiated vengeance — indefinable to Matilda, as 
she gazed upon the expressive countenance of her co- 
adjutor in crime. 

" Matilda ! I want you ; come to the lower saloon ; I 
have sometliing to speak to you of," said Zastrozzi. 

" Oh ! if it concerned my soul's eternal happiness, I 
could not now attend," exclaimed Matilda, energetically : 
" in less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all I hold 
dear on earth will be dead ; with liim, every hope, every 
wish, every tie which binds me to earth. Oh ! " exclaimed 
she, her voice assuming a tone of extreme hon-or, " see 
how pale he looks ! " 



ZASTROZZl. 63 

Zastrozzi bade Matilda farewell, and went away. 

The physician yet continued watching, in silence, the 
countenance of Verezzi : it still retained its unchanging 
expression of fixed despair. 

Matilda gazed upon it, and waited with the most 
eager, yet subdued impatience, for the expiration of the 
few minutes which yet remained — she still gazed. 

The features of Verezzi's countenance were slightly 
convulsed. 

The clock struck eleven. 

His lips unclosed — Matilda turned pale with terror ; 
yet mute, and absorbed by expectation, remained rooted 
to her seat. 

She raised her eyes, and hope again returned, as she 
beheld the countenance of the humane physician lighted 
up with a beam of pleasure. 

She could no longer contain herself, but, in an ecstasy 
of pleasure, as excessive as her grief and horror before 
had been violent, in rapid and hurried accents questioned 
the physician. The physician, with an expressive smile, 
pressed his finger on his lip. She understood the move- 
ment; and, though her heart was dilated with sudden 
and excessive delight, she smothered her joy, as she had 
before her grief, and gazed with rapturous emotion on the 
countenance of Verezzi, as, to her expectant eyes, a blush 
of animation tinged his before-pallid coimtenance. 



64 ZASTROZZI. 

Matilda took his hand — the pulses yet beat with 
feverish violence. She gazed upon his countenance — the 
film, which before had overspread his eye, disappeared : 
returning expression pervaded its orbit, but it was the 
expression of deep, of rooted grief. 

The physician made a sign to Matilda to withdraw. 

She drew the curtain before her, and, in anxious 
expectation, awaited the event. 

A deep, a long-drawn sigh, at last burst from Verezzi's 
bosom. He raised himseK — his eyes seemed to follow 
some form, which imagination had portrayed in the 
remote obscurity of the apartment, for the shades of 
night were but partially dissipated by a lamp which 
burnt on a table behind. He raised his almost nerve- 
less arm, and passed it across his eyes, as if to convince 
himself, that what he saw was not an illusion of the 
imagination. 

He looked at the physician, who sat near to and sUent 
by the bedside, and patiently awaited whatever event 
might occur. 

Verezzi slowly arose, and violently exclaimed, " Julia ! 
Julia ! my long-lost Julia, come ! " And then, more 
collectedly, he added, in a mournful tone, " Ah no ! you 
are dead ; lost, lost for ever ! " 

He turned round, and saw the physician, but Matilda 
was still concealed. 



ZASTROZZI. 65 

"Where am I?" inquired Verezzi, addressing the 
physician. " Safe, safe," answered he : " compose your- 
self ; aU wiU be well" 

" Ah, but Julia ? " inquired Verezzi, with a tone so 
expressive of despair, as threatened returning delirium. 

" Oh 1 compose yourself," said the humane physician : 
" you have been very ill : this is but an illusion of the 
imagination ; and even now, I fear, that you labour under 
that delirium which attends a brain-fever," 

Verezzi's nerveless frame again sunk upon the bed — 
still his eyes were open, and fixed upon vacancy : he 
seemed to be endeavouring to arrange the confusion of 
ideas which pressed upon his brain. 

Matilda undrew the curtain ; but, as her eye met the 
physician's, his glance told her to place it in its original 
situation. 

As she thought of the events of the day, her heart was 
dilated by tumultuous, yet pleasurable emotions. She 
conjectured, that were Verezzi to recover, of which she now 
entertained but little doubt, she might easily erase from 
his heart the boyish passion which before had possessed 
it ; might convince him of the folly of supposing that a 
first attachment is fated to endure for ever ; and, by un- 
remitting assiduity in pleasing him — by soft, quiet atten- 
tions, and an affected sensibility, might at last acquire the 
attainment of that object, for which her bosom had so 
long and so ardently panted. 

PROSE. VOL. I. F 



66 ZASTROZZI. 

Soothed by these ideas, and willing to hear from the 
physician's mouth a more expUcit affirmation of Verezzi's 
safety than his looks had given, Matilda rose, for the 
first time since his illness, and, unseen by Verezzi, ap- 
proached the physician. — " Follow me to the saloon," said 
Matilda. 

The physician obeyed, and, by his fervent assurances 
of Verezzi's safety and speedy recovery, confirmed 
Matilda's fluctuating hopes. " But," added the physician, 
" though my patient will recover if his mind be imruffled, 
I will not answer for his re-establishment should he see 
you, as his disorder, being wholly on the mind, may be 
possibly augmented by " 

The physician paused, and left Matilda to finish the 
sentence ; for he was a man of penetration and judgement, 
and conjectured that some sudden and violent emotion, 
of which she was the cause, occasioned his patient's 
illness. This conjecture became certainty, as, when he 
concluded, he observed Matilda's face change to an ashy 
paleness. 

" May I not watch him — attend him ? " inquired 
Matilda imploringly. 

" No," answered the physician : " in the weakened 
state in which he now is, the sight of you might cause 
immediate dissolution." 

Matilda started, as if overcome by horror, at the bare 
idea, and promised to obey his commands. 



ZASTROZZI. 67 

The morning came — Matilda arose from a sleepless 
couch, and with hopes yet unconfirmed sought Verezzi's 
apartment. 

She stood near the door, listening. — Her heart palpi- 
tated with tremulous violence, as she listened to Verezzi's 
breathing — every sound from within alarmed her. At 
last she slowly opened the door, and, though adhering 
to the physician's directions in not suflfering Verezzi to 
see her, she could not deny herself the pleasure of watch- 
ing him, and busying herself in little offices about his 
apartment. 

She could hear Verezzi question the attendant col- 
lectedly, yet as a person who was ignorant where he 
was, and knew not the events which had immediately 
preceded his present state. 

At last he sank into a deep sleep — MatUda now dared 
to gaze on him : the hectic colour which had flushed 
his cheek was fled, but the ashy hue of his lips had 
given place to a brilliant vermilion — She gazed intently 
on his countenance. 

A heavenly, yet faint smile, diflfused itself over his 
countenance — ^his hand slightly moved. 

Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed 
herself. She was mistaken; for, on looking again, he 
still slept. 

She still gazed upon his coimtenance. The visions of 
his sleep were changed, for tears came fast from 

F 2 



68 ZASTROZZI. 

under his eyelids, and a deep sigh burst from his 
bosom. 

Thus passed several days : Matilda still watched, with 
most affectionate assiduity, by the bedside of the uncon- 
scious Verezzi. 

The physician declared that his patient's mind was yet 
in too irritable a state to permit him to see Matilda, but 
that he was convalescent. 

One evening she sat by his bedside, and gazing upon 
the features of the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusual softness 
take possession of her soul — an indefinable and tumult- 
uous emotion shook her bosom — her whole frame 
thrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand, 
which lay motionless beside her, she imprinted on it a 
thousand burning kisses. 

" Ah, Julia ! Julia ! is it you V* exclaimed Verezzi, as 
he raised his enfeebled frame ; but perceiving his mistake* 
as he cast his eyes on Matilda, sank back, and fainted. 

Matilda hastened with restoratives, and soon succeeded 
in recalling to life Verezzi's fleeted faculties. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

Art thou afraid 

To be the same in thine own act and valour 

Ab thou art in desire ? would'st thou have that 

Which thou esteemest the ornament of life. 

Or live a coward in thine own esteemi 

Letting I dare not wait upon / would f 

Macbeth. 

For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

Lay of th4 LoH Minttrd. 

The soul of Verezzi was filled with irresistible disgust, 
as, recovering, he found himseK in Matilda's arms. His 
whole frame trembled with chilly horror, and he could 
scarcely withhold himself from again fainting. He fixed 
his eyes upon the countenance — ^they met hers — an 
ardent fire, mingled with a touching softness, filled their 
orbits. 

In a hurried and almost inarticulate accent, he re- 
proached Matilda with perfidy, baseness, and even 
murder. The roseate colour which had tinged Matilda's 
cheek, gave place to an ashy hue — the animation which 
had sparkled in her eye, yielded to a confused expression 
of apprehension, as the almost delirious Verezzi uttered 
accusations he knew not the meaning of ; for his brain. 



70 ZASTROZZI. 

maddened by the idea of Julia's death, was whirled 
round in an ecstasy of terror. 

Matilda seemed to have composed every passion : a 
forced serenity overspread her features, as, in a sympa- 
thising and tender tone, she entreated him to calm his 
emotions, and giving him a composing medicine, left him. 

She descended to the saloon. 



" Ah ! he yet despises me — ^he even hates me," 
ejaculated Matilda. "An irresistible antipathy — irre- 
sistible, I fear, as my love for him is ardent, has taken 
possession of his soul towards me. Ah ! miserable, hap- 
less being that I am ! doomed to have my fondest hope, 
my brightest prospect, blighted." 

Alive alike to the tortures of despair and the illusions 
of hope, Matilda, now in an agony of desperation, im- 
patiently paced the saloon. 

Her mind was inflamed by a more violent emotion of 
hate towards Julia, as she recollected Verezzi's fond ex- 
pressions : she determined, however, that were Verezzi 
not to be hers, he should never be Julia's. 

Whilst thus she thought, Zastrozzi entered. 

Tlie conversation was concerning Verezzi. 

" How shall I gain his love, Zastrozzi ? " exclaimed 
Matilda. " Oh ! I will renew every tender office — I will 
watch by him day and night, and, by unremitting atten- 



ZASTROZZI. 71 

tions, I will try to soften his flinty souL But, alas 1 it 
was but now that he started from my arms in horror, 
and, in accents of desperation, accused me of perfidy — of 
murder. Could I be perfidious to Verezzi, my heart, 
which bums with so fervent a fire, declares I could not, 
and murder — " 

Matilda paused. 

"Would thou could say thou wert guilty, or even 
accessary to thati' exclaimed Zastrozzi, his eye gleaming 
with disappointed ferocity. " Would Julia of Strobazzo's 
heart was reeking on my dagger ! " 

" Fervently do I join in that wish, my best Zastrozzi," 
returned Matilda : " but, alas ! what avail wishes — ^what 
avail useless protestations of revenge, whilst Julia yet 
lives ? — yet lives, perhaps, again to obtain Verezzi — ^to 
clasp him constant to her bosom — and perhaps-"— oh, 
horror ! perhaps to " 



Stung to madness by the picture which her fancy had 
portrayed, Matilda paused. 

Her bosom heaved with throbbing palpitations ; and, 
whilst describing the success of her rival, her warring 
soul shone apparent from her scintillating eyes. 

Zastrozzi, meanwhile, stood collected in himself ; and 
scarcely heeding the violence of Matilda, awaited the 
issue of her speech. 

He besought her to calm herself, nor, by those violent 



72 ZASTROZZI. 

emotions, unfit herself for prosecuting the attainment of 
her fondest hope. 

" Are you firm ? " inquired Zastrozzi. 

" Yes ! " 

" Are you resolved ? Does fear, amid the other 
passions, shake your soul ? " 

" No, no— this heart knows not to fear — this breast 
knows not to shrink," exclaimed Matilda eagerly. 

" Then be cool — be collected," returned Zastrozzi, " and 
thy purpose is efiected." 

Though little was in these words which might warrant 
hope, yet Matilda's susceptible soul, as Zastrozzi spoke, 
thrilled with anticipated delight. 

" My maxim, therefore," said Zastrozzi, " through life 
has been, wherever I am, whatever passions shake my 
inmost 9oul, at least to appear collected. I generally am ; 
for, by sufiering no common events, no fortuitous casualty 
to disturb me, my soul becomes steeled to more interesting 
trials. I have a spirit, ardent, impetuous as thine ; but 
acquaintance with the world has induced me to veil it, 
though it still continues to bum within my bosom. 
Believe me, I am far from wishing to persuade you from 
your purpose — ^No — any purpose undertaken with ardour, 
and prosecuted with perseverence, must eventually be 
crowned with success. Love is worthy of any risque — I 
felt it once, but revenge has now swallowed up every other 
feeling of my soul — I am alive to nothing t3ut revenge. 



ZASTROZZI. 73 

But even did I desire to persuade you from the purpose 
on which your heart is fixed, I should not say it was 
wrong to attempt it ; for whatever procures pleasure is 
right, and consonant to the dignity of man, who was 
created for no other purpose but to obtain happiness ; 
else, why were passions given us ? why were those emo- 
tions, which agitate my breast, and madden my brain, 
implanted in us by nature ? As for the confused hope 
of a future state, why should we debar ourselves of the 
delights of this, even though purchased by what the mis- 
guided multitude calls immorality ?"* 

Thus sophistically argued, Zastrozzi — His soul, deadened 
by crime, could only entertain confused ideas of im- 
mortal happiness; for in proportion as human nature 
departs from virtue, so far are they also from being able 
clearly to contemplate the wonderful operations, the mys- 
terious ways of Providence. 

Coolly and collectedly argued Zastrozzi : he delivered 
his sentiments with the air of one who was wholly con- 
vinced of the truth of the doctrines he uttered, — a con- 
viction to be dissipated by shunning ' proof. 

Whilst Zastrozzi thus spoke, Matilda remained silent, 
— she paused. Zastrozzi must have strong powers of 
reflection; he must be convinced of the truth of his 
own reasoning, thought Matilda, as eagerly she yet 
gazed on his countenance. — Its unchanging expression 
of firmness and conviction still continued, — " Ah ! " 
said Matilda, "Zastrozzi, thy words are a bsJm to my 
soul, I never yet knew thy real sentiments on this 

^ The quotation marks are want* ^ Sic; but perhaps thunning is a 

ing in the original edition. misprint for stunning. 



74 ZASTROZZI. 

subject ; but answer me, do you believe that the soul 
decays with the body, or if you do not, when this 
perishable fonn mingles with its parent earth, where 
goes the soul which now actuates its movements ? 
perhaps, it wastes its fervent energies in tasteless apathy, 
or lingering torments." 

"Matilda," returned Zastrozzi, "think not so; rather 
suppose, that by its own innate and energetical exertions, 
this soul must endure for ever, that no fortuitous occur- 
rences, no incidental events, can affect its happiness ; but 
by* daring boldly, by striving to verge from the beaten 
path, whilst yet trammelled in the chains of mortality, it 
will gain superior advantages in a future state." 

" But religion ! Oh Zastrozzi ! " — 

" I thought thy soul was daring," replied Zastrozzi, " I 
thought thy mind was towering ; and did I then err, in 
the different estimate I had formed of thy character ? — 
O yield not youraelf, Matilda, thus to false, foolish, and 
vulgar prejudices — for the present, farewell" 

Saying this, Zastrozzi departed. 

Thus, by an artful appeal to her passions, did Zastrozzi 
extinguish the faint spark of religion which yet gleamed 
in Matilda's bosouL 

In proportion as her belief of an Omnipotent Power, 
and consequently her hopes of eternal salvation declined, 
her ardent and unquenchable passion for Verezzi in- 
creased, and a delirium of guilty love, filled her souL — 



ZASTROZZI. 75 

"Shall I then caU him mine for ever?" mentally 
inquired Matilda ; " will the passion which now consumes 
me, possess my soul to aU eternity ? Ah ! well I know 
it will ; and when emancipated from this terrestrial form, 
my soul departs; still its fervent energies iinrepressed, 
will remain ; and in the union of soul to soul, it will 
taste celestial transports." An ecstasy of tumultuous 
and confused delight rushed through her veins : she stood 
for some time immersed in thought. — ^Agitated by the 
emotions of her soul, her every limb trembled — she 
thought upon Zastrozzi*s sentiments, she almost shuddered 
as she reflected; yet was convinced, by the cool and 
collected manner in which he had delivered them. — She 
thought on his advice, and steeling her soul, repressing 
every emotion, she now acquired that coolness so neces- 
sary to the attainment of her desire. 

Thinking of nothing else, alive to no idea but Verezzi, 
Matilda's countenance assumed a placid serenity — she 
even calmed her soul, she bid it restrain its emotions, 
and the passions which so lately had battled fiercely in 
her bosom, were calmed. 

She again went to Verezzi's apartment, but, as she 
approached, vague fears, lest he should have penetrated 
her schemes confused her : but his mildly beaming eyes, 
as she gazed upon them, convinced her, that the horrid 
expressions which he had before uttered, were merely the 
efifect of temporary delirium. 

" Ah, Matilda 1 " exclaimed Verezzi, " where have you 
been ? " 



76 ZASTROZZL 

Matilda's soul, alive alike to despair and hope, was 
filled with momentary delight as he addressed her ; but 
bitter hate, and disappointed love, again tortured her 
bosom, as he exclaimed in accents of heart-felt agony: 
" Oh ! Julia, my long-lost Julia ! " 

" Matilda," said he, " my friend, farewell ; I feel that 
I am dying, but I feel pleasure, — oh ! transporting 
pleasure, in the idea that I shall soon meet my Julia. 
Matilda," added he, in a softened accent,* " farewell for 
ever." Scarcely able to contain the emotions which the 
idea alone of Verezzi's death excited, Matilda, though 
the crisis of the disorder, she knew, had been favorable, 
shuddered — ^bitter hate, even more rancorous than ever, 
kindled in her bosom against Julia, for to hear Verezzi 
talk of her with soul-subduing tenderness, but wound up 
her soul to the highest pitch of uncontrollable vengeance. 
— Her breast heaved violently, her dark eye, in expressive 
glances, told the fierce passions of her soul ; yet, sensible 
of the necessity of controlling her emotions, she leaned 
her head upon her hand, and when she answered Verezzi, 
a calmness, a melting expression of grief, overspread her 
features. She conjured him in the most tender, the most 
soothing terms, to compose himself, and, though Julia 
was gone for ever, to remember that there was yet one 
in the world, one tender friend who would render the 
burden of life less insupportabla 

" Oh ! Matilda," exclaimed Verezzi, " talk not to me 
of comfort, talk not of happiness, all that constituted my 



^ In the original edition, the in- to take in the words in a softened 
verted commas are misplaced so as accent. 



ZASTROZZI. 77 

comfort, all to which I looked forward with rapturous 
anticipation of happiness, is fled — ^fled for ever." 

Ceaselessly did Matilda watch by the bed-side of 
Verezzi ; the melting tenderness of his voice, the melan- 
choly, interesting expression of his countenance, but 
added fuel to the flame which consumed her : her soul 
was engrossed by one idea ; every extraneous passion was 
conquered, and nerved for the execution of its fondest 
purpose ; a seeming tranquillity overspread her mind, not 
that tranquillity which results from conscious innocence, 
and mild delights, but that which calms every tumultuous 
emotion for a time ; when firm in a settled purpose, the 
passions but pause, to break out with more resistless 
violence. In the mean time, the strength of Verezzi's 
constitution overcame the malignity of his disorder, re- 
turning strength again braced his nerves, and he was able 
to descend to the saloon. 

The violent grief of Verezzi had subsided into a deep 
and settled melancholy ; he could now talk of his Julia, 
indeed it was his constant theme; he spoke of her 
virtues, her celestial form, her sensibility, and by his 
ardent professions of eternal fidelity to her memory, un- 
consciously almost drove Matilda to desperation. — Once 
he asked Matilda how she died, for on the day when the 
intelligence first turned his brain, he waited not to hear 
the particulars, the bare fact drove him to instant 
madness. 

Matilda was startled at the question, yet ready inven- 
tion supplied the place of a premeditated story. 



78 ZASTROZZI. 

" Oh ! my friend," said she tenderly, " unwillingly do 
I tell you, that for you she died ; disappointed love, like 
a worm in the bud, destroyed the unhappy Julia ; fruit- 
less were all her endeavours to find you, till at last 
concluding that you were lost to her for ever, a deep 
melancholy by degrees consumed her, and gently led to 
the grave — she sank into the arms of death without a 
groan." 

" And there shall I soon follow her," exclaimed Ve- 
rezzi, as a severer pang of anguish and regret darted 
through his soul. " I caused her death, whose life was 
far, far dearer to me than my own. But now it is all 
over, my hopes of happiness in this world are blasted, 
blasted for ever." 

As he said this, a convulsive sigh heaved his breast, 
and the tears silently rolled down his cheeks ; for some 
time, in vain were Matilda's endeavotu's to calm him, till 
at last, mellowed by time, and overcome by reflection, 
his violent and fierce sorrow was softened into a fixed 
melancholy. 

Unremittingly Matilda attended him, and gratified his 
every wish : she, conjecturing that solitude might he 
detrimental to him, often entertained parties, and en- 
deavoured by gaiety to drive away his dejection, but if 
Verezzi's spirits were elevated by company and merriment, 
in solitude again they sank, and a deeper melancholy, a 
severer regret possessed his bosom, for having allowed 
himself to be momentarily interested by any thing but 
the remembrance of his Julia ; for he felt a soft, a tender 
and ecstatic emotion of regret, when retrospection portrayed 



ZASTROZZI. 79 

the blissful time long since gone by, while happy in the 
society of her whom he idolised, he thought he could be 
never otherwise than then, enjoying the sweet, the serene 
delights of association with a congenial mind, he often 
now amused himself in retracing with his pencil, from 
memory, scenes which, though in his Julia's society he 
had beheld unnoticed, yet were now hallowed by the 
remembrance of her : for he always associated the idea 
of Julia with the remembrance of those scenes which she 
had so often admired, and where, accompanied by her, he 
had so often wandered. 

Matilda, meanwhile, firm in the purpose of her soul, 
unremittingly persevered: she calmed her mind, and 
though, at intervals, shook by almost super-human 
emotions, before Verezzi a fixed serenity, a well-feigned 
sensibility, and a downcast tenderness, marked her 
manner. Grief, melancholy, a fixed, a quiet depression 
of spirits, seemed to have calmed every fiercer feeling, 
when she talked with Verezzi of his lost Julia : but, 
though subdued for the present, revenge, hate, and the 
fervour of disappointed love, burned her soul. 

Often, when she had retired from Verezzi, when he 
had talked with tenderness, as he was wont, of Julia, and 
sworn everlasting fidelity to her memory, would Matilda's 
soul be tortured by fiercest desperation. 

One day, when conversing with him of Julia, she 
ventured to hint, though remotely, at her own faithful 
and ardent attachment. 

"Think you," replied Verezzi, "that because my 



80 ZASTROZZI. 

Julia's spirit is no longer enshrined in its earthly form, 
that I am the less devotedly, the less irrevocably hers ? 
— No ! no ! I was hers, I am hers, and to all eternity 
shall be hers : and when my soul, divested of mortality, 
departs into another world, even amid the universal 
wreck of nature, attracted by congeniality of sentiment, 
it will seek the unspotted spirit of my idolised Julia. — 
Oh, Matilda ! thy attention, thy kindness, calls for my 
warmest gratitude — thy virtue demands my sincerest 
esteem ; but, devoted to the memory of Julia, I can love 
none but her." 

Matilda's whole frame trembled with unconquerable 
emotion, as thus determinedly he rejected her ; but, 
calming the more violent passions, a flood of tears rushed 
from her eyes ; and, as she leant over the back of a sofa 
on which she reclined, her sobs were audible. 

Verezzi's soul was softened towards her — ^he raised the 
humbled Matilda, and bid her be comforted, for he was 
conscious that her tenderness towards him deserved not 
an unkind return. 

" Oh ! forgive, forgive me ! " exclaimed Matilda, with 
well-feigned humility ; " I knew not what I said," — She 
then abruptly left the saloon. 

Eeaching her own apartment, Matilda threw herself on 
the floor, in an agony of mind too great to be described. 
Those infuriate passions, restrained as they had been in 
the presence of Verezzi, now agitated her soul with 
inconceivable terror. Shook by sudden and irresistible 
emotions, she gave vent to her despair. 



ZASTROZZI. 81 

" Where, then, is the boasted mercy of God," exclaimed 
the frantic Matilda, " if he suffer his creatures to endure 
agony such as this ? or where his wisdom, if he implant 
in the heart passions furious- — ^uncontrollable — as mine, 
doomed to destroy their happiness ? " 

Outraged pride, disappointed love, and infuriate re- 
venge, revelled through her bosom. Eevenge, which 
called for innocent blood — ^the blood of the hapless 
Julia. 

Her passions were now wound up to the highest pitch 
of desperation. In indescribable agony of mind, she dashed 
her head against the floor — she imprecated a thousand 
curses upon Julia, and swore eternal revenge. 

At last, exhausted by their own violence, the warring 
passions subsided — a calm took possession of her soul — 
she thought again upon Zastrozzi's advice — ^Was she now 
cool ? was she now collected ? 

She was now immersed in a chain of thought ; un- 
accountable, even to herself, was the serenity which had 
succeeded. 



PROSE. VOL. I. 



CHAPTER X. 

Persevering in the prosecution of her design, the tune 
passed away slowly to Matilda ; for Verezzi's frame, be- 
coming every day more emaciated, threatened, to her 
alarmed imagination, approaching dissolution. — Slowly to 
Verezzi ; for he waited with impatience for the arrival of 
death, since nothing but misery was his in this world. 

Useless would it be to enumerate the conflicts in 
Matilda's soul : suffice it to say, that they were many, 
and that their violence progressively increased. 

Verezzi's illness at last assumed so dangerous an 
appearance that Matilda, alarmed, sent for a physician. 

The humane man, who had attended Verezzi before, 
was from home, but one, skilful in his profession, arrived, 
who declared that a warmer climate could alone restore 
Verezzi's health. 

Matilda proposed to him to remove to a retired and 
picturesque spot which she possessed in the Venetian 
territory. Verezzi, expecting speedy dissolution, and 



ZASTROZZI. 83 

conceiving it to be immaterial where he died, consented ; 
and indeed he was unwilling to pain one so kind as 
Matilda by a refusal 

The following morning was fixed for the journey. 

The morning arrived, and Verezzi was lifted into the 
chariot, being yet extremely weak and emaciated. 

Matilda, during the journey, by every care, every kind 
and sympathising attention, tried to drive away Verezzi s 
melancholy ; sensible that, could the weight which 
pressed upon his spirits be removed, he would speedily 
regain health. But, no ! it was impossible. Though he 
was grateful for Matilda's attention, a stiU deeper shade 
of melancholy overspread his features j a more heart-felt 
inanity and languor sapped his life. He was sensible of 
a total distaste of former objects — objects which, perhaps, 
had formeriy forcibly interested him. The terrific 
grandeur of the Alps, the dashing cataract, as it foamed 
beneath their feet, ceased to excite those feelings of awe 
which formerly they were wont to inspire. The lofty 
pine-groves inspired no additional melancholy, nor did 
the blooming vaUeys of Piedmont, or the odoriferous 
orangeries which scented the air, gladden his deadened 
soul. 

They travelled on — they soon entered the Venetian 
territory, where, in a gloomy and remote spot, stood the 
Gastella di Laurentini. 

It was situated in a dark forest — ^lofty mountains 

G 2 



84 ZASTBOZZL 

around lifted their aspiring and craggy summits to the 
skies. 

The mountains were clothed half up by ancient pines 
and plane-trees, whose immense branches stretched far ; 
and above, bare granite rocks, on which might be seen, 
occasionally, a scathed larch, lifted their gigantic and 
misshapen' forms. 

In the centre of an amphitheatre, formed by these 
mountains, surroimded by wood, stood the Castella di 
Laurentini, whose grey turrets, and time-worn battlements, 
overtopped the giants of the forest. 

Into this gloomy mansion was Verezzi conducted by 
Matilda. The only sentiment he. felt, was surprise at the 
prolongation of his existence. As he advanced, supported 
by Matilda and a domestic, into the castella, Matilda's 
soul, engrossed by one idea, confused by its own un- 
quenchable passions, felt not that ecstatic, that cabn and 
serene delight, only experienced by the innocent, and 
which is excited by a return to the place where we have 
spent our days of infancy. 

No — she felt not this : the only pleasurable emotion 
which her return to this remote castella afforded, was the 
hope that, disengaged from the tumult of, and proximity 
to the world, she might* be the less interrupted in the 
prosecution of her madly-planned schemes. 

Though Verezzi's melancholy seemed rather increased 

1 In the original edition, mi^iapen. 



ZASTROZZI. 85 

than diminished by the journey, yet his health was visibly 
improved by the progressive change of air and variation 
of scenery, which must, at times, momentarily alleviate 
the most deep-rooted grief ; yet, again in a fixed spot — 
again left to solitude and his own torturing reflections, 
Verezzi's mind returned to his lost, his still adored Julia. 
He thought of her ever ; unconsciously he spoke of her ; 
and, by his rapturous exclamations, sometimes almost 
drove Matilda to desperation. 

Several days thus passed away. Matilda's passion, 
which, mellowed by time, and diverted by the variety of 
objects, and the hurry of the journey, had relaxed its 
violence, now, like a stream pent up, burst all bounds. 

But one evening, maddened by the tender protestations 
of eternal fidelity to Julia's memory which Verezzi uttered, 
her brain was almost turned. 

Her txmiultuous soul, agitated by contending emotions, 
flashed from her eyes. Unable to disguise the extreme 
violence of her sensations, in an ecstasy of despairing 
love, she rushed from the apartment, where she had left 
Verezzi, and, unaccompanied, wandered into the forest, 
to calm her emotions, and concert some better plans of 
revenge ; for, in Verezzi's presence, she scarcely dared to 
think 

Her infuriated soul burned with flercest revenge : she 
wandered into the trackless forest, and, conscious that 
she was unobserved, gave vent to her feelings in wild 
exclamations. 



86 ZASTROZZI. 

" Oh ! Julia ! hated Julia ! words are not able to 
express my detestation of thee. Thou hast destroyed 
Verezzi — ^thy cursed image, revelling in his heart, has 
blasted my happiness for ever ; but, ere I die, I will taste 
revenge — oh ! exquisite revenge ! " She paused — she 
thought of the passion which consumed her — " Perhaps 
one no less violent has induced Julia to rival me," said 
she. Again the idea of Verezzi's illness — perhaps his 
death — infuriated her soul. Pity, chased away by ven- 
geance and disappointed passion, fled. — " Did I say tliat I 
pitied thee ? Detested Julia, much did my words belie 
the feelings of my souL No — no — thou shalt not escape 
me. — Pity thee I " 

Again immersed in corroding thought, she heeded not 
the hour, tUl looking up, she saw the shades of night were 
gaining fast upon the earth. The evening was calm and 
serene: gently agitated by the evening zephyr, the lofty 
pines sighed mournfully. Far to the west appeared the even- 
ing star, which faintly glittered in the twilight. The scene 
was solemnly calm, but not in unison with Matilda's soul. 
Softest, most melancholy music, seemed to float upon the 
southern gale. Matilda listened — it was the nuns at a 
convent, chanting the requiem for the soul of a departed 
sister. 

" Perhaps gone to heaven ! " exclaimed Matilda, as, 
afiected by the contrast, her guilty soul trembled. A 
chain of horrible racking thoughts pressed upon her soul ; 
and, unable to bear the acuteness of her sensations, she 
hastUv returned to the castella. 

Thus, marked only by the varying paroxysms of the 



ZASTROZZI. 87 

passions which consumed her, Matilda passed the time : her 
brain was confused, her mind agitated by the ill success of 
her schemes, and her spirits, once so light and buoyant, 
were now depressed by disappointed hope. 

What shall I next concert ? was the mental inquiry of 
Matilda. Ah ! I know not 

She suddenly started — she thought of Zastrozzi. 

' " Oh ! that I should have till now forgotten Zastrozzi," 
exclaimed Matilda, as a new ray of hope darted through 
her soul. " But he is now at Naples, and some time 
must necessarily elapse before I can see him. 

" Oh, Zastrozzi, Zastrozzi ! would that you were 
here ! " 

No sooner had she well arranged her resolutions, which 
before had been confused by eagerness, than she sum- 
moned Ferdinand, on whose fidelity she dared to depend, 
and bid him speed to Naples, and bear a letter, with 
which he was intrusted, to Zastrozzi. 

Meanwhile Verezzi's health, as the physician had pre- 
dicted, was so much improved by the warm climate and 
pure air of the Castella di Laurentini, that, though yet 
extremely weak and emaciated, he was able, as the 
weather was fine, and the summer evenings tranquil, to 
wander, accompanied by Matilda, through the surrounding 
scenery. 

In this gloomy solitude, where, except the occasional 



88 ZASTROZZI. 

and infrequent visits of a father confessor, nothing occurred 
to disturb the uniform tenour of their life, Verezzi was 
every thing to Matilda — she thought of him ever: at 
night, in dreams, his image was present to her enraptured 
imagination. She was uneasy, except in his presence ; 
and her soul, shook by contending paroxysms of the 
passion which consumed her, was transported by unutter- 
able ecstasies of delirious and maddening love. 

Her taste for music was exquisite; her voice of 
celestial sweetness ; and her skill, as she drew sounds of 
soul-touching melody from the harp, enraptured the mind 
to melancholy pleasure. 

The affecting expression of her voice, mellowed as it 
was by the tenderness which at times stole over her soul, 
softened Verezzi's listening ear to ecstasy. 

Yet, again recovering from the temporary delight 
which her seductive blandishments had excited, he thought 
of Julia, As he remembered her ethereal form, her 
retiring modesty, and unaffected sweetness, a more violent, 
a deeper pang of regret and sorrow assailed his bosom, 
for having suffered himself to be even momentarily 
interested by Matilda. 

Hours, days, passed lingering away. They walked 
in the evenings around the environs of the castella — 
woods, dark and gloomy, stretched far — cloud-capt moun- 
tiiins reared their gigantic summits high ^ and, dashing 
amidst the jutting rocks, foaming cataracts, with sudden 
and impetuous course, sought the valley below. 



ZASTROZZI. 89 

Amid this scenery the wily Matilda usually led her 
victim. 

One evening when the moon, rising over the gigantic 
outline of the mountain, silvered the far-seen cataract, 
Matilda and Verezzi sought the forest. 

For a time neither spoke : the silence was unin- 
terrupted, save by Matilda's sighs, which declared that 
violent and repressed emotions tortured the bosom within. 

They silently advanced into the forest. The azure sky 
was spangled with stars — ^not a wind agitated the un- 
ruffled air — not a cloud obscured the brilliant concavity 
of heaven. They ascended an eminence, clothed with 
towering wood ; ' the trees around formed an amphi- 
theatre. Beneath, by a gentle ascent, an opening showed 
an immense extent of forest, dimly seen by the moon, 
which overhung the opposite mountain. The craggy 
heights beyond might distinctly be seen, edged by the 
beams of the silver moon. 

.Verezzi threw himself on the turf. 

" What a beautiful scene, Matilda 1 " he exclaimed. 

" Beautiful indeed," returned Matilda. " I have ad- 
mired it ever, and brought you here this evening on 
purpose to discover whether you thought of the works of 
nature as I do." 

" Oh ! fervently do I admire this," exclaimed Verezzi, 



90 ZASTROZZI, 

as, engrossed by the scene before him, he gazed en- 
raptured. 



« 



Suffer me to retire for a few minutes," said Matilda. 



Without waiting for Verezzi's answer, she hastily 
entered a small tuft of trees. Verezzi gazed surprised ; 
and soon sounds of such ravishing melody stole upon the 
evening breeze, that Verezzi thought some spirit of the 
solitude had made audible to mortal ears ethereal music. 

He still listened — it seemed to die away — and again 
a louder, a more rapturous swell, succeeded. 

The music was in unison with the scene — it was in 
unison with Verezzi's soul : and the success of Matilda's 
artifice, in this respect, exceeded her most sanguine 
expectation. 

He still listened — the music ceased — and Matilda's 
symmetrical form emerging from the wood, roused Verezzi 
from his vision. 

He gazed on her — her loveliness and grace struck 
forcibly upon his senses : her sensibility, her admiration 
of objects which enchanted him, flattered him ; and her 
judicious arrangement of the music, left no doubt in his 
mind but that, experiencing the same sensations herself, 
the feelings of his soul were not unknown to her. 

Thus far every thing went on as Matilda desired. To 
touch his feelings had been her constant aim : could she 
find any thing which interested him ; any thing to divert 



ZASTROZZI. 91 

his melancholy ; or could she succeed in eflFacing another 
from his mind, she had no doubt but that he would 
quickly and voluntarily clasp her to his bosom. 

By affecting to coincide with him in every thing — by 
feigning to possess that, congeniality of sentiment and 
union of idea, which he thought so necessary to the exist- 
ence of love, she doubted not soon to accomplish her 
purpose. 

But sympathy and congeniality of sentiment, however 
necessary to that love which calms every fierce emotion, 
fills the soul with a melting tenderness, and, without 
disturbing it, continually possesses the soul, was by no 
means consonant to the ferocious emotions, the unconquer- 
able and ardent passion which revelled through Matilda's 
every vein. 

When enjoying the society of him she loved, calm 
delight, unruffled serenity, possessed not her soul. No— 
but, inattentive to every object but him, even her prox- 
imity to him agitated her with almost uncontrollable 
emotion. 

Whilst watching his look, her pulse beat with unwonted 
violence, her breast palpitated, and, unconscious of it 
herself, an ardent and voluptuous fire darted from her 
eyes. 

Her passion too, controlled as it was in the presence 
of Verezzi, agitated her soul with progressively-increasing 
fervour. Nursed by solitude, and wound up, perhaps, 



92 ZASTROZZI. 

beyond any pitch which another's soul might be capable 
of, it sometimes almost maddened her. 

Still, surprised at her own forbearance, yet strongly 
perceiving the necessity of it, she spoke not again of her 
passion to Verezzi. 



CHAPTEE XI. 

At last the day arrived when Matilda expected Ferdi- 
nand's return. Punctual to his time Ferdinand returned, 
and told Matilda that Zastrozzi had, for the present, taken 
up his abode at a cottage, not far from thence, and that 
he there awaited her arrival. 

Matilda was much surprised that Zastrozzi preferred 
a cottage to her castella ; but, dismissing that from her 
mind, hastily prepared to attend him. 

She soon arrived at the cottage. Zastrozzi met her — 
he quickened his pace towards her. 

" Well, Zastrozzi," exclaimed Matilda, inquiringly. 

" Oh 1" said Zastrozzi, " our schemes have all, as yet, 
been unsuccessful. Julia yet lives, and, surrounded by 
wealth and power, yet defies our vengeance. I was 
planning her destruction, when, obedient to your com- 
mands, I came here." 

'' Alas !" exclaimed Matilda, " I fear it must be ever 



94 ZASTROZZI, 

thus: but, Zastrozzi, much I need your advice — ^your 
assistance. Long have I languished in hopeless love : 
often have I expected, and as often have my eager ex- 
pectations been blighted by disappointment." 

A deep sigh of impatience burst from Matilda's 
bosom, as, unable to utter more, she ceased. 

" Tis but the image of that accursed Julia," replied 
Zastrozzi, " revelling in his breast, which prevents him 
from becoming instantly yours. Could you but efface 
that ! " 

" I would I could efface it," said Matilda : " the 
friendship which now exists between us, would quickly 
ripen into love, and I should be for ever happy. How, 
Zastrozzi, can that be done ? But, before we think of 
happiness, we must have a care to our safety : we must 
destroy Julia, who yet endeavours, by every means, to 
know the event of Verezzi's destiny. But, surrounded 
by wealth and power as she is, how can that be done ? 
No bravo in Naples dare attempt her life : no rewards, 
however great, could tempt the most abandoned of men 
to brave instant destruction, in destroying her ; and 
should we attempt it, the most horrible tortures of the 
Inquisition, a disgraceful death, and that without the 
completion of our desire, would be the consequence." 

" Think not so, Matilda," answered Zastrozzi ; " think 
not, because Julia possesses wealth, that she is less 
assailable by the dagger of one eager for revenge as I 
am ; or that, because she lives in splendor at Naples, 
that a poisoned chalice, prepared by your hand, the 



ZASTROZZI. 95 

hand of a disappointed rival, could not send her writhing 
and convulsed to the grave. No, no ; she can die, nor 
shall we writhe on the rack." 

" Oh ! " interrupted Matilda, " I care not, if, writhing 
in the prisons of the Inquisition, I suffer the most ex- 
cruciating torment ; I care not if, exposed to public view, 
I suffer the most ignominious and disgraceful of deaths, 
if, before I die — if, before this spirit seeks another world, 
I gain my purposed design, I enjoy unutterable, and, as 
yet, inconceivable happiness." 

The evening meanwhile came on, and, warned by the 
lateness of the hour to separate, Matilda and Zastrozzi 
parted. 

Zastrozzi pursued his way to the cottage, and Matilda, 
deeply musing, retraced her steps to the castella. 

The wind was fresh, and rather tempestuous: light 
fleeting clouds were driven rapidly across the dark-blue 
sky. The moon, in silver majesty, hung high in eastern 
ether, and rendered transparent as a celestial spirit the 
shadowy clouds which at intervals crossed her orbit, 
and by degrees vanished like a vision in the obscurity of 
distant air. On this scene gazed Matilda — a train of 
confused thought took possession of her soul — her crimes, 
her past life, rose in array to her terror-struck imagina- 
tion. Still burning love, unrepressed, unconquerable 
passion, revelled through every vein : her senses, ren- 
dered delirious by guilty desire, were whirled around in 
an inexpressible ecstasy of anticipated delight — delight, 
not unmixed by confused apprehensions. 



96 ZASTROZZI. 

She stood thus with her arms folded, as if contem- 
plating the spangled concavity of heaven. 

It was late — ^later than the usual hour of return, and 
Yerezzi had gone out to meet Matilda. 

" What ! deep in thought, Matilda ? " exclaimed 
Verezzi, playfully. 

Matilda's cheek, as he thus spoke, was tinged with a 
momentary blush ; it however quickly passed away ; and 
she replied, " I was enjoying the serenity of the evening, 
the beauty of the setting sun, and then the congenial 
twilight induced me to wander farther than usual." 

The unsuspicious Verezzi observed nothing peculiar in 
the manner of Matilda ; but, observing that the night air 
was chill, conducted her back to the castella. No art 
was left untried, no blandishment omitted, on the part of 
Matilda, to secure her victim. Every thing which he 
liked, she aflFected to admire : every sentiment uttered by 
Verezzi was always anticipated by the observing Matilda ; 
but long was all in vain — ^long was every eflFort to obtain 
his love useless. 

Often, when she touched the harp, and drew sounds of 
enchanting melody from its strings, whilst her almost 
celestial form bent over it, did Verezzi gaze enraptured, 
and, forgetful of every thing else, yielding himself to a 
tumultuous oblivion of pleasure, listened entranced. 

But aU her art could not draw Julia from his memory : 



ZASTROZZI. 97 

he was much softened towards Matilda ; he felt esteem, 
tenderest esteem — ^but he yet loved not. 

Thus passed the time. — Often would desperation, and 
an idea that Verezzi would never love her, aeitate 
Matilda with most violent agony. The beauties of 
nature which surrounded the castella had no longer 
power to interest : borne away on swelling thought, 
often, in the solitude of her own apartment, her spirit 
was wafted on the wings of anticipating fancy. Some- 
times imagination portrayed the most horrible images 
for futurity : Verezzi's hate, perhaps his total dereliction 
of her ; his union with Julia, pressed upon her brain, 
and almost drove her to distraction, for Verezzi alone 
filled every thought ; nourished by restless reveries, the 
most horrible anticipations blasted the blooming Matilda. 
— Sometimes, however, a gleam of sense shot across her 
soul : deceived by visions of unreal bliss, she acquired 
new courage, and fresh anticipations of delight, from a 
beam which soon withdrew its ray ; for, usually sunk in 
gloom, her dejected eyes were fixed on the ground ; 
though sometimes an ardent expression, kindled by the 
anticipation of gratified desire, flashed from their fiery 
orbits. 

Often, whilst thus agitated by contending emotions, 
her soul was shook, and, imconscious of its intentions, 
knew not the most preferable plan to pursue, would she 
seek Zastrozzi : on him, unconscious why, she relied 
much — ^his words were those of calm reflection and 
experience ; and his sophistry, whilst it convinced her 
that a superior being exists not, who can control our 
actions, brought peace to her mind — peace to be suc- 

PROSE. VOL. I. H 



98 ZASTROZZI. 

ceeded ty horrible and resistless conviction of the false- 
hood of her coadjutor's arguments : still, however, they 
calmed her ; and, by addressing her reason and passions 
at the same time, deprived her of the power of being 
benefited by either. 

The health of Verezzi, meanwhile, slowly mended : his 
mind, however, shook by so violent a trial as it had 
undergone, recovered not its vigour, but, mellowed by 
time, his grief, violent and irresistible as it had been at 
first, now became a fixed melancholy, which spread itself 
over his features, was apparent in every action, and, by 
resistance, inflamed Matilda's passion to tenfold fuiy. 

The touching tenderness of Verezzi's voice, the dejected 
softened expression of his eye, touched her soul with 
tumultuous yet milder emotions. In his presence she 
felt calmed ; and those passions wliich, in solitude, 
were almost too fierce for endurance, when with him 
were softened into a tender though confused delight. 

Tt was one evening, when no previous appointment 
existed between Matilda and Zastrozzi, that, overcome 
by disappointed passion, Matilda sought the forest. 

The sky was unusually obscured, the sun had sunk 
beneath the western mountain, and its departing ray 
tinged the heavy clouds with a red glare. — The rising 
blast sighed through the towering pines, which rose 
loftily above Matilda's head : the distant thunder, hoarse 
as the murmurs of the grove, in indistinct echoes mingled 
with the hollow breeze; the scintillating lightning flashed 



ZASTROZZI. 99 

incessantly across her path, as Matilda, heeding not the 
storm, advanced along the trackless forest. 

The crashing thunder now rattled madly above, the 
lightnings flashed a larger curve, and at intervals, through 
the surrounding gloom, showed a scathed larch, which, 
blasted by frequent storms, reared its bare head on a 
height above. 

Matilda sat upon a fragment of jutting granite, and 
contemplated the storm which raged around her. The 
portentous calm, which at intervals occurred amid the 
reverberating thunder, portentous of a more violent 
tempest, resembled the serenity which spread itself over 
Matilda's mind — a serenity only to be succeeded by a 
fiercer paroxysm of passion. 



H2 



CHAPTEE Xn. 

Still sat Matilda upon the rock — ^she still contemplated 
the tempest which raged around her. 

The battling elements paused : an uninterrupted 
silence, deep, dreadful as the silence of the tomb, suc- 
ceeded. Matilda heard a noise — footsteps were dis- 
tinguishable, and looking up, a flash of vivid lightning 
disclosed to her view the towering form of Zastrozzi. 

His gigantic figure was again involved in pitchy dark- 
ness, as the momentary Hghtning receded. A peal of 
crashing thunder again madly rattled over the zenith, and 
a scintillating flash announced Zastrozzi's approach, as he 
stood before Matilda. 

Matilda, surprised at his approach, started as he ad- 
dressed her, and felt an indescribable awe, when she 
reflected on the wonderful casualty which, in this terrific 
and tempestuous hour, had led them to the same spot. 

" Doubtless his feelings are violent and irresistible as 
mine : perhaps these led him to meet me here." 



ZASTROZZI. 101 

She shuddered as she reflected ; but smothering the 
sensations of alarm which she had suffered herself to be 
surprised by, she asked him what had led him to the 
forest. 

" The same which led you here, Matilda," returned 
Zastrozzi : " the same influence which actuates us both, 
has doubtless inspired that congeniality which, in this 
frightful storm, led us to the same spot" 

" Oh ! " exclaimed Matilda, " how shall I touch the 
obdurate Verezzi's soul ? he still despises me — ^he declares 
himself to be devoted to the memory of his Julia ; and 
that although she be dead, he is not the less devotedly 
hers. What can be done ? " 

Matilda paused ; and, much agitated, awaited Zas- 
trozzi's reply. 

Zastrozzi, meanwhile, stood collected in himself, and 
firm as the rocky mountain which lifts its summit to 
heaven. 

" Matilda," said he, " to-morrow evening will pave 
the way for that happiness which your soul has so long 
panted for, if, indeed, the event which will then occur 
does not completely conquer VerezzL But the violence 
of the tempest increases — let us seek shelter." 

" Oh ! heed not the tempest," said Matilda, whose 
expectations were raised to the extreme of impatience 
by Zastrozzi's dark hints — ' " heed not the tempest, but 

^ The inverted commas here are wanting in the original. 



102 ZASTROZZI. 

proceed, if you wish not to see me expiring at your 
feet." 

" You fear not the tumultuous elements — nor do I," 
replied Zastrozzi — " I assert again, that if to-morrow 
evening you lead Verezzi to this spot — if, in the event 
which will here occur, you display that presence of mind 
which I believe you to possess, Verezzi is yours." 

" Ah ! what do you say, Zastrozzi, that Verezzi will 
be mine ? " inquired Matilda, as the anticipation of 
inconceivable happiness dilated her soul with sudden and 
excessive delight. 

" I say again, Matilda," returned Zastrozzi, " that if 
you dare to brave the dagger's point — if you but make 
Verezzi owe his life to you — " 

Zastrozzi paused, and Matilda acknowledged her in- 
sight of his plan, which her enraptured fancy represented 
as the basis of her happiness. 

" Could he, after she had, at the risk of her own life, 
saved his, unfeelingly reject her ? Would those noble 
sentiments, which the greatest misfortunes were unable 
to extinguish, suffer that ? — No." 

Full of these ideas, her brain confused by the ecstatic 
anticipation of happiness which pressed upon it, Matilda 
retraced her footsteps towards the castella. 

The violence of the storm which so lately had raged 
was passed — the thunder, in low and indistinct echoes 



ZASTROZZI. 103 

now sounded through the chain of rocky mountains, 
which stretched far to the north — ^the azure, and almost 
cloudless ether, was studded with countless stars, as 
Matilda entered the castella, and, as the hour was late, 
sought her own apartment 

Sleep fled not, as usual, from her pillow ; but, over- 
come by excessive drowsiness, she soon sank to rest. 

Confused dreams floated in her imagination, in which 
she sometimes supposed that she had gained Verezzi ; at 
others, that, snatched from her ardent embrace, he was 
carried by an invisible power over rocky mountains, or 
immense and untravelled heaths, and that, in vainly 
attempting to follow him, she had lost herself in the 
trackless desert. 

Awakened from disturbed and unconnected dreams, 
she arose. 

The most tumultuous emotions of rapturous exultation 
filled her soul as she gazed upon her victim, who was 
sitting at a window which overlooked the waving forest. 

Matilda seated herself by him, and most enchanting, 
most pensive music, drawn by her fingers from a harp, 
thrilled his soul with an ecstasy of melancholy ; tears 
rolled rapidly down his cheeks ; deep drawn, though 
gentle sighs heaved his bosom : his innocent eyes were 
mildly fixed upon Matilda, and beamed with compassion 
for one, whose only wish was gratification of her own 
inordinate desires, and destruction to his opening pros- 
pects of happiness. 



104 ZASTROZZI. 

She, with a ferocious pleasure, contemplated her 
victim ; yet, curbing the passions of her soul, a meekness, 
a well-feigned sensibility, characterised her downcast eye. 

She waited, with the smothered impatience of expecta- 
tion, for the evening : then, had Zastrozzi affirmed, that 
she would lay a firm foundation for her happiness. 

Unappalled, she resolved to brave the dagger's point : 
she resolved to bleed ; and though her life-blood were to 
issue at the wound, to dare the event. 

The evening at last arrived : the atmosphere was 
obscured by vapour, and the air more chill than usual ; 
yet, yielding to the solicitations of Matilda, Verezzi 
accompanied her to the forest. 

Matilda's bosom thrilled with inconceivable happiness, 
as she advanced towards the spot : her limbs, trembling 
with ecstasy, almost refused to support her. Unwonted 
sensations — sensations she had never felt before, agitated 
her bosom ; yet, steeling her soul, and persuading herself 
that celestial transports would be the reward of firmness, 
she fearlessly advanced. 

The towering pine-trees waved in the squally wind — 
the shades of twilight gained fast on the dusky forest 
— ^the wind died away, and a deep, a gloomy silence 
reigned. 

They now had anived at the spot which Zastrozzi had 
asserted would be the scene of an event which might lay 
the foundation of Matilda's happiness. 



ZASTROZZI. 105 

She was agitated by such violent emotions, that her 
every limb trembled, and Verezzi tenderly asked the 
reason of her alarm. 

" Oh ! nothing, nothing ! " returned Matilda ; but, 
stung by more certain anticipation of ecstasy by his 
tender inquiry, her whole frame trembled with tenfold 
agitation, and her bosom was filled with more unconquer- 
able transport. 

On the right, the thick umbrage of the forest trees, 
rendered undistinguishable any one who might lurk 
there ; on the left, a frightful precipice yawned, at whose 
base a deafening cataract dashed with tumultuous vio- 
lence around misshapen * and enormous masses of rock ; 
and beyond, a gigantic and blackened mountain, reared 
its craggy summit to the skies. 

They advanced towards the precipice. Matilda stood 
upon the dizzy height — her senses almost failed her, and 
she caught the branch of an enormous pine which im- 
pended over the abyss. 



(( 



(( 



How frightful a depth ! " exclaimed Matilda. 



Frightful indeed," said Verezzi, as thoughtfully he 
contemplated the terrific depth beneath. 

They stood for some time gazing on the scene in 
silence. 

Footsteps were heard — Matilda's bosom thrilled with 

^ In the origiDal, niMAopen, as oolon after violence and a comma 
at p. 84 : the sense also is snb* after around, 
verted by the insertion of a semi- 



106 ZASTROZZI. 

mixed sensations of delight and apprehension, as, sum- 
moning all her fortitude, she turned round. — A man 
advanced towards them. 

" What is your business ? " exclaimed Verezzi. 

" Eevenge ! " returned the villain, as, raising a dagger 
high, he essayed to plunge it in Verezzi's bosom, but 
Matilda lifted her ann, and the dagger piercing it, touched 
not Verezzi. Starting forward, he fell to the earth, and 
the ruffian instantly dashed into the thick forest. 

Matilda's snowy arm was tinged with purple gore : the 
wound was painful, but an expression of triumph flashed 
from her eyes, and excessive pleasure dilated her bosom : 
the blood streamed fast from her arm, and tinged the 
rock whereon they stood with a purple stain. 

Verezzi started from the ground, and seeing the blood 
which streamed down Matilda's garments, in accents of 
terror demanded where she was wounded. 

" Oh ! think not upon that," she exclaimed, " but tell 
me — ah ! tell me," said she, in a voice of well- feigned 
alann, " are you wounded mortally ? Oh ! what sensa- 
tions of terror shook me, when I thought that the 
dagger's point, after having pierced my arm, had drunk 
your life-blood." 

" Oh ! " answered Verezzi, " I am not wounded ; but 
let us haste to the castella." 

He then tore part of his vest, and with it boimd 



ZASTROZZI. 107 

Matilda's ann. Slowly they proceeded towards the 
castella. 

" What villain, Verezzi," said Matilda, " envious of my 
happiness, attempted his life, for whom I would ten 
thousand times sacrifice my own ? Oh ! Verezzi, how 
I thank God, who averted the fatal dagger from thy 
heart ! " 

Verezzi answered not ; but his heart, his feelings, were 
irresistibly touched by Matilda's behaviour. Such noble 
contempt of danger, so ardent a passion, as to risk her 
life to preserve his, filled his breast with a tenderness 
towards her ; and he felt that he could now deny her 
nothing, not even the sacrifice of the poor remains of his 
happiness, should she demand it. 

Matilda's breast meanwhile swelled with sensations 
of unutterable delight : her soul, borne on the pinions 
of anticipated happiness, flashed in triumphant glances 
from her fiery eyes. She could scarcely forbear clasping 
Verezzi in her arms, and claiming him as her own ; but 
prudence, and a fear of in what manner a premature 
declaration of love might be received, prevented her. 

They arrived at the castella, and a surgeon from the 
neighbouring convent was sent for by VerezzL 

The surgeon soon arrived, examined Matilda's arm, and 
declared that no unpleasant consequences could ensue. — 
Eetired to her own apartment, those transports, which 
before had been allayed by Verezzi's presence, now 



1 08 ZASTROZZI. 

unrestrained by reason, involved Matilda's senses in an 
ecstasy of pleasure. 

She threw herself on the bed, and, in all the exag- 
gerated colours of imagination, portrayed the transports 
which Zastrozzi's artifice had opened to her view. 

Visions of unreal bliss floated during the whole night 
in her disordered fancy : her senses were whirled around 
in alternate ecstasies of happiness and despair, as almost 
palpable dreams pressed upon her disturbed brain. 

At one time she imagined that Verezzi, consenting to 
their union, presented her his hand : that at her touch 
the flesh crumbled from it, and, a shrieking spectre, he 
fled from her view: again, silvery clouds floated across 
her sight, and unconnected, disturbed visions occupied her 
imagination till the morning. 

Verezzi's manner, as he met Matilda the following 
morning, was unusually soft and tender ; and in a voice 
of solicitude, he inquired concerning her health. 

The roseate flush of animation which tinged her cheek, 
the triumphant glance of animation which danced in her 
scintillating eye, seemed to render the inquiry un- 
necessary. 

A dewy moisture filled her eyes, as she gazed with an 
expression of tumultuous, yet repressed rapture, upon the 
hapless Verezzi. 

Still did she purpose, in order to make her triumph 



ZASTUOZZI. 109 

more certain, to protract the hour of victory; and, leaving 
her victim, wandered into the forest to seek Zastrozzi. 
When she arrived at the cottage, she learnt that he had 
walked forth. — She soon met him. 

" Oh ! Zastrozzi — my best Zastrozzi ! " exclaimed 
Matilda, " what a source of delight have you opened 
to me 1 Verezzi is mine — oh ! transporting thought ! 
will be mine for ever. That distant manner which he 
usually afiTeeted towards me, is changed to a sweet, an 
ecstatic expression of tenderness. Oh ! Zastrozzi, receive 
my best, my most fervent thanks." 

" Julia need not die then," muttered Zastrozzi ; " when 
once you possess Verezzi, her destruction is of little con- 
sequence." 

The most horrible scheme of revenge at* this instant 
glanced across Zastrozzi's mind. 

" Oh ! Julia must die," said Matilda, " or I shall never 
be safe ; such an influence does her image possess over 
Verezzi's mind, that I am convinced, were he to know 
that she lived, an estrangement from me would be 
the consequence. Oh ! quickly let me hear that she 
is dead. I can never enjoy uninterrupted happiness 
until her dissolution." 

"What you have just pronounced is Julia's death- 

■ 

warrant," said Zastrozzi, as he disappeared among the 
thick trees. 

'* In the original, at is here repeated. 



110 ZASTROZZI. 

Matilda returned to the castella. 

Verezzi, at her return, expressed a tender apprehension, 
lest, thus wounded, she should have hurt herself by walk- 
ing ; but Matilda quieted his fears, and engaged him in 
interesting conversation, which seemed not to have for its 
object the seduction of his affection ; though the ideas 
conveyed by her expressions were so artfully connected 
with it, and addressed themselves so forcibly to Verezzi*s 
feelings, that he was convinced he ought to love Matilda, 
though he felt that within himself, which, in spite of 
reason — in spite of reflection — told him that it was 
impossible. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The enticing smile, the modest-seeming eye, 
Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying heaven, 
Lnrk searchleas cunning, omelty, and death. 

Thomson. 

Still did Matilda's blandishments — her unremitting at- 
tention — inspire Verezzi with a softened tenderness 
towards her. — He regarded her as one who, at the risk 
of her own Ufe, had saved his ; who loved him with an 
ardent aflection, and whose aflfection was likely to be 
lasting : and though he could not regard her with that 
enthusiastic tenderness with which he even yet adored 
the memory of his Julia, yet he might esteem her — 
faithfully esteem her — and felt not that horror at uniting 
himself with her as formerly. But a conversation which 
he had with Julia recurred to his mind : he remembered 
well, that when they had talked of their speedy marriage, 
she had expressed an idea, that a union in this life might 
endure to all eternity ; and that the chosen of his heart 
on earth, might, by congeniality of sentiment, be united 
in heaven. 

The idea was hallowed by the remembrance of his 



1 12 ZASTROZZI. 

Julia ; but chasing it, as an unreal vision, from lus mind, 
again his high sentiments of gratitude prevailed. 

Lost in these ideas, involved in a train of thought, and 
unconscious where his footsteps led him, he quitted the 
castella. His reverie was interrupted by low murmurs, 
which seemed to float on the silence of the forest : it was 
scarcely audible, yet Verezzi felt an undefinable wish to 
know what it was. He advanced towards it — it was 
Matilda's voice. 

Verezzi approached nearer, and from within heard her 
voice in complaints. — He eagerly listened. — Her sobs 
rendered the words, which in passionate exclamations 
burst from Matilda's lips, almost inaudible. He still 
listened — a pause in the tempest of grief which shook 
Matilda's soid seemed to have taken place. 

" Oh ! Verezzi— cruel, unfeeling Verezzi ! " exclaimed 
Matilda, as a fierce paroxysm of passion seized her brain 
— " will you thus sufiFer one who adores you, to linger in 
hopeless love, and witness the excruciating agony of one 
who idolises you, as I do, to madness ? " 

As she spoke thus, a long-drawn sigh closed the 
sentence. 

Verezzi's mind was agitated by various emotions as he 
stood ; but rushing in at last, raised Matilda in his arms, 
and tenderly attempted to comfort her. 

She started as he entered — she heeded not his words ; 



ZASTROZZI. 113 

but, seemingly overcome by shame, cast herself at his 
feet, and hid her face in his robe. 

He tenderly raised her, and his expressions convinced 
her, that the reward of all her anxiety was now about to 
be reaped. 

The most triumphant anticipation of transports to come 
filled her bosom ; yet, knowing it to be necessary to dis- 
semble — knowing that a shameless claim on his afifections 
would but disgust Verezzi, she said — 

" Oh ! Verezzi, forgive me : supposing myself to be 
alone — supposing no one overheard the avowal of the 
secret of my soul, with which, believe me, I never more 
intended to have importuned you, what shameless senti- 
ments — shameless even in solitude — ^have I not given 
vent to. I can no longer conceal, that the passion with 
which I adore you is unconquerable, irresistible : but, I 
conjure you, think not upon what you have this moment 
heard to my disadvantage ; nor despise a weak unhappy 
creature, who feels it impossible to overcome the fatal 
passion which consumes her. 

" Never more will I give vent, even in solitude, to my 
love — never more shall the importunities of the hapless 
Matilda reach your ears. To conquer a passion fervent, 
tender as mine, is impossible." 

As she thus spoke, Matilda, seemingly overcome by 
shame, sank upon the turf. 

A sentiment stronger than gratitude, more ardent than 

PROSE. VOL. I. I 



114 ZASTROZZI. 

esteem, and more tender than admiration, softened 
Verezzi's heart as he raised Matilda. Her symmetrical 
form shone with tenfold loveliness to his heated fancy: 
inspired with sudden fondness, he cast himself at her 
feet. 

A Lethean torpor crept upon his senses; and, as he 
lay prostrate before Matilda, a total forgetf ulness of every 
former event of his life «wam in his dizzy brain. In 
passionate exclamations he avowed unbounded love. 

" Oh, Matilda ! dearest, angelic Matilda ! " exclaimed 
Verezzi, * " I am even now unconscious what blinded me 
— ^what kept me from acknowledging my adoration of 
thee ! — adoration never to be changed by circumstances 
— never effaced by time." 

The fire of voluptuous, of maddening love, scorched 
his veins, as he caught the transported Matilda in his 
arms, and, in accents almost inarticulate with passion, 
swore eternal fidelity. 

*' And accept my oath of everlasting allegiance to thee, 
adored Verezzi," exclaimed Matilda : " accept my vows of 
eternal, indissoluble love." 

Verezzi's whole frame was agitated bv unwonted and 
ardent emotions. He called Matilda his wife — ^in the 
delirium of sudden fondness he clasped her to his bosom 
— " and though love like ours," exclaimed the infatuated 
Verezzi, " wants not the vain ties of human laws, yet, 

^ Inverted commas wanting in tbe origioal. 



ZASTROZZI. 115 

that our love may want not any sanction which could 
possibly be given to it, let immediate ordera be given for 
the celebration of our union." 

Matilda exultingly consented : never had she ex- 
perienced sensations of delight like these : the feelings of 
her soul flushed in exulting glances from her fiery eyes. 
Fierce, transporting triumph filled her soul as she gazed 
on her victim, whose mildly-beaming eyes were now 
characterised by a voluptuous expression. Her heart 
beat high with transport; and, as they entered the 
castella, the swelling emotions of her bosom were too 
tumultuous for utterance. 

Wild with passion, she clasped Verezzi to her beating 
breast ; and, overcome by an ecstasy of delirious passion, 
her senses were whirled around in confused and inex- 
pressible delight. A new and fierce passion raged like- 
wise in Verezzi's breast : he returned her embrace with 
ardour, and clasped her in fierce transports. 

But. the adoration with which he now regarded Ma- 
tilda, was a different sentiment from that chaste and mild 
emotion which had characterised his love for Julia : that 
passion, which he had fondly supposed would end but 
with his existence, was effaced by the arts of another. 

Now was Matilda's purpose attained — ^the next day 
would behold her his bride — the next day would behold 
her fondest purpose accomplished. 

With the most eager impatience, the fiercest anticipa- 
tion of transport, did she wait for its arrival. 

i2 



116 ZASTROZZI. 

Slowly passed the day, and slowly did the clock toll 
each lingering hour as it rolled away. 

The following morning at last arrived : Matilda arose 
from a sleepless couch — fierce, transporting triumph, 
flashed from her eyes as she embraced her victim. He 
returned it — ^he called her his dear and ever-beloved 
spouse ; and, in all the transports of maddening love, 
declared his impatience for the arrival of the monk who 
was to unite them. Every blandishment — every thing 
which might dispel reflection, was this day put in prac- 
tice by Matilda. 

The monk at last arrived : the fatal ceremony — fatal 
to the peace of Verezzi — ^was performed. 

A magnificent feast had been previously arranged ; 
every luxurious viand, every expensive wine, which might 
contribute to heighten Matilda's triumph, was present in 
profusion. 

Matilda's joy, her soul-felt triumph, was too great for 
utterance — too great for concealment. The exultation of 
her inmost soul flashed in expressive glances from her 
scintillating eyes, expressive of joy intense — ^unutterable. 

Animated with excessive delight, she started from 
the table, and, seizing Verezzi's hand, in a transport of 
inconceivable bliss, dragged him in wild sport and 
varied movements to the sound of swelling and soul- 
touching melody. 

" Come, my Matilda," at last exclaimed Verezzi, " come. 



ZASTROZZI. 117 

I am weary of transport — sick with excess of unutterable 
pleasure : let us retire, and retrace in dreams the plea- 
sures of the day." 

Little did Verezzi think that this day was the basis of 
his future misery : little did he think that, amid the roses 
of successful and licensed voluptuousness, regret, horror, 
and despair would arise, to blast the prospects which, 
Julia being forgot, appeared so fair, so ecstatic. 

The morning came. — Inconceivable emotions — ^incon- 
ceivable to those who have never felt them — dilated 
Matilda's soul with an ecstasy of inexpressible bliss : 
every barrier to her passion was thrown down — every 
opposition conquered ; still was her bosom the scene of 
fierce and contending passions. 

Though in possession of every thing which her fancy 
had portrayed with such excessive delight, she was far 
from feeling that innocent and calm pleasure which 
soothes the soul, and, calming each violent emotion, 
fills it with a serene happiness. No— Aer brain was 
whirled around in transports ; fierce, confused transports 
of visionary and unreal bliss : though her every pulse, 
her every nerve, panted with the deUght of gratified 
and expectant desire ; still was she not happy ; she 
enjoyed not that tranquillity which is necessary to the 
existence of happiness. 

In this temper of mind, for a short period she left 
Verezzi, as she had appointed a meeting with her coad- 
jutor in wickedness. 



118 ZASTROZZI. 

She soon met him. 

« 

" I need not ask," exclaimed Zastrozzi, " for well do I 
see, in those triumphant glances, that Verezzi is thine ; 
that the plan which we concerted when last we met; has 
put you in possession of that which your soul panted for." 

" Oh ! Zastrozzi ! " said Matilda, — * " kind, excellent 
Zastrozzi ; what words can express the gratitude which 
I feel towards you — ^what words can express tlie bliss 
exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice ; yet still, 
amid the roses of successful love — amid the ecstasies of 
transporting voluptuousness — fear, blighting chilly fear, 
damps my hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed 
Julia's image, is the phantom which scares my otherwise 
certain confidence of eternal delight : could she but be 
hurled to destruction — could some other artifice of my 
friend sweep her from the number of the living — " 

" 'Tis enough, Matilda," interrupted Zastrozzi ; " 'tis 
enough : in six days hence meet me here ; meanwhile^ 
let not any corroding anticipations destroy your present 
happiness : fear not ; but, on the arrival of your faithful 
Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you 
wish to enjoy for ever." 

Thus saying, Zastrozzi departed, and Matilda retraced 
her steps to her castella. 

Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had 
so long panted — amid the embraces of him whom she had 

^ Inverted commas wanting in the originaL 



ZASTROZZI. 119 

fondly supposed alone to constitute all terrestrial happi- 
ness, racking, corroding thoughts possessed Matilda^s bosom. 

Deeply musing on schemes of future delight — delight 
established by the gratification of most diabolical revenge, 
her eyes fixed upon the ground, heedless what path she 
pursued, Matilda advanced along the forest. 

A voice aroused her from her reverie — it was Verezzi's 
— the well-known, the tenderly-adored tone, struck upon 
lier senses forcibly : she started, and, hastening towards 
liim, soon allayed those fears which her absence had ex- 
cited in the fond heart of her spouse, and on which 
account he had anxiously quitted the castella to search 
for her. 

Joy, rapturous, ecstatic happiness, untainted by fear, 
unpolluted by reflection, reigned for six days in Matilda's 
bosom. 

Five days passed away, the sixth arrived, and, when 
the evening came, Matilda, with eager and impatient 
steps, sought the forest. 

The evening was gloomy, dense vapours overspread 
the air; the wind, low and hollow, sighed mournfully 
in the gigantic pine trees, and whispered in low hissingis 
among the withered shrubs which grew on the rocky 
prominences. 

Matilda waited impatiently for the arrival of Zastrozzi. 
At last his towering form emerged from an interstice in 
the rocks. 



120 ZASTROZZI.. 

He advanced towards her. 

" Success ! Victory ! my Matilda," exclaimed Zastrozzi, 
in an accent of exultation — " Julia is — " 

" You need add no more," interrupted Matilda : " kind, 
excellent Zastrozzi, I thank thee ; but yet do say how you 
destroyed her — .tell me by what racking, horrible tor- 
ments, you launched her soul into eternity. Did she 
perish by tlie dagger's point ? or did the tonnents of 
poison send her, writhing in agony, to the tomb." 

" Yes," replied Zastrozzi ; " she fell at my feet, over- 
powered by resistless convulsions. Who more ready than 
myself to restore the Marchesa's fleeted senses — who 
more ready than myself to account for her fainting, by 
observing, that the heat of the assembly had momentarily 
overpowered her. But Julia's senses were fled for ever ; 
and it was not until the swiftest gondola in Venice had 
lK)me me far towards your castella, that il consiglio di 
dieci searched for, without discovering the offender. 

" Here I must remain ; for, were I discovered, the fatal 
consequences to us both are obvious. Farewell for the 
present," added he, " meanwhile, happiness attend you ; 
but go not to Venice." 

" Where have you been so late, my love ?" tenderly 
inquired Verezzi as she returned. " I fear lest the night 
air, particularly that of so damp an evening as this, 
might affect your health." 

" No, no, my dearest Verezzi, it has not," hesitatingly 
answered Matilda. 



ZASTROZZI. 121 

" You seem pensive, you seem melancholy, my Matilda," 
said Verezzi : " lay open your heart to me. I am afraid 
something, of which I am ignorant, presses upon your 
bosom. 

" Is it the solitude of this remote castella which re- 
presses the natural gaiety of your soul ? Shall we go to 
Venice?" 

" Oh ! no, no ! " hastily and eagerly interrupted Matilda : 
" not to Venice — we must not go to Venice." 

Verezzi was slightly surprised, but imputing her manner 
to indisposition, it passed off. 

Unmarked by events of importance, a month passed 
away. Matilda's passion, unallayed by satiety, uncon- 
quered by time, still raged with its former fierceness — 
still was every earthly delight centred in Verezzi; and, 
in the air-drawn visions of her imagination, she por- 
trayed to herself that this happiness would last for 
ever. 

It was one evening that Verezzi and Matilda sat, 
happy in the society of each other, that a servant 
entering, presented the latter with a sealed paper. 

The contents were : " Matilda Gontessa di Laurentini 
is summoned to appear before the holy inquisition — to 
appear before its tribunal, immediately on the receipt of 
this summons." 

Matilda's cheek, as she read it, was blanched with 



122 ZA8TR0ZZI. 

terror. The summons — the fatal, irresistible summons, 
struck her with chilly awe. She attempted to thrust it 
into her bosom ; but, unable to conceal her terror, she 
essayed to rush from the apartment — but it was in 
vain : her trembling limbs refused to support her, and 
she sank fainting on the floor. 

Verezzi raised her — he restored her fleeting senses ; he 
cast himself at her feet, and in the tenderest, most 
pathetic accents, demanded the reason of her alarm. 
" And if," said he, " it is any thing of which I have 
unconsciously been guilty — if it is any thing in my con- 

« 

duct which has offended you, oh ! how soon, how truly 
woidd I repent. Dearest Matilda, I adore you to mad- 
ness : tell me then quickly — confide in one who loves 
you as I do." 

" Rise, Verezzi," exclaimed Matilda, in a tone expres- 
sive of serene horror : "and since the truth can no longer 
be concealed, peruse that letter." 

She presented him the fatal summons. He eagerly 
snatched it: breathless with impatience, he opened it. 
But what words can express the consternation of the 
affrighted Verezzi, as the summons, mysterious and 
inexplicable to him, pressed upon his straining eye-baU. 
For an instant he stood fixed in mute and agonising 
thought At last, in the forced serenity of despair, he 
demanded what was to be done." 

Matilda answered not ; for her soid, borne on the 
pinions of anticipation, at that instant portrayed to itself 
ignominious and agonising dissolution. 



ZASTROZZI. 123 

" What is to be done ?" again, in a .deeper tone of des- 
pair, demanded Verezzi. 

"We must instantly to Venice," returned Matilda^ 
collecting her scattered faculties : " we must to Venice ; 
there, I believe, we may be safe. But in some remote 
corner of the city we must for the present fix our habita- 
tions : we must condescend to curtail our establishment ; 
and, above all, we must avoid particularity. But will my 
Verezzi descend from the rank of life in which his birth 
has placed him, and with the outcast Matilda's fortunes 
quit grandeur ? " 

"Matilda! dearest Matilda!" exclaimed Verezzi, 
" talk not thus ; you know I am ever yours ; you know 
I love you, and with you, could conceive a cottage 
elysium." 

Matilda's eyes flushed with momentary triumph as 
Verezzi spoke thus, amid the alarming danger which 
impended her : under the displeasure of the inquisition, 
whose motives for prosecution are inscrutable, whose 
decrees are without appeal, her soul, in the possession of 
all it held dear on earth, secure of Verezzi's affection, 
thrilled with pleasurable emotions, yet not unmixed with 
alarm. 

She now prepared to depart. Taking, therefore, out 
of all her domestics, but the faithful Ferdinand, Matilda, 
accompanied by Verezzi, although the evening was far 
advanced, threw herself into a chariot, and leaving every 
one at the castella unacquainted with her intentions, took 
the road through the forest which led to Venice. 



124 ZASTROZZI. 

The convent bell, almost inaudible from distance, tolled 
ten as the carriage slowly ascended a steep which rose 
before it. 

" But how do you suppose, my Matilda," said Verezzi, 
" that it will be possible for us to evade the scrutiny of 
the inquisition ? " 

" Oh ! " returned Matilda, " we must not appear in our 
true characters — we must disguise them." 

" But," inquired Verezzi, " what crime do you suppose 
the inquisition to allege against you ? " 

" Heresy, I suppose," said Matilda. " You know, an 
enemy has nothing to do but lay an accusation of heresy 
against any unfortunate and innocent individual, and the 
victim expires in horrible tortures, or lingers the wretched 
remnant of his life in dark and solitary cells." 

A convulsive sigh heaved Verezzi's bosom. 

" And is that then to be my Matilda's destiny ? " he 
exclaimed in horror. *"No — Heaven will never permit 
such excellence to suifer." 

Meanwhile they had arrived at the Brenta. The 
Brenta's stream glided silently beneath the midnight 
breeze towards the Adriatic. 

Towering poplars, which loftily raised their spiral 

^ Inyerted commas wanting in the original. 



ZASTBOZZI. 125 

forms on its bank, cast a gloomier shade upon the placid 
wave. 

Matilda and Verezzi entered a gondola, and the grey 
tints of approaching morn had streaked the eastern ether, 
before they entered the grand canal at Venice ; and 
passing the Bialto, proceeded onwards to a small, though 
not inelegant mansion, in the eastern suburbs. 

Every thing here, though not grand, was commodious ; 
and as they entered it, Verezzi expressed his approbation 
of living here retired. 

Seemingly secure from the scrutiny of the inquisition, 
Matilda and Verezzi passed some days of uninterrupted 
happiness. 

At last, one evening Verezzi, tired even with mono- 
tony of ecstasy, proposed to Matilda to take the gondola, 
and go to a festival which was to be celebrated at 
St. Mark's Place. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The evening was serene. — Fleecy clouds floated on the 
horizon — the moon's full orb, in cloudless majesty, hung 
high in air, and was reflected in silver brilliancy by 
every wave of the Adriatic, as, gently agitated by the 
evening breeze, they dashed against innumerable gondolas 
which crowded the Laguna. 

Exquisite harmony, borne on the pinions of the tran- 
quil air, floated in varying murmurs : it sometimes died 
away, and then again swelling louder, in melodious 
undulations softened to pleasure every listening ear. 

Every eye which gazed on the fairy scene beamed with 
pleasure ; unrepressed gaiety filled every heart but Julia's, 
as with a vacant stare, unmoved by feelings of pleasure, 
unagitated by the gaiety which filled every other soul, she 
contemplated the varied scene. A magnificent gondola 
carried the Marchesa di Strobazzo ; and the innumerable 
flambeaux which blazed around her rivalled the meridian 
sun. 

It was the pensive, melancholy Julia, who, immersed 



ZASTROZZI. 127 

in thought, sat unconscious of every external object, whom 
the fierce glance of Matilda measured with a haughty- 
expression of surpiise and revenge. The dark fire which 
flashed from her eye, more than told the feelings of her 
soul, as she fixed it on her rival ; and had it possessed 
the power of the basilisk's, Julia would have expired on 
the spot. 

It was the ethereal form of the now forgotten Julia 
which first caught Verezzi's eye. For an instant he 
gazed with surprise upon her symmetrical figure, and was 
about to point her out to Matilda, when, in the downcast 
countenance of the enchanting female, he recognised his 
long-lost Julia. 

To paint the feelings of Verezzi — ^as Julia raised her 
head from the attitude in which it was fixed, and dis- 
closed to his view that countenance which he had for- 
merly gazed on in ecstasy, the index of that soul to 
which he had sworn everlasting fidelity — ^is impossible. 

The Lethean torpor, as it were, which before had 
benumbed him ; the charm, which had united him to 
Matilda, was dissolved. 

All the air-built visions of delight, which had but a 
moment before floated in gay variety in his enraptured 
imagination, faded away, and, in place of these, regret, 
horror, and despairing repentance, reared their heads amid 
the roses of momentary voluptuousness. 

He still gazed entranced, but Julia's gondola, indis- 
tinct from distance, mocked his straining eyebalL 



128 ZASTBOZZI. 

For a time neither spoke : the gondola rapidly passed 
onwards, but, immersed in thought, Matilda and Yerezzi 
heeded not its rapidity. 

They had arrived at St. Mark's Place, and the gon- 
dolier's voice, as he announced it, was the first inter- 
ruption of the silence. 

They started. — Verezzi now, for the first time, aroused 
from his revery of horror, saw that the scene before him 
was real ; and that the oaths of fidelity which he had so 
often and so fervently sworn to Julia were broken. 

The extreme of horror seized his brain — a frigorific 
torpidity of despair chilled every sense, and his eyes, 
fixedly, gazed on vacancy. 

" Oh ! return — instantly return !" impatiently replied 
Matilda to the question of the gondolier. 

The gondolier, surprised, obeyed her, and they returned. 

The spacious canal was crowded with gondolas ; merri- 
ment and splendour reigned around, enchanting harmony 
stole over the scene ; but, listless of the music, heeding 
not the splendour, Matilda sat lost in a maze of thought. 

Fiercest vengeance revelled through her bosom, and, 
in her own mind, she resolved a horrible purpose. 

Meanwhile, the hour was late, the moon had gained 
the zenith, and poured her beams vertically on the un- 



ZASTROZZI. 129 

ruffled Adriatic, when the gondola stopped before 
Matilda's mansion. 

A sumptuous supper had been prepared for their 
return. Silently Matilda entered — silently Verezzi 
followed. 

Without speaking, Matilda seated herself at the 
supper table : Verezzi, with an air of listlessness, threw 
himself into a chair beside her. 

For a time neither spoke. 

" You are not well to-night," at last stammered out 
Verezzi : " what has disturbed you ?" 

"Disturbed meT repeated Matilda: "why do you 
suppose that any thing has disturbed me f* 

A more violent paroxyBm of horror seemed now to 
seize Verezzi's brain. He pressed his hand to his 
burning forehead — ^the agony of his mind was too great 
to be concealed — Julia's form, as he had last seen her, 
floated in his fancy, and, overpowered by the resistlessly 
horrible ideas which pressed upon them, his senses failed 
him : he faintly uttered Julia's name — he sank forward, 
and his throbbing temples reclined on the table. 

" Arise ! awake ! prostrate, perjured Verezzi, awake !" 
exclaimed the infuriate Matilda, in a tone of gloomy 
horror, 

Verezzi started up, and gazed with surprise upon the 

PBOSE. ^VOL. I. K 



130 ZASTROZZI. 

countenance of Matilda, which, convulsed by passion, 
flashed desperation and revenge. 

" 'Tis plain," said Matilda, gloomily, " 'tis plain, he 
loves me not." 

A confusion of contending emotions battled in Verezzi's 
bosom : his marriage vow — his faith plighted to Matilda 
— convulsed his soul with indesciibable agony. 

Still did she possess a great empire over his soul — still 
was her frown terrible — and still did the hapless Verezzi 
tremble at the tones of her voice, as, in a phrensy of 
desperate passion, she bade him quit her for ever : " And," 
added she, " go, disclose the retreat of the outcast Matilda 
to her enemies ; deliver me to the inquisition, that a 
union with her you detest may fetter you no longer." 

Exhausted by breathless agitation, Matilda ceased : the 
passions of her soul flashed from her eyes ; ten thousand 
conflicting emotions battled in Verezzi*s bosom ; he knew 
scarce what to do ; but, yielding to the impulse of the 
moment, he cast himself at Matilda's feet, and groaned 
deeply. 

At last the words, " I am ever yours, I ever shall be 
yours," escaped his lips. 

For a time Matilda stood immoveable. At last she 
looked on Verezzi ; she gazed downwards upon his 
majestic and youthful figure ; she looked upon his soul- 
illumined countenance, and tenfold love assailed her 
softened soul. She raised him — ^in an oblivious deli- 



ZASTBOZZI. 131 

rium of sudden fondness she clasped him to her bosom, 
and, in wild and hurried expressions, asserted her right 
to his love. 

Her breast palpitated with fiercest emotions ; she 

pressed her burning lips to his ; most fervent, most 

voluptuous sensations of ecstasy revelled through her 
bosom. 

Verezzi caught the infection ; in an instant of oblivion, 
every oath of fidelity which he had sworn to another, like 
a baseless cloud, dissolved away ; a Lethean torpor crept 
over his senses ; he forgot Julia, or remembered her only 
as an uncertain vision, which floated before his fancy 
more as an ideal being of another world, whom he might 
hereafter adore there, than as an enchanting and con- 
genial female, to whom his oaths of eternal fidelity had 
been given. 

Overcome by unutterable transports of returning bliss, 
she started from his embrace — she seized his hand — her 
face was overspread with a heightened colour as she 
pressed it to her lips. 

" And are you then mine — mine for ever ?" rapturously 
exclaimed Matilda. 

" Oh ! I am thine — thine to all eternity," returned the 
infatuated Verezzi : " no earthly power shall sever us ; 
joined by congeniality of soul, united by a bond to which 
God himself bore witness." 

He ag£dn clasped her to his bosom — ^again, as an 

k2 



182 ZA8TR0ZZI. 

earnest of fidelity, imprinted a fervent kiss on her glow- 
ing cheek ; and, overcome by the violent and resistless 
emotions of the moment, swore, that nor heaven nor 
hell should cancel the union which he here solemnly and 
unequivocally renewed. 

Verezzi filled an overflowing goblet. 

" Do you love me V inquired Matilda. 

" May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore 
thee not to distraction! may I, be plunged in endless 
torments, if my love for thee, celestial Matilda, endures 
not for ever !" 

Matilda's eyes flashed fiercest triumph ; the exultingly 
delightful feelings of her soul were too much for utter- 
ance — she spoke not, but gazed fixedly on Verezzi's 
countenance. 



CHAPTER XV. 

That DO oompunctiofis TisitiiigB of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The e£fect and it. Come to my woman's breasts, 
Aud take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers, 
Wherever, in your sightless subetanoes. 
Ye wait on nature's mischief. 

Macbbtb. 

Verezzi raised the goblet which he had just filled, and 
exclaimed, in an impassioned tone — 

" My adored Matilda ! this is to thy happiness — this 
is to thy every wish ; and if I cherish a single thoug)it 
which centres not in thee, may the most horrible tortures 
which ever poisoned the peace of man, drive me instantly 
to distraction. Grod of heaven ! witness thou my oath, 
and write it in letters never to be erased ! Ministering 
spirits, who watch over the happiness of mortals, attend ! 
for here I swear eternal fidelity, indissoluble, unalterable 
affection to Matilda 1 " 

He said — ^he raised his eyes towards heaven — he 
gazed upon Matilda. Their eyes met — ^hers gleamed 
with a triumphant expression of unbounded love. 



134 ZASTROZZI. 

Verezzi raised the goblet to his lips — ^when, lo ! on a 
sudden he dashed it to the ground — his whole frame 
was shook by horrible convulsions — his glaring eyes, 
starting from their sockets, rolled wildly around : seized 
with sudden madness, he drew a dagger from his girdle, 
and with fellest intent raised it high — 

What phantom blasted Verezzi's eyeball ! what made 
the impassioned lover dash a goblet to the ground, which 
he was about to drain as a pledge of eternal love to the 
choice of his soul ! and why did he, infuriate, who had, 
but an instant before, imagined Matilda's arms an earthly 
paradise, attempt to rush unprepared into the presence of 
his Creator ! — It was the mildly-beaming eyes of the 
lovely but forgotten Julia, which spoke reproaches to the 
soul of Verezzi — ^it was her celestial coimtenance, shaded 
by dishevelled ringlets, which spoke daggers to the false 
one ; for, when he had raised the goblet to his lips — 
when, sublimed by the maddening fire of voluptuousness 
to the height of enthusiastic passion, he swore indis- 
soluble fidelity to another — Julia stood before him ! 

Madness — fiercest madness — ^revelled through his 
brain. He raised the poniard high, but Julia rushed 
forwards, and, in accents of desperation, in a voice of 
alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare himself — to 
spare her — for all might yet be well. 

" Oh ! never, never ! " exclaimed Verezzi, frantically : 

" no peace but in the grave for me. 1 am — I am — 

married to Matilda." 

Saying this, he fell backwards upon a sofa in strong 



ZASTROZZI. 1S5 

convulsions, yet his hand still firmly grasped the fatal 
poniard. 

Matilda, meanwhile, fixedly contemplated the scene. 
Fiercest passions raged through her breast — vengeance, 
disappointed love — disappointed in the instant too when 
she had supposed happiness to be hers for ever, rendered 
her bosom the scene of wildest anarchy. 

Yet she spoke not — she moved not — ^but, collected in 
herself, stood waiting the issue of that event, which had 
so unexpectedly dissolved her visions of air-built ecstasy. 

Serened to firmness from despair, Julia administered 
every thing which could restore Verezzi with the most 
unremitting attention. At last he recovered. — He slowly 
raised himself, and starting from the sofa where he lay, 
his eyes rolling wildly, and his whole frame convulsed by 
fiercest agitation, he raised the dagger which he still 
retained, and, with a bitter smile of exultation, plunged it 
into his bosom 1 — His soul fled without a groan, and his 
body fell to the floor, bathed in purple blood. 

Maddened by this death-blow to all anticipation of 
happiness, Matilda's faculties, as she stood, whirled in 
wild confusion : she scarce knew where she was. 

At last a portentous, a frightful calm, spread itself over 
her soul. Bevenge, direst revenge, swallowed up every 
other feeling. Her eyes scintillated with a fiend-like ex- 
pression. She advanced to the lifeless corse of Verezzi 
— she plucked the dagger from his bosom — ^it was stained 
with \m life's-blood, which trickled fast from the point to 



186 ZASTROZZL 

the floor. She raised it on high, and impiously called 
upon the God of nature to doom her to endless torments, 
should Julia survive her vengeance. 

She advanced towards her victim, who lay bereft of 
sense on the floor : she shook her rudely, and grasping a 
handful of her dishevelled hair, raised her from the 
earth. 

" Knowest thou me V* exclaimed Matilda, in frantic 
passion — " knowest thou the injured Laurentini ? Be- 
hold this dagger, reeking with my husband's blood — 
behold that pale corse, in whose now cold breast, thy 
accursed image revelling, impelled to commit the deed 
which deprives me of happiness for ever." 

JuUa's senses, roused by Matilda's violence, returned. 
She cast her eyes upwards, with a timid expression of 
apprehension, and beheld the infuriate Matilda convulsed 
by fiercest passion, and a blood-stained dagger raised 
aloft, threatening instant death. 

" Die ! detested wretch," exclaimed Matilda, in a pa- 
roxysm of rage, as she violently attempted to bathe the 
stiletto in the life-blood of her rival ; but Jidia starting 
aside, the weapon slightly wounded her neck, and the 
ensanguined stream stained her alabaster bosom. 

She fell on the floor, but suddenly staining up, at- 
tempted to escape- her bloodthirsty persecutor. 

Nerved anew by this futile attempt to escape her 
vengeance, the ferocious Matilda seized JuUa's floating 



ZASTKOZZI. 137 

hair, and holding her back with fiend-like strength, 
stabbed her in a thousand places ; and, with exulting 
pleasure, again and again buried the dagger to the hilt in 
her body, even after all remains of life were annihilated. 

At last the passions of Matilda, exhausted by their 
own violence, sank into a deadly calm: she threw the 
dagger violently from her, and contemplated the terrific 
scene before her with a sullen gaze. 

Before her, in the arms of death, lay him on whom 
her hopes of happiness seemed to have formed so firm a 
basis. 

Before her lay her rival, pierced with innumerable 
wounds, whose head reclined on Verezzi's bosom, and 
whose angelic features, even in death, a smile of affection 
pervaded. 

There she herself stood, an isolated guilty being. A 
fiercer paroxysm of passion now seized her : in an agony 
of horror, too great to be described, she tore her hair in 
handfuls — she blasphemed the power who had given her 
being, and imprecated eternal torments upon the mother 
who had bom her. 

" And is it for this," added the ferocious Matilda — " is 
it for horror, for torments such as these, that He, whom 
monks call aU-merciful, has created me ?" 

She seized the dagger which lay on the floor. 



« 



Ah ! friendly dagger," she exclaimed, in a voice of 



138 ZASTROZZI. 

fiend-like horror, " would that thy blow produced anni- 
hilation ! with what pleasure then would I clasp thee to 
my heart !" 

She raised it high — she gazed on it — the yet warm 
blood of the innocent Jidia trickled from its point. 

The guilty Matilda shrunk at death — she let fall the 
up-raised dagger — her soul had caught a glimpse of the 
misery which awaits the wicked hereafter, and, spite of 
her contempt of religion — spite of her, till now, too firm 
dependence on the doctrines of atheism, she trembled 
at futurity; and a voice from within, which whispers 
" thou shalt never die !" spoke daggers to Matilda's soul. 

Whilst thus she stood entranced in a delirium of des- 
pair, the night wore away, and the domestic who attended 
her, surprised at the unusual hour to which they had 
prolonged the banquet, came to announce the lateness of 
the hour ; but opening the door, and perceiving Matilda's 
garments stained with blood, she started back with 
affright, without knowing the full extent of horror which 
the chamber contained, and alarmed the other domestics 
with an account that Matilda had been stabbed. 

In a crowd they all came to the door, but started back 
in terror when they saw Verezzi and Julia stretched life- 
less on the floor. 

Summoning fortitude from despair, Matilda loudly 
called for them to return; but fear and horror over- 
balanced her commands, and, wild with affright, they all 



ZASTROZZI. 189 

rushed from the chamber, except Ferdinand, who advanced 
to Matilda, and demanded an explanation. 

Matilda gave it, in few and hurried words. 

Ferdinand again quitted the apartment, and told the 
credulous domestics, that an unknown female had sur- 
prised Verezzi and Matilda ; that she had stabbed Verezzi, 
and then committed suicide. 

The crowd of servants, as in mute terror they listened 
to Ferdinand's account, entertained not a doubt of the 
truth. — Again and again they demanded an explanation 
of the mysterious affair, and employed their wits in con- 
jecturing what might be the cause of it ; but the more 
they conjectured, the more were they puzzled ; till at 
last a clever fellow, named Pietro, who, hating Ferdinand 
on account of the superior confidence with which his 
lady treated him, and supposing more to be concealed in 
tliis affair than met the ear, gave information to the 
police, and, before morning, Matilda's dwelling was sur- 
rounded by a party of officials belonging to il consiglio 
di dieci. 

Loud shouts rent the air as the officials attempted the 
entrance. Matilda still was in the apartment where, 
during the night, so bloody a tragedy had been acted ; 
still in speechless horror was she extended on the sofa, 
when a loud rap at the door aroused the horror-tranced 
wretch. She started from the sofa in wildest perturb- 
ation, and listened attentively. Again was the noise 
repeated, and the officials rushed in. 



140 ZASTKOZZI. 

They searched every apartment ; at last they entered 
that in which Matilda, motionless with despair, re- 
mained. 

Even the stem ofl&cials, hardy, unfeeling as they were, 
started back with momentary horror as they beheld the 
fair countenance of the murdered Julia ; fair even in 
death, and her body disfigured with numberless ghastly 
wounds. 



" This cannot be suicide," muttered one, who, by his 
superior manner, seemed to be their chief, as he raised 
the fragile form of Julia from the ground, and the blood, 
scarcely yet cold, trickled from her vestments. 

" Put your orders in execution," added he. 

Two officials advanced towards Matilda, who, standing 
apart with seeming tranquillity, awaited their approach. 



" What wish you with me ?" exclaimed Matilda 
haughtily. 

The officials answered not ; but their chief, drawing a 
paper from his vest, which contained an order for the 
arrest of Matilda La Contessa di Laurentini, presented 
it to her. 

She turned pale ; but, without resistance, obeyed the 
mandate, and followed the officials in silence to the canal. 



ZA8TR0ZZI. 141 

where a gondola waited, and in a short time she was in 
the gloomy prisons of il consiglio di dieci 

A little straw was the bed of the haughty Laurentini ; 
a pitcher of water and bread was her sustenance ; gloom, 
horror, and despair pervaded her soul : all the pleasures 
which she had but yesterday tasted; all the ecstatic 
blisses which her enthusiastic soul had painted for 
futurity, like the unreal vision of a dream, faded away ; 
and, confined in a damp and narrow cell, Matilda saw 
that all her hopes of future delight would end in speedy 
and ignominious dissolution. 

Slow passed the time — slow did the clock at St. 
Mark's toll the revolving hours as languidly they passed 
away. 

Night came on, and the hour of midnight struck upon 

» 

Matilda's soul as her death knelL 

A noise was heard in the passage which led to the 
prison. 

Matilda raised her head from the wall against which 
it was reclined, and eagerly listened, as if in expectation 
of an event which would seal her future fate. She still 
gazed, when the chains of the entrance were unlocked. 
The door, as it opened, grated harshly on its hinges, emd 
two officials entered. 

'* Follow me,'' was the laconic injunction which greeted 
her terror-struck ear. 



142 ZAST£OZZI. 

Trembling, Matilda arose : her limbs, stiffened by con- 
finement, almost refused to support her ; but collecting 
fortitude from desperation, she followed the relentless 
officials in silence. 



One of them bore a lamp, whose rays darting in un- 
certain columns, showed, by strong contrasts of light and 
shade, the extreme massiness of the passages. 

The Gothic frieze above was worked with art ; and the 
corbels, in various and grotesque forms, jutted from the 
tops of clustered pilasters. 

They stopped at a door. Voices were heard from 
within: their hollow tones filled Matilda's soul with 
unconquerable tremors. But she summoned all her 
resolution — she rasolved to be collected during the trial ; 
and even, if sentenced to death, to meet her fate with 
fortitude, that the populace, as they gazed, might not 
exclaim — '" The poor Laurentini dared not to die." 

These thoughts were passing in her mind during the 
delay which was occasioned by the officials conversing 
with another whom they met there. 

At last they ceased — an uninterrupted silence reigned : 
the immense folding doors were thrown open, and dis- 
closed to Matilda's view a vast and lofty apartment. In 
the centre was a table, which a lamp, suspended from 
the centre, overhung, and where two stern-looking men, 
habited in black vestments, were seated. 



ZASTROZZI. 143 

Scattered papers covered the table, with which the 
two men in black seemed busily employed. 

Two officials conducted Matilda to the table where 
they sat, and, retiring, left her there. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

FeaTi for their aooarge, mean villams have ; 
Thou art the torturer of the brave. 

Makhiok. 

One of the inquisitors raised his eyes ; he put back the 
papers which he was examining, and in a solemn tone 
asked her name. 

"My name is Matilda; my title La Contessa di 
Laurentini," haughtily she answered ; " nor do I know 
the motive for that inquiry, except it were to exult over 
my miseries, which you are, I suppose, no stranger to." 

" Waste not your time," exclaimed the inqiusitor 
sternly, " in making idle conjectures upon our conduct ; 
but do you know for what you are summoned here ?" 

" No," replied Matilda. 

" Swear that you know not for what crime you 
are here imprisoned," said the inquisitor. 

Matilda took the oath required. As she spoke, a 



ZASTROZZI. ' 145 

dewy sweat burst from her brow, and her limbs were 
convulsed by the extreme of horror, yet the expression of 
her countenance was changed not. 



ft 



What crime have you committed which might sub- 
ject you to the notice of this tribunal ? " demanded he, in 
a determined tone of voice. 

Matilda gave no answer, save a smile of exulting 
scorn. She fixed her regards upon the inquisitor : her 
dark eyes flashed fiercely, but she spoke not. 



" Answer me," exclaimed he, " what to confess might 
save both of us needless trouble." 



Matilda answered not, but gazed in silence upon the 
inquisitor's countenance. 

He stamped thrice — four officials rushed in, and stood 
at some distance from Matilda. 

" I am unwilling," said the inquisitor, " to treat a 
female of high birth with indignity ; but if you confess 
not instantly, my duty will not permit me to withhold 
the question." 

A deeper expression of contempt shaded Matilda's 
beautiful countenance : she frowned, but answered not. 

" You will persist in this foolish obstinacy ? " 
exclaimed the inquisitor. — ^" Officials, do your duty." 

Instantly the four, who till now had stood in the back- 

PROSE. VOL. I. L 



146 ZASTROZZI. 

ground, rushed forwards : they seized Matilda, and bore 
her into the obscurity of the apartment. 

Her dishevelled ringlets floated in negligent luxuriance 
over her alabaster bosom: her eyes, the contemptuous 
glance of which had now given way to a confused 
expression of alarm, were almost closed; and her sym- 
metrical form, as borne away by the four ofl&cials, looked 
interestingly lovely. 

The other inquisitor, who, till now, busied by the 
papers which lay before him, had heeded not Matilda's 
examination, raised his eyes, and beholding the form of 
a female, with a commanding tone of voice, called to the 
officials to stop. 

Submissively they obeyed his order. — Matilda, released 
from the fell hands of these relentless ministers of justice, 
advanced to the table. 

Her extreme beauty softened the inquisitor who had 
spoken last. He little thought that, under a form so 
celestial, so interesting, lurked a heart depraved, vicious 
as a demon's. 

He therefore mildly addressed her ; and telling her 
that, on some future day, her examination would be 
renewed, committed her to the care of the officials, with 
orders to conduct her to an apartment better suited to 
her rank. 

The chamber to which she followed the officials was 
spacious and well furnished, but large iron bars secured 



ZASTROZZI. 147 

the windows, which were high, and impossible to be 
forced. 

Left again to solitude, again to her own gloomy 
thoughts — ^her retrospection but horror and despair — 
her hopes of futurity none— her fears many and hor- 
rible — Matilda's situation is better conceived than 
described. 

Floating in wild confusion, the ideas which presented 
themselves to her imagination were too horrible for 
Endurance. 

Deprived, as she was, of all earthly happiness, fierce as 
had been her passion for Verezzi, the disappointment 
of which sublimed her brain to the most infuriate 
delirium of resistless horror, the wretched Matilda 
still shrunk at death — she shrunk at the punishment 
of those crimes, in whose perpetration no remorse had 
touched her soul, for which, even now, she repented 
not, but as they had deprived her of terrestrial en- 
joyments. 

She thought upon the future state — she thought upon 
the arguments of Zastrozzi against the existence of a 
Deity: her inmost soul now acknowledged their false- 
hood, and she shuddered as she reflected that her con- 
dition was irretrievable. 

Resistless horror revelled through her bosom : in 
an intensity of racking thought she rapidly paced 
the apartment ; at last, overpowered, she sank upon a 
sofa. 

l2 



148 ZASTBOZZI. 

At last the tumultuous passions, exhausted by 
their own violence, subsided : the storm, which so 
lately had agitated Matilda's soul, ceased ; a serene 
calm succeeded, and sleep quickly overcame her 
faculties. 

Confused visions flitted in Matilda's imagination whilst 
under the influence of sleep ; at last they assumed a 
settled shape. 

Strangely brilliant and silvery clouds seemed to flit 
before her sight : celestial music, enchanting as the 
harmony of the spheres, serened Matilda's soul, and, 
for an instant, her situation forgotten, she lay en- 
tranced. 

On a sudden the music ceased ; the azure concavity of 
heaven seemed to open at the zenith, and a being, whose 
countenance beamed with unutterable beneficence, de- 
scended. 

It seemed to be clothed in a transparent robe of 
flowing silver: its eye scintillated with super-human 
brilliancy, whilst her dream, imitating reality almost 
to exactness, caused the entranced Matilda to suppose 
that it addressed her in these words : — 

" Poor sinning Matilda ! repent, it is not yet too 
late. — God's mercy is unbounded. — Repent ! and thou 
mayest yet be saved." 

* These words yet tingled in Matilda's ears ; yet 

^ There are inyerted commai here in the original. 



ZASTROZZI. 149 

were her eyes lifted to heaven, as if following the 

visionary phantom who had addressed her in her 

dream, when, much confused, she arose from the 
sofa. 

A dream so like reality made a strong impression 
upon Matilda's souL 

The ferocious passions, which so lately had battled 
fiercely in her bosom, were calmed : she lifted her 
eyes to heaven : they beamed with an expression of 
sincerest penitence ; for sincerest penitence, at this 
moment, agonised whilst it calmed Matilda's soul. 

" God of mercy ! God of heaven ! " exclaimed 
Matilda; "my sins are many and homble, but I 
repent." 

Matilda knew not how to pray ; but God, who from 
the height of heaven penetrates the inmost thoughts 
of terrestrial hearts, heard the outcast sinner, as in 
tears of true and agonising repentance she knelt before 
him. 

She despaired no longer — She confided in the bene- 
ficence of her Creator ; and, in the hour of adversity, 
when the firmest heart must tremble at his power, no 
longer a hardened sinner, demanded mercy. And 
mercy, by the All-benevolent of heaven, is never re- 
fused to those who humbly, yet tnisting in his goodness, 
ask it 

Matilda's soul was filled with a celestial tranquillity. 



150 ZASTROZZI. 

She remained upon her knees in mute and fen'ent 
thought : she prayed ; and, with trembling, asked for- 
giveness of her Creator. 

No longer did that agony of despair torture her 
bosom. True, she was ill at ease: remorse for her 
crimes deeply affected her; and though her hopes of 
salvation were great, her belief in Gud and a future state 
firm, the heavy sighs which burst from her bosom, 
showed that the arrows of repentance had penetrated 
deeply. 

Several days passed away, during which the con- 
llicting passions of Matilda's soul, conquered by peni- 
tence, were mellowed into a fixed and quiet depression. 



CHAPTER XVIL 



Si fractus illabatnr orbis, 
Impavidum ferient niiiue. 

Horace, 



At last the day arrived, when, exposed to a public trial, 
Matilda was conducted to the tribunal of il consiglio di 
dieci. 



The inquisitors were not, as before, at a table in the 
middle of the apartment ; but a sort of throne was raised 
at one end, on which a stem-looking man, whom she had 
never seen before, sat : a great number of Venetians were 
assembled, and lined all sides of the apartment. 

Many, in black vestments, were arranged behind the 
superior's throne ; among whom Matilda recognised those 
who had before examined her. 

Conducted by two oflScials, with a faltering step, a 
pallid cheek, and downcast eye, Matilda advanced to that 
part of the chamber where sat the superior. 

The dishevelled ringlets of her hair floated unccniined 



152 ZASTROZZI. 

over her shoulders : her symmetrical and elegant form 
was enveloped in a thin white robe. 

The expression of her sparkling eyes was downcast and 
humble ; yet, seemingly unmoved by the scene before her, 
she remained in silence at the tribunal. 

The curiosity and pity of every one, as they gazed on 
the loveliness of the beautiful culprit, was strongly 
excited. 

" Who is she ? who is she ? " ran in inquiring whispers 
round the apartment. — No one could tell. 

Again deep silence reigned — not a whisper interrupted 
the appalling calm. 

At last the superior, in a sternly solemn voice, said — 

" Matilda Contessa di Tiaurentini, you are here arraigned 
on the murder of La Marchesa di Strobazzo : canst thou 
deny it ? canst thou prove to the contrary ? My ears 
are open to conviction. Does no one speak for the 
accused ? " 

He ceased : uninterrupted silence reigned. Again he 
was about — again, with a look of detestation and horror, 
he had fixed his penetrating eye upon the trembling 
Matilda, and had unclosed his mouth to utter the fatal 
sentence, when his attention was arrested by a man who 
nished from the crowd, and exclaimed, in a hurried 
tone — 



« 



ZASTROZZI. 153 

La Contessa di Laurentini is innocent." 



" Who are you, who dare assert that ? " exclaimed the 
superior, with an air of doubt. 

" I am,'* answered he, " Ferdinand Zeilnitz, a German, 
the servant of La Contessa di Laurentini, and I dare assert 
that she is innocent." 

" Your proof," exclaimed the superior, with a severe 
frown. 

" It was late," answered Ferdinand, " when I entered 
the apartment, and then I beheld two bleeding bodies, 
and La Contessa di Laurentini, who lay bereft of sense on 
the sofa." 

" Stop ! " exclaimed the superior. 

Ferdinand obeyed. 

The superior whispered to one in black vestments, and 
soon four officials entered, bearing on their shoulders an 
open coffin. 

The superior pointed to the ground: the officials 
deposited their burden, and produced, to the terror-struck 
eyes of the gazing multitude, Julia, the lovely Julia, 
covered with innumerable and ghastly gashes. 

All present uttered a cry of terror — all started, shocked 
and amazed, from the horrible sight ; yet some, recovering 
themselves, gazed at the celestial loveliness of the poor 



154 ZASTROZZI. 

victim to revenge, which, unsubdued by death, still shone 
from her placid features. 

A deep-drawn sigh heaved Matilda's bosom; tears, 
spite of all her fimmess, rushed into her eyes ; and she 
had nearly fainted with dizzy horror ; but, overcoming it, 
and collecting all her fortitude, she advanced towards the 
corse of her rival, and, in the numerous wounds which 
covered it, saw the fiat of her future destiny. 

She still gazed on it — a deep silence reigned — not 
one of the spectators, so interested were they, uttered a 
single word — not a wliisper was heard through the 
spacious apartment. 

" Stand ojff ! guilt-stained, relentless woman," at last 
exclaimed the superior fiercely : " is it not enough that 
you have persecuted, through life, the wretched female 
who lies before you — murdered by you ? Cease, there- 
fore, to gaze on her with looks as if your vengeance was 
yet insatiated. But retire, wretch: officials, take her 
into your custody ; meanwhile, bring the other prisoner." 

Two officials rushed forward, and led Matilda to some 
distance from the tribunal ; four others entered, leading 
a man of towering height and majestic figure. The 
heavy chains with which his legs were bound, rattled as 
he advanced. 

Matilda raised her eyes — Zastrozzi stood before her. 

She rushed forwards — the officials stood unmoved. 



ZASTROZZI. 155 

"Oh, Zastrozzi!" she exclaimed — "dreadful, wicked 
has been the tenour of our life ; base, ignominious, will be 
its termination : unless we repent, fierce, horrible, may 
be the eternal torments which will rack us, ere four and 
twenty hours are elapsed. Eepent then, Zastrozzi ; re- 
pent ! and as you have been my companion in apostasy 
to virtue, follow me likewise in dereliction of stubborn 
and determined wickedness/' 

This was pronounced in a low and faltering voice. 

" Matilda," replied Zastrozzi, whilst a smile of con- 
temptuous atheism played over his features — "Matilda, 
fear not: fate wills us to die: and I intend to meet 
death, to encounter annihilation, with tranquillity. Am 
I not convinced of the non-existence of a Deity ? am I 
not convinced that death will but render this soul more 
free, more unfettered ? Why need I then shudder at 
death ? why need any one, whose mind has risen above 
the shackles of prejudice, the errors of a false and 
injurious superstition." 

Here the superior interposed, and declared he could 
allow private conversation no longer. 

Quitting Matilda, therefore, Zastrozzi, unappalled by 
the awful scene before him, unshaken by the near 
approach of agonising death, which he now fully believed 
he was about to suffer, advanced towards the superior's 
throne. 

Every one gazed on the lofty stature of Zastrozzi, and 



156 ZASTROZZI. 

admired his dignified mien and dauntless composure, even 
more than they had the beauty of Matilda. 

Every one gazed in silence, and expected that some 
extraordinary chaige would be brought against him. 

The name of Zastrozzi, pronounced by the superior, 
had already broken the silence, when the culprit, gazing 
disdainfully on his judge, told him to be silent, for he 
would spare him much needless trouble. 

" I am a murderer," exclaimed Zastrozzi ; " I deny it 
not : I buried my dagger in the heart of him who injured 
me; but the motives which led me to be an assassin 
were at once excellent and meritorious ; for I swore, at 
a loved mother's death-bed, to revenge her betrayer's 
falsehood. 

"Think you, that whilst I perpetrated the deed I 
feared the punishment ? or whilst I revenged a parent's 
cause, that the futile torments which I am doomed to 
suffer here, had any weight in my determination ? No 
— no. If the vile deceiver, who brought my spotless 
mother to a tomb of misery, fell beneath the dagger of 
one who swore to revenge her — if I sent him to another 
world, who destroyed the peace of one I loved more than 
myself in this, am I to be blamed ? " 

Zastrozzi ceased, and, with an expression of scornful 
triumph, folded his arms. 

" Go on ! " exclaimed the superior. 



ZASTROZZI. 157 

" Go on ! go on !" echoed from every part of the im- 
mense apartment 

He looked around him. His manner awed the 
tumultuous multitude ; and, in uninterrupted silence, the 
spectators gazed upon the unappalled Zastrozzi, who, 
towering aa a demi-god, stood in the midst. 

" Am I then called upon," said he, " to disclose things 
which bring painful remembrances to my mind ? Ah, 
how painful ! But no matter ; you shall know the 
name of him who fell beneath this arm : you shall know 
him, whose memory, even now, I detest more than I can 
express. I care not who knows my actions, convinced as 
I am, and convinced to aU eternity as I shall be, of their 
rectitude. — Know, then, that Olivia Zastrozzi was my 
mother ; a woman in whom every virtue, every amiable and 
excellent quality, I firmly believe to have been centred. 

" The father of him who by my arts committed 
suicide but six days ago in La Contessa di Laurentini's 
mansion, took advantage of a moment of weakness, and 
disgraced her who bore me. He swore with the most 
sacred oaths to marry her — ^but he was false. 

"My mother soon brought me into the world — the 
seducer married another ; and when the destitute Olivia 
begged a pittance to keep her from starving, her proud 
betrayer spurned her from his door, and tauntingly bade 
her exercise her profession. — The crime I committed with 
thee, perjured one ! exclaimed my mother as she left his 
door, shall be my last ! — and, by heavens ! she acted 
nobly. A victim to falsehood, she sank early to the 



158 ZASTROZZI. 

tomb, and, ere her thirtieth year, she died — her spotless 
soul fled to eternal happiness. — Never shall I forget, 
though but fourteen when she died — never shall I forget 
her last commands. — My son, said she, my Pietrino, 
revenge my wrongs — revenge them on the perjured 
Verezzi — revenge them on his progeny for ever ! 

" And, by heaven ! I think I have revenged them. 
Ere I was twenty-four, the false villain, though sur- 
rounded by seemingly impenetrable grandeur ; though 
forgetful of the ofifence to punish which this arm was 
nerved, sank beneath my dagger. But I destroyed his 
body alone," added Zastrozzi, with a terrible look of 
insatiated vengeance : " time has taught me better : his 
son's soul is hell-doomed to all eternity: he destroyed 
himself; but my machinations, though unseen, effected 
his destruction. 

"Matilda di Laurentini! Hah! why do you shud- 
der ? When, with repeated stabs, you destroyed her who 
now lies lifeless before you in her coflfin, did you not 
reflect upon what must be your fate ? You have enjoyed 
him whom you adored — you have even been married to 
him — ^and, for the space of more than a month, have 
tasted unutterable joys, and yet you are unwilling to pay 
the price of your happiness — by heavens I am not ! " 
added he, bursting into a wild laugh. — "Ah! poor fool, 
Matilda, did you think it was from friendship I instructed 
you how to gain Verezzi ? — No, no— it was revenge which 
induced me to enter into your schemes with zeal ; which 
induced me to lead her, whose lifeless form lies yonder, 
to your house, foreseeing the effect it would have upon 
the strong passions of your husband. 



ZASTROZZI. 159 



" And now," added Zastrozzi, " I have been candid 
with you. Judge, pass your sentence — ^but I know my 
doom ; and, instead of horror, experience some degree of 
satisfaction at the arrival of death, since all I have to do 
on earth is completed." 

Zastrozzi ceased ; and, unappaUed, fixed his expressive 
gaze upon the superior. 

Surprised at Zastrozzi*s firmness, and shocked at the 
crimes of which he had made so unequivocal an avowal, the 
superior turned away in hon'or. 

Still Zastrozzi stood unmoved, and fearlessly awaited 
the fiat of his destiny. 

Tlie superior whispered to one in black vestments. 
Four officials rushed in, and placed Zastrozzi on the rack. 

Even whilst writhing under the agony of almost in- 
supportable torture his nerves were stretched, Zastrozzi's 
firmness faQed him not; but, upon his soul-illumined 
countenance, played a smile of most disdainful scorn ; 
and with a wQd convulsive laugh of exulting revenge — 
he died. 

THE END. 
[of zastrozzt.] 



The imprint of ZoMtroai is as follows : — 



Printed by 8. Bamiltoo, Weybridga. 



ST. IRVYNE ; 



OR^ 



THE R08ICRUCIAN. 



PROSE. — TOL. I. M 



[Iq the letter of the Ist of April, 1810, mentioned at p. 2 of thia 
volume, Shelley Bays that, if some one whom he designates as Jodc (pro- 
bably Robinson, the publisher of Zattroat) will not give him " a devil 
of a price" for his poem "and at least 601.^ for his '*New Romance in 
three volumes, the dog shall not have them.** Perhaps we may pretty 
safely take this as a reference to St. Irvyne, and conclode that Mr. 
Robinson did not see his way to giving 602. for the book ultimately 
published by Stockdale under circumstances discovered by Mr. Gamett 
in StorldaIe*a Budget, and made the subject of an article, Shelley in Pail 
MaU, in Ma>cmillan'$ Mayaztne for June, 1860. From one of Shelley's 
letters in that article, it seems that Stockdale was at pains to "fit 
St. IiTyne for the press/' Shelley being *'by no means a good hand at 
correction.** On the 2ud of December, 1810, Shelley wrote asking " When 
does ' St Irvyne* come out ?** ; on the 18th of the same month he had 
seen Stockdale^s advertisement of it ; on the 20th he wrote to Hogg 
(Life, vol. I., p. 145), " 5^ Irvyne is come out; it is sent to you at 
Mr. Dayrell's ; you can get one in London by mentioning my name to 
Stockdale*' ; on the 28th he wrote again (ib., pi 151), *' Your discrimina- 
tion of that chapter is more just than the praises which you bestow on 
so unconnected a thing as the romance taken collectively** ; and on the 
11th of January, 1811, he had already had the bill for the printing, and 
was writing to Stockdale to request that a copy of the book might be 
sent to Harriet Westbrook ; and Mr.MacCarthy found in The Times for 
the 26th of January and 2nd of February, 1811, an advertisement of 
St. Jrvyne opening with " The Univenity Romance. — This day it jmbUAed^ 
price only 5«." St. Irvyne is a 12mo. volume consisting of fly-title, 
St. Irvyne; or, the Rosicrucian (as on the other side), with imprint 
** S. Gosnell, Printer, Little Queen Street, London,** at foot of the back 
I>age, title-page as given opposite, and 236 pages of text, with head-lines 
throughout, St. Irvyne ; o/r^ on the left-hand, Hu Roiirrucian on the right. 
There seems to have been a remainder of the book unsold in 1822 ; for 
copies are frequently found made up from the original sheets, with a fresh 
title-page, worded precisely as the original title-page is worded, but 
with the date 1822. St. Irvyne, as well as ZaUrozzi, was reprinted in 
The R<mancitl aa the work of Shelley (in No. 60, 1840).— H. B. F.] 



ST. IRVYNE ; 



OH, 



THE ROSICRUCIAN: 



A EOMANCE. 



BT 

A GEISTTLEMAN 

OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 



LOND ON : 

PRINTED FOR J. J. STOCKDALE, 
41, PALL MALL. 

1811. 



ST. IRVYNE; 

OR, 

THE B OSICR UCIAN 



CHAP. I. 

Jlved thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the mid- 
night whirlwind, floated, at fits, athwart the crimson- 
coloured orbit of the moon ; the rising fierceness of the 
blast sighed through the stunted shrubs, which, bending 
before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon 
they grew : over the blackened expanse of heaven, at in- 
tervals, was spread the blue lightning's flash ; it played 
upon the granite heights, and, with momentary brilliancy, 
disclosed the terrific scenery of the Alps, whose gigantic 
and misshapen* summits, reddened by the transitory moon- 
beam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments of the 
tempest-clouds. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, 
and the thunder-peals, with louder and more deafening 
crash, to shake the zenith, till the long-protracted war, 
echoing from cavern to cavern,' died, in indistinct mur- 
murs, amidst the far-extended chain of mountains. In 
this scene, then, at this horrible and tempestuous hour, 
without one existent earthly being whom he might claim 

^ In the original, muhapenf as in ZoMtrom. 



tt 



t< 



166 ST. IKVTNE; OR 

as friend, without one resource to which he might fly as 
an asylum from the horrors of neglect and poverty, stood 
Wolfstein ; — ^he gazed upon the conflicting elements ; his 
youthful figure reclined against a jutting granite rock ; he 
cursed his wayward destiny, and implored the Almighty 
of Heaven to permit the thunderbolt, with crash terrific 
and exterminating, to descend upon his head, that a being 
useless to himself and to society might no longer, by his 
existence, mock Him who ne*er made aught in vain. 

And what so horrible crimes have I committed," ex- 
claimed Wolfstein, driven to impiety by desperation, 

what crimes which merit punishment like this ? What, 
what is death ? — Ah, dissolution ! thy pang is blunted by 
the h|rd hand of long-protracted suffering — suffering un- 
speakable, indescribable !" As thus he spoke, a more 
terrific paroxysm of excessive despair revelled through 
every vein ; his brain swam around in wild confusion, 
and, rendered delirious by excess of misery, he started 
from his flinty seat, and swiftly hastened towards the 
precipice, which yawned widely beneath his feet. " For 
what then should I longer drag on the galling chain of 
existence ?" cried Wolfstein; and his impious expression 
was borne onwards by the hot and sulphurous thunder- 
blast. 

The midnight meteors danced above the gulf upon which 
Wolfstein wistfully gazed. Palpable, impenetrable dark- 
ness seemed to hang upon it ; impenetrable even by the 
flaming thunderbolt. " Into this then shall I plunge my- 
self ? " soliloquized the wretched outcast, " and by one 
rash act endanger, perhaps, eternal happiness; — deliver 
myself up, perhaps, to the anticipation and experience of 
never-ending torments ? Art thou the God then, the 



THE ROSICBUCIAN. 167 

Creator of the universe, whom canting monks call the 
God of mercy and forgiveness, and snfiPerest thon thy 
creatures to become the victims of tortures such as fate 
has inflicted on me? — Oh! God, take my soul; why 
should I longer live ? " Thus having spoken, he sank on 
the rocky bosom of the mountains. Yet, unheeding the 
exclamations of the maddened Wolfstein, fiercer raged the 
tempest. The battling elements, in wild confusion, 
seemed to threaten nature's dissolution; the ferocious 
thunderbolt, with impetuous violence, danced upon the 
mountains, and, collecting more terrific strength, severed 
gigantic rocks from their else eternal basements ; the 
masses, with sound more frightful than the bursting thun- 
der-peal, dashed towards the valley below. Horror and 
desolation marked their track. The mountain-rills, 
swoln by the waters of the sky, dashed with direr impet- 
uosity from the Alpine summits; their foaming waters were 
hidden in the darkness of midnight, or only became visible 
when the momentary scintillations of the lightning rested 
on their whitened waves. Fiercer stiU than nature's 
wildest uproar were the feelings of Wolfstein's bosom; 
his frame, at last, conquered by the conflicting passions of 
his soul, no longer was adequate to sustain the unequal 
contest, but sank to the earth. His brain swam wildly, 
and he lay entranced in total insensibility. 

What torches are those that dispel the distant darkness 
of midnight, and gleam, like meteors, athwart the black- 
ness of the tempest ? They throw a wavering light over 
the thickness of the storm : they wind along the moun- 
tains : they pass the hollow vaUies. Hark ! the howling 
of the blast has ceased, — ^the thunderbolts have dispersed, 
but yet reigns darkness. Distant sounds of song are borne 



168 ST. IBVYNE; OR 

on the breeze : the sounds approach. A low bier holds 
the remains of one whose soul is floating in the regions of 
eternity: a black pall covers him. Monks support the 
lifeless clay : others precede, bearing torches, and chanting 
a requiem for the salvation of the departed one. They 
hasten towards the convent of the valley, there to deposit 
the lifeless limbs of one who has explored the frightful 
path of eternity before them. And now they had arrived 
where lay Wolfstein : " Alas ! " said one of the monks, 
" there reclines a wretched traveller. He is dead ; mur- 
dered, doubtlessly, by the fell bandits who infest these 
wild recesses." 

They raised from the earth his form : yet his bosom 
throbbed with the tide of life : returning animation 
once more illumed his eye : he started on his feet, and 
wildly inquired why they had awakened him from that 
slumber which he had hoped to have been eternal. Un- 
connected were his expressions, strange and impetuous the 
fire darting from his restless eyeballs. At length, the 
monks succeeded in calming the desperate tumultuousness 
of his bosom, calming at least in some degree ; for he 
accepted their proffered tenders of a lodging, and essayed 
to lull to sleep, for a while, the horrible idea of dereliction 
which pressed upon his loaded brain. 

While thus they stood, loud shouts rent the air, 
and, before Wolfstein and the monks could well collect 
their scattered faculties, they found that a troop of Alpine 
bandits had surrounded them. Trembling, from appre- 
hension, the monks fled every way. None, however, 
could escape. " What ! old grey-beards," cried one of the 
robbers, "do you suppose that we will permit you to 
evade us : you who feed upon the strength of the country, 



THE ROSIGRUCIAN. 169 

in idleness and luxury, and have compelled many of our 
noble fellows, who otherwise would have been ornaments 
to their country in peace, thunderbolts to their enemies 
in war, to seek precarious subsistence as Alpine bandits ? 
If you wish for mercy, therefore, deliver unhesitatingly 
your joint riches." The robbers then despoiled the monks 
of whatever they might adventitiously have taken with 
them, and, turning to Wolfstein, the apparent chieftain 
told him to yield his money likewise. Unappalled, Wolf- 
stein advanced towards him. The chief held a torch; 
its red beams disclosed the expression of stern severity 
and unyielding loftiness which sate upon the brow of 
Wolfstein. " Bandit !" he answered fearlessly, " I have 
none, — no money — no hope — no friends ; nor do I care 
for existence ! Now judge if such a man be a fit victim 
for fear ! No ! I never trembled !" 

A ray of pleasure gleamed in the countenance of the 
bandit as Wolfstein spoke. Grief, in inerasible traces, 
sate deeply implanted on the front of the outcast. At 
last, the chief, advancing to Wolfstein, who stood at some 
little distance, said, " My companions think that so noble 
a fellow as you appear to be, would be no unworthy 
member of our society ; and, by Heaven, I am of their 
opinion. Are you willing to become one of us ?" 

Wolfstein's dark gaze was fixed upon the ground : his 
contracted .eyebr6w evinced deep thought : he started 
from his reverie^ and, without hesitation, consented to 
their proposal. 

Long was it past the hour of midnight when the 
banditti troop, with their newly-acquired associate, 



170 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

advanced along the pathless Alps. The red glare of 
the torches which each held, tinged the rocks and pine- 
trees, through woods of which they occasionally passed, 
and alone dissipated the darkness of night Now 
had they arrived at the summit of a wild and rocky 
precipice, but the base indeed of another which mingled 
its far-seen and gigantic outline with the clouds of 
heaven. A door, which before had appeared part of 
the solid rock, flew open at the chieftain's touch, and 
the whole party advanced into the spacious cavern. 
Over the walls of the lengthened passages putrefaction 
had spread a bluish clamminess; damps hung around, 
and, at intervals, almost extinguished the torches, whose 
glare was scarcely sufficient to dissipate the impenetrable 
obscurity. After many devious windings they advanced 
into the body of the cavern : it was spacious and lofty. 
A blazing wood fire threw its dubious rays upon the 
misshapen' and ill-carved walls. Lamps suspended from 
the roof, dispersed the subterranean gloom, not so com- 
pletely however, but that ill-defined shades lurked in 
the arched distances, whose hollow recesses led to different 
apartments. 

The gang had sate down in the midst of the cavern to 
supper, which a female, whose former loveliness had 
left scarce any traces on her cheek, had prepared. The 
most exquisite and expensive wines apologized for the 
rusticity of the rest of the entertainment, and induced 
freedom of conversation, and wild boisterous merriment, 
which reigned until the bandits, overcome by the fumes 
of the wine which they had drank, sank to sleep. 

> In ihe original, mMapen, as before. 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 171 

Wolfstein, left again to solitude and silence, reclining on 
his mat in a comer of the cavern, retraced, in mental, 
sorrowing review, the past events of his life : ah ! that 
eventful existence whose fate had dragged the heir of a 
wealthy potentate in Germany from the lap of luxury 
and indulgence, to become a vile associate of viler bandits, 
in the wild and trackless deserts of the Alps. Around 
their dwelling, lofty inaccessible acclivities reared their 
barren summits ; they echoed to no sound save the wild 
hoot of the night-raven, or the impatient yelling of the 
vulture, which hovered on the blast in quest of scanty 
sustenance. These were tlie scenes without : noisy revelry 
and tumultuous riot reigned within. The mirth of the 
bandits appeared to arise independently of themselves •' 
their hearts were void ^d dreary, Wolfstein's limbs 
pillowed on the flinty bosom of the earth : those limbs 
which had been wont to recline on the softest, the most 
luxurious sofas. Driven from his native country by an 
event which imposed upon him an insuperable barrier to 
ever again returning thither, possessing no friends, not 
having one single resource from which he might obtain 
support, where could the wretch, the exile, seek for an 
asylimi but with those whose fortunes, expectations, and 
characters were desperate, and marked as darkly, by fate, 
as his own ? 

Time fled, and each succeeding day inured Wolfstein 
more and more to the idea of depriving his fellow- 
creatures of their possessions. In a short space of time 
the high-souled and noble Wolfstein, though still high- 
souled and noble, became an experienced bandit. His 
magnanimity and courage, even whilst surrounded by the 
most threatening dangers, and the unappalled expression 



172 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

of countenance with which he defied the dart of death, 
endeared him to the robbers : whilst with him they all 
asserted that they felt, as it were, instinctively impelled 
to deeds of horror and danger, which, otherwise, must 
have remained unattempted even by the boldest. His was 
every daring expedition, his the scheme which demanded 
depth of judgment and promptness of execution. Often, 
whilst at midnight the band lurked perhaps beneath the 
overhanging rocks, which were gloomily impended above 
them, in the midst, perhaps, of one of those horrible 
tempests whereby the air, in those Alpine regions, is so 
frequently convulsed, would the countenance of the 

• 

bandits betray some slight shade of alarm and awe ; but 
that of Wolfstein was fixed, unchanged, by any variation 
of scenery or action. One d^ it was when the chief 
communicated to the banditti, notice which he had 
received by means of spies, that an Italian Count of 
immense wealth was journeying from Paris to his native 
country, and, at a late hour the following evening, would 
pass the Alps near this place ; " They have but few at- 
tendants," added he, " and those few will not come this . 
way ; the postillion is in our interest, and the horses are 
to be overcome with fatigue when they approach the 
destined spot : you understand." 

The evening came. " I," said Wolfstein, " will roam 
into the country, but will return before the arrival of our 
wealthy victim." Thus saying, he left the cavern, and 
wandered out amidst the mountains. 

It was autumn. The mountain-tops, the scattered 
oaks which occasionally waved their lightning-blasted 
heads on the summits of the far-seen piles of rock, were 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 173 

gilded by the setting glory of the sun ; the trees, 
yellowed by the waning year, reflected a glowing teint 
from their thick foliage; and the dark pine-groves 
which were stretched half way up the mountain sides, 
added a more deepened gloom to the shades of evening, 
which already began to gather rapidly above the 
scenery. 

It was at this dark and silent hour, that Wolfstein, 
unheeding the surrounding objects, — objects which might 
have touched with awe, or heightened to devotion, any 
other breast, — wandered alone — pensively he wandered — 
dark images for futurity possessed his soul : he shuddered 
when he reflected upon what had passed ; nor was his 
present situation calculated to satisfy a mind eagerly 
panting for liberty and independence. Conscience too, 
awakened conscience, upbraided him for the life which 
he had selected, and, with silent whisperings, stung his 
soul to madness. Oppressed by thoughts such as these, 
Wolfstein yet proceeded, forgetful that he was to return 
before the arrival of their destined victim — forgetful in- 
deed was he of every external existence; and absorbed 
in himself, with arms folded, and eyes fixed upon the 
earth, 'he yet advanced. At last he sank on a mossy 
bank, and, guided by the impulse of the moment, inscribed 
on a tablet the following lines ; for the inaccuracy of 
which, the perturbation of him who wrote them, may 
account ; he thought of past times while he marked the 
paper with — 



« 



'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling ; 

One glimmering lamp was expiring and low ; 
Aronnd, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, 
Along the wild mountains night-rayens were yelling,- 

They bodingly presag'd destmction and woe. 



1 74 ST. IRVYXE ; OR 

'Twas then that I started ! — the wild storm was howling. 
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danc'd in the skj ; 

Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, 
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafbed by. 

My heart sank within me — unheeded the war 
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke ; — 

Unheeded the thunder-peal crash'd in mine ear — 

This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear ; 

But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. 

Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding. 

The ghost of the murder d Victoria strode ; 
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding. 

She swiftly advanc*d to my lonesome abode. 

I wildly then calFd on the tempest to bear me " 

Overcome by the wild retrospection of ideal horror, 
which these swiftly- written lines excited in his soul, 
Wolfstein tore the paper, on which he had written them, 
to pieces, and scattered them about him. He arose from 
his recumbent posture, and again advanced through the 
forest. Not far had he proceeded, ere a mingled murmur 
broke upon the silence of night — it was the sound of 
human voices. An event so unusual in these solitudes, 
excited Wolfstein's momentary surprise ; he started, and 
looking around him, essayed to discover whence those 
sounds proceeded. — What was the astonishment of Wolf- 
stein, when he found that a detached party, who had been 
sent in pursuit of the Count, had actuaUy overtaken him, 
and, at this instant, were dragging from the carriage the 
almost lifeless form of a female, whose light symmetrical 
figure, as it leant on the muscular frame of the robber 
who supported it, afiForded a most striking contrast. — 
They had, before his arrival, plundered the Count of all 
liis riches, and, enraged at the spirited defence which he 
had made, had inhumanly murdered him, and cast his 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 175 

lifeless body adown the yawning precipice. Transfixed 
by a jutting point of granite rock, it remained there to be . 
devoured by the ravens. Wolfstein joined the banditti ; 
and, although he could not recall the deed, lamented the 
wanton cruelty which had been practised upon the Count. 
As for the female, whose grace and loveliness made so 
strong an impression upon him, he demanded that every 
soothing attention should be paid to her, and his desire 
was enforced by the commands of the chief, whose dark 
eye wandered wildly over the beauties of the lovely 
Megalena de Metastasio, as if he had secretly destined 
them for liimself. 

At last they arrived at the cavern ; every resource 
which the cavern of a gang of lawless and desperate 
villains might afford, was brought forward to restore the 
fainted Megalena to life : she soon recovered — she 
slowly opened her eyes, and started ^dth surprise to 
behold herself surrounded by a rough set of despera- 
does, and the gloomy walls of the cavern, upon which 
darkness hung, awfully visible. Near her sate a 
female, whose darkened expression of countenance 
seemed perfectly to correspond with the horror preva- 
lent throughout the cavern ; her face, though bearing the 
marks of an undeniable expression of familiarity with 
wretchedness, had some slight remains of beauty. 

It was long past midnight when each of the robbers 
withdrew to repose. But his mind was too much occu- 
pied by the events of the evening to allow the unhappy 
Wolfstein to find quiet ; — at an early hour he arose from 
his sleepless couch, to inhale the morning breeze. The 
sun had but just risen ; the scene was beautiful ; eveiy 



176 ST. IBVYNE; OK 

thing was still, and seemed to favour that reflection, 
which even propinquity to his abandoned associates 
imposed no indefinably insuperable bar to. In spite of 
his attempts to think upon other subjects, the image of 
the fair Megalena floated in his mind. Her loveliness 
had made too deep an impression on it to be easily 
removed ; and the hapless Wolfstein, ever the victim of 
impulsive feeling, foimd himself bound to her by ties, 
more lasting than he had now conceived the transitory 
tyranny of woe could have imposed. For never had 
Wolfstein beheld so singularly beautiful a form ; — ^her 
figure cast in the mould of most exact symmetry ; her 
blue and love-beaming eyes, from which occasionally 
emanated a wild expression, seemingly almost super- 
human ; and the auburn hair which hung in unconfined 
tresses down her damask cheek — formed a resistless tout 
ensemble. 

Heedless of every external object, Wolfstein long 
wandered. — The protracted sound of the bandits' horn 
struck at last upon his ear, and aroused him from his 
reverie. On his return to the cavern, the robbers were 
assembled at their meal ; the chief regarded him 
with marked and jealous surprise as he entered, but 
made no remark. They then discussed their unin- 
teresting and monotonous topics, and the meal being 
ended, each villain departed on his different business. 

Megalena, finding herself alone with Agnes (the only 
woman, save herself, who was in the cavern, and who 
served as an attendant on the robbers), essayed, by the 
most humble entreaties and supplications, to excite pity 
in her breast : she conjured her to explain the cause for 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 177 

which she was thus imprisoned, and wildly inquired for 
her father. The guilt-bronzed brow of Agnes was con- 
tracted by a sullen and malicious frown : ir was the 
only reply which the inhuman female deigned to return. 
After a pause, however, she said, " Thou thinkest thyself 
my superior, proud girl ; but time may render us equals. 
— Submit to that, and you may live on the same terms 
as I do." 

There appeared to lurk a meaning in these words, 
which Megalena found herself incompetent to develope ; 
she answered not, therefore, and suffered Agnes to 
depart unquestioned. The wretched Megalena, a prey to 
despair and terror, endeavoured to revolve in her mind 
the events wliich had brought her to this spot, but an 
unconnected stream of ideas pressed upon her brain. 
The sole light in her cell was that of a dismal lamp, 
which, by its uncertain flickering, only dissipated the 
almost palpable obscurity, in a suflBcient degree more 
assuredly to point out the circumambient horrors. She 
gazed wistfully around, to see if there were any outlet ; 
none there was, save the door whereby Agnes had entered, 
which was strongly barred on the outside. In despair 
she threw herself on the wretched pallet. — " For what 
cause, then, am I thus entombed alive ?" soliloquized the 
hapless Megalena ; " would it not be preferable at once 
to annihilate the spark of life which bums but faintly 
within my bosom? — my father! where art thou? 
Thy tombless corse, perhaps, is torn into a thousand 
pieces by the fury of the mountain cataract. — Little 
didst thou presage misfortunes such as these! — little 
didst thou suppose that our last journey would have 
caused thy immature dissolution — my infamy and 

PROSE. VOL. I. N 



178 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

misery, not to end but with my hapless existence ! — 
Here tliere is none to comfort me, none to participate my 
miseries !" Thus speaking, overcome by a paroxysm of 
emotion, she sank on the bed, and bedewed her fair face 
with tears. 

Whilst, oppressed by painful retrospection, the out- 
cast orphan was yet kneeling, Agnes entered, and, not 
even noticing her distress, bade her prepare to come to 
tlie banquet where the troop of bandits was assembled. 
In silence, along the vaulted and gloomy passages, she 
followed her conductress, from whose stern and for- 
bidding gaze her nature shrunk back enhorrored, till 
they reached that aj)artment of the cavern where the 
revelry waited but for her arrival to commence. On 
her entering, Cavigui, the chief, led her to a seat on 
his right hand, and paid her every attention which his 
froward nature could stoop to exercise towards a female : 
she received his civilities with apparent complacency ; 
but her eye was frequently fascinated, as it were, towards 
the youthful Wolfstein, who had caught her attention the 
evening before. His countenance, spite of the shade 
of woe with which the hard hand of suffering had 
marked it, was engaging and beautiful ; not that beauty 
which may be freely acknowledged, but inwardly con- 
fessed by every beholder with sensations penetrating and 
resistless ; his figure majestic and lofty, and the fire whi(^h 
flashed from his expressive eye, indefinably to herself, 
penetrated the inmost soul of the isolated Megalena. 
Wolfstein regarded Cavigni with indignation and envy ; 
and, though almost ignorant himself of the dreadful purpose 
of his sold, resolved in his own mind an horrible deed. 
Cavigni was enraptured with the beauty of Megalena, and 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 179 

secretly vowed that no pains should be spared to gain to 
himself the possession of an object so lovely. The antici- 
pated delight of gratified voluptuousness revelled in every 
vein, as he gazed upon her ; hie eye flashed with a 
triumphant expression of lawless love, yet he determined 
to defer the hoiur of his happiness till he might enjoy 
more free, unrestrained delight, with liis adored fair one. 
She gazed on the chief, however, with an ill-concealed 
aversion ; his dark expression of countenance, the haughty 
severity, and contemptuous frown, which habitually sate on 
his brow, invited not, but rather repelled a reciprocality 
of affection, which the haughty chief, after his own attacli- 
ment, entertained not the most distant doubt of. He was, 
notwithstanding, conscious of her coldness, but attributing 
it to virgin modesty, or to the novel situation into which 
she had suddenly been thrown, paid her eveiy attention ; 
nor did he omit to promise her every little comfort which 
might induce her to regard him with esteem. Still, though 
veiled beneath the most artful dissimulation, did the fair 
ilegalena pant ardently for liberty — for, oh ! liberty is 
sweet, sweeter even than all the other pleasures of life, to 
full satiety, without it. 

Cavigni essayed, by every art, 'to gain her over to liis 
desires ; but Megalena, regarding him with aversion, 
answered with an haughtiness which she was unable to 
conceal, and which his proud spirit miglit ill brook. 
Cavigni could not disguise the vexation which he felt, 
when, increased by resistance, Megalena's dislike towards 
him remained no longer a secret : " Megalena," said he, 
at last, " fair girl, thou shalt be mine — we will be wedded 
to-morrow, if you think the bands of love not sufficiently 
forcible to unite us." 

N 2 



180 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

" No bands shall ever unite me to you ! *' exclaimed 
Megalena. " Even though the grave were to yawn be- 
neath my feet, I would willingly precipitate myself into 
its gulf, if the alternative of that, or an union with you, 
were proposed to me." 

Eage swelled Cavigni's bosom almost to bursting — the 
conflicting passions of his soul were too tumultuous for 
utterance ; — in an hurried tone, he commanded Agnes to 
show Megalena to her cell : she obeyed, and they both 
quitted the apartment. 

Wolfstein's soul, sublimed by the most infuriate parox- 
ysms of contending emotions, battled wildly. His coun- 
tenance retained, however, but one expression, — it was of 
dark and deliberate revenge. His stem eye was fixed 
upon Cavigni ; — he decided at this instant to perpetrate 
the deed he had resolved on. Leaving his seat, he inti- 
mated his intention of quitting the cavern for an 
instant. 

Cavigni had just filled his goblet — Wolfstein, as he 
passed, dexterously threw a little white powder into the 
wine of the chief. 

When Wolfstein returned, Cavigni had not yet quaffed 
the deadly draught : rising, therefore, he exclaimed aloud, 
" Fill your goblets, all." Every one obeyed, and sat in 
expectation of the toast which he was about to propose. 

" Let us drink," he exclaimed, " to the health of the 
chieftain's bride — let us drink to their mutual happiness." 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 181 

A smile of pleasure irradiated the countenance of the 
chief : — that he whom he had supposed to be a dangerous 
rival, should thus publicly forego any claim to the affec- 
tions of Megalena, was indeed pleasure. 

" Health and mutual happiness to the chieftain and 
his bride ! " re-echoed from every part of the table. 

Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips : he was about 
to quaff the tide of death, when Ginotti, one of the robbers 
who sat next to him, upreared his arm, and dashed the 
cup of destruction to the earth. A silence, as if in ex- 
pectation of some terrible event, reigned throughout the 
cavern. 

Wolfstein turned his eyes towards the chief ; — the dark 
and mysterious gaze of Ginotti arrested his wandering eye- 
ball; its expression was too marked to be misunder- 
stood ; — ^he trembled in his inmost soul, but his coun- 
tenance yet retained its unchangeable expression. Ginotti 
spoke not, nor willed he to assign any reason for his ex- 
traordinary conduct; the circumstance was shortly for- 
gotten, and the revelry went on undisturbed by any other 
event 

Ginotti was one of the boldest of the robbers ; he was 
the distinguished favourite of the chief, and, although 
mysterious and reserved, his society was courted with moie 
eagerness, than such qualities might, abstractedly con- 
sidered, appear to deserve. None knew his history — 
tlmt he concealed within the deepest recesses of his 
bosom ; nor could the most suppliant entreaties, or threats 
of the most horrible punishments, have wrested from him 



182 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

one particular concerning it. Never had he once thrown 
off* the mysterious mask, beneath which his character was 
veiled, since he had become an associate of the band. In 
vain the chief required him to assign some reason for his 
late extravagant conduct ; he said it was mere accident, 
but with an air, which more than convinced every one, 
that something lurked behind which yet remained un- 
known. Such, however, was their respect for Ginotti, 
that the occurrence passed almost without a comment. 

Long now had the hour of midnight gone by, and the 
bandits had retired to repose. Wolfstein retired too to 
his couch, but sleep closed not his eyelids ; his bosom was 
a scene of the wildest anarchy ; the conflicting passions 
revelled dreadfully in his burning brain : — ^love, madden- 
ing, excessdve, unaccountable idolatry, as it were, which 
possessed him for Megalena, urged him on to the com- 
mission of deeds which conscience represented as beyond 
measure wicked, and which Ginotti's glance convinced 
him were by no means unsuspected. Still so unbounded 
was his love for Megalena (madness rather than love), 
that it overbalanced every other consideration, and his un- 
appalled soul resolved to persevere in its determination 
even to destruction ! 

Cavigni*s commands respecting Megalena had been 
obeyed : — the door of her cell was fastened, and the 
ferocious chief resolved to let her lie there till the suffer- 
ing and confinement might subdue her to his will. Mega- 
lena endeavoured, by every means, to soften the obdurate 
heart of her attendant ; at length, her mildness of manner 
induced Agnes to regard her with pity ; and before she 
quitted the cell, they were so far reconciled to each other. 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 183 

that they entered into a comparison of their mutual situa- 
tions ; and Agnes was about to relate to Megalena the 
circumstances which had brought her to the cavern, when 
the fierce Cavigni entered, and, commanding Agnes to 
withdraw, said, " Well, proud girl, are you now in a better 
humour to return the favour with which your superior 
regards you ? " 

" No ! " heroically answered Megalena. 

" Then," rejoined the chief, " if within four-and-twenty 
houi*s you hold yourself not in readiness to return my 
love, force shall wrest the jewel from its casket" Thus 
having said, he abruptly quitted the cell. 

So far had Wolfstein's proposed toast, at the banquet, 
gained on the unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that 
he accepted the former's artful tender of service, in the 
way of persuasion with Megalena, supposing, by Wolf- 
stein's manner, that they had been cursorily acquainted 
before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of 
Mesjalena. 

At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recum- 
bent posture, and hastened joyfully to meet him ; for 
she remembered that Wolfstein had rescued her from the 
insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening which 
Iiad subjected her to their control. 

" Lovely, adored girl," he exclaimed, " short is my 
time : pardon, therefore, the abruptness of my address. 
Tlie chief has sent me to persuade you to become united 



184 , ST. IRVYNE; OR 

to him ; but I love you, I adore you to madness. I am 
not what I seem. Answer me ! — time is short." 

An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through 
the passion-quivering frame of Megalena. " Yes, yes," 

she cried, " I will — I love you " At this instant 

the voice of Cavigni was heard in the passage. Wolf- 
stein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand 
presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed 
hastily to give an account of his mission to the anxious 
Cavigni ; who restrained himself in the passage without, 
and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about to advance 
to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation, 
when Wolfstein quitted Megalena. 

Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the 
scenes which had been lately acted. She thought upon 
the words of Wolfstein, unconscious wherefore they were 
a balm to her mind : she reclined upon her wretched pallet. 
It was now night : her thoughts took a diflferent turn ; 
the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the 
cavern, and the dismal sound of rain which pattered fast, 
inspired mournful reflection. She thought of her father, 
— her beloved father ; — a solitary wanderer on the face of 
the earth ; or, most probably, thought she, his soul rests 
in death. Horrible idea ! If the latter, she envied his 
fate ; if the former, she even supposed it preferable to 
her present abode. She again thought of Wolfstein ; 
she pondered on his last words : — an escape from the 
cavern : oh delightful idea ! Again her thoughts recurred 
to her father : tears bedewed her cheeks ; she took a 
pencil, and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, 
inscribed on the wall of her prison these lines : 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 



185 



Ghosts of the dead ! have I not heard your yelling 
Rise on the night- rolling breath of the blast, ^ 

When o*er the dark ether the tempest is swelling, 
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past P 

For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, 
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath ; 

Oft have I brav*d the chill night-tempest's fary, 
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd murmurs of death. 

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, 
father ! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear ; 

In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, 
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar. 

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain 
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead ; 

On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, 
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. 

Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her 
imagination, obliterated from the wall the characters 
which she had traced : the wind still howled dreadfully : 
in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she threw herself 
on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which 
impended over her. 

Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed bv ten 
thousand conflicting passions ; revenge and disappointed 
love agonized his soul to madness ; and he resolved to 
quench the rude feelings of his bosom in the blood of his 



^ It would be interesting to know 
whether, when Shelley was power- 
fuUy influencing Byron with the 
high thoughts and noble sentiments 
that contributed so largely to the 
greatness of some of '*the Pil- 
grim's'' works, either mind was 
ever for a moment conscious of this 
small debt on the other side of the 
account. Probably Shelley was 



too oblivious of St. Irvyne, and 
Byron too mach ashamed of Houn 
of IcUeneaa, for either poet mentally 
to collate these two lines with 
those in Ladiin y Oair {Houn of 
JdUneaa, 1807, p. 130)— 

Bbadea of the doad ! hsYS I not heard year 
vuioes 
Biae on the niefht-rolUnef breath of the 
galeP 



186 ST. IRVYXE ; OR 

rival. But, again he thought of Ginotti ; he thought of 
the mysterious intervention which his dark glances 
proved not to be accidental To him it was an inexplic- 
able mystery ; which the more he reflected upon, the less 
able was he to unravel. He had mixed the poison, un- 
seen, as he thought, by any one ; certainly unseen by 
Ginotti, whose back was unconcernedly turned at the 
time. He planned, therefore, a second attempt, unawed 
by what had happened before, for the destruction of 
Cavigni, which he resolved to put into execution this 
night. 

Before he had become an associate with the band of 
robbers, the conscience of Wolfstein was clear ; clear, 
at least, from the commission of any wilful and delibe- 
rate crime : for, alas ! an event almost too dreadful for 
narration, had compelled him to quit his native country, 
in mdigence and disgrace. His courage was equal to his 
wickedness ; his mind was unalienable from its purpose ; 
and whatever his will might determine, his boldness 
would fearlessly execute, even though hell and destruc- 
tion were to yawn beneath his feet, and essay to turn his 
unappalled soul from the accomplishment of his design. 
Such was the guilty Wolfstein ; a disgraceful fugitive 
from his country, a vile associate of a band of robbers, 
and a murderer, at least in intent, if not in deed. He 
shrunk not at the commission of crimes ; he was now the 
hardened villain; eternal damnation, tortures inconceivable 
on earth, awaited him. " Foolish, degrading idea ! " he 
exclaimed, as it momentarily glanced through his mind ; 
" am I worthy of the celestial Megalena, if I shrink at 
the price which it is necessary I should pay for her pos- 
session ?" This idea banished every other feeling from 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 187 

his lieart ; and, smothering the stings of conscience, a 
decided resolve of murder took possession of him — the 
determining, within himself, to destroy the very man wlio 
had given him an asylum, when driven to madness by 
the hoiTors of neglect and poverty. He stood in the 
night-storm on the mountains ; he cursed the intervention 
of (Jinotti, and secretly swore that nor heaven nor hell 
again should dash the goblet of destruction from the 
mouth of the detested Cavigni. The soul of Wolfstein 
t(K), insatiable in its desires, and panting for liberty, ill 
couKl bix)ok the confinement of idea, which the cavern of 
the bandits must necessarily induce. He longed again to 
try his fortune ; he longed to re-enter that world which 
he had never tried but once, and that indeed for a short 
time ; sufficiently long, however, to blast his blooming 
hopes, and to graft on the stock, which otherwise might 
have produced virtue, the fatal seeds of vice. 



CHAP. II. 

The fieDds of fate are heard to raye, 

Aod the deHth-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave. 

It was midnight ; and all the robbers were assembled in 
the banquet-hall, amongst whom, bearing in his bosom a 
weight of premeditated crime, was Wolfstein ; he sat by 
the chief. They discoursed on indiiferent subjects ; the 
sparkling goblet went round; loud laughter succeeded. 
The ruffians were rejoicing over some plunder which they 
had taken from a traveller, whom they had robbed of 
immense wealth ; they had left his body a prey to the 
vultures of the mountains. The table groaned with the 
pressure of the feast. Hilarity reigned around : reiter- 
ated were the shouts of merriment and joy ; if such could 
exist in a cavern of robbers. 

It was long past midnight : another hour, and Mega- 
lena must be Cavigni's. This idea rendered Wolfstein 
callous to every sting of conscience ; and he eagerly 
awaited an opportunity when he might, unperceived, 
infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him. 
Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein : his arms were folded, 
and his gaze rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance 



ST. IRVYNE; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 189 

of the murderer. Wolfstein shuddered when he beheld 
the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted, his marked 
features wrapped in inexplicable mystery. 

All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain 
who destined murder ; and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, 
whose reservedness and mystery, not even the hilarity of 
the present hour could dispel. 

Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, 
" Steindolph, you know some old German stories ; can- 
not you tell one, to deceive the lagging hours ? " 

Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical 
spectre tales, and the gang were frequently wont to hang 
delighted on the ghostly wonders which he related. 

" Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it," said 
Steindolph, "and I will with pleasure. I learnt it 
whilst in Germany ; my old grandmother taught it me, 
and I can repeat it as a ballad." — " Do, do," re-echoed 
from every part of the cavern. — Steindolph thus began : 



BALLAD. 



I. 



The death-bell beats !— 

The mountain repeats 
The echoing sound of the knell ; 

And the dark monk now 

Wraps the cowl round his brow, 
As he sits in his lonely cell. 



190 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

II. 

And the cold hand of death 

Chills his shuddering breath, 
As he lists to the fearful lay 

Which the ghosts of the sky, 

As they sweep wildly by, 
Sing to departed day. 

And they sing of the hour 

When the stem fates had power 
To resolve Bosa's form to its clay. 

III. 

But that hour is past; 

And that hour was the last 
Of peace to the dark monk's brain. 

Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush'd silent and fa8t ; 
And he strove to suppress them in vain. 

IV. 

Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor, 
When the death -knell struck on his ear. 

Delight is in store 

For her evermore ; 
But for me is fate, horror, and fear. 

V. 

Then his eyes wildly roird. 

When the death-bell tolled. 
And he rag*d in terrific woe. 

And he stamp*d on the ground, — 

But when ceas*d the sound 
Tears again began to flow. 

VI. 

And the ice of despair 

Chiird the wild throb of care, 
And he sate in mute agony still ; 

Till the night- stars shone through the cloudless air, 
And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill. 

VII. 

Then he knelt in his cell ; — 
And the horrors of hell 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 191 

Were delights to his agoniz*d pain. 

And he pray'd to God to dissolve the spell, 
Which else must for ever remain. 



VIII. 

And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground, 

Till the abbey bell struck One : 
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound : 
A voice hollow and horrible murmured around, 

** The term of thy penance is done !" 

IX. 

Grew dark the night ; 

The moon -beam bright 
Wax'd faint on the mountain high ; 

And, from the black hill, 

Went a voice cold and still, — 
" Monk ! thou art free to die." 

X. 

Then he rose on his feet, 

And his heart loud did beat. 
And his limbs they were palsied with dread ; 

Whilst the gravels clammy dew 

O'er his pale forehead grew ; 
And he shudder *d to sleep with the dead. 



XI. 

And the wild midnight storm 

Rav*d around his tall form, 
As he sought the chapel's gloom : 

And the sunk grass did sigh 

To the wind, bleak and high, 
As he searched for the new-made tomb. 

XII. 

And forms, dark and high, 

Seem'd around him to fly. 
And mingle their yells with the blast : 

And on the dark wall 

Half-seen shadows did fall. 
As enhorror'd he onward pass'd. 



ly2 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

XIII. 

And the storm-fiend's wild rave 
O'er the new-made grave, 
And dread shadows, linger around. 
The Monk call'd on God his soul to save, 
And, in horror, sank on the ground. 

XIV. 

Then despair nerv*d his arm 

To dispel the charm, 
And he hurst Rosa's coffin asunder. 

And the fierce storm did swell 

More terrific and fell, 
And louder peal'd the thunder. 



XV. 

And laugh*d, in joy, the fiendish throng, 
Mix*d with ghosts of the mouldering dead : 

And their grisly wings, as they floated along, 
Whistled in murmurs dread. 



XVI. 

And her skeleton form the dead Nun rear*d, 

Which dripp'd with the chill dew of hell. 
In her half-eaten eyehalls two pale flames appeared. 
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared, 
As he stood within the cell. 



xvu. 

And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain ; 

But each power was nerv'd by fear. — 
" I never, henceforth, may breathe again ; 
Death now ends mine anguish'd pain.— 

The grave yawns, — we meet there." 



xvm. 



And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound. 

So deadly, so lone, and so fell, 
That in long vibrations shudder'd the ground ; 
And as the stem notes floated around, 

A deep groan was answered from hell. 



THS ROSICBUCIAK. 193 

As Steindolph concluded, an universal shout of applause 
echoed through the cavern. Every one had been so 
attentive to the recitation of the robber, that no oppor- 
tunity of perpetrating his resolve had appeared to Wolf- 
stein. Now all again was revelry and riot, and the wily 
designer eagerly watched for the instant when universal 
confusion might favour his attempt to drop, unobserved, 
the powder into the goblet of the chief. With a gaze of 
insidious and malignant revenge was the eye of Wolfstein 
fixed upon the chieftain's countenance. Cavigni perceived 
it not ; for he was heated with wine, or the unusual ex- 
pression of his associate's face must have awakene<l 
suspicion, or excited remark. Yet was Ginotti's gaze 
fixed upon Wolfstein, who, like a sanguinary and remorse- 
less ruffian, sat expectantly waiting the instant of death. 
The goblet passed round : — at the moment when Wolfstein 
mingled the poison with Cavigni's wine, the eyes of 
Ginotti, which before had regarded him with the most 
dazzling scrutiny, were intentionally turned away: he 
then arose from the table, and, complaining of sudden in- 
disposition, retired. Cavigni raised the goblet to his 
lips — 

" Now, my brave fellows," he exclaimed, " the hour is 
late ; but before we retire, I here drink success and health 
to every one of you." 

Wolfstein involuntarily shuddered. — Cavigni quaffed 
the liquor to the dregs ! — the cup fell from his trembling 
hand. The chill dew of death sat upon his forehead : 
in terrific convulsions he fell headlong ; and, inarticulately 
uttering " I am poisoned," sank seemingly lifeless on the 
earth. Sixty robbers at once rushed forward to raise 

PKOSE. VOL. I. 



194 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

him ; and, reclining in their arms, with an horrible and 
harrowing shriek, the spark of life fled from his body for 
ever. A robber, skilled in surgery, opened a vein ; but 
no blood followed the touch of the lancet. — ^Wolfstein 
advanced to the body, unappalled by the crime which he 
had committed, and tore aside the vest from its bosom : 
that bosom was discoloured by large spots of livid purple, 
which, by their premature appearance, declared the poison 
which had been used to destroy him, to be excessively 
powerful. 

Every one regretted the death of the brave Cavigni ; 
every one was surprised at the mode of his death : and, 
by his abruptly quitting the apartment, the suspicion fell 
upon Ginotti, who was consequently sent for by Ardolph, 
a robber whom they had chosen chieftain, Wolfstein 
having declined the profiferred distinction. 

Ginotti arrived. — BKs stem countenance was changed 
not by the execrations showered on him by every one. 
He yet remained unmoved, and apparently careless 
what sentiments others might entertain of him : he 
deigned not even to deny the charge. This coolness 
seemed to have convinced every one, the new chief in 
particular, of his innocence. 

" Let every one," said Ardolph, " be searched ; and if 
his pockets contain poison which could have effected this, 
let him die." This method was universally applauded. 
As soon as the acclamations were stilled, Wolfstein 
advanced forwards, and spoke thus : 

" Any longer to conceal that it was I who perpetrated 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 195 

the deed, were useless. Megalena's loveliness inflamed 
me : — I envied one who was about to possess it. — I have 
murdered him ! " 

Here he was interrupted by the shouts of the bandits ; 
and he was about to be delivered to death, when Ginotti 
advanced. His superior and towering figure inspired awe 
even in the hearts of the bandits. They were silent. 

" Sufifer Wolfstein," he exclaimed, " to depart unhurt. 
/ will answer for his never publishing our retreat : / will 
promise that never more shall you behold him." 

Every one submitted to Ginotti : for who could resist 
the superior Ginotti ? From the gaze of Ginotti Wolf- 
stein's soul shrank, enhorrored, in confessed inferiority : he 
who had shrunk not at death, had shrunk not to avow 
himself guilty of murder, and had prepared to meet its 
reward, started from Ginotti's eye-beam as from the 
emanation of some superior and preter-human being. 

" Quit the cavern ! " said Ginotti. — " May I not remain 
here until the morrow ? " inquired Wolfstein. — ** If to- 
morrow's rising sun finds you in this cavern," returned 
Ginotti, " I must deliver you up to the vengeance of 
those whom you have injured." 

Wolfstein retired to his solitary cell, to retrace, in 
his mind, the occurrences of this eventful night. What 
was he now ? — an isolated wicked wanderer ; not a being 
on earth whom he could call a friend, and carrying with 
him that never-dying tormentor — conscience. In half- 
waking dreams passed the night : the ghost of him whom 

o2 



196 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

he had so inhumanly destroyed, seemed to cry for justice 
at the throne of God; bleeding, pale, and ghastly, it 
pressed on his agonized brain ; and confused, inexplicable 
visions flitted in his imagination, until the freshness of 
the morning breeze warned him to depart. He collected 
together all those valuables which had fallen to his share 
as plunder, during his stay in the cavern : they amoimted 
to a large sum. He rushed from the cavern ; he hesi- 
tated, — he knew not whither to fly. He walked fast, 
and essayed, by exercise, to smother the feelings of his 
soul; but the attempt was fruitless. Not far had he 
proceeded, ere, stretched on the earth apparently lifeless, 
he beheld a female form. He advanced towards it — it 
was Megalena ! 

A tumult of exulting and inconceivable transport 
rushed through his veins as he beheld her — ^her for 
whom he had plunged into the abyss of crime. She 
slept, and, apparently overcome by the fatigues which 
she had sustained, her slumber was profound. Her 
head reclined upon the jutting root of a tree : the tint of 
health and loveliness sat upon her cheek. 

When the fair Megalena awakened, and found herself 
in the arms of Wolfstein, she started ; yet, turning her 
eyes, she beheld it was no enemy, and the expression of 
terror gave way to pleasure. In the general confusion 
had Megalena escaped from the abode of the bandits. 
The destinies of Wolfstein and Megalena were assimi- 
lated by similarity of situations ; and, before they quitted 
the spot, so far had this reciprocal feeling prevailed, that 
they swore mutual affection. Megalena then related 
her escape from the cavern, and showed Wolfstein 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 197 

jewels, to an immense amount, which she had 
secreted. 

" At all events, then," said Wolfstein, " we may defy 
poverty ; for I have about me jewels to the value of" ten 
thousand zechins." 

" We will go to Genoa," said Megalena. " We will, 
my fair one. There, entirely devoted to each other, we 
will defy the darts of misery." 

Megalena returned no answer, save a look of else inex- 
pressible love. 

It was now the middle of the day ; neither Wolfstein 
nor Megalena had tasted food since the preceding night ; 
and faint, from fatigue, Megalena scarce could move 
onwards. " Courage, my love," said Wolfstein ; " yet a 
little way, and we shall arrive at a cottage, a sort of inn, 
where we may wait until the morrow, and hire mules to 
carry us to Placenza, whence we can easily proceed to the 
goal of our destination." 

Megalena collected her strength : in a short time they 
arrived at the cottage, and passed the remainder of the 
day in plans respecting the future. Wearied with un- 
usual exertions, Megalena early retired to an incon- 
venient bed, which, however, was the best the 
cottage could afford ; and Wolfstein, lying along the 
bench by the fireplace, resigned himself to meditation ; 
for his mind was too much disturbed to let him sleep. 

Although Wolfstein had every reason to rejoice at the 



198 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

success which had crowned his schemes; although the 
very event had occurred which his soul had so much and 
so eagerly panted for ; yet, even now, in possession of all 
he held valuable on earth, was he ill at ease. Eemorse 
for his crimes, tortured him : yet, steeling his conscience, 
he essayed to smother the fire which burned within his 
bosom ; to change the tenour of his thoughts — in vain ! 
he could not. Eestless passed the night, and the middle 
of the day beheld Wolfstein and Megalena far from the 
habitation of the bandits. 

They intended, if possible, to reach Breno that night, 
and thence, on the following day, to journey towards 
Genoa. They had descended the southern acclivity of 
the Alps. It was now hastening towards spring, and the 
whole country began to gleam with the renewed loveli- 
ness of nature. Odoriferous orange-groves scented the 
air. Myrtles bloomed on the sides of the gentle 
eminences which they occasionally ascended. The 
face of nature was smiling and gay ; so was Megalena's 
heart : with exulting and speechless transport it 
bounded within her bosom. She gazed on him who 
possessed her soul ; although she felt no inclination in 
her bosom to retrace the events, by means of which 
an obscure bandit, undefinable to herself, had gained 
the eternal love of the former haughty Megalena di 
Metastasio. 

They soon arrived at Breno. Wolfstein dismissed the 
muleteer, and conducted Megalena into the interior of 
the inn, ordering at the same time a supper. Again were 
repeated protestations of eternal affection, avowals of in- 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 1 99 

dissoluble love ; but it is sufficient to conceive what 
cannot be so well described. 

It was near midnight ; Wolfstein and Megalena 
sat at supper, and conversed with that unrestrained- 
ness and gaiety which mutual confidence inspired, 
when the door was opened, and the innkeeper announced 
the arrival of a man who wished to speak with 
Wolfstein. 

"Tell him," exclaimed Wolfstein, rather suri)rised, 
and wishing to guard against the possibility of danger, 
" that I will not see him." 

The landlord left the room, and, in a short time, 
returned. A man accompanied him : he was of gigantic 
stature, and masked. " He would take no denial, 
Signer," said the landlord, in exculpation, as he left the 
room. 

The stranger advanced to the table at which Wolfstein 
and Megalena sat : he threw aside his mask, and disclosed 
the features of — Ginotti ! Wolfstein's frame became con- 
vulsed with involuntary horror : he started. Megalena 
was surprised. 

Ginotti, at length, broke the terrible silence. 

" Wolfstein,'* he said, " I saved you from, otherwise, 
inevitable death ; by my means alone have you gained 
Megalena : — what do I then deserve in return f * Wolf- 
stein looked on the countenance : it was stem and 
severe, yet divested of the terrible expression which had 



200 ST. IRVYNB; OR 

before caused his frame to shudder with excess of 
alarm. 

" My eternal gratitude," returned Wolfstein, hesi- 
tatingly. 

" Will you promise, that when, destitute and a wan- 
derer, I demand your protection, when I beseech you to 
listen to the tale which I shall relate, you vnll listen to 
me ; that, when I am dead, you will bury me, and suffer 
my soul to rest in the endless slumber of annihilation ? 
Then will you repay me for the benefits which I have 
conferred upon you." 

" I will," replied Wolfstein, " I will perform all that 
you require." 

" Swear it !" exclaimed GinottL 

" I swear." 

Ginotti then abruptly quitted the apartment ; the 
sound of his footsteps was heard descending the 
stairs; and, when they were no longer audible, a 
weight seemed to have been taken from the breast of 
Wolfstein. 

" How did that man save your life ?" inquired 
Megalena. 

" He was one of our band," replied Wolfstein, 
evasively, " and, on a plundering excursion, his pistol- 
ball entered the heart of the man, whose sabre, lifted 



i 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 201 

aloft, would else have severed my head from my 
body." 

*' Dear Wolfstem, who are you ? — whence came you ? 
— for you were not always an Alpine bandit ?" 

" That is true, my adored one ; but fate presents an 
insuperable barrier to my ever relating the events which 
occurred previously to my connexion with the, banditti. 
Dearest Megalena, if you love me, never question me 
concerning my past life, but rest satisfied with the 
conviction, that my future existence shall be devoted 
to you, and to you alone." Megalena felt surprise ; 
but although eagerly desiring to unravel the mystery 
in which Wolfstein shrouded himself, desisted from 
inquiry. 

Ginotti's mysterious visit had made too serious an 
impression on the mind of Wolfstein to be lightly erased. 
In vain he essayed to appear easy and unembarrassed 
while he conversed with Megalena. He attempted to 
drown thought in wine — but in vain : — Ginotti's strange 
injunction pressed, like a load of ice, upon his breast. 
At last, the hour being late, they both retired to their 
respective rooms; 

Early on the following morning, Wolfstein arose, to 
arrange the necessary preparations for their journey to 
Genoa ; whither he had sent a servant whom he hired at 
Breno, to prepare accommodations for their arrival — 
Needless were it minutely to describe each trivial event 
which occurred during their journey to Genoa. 



202 ST. IRVYNB; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

On the morning of the fourth day, they found them- 
selves within a short distance of the city. They deter- 
mined on the plan they should adopt, and, in a short 
space of time, arriving at Genoa, took up their residence 
in a mansion on the outermost extremity of the city. 



CHAP. III. 



Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape, 
That dar'ft, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way? 

Paradise Lost. 



Time passed ; and, settled in their new habitation, 
Megalena and Wolfstein appeared to defy the arrows of 
vengeful destiny. 

Wolfstein resolved to allow some time to elapse before 
he spoke of the subject nearest to his heart, of herself, to 
Megalena. One evening, however, overcome by the 
passion which, by mutual indulgence, had become resist- 
less, he cast himself at her feet, and, avowing most un- 
bounded love, demanded the promised return. A slight 
spark of virtue yet burned in the bosom of the wretched 
girl ; she essayed to fly from temptation ; but Wolfstein, 
seizing her hand, said, " And is my adored Megalena a 
victim then to prejudice? Does she believe, that the 
Being who created us gave us passions which never were 
to be satiated ? Does she suppose that Nature created us 
to become the tormentors of each other ?" 

" Ah ! Wolfstein," Megalena said tenderly, " rise ! — 



204 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

You know too well the chain which unites me to you is 
indissoluble ; you know that I must be thine ; where, 
therefore, is there an appeal ?" 

" To thine own heart, Megalena ; for, if my image 
implanted there is not suflSciently eloquent to confirm 
your hesitating soul, I would wish not for a casket that 
contains a jewel unworthy of my possession." 

Megalena involuntarily started at the strength of his 
expression ; she felt how completely she was his, and 
turned her eyes upon his countenance, to read in it the 
meaning of his words. — His eyes gleamed with excessive 
and confiding love. 

" Yes," exclaimed Megalena, " yes, prejudice avaunt ! 
once more reason takes her seat, and convinces me, that 
to be Wolfstein's is not criminal. Wolfstein ! if for a 
moment Megalena has yielded to the imbecility of nature, 
believe that she yet knows how to recover herself, to re- 
appear in her proper character. Ere I knew you, a void 
in my heart, and a tasteless carelessness of those objects 
which now interest me, confessed your unseen empire ; 
my heart longed for something which now it has attained. 
I scruple not, Wolfstein, to aver that it is you : — Be 
mine, then, and let our affection end not but with our 
existence!" 

" Never, never shall it end ! " enthusiastically ex- 
claimed Wolfstein. " Never ! — What can break the 
bond joined by congeniality of sentiment, cemented by 
an union of soul which must endure till the intellectual 
particles which compose it become annihilated ? Oh ! 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 205 

never shall it end ; for when, convulsed by nature's 
latest ruin, sinks the fabric of this perishable globe ; 
when the earth is dissolved away, and the face of heaven 
is rolled from before our eyes like a scroll ; then 
will we seek each other, and, in eternal, indivisible, 
although immaterial union, shall we exist to all 
eternity." 

Yet the love, with which Wolfstein regarded Mega- 
lena, notwithstanding the strength of his expressions, 
though fervent and excessive, at first, was not of that 
nature which was likely to remain throughout existence ; 
it was like the blaze of the meteor at midnight, which 
glares amid the darkness for awhile, and then expires ; 
yet did he love her now ; at least if heated admiration of 
her person and accomplishments, independently of mind, 
be love. 



Blessed in mutual afifection, if so it may be called, the 
time passed swift to Wolfstein and Megalena. No 
incident worthy of narration occurred to disturb the un- 
interrupted tenour of their existence. Tired, at last, even 
with delight, which had become monotonous from long 
continuance, they began to frequent the public places. 
It was one evening, nearly a month subsequent to their 
first residence at Genoa, that they went to a party at the 
Duca di Thice. It was there that he beheld the gaze of 
one of the crowd fixed upon him. Indefinable to him- 
self were the emotions which shook him ; in vain he 
turned to every part of the saloon to avoid the scrutiny 
of the stranger's gaze ; he was not able to give formation, 



206 ST. IBVYNE; OR 

in his own mind, to the ideas which struck him ; they 
were acknowledged, however, in his heart, by sensations 
awful, and not to be described. He knew that he had 
before seen the features of the stranger ; but he had for- 
gotten Ginotti ; for it was Ginotti — from whose scinitin- 
izing glance, Wolfstein turned appalled ; — ^it was Ginotti, 
of whose strangely and fearfully gleaming eyeball Wolf- 
stein endeavoured to evade the fascination in vain. His 
eyes, resistlessly attracted to the sphere of chill horror that 
played around Ginotti's glance, in vain were fixed on 
vacuity ; in vain attempted to notice other objects. 
Complaining to Megalena of sudden and violent indis- 
position, Wolfstein with her retired, and they quickly 
reached the steps of their mansion. Arrived there, 
Megalena tenderly inquired the cause of Wolfstein's ill- 
ness, but his vague answers, and imconnected exclama- 
tions, soon led her to suppose it was not corporeal. She 
entreated him to acquaint her with the reason of his 
indisposition; Wolfstein, however, wishing to conceal 
from Megalena the true cause of his emotions, evasively 
told her that he had felt excessively faint from the heat 
of the assembly ; she well knew, by his manner, that he 
had not told her truth, but affected to be satisfied, 
resolving, at some future period, to develope the mystery 
with which he evidently was environed. Eetired to rest, 
Wolfstein's mind, torn by contending paroxysms of 
passion, admitted not of sleep ; he ruminated on the 
mysterious reappearance of Ginotti ; and the more he 
reflected, the more did the result of his reflections lead 
him astray. The strange gaze of Ginotti, and the con- 
sciousness that he was completely in the power of so in- 
definable a being ; the consciousness that, wheresoever 
he might go, Ginotti would still follow him, pressed upon 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 207 

Wolfstein's heart. Ignorant of what connexion they 
could have with this mysterious observer of his actions, 
his crimes recurred in hideous and disgustful array to the 
bewildered mind of Wolfstein ; he reflected, that, 
although now exulting in youthful health and vigour, the 
time would come, the dreadful day of retribution, when 
endless damnation would yawn beneath his feet, and he 
would shrink from eternal punishment before the tribunal 
of that God whom he had insulted. To evade death, un- 
conscious why, became an idea on which he dwelt with 
earnestness ; he thought on it for a time, and being 
mournfully convinced of its impossibility, strove to 
change the tenour of his reflections. 

Wliile these thoughts dwelt in his mind, sleep crept 
imperceptibly over his senses ; yet, in his visions, was 
Ginotti present. He dreamed that he stood on the brink 
of a frightful precipice, at whose base, with deafening and 
terrific roar, the waves of the ocean dashed ; that, above 
his head, the blue glare of the lightning dispelled the 
obscurity of midnight, and the loud crashing of the 
thunder was rolled franticly from rock to rock ; that, 
along the clifi" on which he stood, a figure, more frightful 
than the imagination of man is capable of portraying, 
advanced towards him, and was about to precipitate him 
headlong from the summit of the rock whereon he stood, 
when Ginotti advanced, and rescued him from the grasp 
of the monster ; that no sooner had he done this, than 
the figure dashed Ginotti from the precipice — his last 
groans were borne on the blast which swept the bosom of 
the ocean. Confused visions then obliterated the im- 
pressions of the former, and he rose in the morning rest- 
less and unrefreshed. 



208 ST. IRVTNE; OR 

A weight which his utmost efforts could not remove, 
pressed upon the bosom of Wolfstein ; his mind, superior 
and towering as it was, found all its energies inefficient 
to conquer it. As a last resource, therefore, this wretched 
victim of vice and folly sought the gaming-table ; a scene 
which alone could raise the spirits of one who required 
something important, even in his pastimes, to interest 
him. He staked large sums ; and, although he concealed 
his haunts from Megalena, she soon discovered them. 
For a time, fortune smiled ; till one evening he entered 
his mansion, desperate from ill luck, and, accusing liis 
own hapless destiny, could no longer conceal the truth 
from Megalena. She reproved him mildly, and her ten- 
derness had such an effect on Wolfstein that he burst into 
tears, and promised her that never again would he yield 
to the vicious influence of folly. 

The rapid days rolled on, and each one brought the 
conviction to Wolfstein more strongly, that Megalena was 
not the celestial model of perfection which his warm 
imagination had portrayed ; he began to find in her, not 
the exhaustless mine of interesting converse which he 
had once supposed. Possession, which, when unassisted 
by real, intellectual love, clogs man, increases the ardent, 
uncontrollable passions of woman even to madness. 
Megalena yet adored Wolfstein with most fervent love : — 
although yet greatly attached to Megalena, although he 
would have been imeasy were she another's, Wolfstein no 
longer regarded her with that idolatrous affection which 
had filled his bosom towards her. Feelings of this nature, 
naturally drove Wolfstein occasionally from home to seek 
for employment — and what employment, save gaming, 
could Genoa afford to Wolfstein ? — In what other occu- 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 209 

pation was it possible that he could engage ? It was 
done : he broke his promise to Megalena, and became 
even a more devoted votary to gambling than before. 

How powerful are the attractions of delusive vice ! 
Wolfstein soon staked large sums — larger even than ever. 
With what anxiety did he watch the dice ! — How were 
his eyeballs strained with mingled anticipation of w^ealtli 
and poverty ! Now fortune smiled ; yet he concealed 
even his good luck from Megalena. At length the tide 
changed again : he lost immense sums ; and, desperate 
from a series of ill success, cursed his hapless destiny, 
and with wildest emotions rushed into the street. Again 
he solemnly swore to Megalena, that never more would 
he risk their mutual happiness by his folly. 

Still, hurried away by the impulse of a burning desire 
of interesting his deadened feelings, did Wolfstein, false 
to his promise, seek the gaming-table ; he had staked an 
enormous amount, and the fatal throw was at this instant 
about to decide the fate of the unhappy Wolfstein. 

A pause, as if some dreadful event were about to occur, 
ensued ; each gazed upon the countenance of Wolfstein, 
which, desperate from danger, retained, however, an ex- 
pressive firmness. 

A stranger stood before Wolfstein on the opposite side 
of the table. He appeared to have no interest in what 
was going forward, but, with unmoved gaze, fixed his 
eyes upon his countenance. 

Wolfstein felt an instinctive shuddering thrill through 

PROSE. VOL. I. p 



210 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

his frame, when, oh horrible confirmatioa of his wildest 
apprehensions ! it was — Ginotti ! — the terrible, the 
mysterious Ginotti, whose dire scrutiny, resting upon 
Wolfstein, chilled his soul with excessive affright. 

A sensation of extreme and conflicting emotions 
shook the inmost recesses of Wolfstein's heart ; for an 
instant his brain swam aroimd in wildest commotion, 
yet he steeled his resolution, even to the horrors of 
hell and destruction ; he gazed on the mysterious 
scrutineer who stood before him, and, regardless of the 
sum he had staked, and which before had engaged his 
whole attention, and excited his liveliest interest,' dashed 
the box convulsively upon the table, and followed Ginotti, 
who was about to quit the apartment, resolving to clear 
up a fatality which hung around him, and appeared to 
blast his prospects ; for of the misfortunes which had 
succeeded his association with the bandits, he had not the 
slightest doubt, in his own mind, that Ginotti was the 
cause. 

With reflections a scene of the wildest anarchy, Wolf- 
stein resolved to unravel the mystery in which he saw 
Ginotti was shrouded ; and resolved, therefore, to devote 
that night towards finding out his abode. With feelings 
such as these, he rushed into the street, and followed the 
gigantic form of Ginotti, who stalked . onwards majesti- 
cally, as if conscious of safety, and whoUy ignorant of the 
eager scrutiny with which Wolfstein watched his every 
movement. 

It was midnight — yet they continued to advance ; a 
feeling of desperation urged Wolfstein onwards ; he 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 211 

resolved to follow Ginotti, even to the extremity of 
the universe. They passed through many bye and 
narrow streets ; the darkness was complete ; but the rays 
of the lamps, as they fell upon the lofty form of Ginotti, 
guided the footsteps of Wolfstein. 

They had reached the end of the Strada Nuova ; 
the lengthened sound of Ginotti's footsteps was all that 
struck upon Wolfstein's ear. On a sudden, Ginotti's 
figure disappeared from Wolfstein's gaze; in vain he 
looked around him, in vain he searched every recess, 
wherein he might have secreted himself — Ginotti was 
gone ! 

To describe the surprise mingled with awe, which 
possessed Wolfstein's bosom, is impossible. In vain he 
searched every part. He proceeded to the bridge; a 
party of fishermen were waiting there ; he inquired of 
them, had they seen a man of superior stature pass ? 
they appeared surprised at his question, and unanimously 
answered in the negative. While varying emotions 
tumultuously contended within his bosom, Wolfstein, ever 
the victim of extraordinary events, paused awhile, revolv- 
ing the mystery both of Ginotti's appearance and dis- 
appearance. That business of an important nature led 
him to Genoa, be doubted not; his indifiference at the 
gaming-table, his particular regard of Wolfstein, left, in 
the mind of the latter, no doubt, but that he took a 
terrible and mysterious interest in whatever related to 
him. 

All now was silent. The inhabitants of Genoa lay 

p2 



212 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

wrapped in sleep, and, save the occasional conversation of 
the fishermen who had just returned, no sound broke on 
the uninterrupted stillness, and thick clouds obscured the 
star-beams of heaven. 

Again Wolfstein searched that part of the city which 
lay near Strada Nuova ; but no one had seen Ginotti ; 
although all wondered at the wild expressions and dis- 
ordered mien of Wolfstein, The bell tolled the hour of 
three ere Wolfstein relinquished his pursuit; finding, 
however, further inquiry fruitless, he engaged a chair to 
take him to his habitation, where he doubted not that 
Megalena anxiously awaited his return. 

Proceeding along the streets, the obscurity of the night 
was not so great but that he observed the figure of one 
of the chairmen to be above that of common men, and 
that he had drawn his hat forwards to conceal his coun- 
tenance. His appearance, however, excited no remark ; 
for Wolfstein was too much absorbed in the idea which 
related individually to himself, to notice what, perhaps, 
at another time, might have excited wonder. The wind 
sighed moaningly along the stilly colonnades, and the 
grey light of morning began to appear above the eastern 
eminences. 

They entered the street which soon led to the abode of 
Wolfstein, who fixed his eyes upon the chairman. His 
gigantic proportions struck him with involuntary awe : 
such is the unaccountable connexion of idea in the mind 
of man. He shuddered. Such a man, thought he, is 
Ginotti : such a man is he who watches my every action, 
whose power I feel within myself is resistless, and not to 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 213 

be evaded. He sighed deeply when he reflected on the 
terrible connexion, dreadful although mysterious, which 
subsisted between himself and Ginotti. His soul sank 
within him at the idea of his own Uttleness, when a 
fellow-mortal might be able to gain so strong, though 
sightless, an empire over him. He felt that he was no 
longer independent. Whilst these thoughts agitated his 
mind, the chair had stopped at his habitation. He turned 
round to discharge the chairman's fare, when, casting his 
eyes on his countenance, which hitherto had remained 
concealed, oh horrible and chilling conviction ! he recog- 
nised in his dark features those of the terrific Ginotti. 
As if hell had yawned at the feet of the hapless Wolfstein, 
as if some spectre of the night had blasted his straining 
eyeball, so did he stand transfixed. His soul shrank 
with mingled awe and abhorrence from a being who, even 
to himself, was confessedly superior to the proud and 
haughty Wolfstein. Ere well he could calm his faculties, 
agitated by so unexpected an interview, Ginotti said, 

" Wolfstein ! long have I known you ; long have I 
marked you as the only man who now exists, worthy, 
and appreciating the value of what I have in store for 
you. Inscrutable are my intentions ; seek not, therefore, 
to develope them : time will do it in a far more complete 
manner. You shall not now know the motive for my, to 
you, unaccountable actions : strive not, therefore, to un- 
ravel them. You may frequently see me : never attempt 

to speak or foUow ; for, if you do " Here the eyes 

of Ginotti flashed with coruscations of inexpressible fire, 
and his every feature became animated by the tortures 
which he was about to describe ; but he suddenly checked 
himself, and only added, " Attend to these my directions. 



214 ST. IRVYNE; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

but try, if possible, to forget me. I am not what I 
seem. The time may come, toill most probably arrive, 
when I shall appear in my real character to you. You, 
Wolfstein, have I singled out from the whole world to 

make the depositary " He ceased, and abruptly 

quitted the spot. 



CHAP. IV. 



-Nature shrinkB back, 



Enborror'd from the lurid gaze of vengeance, 

£'en in the deepest caverns, and the voice 

Of all her works lies hushU Oltmpta. 



Ox Wolfstein*s return to his habitation, he found Megalena 
in anxious expectation of his arrival. She feared that 
some misfortune had befallen him. Wolfstein related to 
her the events of the preceding night ; they appeared to 
her mysterious and inexplicable ; nor could she offer any 
consolation to the wretched Wolfstein. 

The occurrences of the preceding evening left a load 
upon his breast, which all the gaieties of Genoa were 
insufficient to dispel : eagerly he longed for the visit of 
Ginotti. Slow dragged the hours : each day did he expect 
it, and each succeeding day brought but disappointment 
to his expectations. 

Megalena too, the beautiful, the adored Megalena, was 
no longer what formerly she was, the innocent girl hang- 
ing on his support, and depending wholly upon him for 
defence and protection ; no longer, with mild and love- 



216 ST. irvynb; or 

beaming eyes, she regarded the haughty Wolfstein as a 
superior being, whose look or slightest word was sufficient 
to decide her on any disputed point. No; dissipated 
pleasures had changed the former mild and innocent 
Megalena. Far, far diflferent was she than when she 
threw herself into his arms on their escape from the 
cavern, and, with a blush, smiled upon the first declara- 
tion of Wolfstein's afifection. 

Now immersed in a succession of gay pleasures, 
Megalena was no longer the gentle interesting she, 
whose soul of sensibility would tremble if a worm 
beneath her feet expired; whose heart would sink 
within her at the tale of others' woe. She had become a 
fashionable belle, and forgot, in her new character, the 
fascinations of her old one. Still, however, was she 
ardently, solely, and resistlessly attached to Wolfstein : 
his image was implanted in her soul, never to be efifaced 
by casualty, never erased by time. No coolness appa- 
rently took place between them ; but, although unper- 
ceived and unacknowledged by each, an indifference 
evidently did exist between them. Among the various 
families whom their residence in Genoa had rendered 
familiar to Wolfstein and Megalena, none were more so 
than that of il Conte della Anzasca ; it consisted of him- 
self, la Contessa, and a daughter of exquisite loveliness, 
named Olympia. 

This girl, mistress of every fascinating accomplishment, 
uniting in herself to great brilliancy and playfulness of 
wit, a person alluring beyond description, was in her 
eighteenth year. From habitual indulgence, her passions, 
naturally violent and excessive, had become irresistible ; 
and when once she had fixed a determination in her 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 217 

mind, that determination must either be efifected, or she 
must cease to exist. Such, then, was the beautiful 
Olympia, and as such she conceived a violent and un- 
conquerable passion for Wolfstein. His towering and 
majestic form, his expressive and regular features, 
beaming with somewhat of softness ; yet pregnant with 
a look as if woe had beat to the earth a mind whose 
native and unconfined energies aspired to heaven — all, 
all told her, that, without him, she must either cease to 
be, or drag on a life of endless and irremediable woe. 
Nourished by restless imagination, her passion soon 
attained a most unbridled height : instead of conquering 
a feeling which honour, generosity, virtue, all forbade 
ever to be gratified, she gloried within herself at having 
found one on whom she might with justice fix her 
burning attachment ; for although the object of them had 
never before been present to her mind, the desires for 
that object, although unseen, had taken root long, long 
ago. A false system of education, and a wrong expansion 
of ideas, as they became formed, had been put in prac- 
tice with respect to her youthful mind ; and indulgence 
strengthened the passions which it behoved restraint to 
keep within proper bounds, and which might have 
unfolded themselves as coadjutors of virtue, and not 
as promoters of vicious and illicit love. Fiercer, 
nevertheless, in proportion as greater obstacles appeared 
in the prosecution of her resolve, flamed the passion of 
the devoted Oljrmpia. Her brain was whirled round in 
the fiercest convukions of expectant happiness; the 
anticipation of gratified voluptuousness swelled her 
bosom even to bursting, yet did she rein-in the boiling 
emotions of her soul, and resolved to be sufficiently 
cool, more certainly to accomplish her purpose. 



218 ST. IKVYNE; OR 

It was one night when Wolfstein's mansion was the 
scene of gaiety, that this idea first suggested itself to the 
mind of Olympia, and unfolded itself to her, as it really 
was love for Wolfstein. In vain the suggestions of 
generosity, the voice of conscience, which told her how 
doubly wicked would be the attempt of alienating from 
her the lover of her friend Megalena, in audible, though 
noiseless, accents spoke ; in vain the native modesty of 
her sex represented in its real and hideous colours what 
she was about to do : still Olympia was resolved. 

That night, in the solitude of her own chamber, in the 
palazzo of her father, she retraced in her mind the 
various events which had led to her present uncontrol- 
lable passion, which had employed her whole thoughts, 
and rendered her, as it were, dead to every other outward 
existence. The wild transports of maddening desire 
raved terrific within her breast: she endeavoured to 
smother the ideas which presented themselves ; but the 
more she strove to erase them from her mind, the more 
vividly were they represented in her heated and enthusi- 
astic imagination. " And will he not return my love ? " 
she exclaimed : " will he not ? — ah ! a bravo's dagger 
shall pierce his heart, and thus will I reward him for his 
contempt of Olympia della Anzasca. But no ! it is im- 
possible. I will cast myself at his feet ; I will avow to 
liim the passion which consumes me, — ^will swear to be 
ever, ever his ! Can he then cast me from him ? Can 
he despise a woman whose only fault is love, nay 
idolatry, adoration for him ? " 

She paused. — ^The tumultuous passions of her soul 
were now too fierce for utterance — too fierce for conceal- 



THE ROSICKUCIAN. 219 

ment or restraint. The hour was late ; the moon poured 
its mildly-lustrous beams upon the lengthened colonnades 
of Genoa, when Olympia, overcome by emotions such as 
these, quitted her father's palazzo, and hastened, with 
rapid and unequal footsteps, towards the mansion of 
Wolfstein. The streets were by no means crowded ; but 
those who yet lingered in them gazed with slight surprise 
on the figure of Olympia, which, light and symmetrical 
as a celestial sylphid, passed swiftly onwards. 

She soon arrived at the habitation of Wolfstein, and 
sent the domestic to announce that one wished to speak 
with him, whose business was pressing and secret. She 
was conducted into an apartment, and there awaited the 
arrival of Wolfstein. A confused expression of awe 
played upon his features as he entered ; but it suddenly 
gave place to that of surprise. He started upon perceiv- 
ing Olympia, and said, 

" To what. Lady Olympia, do I owe the unforeseen 
pleasure of your visit ? What so mysterious business 
have you with me ? " continued he playfully. " But 
come, we had just sat down to supper ; Megalena is 
within," — " Oh ! if you wish to see me expire in horrible 
torments at your feet, inhuman Wolfstein, call for Mega- 
lena! and then will your purpose be accomplished." — 
" Dearest Lady Olympia, compose yourself, I beseech 
you," said Wolfstein: "what, what agitates you?" — 
" Oh ! pardon, pardon me," she exclaimed, with maniac 
wildness : " pardon a wretched female who knows not 
what she does ! Oh ! resistlessly am I impelled to 
this avowal ; resistlessly am I impelled to declare 
to you, that I love you 1 adore you to distraction ! 



220 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

— ^Will you return my aJBfection ? But, ah ! I rave ! 
Megalena, the beloved Megalena, claims you as her own; 
and the wretched Olympia must moan the blighted pros- 
pects which were about to open fair before her eyes." 

"For Heaven's sake, dear lady, compose yourself; 
recollect who you are ; recollect the loftiness of birth and 
loveliness of form which are so eminently yours. This, 
this is far beneath Olympia." 

" Oh ! " she exclaimed, franticly casting herself at his 
feet, and bursting into a passion of tears, " what are birth, 
fame, fortune, and all the advantages which are casually 
given to me ! I swear to thee, Wolfstein, that I would 
sacrifice not only these, but even all my hopes of future 
salvation, even the forgiveness of my Creator, were it 
required from me. Wolfstein, kind, pitying Wolfstein, 
look down with an eye of indulgence on a female whose 
only crime is resistless, unquenchable adoration of you." 

She panted for breath, her pulses beat with violence, 
her eyes swam, and, overcome by the conflicting passions 
of her soul, the frame of Olympia fell, sickening with 
faintness, on the ground. Wolfstein raised her, and 
tenderly essayed to recall the senses of the hapless girl. 
Recovering, and perceiving her situation, Olympia started, 
seemingly horrified, from the arms of WoKstein. The 
energies of her high mind instantly resumed their func- 
tions, and she exclaimed, " Then, base and ungrateful 
Wolfstein, you refuse to unite your fate with mine ? My 
love is ardent and excessive, but the revenge which may 
foUow the despiser of it is far more impetuous ; reflect 
well then ere you drive Olympia della Anzasca to 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 221 

despair." — "No reflection, in the present instance, is 
needed, Lady," replied Wolfstein, coolly, yet deter- 
minedly. " What man of honour needs a moment's 
rumination to discover what nature has se inerasibly 
implanted in his [bosom — the sense of right and wrong ? 
I am connected with a female whom I love, who con- 
fides in me ; in what manner should I merit her con- 
fidence, if I join myself to another ? Nor can the love- 
liness, the exquisite, the unequalled loveliness of the 
beautiful Olympia della Anzasca compensate me for 
breaking an oath sworn to another." 

He paused. — Olympia spake not, but appeared to be 
awaiting the dreadful fiat of her destiny. 

" Olympia," Wolfstein continued, " pardon me ! Were 
I not irrevocably Megalena's, I must be thine : I esteem 
you, I admire you, but my love is another's." 

The passion which before had choked Olympiads 
utterance, appeared to give way to the impetuousness of 
her emotions. 

"Then," she said, as a solemnity of despair toned 
her voice to firmness, "then you are irrevocably 
another's ? " 

" I am compelled to be explicit ; I am compelled to 
say, I am another's for ever ! " fervently returned 
Wolfstein. 

Again fainting from the excess of painful feeling which 
vibrated through her frame, Olympia fell at Wolfstein'a 



2*22 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

feet: again he raised her, and, in anxious solicitude, 
watched her varying countenance. At the critical instant 
when Olympia had just recovered from the faintness 
which had oppressed her, the door burst open, and dis- 
closed to the view of the passion-grieving Olympia, the 
detested form of Megalena. A silence, resembling that 
when a solemn pause in the midnight-tempest announces 
that the elements only hesitate to collect more terrific 
force for the ensuing explosion, took place, while Mega- 
lena surveyed Olympia and Wolfstein. Still she spoke 
not ; yet the silence, even more temble than the com- 
motion which followed, continued to prevail. Olympia 
dashed by Megalena, and faintly articulating "Vengeance!" 
rushed into the street, and bent her rapid flight to the 
Palazzo di Anzasca. 

" Wolfstein," said Megalena, her voice quivering with 
excessive emotion, " Wolfstein, how have I deserved this ? 
How have I deserved a dereliction so barbarous and so 
unprovoked ? But no ! " she added in a firmer tone ; 
" no ! I will leave you ! I will show that I can bear the 
tortures of disappointed love, better than you can evade 
the scrutiny of one who did adore thee." 

In vain Wolfstein put in practice every soothing art 
to tranquillize the agitation of Megalena. Her frame 
trembled with violent shuddering ; yet her soul, as it 
were, superior to the form which enshrined it, loftily 
towered, and retained its firmness amidst the frightful 
chaos which battled within. 

" Now," said she to Wolfstein, " I will leave you !" 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 223 

" God ! Megalena, dearest, adored Megalena !" ex- 
claimed Wolfstein, passionately, " stop — I love you, must 
ever love you : deign, at least, to hear me." — " What 
good would accrue from that ? " gloomily inquired Mega- 
lena. 

Wolfstein rushed towards her ; he threw himself at her 
feet, and exclaimed, " If ever, for one instant, my soul 
was alienated from thee — if ever it swen^ed from the 
affection which I have ' sworn to thee — may the red 
right hand of God instantaneously dash me beneath the 
lowest abyss of hell ! Megalena ! is it as a victim of 
groundless jealousy that I have immolated myself at the 
altar of thy perfections ? Have I only raised myself to 
this summit of happiness to feel more deeply the fall 
of which thou art the cause ! Megalena ! if yet one 
spark of thy former love lingers in tliy breast, oh ! be- 
lieve one who swears that he must be thine even till the 
particles which compose the soul devoted to thee, be- 
come annihilated." — He paused. 

Megalena heard his wildly enthusiastic expressions in 
sullen silence. She looked upon him with a stem and 
severe gaze : — he yet lay at her feet, and, hiding his face 
upon the earth, groaned deeply. " What proof," ex- 
claimed Megalena, impatiently, " what proof will Wolf- 
stein, the deceiver, bring to satisfy me that his love is 
stm mine ? " 

" Seek for proof in my heart," returned Wolfstein ; 
"that heart which yet is bleeding from the thorns 
which thou, cruel girl, hast implanted in it : seek it in 
my every action, and then will the convinced Megalena 



224 ST. IRVYNE; OK 

know that Wolfstein is hers irrevocably — body and soul, 
for ever !" 

"Yet, I believe thee not!" said Megalena; "for the 
haughty Olympia della Anzasca would scarcely recline 
in the arms of a man who was not entirely devoted 
to her." 

Yet were the charms of Megalena unfaded; yet their 
empire over Wolfstein excessive and complete. 

" Still I believe thee not," continued she, as a smile of 
expectant malice sat upon her cheek. " I require some 
proof which will assuredly convince me, that I am yet 
beloved : give me proof, and Megalena will again be 
Wolfstein's." — "Oh !" said Wolfstein, mournfully, "what 
farther proof can I give, but my oath, that never in soul 
or body have I broken the allegiance that I formerly 
swore to thee ? " 

"The death of Olympia!" gloomily returned Mega- 
lena. 

" What mean you ?" said Wolfstein, starting. 

" I mean," continued Megalena, collectedly, as if 
what she was about to utter had been the result of serious 
cogitation ; " I mean that, if ever you wish again to 
possess my affections, ere to-morrow morning, Olympia 
must expire !" 

"Murder the innocent Olympia ?" 
"Yes!" 



THE R08ICKUCIAN. 225 

A pause ensued ; during which the mind of Wolfstein, 
torn by ten thousand warring emotions, knew not on 
what to resolve. He gazed upon Megalena; her sym- 
metrical form shone with tenfold loveliness to his en- 
raptured imagination : again he resolved to behold those 
eyes beam with affection for him, which were now 
jrloomily fixed upon the ground. "Will nothing else 
convince Megalena that Wolfstein is eternally hers ?" 

" Nothing." 

"'Tis done then," exclaimed Wolfstein, "'tis done. 
Yet," he muttered, " I may suffer for this premeditated 
act tortures now inconceivable ; I may writhe, convulsed, 
in immaterial agony for ever and for ever — ah ! I cannot. 
No!" he continued; "Megalena, I am again yours; I 
will immolate the victim which thou requirest as a sacri- 
fice to our love. Give me a dagger, which may sweep 
off from the face of the earth, one who is hateful to 
thee ! Adored creature, give me the dagger, and I will 
restore it to thee dripping with Olympiads hated blood ; 
it shall have first been buried in her heart." 

" Then, then again art thou mine own ! again art thou 
the idolized Wolfstein, whom I was wont to love ! " said 
Megalena, enfolding him in her embrace. Perceiving her 
returning softness, Wolfstein essayed to induce her to 
spare him the frightful proof of the ardour of his attach- 
ment ; but she started from his arms as he spoke, and 
exclaimed, 

" Ah ! base deceiver, do you hesitate ?" 

PROSE. ^VOL. I. Q 



226 ST. mYTKS; or 

'* Oh, no ! I do not hesitate, dearest M^alena ; — give 
me a dagger, and I go." 

" Here, follow me, then," returned Megalena. He 
followed her to the supper-room. 

" It is useless to go yet, it has but yet struck one ; 
the inhabitants of il Palazzo della Anzasca will, about 
two, be nearly all retired to rest ; till then, let us con- 
verse on what we were about to do." So far did Mega- 
lena's seductive blandishment, her artful selection of con- 
verse, win upon Wolfstein, that, when the destined hour 
approached, his sanguinary soul thirsted for the blood of 
the comparatively innocent Olympia. 

" Well !" he cried, swallowing down an overflowing 
goblet of wine, "now the time is come ; now suffer 
me to go, and tear the soul of Olympia from her hated 
body." His fury amounted almost to delirium, as, 
masked, and having a dagger, which Megalena had 
given him, concealed beneath his garments, he pro- 
ceeded rapidly along the streets towards the Palazzo 
della Anzasca. So eager was he to shed the life-blood 
of Oljrmpia, that he flew, rather than ran, along the 
silent streets of G^noa. The colonnades of the lofty 
Palazzo della Anzasca resounded to his rapid footsteps ; 
he stopped at its lofty portal : — it was open ; unperceived 
he entered, and, hiding himself behind a column, ac- 
cording to the directions of Megalena, waited there. 
Soon advancing through the hall, he saw the sylph-like 
figure of the lovely Olympia ; with 'silent tread he 
followed it, experiencing not the slightest sentiment of 
remorse within his bosom for the deed which he was 



THE BOSICRUCIAN. 227 

about to perpetrate. He followed her to her apartment, 
and secreting himself until Olympia might have sunk 
into sleep, with sanguinary and remorseless patience, 
when her loud breathing convinced him that her slumber 
was profound, he arose from his place of concealment, 
and advanced to the bed, wherein Oljrmpia lay. Her 
light tresses, disengaged from the band which had con- 
fined them, floated around a countenance, superhumanly 
beautiful, and whose expression, even in slumber, 
appeared to be tinted by Wolfstein's refusal ; convulsive 
sighs heaved her fair bosom, and tears, starting from 
under her eyelids, fell profusely down her damask cheek. 
Wolf stein gazed upon her in silence. " Cruel, inhuman 
Megalena ! " he mentally soliloquized ; " could nothing 
but immolation of this innocence appease thee ? " Again 
he stifled the stings of rebelling conscience ; again the 
unquenchable and resistless ardour of his love for Mega- 
lena stimulated him to the wildest pitch of fury: he 
raised high the dagger, and, drawing aside the covering 
which veiled her alabaster bosom, paused an instant, to 
decide in which place it were most instantaneously des- 
tructive to strike. Again a mournful smile irradiated 
her lovely features ; it played with a sweet softness on 
her countenance : it seemed as though she smiled in 
defiance of the arrows of destiny, but that her soul, never- 
theless, lingered with the wretch who sought her life. 
Maddened by the sight of so much beauteous innocence, 
even the desperate Wolfstein, forgetful of the danger 
which he must thereby incur, hurled the dagger from 
him. The sound awakened Olympia : she started up in 
surprise; but her alarm was changed into ecstacy 
when she beheld the idolized possessor of her soul stand- 
ing before her. 

Q2 



228 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

" I was dreaming of you," said Olympia. scarcely 
knowing whether this were not a dream ; but, impulsively 
following the first emotions of her soul, " I dreamed 
that you were about to murder me. It is not so, Wolf- 
stein, no ! you would not murder one who adores 
you ? " 

" Murder Olympia ! God ! no ! — I take Heaven to 
witness, that I never now could do it !" 

" Nor could you ever, I hope, dear Wolfstein ; but 
drive away thoughts like these, and remember that 
Olympia lives but for thee ; and the moment which 
takes from her your affections, seals the death-like fiat of 
her destiny." These asseverations, strengthened by the 
most solemn and deadly vows that he would return to 
Megalena the destroyer of Olympia, flashed across. Wolf- 
stein's mind. Perpetrate the deed, now, he could not ; 
his soul became a scene of most terrific agony. " Wilt 
thou be mine ? " exclaimed the enraptured Olympia, as 
a ray of hope arose in her mind. " Never ! never can 
I," groaned the agitated Wolfstein ; " I am irrevocably, 
indissolubly another's." Maddened by this death-blow 
to all expectations of happiness, which the deluded 
Olympia had so fondly anticipated, she leaped wildly 
from the bed. A light and flowing night-dress alone 
veiled her form : her alabaster bosom was shaded by the 
light ringlets of her hair which rested unconfined upon it. 
She threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, 
as if struck by some thought, she started convulsively from 
the earth : for an instant she paused. 

The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 229 

apartment, fell full upon the dagger of Wolfstein. 
Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it ; and, ere Wolfstein 
was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her 
bosom. Weltering in purple gore she fell : no groan, no 
sigh escaped her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolu- 
tion could not dispel, played on her convulsed counten- 
ance ; it irradiated her features with celestially awful, 
although terrific expression. " Ineffectually have I endea- 
voured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul ; now I 
overcome them," were her last words. She uttered 
them in a tone of firmness, and, falling back, expired 
in torments, which her fine, her expressive features 
declared that she gloried in. 

All was silent in the chamber of death : the stillness 
was frightful. The agonies which Wolfstein endured 
were past description : for a time he neither moved nor 
spoke. The pale glare of the lamp fell upon the features 
of Olympia, from which the tinge of life had fled for ever. 
Suddenly, and in despite of himself, were the affections 
of Wolfstein turned from Megalena : he could not but 
now regard her as a fiend, who had been the cause 
of Olympiads destruction ; who had urged him to a deed 
from which his nature now shrunk as from anniliilation. 
A wild paroxysm of awful alarm seized upon him : he 
knelt by the side of Olympia's corpse ; he kissed it, 
bathed it with his tears, and imprecated a thousand 
curses on himself. Her features, although convulsed by 
the agonies of violent dissolution, retained an unchanging 
image of loveliness, which never might fade away. Her 
beautiful bosom, in which her hand yet held the fatal 
dagger, was discoloured Mrith blood, and those aflfection- 
beaming orbs were now closed in the never-ending 



230 ST. IRVTNE; OK 

sliimber of the grave. Unable longer to endure a sight of 
so much horror, Wolfstein started up, and, forgetful of 
every thing save the frightful deed which he had wit- 
nessed, rushed from the Palazzo della Anzasca, and 
mechanically retraced his way towards his own habitation. 

Not once that night had Megalena closed her eyes. 
Her infuriate passions had wound her soul up to a deadly 
calmness of expectation. She had not, during the whole 
of the night, retired to rest, but sat, with sanguinary 
patience, cursing the lagging hours that they passed so 
slowly, and waiting to hear tidings of death. Morning 
had begun to streak the eastern sky with gray, when 
Wolfstein hurried into the supper-room, where Megalena 
still sat, wildly exclaiming "The deed is done !" Mega- 
lena entreated him to be calm, and, more collectedly, to com- 
municate the events which had occurred during the night. 

" In the first place," he said in an accent of feigned 
horror, " the officers of justice are alarmed ! " 

Deadly afifright chilled the soul of Megalena : she 
turned pale, and, gasping for breath, inquired eagerly 
respecting the success of his attempt. 

"0 God!" exclaimed Wolfstein, "that has succeeded 
but too well ! the hapless Olympia welters in her life- 
blood !" 

" Joy ! joy !" franticly exclaimed Megalena, her eager- 
ness for revenge overcoming, for the moment, every other 
feeUng. 



THE BOSICBUCIAN. 231 

" But, Megalena," continued Wolfstein, " she fell not 
hy mj hand : no, she smiled on me in her sleep, and, 
when she awoke, finding me deaf to her solicitations, 
snatched my dagger, and buried it in her bosom." 

" Did you wish to prevent the deed ?" inquired 
Megalena. 

"Oh ! good God of Heaven ! thou knowest my heart : I 
would sacrifice every remaining eartUy good were 
Olympia again alive !" 

Megalena spoke not, but a smile of exquisitely gratified 
malice illumined her features with terrific flame. 

"We must instantly quit Genoa," said Wolfstein: 
" the name on the mask which I left in the Palazzo della 
Anzasca, will remove all doubt that I was the murderer 
of 01)rmpia. Yet indeed I care not much for death ; 
if you will it so, Megalena, we will even, as it is, remain 
in Genoa." 

" Oh ! no, no !" eagerly cried Megalena : " Wolfstein, 
I love you beyond expression, and Genoa is destruction ; 
let us seek, therefore, some retired spot, where we may 
for a while at least secrete ourselves. But, Wolfstein, 
are you persuaded that I love you? need there more 
proof be required than that I wished the death of another 
for thee ? it was on that account alone that I desired the 
destruction of Olympia, that thou mightest be more com- 
pletely and uresistibly mine." 

Wolfstein answered not : the feelings of his soul were 



232 ST. IBVYNE ; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

far diJBerent ; the expression of his countenance plainly 
evinced them : and Megalena regretted that her efferves- 
cent passions should have led her to so rash an avowal 
of her contempt of virtue. They then separated to 
arrange their affairs, prior to their departure, which, on 
account of the pressing necessity of the case, must take 
place immediately. They took with them but two domes- 
tics, and, collecting all their stock of money, they were 
soon far from pursuit and Genoa. 



CHAr. VII.J 



Ycl ! 'tis the inflnenoe of that lightleM fiend 
Who guides my every footstep, that I feel : 
An iron grasp arrests each fluttering sense, 
And a fell voice howls in mine anguish*d ear, 
" Wretch, thou may*st rest no more." Olympia. 



How sweet are the scenes endeared to us by ideas which 
we have cherished in the society of one we have loved ! 
How melancholy to wander amongst them again after an 
absence, perhaps of years ; years which have changed the 
tenour of our existence, — have changed even the friend, 
the dear friend, for whose sake alone the landscape lives 
in the memory, for whose sake tears flow at the' each 
varying feature of the scenery, which catches the eye of 
one who has never seen them since he saw them with the 
being who was dear to him ! 

Dark, autumnal, and gloomy was the hour ; the winds 
whistled hollow, and over the expanse of heaven was 
spread an unvarying sombreness of vapour : nothing was 
heard save the melancholy shriekings of the night-bird, 
which, soaring on the evening blast, broke the stillness of 

^ There are no Chapters V. and VI. ' Sic in orig. 



23* ST. IRVYNE; OR 

the scene, interrupting the meditations of frenzied enthu- 
siasm ; mingled with the sighing of the wind, which 
swept in languid and varying cadence amidst the leafless 
boughs. 

Ah ! of whom shall the poor outcast wanderer demand 
protection ? Far, far has she wandered. The vice and 
unkindness of the world hath torn her tender heart. In 
whose bosom shall she repose the secret of her sufiferings ? 
Who will listen with pity to the narrative of her woe, and 
heal the wounds which the selfish unMndness of man 
hath made, and then sent her with them, unbound, on 
the wide and pitiless world ? lives there one whose con- 
fidence the sufferer might seek ? 

Cold and dreary was the night : November's blast had 
chilled the air. Is the blast so pitiless as ingratitude and 
selfishness ? Ah, no ! thought the wanderer ; it is unkind 
indeed, but not so unkind as that^ Poor Eloise de St 
Irvyne ! many, many are in thy situation ; but few have 
a heart so full of sensibility and excellence for the demo- 
niac malice of man to deform, and then glut itself with 
hellish pleasure in the conviction of having ravaged the 
most lovely of the works of their Creator. She gazed 
upon the sky : the moon had just risen ; its full orb was 
occasionally shaded by a passing cloud : it rose from 
behind the turrets of le Chateau de St. Irvyne. The poor 
girl raised her eyes towards it, streaming with tears : she 



^ The preaeaceof thispanphraae may perhaps be taken as evidence 

of that Shelley had been reading 

Blow, blow,thoa winter wind. Am you Like it, aa well as Ii<mr» of 

Thoa art nut lo nnkind IdLat^MM 

Aa ninn'a ingnUtcuie, ^wwww. 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 285 

scarce could recognise the once-loved building. She 
thanked God for permitting her again to behold it ; and 
hastened on with steps tottering from fatigue, yet nerved 
with the sanguineness of anticipation. 

Yes, St. Irvyne was the same as when she had left it 
five years ago. The same ivy mantled the western tower ; 
the same jasmine which bloomed so luxuriantly when she 
left it, was still there, though leafless from the season. 
Thus was it with poor Eloise : she had left St. Irvyne, 
blooming, and caressed by every one ; she returned to it 
pale, downcast, and friendless. The jasmine encircled the 
twisted pillars which supported the portal. Alas ! whose 
assistance had prevented Eloise from sinking to the 
earth ? — no one's. She knocked at the door — it was 
opened, and an instant's space beheld her in the arms of 
a beloved sister. Needless were it to describe the mutual 
pleasure, needless to describe the delight, of recognition ; 
suffice it to say, that Eloise once more enjoyed the society 
of her dearest friend ; and, in the happiness of her 
society, forgot the horrors which had preceded her 
return to St. Irvyne. 

Now were it well for a while to leave Eloise at 
St. Irvjme, and retrace the events which, since five 
years, had so darkly tinged the fate of the unsuspecting 
female, who trusted to the promises of man. It was a 
beautiful morning in May, and the loveliness of the 
season had spread a deeper shade of gloom over the 
features of Eloise, for she knew that not long would 
her mother live. They journeyed on towards Geneva, 
whither the physicians had ordered Madame de St. 
Ir\'yne to repair, as the last resort of a hope that 



236 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

she might, thereby, escape a rapid decline. On account 
of the illness of her mother, they proceeded slowly ; and 
ere long they had entered the region of the Alps, the 
shades of evening, which rapidly began to increase, 
announced approaching night. They had expected, be- 
fore this time, to have reached a town ; but, either 
owing to a miscalculation of their route, or the remiss- 
ness of the postillion, they had not yet done so. The 
majestic moon which hung above their heads, tinged 
with silver the fleecy clouds which skirted the far-seen 
horizon ; and, borne on the soft wing of the evening 
zephyr, shadowy lines of vapour, at intervals, crossed 
her orbit ; then vanishing into the dark blue expansive- 
ness of ether, their fantastic forms, like the phantoms of 
midnight, became invisible. Now might we almost sup- 
pose, that the sightless spirits of the departed good, 
enthroned on the genial breeze of night, watched over 
those whom they had loved on earth, and poured into the 
bosom, to the dictates of which, in this world, they had 
listened with idolatrous attention, that tranquillity and 
confidence in the goodness of the Creator, which is 
necessary for us to experience ere we go to the next. 
Such tranquillity felt Madame de St. Irvyne : she tried 
to stifle the ideas which arose within her mind; but 
the more she strove to repress them, in the more 
vivid characters were they imprinted on the imagina- 
tion. 

Now had they gained the summit of the mountain, 
when, suddenly, a crash announced that the carriage had 
given way. 



« 



What is to be done?" inquired Eloise. The 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 237 

postillion appeared to take no notice of her question. 
" What is to be done ? " again she inquired. 

" Why, I scarcely know," answered the .postillion ; 
" but 'tis impossible to proceed." 



** Is there no house nearer than- 



99 



" Oh yes," replied he ; " here is a house quite near, but 
a little out of the way ; and, perhaps, Ma'am'selle will 
not " 

" Oh, lead on, lead on to it," quickly rejoined 
EloLse. 

Tliey followed the postillion, and soon arrived at 
the house. It was large and plain ; and although 
there were lights in some of the windows, it bore an 
indefinable appearance of desolation. 

In a large hall sat three or four men, whose marked 
countenances almost annoimced their profession to be 
bandits. One of superior and commanding figure 
whispering to the rest, and himself advancing with the 
utmost and most unexpected politeness, accosted the 
travellers. For the ideas with which the countenance 
of this man inspired Eloise she in vain endeavoured 
to account. It appeared to her that she had seen 
him before; that the deep tone of his voice was 
known to her; and that eye, scintillating with a 
coruscation of mingled sternness and surprise, found 
some counterpart in herself. Of gigantic stature, yet 
formed in the mould of exactest symmetry, was the 



238 ST. ikvyne; or 

figure of the stranger who sate before Eloise. His 
countenance of excessive beauty even, but dark, 
emanated with an expression of superhuman loveliness ; 
not that grace which may freely be admired, but 
acknowledged in the inmost soul by sensations myste- 
rious, and before unexperienced. He tenderly inquired, 
whether the night air had injured the ladies, and 
pressed them to partake of a repast which the other 
three men had prepared ; he appeared to unbend a 
severity, which evidently was habituad, and by extreme 
brilliancy and playfulness of wit, joined to talents for 
conversation, possessed by few, made Madame de St. 
Irvyne forget that she was dying ; and her daughter, as 
in rapturous attention she listened to each accent of the 
stranger, remembered no more that she was about to lose 
her mother. 

In the stranger's society, they almost forgot the 
lapse of time: a pause in the conversation at last 
occurred. 

" Can Ma'am'selle sing ?" inquired the stranger. 



" I can," replied Eloise ; " and with pleasure. 



SONG. 

How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse 
Bright day's resplendent colours fade ! 

How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance 
With silver tint St. Irvjne's glade ! 

No cloud along the spangled air, 
Is borne upon the evening breeze ; 

How solemn is the scene ! how fair 
The moonbeams rest upon the trees ! 



If 



THS BOSICRUCIAN. 239 



Yon dark gray turret glimmers white. 
Upon it sits the moumfol owl ; 

Along the stiilnesB of the night, 
Her melancholy shriekings rolL 

But not alone on Iryyne's tower, 
The Bilver moonbeam poors her ray ; 

It gleams upon the ivied bower. 
It dances in the cascade's spray. 

'' Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 
The honr, when man must cease to be P 

Why may not human minds unveil 
The dim mists of futurity P 

" The keenness of the world hath torn 
The heart which opens to its blast ; 

Despis'd, neglected, and forlorn, 
Sinks the wretch in death at last." 



She ceased; — ^the thrilling accents of her interest- 
ingly sweet voice died away in the vacancy of stillness ; 
— yet listened the charmed auditors ; their imaginations 
prolonged the tender strain ; the imcouth attendants of 
the stranger were chained in silence, and the enthu- 
siastic gaze of their host was fixed upon the timid 
coimtenance of Eloise with wild and mysterious expres- 
sion. It seemed to say to Eloise, " We meet again ;" — 
and, as the idea struck her imagination, convulsed by a 
feeling of indescribable and excessive awe, she started. 

At last, the hour being late, they all retired. Eloise 
sought the couch prepared for her ; her mind, perturbed 
by emotions, the cause of which she in vain essayed to 
develope, could bring its intellectual energies to act on no 
one particular point; her imagination was fertile, and, 
under its fantastic guidance, she felt her judgment and 



240 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

reason irresistibly fettered. The image of the fascinating, 
yet awful stranger, dwelt on her mind. She sank on her 
knees to return thanks to her Creator for his mercies ; 
yet even then, faithless to the task on which it was 
employed, her mind returned to the stranger. She felt 
no particular affection or esteem for him ; — no, she rather 
feared him ; and, when she endeavoured to connect the 
chain of ideas which pressed upon her mind, tears started 
into her eyes, and she looked around the apartment with 
the timid terror of a person who converses at midnight 
on a subject at once awful and interesting: but poor 
Eloise was no philosopher ; and to explain sensations like 
these, were even beyond the power of the wisest of them. 
She felt alarmed, herself, at the violence of the feelings 
which shook her bosom, and attempted to compose herself 
to sleep. Yet even in her dream was the stranger present. 
She thought that she met him on a flowery plain ; that 
the feelings of her bosom, whether she would or not, 
impelled her towards him ; that before she had been 
enfolded in his arms, a torrent of scintillating flame, ac- 
companied by a terrific crash of thunder, made the earth 
yawn beneath her feet ; — the gay vision vanished from 
her fancy, and, in place of the flowery plain, a rugged 
and desolate heath extended far before her ; its mono- 
tonous solitude unbroken, save by the low and barren 
rocks which rose occasionally from its surface. From 
dreams such as these, dreams which left on her mind 
painful presentiments of her future life, Eloise arose, rest- 
less and unrefreshed from slumber. 

Why gleams that dark eyeball upon the coimtenance 
of Eloise, as she tenderly inquired for the health of her 
mother ? Why did a hidden expression of exulting joy 



THE ROSICRUCIAK. 241 

light up that demoniac gaze, when Madame de St. Irvyne 
said to her daughter, " I feel rather faint to-day, my 
child: — ^* Would we were at Geneva!" — It beams with hell 
and destruction 1 — Let me look again : that, when I see 
another eye which gleams so fiendishly, I may know that 
it is a villain's. — Thus might have thought the sightless 
minister of the beneficence of God, as it hovered round 
the spotless Eloise. But, hush ! what was that scream 
which was heard by the ear of listening enthusiasm ? It 
was the shriek of the fair Eloise's better genius; it 
screamed to see the foe of the innocent girl so near — it is 
fled fast to Geneva. " There, Eloise, will we meet again," 
methought it whispered ; whilst a low hollow tone, hoarse 
from the dank vapours of the grave, seemed lowly to 
howl in the ear of rapt Fancy, " We meet again like- 
wise." 

Their courteous host conducted Madame de St. Irvyne 
and Eloise to their chaise, which was now repaired, and 
ready for the journey ; the stranger bowed respectfully as 
they went away. The expression of his dark eye, as he 
beheld them for the last time, was even stronger than 
ever ; it seemed not to affect her mother ; but the mystic 
feelings which it excited in the bosom of Eloise were be- 
yond description powerful. The paleness of Madame de 
St. Irvyne's cheek, on which the only teint was an occa- 
sional and hectic flush, announced that tlie illness which 
consumed her, rapidly increased, and would soon lead her 
gently to the gates of death. She talked cahnly of her 
approaching dissolution, and only regretted, that to no one 
protector could she entrust the care of her orphaned daugh- 
ters. Marianne, her eldest daughter, had, by her mother's 
particular desire, remained at the chateau ; and, though 

PROSE. VOL. I. R 



242 ST. IRVYNB; OR 

much wishing to accompany her mother, she urged it no 
longer, when she knew Madame de St. Irvyne to be 
resolved against it. Now had the illness which had at- 
tacked her assumed so serious and so decided an appear- 
ance, that she could no longer doubt the event ; — could 
no longer doubt that she was quickly about to enter a 
better world. 



" My daughter," said she, " there is a banker at 
Geneva, a worthy man, to whom I shall bequeath the 
guardianship of my child ; on that head are all my 
doubts quieted. But, Eloise, my child, you are yet young ; 
you know not the world ; but bear in mind these words 
of your dying mother, so. long as you remember her- 
self: — ^When you see a man enveloped in deceit and 
mystery ; when you see him dark, reserved, and suspi- 
cious, carefully avoid him. Should such a man seek 
your friendship or affection, should he seek, by any 
means, to confer an obligation upon you, or make you 
confer one on him, spurn him from you as you would a 
serpent ; as one who aimed to lure your unsuspecting 
innocence to the paths of destruction." 

The affecting solemnity of her voice, as thus she 
spoke, touched Eloise deeply ; she wept " I must 
remember my mother for ever," was her almost inar- 
ticulate reply ; deep sobs burst from her agitated bosom ; 
and the varying crowds of imagery which followed 
each other in her mind, were too complicated to be 
defined. Still, though deeply grieved at the approach- 
ing death of her mother, was the mysterious stranger 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 243 

uppermost in her thoughts; his image excited ideas 
painful and unpleasant. She wished to turn the tide 
of them ; but the more she attempted it, with the 
more painful recurrence of almost mechanical force, 
did his recollection press upon her disturbed in- 
tellect. 

Eloise de St. Irvyne was a girl, whose temper and 
disposition was most excellent; she was, indeed, too, 
possessed of uncommon sensibility; yet was her mind 
moulded in an inferior degree of perfection. She was 
susceptible of prejudice, to a great degree ; and resigned 
herself, careless of the consequences which might folloM-, 
to the feelings of the moment. Every accomplishment, 
it is true, she enjoyed in the highest excellence ; and the 
very convent at which she was educated, which afforded 
the adventitious advantages so highly esteemed by the 
world, prevented her mind from obtaining that degree 
of expansiveness and excellence, which, otherwise, might 
have rendered Eloise nearer approaching to perfection ; 
the very routine of a convent education gave a false 
and pernicious bias to the ideas, as, luxuriant in youth, 
they unfolded themselves ; and those sentiments which, 
had they been allowed to take the turn which nature 
intended, would have become coadjutors of virtue, and 
strengtheners of that mind, which now they had ren- 
dered comparatively imbecile. Such was Eloise, and 
as such she required unexampled care to prevent those 
feelings which agitate every mind of sensibility, to get 
the better of the judgment which had, by an erroneous 
system of education, become relaxed. Her mother was 
about to die — ^who now would care for Eloise ? • 

r2 



244 ST. IRVYNE ; OR 

They entered Geneva at the close of a fine, yet sultry 
day. The illness of Madame de St Irvyne had in- 
creased BO as now to threaten instant danger : she was 
conveyed to bed. A deadly paleness sat on her cheek ; 
it was .flushed, however, as she spoke, with momentary 
hectics ; and, as she conversed with her daughter, a fire, 
which almost partook of etheriality, shone in her sunken 
eye. It was evening ; the yellow beams of the sun, as 
his orb slied the parting glory on the verge of the 
horizon, penetrated the bed-curtains ; and by their 
effulgence contrasted the deadliness of her countenance. 
The poor Eloise sat, watching, with eyes dimmed by 
tears, each variation in the countenance of her mother. 
Silent, from an ecstacy of grief, she gazed fixedly upon 
her, and felt every earthly hope die within her, when 
the conviction of a fast-approaching dissolution pressed 
upon her disturbed brain. Madame de St. Irvyne, at 
length exhausted, fell into a quiet slumber; Eloise 
feared to disturb her, but, motionless with grief, sate 
behind the curtain. Now had sunk the orb of day, and 
the shades of twilight began to scatter duskiness 
through the chamber of death; all was silent; and, 
save by the catcliings of breath in her mother's slumber, 
the stillness was uninterrupted. Yet even in this awful, 
this terrific crisis of her existence, the mind of Eloise 
seemed compelled to exert its intellectual energies but on 
one subject ; — in vain she essayed to pray ; — in vain she 
attempted to avert the horror of her meditations, by con- 
templating the pallid features of her dying mother : her 
thoughts were not within her own control, and she 
trembled as she reflected on the appalling and mys- 
terious influence which the image of a man, whom she 
had seen but once, and whom she neither loved nor 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 245 

cared for, had gained over her mind. With the inde- 
finable terror of one who dreads to behold some phan- 
torn, Eloise fearfully cast her eyes around the gloomy 
apartment ; occasionally she shrank from the ideal form 
which an imconnected imagination had conjured up, 
and could scarcely but suppose that the stranger's gaze, 
as last he had looked upon her, met her own with an hor- 
rible and mixed scintillation of mysterious cunning and 
interest. She felt no prepossession in his favour; she 
rather detested him, and gladly would never have again 
beheld him ; yet, were the circumstances which intro- 
duced him to their notice alluded to, she would turn 
pale, and blush, by turns; and Jeanette, their maid, 
was fully persuaded in her own mind, and prided her- 
self on her penetration in the discovery, that Ma'am'selle 
was violently in love with the hospitable Alpine 
hunter. 

Madame de St. Irvyne had now awakened; she 
beckoned her daughter to approach : Eloise obeyed, and, 
kneeling, kissed the chill hand of her mother, in a trans- 
port of sorrow, and bathed it with her tears. 

"Eloise," said her mother, her voice trembling from 
excessive weakness, "Eloise, my child, farewell — fare- 
well for ever. I feel, I am about to die ; but, before I 
die, willingly would I say much to my dearest daughter. 
You are now left on the hard-hearted, pitiless world; and 
perhaps, oh ! perhaps, about to become an immolated 
victim of its treachery. Oh 1 — " Here, overcome by 
extreme pain, she fell backwards ; a transient gleam of 
animation lighted up lier expressive countenance ; she 



246 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

smiled, and — expired. All was still; and over the 
gloomy chamber reigned silence and horror. The yellow 
moonbeam, with sepulchral effulgence, gleamed on the 
countenance of her who had expired, and lighted her 
features, sweet even in death, with a dire and horrible 
contrast to the dimness whiph prevailed around ! — ^Ah ! 
such was the contrast of the peace enjoyed by the spirit 
of the departed one, with the misery which awaited the 
wretched Eloise. Poor Eloise ! she had now lost almost 
her only friend ! 

In excessive and silent grief, knelt the mourning girl ; 
she spoke not, she wept not ; her sorrow was too violent 
for tears, but, oh ! her heart was torn by pangs of un- 
speakable acuteness. But even amid the alarm which so 
melancholy an event must have excited, the idea of the 
stranger in the Alps sublimed the soul of Eloise to the 
highest degree of horror, and despair the most infuriate. 
For the ideas which crowded into her mind at this crisis, 
so eventful, so terrific, she endeavoured to account ; but^ 
alas ! her attempt was fruitless ! Still knelt she ; still 
did she press to her burning lips the lifeless hand of de- 
parted excellence, when the morning's ray announced to 
her, that longer continuing there might excite suspicion 
of iAteUectual derangement. She arose, therefore, and, 
quitting the apartment, announced the melancholy event 
which had taken place. She gave orders for the funeral; 
it was to be solemnized as soon as decency would permit, 
as the poor friendless Eloise wished speedily to quit 
Geneva. She wrote to announce the fatal event to her 
sister. Slowly dragged the time. Eloise followed to its 
latest bed, the corpse of her mother, and was returning 



TH£ R08ICRUCIAK. 247 

from the convent, when a stranger put into her hand a 
note, and quickly disappeared : — 



" Will Eloise de St Irvyne meet her friend at 
Abbey, to-morrow night, at ten o'clock ? " 



CHAP. VIII. 



^— Why then nnbidden gnah'd the tear ? 

Then wonld cold shaddermgiB seize kia brain, 

Ab gasping he labour'd for breath ; 
The strange gaze of his meteor eye. 
Which, frenzied, and rolling dreadinlly, 

Glar'd with hideons gleam. 
Would chill like the spectre gaze of Death, 

As, conjured 1^ feTerish dream. 
He seems o'er the sick man's couch to stand. 
And shakes the fell lanoe in his skeleton hand. 

Wakderino Jkw.^ 



Yes ; — they fled from Genoa ; they had eluded pursuit 
and justice, but could not escape the tonnents of an out- 
raged and avenging conscience, which, with stings the 
most acute, pursued them whithersoever they might go. 
Fortune even seemed to favour them ; for fortune will, 
sometimes, in this world, appear to side with the wicked. 
Wolfstein had received notice, that an uncle, possessed of 
immense wealth, had died in Bohemia, and bequeathed 
to him the whole of his estate. Thither then, with 
Megalena, went Wolfstein. Their journey produced no 



^ For an account of The Wan- Shelley's Poetical Works, voL iv, 
dering Jew, see my edition of pp. 317* 318. 



ST. IKVYXE ; OR THE ROSICRUCIAX. 249 

event of consequence ; suffice it to say, that they arrived 
at the spot where Wolfstein's new possessions were 
situated. 



Dark and desolate were the scenes which surrounded 
the no less desolate castle. Gloomy heatlis, in unvary- 
ing sadness of immensity, stret-ched far and wide. A 
scathed pine or oak, blasted by the thunderbolts of 
heaven, alone broke the monotonous sameness of the 
imagery. Needless were it to describe the castle, built 
like all those of the Bohemian barons, in mingled Gothic 
and barbarian architecture. Over the dark expanse the 
dim moon beaming, and faintly, with its sepulchral 
radiance, dispersing the thickness of the vapours which 
lowered around (for her waning horn, which hung low 
above the horizon, added but tenfold horror to the terrific 
desolation of the scene) ; the night-raven pouring on the 
dull ear of evening her frightful screams, and break- 
ing on the otherwise uninterrupted stillness, — were the 
melancholy greetings to their new habitation. 

They alighted at the antique entrance, and, passing 
through a vast and comfortless hall, were conducted into 
a saloon not much less so. The coolness of the evening, 
for it was late in the autumn, made the wood fire, which 
had been lighted, disperse a degree of comfort ; and Wolf- 
stein, having arranged his domestic concerns, continued 
talking with Megalena until midnight. 

" But you have never yet correctly explained to me," 
said Megalena, " the mystery which encircled that strange 
mun whom we met at the inn at Breno. I think I have 



250 ST. IRVYXE; OR 

seen him once since, or I should not now have thought of 
the circumstance." 



" Indeed, Megalena, I know of no mystery. I suppose 
the man was mad, or wished to make us think so ; for 
my part, I have never thought of him since ; nor ever 
intend to think of him." 

" Do you not ? *' exclaimed a voice, which enchained 
motionless to his seat the horror-struck Wolfstein — when 
turning round, and starting in agonized frenzy from his 
chair, Ginotti himself — Ginotti — from whose terrific 
gaze never had he turned unappalled, stood in cool and 
fearless contempt before him ! 

" Do you not ?" continued the mysterious stranger. 
" Never again intendest thou to think of me ? — me ! who 
have watched each expanding idea, conscious to what I 
was about to apply them, conscious of the great purpose 
for which each was formed. Ah ! Wolfstein, by my 
agency shalt thou — " He paused, assuming a smile 
expressive of exultation and superiority. 

" Oh ! do with me what thou wilt, strange, inexplicable 
being ! — Do with me what thou wilt ! " exclaimed Wolf- 
stein, as an ecstacy of frenzied terror overpowered his 
astonished senses. Megcdena still sat unmoved : she was 
surprised, it is true; but most was she surprised, 
that an event like this should have power so to 
shake Wolfstein ; for even then he stood gazing in en- 
horrored silence on the majestic figure of Ginotti. 

" Fool, then, that thou art, to deny me ! " continued 



THE R08ICRUCIAN. 251 

Ginotti, in a tone less solemn, but more severe. " Wilt 
(hou promise me that, when I come to demand what thou 
covenantedst with me at Breno, I meet no fears, no 
scruples, but that, then, thou wilt perform what there 
thou didst swear, and that this oath shall be inviolable?" 

" It shall," repHed Wolfstein. 

" Swear it." 

" As I keep my vows with you, may God reward me 
hereafter ! " 

" 'Tis done then," returned Ginotti. " Ere long shall 
I claim the performance of this covenant — now fare- 
well." Speaking thus, Ginotti dashed away; and, 
mounting a horse which stood at the gate, sped swiftly 
across the heath. His form lessened in the clear moon- 
light ; and, when it was no longer visible to the straining 
eyeballs of Wolfstein, he felt, as it were, a spell which 
had enthralled him, to be dissolved. 

Beckless of Megalena's earnest entreaties, he threw 
himself into a chair, in deep and gloomy melancholy ; 
he answered them not, but, immersed in a train of 
corroding ideas, remained silent. Even when retired 
to repose, and he could, occasionally, sink into a transi- 
tory sliunber, would he again start from it, as he thought 
that Ginotti's majestic form leaned over him, and that 
the glance which, last, his fearful eye had thrown, 
chilled his breast with indescribable agony. Slowly 
lagged the time to Wolfstein : Ginotti, though now 
gone, and far away perhaps, dwelt in his disturbed 



252 ST. irvyne; ok 

mind; his image was there imprinted in characters 
terrific and indelible. Oft would he wander along the 
desolate heath; on every blast of wind which sighed 
over the scattered remnants of what was once a forest 
Ginotti's, the terrific Ginotti's voice seemed to float ; 
and in every dusky recess, favoured by the descending 
shades of gloomy night, his form appeared to lurk, 
and, with frightful glare, his eye to penetrate the con- 
science-stricken Wolfstein as he walked. A falling 
leaf, or a hare starting from her heathy seat, caused 
him to shrink with affright ; yet, though dreeing loneli- 
ness, he was irresistibly compelled to seek for solitude. 
Megalena's charms had now no longer power to speak 
comfort to his soul : ephemeral are the friendships of 
the wicked, and involimtary disgust follows the attach- 
ment founded on the visionary fabric of passion or 
interest. It sinks in the merited abyss of ennui, or is 
followed by apathy and carelessness, which amply its 
origin deserved. 

The once ardent and excessive passion of Wolfstein 
for Megalena, was now changed into disgust and almost 
detestation; he sought to conceal it from her, but it 
was evident, in spite of his resolution. He regarded her 
as a woman capable of the most shocking enormities ; 
since, without any adequate temptation to vice, she had 
become sufficiently depraved to consider an inconsequent 
crime the wilful and premeditated destruction of a fellow- 
creature ; still, whether it were from the indolence which 
he had contracted, or an indefinably sympathetic con- 
nexion of soul, which forbade them to part during their 
mortal existence, was Wolfstein irremediably linked to 
his mistress, who was as depraved as himself, though 



THE ROSICRUCIAK. 253 

originally of a better disposition. He likewise had, at 
first, resisted the allurements of vice ; but, overpowered 
by its incitements, had resigned himself, indeed rehic- 
tantly, to its influence. But Megalena had courted its 
advances, and endeavoured to conquer neither the sug- 
gestions of crime, nor the dictates of a nature prone to 
the attacks of appetite — ^let me not call it passion. 

Fast advanced winter : cheerless and solitary were the 
days. Wolfstein, occasionally, followed the chase ; but 
even that was wearisome : and the bleeding image of the 
murdered Olympia, or the still more dreaded idea of the 
terrific Ginotti, haunted him in the midst of its tumultuous 
pleasures, and embittered every instant of his existence. 
The pale corpse too of Cavigni, blackened by poison, 
reigned in his chaotic imagination, and stung his soul 
with tenfold remorse, when he reflected that he had mur- 
dered one who never had injured him, for the sake of a 
being whose depraved society every succeeding day ren- 
dered more monotonous and insipid. 

It was one evening when, according to his custom, 
Wolfstein wandered late : it was in the beginning of 
December, and the weather was peculiarly mild for the 
season and latitude. Over the cerulean expanse of ether 
the dim moon, shrouded in the fleeting fragments of 
vapour, which, borne on the pinions of the northern 
blast, crossed her pale orb ; at intervals, the dismal 
hooting of the owl, wliich, searching for prey, flitted 
her white wings over the dusky heath ; the silver beams 
which slept on the outline of the far-seen forests, and the 
melancholy stillness, uninterrupted save by these con- 
comitants of gloom, conduced to sombre reflection. 



254 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

Wolfstein reclined upon the heath ; he retraced, in mental 
review, the past events of his life, and shuddered at the 
darkness of his future destiny. He strove to repent of 
his crimes ; but, though conscious of the connexion which 
existed between the ideas, as often as repentance presented 
itself to his mind,Ginotti rushed upon his troubled imagina- 
tion, and a dark veil seemed to separate him for ever from 
contrition, notwithstanding he was constantly subjected to 
the tortures inflicted by it. At last, wearied with the 
corroding recollections, the acme of which progressively 
increased, he bent his steps again towards his habitation. 

As he was entering the portal, a grasp of iron arrested 
his arm, and, turning round, he recognised the tall figure 
of Ginotti, which enveloped in a mantle, had leaned 
against a jutting buttress. Amazement, for a time, 
chained the faculties of Wolfstein in motionless surprise : 
at last he recollected himself, and, in a voice trembling 
from agitation, inquired, did he now demand the perform- 
ance of the promise ?. 

" I come," he said, " I come to demand it, Wolfstein ! 
Art thou willing to perform what thou hast promised ? — 
but come " 

A degree of solemnity, mixed with concealed fierceness, 
toned his voice as he spoke ; yet was he fixed in the atti- 
tude in which first he had addressed Wolfstein. The pale 
ray of the moon feU upon his dark features, and his corus- 
cating eye fixed on his trembling victim's countenance, 
flashed with almost intolerable biilUancy. A chill horror 
darted through Wolfstein's sickening frame; his brain 
swam axound wildly, and most appalling presentiments of 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 255 

what was about to happen, pressed upon his agonized in- 
tellect. " Yes, yes, I have promised, abd I will perform 
the covenant I have entered into," said Wolf stein ; " I 
swear to you that I will ! " and as he spoke, a kind of 
mechanical and inspired feeling steeled his soul to forti- 
tude ; it seemed to arise independently of himself ; nor 
could he, though he eagerly desired to do so, control, in 
the least, his ovm resolves. Such an impulse as this had 
first induced him to promise at all. Ah ! how often in 
Ginotti*s absence had he resisted it ! but when the mys- 
terious disposer of the events of his existence was before 
him, a consciousness of the inutility of his refusal com- 
pelled him to submit to the mandates of a being, whom 
his heart sickening to acknowledge, it unwillingly con- 
fessed as a superior. 

" Come," continued Ginotti ; " the hour is late, I must 
dispatch." 

Unresisting, yet speaking not, Wolfstein conducted 
Ginotti to an apartment. 

" Bring wine, and light a fire," said he to the servant, 
who quickly obeyed him. Wolfstein swallowed an over- 
flowing goblet, hoping thereby to acquire courage ; for he 
found that, with every moment of Ginotti's stay, the 
visionary and awful terrors of his mind augmented. 

" Do you not drink ? " 

" No," replied Ginotti, sullenly. 

A pause ensued; during which the eyes of Ginotti, 



256 ST. IRVYNE; OB 

glaring with demoniacal scintillations, spoke tenfold terrors 
to the soul of Wolfstein. He knitted his brows and bit his 
lips, in vain attempting to appear unembarrassed. " Wolf- 
stein ! " at last said Ginotti, breaking the fearful silence ; 
" Wolfstein ! " 

The colour fled from the cheek of his victim, as thus 
Ginotti spoke : he moved his posture, and awaited, in 
anxious and horrible solicitude, the declaration which 
was, as he supposed, to ensue. " My name, my family, 
and the circumstances which have attended my career 
through existence, it neither boots you to know, nor me 
to declare." 

" Does it not ? " said Wolfstein, scarcely knowing 
what to say ; yet convinced, from the pause, that some- 
tliing was expected. 

" No ! nor canst thou, nor any other existing being, 
even attempt to dive into the mysteries which envelope 
me. Let it be sufficient for you to know, that every 
event in your life has not only been known to me, but 
has occurred under my particular machinations." 

Wolfstein started. The terror which had blanched his 
cheek now gave way to an expression of fierceness and 
surprise ; he was about to speak, but Ginotti, noticing not 
his motion, thus continued : 

" Every opening idea which has marked, in so decided 
and so eccentric an outline, tlie fiat of your future destiny, 
has not been unknown to or unnoticed by me. I rejoiced 
to see in you, whilst young, the progress of that genius 



THE BOSICRUCIAN. 257 

which in mature time would entitle you to the reward 
which I destine for you, and for you alone. Even when 
far, far away, when the ocean perhaps has roared between 
us, have I known your thoughts, Wolfstein ; yet have I 
known them neither by conjecture nor inspiration. Never 
would your mind have attained that degree of expansion or 
excellence, had hot I watched over its every movement, and 
taught the sentiment, as it unfolded itself, to despise con- 
tented vulgarity. For this, and for an event far more 
important than any your existence yet has been subjected 
to, have I watched over you : say, Wolfstein, have I 
watched in vain ? " 

Each feeling of resentment vanished from Wolfstein's 
bosom, as the mysterious intruder spoke: his voice at 
last died, in a clear and melancholy cadence, away ; and 
his expressive eye, divested of its fierceness and mystery, 
rested on Wolfstein's countenance with a mild benignity. 

" No, no ; thou hast not watched in vain, mysterious 
disposer of my existence. Speak ! I bum with curiosity 
and solicitude to learn for what thou hast thus super- 
intended me:" and as thus he spoke, a feeling of 
resistless anxiety to know what would be the conclusion 
of the night's adventure, took place of horror. In- 
quiringly he gazed on the countenance of Ginotti, the 
features of whom were brightened with unwonted ani- 
mation. " Wolfstein," said Ginotti, " often hast thou 
sworn that I should rest in the grave in peace : — now 
listen." 



PBOSE. VOL. I. B 



CHAP. IX. 



If Satan had never fallen, 
Hell had been made for thee. 

Ths Revbnok. 



Ah ! poor, unsuspecting innocence ! and is that fair 
flower about to perish in the blasts of dereliction and 
unkindness ? Demon indeed must he be who could gaze 
on those mildly-beaming eyes, on that perfect form, the 
emblem of sensibility, and yet plunge the spotless mind 
of which it was an index, into a sea of repentance and 
unavailing sorrow. I should scarce suppose even a demon 
would act so, were there not many with hearts more de- 
praved even than those of fiends, who first have torn 
some unsophisticated soul from the pinnacle of excellence, 
on which it sat smiling, and then triumphed in their 
hellish victory when it writhed in agonized remorse, and 
strove to hide its unavailing regret in the dust from 
which the fabric of her virtues had arisen. " Ah ! I fear 
me, the unsuspecting girl will go ;*' she knows not the 
malice and the wiles of perjured man — and she is 
gone ! 

It was late in the evening, and Eloise had returned 



ST. IRVYNE ; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 259 

from her mother's funeral, sad and melancholy ; yet even 
amidst the oppression of grief, surprise and astonishment, 
pleasure and thankfulness, that any one should notice her, 
possessed her mind as she read over and over the charac- 
ters traced on the note which she still held in her hand. 
The hour was late ; the moon was down, yet countless 
stars bedecked the almost boundless hemisphere. The 
mild beams of Hesper slept on the glassy surface of the 
lake, as, scarcely agitated by the zephyr of evening, its 
waves rolled in slow succession ; the solemn umbrage of 
the pine-trees, mingled with the poplar, threw their unde- 
fined shadows on the water ; and the nightingale, sitting 
solitary in the hawthorn, poured on the listening Btillneas 
of evening, her grateful lay of tnelancholy. Hark ! her 
full strains swell on the silence of night, and now they 
die away, with lengthened and solemn cadence, insen- 
sibly into the breeze, which lingers, with protracted 
sweep, along the valley. Ah! with what enthusiastic 
ecstacy of melancholy does he whose friend, whose dear 
friend, is far, far away, listen to such strains as these ! 
perhaps he has heard them with that friend, — ^with one 
he loves : never again may they meet his ear. Alas ! 'tis 
melancholy ; I even now see him sitting on the rock 
which looks over the lake, in frenzied listlessness ; 
and counting in mournful review, the days which are 
past since they fled so quickly with one who was dear 
to him. 

It was to the ruined abbey which stood on the southern 
side of the lake that, so swiftly, Eloise is hastening. A 
presentiment of awe filled her mind ; she gazed, in in- 
quiring terror, around her, and scarce could persuade her- 

s2 



260 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

self that shapeless forms lurked not in the gloomy recesses 
of the scenery. 

She gained the abbey ; in melancholy fallen grandeur 
its vast ruins reared their pointed casements to the sky. 
Masses of disjointed stone were scattered around ; and, 
save by the whirrings of the bats, the stillness which 
reigned, was uninterrupted. Here then was Eloise to 
meet the strange one who professed himself to be her 
friend. Alas I poor Eloise believed him. It yet wanted 
an hour to the time of appointment; the expiration of 
that hour Eloise awaited. The abbey brought to her 
recollection a similar ruin which stood near St. Irvyne ; 
it brought with it the 'remembrance of a song which 
Marianne had composed soon after her brother's death. 
She sang, though in a low voice : 

SONG. 

How stem are the woes of the desolate monmer, 

As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, 
As enangnish'd he tarns from the langh of the scomer, 

And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear ; 
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming. 
When no blissfnl hope on his bosom is beaming, 
Or, if lull'd for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming. 
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. 

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave. 

Or snmmer sncoeed to the winter of death P 
Best awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save 

The spirit, that faded away with the breath. 
Eternity points in its amaranth bower, 
Where no clonds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower. 
Unspeakable pleasare, of goodness the dower, 
When woe fades away like the mist of the hea€h. 

She ceased : the melancholy cadence of her angelic voice 



THE KOSICBUCIAK. 261 

died in faint reverberations of echo away, and once again 
reigned stillness. 

Now fast approached the hour ; and, ere ten had 
struck, a stranger of towering and gigantic proportions 
walked along the ruined refectory ; without stopping to 
notice other objects, he advanced swiftly to Eloise, who 
sat on a misshapen' piece of ruin, and, throwing aside the 
mantle which enveloped his figure, discovered to her 
astonished sight the stranger of the Alps, who of late had 
been incessantly present to her mind. Amazement, for a 
time, chained each faculty in stupefaction ; she would 
have started from her seat, but the stranger, with gentle 
violence grasping her hand, compelled her to remain 
where she was. 

"Eloise," said the stranger, in a voice of the most 
fascinating tenderness — " Eloise I" 

The softness of his accents changed, in an instant, 
what was passing in the bosom of Eloise. She felt no 
surprise that he knew her name ; she experienced no 
dread at this mysterious meeting with a person, at 
the bare mention of whose name she was wont to 
tremble: no, the ideas which filled her mind were in- 
definable. She gazed upon hia countenance for a 
moment, then, hiding her face in her hands, sobbed 
loudly. 

" What afflicts you, Eloise ?" said the stranger : " how 
cruel, that such a breast as thine should be tortured by 
pain!" 

' In the originAl, mitkapcn, as before. 



262 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

"Ah!" cried Eloise, forgetting that she spoke to a 
stranger ; " how can one avoid sorrow, when there, 
perhaps, is scarce a being in the world whom I can caU 
my friend ; when there is no one on whom I lay claim 
for protection ?" 

•* Say not, Eloise," cried the stranger, reproachfully, 
yet benignly ; " say not that you can claim none as a 
friend — you may claim me. Ah ! that I had ten thou- 
sand existences, that each might be devoted to the service 
of one whom I love more than myself 1 Make me then 
the repository of your every sorrow and secret. I 
love you, indeed I do, Eloise, and why will you 
doubt me ?" 

" I do not doubt you, stranger," replied the unsus- 
pecting girl ; " why should I doubt you ? for you could 

have no interest in saying so, if you did not. 1 

thank you for loving one who is quite, quite friendless ; 
and, if you will allow me to be your friend, I will 
love you too. I never loved any one, before, but my 
poor mother and Marianne. Will you then, if you are 
a friend to me, come and live with me and Marianne, at 
St. Irvyne's ?" 

" St. Irvyne's !" exclaimed the stranger, almost con- 
vulsively, ajs he interrupted her; then, as fearing to 
betray his emotions, he paused, yet quitted not the grasp 
of Eloise's hand, which trembled within his with feelings 
which her mind distrusted not. 

" Yes, sweet Eloise, I love you indeed." At last he 
said, affectionately, " And I thank you much for be- 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 263 

lieving me; but I cannot live with you at St. 
Irvyne's. Farewell, for to-night, however; for my 
poor Eloiae has need of sleep." He then was quitting 
the abbey, when Eloise stopped him to inquire his 
name. 

" Frederic de Nempere." 

" Ah ! then I shall recollect Frederic de Nempere, as 
the name of a friend, even if I never again behold him.'* 

" Indeed I am not faithless ; soon shall I see you again. 
Farewell, beloved Eloise." Thus saying, with rapid step 
he quitted the ruin. 

Though he was now gone, the sound of his tender 
farewell yet seemed to linger on the ear of Eloise ; but 
with each moment of his absence, became lessened the 
conviction of his friendship, and heightened the suspi- 
cions which, though unaccountable to herself, possessed 
her bosom. She could not conceive what motive could 
have led her to own her love for one whom she feared, 
and felt a secret terror, from the conviction of the resist- 
less empire which he possessed within her : yet though 
she shrank from the bare idea of ever becoming his, did 
she ardently, though scarcely would she own it to herself, 
desire again to see him. 

Eloise now returned to Geneva : she resigned herself 
to sleep, but even in her dreams was the image of Nem- 
pere present to her imagination. Ah ! poor deluded 
Eloise, didst thou think a man would merit thy love 
through disinterestedness ? didst thou think that one who 



264 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

supposed himself superior, yet inferior in reality, to you, 
in the scale of existent beings, would desire thy society 
from love t yet superior as the fool here supposes himself 
to be to the creatui-e whom he injures, superior as he 
boasts himself, he may howl with the fiends of darkness, 
in never-ending misery, whilst thou shalt receive, at the 
throne of the God whom thou hast loved, the rewards 
of that unsuspecting excellence, which he who boasts his 
superiority, shall stvffer for trampling upon. Eeflect on 
this, ye libertines, and, in the full career of the lascivious- 
ness which has unfitted your souls for enjoying the 
dightest real happiness here or hereafter, tremble ! Trem- 
ble ! I say ; for the day t)f retribution will arrive. But 
the poor Eloise need not tremble ; the victims of your 
detested cunning need not fear that day : no ! — then will 
the cause of the broken-hearted be avenged, by Him to 
whom their wrongs cry for redress. 

Within a few miles of Geneva, Nempere possessed a 
country-house : thither did he persuade Eloise to go with 
him ; " For," said he, " though I cannot come to St. Ir- 
vyne's, yet my friend will live with me." 

" Yes indeed I will," replied Eloise ; for whatever she 
might feel when he was absent, in his presence she felt 
insensibly softened, and a sentiment nearly approaching 
to love would, at intervals, take possession of her sOuL 
Yet was it by no means an easy task to lure Eloise from 
the paths of virtue ; it is true she knew but little, nor 
was the expansion of her mind such as might justify the 
exultations of a fiend at a triumph over her virtue ; yet 
was it that very timid, simple innocence, which prevented 
Eloise from understanding to what the deep-laid sophistry 



THE R08ICRUCIAN. 265 

of her false friend tended ; and, not understanding it, she 
could not be influenced by its alignments. Besides, the 
principles and morals of Eloise were such, as could not 
easily be shaken by the allurements which temptation 
might throw out to her unsophisticated innocence. 

" Why," said Nempere, " are we taught to believe that 
the union of two who love each other is wicked, unless 
authorized by certain rites and ceremonials, which cer- 
tainly cannot change the tenour of sentiments which it 
is destined that these two people should entertain of each 
other ? " 

" It is, I suppose," answered Eloise calmly, " because 
God has willed it so ; besides," continued she, blushing at 
she knew not what, " it would " 

■ 

" And is then the superior and towering soul of Eloise 
subjected to sentiments and prejudices so stale and viilgar 
as these ? " interrupted Nempere indignantly. " Say, 
Eloise, do not you think it an insult to two souls, united 
to each other in the irrefragable covenants of love and 
congeniality, to promise, in the sight of a Being whom 
they know not, that fidelity which is certain otherwise ? " 

" But I do know that Being ! " cried Eloise with 
warmth ; " and when I cease to know him, may I die 1 
I pray to him every morning, and, when I kneel at 
night, I thank him for the mercy which he has shown 
to a poor friendless girl like me ! He is the protector of 
the friendless, and I love and adore him ! " 

" Unkind Eloise ! how canst thou call thyself friend- 



266 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

less ? Surely, the adoration of two beings unfettered by 
restraint, must be most acceptable ! — But, come, Eloise, 
this conversation is nothing to the purpose : I see we 
both think alike, although the terms in which we express 
our sentiments are difTerent. Will you sing to me, dear 
Eloise ? " Willingly did Eloise fetch her harp ; she 
wished not to scrutinize what was passing in her mind, 
but, after a short prelude, thus began : 

SONG. 

I. 

Ah ! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, 

Tet &r must the desolate wanderer roam ; 
Though the tempest is stem, and the mountain is dreary, 

She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. 
I see her swifb foot dash the dew from the whortle, 
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle ; 
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, 

" Stay thy boat on the lake, — dearest Henry, I come.*' 

n. 

High swell'd in her bosom the throb of affection. 

As lightly her form bounded over the lea. 
And arose in her mind every dear recollection : 

" I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee." 
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing. 
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, 
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, 

Is the stem voice of fate that bids happiness flee ! 

Oh ! dark lower'd the clouds on that horrible eve. 
And the moon dimly gleam'd through the tempested air; 

Oh ! how could fond visions such softness deceive P 
Oh ! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair P 

Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving. 

O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving ; 

But, fear not, parting spirit ; thy goodness is saving, 
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there. 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 267 

" How soft is that strain ! " cried Nempere, as she 
concluded. 

" Ah ! " said Eloise, sighing deeply ; " 'tis a melancholy 
song ; my poor brother wrote it, I remember, about ten 
days before he died. Tis a gloomy tale concerning him ; 
he ill deserved the fate he met. Some future time I will 
tell it you ; but now, 'tis very late. — Good-night." 

Time passed, and Nempere, finding that he must 
proceed more warily, attempted no more to impose upon 
the understanding of Eloise by such palpably baseless 
arguments ; yet, so great and so unaccountable an in 
fluence had he gained on her unsuspecting soul, that ere 
long, on the altar of vice, pride, and malice, was immo- 
lated the innocence of the spotless Eloise. Ah, ye proud ! 
in the severe consciousness of unblemished reputation, in 
the fallacious opinion of the world, why turned ye away, 
as if fearful of contamination, when yon poor frail one 
drew near ? See the tears which steal adown her cheek ! 
— Sh4i has repented, ye have not ! 

And thinkest thou, libertine, from a principle of de- 
pravity — thinkest thou that thou hast raised thyself to 
the level of Eloise, by trying to sink her to thine own ? — 
No I — Hopest thou that thy curse has passed away un- 
heeded or unseen ? The God whom thou hast insulted 
has marked thee ! — In the everlasting tablets of heaven, 
is thine offence written ! — but poor Eloise's crime is 
obliterated by the mercy of Him, who knows the in- 
nocence g{ her heart. 



# 



268 ST. IRVYNE; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

Yes — thy sophistry hath prevailed, Nempere! — 'tis 
but blackening the memoir of thine offences ! — Hark ! 
what shriek broke upon the enthusiastic silence of twi- 
light ? — *Twa8 the fancied scream of one who loved 
Eloise long ago, but now is — dead. It warns thee — 
alas! 'tis unavailing ! ! — *Tis fled, but not for ever. 

It is evening; the moon, which rode in cloudless 
and unsullied majesty, in the leaden-coloured east, hath 
hidden her pale beams in a dusky cloud, as if blushing to 
contemplate a scene of so much wickedness. 

"Ks done; and amidst the vows of a transitory 
delirium of pleasure, regret, horror, and misery, arise ! 
they shake their Gorgon locks at Eloise ! appalled she 
shudders with affright, and shrinks from the contempla- 
tion of the consequences of her imprudence. Beware, 
Eloise ! — ^a precipice, a frightful precipice yawns at 
thy feet ! advance yet a step further, and thou 
l>erishest ! — No, give not up thy religion — it is that 
alone which can support thee imder the miseries, with 
which imprudence has so darkly marked the progress of 
thine existence ! 



CHAP. X. 

The elementi respect their Maker's seal ! 

Still like the scathed pine-tree's height, 

Braving the tempests of the night. 
Have I 'scap'd the bickering flame. 
Like the scath'd pine, which a monument stands 
Of faded grandeur, which the brands 

Of the tempest-shaken air 
Have riven on the desolate heath ; 
Yet it stands majestic even in death, 

And rears its wild form there. 

Wandering Jew.* 

Yet, in an attitude of attention, Wolfstein was fixed, 
and, gazing upon Ginotti*s countenance, awaited his 
narrative. 

" Wolfstein," said Ginotti, " the circumstances whieli 
I am about to communicate to you are, many of them, 
you may think, trivial; but I must be minute, and, 
however the recital may excite your astonishment, suffer 
me to proceed without interruption." 

Wolfstein bowed affirmatively — Ginotti thus pro- 
ceeded : — 

" From my earliest youth, before it was quenched by 

1 See note at p. 248. 



270 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

complete satiation, curiosity, and a desire of unveiling 
the latent mysteries of nature, was the passion by which 
all the other emotions of my mind were intellectually 
organized. This desire first led me to cultivate, and with 
success, the various branches of learning which led to 
the gates of wisdom. I then applied myself to the 
cultivation of philosophy, and the ecl&t with which I 
pursued it, exceeded my most sanguine expectations. 
Love I cared not for ; and wondered why men per- 
versely sought to ally themselves with weakness. 
Natural philosophy at last became the peculiar science 
to which I directed my eager inquiries ; thence was I 
led into a train of labyrinthic meditations. I thought 
of death — I shuddered when I reflected, and shrank in 
horror from the idea, selfish and self-interested as I was, of 
entering a new existence to which I was a stranger. 
I must either dive into the recesses of futurity, or 
I must not, I cannot die. — 'Will not this nature — will 
not the matter of which it is composed, exist to aU 
eternity ? Ah ! I know it will ; and, by the exertions 
of the energies with which nature has gifted me, well 
I know it shall.' This was my opinion at that time : I 
then believed that there existed no God. Ah ! at what 
an exorbitant price have I bought the conviction that 
there is one ! ! ! Believing that priestcraft and super 
stition were all the religion which man ever practised, it 
could not be supposed that I thought there existed super- 
natural beings of any kind. I believed nature to be self- 
sufficient and excelling ; I supposed not, tlierefore, that 
there could be anytliing beyond nature. 

" I was now about seventeen : I had dived into the 
depths of metaphysical calculations. With sophistical 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 271 

arguments had I convinced myself of the non-existence 
of a First Cause, and, by every combined modification of 
the essences of matter, had I apparently proved that no 
existences could possibly be, imseen by human vision. I 
had lived, hitherto, completely for myself ; I cared not for 
others ; and, had the hand of fate swept from the list of 
the living every one of my youthful associates, I should 
have remained immoved and fearless. I had not a friend 
in the world ; — I cared for nothing but sdf. Being fond 
of calculating the efifects of poison, I essayed one, which I 
had composed, upon a youth who had offended me ; he 
lingered a month, and then expired in agonies the most 
terrific. It was returning from his funeral, which all the 
students of the college where I received my education 
(Salamanca), had attended, that a train of the strangest 
thought pressed upon my mind. I feared, more than 
ever, now, to die; and, although I had no right to 
form hopes or expectations for longer life than is allotted 
to the rest of mortals, yet did I think it were possible to 
protract existence. And why, reasoned I with myself, 
relapsing into melancholy, why am I to suppose that 
these muscles or fibres are made of stuff more durable than 
those of other men ? I have no right to suppose other- 
wise than that, at the end of the time allotted by nature, 
for the existence of the atoms which compose my being, I 
must, like all other men, perish, perhaps everlastingly. — 
Here in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed that nature 
and chance which I believed in ; and, in a paroxysmal 
frenzy of contending passions, cast myself, in desperation, 
at the foot of a lofty ash-tree, which reared its fantastic 
form over a torrent which dashed below. 

"It was midnight; far had I wandered from Sala- 



272 ST. IRVYNE ; OR 

manca; the passions which agitated my brain, almost 
to delirinm, had added strength to my nerves, and 
swiftness to my feet; but after many hours* incessant 
walking, I began to feel fatigued. No moon was up, 
nor did one star illume the hemisphere. The sky was 
veiled by a thick covering of clouds; and, to my 
heated imagination, the winds, which in stem cadence 
swept along the night-scene, whistled tidings of death 
and annihilation. I gazed on the torrent, foaming 
beneath my feet ; it could scarcely be distinguished 
through the thickness of the gloom, save at intervals, 
when the white-crested waves dashed at the base of the 
bank on which I stood. Twas then that I contem- 
plated self-destruction ; I had almost plunged into the 
tide of death, had rushed upon the unknown regions of 
eternity, when the soft sound of a bell from a neighbour- 
ing convent, was wafted in the stillness of the night. 
It struck a chord in unison with my soul ; it vibrated 
on the secret springs of rapture. I thought no more 
of suicide, but, reseating myself at the root of the ash- 
tree, burst into a flood of tears; — never had I wept 
before ; the sensation was new to me ; it was inexpli- 
cably pleasing. I reflected by what rules of science I 
could account for it: there philosophy failed me. I 
acknowledged its inefficacy ; and, almost at thai instant, 
allowed the existence of a superior and beneficent Spirit^ 
in whose image is made the soul of man ; but quickly 
chasing these ideas, and, overcome by excessive and un* 
wonted fatigue of mind and body, I laid my head upon a 
jutting projection of the tree, and, forgetful of everything 
around me, sank into a profound and quiet slumber. 
Quiet, did I say ? No — It was not quiet. I dreamed 
that I stood on the brink of a most terrific precipice, far. 



THE ROSICKUCIAN. 273 

far above the clouds, amid whose dark forms which 
lowered beneath, was seen the dashing of a stupendous 
cataract: its roarings were borne to mine ear by the 
blast of night. Above me rose, fearfully embattled and 
rugged, fragments of enormous rocks, tinged by the dimly 
gleaming moon ; their loftiness, the grandeur of their 
misshapen* proportions, and their bulk, staggering the 
imagination ; and scarcely could the mind itself scale the 
vast loftiness of tlieir aerial sunmiits. I saw the dark 
clouds pass by, borne by the impetuosity of the blast, yet 
felt no wind myself. Methought darkly gleaming forms 
rode on their almost palpable prominences. 

" Whilst thus I stood, gazing on the expansive gulf 
which yawned before me, methought a silver sound stole 
on the quietude of night. The moon became as bright as 
polished silver, and each star sparkled with scintillations 
of inexpressible whiteness. Pleasing images stole imper- 
ceptibly upon my senses, when a ravishingly sweet strain 
of dulcet melody seemed to float around. Now it was 
wafted nearer, and now it died away in tones to melan- 
choly dear. Whilst I thus stood enraptured, louder 
swelled the strain of seraphic harmony ; it vibrated on 
my inmost soul, and a mysterious softness lulled each 
impetuous passion to repose. I gazed in eager anticipa- 
tion of curiosity on the scene before me ; for a mist of 
silver radiance rendered every object but myself impercep- 
tible ; yet was it brilliant as the noon-day sun. Sud- 
denly, whilst yet the full strain swelled along the 
empyrean sky, the mist in one place seemed to dispart, 
and, through it, to roll clouds of deepest crimson. Above 

^ lu the original, mitkapen, 
PROSE. VOL. I. T 



274 ST. IRVYNE ; OR 

them, and seemingly reclining on the viewless air, was a 
form of most exact and superior symmetry. Eays of 
brilliancy, surpassing expression, fell from his burning 
eye, and the emanations from his countenance tinted the 
transparent clouds below with silver light. The phantasm 
advanced towards me ; it seemed then, to my imagination, 
that his figure was borne on the sweet strain of music 
which filled the circumambient air. In a voice which 
was fascination itself, the being addressed me, saying, 
' Wilt thou come with me ? wilt thou be mine V I felt 
a decided wish never to be his. ' No, no,' I unhesi- 
tatingly cried, with a feeling which no language can 
either explain or describe. No sooner had I uttered 
these words, than methought a sensation of deadly horror 
chilled my sickening frame ; an earthquake rocked the 
precipice beneath my feet ; the beautiful being vanished ; 
clouds, as of chaos, rolled around, and from their dark 
masses flashed incessant meteors.* I heard a deafening 
noise on every side ; it appeared like the dissolution of 
nature ; the blood-red moon, whirled from her sphere, 
sank beneath the horizon. My neck was grasped firmly, 
and, turning round in an agony of horror, I beheld a form 
more hideous than the imagination of man is capable of 
portraying, whose proportions, gigantic and deformed, 
were seemingly blackened by the inerasible traces of 
the thunderbolts of God; yet in its hideous and de- 
testable countenance, though seemingly far different, I 
thought I could recognise that of the lovely vision : 
' Wretch !' it exclaimed, in a voice of exulting thunder ; 

' saidst thou that thou wouldst not be mine ? Ah ! 

^ This is one of several passages p. 393 — 
which it is curious to compare a belt 

with Qnkecn Mob. In thip in- Flsahing incesMnt meteors, 

stance see Poetical Works, voL ir, 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 275 

' thou art mine beyond redemption ; and I triumph in 
' the conviction, that no power can ever make thee 
' otherwise. Say, art thou willing to be mine V Saying 
this, he dragged me to the brink of the precipice : the 
contemplation of approaching death frenzied my brain 
to the highest pitch of horror. ' Yes, yes, I am thine/ 
I exclaimed. No sooner had I pronounced these words, 
than the visionary scene vanished, and I awoke. But 
even when awake, the contemplation of what I had suf- 
fered, whilst under the influence of sleep, pressed upon 
my disordered fancy ; my intellect, wild with unconquer- 
able emotions, could fix on no one particular point to 
exert its energies ; they were strained beyond their power 
of exerting. 

" Ever, from that day, did a deep-corroding melan- 
choly usurp the throne of my soul. At last, during the 
com-se of my philosophical inquiries, I ascertained the 
method by which man might exist for ever, and it was 
connected with my dream. It would unfold a tale of too 
much horror to trace, in review, the circumstances as then 
they occurred ; suffice it to say, that I became acquainted 
that a superior being really exists : and ah ! how dear a 
price have I paid for the knowledge ! To one man, 
alone, Wolfstein, may I communicate this secret of 
inmiortal life : then must I forego my claim to it, — and 
oh ! with what pleasure shall I forego it ! To you I 
bequeath the secret ; but first you must swear that if 
you wish God may 



i» 



" I swear," cried Wolfstein, in a transport of delight ; 
burning ecstacy revelled through his veins ; pleasurable 

T 2 



^ 



276 ST. IRVYNE ; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 

coruscations were emitted from his eyes. " I swear," 

continued he ; " and if ever may 

God " 

" Needless were it for me," continued Ginotti, " to 
expatiate further upon the means which I have used to 
become master over your every action ; that will be suf- 
ficiently explained when you have followed my direc- 
tions. Take," continued Ginotti, " and 

and ; mix them according to the directions whicli 

this book will communicate to you. Seek, at midnight, 
the ruined abbey near the castle of St. Irvyne, in France ; 
and there — I need say no more — there you will meet 
with me." 



CHAP. XL 

The varying occurrences of time and change, which bring 
anticipation of better days, brought none to the hapless 
Eloise. Nempere now having gained the point which his 
villany had projected, felt little or no attachment left for 
the unhappy victim of his baseness ; he treated her in- 
deed most cruelly, and his unkindness added greatly to 
the severity of her afflictions. One day, when, weighed 
down by the extreme asperity of her woes, Eloise sat 
leaning her head on her hand, and mentally retracing, in 
sickening and mournful review, the concatenated occur- 
rences which had led her to become what she was, she 
sought to change the bent of her ideas, but in vain. The 
feelings of her soul were but exacerbated by the attempt 
to quell them. Her dear brother's death, that brother so 
tenderly beloved, added a sting to her sensations. Was 
there any one on earth to whom she was now attracted 
by a wish of pouring in the friend's bosom ideas and 
feelings indefinable to any one else ? Ah, no ! that 
friend existed not ; never, never more would she know 
such a friend. Never did she really love any one ; and 
now had she sacrificed her conviction of right and wrong 
to a man who neither knew how to appreciate her excel- 



278 ST. IRVYNE ; OR 

lence, nor was adequate to excite other sensation than of 
terror and dread. 



Thus were her thoughts engaged, when Nenipere 
entered the apartment, accompanied by a gentleman, 
whom he unceremoniously announced as the Chevalier 
Mountfort, an Englishman of rank, and his friend. He 
was a man of handsome countenance and enjjajnng 
manners. He conversed with Eloise with an ill-dis- 
guised conviction of his own superiority, and seemed 
indeed to assert, as it were, a right of conversing with 
her; nor did Nempere appear to dispute his apparent 
assumption. The conversation turned upon music; 
Mountfort asked Eloise her opinion; "Oh!" said 
Eloise, enthusiastically, " I think it sublimes the soul to 
heaven ; I tliink it is, of all earthly pleasures, the most 
excessive. Who, when listening to harmoniously-arranged 
sounds of music, exists there, but must forget his woes, 
and lose the memory of every earthly existence in the 
ecstatic emotions whicli it excites ? Do you not think so, 
Chevalier ?" said she ; for the liveliness of his manner 
enchanted Eloise, whose temper, naturally elastic and 
sprightly, had been damped as yet by misery and seclu- 
sion. Mountfort smiled at the energetic avowal of 
her feelings ; for, whilst she yet spoke, her expressive 
countenance became irradiated by the emanation of senti- 
ment. 



"Yes," said Mountfort, "it is indeed powerfully 
efficient to excite the interests of the soul ; but does it 
not, by the very act of resuscitating the feelings, by 
working upon the, perhaps, long dead chords of secret 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 279 

and enthusiastic rapture, awaken the powers of grief as 
well as pleasure ?" 

"Ah! it may do both," said Eloise, sighing. 

He approached her at that instant. Nenipere arose, 
as if intentionally, and left the room. Mountfort pressed 
her hand to liis heart with earnestness : he kissed it, 
and then resigning it, said, " No, no, spotless un- 
tainted Eloise ; untainted even by surrounding de- 
pravity : — not for worlds would I injure you. Oh ! I 
can conceal it no longer — will conceal it no longer — 
Nempere is a villain." 

" Is he ?" said Eloise, apparently resigned, now, to the 
severest shocks of fortune : " then, then indeed I 
know not with whom to seek an asylum. Methinks 
oU are villains." 



" Listen then, injured innocence, and reflect in whom 
thou hast confided. Ten days ago, in the gaming- 
house at. Geneva, Nempere was present He engaged 
in play with me, and I won of him considerable sums. 
He told me that he could not pay me now, but that 
he had a beautiful girl whom he would give to me, if I 
would release him from the obligation. ' Est elle une 
fille de joye V I inquired. * Oui, et de vertu praticable.* 
This quieted my conscience. In a moment of licentious- 
ness, I acceded to his proposal ; and, as money is almost 
valueless to me, I tore the bond for three thousand 
zechins : but did I think that an angel was to be sacri- 
ficed to the degraded avarice of the being to whom her 



280 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

fate was committed ? By heavens, I will this moment 
seek him, — upbraid him with his inhuman depravity, — 

and " ** Oh ! stop, stop," cried Eloise, " do not seek 

him ; all, all is well — I will leave him. Oh ! how I 
tliank you, stranger, for this unmerited pity to a wretch 
who is, alas ! too conscious that she deserves it not." — 
"Ah ! you deserve every thing," interrupted the im- 
passioned Mountfort ; " you deserve paradise. But leave 
this perjured villain ; and do not say, unkind fair-one, 
that you have no friend ; indeed you have a most warm, 
disinterested friend in me." — "Ah ! but," said Eloise, 
hesitatingly, " what will the- " 

" World say," she was about to have added ; but the 
conviction of having so lately and so flagrantly violated 
every regard to its opinion — she only sighed. " Well," 
continued Mountfort, as if not perceiving her hesitation ; 
"you will accompany me to a cottage om^e which I 
possess at some little distance hence ? Believe that your 
situation shall be treated with the deference which it 
requires ; and, however I may have yielded to habitual 
licentiousness, I have too much honour to disturb the 
sorrows of one who is a victim to that of another." 
Licentious and free as had been the career of Mount- 
fort's life, it was by no means the result of a nature 
naturally prone to vice ; it had been owing to the un- 
checked sallies of an imagination not sufficiently re- 
fined. At the desolate situation of Eloise, however, 
every good propensity in his nature urged him to take 
compassion on her. His heart, originally susceptible 
of the finest feelings, was touched, and he really and 
sincerely — yes, a libertine, but not one from principle, 
sincerely meant what he said. 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 281 

" Tlianks, generous stranger," said Eloise, with energy ; 
" indeed I do thank you." For not yet had acquaintance 
with the world sufficiently bidden Eloise distrust the 
motives of its disciples. " I accept your ofifer, and only 
hope that my compliance may not induce you to regard 
me otherwise than I am." 

" Never, never can I regard you as other than a 
suffering angel," replied the impassioned Mountfort. 
Eloise blushed at what the energetic force of Mount- 
fort's manner assured her was not intended as a com- 
pliment. 

" But may I ask my generous benefactor, how, where, 
and when am I to be released ? " 

" Leave that to me," returned Mountfort : " be ready 
to-morrow night at ten o'clock. A chaise will wait 
beneath." 

Nempere soon entered ; their conversation was unin- 
terrupted, and the evening passed away uninteresting 
and slow. 

Swiftly fled the intervening hours, and fast advanced 
the moment when Eloise was about to try, again, the 
compassion of the world. Night came, and Eloise 
entered the chaLse ; Mountfort leaped in after her. 
For a while her agitation was excessive. Mountfort at 
last succeeded in calming her ; " Why, my dearest 
Ma'am'selle," said he, " why will you thus needlessly 
agitate yourself ? I swear to hold your honour far 
dearer than my own life ; and my companion " 



282 ST. irvyne; or 

" What companion ? " Eloise interrupted him, in- 
quiringly. 

" Why," replied he, " a friend of mine, who lives at 
my cottage ; he is an Irishman, and so very moral, and 
so averse to every species of gaieti de cceur, that you 
need be under no apprehensions. In short, he is a 
love-sick swain, without ever having found what he 
calls a congenial female. He wanders about, writes 
poetry, and, in short, is much too senthnentcd to occasion 
you any alarm on that account. And, I assure you," 
added he, assuming a more serious tone, " although I 
may not be quite so far gone in romance, yet I have 
feelings of honour and humanity which teach me to 
respect your sorrows as my own." 

" Indeed, indeed I believe you, generous stranger ; nor 
do I think that you could have a friend whose principles 
are dishonourable." 

Whilst yet she spoke, the chaise stopped, and Mount- 
fort, springing from it, handed Eloise into his habitation. 
It was neatly fitted up in the English taste. 

" Fitzeustace," said Mountfort to his friend, " allow me 

to introduce you to Madame Eloise de ." Eloise 

blushed, as did Fitzeustace. 

" Come," said Fitzeustace, to conquer mauvaise honte, 
" supper is ready, and the lady doubtlessly fatigued." 

Fitzeustace was finely formed, yet there was a languor 
which pervaded even his whole figure ; his eyes were dark 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 288 

and expressive, and as, occasionally, they met those of 
Eloise, gleamed with excessive brilliancy, awakened 
doubtlessly by curiosity and interest. He said but little 
during supper, and left to his more vivacious friend the 
whole of Eloise's conversation, who animated at having 
escaped a persecutor, and one she hated, displayed ex- 
treme command of social powers. Yes, once again was 
Eloise vivacious : the sweet spirit of social intercourse 
was not dead within, — that spirit which illumes even 
slavery, which makes its horrors less terrific, and is not 
annihilated in tlie dungeon itself. 



At last arrived the hour of retiring. — Morning came. 



The cottage was situated in a beautiful valley. The 
odorous perfume of roses and jasmine wafted on the 
zephyr's wing, the flowery steep which rose before it, and 
the umbrageous loveliness of the surrounding country, 
rendered it a spot the most fitted for joyous seclusion. 
Eloise wandered out with Mountfort and his friend to view 
it ; and so accommodating was her spirit, that, ere long* 
Fitzeustace became known to her as familiarly as if they 
had been acquainted all their lives. 

Time fled on, and each day seemed only to succeed the 
other purposely to vary the pleasures of this delightful 
retreat. Eloise sung in the summer evenings, and Fitz- 
eustace, whose taste for music was most exquisite, accom- 
panied her on his oboe. 

By degrees the society of Fitzeustace, to which before 
she had preferred Mountfort's, began to be more interesting. 
He insensibly acquired a power over the heart of Eloise, 



284 ST. IBVYNE ; OR 

which she herself was not aware of. She involuntarily 
almost sought his society ; and when, which frequently 
happened, Mountfort was absent at Geneva, her sensations 
were indescribably ecstatic in the society of his friend. 
She sat in mute, in silent rapture, listening to the notes 
of his oboe, as they floated on the stillness of evening : 
she feared not for the future, but, as it were, in a dream 
of rapturous delight, supposed that she must ever be as 
now — happy ; not reflecting that, were he who caused 
that happiness absent, it would exist no longer. 

Fitzeustace madly, passionately doted on Eloise : in all 
the energy of incontaminated nature, he sought but the 
happiness of the object of his whole affections. He 
sought not to investigate the causes of his woe ; sufficient 
was it for him to have found one who could understand, 
could sympathize in, the feelings and sensations which 
everv child of nature whom the world's refinement's and 
luxury have not vitiated, must feel, — that affection, that 
contempt of selfish gratification, which every one whose 
sold towers at all above the multitude, must acknowledge. 
He destined Eloise, in his secret' soul, for his own. He 
resolved to die — he wished to live with her ; and would 
have purchased one instant's happiness for her with ages 
of hopeless torments to be inflicted on himself. He loved 
her with passionate and excessive tenderness : were he 
absent from her but a moment, he would sigh with 
love's impatience for her return ; yet he feared to avow 
his flame, lest this, perhaps, baseless dream of rapturous 
and enthusiastic happiness might fade ; — then, indeed, 
Fitzeustace felt that he must die. 

Yet was Fitzeustace mistaken : Eloise loved him with 



THE ROSICRUCIAN. 285 

all the tenderness of innocence ; she confided in him un- 
reservedly ; and, though unconscious of the nature of the 
love she felt for him, returned each enthusiastically ener- 
getic prepossession of his towering mind with ardour 
excessive and unrestrained. Yet did Fitzeustace suppose 
that she loved him not. Ah ! why did he think so ? 

Late one evening, Moimtfort had gone to Geneva, and 
Fitzeustace wandered with Eloise towards that spot which 
Eloise selected as their constant evening ramble on 
account of its superior beauty. The tall ash and oak, in 
mingled umbrage, sighed far above their heads ; beneath 
them were walks, artificially cut, yet imitating nature. 
They wandered on, till they came to a pavilion which 
Mountfort had caused to be erected. It was situated on 
a piece of land entirely surrounded by water, yet penin- 
sulated by a rustic bridge which joined it to the walk. 

Hither, urged mechanically, for their thoughts were 
otherwise employed, wandered Eloise and Fitzeustace. 
Before them hung the moon in cloudless majesty; 
her orb was reflected by every movement of the 
crystalline water, which, agitated by the gentle zephyr, 
rolled tranquilly. Heedless yet of the beauties of 
nature, the loveliness of the scene, they entered the 
pavilion. 

Eloise convulsively pressed her hand on her fore- 
head. 

"What is the matter, my dearest Eloise?" inquired 
Fitzeustace, whom awakened tenderness had thrown oft' 
his guard. 



286 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

" Oh ! nothing, nothing ; but a momentary faintness* 
It will soon go ofif ; let us sit down." 

They entered the pavilion. 

" Tis nothing but drowsiness," said Eloise, affecting 
gaiety ; " 'twill soon go off. I sate up late last night ; 
that I believe was the occasion." 

" Eecline on this sofa, then," said Fitzeustace, reach- 
ing another pillow to make the couch easier ; " and I * 
will play some of those Irish tunes which you admire so 
much." 

Eloise reclined on the sofa, and Fitzeustace, seated on 
the floor, began to play ; the melancholy plaintiveness of 
his music touched Eloise ; she sighed, and concealed her 
tears in her handkerchief. At length she sunk into 
a profound sleep : still Fitzeustace continued playing, , 
noticing not that she slumbered. He now perceived that . 
she spoke, but in so low a tone, that he knew she 
slept. 

He approached. She lay wrapped in sleep ; a sweet 
and celestial smile played upon her countenance, and 
irradiated her features with a tenfold expression of 
etheriaHty. Suddenly the visions of her slumbers ap- 
peared to have changed ; the smile yet remained, but 
its expression was melancholy ; tears stole gently from 
under her eyelids : — she sighed. 

Ah ! with what eagerness of ecstacy did Fitzeustace 
lean over her form ! He dared not speak, he dared not 



THE ROSICRUCIA>f. 287 

move ; but pressing a ringlet of hair which had escaped 
its band, to his lips, waited silently. 

" Yes, yes ; I think — it may — '' at last she mut- 
tered ; but so confusedly, as scarcely to be distinguisli- 
able. 

Fitzeustace remained rooted in rapturous attention, 
listening. 

" I thought, I thought he looked as if he could love 
me," scarcely articulated the sleeping Eloise. " Perhaps, 
though he may not love me, he may allow me to love 
him. — Fitzeustace !" 

On a sudden, again were changed the visions of her 
slumbers ; terrified she started from sleep, and cried, 
" Fitzeustace !" 



CHAP. XII. 



For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

Lay or the last Minstrel. 



Needless were it to expatiate on their transports ; they 
loved each other, and that is enough for tliose who have 
felt like Eloise and Fitzeustace. 

One night, rather later indeed than it was Mountfort's 
custom to return from Geneva, Eloise and Fitzeustace sat 
awaiting his arrival. At last it was too late any longer 
even to expect him ; and Eloise was about to bid Fitz- 
eustace good-night, when a knock at the door aroused 
them. Instantly, with a hurried and disoixlered step, his 
clothes stained with blood, his countenance convulsed and 
pallid as death, in rushed Mountfort. 

An involuntary exclamation of surprise burst from the 
terrified Eloise. 

"What — what is the matter ?" 

" Oh, nothing, nothing !" answered Mountfort, in a 



THE ROSIGRUCIAN. 289 

« 

tone of hurried, yet desperate agony. The wildness of 
his looks contradicted his assertions. Fitzeustace, who 
had been inquiring whether he was wounded, on finding 
that he was not, flew to Eloise. 

" Oh ! go, go !" she exclaimed. " Something, I am 
convinced, is wrong. — ^Tell me, dear Mountfort, what it 
is — in pity tell me." 

" Nempere is dead !" replied Mountfort, in a voice of 
deliberate desperation ; then, pausing for an instant, he 
added in an under tone, " And the officers of justice are 
in pursuit of me. Adieu, Eloise ! — Adieu, Fitzeustace ! 
You know I must part with you — ^you know how un- 
willingly. — My address is at — London. — ^Adieu — once 
again adieu !" 

Saying this, as by a convulsive effort of despairing 
energy, he darted from the apartment, and mounting a 
horse which stood at the gate, swiftly sped away. Fitz- 
eustace well knew the impossibility of his longer stay; he 
did not seem surprised, but sighed. 

" Ah ! well I know," said Eloise, violently agitated, 
" I well know myself to be the occasion of these mis- 
fortunes. Nempere sought for me ; the generous Mount- 
fort would not give me up, and now is he compelled to 
fly — ^perhaps may not even escape with life. Ah ! I fear 
it ia destined that every friend must suffer in the fatality 
which environs me. Fitzeustace !" she uttered this with 
such tenderness, that, almost involuntarily, he clasped her 
hand, and pressed it to his bosom, in the silent, yet ex- 

PROSE. ^VOL. I. u 



290 ST. IRVYNK; OR 

piessi^e enthusiasm of love. " Fitzenstace ! you will 
not likewise desert the poor isolated Eloise ?" 



' " Say not isolated, dearest love. Can, can you fear, 
my love, whilst your Fitzeustace exists ? Say, adored 
Eloise, shall we now be united, never, never to part 
again ? Say, will you consent to our immediate 
union ?" 

" Enow you not," exclaimed Eloise, in a low, fal- 
tering voice, " know you not that I h/rve been 
another's ?" 

*' Oh ! suppose me not," interrupted the impassioned 
Fitzeustace, "the slave of such vulgar and narrow- 
minded prejudice. Does the frightful vice and ingra- 
titude of Nempere sully the spotless excellence of my 
Eloise's soul ? — ^No, no, — ^that must ever continue 
uncontaminated by the frailty of the body in which 
it is enshrined. It must rise superior to the earth : 
'tis that which I adore, Eloise. Say, say, was that 
Nempere's ?" 

" Oh ! no, never 1" cried Eloise, with energy. " No- 
thing but fear was Nempere's." 



" Then why say you that ever you were his V 
said Fitzeustace, I'eproachfully. "You never conld 
have been his, destined as you were for mine, from 
the first instant the particles composing the soul 
which I adore, were assimilated by the (Jod whom I 
worship." 



THK ROSICRUCIAN. 291 

" Indeed, believe me, dearest Fitzeustace, I love you, 
far beyond any thing existing — ^indeed, existence were 
valueless, unless enjoyed with you !" 

Eloise, though a something prevented her &om avowing 
them, felt the enthusiastic and sanguine ideas of Fitz- 
eustace to be true : her soul, susceptible of the most 
exalted virtue and expansion, though cruelly nipped in 
its growth, thrilled with delight unexperienced before^ 
when she found a being who could understand and per- 
ceive the truth of her feelings, and indeed arUicipate 
them, as did Fitzeustace ; and Jie, while gazing on the 
index of that soul, which associated with his, and ani- 
mated the body of Eloise, but for him, felt delight,, 
which, glowing and enthusiastic as had been his picture 
of happiness^ he never expected to know. His dark 
and beautiful eye gleamed with tenfold lustre ; his. 
eveiy nerve, his every pulse, confessed the awakened 
consciousness, that she, on whom his soul had doted, ever 
since he acknowledged the existence of his intellectuality,, 
was present before him. 

A short space of time passed, and Eloise gave birth 
to the son of Nempere. Fitzeustace cherished it with 
the affection of a father, and, when occasionally he> 
necessarily must be absent from the apartment of his 
beloved Eloise, his whole delight was to gaze on the 
child, and trace in its innocent countenance the features 
of the mother who was so beloved by him. 

• 

Time no longer dragged heavily to Eloise and Fitz- 
eustace: happy in the society of each other, they 
wished nor wanted other joys ; united by the laws of 

v2 



292 ST. IRVYNE; OR 

their God, and assimilated by congeniality of sentiment, 
they supposed that each succeeding month must be like 
this, must pass like this, in the full satiety of every 
innocent union of mental enjoyment. While thus the 
time sped in rapturous succession of delight, autumn 
advanced. 

The evening was late, when, at the usual hour, 
Eloise and Fitzeustace took the way to their beloved 
pavilion. Fitzeustace was unusually desponding, and 
his ideas for futurity were marked by the melancholy 
of his mind. Eloise, in vain, attempted to soothe him ; 
the contention of his mind was but too visible. She 
led him to the pavilion. They entered it. The autumnal 
moon had risen ; her dimly-gleaming orb, scarcely now 
visible, was shrouded in the duskiness of the atmosphere : 
like the spirit of the spotless ether, which shrinks from 
the obtrusive gaze of man, she hung behind a leaden- 
coloured' cloud. The wind in low and melancholy 
whispering sighed among the branches of the towering 
trees ; the melody of the nightingale, which floated upon 
its dying cadences, alone broke on the solemnity of the 
scene. Lives there, whose soul experiences no degree of 
delight, is susceptible of no gradations of feelings, at 
change of scenery? Lives there, who can listen to the 
cadence of the evening zephyr, and not acknowledge, in 
his mind, the sensations of celestial melancholy which it 



^ The epithet lectdencoloured., as the channel of troe inspiration, 

here applied, interests as indicating In Altutor, line 557 (Vol. I, p. 41), 

an early stage in the growth of that we have leaden-coloured even; and 

woodrons poetic apparatus, after- in Prometkna Unbound, Act I, line 

wards more hi(jhly elaborated and 47 (Vol. II, pi 151), Tke leaden- 

n>ore replete with set phrases than coloured eatL 
that of any other poet, so wholly 



TUE ROSICRUCIAN. 



293 



awakens ? for, if he does, his life were valueless, his death 
were undeplored. Ambition, avarice, ten thousand mean, 
ignoble passions, had extinguished within him that soft, 
but indefinable sensorium of unallayed delight, with which 
his soul, whose susceptibility is not -destroyed by the 
demands of selfish appetite, thrills exultingly, and wants 
but the union of another, of whom the feelings are in 
unison with his own, to constitute almost insupportable 
delight. 

Let Epicureans argue, and say, "There is no pleasure 
but in the gratification of the senses." Let them enjoy 
their own opinion ; I want not pleasure, when I can enjoy 
happiness. Let Stoics say, " Every idea that there are 
fine feelings, is weak ; he who yields to them is even 
weaker." Let those too, wise in their own conceit, in- 
dulge themselves in sordid and degrading hypotheses ; let 
them suppose human nature capable of no influence from 
any thing but materiality ; so long as I enjoy the innocent 
and congenial delight, which it were needless to define to 
those who are strangers to it, I am satisfied. 



" Dear Fitzeustace," said Eloise, " tell me what afflicts 
you ; why are you so melancholy ? — ^Do not we mutually 
love, and have we not the unrestrained enjoyment of each 
other's society ? " 



Fitzeustace sighed deeply ; he pressed Eloise's hand. 
" Why does my dearest Eloise suppose that I am un- 
happy ? " The tone of his voice was tremulous, and a 
deadly settled paleness dwelt on his cheek. 



294 ST. irvyne; or 

" Are you not unhappy, then, Fitzeustace ?*' 



u 1 



*I know I ought not to be so," he replied, with a 
faint smile ; — ^he paused — " Eloise," continued Fitz- 
eustace, " I know I ought not to grieve, but you will, 
perhaps, pardon me when I say, that a father's curse, 
whether from the prejudice of education, or the innate 
consciousness of its horror, agitates my mind. I cannot 
leave you, I cannot go to England ; and will you then 
leave your country, Eloise, to accommodate me ? No, I 
do not, I ought not to expect it." 

" Oh ! with pleasure ; what is country ? what is 
eveiy thing without you ? Come, my love, dismiss 
these fears, we yet may be happy." 

" But before we go to England, before my father will 
see us, it is necessary that we should be mairied — ^nay, 
do not start, Eloise ; I view it in the light that you do ; 
I consider it an human institution, and incapable of 
furnishing that bond of union by which alone can 
intellect be conjoined ; I regard it as but a chain, which, 
although it keeps the body bound, still leaves the soul 
unfettered : it is not so with love. But still, Eloise, to 
those who think like us, it is at all events harmless; 
'tis but jrielding to the prejudices of the world wherein 
we live, and procuring moral expediency, at a slight 
sacrifice of what we conceive to be right." 



" Well; well, it shall be done, Fitzeustace," resumed 

^ The inverted commM here are those at the end of the next para- 
wanting in the original, as are graph but one. 



THE ROSICRUCUN. 295 

EloiBe ; '' but take the assurance of my promise that I 
cannot love you more." 

They soon agreed on a point of, in their eyes, so 
trifling importance, and arriving in England, tasted 
that happiness, which love and innocence alone can give. 
Prejudice may triumph for a while, but virtue will be 
eventually the conqueror. 



CONCLUSION. 

It was night — ^all was still ; not a breeze dared to move, 
not a sound to break the stillness of horror. Wolfstein 
has arrived at the village near which St. Irvyne stood ; he 
has sped him to the ch&teau, and has entered the edifice ; 
the garden door was open, and he entered the vaults. 

For a time, the novelty of his situation, and the 
painful recurrence of past eventa, which, independently 
of his own energies, would gleam upon his soul, ren- 
dered him too much confused to investigate minutely the 
recesses of the cavern. Arousing himself, at last, how- 
ever, from this momentary suspension of faculty, he paced 
the vaults in eager desire for the arrival of midnight. 
How inexpressible was his horror when he fell on a body 
which appeared motionless and without life I He raised 
it in his arms, and, taking it to the light, beheld, pallid 
in death, the features of Megalena. The laugh of anguish 
which had convulsed her expiring frame, still played 
around her mouth, as a smile of horror and despaii* ; her 
hair was loose and wild, seemingly gathered in knots by 
the convulsive grasp of dissolution. She moved not ; 
his soul was nerved by almost superhuman powers ; yet 



ST. IKVYNK; OR THE ROSICRUCIAN. 297 

the ice of despair chilled his burning brain. Curiosity, 
resistless curiosity, even in a moment such as this, reigned 
in his bosom. The body of Megalena was breathless, 
and yet no visible cause could be assigned for her death. 
Wolfstein dashed the body convulsively on the earth, and, 
wildered by the suscitated energies of his soul almost to 
madness, rushed into the vaults. 

Not yet had the beU announced the hour of midnight. 
Wolfstein sate on a projecting mass of stone; his 
frame trembled with a burning anticipation of what 
was about to occur ; a thirst of knowledge scorched 
his soul to madness ; yet he stilled his wild energies, — 
yet he awaited in silence the coming of Ginotti. At 
last the bell struck ; Ginotti came ; his step was rapid, 
and his manner wild ; his figure was wasted almost to a 
skeleton, yet it retained its loftiness and grandeur ; still 
from his eye emanated that indefinable expression which 
ever made Wolfstein shrink appalled. His cheek was 
sunken and hoUow, yet was it flushed by the hectic of 
despairing exertion. " Wolfstein," he said, " Wolfstein, 
part is past — the hour of agonizing horror is past ; yet 
the dark and icy gloom of desperation braces this soul to 
fortitude; — ^but come, let us to business." He spoke, 
and threw his mantle on the groimd. " I am blasted to 
endless torment," muttered the mysterious. " Wolfstein, 
dost thou deny thy Creator ? " — " Never, never." — " Wilt 
thou not ? " — ** No, no, — anything but that." 

Deeper grew the gloom of the cavern. Darkness almost 
visible seemed to press aroimd them ; yet did the scin- 
tillations which flashed from Ginotti's burning gaze dance 
on its bosom. Suddenly a flash of lightning hissed 



298 



ST. IRVYNE; OR TBK R08ICRUCIAN. 



through the lengthened vaults: a burst of frightful 
thunder seemed to convulse the universal fabric of nature ; 
and, borne on the pinions of hell's sulphurous whirlwind, 
he himself, the frightful prince of terror, stood before 
them. " Yes," howled a voice superior to the bursting 
thimder-peal ; " yes, thou shalt have eternal life, GinottL" 
On a sudden Ginotti's frame mouldered to a gigantic 
skeleton, yet two pale and ghastly flames glared in his 
eyeless sockets. Blackened in terrible convulsions. Wolf- 
stein expired ; over him had the power of hell no in- 
fluence. Yes, endless existence is thine, Ginotti — ^a 
dateless and hopeless eternity of horror.' 

######### 

Ginotti is Nempere. Eloise is the sister of Wolfstein. 
Let then the memory of these victims to hell and malice 
live in the remembrance of those who can pity the 
wanderings of error ; let remorse and repentance ex- 
piate the ofifences which arise from the delusion of the 
passions, and let endless life be sought from Him who 
alone can give an eternity of happiness. 



^ It ia, perhaps, worth while to 
ejctract ht»m iitoekdaU*$ Budget the 
eluoidationof the catastrophe which 
the aathor vouchsi^ed to the pub- 
lisher in a letter dated the 14th 
of November, 1810: ** Ginotti, as 
you wiU perceive, did not die by 
Wolfstein's hand, bat by the in- 
ilueuoe of that natarnl magic which, 
when the secret was imparted to 
the latter, destroyed him. Mount- 



fort being a character of inferior 
import, I did not think it neces- 
sary to state the catastrophe of 
Attn, as it could at best be but un- 
interesting. Eloise and Fitzeustace 
are married and happy, I suppose, 
and Megalena dies bv the sami) 
means as Wol&tein. 1 do not my- 
self see any other explanation that 
is required.*' 



THK EM). 

[of 8T. IRVYNE.] 



The im])rint of «S%. Irvyne is as follows : — 



Printed by 8. Gosnkll, Little Queen street, London. 



[Shelley's next extant publication after St, Irvyne appears to be the 
traot which led to his expulsion from the University of Oxford. There 
is much talk about this little work in the books of Hogg, Medwin, and 
others ; but it has not been generally known that any copy of it was 
extant. Some years ago I ascertained that the late Mr. Hookham bad 
a copy bound up with other pamphlets by Shelley ; andfirom thatcopy, now 
in the possession of Sir Percy and Lady Shelley, the tract is here 
reproduced. I have only succeeded in hearing of one other extant copy. 
Medwin says {Life of ShtUey^ VoL I, pages 139 et Btq.) that The NeetuUy 
of Atheigni was "never offered for sale" : it was, he says, "a general 
issue, a compendious denial of evezy allegation in order to put the 
whole case in proof.... A formal mode of saying, — * You affirm so and 
so, — then prove it.'... But those who are anxious to see this syllabus, 
may find it toticfesi ver6it in the notes to Queen Mab. This syllabus 
he sent to me among many others, and circulated it largely among 
the heads of colleges, and professors of the university, forwarding 
copies it is said to several of the bishops." There are two inaccuracies 
here, at least : it wcw offered for sale ; and the corresponding note to 
Queen Mab (that on the words ** There is no God'*) varies much from 
the tract in detail, as will be seen by the foot-notes. As to its being 
offered for sale, it is to be observed that Mr. MacCarthy (see SheUe^fe 
Early Life, page 108) found in the Oxford Univeraity and City Herald 
of the 9tJi of February, 1811, under the words Speedily will be publiskedf 
to be had of ike BooksetUn of London and Oxford, the title of the tract, 
and what turns out to be the motto from Bacon given on its title-page 
(reproduced opposite). Moreover, I have good authority for stating 
that it was " on sale " in Oxford for twenty minutes. It seems not 
unlikely that other copies may come to light ; but the smallness of the 
publication renders its existence precarious. It is a single foolscap 
sheet, folded in octavo ; and consists of fly-title as given at the back of 
this note, title-page, a third leaf bearing the ''Advertisement," the 
text occupying pages 7 to 13, and finally a blank leaf. There are no 
headlines ; and the pages (8 to 13) are numbered centrally in Arabic 
figures.— H.B.F.] 



THE 



NECESSITY 



OF 



ATHEISM. 



Quod clar& et per8pica& demonstratione careat 
pro yero habere mens omnino neqnis humana. 

Bacon de Augment. Scient 



WORTHING : 
PRINTZD BY E. ft W. Phillips. 

Sold in London ud Oxford. 



9iV\itttifitmtnt. 



As a love of truth is the only motive 
which actuates the Author of this little tract, 
he earnestly entreats that those of his readers 
who may discover any dejiciency in his reason- 
ing, or may he in possession of proof s which his 
mind could never obtain, would offer them, to-- 
gether with their (Ejections to the Pvblic, as 
briefly, as methodically, as plainly as he has 
taken the liberty of doing^ Thro' deficiency of 
proof, 

AN ATHSIST. 



THE 

NECESSITY 

OF 

ATHEISM. 



A. CLOSE examination of the validity of the proofs ad- 
duced to support any proposition, has ever been allowed 
to be the only sure way" of attaining truth, upon the 
advantages of which it is unnecessary to descant; our 
knowledge of the existence of a Deity is a subject of such 
importance, that it cannot be too minutely investigated ; 
in consequence of this conviction, we proceed briefly and 
impartieJly to examine the proofs which have been 
adduced. It is necessary first to consider the nature of 
Belief. 

When a proposition is offered to the mind, it perceives 
the agreement or disagreement of the ideas of which it is 

* In Queen Mob we read m ^e wdy $eeure way, 
PROSE. VOL. L X 



306 



THE NECESSITY OF ATHEISM. 



composed. A perception of their agreement is termed 
belief, many obstacles frequently prevent this perception 
from being immediate, these the mind attempts to re- 
move in order that the perception may be distinct The 
mind is active in the investigation, in order to perfect the 
state of perception^ which is passive ; the investigation 
being confused with the perception has induced many 
falsely to imagine that the mind is active in belief, 
that belief is an act of volition, in consequence of which 
it may be regulated by the mind ; pursuing, continuing 
this mistake they have attached a degree of criminality 
to disbelief of which in its nature it is incapable ; it is 
equally so * of merit. 

The strength of belief like that of every other passion 
is in proportion to the degrees of excitement. 

The degrees of excitement are three. 



The senses are the sources of all knowledge to the mind, 
consequently their evidence claims the strongest assent. 

The decision of the mind founded upon our own ex- 
perience derived from these sources, claims the next degree. 

The experience of others which addresses itself to the 
former one, occupies the lowest degree.' — 



1 In Queen Mah^ after perception^ 
stand tiie words of the rtlaUon 
which the component ideoi of the 
propoeUion bear to each, 

' In Q^een Mab we read equaUy 

incapable; and the next paragraph 

stands thus : 

" Belief, then, is a paieion, the etrength 
of which, like every other pMtlon, is in 
precise proportion to the degreee of 
ezcitementy 

* In Queen Mab we read between 



this paragraph and the next as 
follows : 

'* (A mdnated scale, on which shoold be 
marked the capabilities of propositiont 
to approach to the test of the senses, would 
be a Jttst barometer of the belief which 
onght to be attached to them.)" 

It is curioos that the whole of 
this interpolation is transferred to 
A Brfutation of Deiem, the word 
barometer, however, being replaced 
by meaewre. 



THE NECESSITY OF ATHEISM. 



807 



Consequently no testimony can be admitted which is 
contrary to reason, reason is founded on the evidence of 
our senses. 

Every proof may be referred to one of these three 
divisions ; we are naturally led to consider * what argu- 
ments we receive from each of them to ' convince us of 
the existence of a Deity. 

1st. The evidence of the senses. — If the Deity should 
appear to us, if he should convince our senses of his 
existence ; this revelation would necessarily command 
belief ; — Those to whom the Deity has thus appeared, 
have the strongest possible conviction of his existence.' 

Beason claims the 2nd. place, it is urged that man 
knows that whatever is, must either have had a beginning 
or existed from all eternity, he also knows that what- 
ever is not eternal must have had a cause. — ^Where 
this is applied to the existence of the universe,^ it is 
necessary to prove that it was created, until that is 
clearly demonstrated, we may reasonably suppose that it 
has endured from all eternity.* — ^In a case where two 
propositions are diametrically opposite, the mind believes 
that which is less incomprehensible, it is easier to suppose 
that the Universe has existed from all eternity, than to 



^ In Qviten Mab we read Uisto 
h^ eonaidered. 

> In Qu^en Mah the words vhieh 
should are subBtituted for to, 

* In Queen Mab is added the 
trenchant sentence, Bui the Ood of 
Theoloaiane ie ineapaible of local 
vieUnlUy; and the next paragraph 
opeDS simply with 2nd, Reaaon, 

^ In Queen Mah we read When 



thig reasoning w applied to the 
WMvene, 

' There is the following inter- 
polation at this point in Q^een 
Mab: 

" We most prove deeign before we can 
infer a designer. The only idea whioh we 
can form ofcaoBatioii is deriTable from the 
constant eoi^nnetion of otgeots, and the 
consequent infbrenoe of one from the 
other/' 

X 2 



308 



THE NECESSITY OF ATHEISM. 



conceive a being' capable of creating it; if the mind 
sinks beneath the weight of one, is it an alleviation to 
increase the intolerability of the burden ? — ^The other 
argument which is founded upon a man's knowledge of 
his own existence stands thus.— -A man knows not only 
he now is, but that there was a time when he did not 
exist,* consequently there must have been a cause. — 
But what does this prove ? we can only infer from effects 
causes exactly adequate to those effects;- —But there 
certainly is a generative power which is effected by par- 
ticular instruments ; we cannot prove that it is inherent in 
these instruments, nor is the contrary hypothesis capable 
of demonstration ; we admit that the generative power is 
incomprehensible, but to suppose that the same effect is 
produced by an eternal, omniscient. Almighty' Being, 
leaves the cause in the same obscurity, but renders it 
more incomprehensible. 



The 3rd. and last degree of assent is claimed by Testi- 
mony- --it is required that it should not be contrary to 
reason.- --The testimony that the Deity convinces the 
senses of men of his existence can only be admitted by 
us, if our mind considers it less probable that these men 
should have been deceived, than that the Deity should 
have appeared to them— -our reason can never admit 
the testimony of men, who not only declare that they 
were eye-witnesses of miracles but that the Deity was 
irrational, for he commanded that he should be believed. 



1 In Queen Mab the words heyond 
iU limit9 are introdaced after being. 

' These nine words are replaced 
in Queen Mah by four, — once he 
w<u not; and the next sentence, 
instead of Bui what doet thu prove t 

18 — 
"But oor idea of eftosatioii is alone 



derivable ftrom the conttant ooqjancticni 
of obiecto and the oonwquent inferenoe of 
one iTom the other ; and, reasoning ex- 
perimentally, we can/' dec. 

' We read omnipotent in Queen 
Mabt where the next paragraph 
begins thus : Zrd. Testimony, It is 
claimed that testimony, &c. 



THE NECESSITY OF ATHEISM. 



309 



he proposed the highest rewards for faith, eternal punish- 
ments for disbelief- --we can only command voluntary 
actions, belief is not an act of volition, the mind is even 
passive, from this it is evident that we have not sufficient 
testimony, or rather that testimony is insufficient to 
prove the being of a God, we have before shewn* that it 
cannot be deduced from reason,- --they who have been 
convinced by the evidence of the senses, they only can 
believe it. 

From this it is evident that having no proofs from 
any of the three sources of conviction : the mind canriot 
believe the existence of a God, it is also evident that as 
belief is a passion of the mind, no degree of criminality 
can be attached to disbelief, they only are reprehensible 
who willingly neglect to remove the false medium thro* 
which their mind views the subject. 

It is almost unnecessary to observe, that the general 
knowledge of the deficiency of such proof, cannot be 
prejudicial to society : Truth has always been found to 
promote the best interests of mankind.— -Every reflect- 
ing mind must allow that there is no proof of the exist- 
ence of a Deity. Q. E. D. 



* In Queen Mob we read It hat 

been before ahevm that U cannot be 

deduced from reawn. They alone, 

tfient who have been convinced by the 

evidence of the teneeit can believe it. 

And the final paragraph Btand« 

thus: 

"Hence it is evident that, h»Ting no 
proofr from either of the three soarces of 



tKinTiction, the mind eanuot beliere the 
existence of a oreatiTe God : it is also 
evident, that, as belief is a passion of the 
mind, no degree of criminality is attach- 
able to disbelief; and that they only are 
reprehensible who neglect to remove the 
fklse medium throogh which their minds 
view any snbject of discnaslon. £very 
reflecting mind most acknowledge that 
there is no proof of the existenoe of a 
Ddty." 



The imprint of The Necemty of Atheism is as follows :— 



Phillips, Printers, Worthing. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 



[Mr. MacCarthy, whose researches in the matter of the Irish Campaign 
are invaluable as to facts and details, 'fixes the date of publication of the 
Addrtu to the Iriih People as nearly as need be : he shews {SheUey'e Early 
Life, PAgM 149 ^ *^') ^hat it came from the printer on the 24th of Feb< 
mary, 1812, that copies of it were sent to Godwin and Hamilton Rowan 
on that and the following day respectively, and that an advertisement 
appeared in The Dublin Evening Pott of the 25th and 29th of February, 
and 3rd of March. It is a *' stabbed ** 8vo. pamphlet, consisting of title-page 
and 22 pages of text, including the postscript, which occupies the last leaf. 
It is printed on three half -sheets, the title-page being the final leaf of 
the last half- sheet, and doubled back over the first two half-sheets. The 
pages have no head-lines, but are numbered centrally ; and no printer's 
name appears. The type is exceedingly small and poor, and the paper 
very bad. Though just double the length of the second Irish pamphlet 
it has only two more leaves. The typography is moderately correct, 
though the punctuation, probably Shelley's, is eccentric. I have 
followed it rather than make and record innumerable small alterationa, 
and have noted all those that it was absolutely necessary to make. There 
is a copy in the British Museum. — H. B. F.] 



AN ADDRESS, 



TO THE 



IRISH PEOPLE, 



By PERCY BYSSUE SHELLEY. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The hwett poatUde price is set on this publication, becauee itiethe intention of 
the Author to awaken in the mivde of the Iruth poor, a knowltdge of their 
real state, eummarUy pointing out the evils of that state, and suggesting 
rational means of remedy, — Catholic Emancipation, and a Repeal of the 
Union Act, (the latter, the most successful engine that England ever wielded 
over the misery of fallen Inland, J being treated of in the following address, 
asgrievanees which unanimity and resolution may remove, and associations 
couUucted with peaceable Jirmneas, being earnestly recommended, tu means 
for embodying that unanimity and firmness, whichmust finally be successful. 



liubltn: 



1812. 



I'rirf, — Sd. 



AN ADDRESS, 



TO THE 



IRISH PEOPLE. 



Fellow Men, 

I am not an Irishman, yet I can feel for you. I hope 
there are none among you who will read this address 
with prejudice or levity, because it is made by an 
Englishman, indeed, I believe there are not The Irish 
are a brave nation. They have a heart of liberty in 
their breasts, but they are much mistaken if they fancy 
that a stranger cannot have as warm a one. Those are 
my brothers and my countrymen, who are unfortunate. 
I should like to know what there is in a man being an ' 
Englishman, a Spaniard, or a Frenchman, that makes 
him worse or better than he really is. He was bom in 
one town, you in another, but that is no reason why he 
should not feel for you, desire your benefit, or be willing 
to give you some advice, which may make you more 
capable of knowing your own interest, or acting so as 
to secure it. — There are many Englishmen who cry down 



316 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

the Irish, and think it answers their ends to revile aU 
that belongs to Ireland ; but it is not because these men 
are Englishmen that they maintain such opinions, but 
because they wish to get money, and titles, and power. 
They would act in this manner to whatever country they 
might belong, until mankind is much altered for the 
better, which reform, I hope, will one day be eflFected. — I 
address you then, as my brothers and my fellow-men, for 
I should wish to see the Irishman who, if England was 
persecuted as Ireland is, who, if France was persecuted 
as Ireland is, who, if any set of men that helped to do 
a public service were prevented fiom enjoying its benefits 
as Irishmen are — I should like to see the man, I say, 
who would see these misfortunes, and not attempt to 
succour the sufferers when he could, just that I might 
tell him that he was no Irishman, but some bastard 
mongrel bred up in a court, or some coward fool who 
was a democrat to all above him, and an aristocrat to 
all below him. I think there are few true Irishmen 
who would not be ashamed of such a character, still 
fewer who possess it. I know that there are some, not 
among you my friends, but among your enemies, who 
seeing the title of this piece, will take it up with a sort 
of hope that it may recommend violent measures, and 
thereby disgrace the cause of freedom, that the warmth 
of an heart desirous that liberty should be possessed 
equally by all, will vent itself in abuse on the enemies 
of liberty, bad men who deserve the contempt of the 
good, and ought not to excite their indignation to the 
harm of their cause. But these men will be disappointed 
— I know the warm feelings of an Irishman sometimes 
carries* him beyond the point of prudence. I do not 

» Sic. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 317 

desire to root out, but to moderate this honorable 
warmth. This will disappoint the pioneers of oppression 
and thej will be sorry, that through this address nothing 
will occur which can be twisted into any other meaning 
but what is calculated to fill you with that moderation 
which they have not, and make you give them that 
toleration which they refuse to grant to you. — You 
profess the Eoman Catholic religion which your fathers 
professed before you. Whether it is the best religion or 
not, I will not here inquire : all religions are good which 
make men good ; and the way that a person ought to 
prove that his method of worshipping God is best, is for 
himself to be better than all other men. But we will 
consider what your religion was in old times and what it 
is now : you may say it is not a fair way for me to 
proceed as a Protestant, but I am not a Protestant, nor 
am I a Catholic, and therefore not being a follower of 
either of these religions, I am better able to judge between 
them. A Protestant is my brother, and a Catholic is 
my brother, I am happy when I can do either of them a 
service, and no pleasure is so great to me than that 
which I should feel if my advice could make men of any 
professions of faith, wiser, better and happier. 

The Soman Catholics once persecuted the Protestants, 
the Protestants now persecute the Boman Catholics — 
should we think that one is as bad as the other ? No, 
you are not answerable for the faults of your fathers any 
more than the Protestants are good for the goodness of 
their fathers. I must judge of people as I see them ; 
the Irish Catholics are badly used. I will not endeavour 
to hide from them their wretchedness ; they would think 
that I mocked at them if I should make the attempt. 



318 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

The Irish Catholics now demand for themselves, and 
profess' for others unlimited toleration, and the sensible 
part among them, which I am willing to think constitutes 
a very large portion of their body, know that the gates 
of Heaven are open to people of every religion, provided 
they are good But the Protestants, although they may 
think so in their hearts, which certainly if they think at 
all they must seem to act as if they thought that God 
was better pleased with them than with you, they trust 
the reins of earthly government only to the hands of 
their own sect ; in spite of this, I never found one of 
them impudent' enough to say that a Soman Catholic, 
or a Quaker, or a Jew, or a Mahometan, if he was a 
virtuous man, and did all the good in his power, would 
go to Heaven a bit the slower for not subscribing to the 
thirty-nine articles — and if he should say so, how ridi- 
culous in a foppish courtier not six feet high to direct 
the spirit of universal harmony, in what manner to 
conduct the affairs of the universe! 

The Protestants say that there was a time when the 
Eoman Catholics burnt and murdered people of different 
sentiments, and that their religious tenets are now as 
they were then. This is aU very true. You certaioly 
worship God in the scone way that you did when those 
barbarities took place, but is that any reason that you 
should now be barbarous. There is as much reason to 
suppose it, as to suppose that because a man's great 
grandfather, who was a Jew, had been himg for sheep- 
stealing, that I, by believing the same religion as he did, 
must certainly commit the same crime. Let us then see 

I In the original profers, —doubt- proffer. 
less a misprint for profeu, not for ' In the original, mpmdetUip. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 819 

what the Eoman Catholic religion has been. — No one 
knows much of the early times of the Christian religion, 
until about three hundred years after its beginning, two 
great churches called the Soman and the Oreek churches 
divided the opinions of men. They fought for a very 
long time, a great many words were wasted and a great 
deal of blood shed. This as you may suppose did no 
good. Each party however, thought they were doing 
God a service, and that he would reward them. If they 
had looked an inch before their noses they might have 
found that fighting and killing men, and cursing them 
and hating them, was the very worst way for getting into 
favour with a Being who is allowed by aU to be best 
pleased with deeds of love and charity. At last, how- 
ever, these two Beligions entirely separated, and the 
Popes reigned like Kings and Bishops at Bome, in Italy. 
The inquisition was set up, and in the course of one year 
thirty thousand people were burnt in Italy and Spain, 
for entertaining different opinions from those of the 
Pope and the Priests. There was an instance of shocking 
barbarity which the Boman Catholic Clergy committed 
in France by order of the Pope. The bigotted Monks 
of that country, in cold blood, in one night massacred 
80,000 Protestants ; this was done under the authority 
of the Pope, and there was only one Boman Catholic 
Bishop who had virtue enough to refuse to help. The 
vices of Monks and Nuns in their Convents were in those 
times shameful, people thought that they might commit 
any sin, however monstrous, if they had money enough 
to prevail upon the Priests to absolve them ; in truth, at 
that time the Priests shamefully imposed upon the people, 
they got all the power into their own hands, they per- 
suaded them that a man could not be entrusted with the 



320 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

care of his own soul, and by cunningly obtaining posses- 
sion of their secrets, they became more powerful than 
Kings, Princes, Dukes, Lords, or Ministers: this power 
made them bad men ; for although rational people are 
very good in their natural state, there are now, and ever 
have been very few whose good dispositions despotic 
power does not destroy. I have now given a fair de- 
scription of what your religion was ; and Irishmen my 
brothers ! will you make your friend appear a liar, when 
he takes upon himself to say for you, that you are not 
now what the professors of the same faith were in times 
of yore. Do I speak false when I say that the inquisi- 
tion is the object of your hatred ? Am I a liar if I 
assert that an Irishman prizes liberty dearly, that he will 
preserve that right, and if he be wrong, does not dream 
that money given to a Priest, or the talking of another 
man erring like himself, can in the least influence the 
judgement of the eternal God ? — I am not a liar if I 
affirm in your name, that you believe a Protestant equally 
with yourself to be worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven, if 
he be equally virtuous, that you will treat men as 
brethren wherever you may find them, and that difiference 
of opinion in religious matters, shall not, does not in the 
least on your part, obstruct the most perfect harmony on 
every other subject. — Ah 1 no. Irishmen, I am not a liar. 
I seek your confidence, not that I may betray it, but that 
I may teach you to be happy, and wise, and good. If 
you will not repose any trust in me I shall lament, but 
I wiU do every thing in my power that is honorable, fair, 
and open, to gain it. Some teach you that others are 
heretics, that you alone are right; some teach that 
rectitude consists in religious opinions, without which 
no morality is good, some will tell you that you ought to 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 321 

divulge your secrets to one particular set of men ; 
beware my friends how you trust those who speak in 
this way. They will, I doubt not, attempt to rescue 
you from your present miserable state, but they will 
prepare a worse. It will be out of the frying-pan into 
the fire. Your present oppressors it is true, will then 
oppress you no longer, but you will feel the lash of a 
master a thousand times more blood-thirsty and cruel. 
Evil designing men will spring up who will prevent 
your thinking as you please, will bum you if you do not 
think as they do. There are always bad men who take 
advantage of hard times. The Monks and the Priests of 
old were very bad men ; take care no such abuse your 
confidence again. You are not blind to your present 
situation, you are villainously treated, you are badly used. 
That tliis slavery shall cease, I will venture to prophesy. 
Your enemies dare not to persecute you longer, the spirit 
of Ireland is bent, but it is not broken, and that they 
very well know. But I wish your views to embrace a 
wider scene, I wish you to think for your children and 
your children's children ; to take great care (for it all 
rests with you) that whilst one tyranny is destroyed an- 
other more fierce and terrible does not spring up. Take 
care then of smooth-faced impostors, who talk indeed of 
freedom, but who will cheat you into slavery. Can there 
be worse slavery than the depending for the safety of 
your soul on the will of another man ? Is one man 
more favored than another by Grod. No, certainly, they 
are all favored according to the good they do, and not 
according to the rank and profession they hold, God 
values a poor man as much as a Priest, and has given 
him a soul as much to himself ; the worship that a kind 
Being must love, is that of a simple affectionate heart, 
PROSE. — ^VOIi. I. Y 



822 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

that shews its piety in good works, and not in ceremonies, 
or confessions, or burials, or processions, or wonders. 
Take care then, that you are not led away. Doubt every 
thing that leads you not to charity, and think of the 
word " heretic" as a word which some selfish knave in- 
vented for the ruin and misery of the world, to answer 
his own paltry and narrow ambition. Do not inquire if 
a man be a heretic, if he be a Quaker, or a Jew, or a 
Heathen ; but if he be a virtuous man, if he loves liberty 
and truth, if he wish the happiness and peace of human 
kind. If a man be ever so much a believer and love not 
these things, he is a heartless hypocrite, a rascal, and a 
knave. Despise and hate him, as ye despise a tyrant and 
a villain. Oh ! Ireland, thou emerald of the ocean, whose 
sons are generous and brave, whose daughters are honor- 
able, and frank, and fair ; thou art the isle on whose 
green shores I have desired to see the standard of liberty 
erected, a flag of fire, a beacon at which the world shall 
light the torch of Freedom ! 

We will now examine the Protestant Religion. Its 
origin is called the Reformation. It was undertaken by 
some bigotted men, who showed how little they under- 
stood the spirit of Reform, by burning each other. You 
will observe that these men burnt each other, indeed they 
universally betrayed a taste for destroying, and vied with 
the chiefs of the Roman Catholic Religion, in not only 
hating their enemies, but those men, who least of all 
were their enemies, or any body's enemies. Now, do the 
Protestants, or do they not hold the same tenets as they 
did when Calvin burnt Serve tus, they swear that they do. 
We can have no better proof. Then with what face can 
the Protestants object to Catholic Emancipation, on the 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 823 

plea that Catholics once were barbarous ; when their own 
establishment is liable to the very same objections, on the 
very same grounds ? I think this is a specimen of bare- 
faced intoleration, which I had hoped would not have 
disgraced this age ; this age, which is called the age 
of reason, of thought diffused, of virtue acknowledged, 
and its principles fixed. — Oh ! that it may be so, — I 
have mentioned the Catholic and Protestant Eeligions 
more to shew that any objection to the toleration of 
the one forcibly applies to the non-permission of the 
other, or rather to shew that there is no reason why 
both might not be tolerated, why every lleligion, every 
form of thinking might not be tolerated. — But why do I 
speak of toleration ? This word seems to mean that there 
is some merit in the person who tolerates, he has this 
merit if it be one, of refraining to do an evil act, but he 
will share the merit with every other peaceable person 
who pursues his own business, and does not hinder an- 
other of his rights. It is not a merit to tolerate, but it is 
a crime to be intolerant : it is not a merit in' me that I 
sat quietly at home without murdering any one, but it is 
a crime if I do so. Besides no act of a National repre- 
sentation can make any thing wrong, which was not 
wrong before ; it cannot change virtue and truth, and for 
a very plain reason ; because they are unchangeable. An 
act passed in the British Parliament to take away the 
rights of Catholics to act in that assembly, does not 
really take them away. It prevents them from doing it 
by force. This is in such cases, the last and only effica- 
cious way. But force is not the test of truth ; they will 
never have recourse to violence who acknowledge no 
other rule of behaviour but virtue and justice. 

^ In tbe original, on. 

y8 



824 AS ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

Tlie folly of persecuting men for their religion will 
ai)])ear if we examine it. Why do we persecute them ? 
to make them believe as we do. Can any thing be more 
barbarous or foolish. — For although we may make them 
say they believe as we do, they will not in their hearts do 
any such thing, indeed they cannot, this devilish method 
can only make them fabe hypocrites. For what is belief ? 
We cannot believe just what we like, but only what we 
think to be true ; for you cannot alter a man's opinion 
by beating or burning, but by persuading him that what 
you think is right, and this can only be done by fair 
words and reason. It is ridiculous to call a man a heretic, 
because he thinks differently from you, he might as well 
call yon one. In the same sense, the word orthodox is 
used, it signifies " to think rightly" and what can be more 
vain and presumptuous in any man or any set of men, to 
put themselves so out of the ordinary course of things as 
to say — " What we think is right, no other people through- 
out the world have opinions any thing like equal to ours." 
Any thing short of unlimited toleration, and complete 
charity with all men, on which you will recollect that 
Jesus Christ principally insisted, is wrong, and for this 
reason — what makes a man to be a good man ? not his 
religion, or else there could be no good men in any 
religion but one, when yet we' find that all ages, countries, 
and opinions have produced them. Virtue and wisdom 
always so far as they went produced liberty or happiness 
long before any of the religions now in the world were' 
ever heard of. The only use of a religion that ever I 
could see, is to make men wiser or better, so far as it 
does this, it is a good one. Now if people are good, and 

^ In the origiaal, when we yet ' In the original, have, donbtl 
we iic. ft miaprint for were. 



AK ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 325 

yet have sentiments diflTering from you, then all tlie pur- 
poses are answered, which any reasonable man could 
want, and whether he thinks like you or not, is of too 
little consequence to employ means which must be dis- 
gusting and hateful to candid minds, nay they cannot 
approve of such means. For as I have before said you 
cannot believe or disbelieve what you like — perhaps 
some of you may doubt this, but just try — I will take a 
common and familiar instance. Suppose you have a 
friend of whom you wish to think well, he commits a 
crime, which proves to you that he is a bad man. It is 
very painful to you to think ill of him, and you would 
still think well of him if you could. But mark the word, 
you cannot think well of him, not even to secure your 
own peace of mind can you do so. You try, but your 
attempts are vain. This shews how little power a man 
has over his belief, or rather, that he cannot believe what 
he does not think true. And what shall we think now ? 
What fools and tyi'ants must not those men be, who set 
up a particular religion, say that this religion alone is 
right, and that every one who disbelieves it, ought to be 
deprived of certain rights which are really his, and whicli 
would be allowed him if he believed. Certainly, if you 
cannot help disbelief, it is not any fault in you. — To take 
away a man's rights and privileges, to call him a heretic 
or to think worse of him, when at the same time you 
cannot help owning that he has committed no fault, is 
the grossest tyranny and intoleration. From what has 
been said I think we may be justified in concluding, tliat 
people of all religions ought to have an equal share in 
the state, that the words heretic and orthodox were in- 
vented by a vain villain, and have done a great deal of 
harm in the world, and that no person is answerable for 



326 AX ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

his belief whose actions are virtuous and moral, that the 
religion is best whose members are the best men, and 
that no person can help either his belief or disbelief. — Be 
in charity with all men. It does not therefore, signify 
what your Religion was, or what the Protestant Religion 
was, we must consider them as we find them. What are 
they now ? Yours is not intolerant, indeed my friends 1 
have ventured to pledge myself for you that it is not. 
You merely desire to go to Heaven, in your own way, nor 
will you interrupt fellow travellers, although the road 
which you take, may not be that which they take. Be- 
lieve me, that goodness of heart and purity of life are 
tilings of more value in the eye of the Spirit of Goodness, 
than idle earthly ceremonies, and things which have anj- 
tiling but charity for their object. And is it for the first 
or the last of these things that you or the Protestants 
contend. It is for the last. Prejudiced people indeed, 
are they who grudge to the happiness and comfort of 
your souls, things which can do harm to no one. They 
are not compelled to share in these rites. Irishmen ; 
knowledge is more extended than in the early period of 
your religion, people have learned to think, and the more 
thought there is in the world, the more happiness and 
liberty will there be : — men begin now to think less of 
idle ceremonies, and more of realities. From a long night 
have they risen, and they can perceive its darkness. 
I know no men of thouglit and learning who do not 
consider the Catholic idea of purgator}", much nearer 
the truth than the Protestant one of eternal damna- 
tion. Can you think that the Mahometans and the 
Indians, who have done good deeds in this life, will 
not be rewarded in the next. The Protestants believe 
that they will be eternally damned, at least they swear 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 827 

that they do. — I think they appear in a better light as 
perjurers, than believers in a falsehood so hateful and 
uncharitable as this. — I propose unlimited toleration, 
or rather the destruction, both of toleration and in- 
toleration. The act permits certain people to worship 
God after such a manner, which, in fact, if not done, 
would as far as in it lay prevent God from hearing their 
address. Can we conceive any thing more presumptuous, 
and at the same time more ridiculous, than a set of men 
granting a licence to God to receive the prayers of certain 
of his creatures. Oh Irishmen ! I am interested in your 
cause ; and it is not because you are Irishmen or Soman 
Catholics, that I feel with you and feel for you ; but 
because you are men and sufiferers. Were Ireland at this 
moment, peopled with Brahmins, this very same address 
would have been suggested by the same state of mind. 
You have suffered not merely for your religion, but some 
other causes which I am equally desirous of remedying. 
The Union of England with Ireland has withdrawn the 
Protestant aristocracy, and gentry from their native 
country, and with these their friends and connections. 
Their resources are taken from this country, although they 
are dissipated in another ; the very poor people are most 
infamously oppressed by the weight of burden which the 
superior ranks lay upon their shoulders. I am no less 
desirous of the reform of these evils (with many others) 
than for the Catholic Emancipation. 

Perhaps you all agree with me on both these subjects, 
we now come to the method of doing these things. I 
agree with the Quakers so far as they disclaim violence, 
and trust their cause wholly and solely to its own truth. 
— If you are convinced of the truth of your cause, trust 



328 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

wholly to its truth ; if you are not convinced, give it up. 
In no case employ violence, the way to liberty and hap- 
piness is never to transgress the rules of virtue and justice. 
Liberty and happiness are founded upon virtue and justice, 
if you destroy the one, you destroy the other. However ill 
others may act, this will be no excuse for you if you follow 
their example ; it ought rather to warn you from pur- 
suing so bad a method. Depend upon it, Irishmen, your 
cause shall not be neglected. I will fondly hope, that 
the schemes for yoiur happiness and liberty, as well as 
those for the happiness and liberty of the world, will not 
be wholly fruitless. One secure method of defeating them 
is violence on the side of the injured party. If you cau 
descend to use the same weapons as your enemy, you put 
yourself on a level with him on this score, you must be 
convinced that he is on these grounds your superior. But 
appeal to the sacred principles of virtue and justice, then 
how is he awed into nothing ? how does truth show him 
in his real colours, and place the cause of toleration and 
reform in the clearest light. I extend my view not only 
to you as Irishmen, but to all of every persuasion, o( 
every country. Be calm, mild, deliberate, patient ; recol- 
lect that you can in no measure more eflfectually forward 
the cause of reform than by employing your leisure 
time in reasoning, or the cultivation of your minds. 
Think and talk, and discuss. The only subjects you 
ought to propose, are those of happiness and liberty. 
Be free and be happy, but first be wise and good. 
For you are not aU wise or good.* You are a great 
and a brave nation, but you cannot yet be all wise or 
good. You may be at some time, and then Ireland 

^ In the original there is a comma standing the capital letter for the 
here instead of a period, not with- next word. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 329 

will be an earthly Paradise. You know what is meant 
by a mob, it is an assembly of people who without fore- 
sight or thought, collect themselves to disapprove of by 
force any measure which they dislike. An assembly like 
this can never do any thing but hann, tumultuous pro- 
ceedings must retard the period when thought and cool- 
ness will produce freedom and happiness, and that to 
the very people who make the mob, but if a number 
of human beings, after thinking of their own interests, 
meet together for any conversation on them, and employ 
resistance of the mind, not resistance of the body, these 
people are going the right way to work. But let no fiery 
passions carry them beyond this point, let them consider 
that in some sense, the whole welfare of their countrymen 
depends on their prudence, and that it becomes them to 
guard the welfare of others as their own. Associations 
for purposes of violence, are entitled to the strongest dis- 
approbation of the real reformist. Always suspect that 
some knavish rascal is at the bottom of things of this 
kind, waiting to profit by the confusion. All secret asso- 
ciations are also bad. Are you men of deep designs, 
whose deeds love darkness better than light ; dare you 
not say what you think before any man, can you not 
meet in the open face of day in conscious innocence ? 
Oh, Irishmen ye can. Hidden arms, secret meetings and 
designs, violently to separate England from Ireland, are 
all very bad. I do not mean to say the very end of 
them is bad, the object you have in view may be just 
enough, whilst the way you go about it is wrong, may 
be calculated to produce an opposite effect. Never do 
evil that good may come, always think of others as well 
as yourself, and cautiously look how your conduct may 
do good or evil, when you yourself shall be mouldering in 



330 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

the grave. Be fair, open, and you will be terrible to your 
enemies. A friend cannot defend you, much as he may 
feel for your suflTerings, if you have recourse to methods 
of whicli virtue and justice disapprove. No cause is in 
itself so dear to liberty as yours. Much depends on you, 
far may your efforts spread, either hope or despair ; do 
not tlien cover in darkness wi'ongs at which the face of 
day, and the tyrants who bask in its warmth ought to 
blush.* Wherever has violence succeeded. The French 
Kevolution, although undertaken with the best intentions, 
ended ill for the people ; because violence was employed, 
the cause which they vindicated was that of truth, but 
they gave it the appearance of a lie, by using methods 
wliich will suit the purposes of liars as well as their own. 
Speak boldly and daringly what you think ; an Irishman 
was never accused of cowardice, do not let it be thought 
possible that he is a coward. Let him say what he 
thinks, a lie is the basest and meanest employment of 
men, leave lies and secrets to courtiers and lordlings ; be 
open, sincere, and single hearted. Let it be seen that the 
Irish votaries of Freedom dare to speak what they think, 
let them resist oppression, not by force of arms, but by 
power of mind, and reliance on truth and justice. Will 
any be arraigned for libel — ^will imprisonment or deatli 
be the consequences of this mode of proceeding : probably 
not — but if it were so ? Is danger frightful to an Irish- 
man who speaks for his own liberty, and the liberty of 
his wife and children : — No, he will steadily persevere, 
and sooner shall pensioners cease to vote with their bene- 
factors, than an Irishman swerve from the path of duty. 
But steadily persevere in the system above laid down, its 

^ Period dropped in the original. 



^ 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 831 

benefits will speedily be manifested. Persecution may 
destroy some, but cannot destroy all, or nearly all ; let it 
do its will, ye have appealed to truth and justice — show 
the goodness of your religion by persisting in a reliance 
on these things, which must be the rules even of the 
Almighty's conduct. But before this can be done with 
any effect, habits of SOBEIETY, REGULAEITY, and 
THOUGHT, must be entered into, and firmly resolved 
upon. 

My warm-hearted friends, who meet together to talk 
of the distresses of your countrymen, until social chat 
induces you to drink rather freely ; as ye have felt 
passionately, so reason coolly. Nothing hasty can be 
lasting ; lay up the money with which you usually pur- 
chase drunkenness and ill-health, to relieve the pains of 
your fellow-sufferers. Let your children lisp of Freedom 
in the cradle — let your death-bed be the school for fresh 
exertions — ^let every street of the city, and field of the 
coimtry, be connected with thoughts, which liberty has 
made holy. Be warm in your cause, yet rational, and 
cliaritable, and tolerant — never let the oppressor grind 
you into justifying his conduct by imitating his mean- 
ness. 

Many circumstances, I will own, may excuse what is 
called rebellion, but no circumstances can ever make it 
good for your cause, and however honourable to your 
feelings, it will reflect no credit on your judgments. It 
will bind you more closely to the block of the oppressor, 
and youp children's children, whilst they talk of your 
exploits, will feel that you have done them injury, instead 
of benefit. 



332 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

A crisis is now arriving, which shall decide your fate. 
The king of Great Britain has arrived at the evening of 
his days.* He has objected to your emancipation ; he 
lias been inimical to you ; but he will in a certain time 
be no more. The present Prince of Wales . will then 
be king. It is said that he has promised to restore you 
to freedom : your real and natural right will, in that case, 
be no longer kept from you. I hope he has pledged him- 
self to this act of justice, because there will then exist 
some obligation to bind him to do right. Kings are but 
too apt to think little as they should do : they tliink 
every thing in the worid is made for them ; when 
the truth is, that it is only the vices of. men that 
make such people necessary, and they have no other 
right of being kings, but in virtue of the good they do. 
The benefit of the governed is tlie origin and meaning 
of government. The Prince of Wales has had every 
opportunity of knowing how he ought to act alK)ut 
Ireland and liberty. Tliat great and good man, Charles 
Fox, who was your friend, and the friend of freedom, was 
the friend of the Prince of Wales. He never flattered or 
disguised his sentiments, but spoke them openly on every 
occasion, and the Prince was the better for his instruc- 
tive conversation. He saw the truth, and he l)elieved it. 
Now I know not what to say ; Ids staff is gone, and he 
leans upon a broken reed ; his present advisers are not 
like Charles Fox, they do not plan for liberty and safety, 
not for the happiness but for the glory of their country ; 
and what. Irishmen, is the glory of a country divided 
from their happiness ? it is a false light hung out by the 



^ In the original there is here, word ia spelt with a capital letter, 
again, a comma, although the next 



AX ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 833 

enemies of freedom to lure the unthinking into their 
net. Men like these surround the Prince, and whether 
or no he has really promised to emancipate you, 
whether or no he will consider the promise of a 
Prince of Wales binding to a King of England, is yet 
a matter of doubt. We cannot at least be quite 
certain of it : on this -you cannot certainly rely. But 
there are men who, wherever they find a tendency to 
freedom, go there to increase, support, and regulate 
that tendency. These men who join to a rational 
disdain of danger, a practice of speaking the truth, 
and defending the cause of the oppressed against the 
oppressor; these men see what is right and will pursue 
it. On such as these you may safely rely : they love 
you as they love their brothers ; they feel for the un- 
fortunate, and never ask whether a man is an English- 
man or an Irishman, a catholic, a heretic, a christian, or a 
heathen, before their hearts and their purses are opened 
to feel with their misfortunes and relieve their neces- 
sities : such are the men wlio will stand by you for 
ever. Depend then, not upon the promises of Princes, 
but upon tliose of virtuous and disinterested men : 
depend not upon force of arms or violence, but upon 
the force of the truth of the rights which you have to 
share equally with others, the benefits and the evils of 
Government. 

The crisis to which I allude as the period of your 
emancipation, is not the death of the present king, 
or any circumstance that has to do with kings, but 
something that is much more likely to do you good : 
it is the increase of virtue and wi3dom which will 
lead people to find out that force and oppression are 



834 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

wrong and false : and this opinion, when it once gains 
ground, will prevent government from severity. It 
will restore those rights which government has taken 
away. Have nothing to do with force or violence, 
and things will safely and surely make their way to 
the right point. The Ministers have now in ParUa- 
ment a very great majority, and the Ministers are 
against you. They maintain the falsehood that, wei-e 
you in power you would prosecute* and hum, on the 
plea that you once did so. They maintain many other 
things of the same nature. — They command the majority 
of the House of Commons, or rather the part of that 
assembly, who receive pensions from Government, or 
whose relatives receive them. These men of course, are 
against you, because their employers are. But the sense 
of the country is not against you, the people of England 
are not against you — they feel warmly for you — in some 
respects they feel with you. The sense of the English 
and of their Governors is opposite — there must be an end 
of this, the goodness of a Government consists in the 
happiness of the Governed, if the Governed are wretched 
and dissatisfied, the Government has failed in its end. It 
wants altering and mending. It will be mended, and a 
reform of English Government will produce good to the 
Irish — good to all human kind, excepting those whose 
happiness consists in others*^ sorrows, and it will be a fit 
punishment for these to be deprived of their devihsh 
joy. This I consider as an event which is approaching, 
and which will make the beginning of our hopes for that 
period which may spread wisdom and virtue so wide, as 



1 Probably a xniBprint for pttH- ' In the pamphlet othen, with- 

cult, out the apoatropiie. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 835 

to leave no hole in which folly or villainy may hide them- 
selves. I wish you, Irishmen, to be as careful and 
thoughtful of your interests as are your real friends. Do 
not drink, do not play, do not spend any idle time, do not 
take every thing that other people say for granted — there 
are numbers who will tell you lies to make their own 
fortunes, you cannot more certainly do good to your own 
cause, than by defeating the intentions of these men. 
Think, read and talk ; let your own condition and that of 
your wives and children, fill your minds ; disclaim all 
manner of alliance with violence, meet together if ye will, 
but do not meet in a mob. If you think and read and 
talk with a real wish of benefiting the cause of truth and 
liberty, it will soon be seen how true a service you are 
rendering, and how sincere you are in your professions ; 
but mobs and violence must be discarded. The certain 
degree of civil and religious liberty which the usage of 
the English Constitution allows, is such as the worst of 
men are entitled to, although you have it not ; but that^ 
liberty which we may one day hope for, wisdom and 
virtue can alone give you a right to enjoy. This wisdom 
and this virtue I recommend on every account that you 
should instantly begin to practice. Lose not a day, not 
an hour, not a moment.— Temperance, sobriety, charity 
and independence will give you virtue ; and reading, talk- 
ing, thinking and searching, will give you wisdom ; when 
you have those things you may defy the tyrant. It is 
not going often to chapel, crossing yourselves, or confess- 
ing, that will make you virtuous ; many a rascal has 
attended regularly at Mass, and many a good man has 
never gone at all. It is not paying Priests, or believing 
in what they say that makes a good man, but it is doing 
good actions, or benefiting other people ; this is the true 



336 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

way to be good, and the prayers, and confessions, and 
masses of him who does not these things, are good for 
iiotliing at alL Do your work regularly and quickly, 
when you have done, think, read and talk ; do not spend 
your money in idleness and drinking, which so far from 
doing good to your cause, will do it harm. If you have 
any thing to spare from your wife and children, let it do 
some good to other people, and put them in a way of get- 
ting wisdom and virtue, as the pleasure that wiU come 
from these good acts, will be much better than the head- 
ache that comes from a drinking bout. And never quarrel 
between each other, be all of one mind as nearly as you 
can ; do these things, and I will promise you liberty and 
happiness. But if, on the contrary of these things, you 
neglect to improve yom*selves, continue to use the word 
heretic, and demand from others the toleration which you 
are unwilling to give ; your friends and the friends of 
liberty will have reason to lament the death-blow of their 
hopes. I expect better things from you ; it is for your- 
selves that I fear and hope. Many Englishmen are pre- 
judiced against you, they sit by their own fire-sides and 
certain rumours artfully spread^ are ever on the wing 
against you. But these people who think ill of you and 
of your nation, are often the very men who, if they had 
better information, would feel for you most keenly; where- 
fore are these reports spread, how do' they begin ? they 
originate from the warmth of the Irish character, whicli 
the friends of the Irish nation have hitherto encouraged 
rather than repressed ; this leads them in those moments 
when their wrongs appear so clearly, to commit acts which 
justly excite displeasure. They begin therefore, from 

^ There is a note of interrogation * In the original «o for do. 

here in the original. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 337 

yourselves, although falsehood and tyranny artfully 

magnify and multiply the causes of oflFence. — Give no 
offence. 

I will for the present dismiss the subject of the 
Catholic Emancipation ; a little reflection will convince 
you that my remarks are just. Be true to yourselves, 
and your enemies sliall not triumph. I fear nothing, 
if charity and sobriety mark your proceedings. Every 
thing is to be dreaded, you yourselves will be unworthy 
of even a restoration to your rights, if you disgrace 
the cause, which I hope is that of truth and liberty, 
by violence, if you refuse to others the toleration which 
you claim for yourselves. — But this you will not do. I 
rely upon it Irishmen, that the warmth of your 
characters will be shewn as much in union with Eng- 
lishmen and what are called heretics, who feel for 
you, and love you as in avenging your wrongs, or for- 
warding their annihilation. — It is the heart that glows 
and not the cheek. The firmness, sobriety, and consist- 
ence of your outward behaviour will not at all shew any 
hardness of heart, but wUl prove that you are determined 
in your cause, and are going the right way to work. — I 
will repeat that virtue and wisdom are necessary to true 
happiness and liberty. — The Catholic Emancipation I con- 
sider, is certain. I do not see that any thing but 
violence and intolerance among yourselves can leave 
an excuse to your enemies for continuing your slavery. 
The other wrongs under which you labor, will pro- 
bably also soon be done away. You will be rendered equal 
to the people of England in their rights and privi- 
leges, and will be in all respects, so far as concerns 
the state, as happy. Arid now Irishmen another, and 

PROSE. — VOL. I. z 



338 AX ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

a more wide prospect opens to my ^iew, I cannot 
avoid, little as it may appear to have any thing to dn 
with your present situation, to talk to you on the 
sul»j<Ht. It intimately concerns tlie well-beinj' of vour 
(children, and your children's children, and will perhaps 
more than any thing prove to you the advantage and 
nec(»ssity of being thoughtful, sober, and regular; of 
avoiding foolish and idle talk, and thinking of your- 
selves, as of men who are able to be much wiser and 
haj>pier than you now are ; for habits like these, will 
not only conduce to the successful putting aside your 
present and immediate grievances, but will contain a 
seed, which in future times will spring up into the 
tn*e of liberty, and bear the fruit of happiness. 

There is no doubt but the world is going wrong, 
or rather that it is very capable of being much ini- 
])roved. What I mean by this improvement is, the 
inducement of a more equal and general diffusion of 
happiness and liberty. — Many people are very rich and 
many are very poor. Which do you think are happiest ? — 
I can tell you that neither are happy, so far as their 
station is concerned. Nature never intended that there 
should be such a thing as a poor man or a rich one. Being 
put in an unnatural situation, they can neither of 
them be happy, so far as their situation is concerned. 
The poor man is bom to obey the rich man, though 
they both come into the world equally helpless, and 
equally naked. But the poor man does the rich no 
service by obej'ing him — the rich man does the poor 
no good by commanding him. It would be much 
better if they could be prevailed upon to live equally lil^e 
brothers — they would ultimately both be happier. But 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 339 

this can be done neither to-day nor to-morrow, much as 
such a change is to be desired, it is quite impossible. 
Violence and folly in this, as in the other case, would only 
put off the period of its event. Mildness, sobriety, and 
reason, are the effectual methods of forwarding the ends 
of liberty and happiness. 

Although we may see many things put in train, 
during our life-time, we cannot hope to see the work 
of virtue and reason finished now ; we can only lay the 
foundation for our posterity. Government is an evil, 
it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that 
make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and 
wise. Government will of itself decay, so long as men 
continue foolish and vicious, so long will Government, 
even such a Government as that of England, continue 
necessary in order to prevent the crimes of bad men. 
Society is produced by the wants, Government by the 
wickedness, and a state of just and happy equality 
by the improvement and reason of man. It is in vain to 
hope for any liberty and happiness, without reason and 
virtue — for where there is no virtue there will be crime, 
and where there is crime there must be Government. 
Before the restraints of Government are lessened, it is 
fit that we should lessen the necessity for them. 
Before Government is done away with, we must reform 
ourselves. It is this work which I would earnestly 
recommend to you, Irishmen, EEFOEM YOUE- 
SELVES — and I do not recommend it to you particu- 
larly because I think that you most need it, but because 
I think that your hearts are warm and your feelings 
high, and you will perceive the necessity of doing it 
more than those of a colder and more distant nature. 

z2 



840 AN ADDBESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

I look with an eye of hope and pleasure on the present 
state of things, gloomy and incapable of improvement as 
they may appear to others. It delights me to see that 
men begin to think and to act for the good of others. 
Extensively as folly and selfishness has predominated in 
this age, it gives me hope and pleasure, at least, to see 
that many know what is right Ignorance and vice 
commonly go together : he that would do good must be 
wise — a man cannot be truly wise who is not truly 
virtuous. Prudence and wisdom are very different tilings. 
The prudent man is he, who carefully consults for his 
own good : the wise man is he, who carefully consults 
for the good of others. 

I look upon Catholic Emancipation, and the restora- 
tion of the liberties and happiness of Ireland, so far as 
they are compatible with the English Constitution, as 
great and important events. I hope to see them soon. 
But if all ended here, it would give me little pleasure — 
I should still see thousands miserable and wicked, thin;^ 
would still be wrong. I regard then, the accomplish- 
ment of these things as the road to a greater reform — 
that reform after wliich virtue and wisdom shall have 
conquered pain and .vice. When no government will be 
wanted, but that of your neighbour's opinion. — I look to 
these things with hope and pleasure, because I consider 
that they will certainly happen, and because men will not 
then be wicked and miserable. But I do not consider 
that they will or can immediately happen ; their arrival 
will be gradual, and it all depends upon yourselves how 
soon or how late these great changes will happen. If 
all of you, to-morrow were virtuous and wise. Govern- 
ment which to-day is a safe-guard, would then become a 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 341 

tyranny. But I cannot expect a rapid change. Many 
are obstinate and determined in their vice, whose selfish- 
ness makes them think only of their own good, when in 
fact, the best way even to bring that about, is to make 
others happy. I do not wish to see things changed now, 
l^ecause it cannot be done without violence, and we may 
assure ourselves that none of us are fit for any chunge 
however good, if we condescend to employ force in a 
cause which we think right. Force makes the side that 
employs it directly wrong, and as much as we may pity 
we cannot approve the headstrong and intolerant zeal of 
its adherents. 

Can you conceive, Irishmen ! a happy state of 
society — conceive men of every way of thinking living 
together like brothers. The descendant of the greatest 
Prince would there, be entitled to no more respect than 
the son of a peasant. There would be no pomp and no 
parade, but that which the rich now keep to themselves, 
would then be distributed among the people. None 
would be in magnificence, but the superfluities then taken 
from the rich would be sufficient when spread abroad, to 
make every one comfortable. — No lover would then be 
false to his mistress, no mistress would desert her lover. 
No friend would play false, no rents, no debts, no taxes, 
no frauds of any kind would disturb the general happi- 
ness : good as they would be, wise as they would be, they 
would be daily getting better and wiser. No beggars would 
exist, nor any of those wretched women, who are now 
reduced to a state of the most horrible misery and vice, by 
men whose wealth makes them villainous and hardened. 
No thieves or murderers, because poverty would never 
drive men to take away comforts from another, when he 



3*2 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

had enough for himself. Vice and misery, pomp and 
poverty, power and obedience, would then be banished 
altogetlier. — It is for such a state as this, Irishmen, that 
I exhort you to prepare. — " A camel shall as soon pass 
through the eye of a needle, as a rich man enter the 
Kingdom of Heaven." This is not to be understood 
literally, Jesus Christ appears to me only to have meant 
that riches, have generally the effect of hardening and 
vitiating the heart, so has poverty. I think those people 
then are very silly, and cannot see one inch beyond their 
noses, who say that human nature is depraved ; when at 
the same time wealth and poverty, those two great source^-* 
of crime, fall to the lot of a great majority of people ; 
and when they see that people in moderate circumstances 
are always most wise and good. — People say that poverty 
is no evil — they have never felt it, or they would not 
think so. That wealth is necessary to encourage the arts 
— but are not the arts very inferior things to virtue and 
liappiness — ^the man would be very dead to all generous 
feelings who would rather see pretty pictures and statues, 
than a million free and happy men. 

It will be said, that my design is to make you dis- 
satisfied with your present condition, and that I wish 
to raise a Rebellion. But how stupid and sottish must 
those men be, who think that violence and uneasiness of 
mind have any thing to do with forwarding the views of 
peace, harmony and happiness. They should know 
that nothing was so well-fitted to produce slavery, 
tyranny, and vice, as the violence which is attributed to 
the friends of liberty, and which the real friends of 
liberty are the only persons who disdain. — As to your 
being dissatisfied with your present condition, any thing 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 343 

tliat I may say is certainly not likely to increase that 
dissatisfaction. I have advanced notliing concerning 
your situation, but its real case, but what may be proved 
to be true. I defy any one to point out a falsehood 
that I have uttered in the course of this address. It is 
impossible but the blindest among you must see that 
every thing is not right. This sight has often pressed some 
of the poorest among you to take something from the rich 
man's store by violence, to relieve his own necessities. I 
cannot justify, but I can pity him. I cannot pity the 
fruits of the rich man's intemperance, I suppose some 
are to be found who will justify him. This sight has 
often brouglit home to a day-labourer the truth which I 
wish to impress upon you, that all is not right. But I 
do not merely wish, to convince you that our present 
state is bad, but that its alteration for the better, depends 
on your own exertions and resolutions. 

But he has never found out the method of mending 
it, who does not first mend his own conduct, and then 
prevail upon others to refrain from any vicious habits 
which they may have contracted — much less does the 
poor man suppose that wisdom as well as virtue is 
necessary, and that the employing his little time in 
reading and thinking, is really doing all that he has in 
his power to do towards the state, when pain and vice 
shall perish altogether. 

I wish to impress upon your minds, that without 
virtue or wisdom, there can be no liberty or happiness ; 
and that temperance, sobriety, charity, and independence 
of soul, will give you virtue — as thinking, enquiring, 
reading, and talking, will give you wisdom. Without 



344 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

the first, the last is of little use, and without the last, the 
first is a dreadful curse to yourselves and others. 

I have told you what I think upon this subject, 
l)ecause I wish to produce in your minds an awe and 
caution necessary, before the happy state of which I have 
spoken can be introduced. This cautious awe, is very 
different from the prudential fear, which leads you to 
consider yourself as the first object, as on the contrary, 
it is full of that warm and ardent love for others that 
burns in your hearts, Irishmen ! and from which I 
have, fondly hoped to Ught a flame that may iUumine 
and invigorate the world 1 

I have said that the rich command, and the poor obey, 
and that money is only a kind of sign, which shews, that 
according to government the rich man has a right to 
command the poor man, or rather that the poor man being 
urged by having no money to get bread, is forced to 
work for the rich man, which amounts to the same thing. 
I have said that I think all this very wrong, and that 
I wish the whole business was altered. I have also said 
that we can expect little amendment in our own time, 
and that we must be contented to lay the foundation of 
liberty and happiness, by virtue and wisdom. — ^This then, 
shall be my work : let this be yours, Irishmen. Never 
shall that glory fail, which I am anxious that you should 
deserve. The glory of teaching to a world the fe^ 
lessons of virtue and wisdom. 

Let poor men stiU continue to work. I do not wish 
to hide from them a knowledge of their relative condition 
in society, I esteem it next impossible to do so. Let the 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 845 

work of the labourer, of the artificer — let the work of 
every one, however employed, still be exerted in its 
accustomed way. The public communication of this 
truth, ought in no manner, to impede the established 
usages of society ; however, it is fitted in the end to do 
them away. For this reason it ought not to impede 
them, because if it did, a violent and unaccustomed, and 
sudden sensation would take place in all ranks of men, 
wliich would bring on violence, and destroy the possi- 
bility of the event of that, which in its own nature must 
1)0 gradual, however rapid, and rational, however warm. 
It is founded on the reform of private men, and without 
individual amendment it is vain and foolish to expect the 
amendment of a state or government. I would advise 
them therefore, whose feelings this address may have 
succeeded in affecting, (and surely those feelings which 
cliaritable and temperate remarks excite, can never be 
violent and intolerant,) if they be, as I hope those whom 
poverty has compelled to class themselves in the lower 
orders of society, that they will as usual attend to their 
business and the discharge of those public or private 
duties, which custom has ordained. Nothing can be 
more rash and thoughtless, than to shew in ourselves 
singular instances of any particular doctrine, before the 
general mass of the people are so convinced by the reasons 
of the doctrine, that it will be no longer singular. That 
reasons as well as feelings, may help the establishment 
of happiness and liberty, on the basis of wisdom and 
virtue, in* our aim and intention. — Let us not be led into 
any means which are unworthy of this end, nor, as so 
much depends upon yourselves, let us cease carefully to 
watch over our conduct, that when we talk of reform it 

^ Probably a misprint for if. 



846 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

he not objected to us ; that reform ought to begin at 
home. In the interval, that public or private duties aiii 
necessary labors allow, husband your time so, tliat yi'U 
may do to others and yourselves the most real good. Tu 
improve your own minds is to join these two \aews ; CMii- 
versation and reading are the principal and chief methtnl? 
of awakening the mind to knowledge and goodntr>>. 
Eeading or thought, will principally bestow the former 
of these — the l)enevolent exercise of the powers of ih- 
mind in communicating useful knowledge, w^ill bestow nu 
habit, of the latter, both united, will contribute so far as 
lays in your individual power to that great reform, wiiicL 
will be perfect and finished, the moment every one ^ 
virtuous and wise. Every folly refuted, every bad habit 
conquered, every good one confirmed, as^ so mucli gaiiie'i 
in this great and excellent cause. 

To begin to reform the Government, is immediately 
necessary, however good or bad individuals may be ; it '^^ 
the more necessary if they are eminently the latter, ih 
some degree to paUiate or do away the cause ; as political 
institution has even' the greatest influence on the hmnnu 
character, and is that alone whicli differences the Turk 
from the Irishman. 

I write now not only with a view for CathoUc Eman- 
cipation, but for universal emancipation ; and this emanci- 
pation complete and unconditional, that shall eomprelienu 
every individual of whatever nation or principles/ th^^^ 
shall fold in its embrace all that think and all that fel 

^ Probably a mifiprint for is, or, in the place of even. 
it may be, for are, ' There is no comma here in ^^ 

* Perhaps we should read ever pamphlet. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLK 347 

the Catholic cause is subordinate, and its success prepara- 
tory to this great cause, which adheres to no sect but 
society, to no cause but that of universal happiness, to no 
party but the people. I desire Catholic Emancipation, 
but I desire not to stop here, and I hope there are few 
who having perused the preceding arguments who* will 
not concur with me in desiring a complete, a lasting and 
a happy amendment. That all steps however good and 
salutary which may be taken, all reforms consistent witli 
the English constitution that may be effectuated, can only 
be subordinate and preparatory to the great and lasting 
one which shall bring about the peace, the harmony, and 
the happiness of Ireland, England, Europe,' the World. I 
ofier merely an outline of that picture which your own 
liopes may gift with the colors of reality. 

Government will not allow a peaceable and reasonable 
discussion of its principles by any Eissociation of men, who 
assemble for that express purpose. But have not human 
beings a right to assemble to talk upon what subject they 
please ; can anything be more evident than that as 
government is only of use as it conduces to the happiness 
of the governed ; those who are governed have a right to 
talk on the efficacy of the safe guard employed for their 
benefit. Can any topic be more interesting or useful, 
than on' discussing how far the means of government, 
is or could be made in a higher degree effectual to pro- 
ducing the end. Although I deprecate violence, and the 
cause which depends for its influence on* force, yet I can 
by no means think that assembling together merely to 
talk of how things go on, I can by no means think that 

1 Sic. » Sic. 

' This comma is waniiDg in the ^ In the original a for on, 

pamphlet. 



348 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

societies formed for talking on any subject however 
government may dislike them, come in any way under 
the head of force or violence. I think that associa- 
tions conducted in the spirit of sobriety, regularity, 
and thought, are one of the best and most eflficient of 
those means which I would recommend for the production 
of happiness, liberty, and virtue. 

Are you slaves, or are you men ? if slaves, then crouch 
to the rod, and lick the feet of your oppressors, glory in 
your shame, it will become you if brutes to act according 
to your nature. But you are men, a real man is free, so 
far as circumstances will permit him. Then firmly, yet 
quietly resist. When one cheek is struck, turn* the other 
to the insulting coward. You will be truly brave ; you 
will resist and conquer. The discussion of any subject, 
is a right that you have brought into the world with your 
heart and tongue. Resign your heart's-blood, before you 
part with this inestimable privilege of man. For it is 
fit that the governed should enquire into the proceed- 
ings of Government, which is of no use the moment 
it is conducted on any other principle but that 
of safety. You have much to think of. — Is war 
necessary to your happiness and safety. The interests 
of the poor gain nothing from the wealth or exten- 
sion of a nation's boundaries, they gain nothing from 
glory, a word that has often served as a cloak to the 
ambition or avarice of Statesmen. The barren victories of 



^ In the original edition we read is missing in the original. Pro- 
here turn in the other. The word bably it was inserted as a come- 
in has been transferred to its tion in the margin of a proof, and 
proper place a few lines above, — was pnt in by the printer in the 
glitry in yuur tfiame, — whence it wrong place. 



AN ADDKESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 849 

Spain, gained in behalf of a bigotted and tyrannical 
Government, are nothing to them. The conquests 
in India, by which England has gained glory in- 
deed, but a glory which is not more honourable than 
that of Buonaparte, are nothing to them. The poor 
purchase this glory and this wealth, at the expence 
of their blood, and labor, and happiness, and vh-tue. 
They die in battle for this infernal cause. Their labor 
supplies money and food for carrying it into effect, their 
happiness is destroyed by the oppression they undergo, 
their virtue is rooted out by the depravity and vice that 
prevails throughout the army, and which under the 
present system, is perfectly unavoidable. Who does not 
know that the quartering of a regiment on any town, will 
soon destroy the innocence and happiness of its inhabi- 
tants. The advocates for the happiness and liberty of the 
great mass of the people, who pay for war with their lives 
and labor, ought never to cease writing and speaking until 
nations see as they must feel, the folly of fighting and 
killing each other in uniform, for nothing at alL Ye 
have much to think of. The state of your representation 
in the house, which is called the collective representation 
of the country demands your attention. 

It is horrible that the lower classes must waste their 
lives and liberty to furnish means for their oppressors to 
oppress them yet more terribly. It is horrible that the 
poor must give in taxes what would save them and their 
families from hunger and cold ; it is still more horrible 
that they should do this to furnish further means of their 
own abjectness and misery ; but what words can express 
the enormity of the abuse that prevents them from 
choosing representatives with authority to enquire into 



350 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

the manner in which their lives and labor, their happiness* 
and innocence is expended, and what advantages result 
from their expenditure which may counterbalance so hor- 
rible and monstrous an evil. There is an outcry raised 
against amendment; it is called innovation and con- 
demned by many untlunking people who have a good 
fire and plenty to eat and drink ; hard hearted or 
thoughtless beings how many are famishing whilst you 
deliberate, how many perish to contribute to your 
pleasures. I hope that there* are none such as these 
native Irishmen, indeed I scarcely believe that there are. 

Let the object of your associations (for I conceal not 
my approval of assemblies conducted with regularity, 
peaceableness and thought for any purpose,) be the amend- 
ment of these abuses, it will have for its object universal 
Emancipation, Uberty, happiness, and virtue. There is 
yet another subject, " the Liberty of the Press." The 
liberty of the press consists in a right to publish any 
opinion on any subject which the writer may entertain. 
The Attorney General in 1793 on the trial of Mr. Perry, 
said, " I never will dispute the right of any man fully to 
discuss topics respecting government, and honestly to 
point out what he may consider a proper remedy of 
grievances." — Tlie Liberty of the Press, is placed as a 
sentinel to alarm us when any attempt is made on our 
lil)erties. — It is this centinel, Irishmen, whom I now 
awaken ! I create to myself a freedom which exists 
not. There is no liberty of the press, for the subjects of 
British government. 

It is really ridiculous to hear people yet boasting of 

^ In the origioal their, here and in the next line. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 351 

this inestimable blessing, when they daily see it success- 
fully muzzled and outraged by the lawyers of the crown, 
and by virtue of what are called ex-officio informations. 
Blackstone says, that " if a person publishes what is im- 
proper, mischievous, or illegal, he must take the conse- 
quences of his own temerity;" and Lord Chief Baron 
Comyns defines libel as " a contumely, or reproach, pub- 
lished to the defamation of the Government, of a magis- 
trate, or of a private person." — Xow, I beseech you to 
consider the words, mischievous, improper, illegal, con- 
tumely, reproach, or defamation. May they not make 
that mischievous, or improper, which they please ? Is 
not law with them, as clay in the potter's hand ? Do 
not the words, contumely, reproach, or defamation, 
express all degrees and forces of disapprobation ? It 
is impossible to express yourself displeased at certain 
proceedings of Government, or tlie individuals who 
conduct it, without uttering a reproach. We cannot 
honestly point out a proper remedy of grievances with 
safety, because the very mention of these grievances 
will be reproachful to the personages who countenance 
tliem ; and therefore will come under a definition of 
libel. For the persons who thus directly or indirectly 
undergo reproach, will say for their own sakes, that the 
exposure of their corruption is mischievous and improper ; 
therefore, the utterer of the reproach is a fit subject for 
three years imprisonment. Is there any thing like the 
Liberty of the Press, in restrictions so positive, yet pliant, 
as these. The little freedom which we enjoy in this 
most important point, comes from the clemency of our 
rulers, or their fear, lest public opinion alarmed at the 
discovery of its enslaved state, should violently assert a 
right to extension and diffusion. Yet public opinion 



352 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

may not always be so formidable, rulers may not always 
be so merciful or so timid : at any rate evils, and great 
evils do result from the present system of intellectual 
slavery, and you have enough to think of, if this grievance 
alone remained in the constitution of society. I will give 
but one instance of the present state of our Press. 

A countryman of yours is now confined in an English 
gaol. His health, his fortune, his spirits, sufifer from 
close confinement. The air which comes tlirough the 
bars of a prison-grate, does not invigorate the frame nor 
cheer the spirits. But Mr. Finnerty, much as he has 
lost, yet retains the fair name of truth and honor. He was 
imprisoned for persisting in the truth. His judge told 
him on his trial, that truth and falsehood were indifferent 
to the law, and that if he owned the publication any 
consideration, whether the facts that it related were well 
or ill-founded, was totally irrelevant. Such is the libel 
law. Such the Liberty of the Press — there is enough to 
think of. The right of withholding your individual 
assent to war, the right of choosing delegates to represent 
you in the assembly of the nation, and that of freely 
opposing intellectual power, to any measures of Govern- 
ment of which you may disapprove, are in addition to the 
indifference with which the legislative and the executive 
power ought to rule their conduct towards professors of 
every religion enough to think of. 

I earnestly desire peace and harmony : — peace, that 
whatever wrongs you may have suffered, benevolence and 
a spirit of forgiveness should mark your conduct towards 
those who have persecuted you. Harmony, that among 
yourselves may be no divisions, that Protestants and 



AX ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 353 



I 



Catholics unite in a common interest, and that whatever 
be the belief and principles of your countryman and 
fellow-sufiFerer, you desire to benefit his cause, at the 
same time that you vindicate your own, be strong and 
unbiassed by selfishness or prejudice — for Catholics, your 
religion has not been spotless, crimes in past ages have 
sidlied it with a stain, which let it be your glory to 
remove. Nor Protestants, hath your religion always been 
characterized by the mildness of benevolence, which Jesus 
Christ recommended. Had it anything to do with the 
present subject I could account for the spirit of intoler- 
ance, which marked both religions ; I will, however, only 
adduce the fact, and earnestly exhort you to root out 
from your own minds every thing which may lead to 
uncharitableness, and to reflect that yourselves, as well as 
your bretliren, may be deceived. Nothing on earth is 
infallible. The Priests that pretend to it, are wicked and 
mischievous impostors; but it is an imposture which 
every one, more or less, assumes, who encourages 
prejudice in his breast against those who dififer from 
him in opinion, or who sets up his own religion as 
the only right and true one, when no one is so blind 
as to see* that every religion is right and true, which 
makes men beneficent and sincere. I therefore, 
earnestly exhort both Protestants and Catholics to 
act in brotherhood and harmony, never forgetting, be- 
cause the Catholics alone are heinously deprived of 
religious rights, that the Protestants and a certain 
rank of people, of every persuasion, share with them 
all else that is terrible galling and intolerable in the 
mass of political grievance. 

* Sic, but probably we should read to blind cu not to tee. 
PROSE. VOL. I. A A 



354 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

In no case employ violence or falsehood. I cannot 
too often or too vividly endeavour to impress upon 
your minds, that these methods will produce nothing 
but wretchedness and slavery — that they will at the 
same time rivet the fetters, with which ignorance and 
oppression bind you to abjectness, and deliver you over 
to a tyranny, which shall render you incapable of 
renewed efforts. Violence will immediately render 
your cause a bad one. If you believe in a Providen- 
tial God, you must also believe that he is a good one ; 
and it is not likely, a mercifid God would befriend a 
bad cause. Insincerity is no less hurtful than violence : 
those who are in the habits of either, would do well to 
reform themselves. A lying bravo will never promote 
the good of his country — he cannot be a good man. 
The courageous and sincere may, at the same time, suc- 
cessfully oppose corruption, by uniting their voice with 
that of others, or individually raise up intellectual oppo- 
sition to counteract the abuses of Government and 
society. In order to benefit yourselves and your country 
to any extent, habits of sobriety, regularity, and thought, 
are previously so necessary, that without these prelimi- 
naries, all that you have done falls to the ground. You 
have built on sand. Secure a good foundation, and you 
may erect a fabric to stand for ever — the glory and the 
envy of the world ! 

. I have purposely avoided any lengthened discussion on 
those grievances to which your hearts are from custom, 
and the immediate interest of the circumstances, pro- 
bably most alive at present. I have not however wholly 
neglected them. Most of all have I insisted on their 
instant palliation and ultimate removal ; nor have I 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 355 

omitted a consideration of the means which I deem 
most effectual for the accomplishment of this great 
end. How far you will consider the former worthy of 
your adoption, so far shall I deem the latter probable 
and interesting to the lovers of hitman kind. And I 
have opened to your view a new scene — does not your 
heart bound at the bare possibility of your posterity pos- 
sessing that liberty and happiness of which during our 
lives powerful exertions and habitual abstinence may give 
us a foretaste. Oh ! if your hearts do not vibrate' at 
such as this ; then ye are dead and cold — ^ye are not men. 

I now come to the application of my principles, the 
conclusion of my address; and O Irishmen, whatever 
conduct ye may feel yourselves bound to pursue, the path 
which duty points to, lies before me clear and unobscured. 
Dangers may lurk around it, but they are not the dangers 
which lie beneath the footsteps of the hypocrite or temp- 
orizer. 

For I have not presented to you the picture of 
happiness on which my fancy doats as an tmcertain 
meteor to mislead honorable enthusiasm, or blindfold 
the judgment which makes virtue useful. I have not 
proposed crude schemes, which I should be incompetent 
to mature, or desired to excite in you any virulence 
against the abuses of political institution; where I 
have had occasion to point them out I have recom- 
mended moderation whilst yet I have earnestly insisted 
upon energy and perseverance ; I have spoken of peace, 
yet declared that resistance is laudable ; but the intellec- 
tual resistance which I recommend, I deem essential to 

^ In the original, vUiaU. 

A A 2 



356 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

the introduction of the millennium* of virtue, whose 
period every one can, so far as he is concerned, forward 
by his own proper power. I have not attempted to 
shew, that the Catholic claims or the claims of the 
people, to a full representation in Parliament, or any 
of those claims to real rights, which I have insisted 
upon as introductory to the idtimate claim of cJl, to 
universal happiness, freedom, and equality ; I have not 
attempted, I say, to shew that these can be granted 
consistently with the spirit of the English Constitution : 
this is a point which I do not feel myself inclined to 
discuss, and which I consider foreign to my object. But 
I have shewn that these claims have for their basis, truth 
and justice, which are immutable, and which in the ruin 
of Governments shall rise like a Phoenix from their ashes. 

Is any one inclined to dispute the possibility of a 
happy change in society ? Do they say that the nature 
of man is corrupt, and that he was made for misery and 
wickedness ? Be it so. Certain as are opposite con- 
clusions, I will concede the truth of his, for a moment 
— What are the means which I take for melioration ? 
Violence, corruption, rapine, crime ? Do I do evil, that 
good may come ? I have recommended peace, philan- 
thropy,' wisdom. — So far as my arguments influence, they 
will influence to these — ^and if there is any one tww in- 
clined to say, that " private vices are public benefits," 

Note. The excellence of the Constitution of Great Britain, appears 
to me, to be its indetiniteneas and versatility, whereby ittkiay be nnresist* 
ingly accommodated to the progression of wisdom and virtue. Sach 
accommodation I desire : but I wish for the cause before the effect. 
[Shsllby's Notb.] 

1 In the original, inroduclion of and in the Iwo subsequent in* 
ike millenium. stances, in which the word oocart 

' Mis-spelt philonthrophy here in this pamphlet. 



m^^^^mr^ IP . - ^■■-p^iw 



pi *M 1^ » ^ M « 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 357 

and that peace, philanthropy, and wisdom, will, if once 
they gain ground, ruin the human race ; he may revel in 
his happy dreams ; though were / this man, I should 
envy Satan's Hell. The wisdom and charity of which I 
speak, are the only means which I will countenance, for 
the redress of your grievances, 'and the grievances of the 
world. So far as they operate, I am willing to stand 
responsible for their evU efifectst I expect to be accused 
of a desire for renewing in Ireland the scenes of revolu- 
tionary hoiTor, which marked the struggles of France 
twenty years ago. But it is the renewal of that unfor- 
tunate sera, which I strongly deprecate, and which the 
tendency of this address is calculated to obviate. For 
can burthens be borne for ever, and the slave crouch and 
cringe the while. Is misery and vice so consonant to 
man's nature, that he will hug it to his heart ? — but when 
the wretched one in bondage, beholds the emancipator 
near, will he not endure his misery awhile with hope and 
patience, then, spring to his preserver's arms, and start 
into a man. 

It is my intention to observe the efiTect on your minds, 
O Irishmen ! which this address dictated by the fervency 
of my love, and hope will produce. I have come to this 
country to spare no pains where expenditure' may purchase 
your real benefit. The present is a crisis, which of aU others, 
is the most valuable for fixing the fluctuation of public 
feeling ; as far as my poor efforts may have succeeded in 
fixing it to virtue. Irishmen, so far shall I esteem myself 
happy. I intend this address as introductory to another. 

^ In a letter to Godwin on the that the word expenditure is used 
subject of this pamphlet (Hogg's "in a moral sense." 
Life,VoL II, p. 95), Shelley explains 



358 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLK. 

The organization of a society, whose institution shall 
serve as a bond to its members, for the purposes of 
virtue, happiness, liberty, and wisdom, by the means of 
intellectual opposition to grievances, would probably be 
useful. For the formation of such a society, I avow 
myself anxious. 

Adieu, my friends I May every Sun that shines on 
your green Island see the annihilation of an abuse, and 
the birth of an Embryon of melioration! Your owb 
hearts — may they become the shrines of purity and free- 
dom, and never may smoke to the Mammon of unrightr 
eousness, ascend from the unpolluted altar of their 
devotion ! 

No. 7, Lower Saekville-street Feb. 22. 



POSTSCEIPT. 



I have now been a week in Dublin, during which time 
I have endeavoured to make myself more accurately 
acquainted with the state of the public mind, on those 
great topics of grievances which induced me to select 
Ireland as a theatre, the widest and fairest, for the 
operations of the determined friend of religious and 
political freedom. 

The result of my observations has determined me to 
propose, an association for the purposes of restoring 
Ireland to the prosperity which she possessed before the 
Union Act; and the religious freedom, which the 
involuntariness of faith, ought to have taught all mono- 
polists of Heaven, long, long ago, that every one had a 
right to possess. 

For the purpose of obtaining the Emancipation of 
the Catholics, from the penal laws that aggrieve them, 
and a Sepeal of the Legislative Union act: and 
grounding upon the remission of the church-craft and 
oppression, which caused these grievances; a plan of 
amendmeni and regeneration in the moral and political 
state of society, on a comprehensive and s^ematic phi- 
lanthropy, which shall be sure, though slow in its projects; 
and as it is wiihovi the rapidity and danger of revolution, 



360 AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 

m will ii be devoid of the time servingness of temporizing 
reform — which in its deliberative capacity, having in- 
vestigated the state of the government of England, shall 
oppose those parts of it, by intellectual force, which will 
not bear the touch-stone of reason. 

For information respecting the principles which I 
possess, and the nature and spirit of the association 
which I propose, I refer the reader to a small pamphlet, 
which I shall publish on the subject, in the course of 
a few days. 

I have published the above address (written in 
England) in the cheapest possible form, and have taken 
pains that the remarks which it contains, should be in- 
telligible to the most uneducated minds. Men are not 
slaves and brutes, because they are poor : it has been tie 
policy of the thoughtless, or wicked of the higher ranks, 
(as a proof of the decay, of which policy, I am happy to 
see the rapid success of a comparatively enlightened 
system of education,) to conceal from the poor the tmths 
which I have endeavoured to teach them. In doing so, I 
have but translated my thoughts into another language; 
and as language is only useful as it communicates ideas, 
I shall think my style so far good, as it is successful as a 
means to* bring about the end which I desire, on any 
occasion, to accomplish. 

A Limerick Paper, which I suppose, professes to sup- 
port certain loi/al and John Bullish principles of freedom 
— ^has, in an essay for advocating the Liberty of the Press* 

^ The word to is repeated in the origioftl. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE. 361 

the following clause : " For lawless license of discussion 
never did we advocate, nor do we now." — What is lawless 
license of discussion ? Is it not as indefinite as the 
words, coTituTmly, reprodch, defamation, that allow at 
present, such latitude to the outrages that are committed 
on the free expression of individual sentiment. Can they 
not see that what is rational will stand by its reason, and 
what is true stand by its truth, as all that is foolish will 
fall by its folly, and all that is false be controverted by its 
own falsehood. — Liberty 'gains nothing by the reform of 
politicians of this stamp, any more than it gains from a 
change of Ministers in London. What at present, is 
contumely and defamation, would at the period of this 
Limerick amendment, be " lawless license of discussion ;" 
and such would be the mighty advantage which this 
doughty champion of liberty proposes to effect. 

I conclude with the words of Lafayette — a name 
endeared, by its peerless bearer, to every lover of 
the human race. " For a nation to love Liberty it 
is sufficient that she knows it, to be free it is sufficient 
that she wills it."* 

^ The final qaotation marks are wanting in the pamphlet. 



FINIS. 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 



[The PropotcUt far an Aiwciatum appeared on Monday, the Zndo/ 
March, 1812, aoooiding to Mr. MacCarihy {SheUejf'M Early Life, p. 17- 
It is an 8vo. pamphlet, connsting of title-page and 18pp. of text. 
without •head-lines, but nnmbered centrally. The title-page (reprodoce-i 
oppnsite) is undated. The pamphlet is printed in the roughest styie. 
with the worst possible ink, on the worst possible paper ; and wmh) 
letters are dropped; but it is not particularly incorrect, except in 
regard to the words jn^ilofUAropy, philanthropic, ftc. in which, oftener 
than not, there is an A after the p in the last syllable. Thoogii 
these redundant aspirates are here omitted, I have not thought it worti 
while to record the particular instances of correctness or the revene, « 
to alter and record certain minor errors in grammar, &c., for wbidi 
Shelley is probably responsible. The text is given from Lord Carliog 
fords copy, for tJie loan of which I am indebted to his liOrdsbipt 
a>urtesy.— H. B. F.] 



PROPOSALS 



FOR AN 



ASSOCEATEON 



OF THOSE 



PHIL A NTHROPISTS, 



WHO CONVINCED OF THE INADEQUACY OF THE 
MORAL AND POLITICAL STATE OF IRELAND TO 
PRODUCE BENEFITS WHICH ARE NEVERTHELESS 
ATTAINABLE ARE WILLING TO UNITE TO AC- 
COMPLISH ITS REGENERATION. 



FEBGT BYBSHB 8HELLST. 



PRINTED BY L ETON, WINETAVERN-STREET. 



PROPOSALS 



FOR 



AN ASSOCIATION, &c. 



/ propose an association which shall have for its immediate 
objects, Catholic Emancipation, and the Repeal of the 
Act of Onion between Great Britain and Ireland; and 
grounding on the removal of these grievances, an annihi- 
lation or palliation, of whatever moral or political evil, 
it may be within the compass of human power to assuage 
or eradicate. 



Man cannot make occasions, but he may seize those 
that oflfer. None are more interesting to Philanthropy, 
than those which excite the benevolent passions, that 
generalize and expand private into public feelings, and 
make the hearts of individuals vibrate not merely for 
themselves, their families, and their friends, but for 
posterity, for a people; till their country becomes the 
world, and their family the sensitive creation. 

A recollection of the absent, and a taking into con- 
sideration the interests of those unconnected with our- 
selves, is a principal source of that feeling which 
generates occasions, wherein a love for human kind may 
become eminently useful and active. Public topics of 
fear and hope, such as sympathize with general grievance, 



868 PROPOSAT.S FOR AX ASSOCIATIOX. 

or hold out hopes of general amendment, are those on what 
the Philanthropist would dilate with the warmest feeling. 
Because these are accustomed to place individuals at a 
distance from self ; for in proportion as he is absorbed in 
public feeling, so will a consideration of his proper bene6t 
be generalized. In proportion as he feels vrith, or for 
a nation or a world, so will man consider himself less as 
that centre, to which we are but too prone to believe 
that every line of human concern does, or ought to 
converge. 

I should not here make the trite remark, that selfish 
motive biasses, brutalizes, and degrades the human mind, 
did it not thence follow, that to seize those occasions 
wherein the opposite spirit predominates, is a duty which 
Philanthropy imperiously exacts of her votaries ; that 
occasions like these are the proper ones for leading man- 
kind to their own interest ; by awakening in their minds 
a love for the interest of their fellows. A plant that 
grows in every soil, though too often it is choaked bv 
tares before its lovely blossoms are expanded. Virtue 
produces pleasure, it is as the cause to the effect ; I feel 
pleasure in doing good to my friend, because I love him, 
I do not love him for the sake of that pleasure. 

I regard the present state of the public mind in Ire- 
land, to be one of those occasions, which the ardent votaiy 
of the religion of Philanthropy dare not leave unseized. 
I perceive that the public interest is excited, I perceive 
that individual interest has, in a certain degree, quitted 
individual concern to generalize itself with universal 
feeling. Be the Catholic Emancipation a thing of great 
or of small misfortune, be it a means of adding happines.^ 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 869 

to four millions of people, or a reform which will only 
give hinor to a few of the higher ranks, yet a benevolent 
and disinterested feeling has gone abroad, and I am 
willing that it should never subside. I desire that means 
should be taken with energy and expedition, in this im- 
portant, yet fleeting crisis, to feed the unpolluted flame, 
at which nations and ages may light the torch of 
Liberty and Virtue ! 

It is my opinion that the claims of the Catholic 
inhabitants of Ireland, if gained to-morrow, would in a 
very small degree, aggrandize their liberty and happiness. 
The disqualifications principally aflfect the higher orders 
of the Catholic persuasion, these would principally be 
benefited by their removaL Power and wealth do not 
benefit, but injure the cause of virtue and freedom. I am 
happy however, at the near approach of this emancipa- 
tion, because I am inimical to all disqualifications for 
opinion. It gives me pleasure to see the approach of 
this enfranchisement, not for the good which it will 
bring with it, but because it is a sign of benefits approach- 
ing, a prophet of good about to come ; and therefore, do I 
sympathize with the inhabitants of Ireland, in this great 
cause ; a cause, which, though in its own accomplishment, 
will add not one comfort to the cottager, will snatch not 
one from the dark dungeon, will root not out one vice, 
alleviate not one pang, yet it is the fore-ground of a 
picture, in the dimness of whose distance, I behold the 
lion lay down with the lamb, and the infant play with 
the basilisk — For it supposes the extermination of the 
eyeless monster bigotry, whose throne has tottered for 
two hundred years. I hear the teeth of the palsied 
beldame Superstition chatter, and I see her descending to 

PROSE. ^VOL. I. B B 



370 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

the grave ! Beason points to the open gates of the 
Temple of Eeligious Freedom, Philanthropy kneels at 
the altar of the common God ! There, wealth and poverty, 
rank and abjectness, are names known but as memoriaL; 
of past time : meteors which play over the loathsome 
pool of vice and misery, to warn the wanderer where 
dangers lie. Does a God rule this illimitable universe; 
are you thankful for his beneficence — do you adore liis 
wisdom — do you hang upon his altar the garland of your 
devotion ? Curse not your brother, though he hath 
enwreathed with his flowers of a difierent hue ; the purest 
religion is that of Charity, its loveliness begins to proseljte 
the hearts of men. The tree is to be judged of by its 
fruit. I regard the admission of the Catholic claims, and 
the Repeal of the Union Act, as blossoms of that fruit, 
which the Summer Sun of improved intellect and pro- 
gressive virtue are destined, to mature. 

I will not pass unreflected on the Legislative Union of 
Great Britain and Ireland, nor will I speak of it as a 
grievance so tolerable or unimportant in its own nature 
as that of Catholic disqualification. The latter affect.^ 
few, the former aflfects thousands. The one disqualifies 
the rich from power, the other impoverishes the peasant, 
adds beggary to the city, famine to the country, multiplies 
abjectness, whilst misery and crime play into each other's 
hands, under its withering auspices. I esteem then, the 
annihilation of this second grievance to be something more 
than a mere sign of coming good. I esteem it to be in itseU 
a substantial benefit. The aristocracy of Ireland (for much 
as I may disapprove other distinctions than those of virtue 
and talent, I consider it useless, hasty, and violent, not for 
the present to acquiesce, in their continuance.) The aris- 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION, 371 

tocracy of Ireland suck the veins of its inhabitants and 
consume the blood in England. I mean not to deny the 
unhappy truth, that there is much misery and vice in the 
world. I mean to say that Ireland shares largely of both. 
— England has made her poor ; and the poverty of a rich 
nation will make its people very desperate and wicked. 

I look forward then, to the redress of both these 
grievances, or rather, I perceive the state of the public 
mind, that precedes them as the crisis of beneficial in- 
novation. The latter I consider to be the cause of the 
former, as I hope it will be the cause of more compre- 
hensively beneficial amendments. It forms that occasion 
which should energetically and quickly be occupied. 
The voice of the whole human race ; their crimes, their 
miseries, and their ignorance, invoke us to the task. For 
the miseries of the Irish po©r, exacerbated by the union 
of their country with England, are not peculiar to them- 
selves. England, the whole civilized world^ with few 
exceptions, is either sunk in disproportioned abjectness, or 
raised to unnatural elevation. The Repeal of the Union 
Act will place Ireland on a level, so far as concerns the 
well-being of its poor, with her sister nation. Benevo- 
lent feeling has gone out in this country in favor of the 
happiness of its inhabitants — may this feeling be cor- 
roborated, methodized, and continued ! May it never 
fail ! — But it will not be kept alive by each citizen 
sitting quietly by his own fire-side, and saying that things 
are going on well, because the rain does not beat on him, 
because he has books and leisure to read them, because 
Ae has money and is at liberty to accumulate luxuries to 

1 In the original, the comma is after England, 
inserted after totn'ldf instead of 

BB 2 



372 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

himself. Generous feeling dictates no such sayings. 
When the heart recurs to the thousands who have no 
liberty and no leisure, it must be rendered callous by long 
contemplation of wretchedness, if after such recurrence it 
can beat with contented evenness. — Why do I talk 
thus ? Is there any one who doubts that the present 
state of politics and morals is wrong ? They say — shew 
us a safe method of improvement. There is no safer than 
the corroboration and propagation of generous and Philan- 
thropic feeling, than the keeping continually alive a love 
for the human race, than the putting in train causes 
which shall have for their consequences virtue and free- 
dom, and because I think that individuals acting singly, 
with whatever energy can never efifect* so much as a 
society ; I propose that all those, whose views coincide 
with those that I have avowed, who perceive the state of 
the public mind in Ireland, who think the present a fit 
opportimity for attempting to fix its fluctuations at Phil- 
anthropy ; who love all mankind, and are willing actively 
to engage in its cause, or passively to endure the persecu- 
tions of those who are inimical to its success ; I propose 
to these to form an association for the purposes, first, of 
debating on the propriety of whatever measures may be 
agitated, and secondly, for carrying, by united or individual 
exertion, such measures into efifect when determined on. 
That it should be an association for discussing knowledge 
and virtue throughout the poorer classes of society in 
Ireland, for co-operating with any enlightened system of 
education ; for discussing topics calculated to throw light 
on any methods of alleviation of moral and political evil, 
and as far as lays in its power, actively interesting itself 
in whatever occasions may arise for benefiting mankind. 

^ In the original, sffeeL 



J 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 373 

When I mention Ireland, I do not mean to confine the 
influence of the association to this, or to any other 
country, but for the time being. Moreover, I would 
recommend, that this association should attempt to form 
others, and to actuate them with a similar spirit, and I 
am thus indeterminate in my description of the associa- 
tion which I propose ; because I conceive that an 
assembly of men meeting, to do all the good that oppor- 
tunity will permit them to do, must be in its nature, as 
indefinite and varying as the instances of human vice and 
misery that precede, occasion, and call for its institution. 

As political institution and its attendant evils consti- 
tute the majority of those grievances, which Philanthrop- 
ists desire to remedy, it is probable that existing 
Governments will frequently become the topic of their 
discussion, the results of which may little coincide with 
the opinions which those who profit by the supineness of 
human belief, desire to impress upon the world. It is 
probable that this freedom may excite the odium of 
certain weU-meaning people, who pin their faith upon 
their grandmotherV ^pron-string. The minority ^n 
number are the majority in intellect and power. The 
former govern the latter, though it is by the sufferance 
of the latter that this originally delegated power is 
exercised. This power is become hereditary, and hath 
ceased to be necessarily united with intellect. 

It is certain, therefore, that any questioning of estab- 
lished principles would excite the abhorrence and opposi- 
tion of those who derived power and honour (such as it 
is) from their continuance. 

' In the original, grandmothtn, without the apostrophe. 



S74 PEOPOSALS POR AN ASSOCIATION. 

As the association which I recommend would question 
those principles (however they may he hedged in with 
antiquity and precedent) which appeared ill adapted for 
the benefit of human kind ; it would probably excite the 
odium of those in power. It would be obnoxious to the 
government, though nothing would be farther from the 
views of associated philanthropists than attempting to 
subvert establishments forcibly, or even hastily. Aris- 
tocracy would oppose it, whether oppositionists or minis- 
terialists, (for philanthropy is of no party,) because its 
ultimate views look to a subversion of all factitious 
distinctions, although from its immediate intentions I fear 
that aristocracy can have nothing to dread. The priest- 
hood would oppose it, because a union of church and 
state ; contrary to the principles and practice of Jesus, 
contrary to that equality which he fruitlessly endea- 
voured to teach mankind, is of all institutions that from 
tlie rust of antiquity are called venerable, the least quali- 
fied to stand free and cool reasoning, because it least 
conduces to the happiness of human kind : yet did either 
the minister, the peer, or the bishop, know their true 
interest, instead of that virulent opposition which some 
among them have made to freedom and philanthropy, 
they would rejoice and co-operate with the difiusion and 
corroboration of those principles that would remove a 
load of paltry equivocation, paltrier grandeur, and of 
wigs that crush into emptiness the brains below them ; 
from their shoulders, and by permitting them to reas- 
sume the degraded and vilified title of man would pre- 
clude the necessity of mystery and deception, would 
bestow on them a title more ennobling, and a dignity 
which though it would be without the gravity of an ape, 
would possess the ease and consistency of a man. 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 875 

For the reasons above alleged, falsely, prejudicedly, and 
narrowly will those very persons whose ultimate benefit 
is included in the general good whose promotion is the 
essence of a philanthropic association, will they persecute 
those who have the best intentions towards them, 
malevolence towards none. 

I do not, therefore, conceal that those who make the 
favour of government the sunshine of their moral day, 
confide in the political creed makers of the hour, are will- 
ing to think things that are rusty and decayed venerable, 
and are unenquiringly satisfied with evils as these are, 
because they find them established and unquestioned as 
they do sunlight and air when they come into existence ; 
that they had better not even think of philanthropy. I 
conceal not from them that the discountenance which 
government will show to such an association as I am 
desirous to establish wiU come under their comprehensive 
definition of danger : that virtue and any assembly insti- 
tuted under its auspices demands a voluntariness on the 
part of its devoted individuals to sacrifice personal to 
public benefit ; and that it is possible that a party of 
beings associated for the purposes of disseminating virtuous 
principles, may considering the ascendancy which long 
custom has conferred on opposite motives to action, meet 
with inconveniences that may amount to personal danger. 
These considerations are, however, to the mind of the 
philanthropist as is a drop to an ocean ; they serve by 
their possible existence as tests whereby to discover the 
really virtuous man from him who calls himself a patriot 
for dishonourable and selfish purposes. I propose then 
to such as think with me, a Philanthropic Association, in 
spite of the danger that may attend the attempt. I do 



376 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

not this beneath the shroud of mystery and darkness. I 
propose not an Association of Secrecy. Let it open as 

• 

the beam of day. Let it rival the sunbeam in its stain- 
less purity, as in the extensiveness of its effulgence. 

I disclaim all connection with insincerity and conceal- 
ment The latter implies the former, a9 much as the 
former stands in need of the latter. It is a very latitu- 
dinarian system of morality that permits its professor 
to employ bad means for any end whatever. Weapons 
which vice can use are unfit for the hands of virtue. 
Concealment implies falsehood ; it is bad, and can there- 
fore never be serviceable to the cause of philanthropy. 

I propose, therefore, that the association shall be 
established and conducted in the open face of day, 
with the utmost possible publicity. It is only vice 
that hides itself in holes and comers,* whose effrontery 
shrinks from scrutiny, whose cowardice lets I dare not 
wait upon I would, like the poor cat in the adage.' 
But the eye of virtue, eagle-like, darts through the 
undazzling beam of eternal truth, and from the un- 
diminished fountain of its purity gathers wherewith to 
vivify and illuminate a universe. 

I have hitherto abstained from inquiring whether 
the association which I recommend be or be not con- 
sistent with the English constitution. And here it is 
fit, briefly to consider what a constitution is. 

* Comma not in the original. the head of Chapter IX of Zat- 

' This seems to have been a trozzif where, however, he stops 

favourite quotation of Shelley's short at / tPotUd, perhaps finding 

from MdcUth, It wiU be remem- the " poor cat" not sufficiently im- 

bered that he used it as a motto at pressive for so solemn an occasion^ 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCUTION. 877 

Government can have no rights, it is a delegation 
for the purpose of securing them to others. Man 
becomes a subject of government, not that he may be 
in a worse but that he may be in a better state than 
that of unorganized society. The strength of govern- 
ment is the happiness of the governed. All govern- 
ment existing for the happiness of others is just only 
so far as it exists by their consent, and useful only 
so far as it operates to their weU-being. Constitution 
is to government what government is to law. Consti- 
tution may, in this vi*v of the subject, be defined to 
be, not merely something constituted for the benefit of 
any nation or class of people, but something constituted 
by themselves for their own benefit. The nations of 
England and Ireland have no constitution, because at no one 
time did the individuals that compose them constitute a 
system for the general benefit : if a system determined 
on by a very few, at a great length of time ; if magna 
charta, the bill of rights, and other usages for whose in- 
fluence the improved state of human knowledge is rather 
to be looked to, than any system which courtiers pretend 
to exist and perhaps believe to exist ; a system whose 
spring of agency they represent as something secret undis- 
coverable and awful as the law of nature. If these make 
a constitution then England has one. But if (as I have 
endeavoured to show they do not) a constitution is some- 
thing else, then the speeches of kings or commissioners, 
the writings of courtiers, and the journals of parliament, 
which teem with its glory, are fuU of political cant ; ex- 
hibit the skeleton of national freedom, and are fruitless 
attempts to hide evils in whose favor they cannot prove 
an alibi. As therefore, in the true sense of the expression, 
the spot of earth on which we live is destitute of consti- 



378 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

tuted Government, it is impossible to offend against its 
principles, or to be with justice accused of wishing to sub- 
vert what has no real existence. If a man was accused of 
setting fire to a house, wliich house never existed, and 
from the nature of things could not have existed, it is 
impossible that a jury in their senses would find him 
guilty of arson. The English constitution then, could not 
be offended by the principles of virtue and freedom. In 
fact, the manner in which the Government of England 
has varied since its earliest establishment, proves that its 
present form is the result of a^progressive accommoda- 
tion to existing principles. It has been a continual 
struggle for liberty on the part of the people, and an un- 
interrupted attempt at tightning the reins of oppression 
and encouraging ignorance and imposture by the oligarchy 
to whom the first William parcelled out the property of 
the aborigines at the conquest of England by the Nor- 
mans. I hear much of its being a tree so long growing 
which to cut down is as bad as cutting down an oak where 
tliere are no more. But the best way, on topics similar 
to these, is, to tell the plain truth, without the confusion 
and ornament of metaphor. I call expressions similar to 
these political cant, which, like the songs of Eule 
Britannia and God save the king, are but abstracts of the 
caterpillar creed of courtiers, cut down to the taste and 
comprehension of a mob ; the one to disguise to an ale- 
house politician the evils of that devilish practice of war, 
and the other to inspire among clubs of all descriptions a 
certain feeling which some call loyalty and others servility. 
A philanthropic association has nothing to fear from the 
English constitution, but it may expect danger from its 
government. So far however from thinking this an argu- 
ment against its institution, establishment, and augmenta- 



PKOPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 379 

tion, I am inclined to rest much of the weight of the 
cause which my duties call upon me to support, on the 
very fact that government forcibly interferes when the 
opposition that is made to its proceedings is professedly 
and undeniably nothing but intellectual. A good cause 
may be shewn to be good, violence instantly renders bad 
what might before have been good. " Weapons that false- 
hood can use are unfit for the hands of truth." — Truth can 
reason, and falsehood cannot. 

A political or religious system may bum and imprison 
those who investigate its principles ; but it is an invariable 
proof of their falsehood and hollowness. Here then is 
another reason for the necessity of a Philanthropic Asso- 
ciation, and I call upon any fair and rational opponent 
to controvert the argument which it contains ; for there 
is no one who even calls himself a philanthropist that 
thinks personal danger or dishonour terrible in any other 
light than as it affects his usefulness. 

Man has a heart to feel, a brain to think, and a tongue 
to utter. The laws of his moral as of his physical nature 
are immutable, as is every thing of nature ; nor can the 
ephemeral institutions of human society take away those 
rights, annihilate or strengthen the duties that have for 
their basis the imperishable relations of his constitu- 
tion. 

Though the parliament of England were to pass a 
thousand bills to inflict upon those who determined to 
utter their thoughts, a thousand penalties, it could not 
render that criminal which was in its nature innocent 
before the passing of such bilL 



380 PROPOSALS FOK AN ASSOCIATION. 

Man has a right to feel, to think, and to speak, nor 
can any acts of legislature destroy that right. He will 
feel, he must think, and he ought to give utterance to 
those thoughts and feelings with the readiest sincerity 
and the strictest candour. A man must have a right to 
do a tiling before he can have a duty ; this right must 
permit before his duty can enjoin him to any act. Any 
law is bad which attempts to make it criminal to do what 
the plain dictates within the breast of every man tells 
him that he ought to do. 

The English government permits a fanatic to assemble 
any number of persons to teach them the most extrava- 
vagant and immoral systems of faith ; but a few men 
meeting to consider its own principles are mai*ked with 
its hatred, and pursued by its jealousy. 

The religionist who agonizes the death-bed of tlie 
cottager, and by picturing the hell, which hearts black 
and narrow as his own alone could have invented, and 
which exists but in their cores, spreads the uncharitable 
doctrines which devote heretics to eternal torments, and 

ft 

represents heaven to be what earth is, a monopoly in the 
hands of certain favoured ones whose merit consists in 
slavishness, whose success is the reward of sycophancy. 
Thus much is permitted, but a public inquiry that in- 
volves any doubt of their rectitude into the principles of 
government is not permitted. When Jupiter and a 
countryman were one day walking out, conversing 
familiarly on th6 afifairs of earth, the countr3anan listened 
to Jupiter's assertions on the subject for some time in 
acquiescence, at length happening to hint a doubt, Jupiter 
threatened him with his thunder ; ah, ha, says the coun- 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 381 

tryman, now Jupiter I know that you a^re wrong ; you 
are always wrong when you appeal to your thunder. 
The essence of virtue is disinterestedness. Disinterested- 
ness is the quaKty which preserves the character of virtue 
distinct from that of either innocence or vice. This, it 
wiU be said, is mere assertion. It is so : but it is an 
assertion, whose truth, I believe, the hearts of philanthro- 
pists are disinclined to deny. Those who have been 
convinced by their grandam of the doctrine of ah original 
hereditary sin, or by the apostles of a degrading philosophy 
of the necessary and universal selfishness of man cannot 
be philanthropists.* Now as an action, or a motive to 
action, is only virtuous so far as it is disinterested, or 
partakes (I adopt this mode of expression to suit the 
taste of some) of the nature of generalized seU-love, then 
reward or punishment, attached even by omnipotence to 
any action, can in no wise make it either good or bad. 

It is no crime to act in contradiction to an English 
judge or an English legislator, but it is a crime to 
transgress the dictates of a monitor, which feels the 
spring of every motive, whose throne is the human 
sensorium, whose empire the human conduct. Con- 
science is a Government before which, all others sink 
into nothingness; it surpasses, and where it can act 
supersedes, aU other, as nature surpasses art, as God 
surpasses man. 

In the preceding pages, during the course of an inves- 
tigation of the possible objections which might be urged 
by Philanthropy, to an association such as I recommend, 
as I have rather sought to bring forward than conceal my 

^ In the pamphlet there ia a comma instead of this period. 



382 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

principles, it will appear that they have their origm from 
the discoveries in the sciences of politics and morals, 
which preceded and occasioned the revolutions of America 
and France. It is with openness that I confess, nay with 
pride I assert, that they are so. The names of Paine and 
Lafayette will outlive the poetic aristocracy of an expa- 
triated Jesuit,* as the executive of a bigoted policy will 
die before the disgust at the sycophancy of their eulogists 
can subside. 

It will be said, perhaps, that much as principles, such 
as these may appear, marked on the outside with peace, 
liberty, and virtue, that their ultimate tendency is to a 
Kevolution, which like that of France, wiU end in blood- 
shed, vice, and slavery. I must offer, therefore, my 
thoughts on that event, which so suddenly and so lament- 
ably extinguished the overstrained hopes of liberty which 
■ it excited. I do not deny that the Revolution of France 
was occasioned by the literary labors of the Encyclo- 
pedists. When we see two events together, in certain cases, 
we speak of one as the cause, the other the effect. We 
have no other idea of cause and effect, but that which 
arises from necessary connection; it is therefore, still 
doubtful whether D'Alembert, Boulanger, Condorcet, and 
other celebrated characters, were the causes of the over- 
throw of the ancient monarchy of France. Thus much 
is certain,* thaL*they contributed greatly to the extension 
and diffusion of knowledge, and that knowledge is incom- 
patible with slavery. The French nation was bowed to 
the dust by ages of unintermitted despotism. They were 
plundered and insulted by a succession of oligarchies, 

^ See Memoires de Jacobioisme, par I'Abbe Baniel. [Shklley's 
Note.] 
* In the pamphlet the comma ia after Thui iuatead of certain. 



PllOPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 883 

each more blood-thirsty and unrelenting than the fore- 
going. In a state like this, her soldiers learned to fight 
for Freedom on the plains of America, whilst at this very 
conjuncture, a ray of science burst through the clouds of 
bigotry that obscured the moral day of Europe. The 
French were in the lowest state of human degradation, 
and when the truth, unaccustomed to their ears, that they 
were men and equals was promulgated, they were the first 
to vent their mdignation on the monopolizers of earth, 
l^ecause they were most glaringly defrauded of the immu- 
nities of natxire. 

Since the French were furthest removed by the sophis- 
tications of political institution from the genuine condition 
of human beings, they must have been most unfit for that 
happy state of equal law, which proceeds from consum- 
mated civilization, and which demands habits of the 
strictest virtue before its introduction. 

The murders during the period of the French Eevolu- 
tion, and the despotism which has since been established, 
prove that the doctrines of Philanthropy and Freedom, 
were but shaUowly understood. Nor was it until after 
that period, that their principles became clearly to be 
explained, and unanswerably to be established. 

Voltaire was the flatterer of Kings, though in his heart 
he despised them : — so far has he been instrumental in 
the present slavery of his country. Eousseau gave licence 
by his writings, to passions that only incapacitate* and 
contract the human heart : — so far hath he prepared the 
necks of his fellow-beings for that, yoke of galling and 

* In the original, incapicUate. 



384 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCUTION, 

dishonourable servitude, which at this moment, it bears. 
Helvetius and Condorcet established principles, but if they 
drew conclusions, their conclusions were unsystematical 
and devoid of the luminousness and energy of method : 
— ^they were little understood in the Revolution. But 
this age of ours is not stationary. Philosophers have 
not developed the great principles of the human mind, 
that conclusions from them should be unprofitable and 
impracticable. We are in a state of continually pro- 
gressive improvement One truth that had been dis- 
covered can never die, but will prevent the revivifica- 
tion of its apportioned opposite falsehood. By promoting 
truth and discouraging its opposite, the means of Philan- 
thropy are principally to be forwarded. — Godwin wrote 
during the Eevolution of France, and certainly his writings 
were totally devoid of influence, with regard to its pur- 
poses. Oh ! that they had not ! — In the Eevolution of 
France, were engaged men, whose names are inerasible 
from the records of Liberty. Their genius penetrated 
with a glance the gloom and glare which Church-craft 
and State-craft had spread before the imposture and 
villainy of their establishments. They saw the world — 
were they men ? Yes ! They felt for it ! They risked 
their lives and happiness for its benefit ! — Had there been 
more of these men France would not now be a beacon to 
warn us of the hazard and horror of Revolutions, but a 
pattern of society, rapidly advancing to a state of perfec- 
tion, and holding out an example for the gradual and 
peaceful regeneration of the world. I consider it to be 
one of the effects of a Philanthropic Association, to assist 
in the production of such men as these, in an extensive 
developement of those germs of excellence, whose favorite 
soil is the cultured garden of the human mind. 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 885 

Many well-meamng persons may think that the attain- 
ment of the good, which I propose, as the ultimatum of 
Philanthropic exertion, is visionary and inconsistent with 
human nature : they would tell me not to make people 
happy, for fear of overstocking the world, and to permit 
those who found dishes placed before them on the table 
of partial nature, to enjoy their superfluities in quietness, 
though millions of wretches crowded around but to pick 
a morsel,* which morsel was still refused to the prayers of 
agonizing famine. 

I cannot help thinking this an evil, nor help en- 
deavouring, by the safest means that I can devise, to 
palliate at present, and in fine to eradicate this evil; 
war, vice, and misery are undeniably bad, they embrace 
all that we can conceive of temporal and eternal evil. 
Are we to be told that these are remedyless, because the 
earth would, in case of their remedy, be overstocked ? 
That the rich are still to glut, that the ambitious are still 
to plan, that the fools whom these knaves mould, are still 
to murder their brethren and call it glory, and that the 
poor are to pay with their blood, their labor, their happi- 
ness, and their innocence, for the crimes and mistakes 
which the hereditary monopolists of earth commit ? Bare 
sophism ! How will the heartless rich hug thee to their 
bosoms, and luU their conscience into slumber with the 
opiate of thy reconciling dogmas ! But when the Philo^- 
sopher and Philanthropist contemplates the universe, when 
he perceives existing evils that admit of amendment, and 
hears tell of other evils, which, in the course of sixty cen- 
turies, may again derange the system of happiness, which 

^ See Malthns on Popnlatioii. [Shbllet*s Note.] 
^ROSE. — VOL. I. C C 



386 PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 

the amendment is calculated to produce, does he suhmit 
to prolong a positive evil, because if that were eradicated 
after a millennium of 6000 years (for such space of time 
would it take to people the earth) another evil would 
take place. 

To how contemptible a degradation of grossest credulity 
will not prejudice lower the human mind 1 — ^We see in 
Winter that the foliage of the trees is gone, that they pre- 
sent to the view nothing but leafless branches — ^we see 
that the loveliness of the flower decays, though the root 
continues in the earth* What opinion should we form of 
that mau, who, when he walked in the freshness of the 
spring, beheld the fields enamelled with flowers, and the 
foliage bursting from the buds, should find fault with all 
this beautiful order, and murmur his contemptible dis- 
contents because winter must come, and the landscape be 
robbed of its beauty for a while again ? Yet this man is 
Mr. Malthus. Do we not see that the laws of nature 
perpetually act by disorganization and reproduction, each 
alternately becoming cause and effect. The analysis^ that 
we can draw from physical to moral topics are of all 
others the most striking. 

Does any one yet question the possibility of inducing 
radical reform of moral and political evil. Does he 
object from that impossibility to the association which 
I propose, which I frankly confess to be one of the 
means whose instrumentality I would employ to attain 
this reform. Let them look to the methods which I use. 
Let them put my object out of their view and propose 

' Probably a misprint for anaiogiet^ 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. 887 

their own, how would they accomplish it ? By diffusing 
virtue and knowledge, by promoting human happiness. 
Palsied be the hand, for ever dumb be the tongue that 
would by one expression convey sentiments differing from 
these : I will use no bad means for any end whatever, 
know then ye philanthropists, to whatever profession of 
faith, or whatever determination of principles, chance, 
reason, or education, may have conducted you, that the 
endeavours of the truly virtuous necessarily converge to 
one point, though it be hidden from them what point that 
is : they all labour for one end, and that controversies 
concerning the nature of that end, serve only to weaken 
the strength which for the interest of virtue should be 
consolidated. 

The diffusion of true and virtuous principles (for in 
the first principles of morality none disagree) wiU produce 
the best of possible terminations. 

I invite to an Association of Philanthropy those of 
whatever ultimate expectations, who will employ the same 
means that I employ; let their designs differ as much 
as they may from mine, I shall rejoice at their co-opera- 
tion ; because if the ultimatum of my hopes be founded 
on the unity of truth, I shall then have auxiliaries in its 
cause, and if it be false I shall rejoice that means are 
not neglected for forwarding that which is true. 

The accumulation of evil which Ireland heis for the 
last twenty years sustained, and considering the un- 
remittingness of its pressure I may say patiently sustained ; 
the melancholy prospect which the unforeseen conduct of 
the Begent of England holds out of its continuance 

c c 2 



888 PBOPOSALS FOB AN ASSOCIATION. 

demands of every Irishman, whose pidses have not ceased 
to throb with the life-blood of his heart, that he should 
individually consult, and imitedly determine on some 
measures for the liberty of his countrymen. That those 
measures should be pacific though resolute, that their 
movers should be calmly brave, and temperately unbend- 
ing, though the whole heart and soul should go with the 
attempt, is the opinion which my principles command me 
to give. 

And I am induced to call an Association, such as this 
occasion demands, an Association of philanthropy, because 
good men ought never to circumscribe their usefulness by 
any name which denotes their exclusive devotion to the 
accomplishment of its signification. 

When I began the preceding remarks I conceived that 
on the removal of the restrictions from the Eegent a 
ministry less inimical than the present to the interests of 
liberty would have been appointed. I am deceived and 
the disappointment of the hopes of freedom on this 
subject afford an additional argument towards the 
necessity of an Association. 

I conclude these remarks which I have indited 
principally with a view of unveiling my principles, with 
a proposal for an Association for the purposes of cathohc 
emancipation, a repeal of the union act, and grounding 
upon the attainment of these objects a reform of whatever 
moral and political evil it may be within the compass of 
himian power to remedy. 

Such as are favourablv inclined towards the institu- 
tion would highly gratify the proposer, if they would 



PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION. S89 

personally communicate with him on this important 
subject, by which means the plan might be matured, 
errors in the proposer's original system be detected, and 
a meeting for the purpose convened with that resolute 
expedition which the nature of the present crisis 
demands. 

No, 7, Lower Sackoille-Street, 



FINIS. 



DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 



[In addition to the two Iri»h pamphlets, Shelley appears to hare got 
printed in Dublin the broadside entitled Declaration of JUgkU^ which 
afterwards led to the imprisonment of his Irish servant Daniel Hill (or 
Healy) for uttering the same without an imprint. Although this curious 
document w^ reprinted by Richard Carlile in The lUpttbUean for the 
24th of September, 1819, and figures in Lowndes's Bibliographer's Manual 
(Bohn^s Edition, p. 2374) as having occurred in a certain copy of Q««» 
Mob not now forthcoming, it remained for Mr. Rossetti to place it be- 
fore the present generation of Shelley's readers in an article contributed 
to The FortnighUy Review for January, 1871, entitled *' SheUey in 1812-ia" 
Mr. Rossetti (p. 71) points eut the resemblances between this Declara- 
tion and two such Documents of the French Revolution, '* the one 
adopted by the Constituent Assembly in August, 1789, and the otiier 
proposed in April, 1793, by Robespierre.** Mr. MacCarthy <5&e%'» 
Earltf Life, p. 523) calls attention to the recurrence, in the Dedaralvm 
of Rights, of certain thoughts and phrases from the PropoeaU fcr a» 
Ataociaiion, For a eondse account of Shelley's proceedings at Barnstaple 
with this hand-bill, see p. 37 of the memoir prefixed to Vol. I of Mr. 
Rossetti's hist edition of SheUey's Poetical Works (3 vols. 1878). The 
Declaration is a roughly printed affair, — a single leaf measuring 14} 
inches by 8U inches. There are two copies preserved in the Public 
Record Office ; and Lord Carlingford has the copy sent offici^y to Mr. 
(afterwards Sir Francis) Freeling, Secretary of the Post Office, by the 
Post Office Agent at Holyhead, under circumstances fully detailed by 
Mr. MacCarthy {Shelley^a Barly Life, pp. 309 et aeq.y By his Lordship's 
courtesy, the text is here given from that copy. — H. B. F.] 



DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 



Government has no rights ; it is a delegation from 
several individuals for the purpose of securing their own. 
It is therefore just, only so far as it exists by their con- 
sent, useful only so far as it operates to their well-being. 



IF these individuals think that the form of govern- 
ment which they, or their forefathers constituted is ill 
adapted to produce their happiness, they have a right to 



change it. 



Government is devised for the security of rights. The 
rights of man are liberty, and an equal participation of 
the commonage of nature. 

4 

As the benefit of the governed, is, or ought to be the 
origin of government, no men can have any authority that 
does not expressly emanate from their will. 



394 DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 



Though all governments are not so bad as that of 
Turkey, yet none are so good as they might be ; the 
majority of every country have a right to perfect their 
government, the minority should not disturb them, they 
ought to secede, and form their own system in their own 
way. 

6 

All have a right to an equal share in the benefits, and 
burdens of Government. Any disabilities for opinion, 
imply by their existence, barefaced tyranny on the side 
of government, ignorant slavishness on the side of the 
governed. 



The rights of man in the present state of society, ai^ 
only to be secured by some degree of coercion to be 
exercised on their violator. The sufferer has a right 
that the degree of coercion employed be as slight as 
possible. 

8 

It may be considered as a plain proof of the hollow- 

ness of any proposition, if power be used to enforce 

instead of reason to persuade its admission. Govern- 
ment is never supported by fraud until it cannot l)e 

supported by reason. 



No man has a right to disturb the public peace, by 
personally resisting the execution of a law however bad. 
He ought to acquiesce, using at the same time the utmost 
powers of his reason, to promote its repeal 



DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 895 

10 

A man must have a right to act in a certain manner 
before it can be his duty. He may, before he ought. 

11 

A man has a right to think as his reason directs, it is 
a duty he owes to himself to think with freedom, that he 
may act from convictioiL 

12 

A man has a right to unrestricted liberty of dis- 
cussion, falsehood is a scorpion that will sting itself to 

death. 

13 

A man has not only a right to express his thoughts, 
but it is his duty to do so. 

14 

No law has a right to discourage the practice of trutli. 

A man ought to speak the truth on every occasion, a 

duty can never be criminal, what is not criminal cannot 

be injurious. 

15 

Law cannot make what is in its nature virtuous or 
innocent, to be criminal, any more than it can make 
what is criminal to be innocent. Government cannot 
make a law, it can only pronounce that which was the 
law before its organisation, viz. the moral result of the 
imperishable relations of things. 

16 

The present generation cannot bind their posterity. 
The few cannot promise for the many. 



396 DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 

17 

No man has a right to do an evil thing that good may 
come. 

18 

Expediency is inadmissible in morals. Politics aie 
only sound when conducted on principles of morality. 
They are, in fact, the morals of nations. 

19 

Man has no right to Idll his brother, it is no excuse 
that he does so in uniform. He only adds the infamy of 
servitude to the crime of murder. 

20 

Man, whatever be his country, has the same rights in 
one place as another, the rights of imiversal citizenship. 

21 

The government of a country ought to be perfectly 
indifferent to every opinion. Religious differences, the 
bloodiest and most rancorous of all, spring from par- 
tiality. 

22 

A delegation of individuals, for the purpose of securing 
their rights, can have no undelegated power of restraining 
the expression of their opinion. 

23 

Belief is involuntary ; nothing involuntary is merito- 
rious or reprehensible. A man ought not to be considered 
worse or better for his belief. 



DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 397 

24 

A Christian, a Deist, a Turk, and a Jew, have equal 
rights : they are men and brethren. 

25 

If a person's religious ideas correspond not with your 
own, love him nevertheless. How different would yours 
have been, had the chance of birth placed you in Tartary 
or India ! 

26 

Those who believe that Heaven is, what earth has 
been, a monopoly in the hands of a favored few, would 
do well to reconsider their opinion : if they find that it 
came from their priest or their grandmother, they could 
not do better than reject it. 

27 

No man has a right to be respected for any other 
possessions, but those of virtue and talents. Titles are 
tinsel, power a corrupter, glory a bubble, and excessive 
wealth, a libel on its possessor. 

28 

No man has a right to monopolize more than he 
can enjoy ; what the rich give to the poor, whilst 
millions are starving, is not a perfect favour, but an 
imperfect right. 

29 

Every man has a right to a certain degree of leisure 
and liberty, because it is his duty to attain a certain 
degree of knowledge. He may before he ought. 



398 DECLARATION OF RIGHTS. 

30 

Sobriety of body and mind is necessary to those who 
would be free, because, without sobriety a high sense of 
philanthropy cannot actuate the heart, nor cool and 
determined courage, execute its dictates. 

31 

The only use of government is to repress the vices of 
man. If man were to day sinless, to-morrow he would 
have a right to demand that government and all its evils 
should cease. 



Man ! thou whose rights are here declared, be no longer 
forgetful of the loftiness of thy destination. Think of 
thy rights ; of those possessions which will give thee 
virtue and wisdom, by which thou mayest arrive at happi- 
ness and freedom. They are declared to thee by one whu 
knows thy dignity, for every hour does his heart swell 
with honorable pride in the contemplation of what thou 
mayest attain, by one who is not forgetful of thy 
degeneracy, for every moment brings home to him the 
bitter conviction of what thou art. 

AwaJce ! — arise ! — or he for ever fallen. 



[In collating the broadside IkdaraUon with the reprint in The Repub- 
lican for the 24th of September, 1819, I have only found a riogle verbal 
variation, an evident misprint, im for they, in the third line of article 26. 
The punctuation is also practically the same. We shall perhaps never 
know whether Shelley furnished Carlile with the copy of the broadside 
from which the reprint was made; but it is not impossible, — scarcely im- 
probable^ as the poet had certainly a feeling of friendly interest in the 
more daringly practical agitator, which friendly interest was reoiprocaL 
For on the one hand we have the ** letter of five sheets on Carlile's 
affair" which Shelley had "just finished*' when he wrote to Mr. Gis- 
bome on the 6th of November, 1819, and which wiU be found in 
VoL lY ; and, on the other hand, the fourteen volumes of The E^fmUican 
contain, I should say, a greater number of articles on and references to 
Shelley than any other periodical issued during his life. The particular 
number containing the IkeUsraiion of Bighte contains also a nushly out- 
spoken letter from Garlile to the Prince Regent, *' On his answer to 
Ulc Address and Petition of the Citizens of London, in Common Council 
assembled, praying his Royal Highness to institute an enquiry into the 
conduct of the Magistrates and Yeomanry Cavalry of Manchester,'' — on 
the occasion of the massacre which inspired Shelley to write The Math of 
Anarchy, The DedanUion is foUowed in The BqaMican by three 
abstracts of ** Benefits,*' which are extremely well set forth, and might 
or might not be from memoranda of Shelley's for the treatise on Reform 
which he projected, at the end of 1819. The first of these abstracts is 
headed *< BENEFITS OF THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE, Con- 
cerning which U it preiumed few wHl dingru,^^ The second is headed 
« OTHXR BBANCUBS OF REFOBM, Concerning which U w preeumed a great 
part of the eonsitient Friends of Freedom and of Swnan ffappineee will be 
agreed,** The third is headed **Ben^/Ue likely to accrue from a Reform in 
the Honu of Common^ or properly epeahing, a RevoltUion in the Affaire of 
Oreat Britain and Ireland,** These notes do not appear to be connected 
with Shelley's Irish Campaign ; but, if his, might have been sent to Car- 
lile with a copy of the Declaration^ which was appropriate enough to the 
political situation in 1819. Some newspaper reports &c., that are connected 
with the Irish Campaign, — reports of Sheilas speech at a meeting in 
Fishamble Street Theatre, Dublin, and other relative documents, will be 
given in an Appendix. Meantime, this opportunity will serve to point out 
a characteristic persistency of ideas : let the reader compare the passage 
in the Propoealafor an Association beginning with The religionist who 
agonizes, at p. 380 (repeated in part in Article 26 of the Declaration of 
Rights), with the sublime sixth and seventh stanzas of Canto VIII of 
Laon and Cythna; and he will see a notable example of the growth of 
great things from smalL — H. B. F.] 



A LETTER 
TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 



PROSE. — VOU I. D D 



[In a letter to Godwin dated " Cwm-Rhayader, June 11, 1812" 
(Hogg's Lift, Vol. n, page 129), Shelley writes thns : ** What do yoa 
think of Eaton*8 trial and sentence ? I mean not to inainnate that thiB 
poor bookseller has any characteristics in common with Socrates, or 
Jesus Christ, still the spirit which pillories and imprisons him, is the 
same which brought them to an untimely end — still, even in this en- 
lightened age, the moralist and reformer may expect coercion anajogoui 
to that used with the humble yet zealous imitator of their endeavonn. 
I have thought of addressing the public on the subject, and indeed have 
begun an outline of the address. May I be favoured with your remarks 
on it before I send it to the world ?'* By the 29th of July the essay on 
this subject seems to have been written and printed. Hogg (Vol. II, 
page 152) represents SheUey as writing on that date that it had been 
printed in London ; but without seeing Shelley's letter we cannot be 
sure of the precise bearing of his words. Mr. J. R. Chanter, in ^cettkn 
of the Literary Hittory of Bamttaple (1866, page 66) gives a circumstantial 
account of the printing of the tract by Mr. Syle of Barnstaple ; and Mr. 
MaoCarthy {ShdUyU Early Life, page 346) accepts this statement. The 
greater part of the edition of this work, A LeUer to Lord EUenborouffky is 
said to have been destroyed by Mr. Syle on his observing the natnrs of 
it ; but fifty copies were sent to Mr. Hookham of Bond Street, and Mr. 
Chanter says that they were distributed and could not be got back. 
Their trauRmission is mentioned in Shelley's letter to Hookham of the 
18th of August 1812 {ShelUy Memoriali, page 38) ; and it was from a 
copy of the iiamphlet preserved by Hookham that Lady Shelley reprinted 
in the Memorialt those portions which, being personal to Mr. Eaton and 
Lord Rllenborough, had not already been reprinted in the Note to Qtum 
Mab on the words I fffiil beget a Sofn (See Poetical Works, Vol. IV, page 
441 for text, and pages 606 et seq. for note). From the same copy the 
pamphlft is now, by the kindness of Sir Percy and Lady Shelley, given 
in its integrity. It will be seen that some very trenchant passages, 
which have lain perdn since 1812, now reappear. As in the case of Tkt 
Neeeuity of Mheirnn, Shelley revised his work when inserting it in Qiimv 
Mab. The Letter to Lord SUenborough is a small 8vo., or large old 
fashioned 12mo. : I cannot say which, for there are no signatures to 
mark the sheets, and Lady Shelley's copy is bound up in one precious 
volume with The Neceuity of Atheism and the two Irish pamf^ets. It 
consists of title-page as given opposite, Advertisement on a second leaf 
as here reprinted, and pages 1 to 23 of text, without headlines, numbered 
centrally with Arabic figures in square brackets. It bean no printer s 
name.— H. B. F.] 



A LETTER 

TO 

LORD ELLENBOROUGH, 

Occasioned by the Sentence which he passed on 

MR D. I. EATON, 

As Publisher of, 
the THIRD PART of PAINE's AGE OP REASON. 



Doornm offeoM, Dili cnnB. 



— It Is contrary to tho mild spirit of the Christian Beligion, for no 
sanction eaii be found under that dispensation which will warrant a 
Government to impose disabilities and penalties upon anj man, on 
aoooont of his religious opinions. [Ifeor, Sear.'] 

Horquis Wellesley's Speech. Qlohe, Jnly 2. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



/ have waited impatiently for these last four months, in the 
hopes, that some pen, fitter for the important task, would 
have spared me the perilous pleasure of becoming the 
champion of an innocent man. — This may serve as an excuse 
for delay, to those who think that I have let pass the aptest 
opportunity — but it is not to be supposed that in four short 
months the public indignation, raised by Mr, Eaton* s 
unmerited steering, can luLve subsided. 



LETTER. 



MY LOEl), 

As the station to which you have 
been called by your country is important, so much the 
more awful is your responsibility, so much the more 
does it become you to watch lest you inadvertently punish 
the virtuous and reward the vicious. 

You preside over a court which is instituted for the 
suppression of crime, and to whose authority the people 
submit on no other conditions than that its decrees 
shoidd be conformable to justice. 

If it should be denjonstrated that a judge had con- 
demned an innocent man, the bare existence of laws in 



408 A LETTER TO LORD ELLEKBOROUGH. 

conformity to which the accused is punished, would but 
little extenuate his offence. The inquisitor when he 
bums an obstinate heretic may set up a similar plea, yet 
few are sufficiently blinded by intolerance to acknow- 
ledge its validity. It will less avail such a judge to 
assert the policy of punishing one who has committed no 
crime. Policy and morality ought to be deemed 
synonymous in a court of justice, and he whose conduct 
has been regulated by the latter principle, is not justly 
amenable to any penal law for a supposed violation of 
the former. It is true, my Lord, laws exist which suffice 
to screen you from the animadversion of any constituted 
power, in consequence of the unmerited sentence which 
you have passed upon Mr. Eaton ; but there are no laws 
which screen you from the reproof of a nation's disgust, 
none which ward off the just judgment of posterity, if 
that posterity will deign to recollect you. 

By what right do you punish Mr. Eaton ? What but 
antiquated precedents, gathered from times of priestly 
and tyrannical domination, can be adduced in palliation 
of an outrage so insulting to humanity and justice ? 
Wliom has he injured ? What crime has he committed ? 
Wherefore may he not walk abroad like other men and 
follow his accustomed pursuits ? What end is proposed 
in confining this man, charged with the commission of no 
dishonorable action ? Wherefore did his aggressor 
avail himself of popular prejudice, and return no answer 
but one of common place contempt, to a defence of plain 
and simple sincerity ? Lastly, when the prejudices of 
the jury, as Christians, were strongly and unfairly in- 
flamed ' against this injured man as a Deist, wherefore 

' See the Attorney Genenl*8 Bpeech. [Shelley's Note.] 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLEKBOROUGH. 409 

did not you, my Lord, check such unconstitutional 
pleading, and desire the jury to pronounce the accused 
innocent or crimiuaP without reference to the particular 
faith which he professed ? 

In the name of justice, what answer is there to these 
questions ? The answer which Heathen Athens made to 
Socrates, is the same with which Christian England must 
attempt to silence the advocates of this injured man — 
" He has questioned established opinions." — Alas ! the 
crime of enquiry is one which religion never has for- 
given. Implicit faith and fearless enquiry have in all 
ages been irreconcileable enemies. Unrestrained philo- 
sophy has in every age opposed itself to the reveries of 
credulity and fanaticism. — ^The truths of astronomy 
demonstrated by Newton have superseded astrology; since 
the modem discoveries in chemistry the philosopher's stone 
has no longer been deemed attainable. Miracles of every 
kind have become rare, in proportion to the hidden prin- 
ciples which those who study nature have developed. That 
which is false will ultimately be controverted by its own 
falsehood. That which is true needs but publicity to be 
acknowledged. It is ever a proof that the falsehood of a 
proposition is felt by those who use power and coercion, not 
reasoning and persuasion,' to procure its admission. — False- 
hood skulks in holes and corners, " it lets I dare not wait 

upon I would, like the poor cat in the adage,"* except 

I By Mr. Fox's bUl (1791) Juries are, in cases of libel, judges both of 
the law and the fact. [Shellby's Note.] 

* In Queen Mab we read simply, of the Letter to Lord EUenborough, 

eocrciofij not reawnvng. ** I am enabled by the kindness of 

' Mr. Chanter in his Liferary Mr. Barry to give a line as a speci- 

history of Barnstaple (p. 66) says men. The writer is drawing a 



410 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROCGH. 



when it has power, and then, as it was a coward, it is a 
tyrant ; but the eagle-eye of truth darts thro' the un- 
dazzling sunbeam of the immutable and just, gathering 
thence wherewith to vivify and illuminate a universe ! 



Wherefore, I repeat, is Mr. Eaton punished ? — Because 
he is a Deist ? — and what are you my Lord ? — A Christian. 
Ha then ! the mask is fallen ofif ; you persecute him 
because his faith differs from your's. You copy the 
persecutors of Christianity in your actions, and are an 
additional proof that your religion is as bloody, barbarous, 
and intolerant as theirs. — If some deistical Bigot in 
power (supposing such a character for the sake of illus- 
tration) should in dark and barbarous ages have enacted a 
statute, making the profession of Christianity criminal, if 
you my Lord were a christian bookseller and Mr. Eaton 
a judge, those arguments which you consider adequate to 
justify yourself for the sentence which you have passed 
must likewise suffice in this suppositionary case to justify 
Mr. Eaton, in sentencing you to Newgate and the pillory 
for being a christian. Whence is any right derived but 



contrast between error and truth, 
and at the oloae of it exclaims, 
' Error skulks in holes and comers, 
letting I dare not wait upon I 
would, like the poor oat i* th* 
adage, but the eagle eye of truth 
darts through the ondazzling sun- 
beam of the immutable and just, 
gathering wherewith to vivify and 
illumine the uniyerse.'*' Mr. 
MacCarthy in ShelUy^t Early Life 
(p. 349) maintains two opposite 
views on the subject of this pas- 
sage, ^-one that, as the passage is 
neither in Queen Mob nor in the 
Shelley MemoriaU^ the whole Letter 
to Lord EUenborouyh does not t>xi8t 
in those two volumes, — the other 



that the passage may really ha%-e 
been quoted from the PropotaU 
for an A$8oeiation, where a passage 
almost identical is to be found (see 
p. 376 of this volume). This view 
is based on the supposition that 
the PropoioU was given by SheUey 
as a pattern to the printer of the 
Letter. It turns out that Mr. 
Barry's memory was pretty ac- 
cumte, and that SheUey reaUy did 
make use of this favourite quota- 
tion from Macbeth no less than 
four times. See note at p. 135 t*( 
Vol. IIL In the present case, 
SheUey added by way of fuot-noU) 
the word Shukttpeare, 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 411 

that which power confers for persecution ? Do you 
think to convert Mr. Eaton to your religion by embitter- 
ing his existence ? You might force him by torture to 
profess your tenets, but he coidd not believe them, except 
you should make them credible, which perhaps exceeds 
your power. Do you think to please the God you 
worship by this exhibition of your zeal ? If so, the 
Demon to whom some nations offer human hecatombs is 
less barbarous than the Deity of civilized society. 

You consider man as an accountable being— but he 
can only be accountable for those actions which are in- 
fluenced by his wilL 

Belief and disbelief are utterly distinct from and 
unconnected with volition. They are the apprehension 
of the agreement or disagreement of the ideas which 
compose any proposition. Belief is an involuntary 
operation of the mind,' and, like other passions, its 
intensity is precisely proportionate to the degrees of 
excitement. — ^Volition is essential to merit or demerit. 
How then can merit or demerit be attached to what is 
distinct from that faculty of the mind whose presence is 
essential to their being? I am aware that religion is 
founded on the voluntariness of belief, as it makes it a 
subject of reward and punishment ; but before we ex- 
tinguish the steady ray of reason and common sense, it 
is fit that we should discover, which we cannot do 
without their assistance, whether or no there be any other 
which may suffice to guide us through the labyrinth of 
life. 

1 See The Necessity of AtheUmt futation of Deisms pi^ 52 «nd 53 of 
p 306 of this volume, and A Jic- Vol. II. 



412 A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH* 

If the law 'de heretico comburendo' has not been 
formally repealed, I conceive that from the promise held 
out by your Lordship's zeal, we need not despair of 
beholding the flames of persecution rekindled in Smith- 
field. Even now the lash that drove Descartes and 
Voltaire from their native country, the chains which 
bound Galileo, the flames which bumed Vanini, again 
resound : — And where ? in a nation that presumptuously 
calls itself the sanctuary of freedom. Under a govern- 
ment which, whilst it infringes the very right of thought 
and speech, boasts of permitting the liberty of the press ; 
in a civilized and enlightened country,* a man is pilloried 
and imprisoned because he is a Deist, and no one raises 
his voice in the indignation of outraged humanity. Does 
the Christian God, whom his followers eulogize as the 
Deity of humility and peace ; he, the regenerator of the 
world, the meek reformer, authorize one man to rise 
against another, and because lictors are at his beck, to 
chain and torture him as an Infidel? 

When the Apostles went abroad to convert the nations, 
were they enjoined to stab and poison all who disbelieved 
the divinity of Christ's mission ; assuredly they would 
have been no more justifiable in this case, than he is at 
present who puts into execution the law which inflicts 
piUory and impriaonment on the Deist. 

Has not Mr. Eaton an equal right to call your Lord- 
ship an Infidel, as you have to imprison him for promul- 
gating a different doctrine from that which you profess ? 
— ^What do I say ! — Has he not even a stronger plea ? — 
The word Infdd can only mean any thing when applied 

Theso six words are omitted from the passage in Queen Mah, 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUOH. 413 

to a person who professes that which he disbelieves. The 
test of truth is an undivided reliance on its inclusive 
powers ; — the test of conscious falsehood is the variety of 
the forms under which it presents itself, and its tendency 
towards employing whatever coercive means may be 
within its command, in order to procure the admission of 
what is unsusceptible of support from reason or per- 
suasion. A dispassionate observer would feel himself 
more powerfully interested in favor of a man, who 
depending on the truth of his opinions, simply stated his 
reasons for entertaining them, than in that of his aggres- 
sor, who daringly avowing his unwillingness* to answer 
them by argument, proceeded to repress the activity and 
break the spirit of their promulgator, by that torture and 
imprisonment whose infliction he could command. 

I hesitate not to affirm that the opinions which Mr. 
Eaton sustained, when undergoing that mockery of a trial 
at which your Lordship presided, appear to me more true 
and good than those of his accuser ; — ^but were they false 
as the visions of a Calvinist, it still would be the duty of 
those who love liberty and virtue, to raise their voice 
indignantly against a reviving system of persecution, 
against the coercively repressing any opinion which, if 
false, needs but the opposition of truth ; which if true, in 
spite of force, must ultimately prevail. 

Mr. Eaton asserted that the scriptures were, from 
beginning to end, a fable and imposture,' that the Apostles 
were liars and deceivers. He denied the miracles, re- 

I In Qu€en Mah we read un- next line, entrytet instead of acii- 
toiUingnist or incapacity ^ and, in the vity. 

■ 

' See the Attorney General's Speech. [Suellev's Note.] 



414 A LETTKR TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 

siurection, and ascension of Jesus Christ. — He did so, 
and the Attorney General denied the propositions which 
he asserted, and asserted those which he denied. What 
singular conclusion is deducible from this fact ? None, 
but that the Attorney (General and Mr. Eaton sustained 
two opposite opinions. The Attorney General puts some 
obsolete and tyrannical laws in force against Mr. Eaton, 
because he publishes a book tending to prove that certain 
supernatural events, which are supposed to have taken 
place eighteen centuries ago, in a remote comer of the 
world, did not actually take place. But how are the 
truth or falsehood of the facts in dispute relevant to the 
merit or demerit attachable to the advocates of the two 
opinions ? No man is accountable for his belief, because 
no man is capable of directing it. Mr. Eaton is therefore 
totally blameless. What are we to think of the justice 
of a sentence, which punishes an individual against whom 
it is not even attempted to attach the slightest stain of 
criminality ? 

It is asserted that Mr. Eaton's opinions are calcu- 
lated to subvert morality — ^How ? What moral truth is 
spoken of with irreverence or ridicule in the book which 
he published ? Morality, or the duty of a man and a 
citizen, is founded on the relations which arise from the 
association of human beings, and which vary with the 
circumstances produced by the different states of this 
association. — This duty in similar situations must be pre- 
cisely the same in all ages and nations. — The opinion 
contrary to this has arisen from a supposition that the 
will of God is the source or criterion of morality : It is 
plain that the utmost exertion of Omnipotence could not 
cause that to be virtuous which actually is vicious. An 



A LETTER TO LOKP ELLENBOROUOH. 415 

all-powerful Demon might indubitably annex punish- 
ments to virtue and rewards to vice, but could not by 
these means effect the slightest change in their abstract 
and immutable natures. — Omnipotence coidd vary by a 
providential interposition the relations of human society ; 
— in this latter case, what before was virtuous would 
become vicious, according to the necessary and natural 
residt of the alteration ; but the abstract natures of the 
opposite principles would have sustained not the slightest 
change ; for instance, the punishment with which society 
restrains the robber, the assassin, and the ravisher is just, 
laudable, and requisite. We admire and respect the in- 
stitutions which curb those who would defeat the ends for 
which society was established ; — ^but, should a precisely 
similar coercion be exercised against one who merely ex- 
pressed his disbelief of a system admitted by those 
entrusted with the executive power, using at the same 
time no methods of promulgation but those afforded by 
reason, certainly this coercion would be eminently in- 
human and immoral ; and the supposition that any 
revelation from an unknown power, avails to palliate a 
persecution so senseless, unprovoked, and indefensible, is 
at once to destroy the barrier which reason places between 
vice and virtue, and leave to unprincipled fanaticism a 
plea, whereby it may excuse every act of frenzy, which 
its own wild passions, not the inspirations of the Deity, 
have engendered. 

Moral qualities are such as only a human being can 
possess. To attribute them to the Spirit of the Universe, 
or to suppose that it is capable of altering them, is to de- 
grade God into man, and to annex to this incompre- 
hensible being, qualities incompatible with any possible 



416 A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 

■ 

definition of his nature. — It may here he ohjected — 
ought not the Creator to possess^ the perfections of the 
creature ? No. To attribute to God the moral qualities 
of man, is to suppose him susceptible of passions which, 
arising out of corporeal organization, it is plain that a 
pure spirit cannot possess. A bear is not perfect except 
he is rough, a tyger is not perfect if he be not voracious, 
an elephant is not perfect if otherwise than docile. How 
deep an argument must that not be which proves that the 
Deity is as rough as a bear, as voracious as a tyger, and 
as docile as an elephant ! But even suppose with the 
vulgar, that God is a venerable old man, seated on a 
throne of clouds, his breast the theatre of various passions, 
analogous to those of humanity, his will changeable and 
uncertain as that of an earthly king, — still goodness and 
justice are qualities seldom nominally denied him, and it 
will be admitted that he disapproves of any action incom- 
patible with these qualities. Persecution for opinion is 
unjust. With what consistency, then, can the worship- 
pers of a Deity whose benevolence they boast, embitter 
the existence of their fellow being, because his ideas of 
that Deity are different from those which they entertain. 
— ^Alas ! there is no consistency in those persecutors who 
worship a benevolent Deity ; those who worship a 
Demon would alone act consonantly to these principles* 
by imprisoning and torturing in his name. 

Persecution is the only name applicable to punishment 
inflicted on an individual in consequence of his opinions. — 
What end is persecution designed to answer? Can it 
convince him whom it injures ? Can it prove to the 
people the falsehood of his opinions ? It may make him 

> In the original jpro/eM. 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 



417 



a hypocrite and them cowards, but bad means can 
promote no good end. The unprejudiced mind looks 
with suspicion on a doctrine that needs the sustaining 
hand of power. 

Socrates was poisoned because he dared to combat the 
degrading superstitions in which his countrymen were 
educated. Not long after his death, Athens recognized 
the injustice of his sentence; his accuser Melitus was 
condemned, and Socrates became a demigod. 

Jesus Christ was crucified because he attempted .to 
supersede the ritual of Moses with regulations more 
moral and humane — ^his very judge made public 
acknowledgment of his innocence, but a bigotted and 
ignorant mob demanded the deed of horror. — Barrabbas 
the murderer and traitor was released. The meek 
reformer Jesus was immolated to the sanguinary Deity 
of the Jews. Time rolled on, time changed the situations, 
and with them, the opinions of men.* 



The vulgar, ever in extremes, became persuaded that 
the crucifixion of Jesus was a supernatural event, and 
testimonies of miracles, so frequent in unenlightened 
ages, were not wanting to prove that he was something 
divine. This belief rolling through the lapse of ages," 
acquired force and extent, until the divinity of Jesus 



1 This passage was wholly re- 
written in Queen Mab (Poetical 
Works, Vol. IV, pp. 607-8), and 
accompanied by the foot-note, 
" Since writing this note I have 
seen reason to suspect^ that Jesus 
was an ambitious man, who aspired 
to the throne of Judea." Mr. 
RoBsetti records on the authority 

PROSE. VOL. I. 



of Trelawny that Shelley wished 
to revoke this "ha^ty after- 
thought." See Mr. Bossetti's 1878 
edition of the Poetical Works, Vol. 
1, p. 149. 

* In QvLcen Mab Shelley here in- 
serted the words ^net with the 
reveries of Plato and the reasoninya 
of Aristoue, and . . . 

£E 



418 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 



became a dogma, which to dispute was death, which to 
doubt was infamy. 

Christianity is now the established religion ; he who 
attempts to disprove* it must behold murderers and 
traitors take precedence of him in public opinion, tho', if 
his genius be equal to his courage, and assisted by a 
peculiar coalition of circumstances, future ages may 
exalt him to a divinity, and persecute others in his 
name, as he was persecuted in the name of his predecessor, 
in the homage of the world. 



The same means that have supported every other 
popular belief have supported Christianity. War, im- 
prisonment, murder," and falsehood ; deeds of unexampled 
and incomparable atrocity have made it what it is.' 
We derive from our ancestors a belief* thus fostered and 
supported. — ^We quarrel, persecute, and hate for its 
maintenance. — ^Does not analogy favour* the opinion, 
that as like other systems it has arisen and augmented, so 
like them it will decay and perish ; that as violence and 
falsehood,' not reasoning and persuasion, have procured 
its admission among mankind ; so, when enthusiasm has 
subsided, and time, that infallible controverter of false 
opinions, has involved its pretended evidences in the 
darkness of antiquity, it will become obsolete,^ and 
that men will then laugh as heartily at grace, faith. 



1 In Qaeen Mah we read, impugn 
Uy must he contented to behold, 

' In Queen Moby astasiincUion. 

' Three very trenchant lines are 
here interpolated in Qiu'«n3fa6. See 
Poetical Works, VoL IV, p. 608. 

* In Queen Mah, faiih, 

' Analogy aunu tofavour^ in Queen 
Mat. 



* In Queen Mob we read violent 
darhne^^ deceit 

^ In Queen Mah we find here the 
germ of that fine utterance on 
Milton in the Defence of Poetrg. 
The interpolation here is Huu 
MUton^i poem alone wU give 
maneney to the rememhrance o^ 
aheurdUiee, 




Ui 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUOH. 419 

redemption, and original sin, as they now do at the 
metamorphoses of Jupiter, the miracles of Romish Saints, 
the efficacy of witchcraft, and the appearance of departed 
spirits. 

Had the christian religion commenced and continued 
by the mere force of reasoning and persuasion, by its self- 
evident excellence and fitness,* the preceding analogy 
would be inadmissible. We should never speculate upon 
the future obsoleteness of a system perfectly conformable 
to nature and reason. It would endure as long as they 
endured, it would be a truth as indisputable as the light 
of the sun, the criminality of murder, and other facts, 
physical and moral, which, depending' on our organiza- 
tion, and relative situations, must remain acknowledged 
so long as man is man. — It is an incontrovertible fact, 
the consideration of which ought to repress the hasty 
conclusions of credulity, or moderate its obstinacy in main- 
taining them, that had the Jews not been a barbarous and' 
fanatical race of men, had even the resolution of Pontius 
Pilate been equal to his candour, the christian religion 
never could have prevailed, it could not even have 
existed. Man! the very existence of whose most 
cherished opinions depends from a thread so feeble, arises 
out of a source so equivocal, learn at least humility ; own 
at least that it is possible for thyself also to have been 
seduced by education and circumstance into the admission 
of tenets destitute of rational proof, and the truth of 
which has not yet been satisfactorily demonstrated. 
Acknowledge at least that the falshood of thy brother's 
opinions is no sufficient reason for his meriting thy 

■ This phrase is not in Queen wkow evidence^ deptnding 

i/ci6. ' The words barharuua and, are 

' In Queen Mob we read, facU, omitted in Queeti Hub. 



420 A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 

hatred. — ^What ! because a fellow being disputes the 
reasonableness of thy faith, wilt thou punish him with 
torture and imprisonment ? If persecution for religious 
opinions were admitted by the moralist, how wide a door 
would not be opened by which convulsionists of every 
kind might make inroads on the peace of society ! How 
many deeds of barbarism and blood would not receive a 
sanction ! — But I will demand, if that man is not 
rather entitled to the respect than the discountenance of 
society, who, by disputing a received doctrine, either 
proves its falshood and inutility, thereby aiming at the 
abolition of what is false and useless, or giving to its 
adherents an opportunity of establishing its excellence 
and truth. — Surely this can be no crime. Surely the 
individual who devotes his time to fearless and unre- 
stricted inquiry into the grand questions arising out of 
our moral nature, ought rather to receive the patronage, 
than encounter the vengeance, of an enlightened legisla- 
ture. I would have you to know, my Lord, that fetters 
of iron cannot bind or subdue the soul of virtue. From 
the damps and solitude of its dungeon it ascends free and 
undaunted, whither thine, from the pompous seat of 
judgment, d£ure not soar. I do not warn you to beware 
lest your profession as a Christian, should make you 
forget that you are a man ; — but I warn you against fes- 
tinating that period, which, under the present coercive 
system, is too rapidly maturing, when the seats of justice 
shall be the seats of venality and slavishness, and the 
cells of Newgate become the abode of all that is 
honorable and true. 

I mean not to compare Mr. Eaton with Socrates or 
Jesus ; he is a man of blameless and respectable cba- 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 421 

racter, he is a citizen unimpeaclied with crime; if, 
therefore, his rights as a citizen and a man have been 
infringed, they have been infringed by illegal and immoral 
violence. But I will assert that should a second Jesus 
aidse among men ; should such a one as Socrates again 
enlighten the earth, lengthened imprisonment and in- 
famous punishment (according to the regimen of per- 
secution revived by your Lordship) would effect, what 
hemlock and the cross have heretofore effected, and the 
stain on the national character, like that on Athens and 
Judea, would remain indelible, but by the destruction of 
the history in which it is recorded. When the Christian 
Beligion shall have faded from the earth, when its 
memory like that of Polytheism now shall remain^ but 
remain only as the subject of ridicule and wonder, 
indignant posterity would attach immortal infamy to 
such an outrage ; like the murder of Socrates, it would 
secure the execration of every age. 

The horrible and wide wasting enormities which gleam 
like comets thro' the darkness of gothic and superstitious 
ages, are regarded by the moralist as no more than the 
necessary effects of known causes: but when an en- 
lightened age and nation signcdizes itself by a deed, 
becoming none but barbarians and fanatics, Philosophy 
itself is even induced to doubt whether human nature 
will ever emerge from the pettishness and imbecility of 
its childhood. The system of persecution at whose new 
birth, you, my Lord, are one of the presiding midwives, is 
not more impotent and wicked than inconsistent. The 
press is loaded with what are called (ironically I should 
conceive) proofs of the Christian Eeligion : these books 
are replete with invective and calumny against Infidels, 



422 A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH. 

they presuppose that he who rejects Christianity must be 
utterly divested of reason and feeling. They advance 
the most unsupported assertions and take as first prin- 
ciples the most revolting dogmas. The inferences drawn 
from these assumed premises are imposingly logical and 
correct; but if a foundation is weak, no architect is 
needed to foretell the instability of the superstructure. — 
If the truth of Christianity is not disputable, for what 
purpose are these books written ? If they are sufiScient 
to prove it, what further need of controversy ? If Ood has 
spoken, why is not the universe convinced /* If the Chris- 
tian Keligion needs deeper learning, more painful inves- 
tigation, to establish its genuineness, wherefore attempt 
to accomplish that by force, which the human mind can 
alone effect with satisfaction to itself? If, lastly, its 
truth cannot be demonstrated, whereiore impotently at- 
tempt to snatdi from Grod the government of his creation, 
and impiously assert that the Spirit of Benevolence has 
left that knowledge most essential to the well being of 
man, the only one which, since its promulgation, has 
been the subject of unceasing cavil, the cause of irre- 
concileable hatred ? — Either the Christian Religion is 
true, or it is not. If true, it comes from God, and its 
authenticity can admit of doubt and dispute no further 
than its Omnipotent Author is willing to allow; — if true, 
it admits of rational proof, and is capable of being placed 
equally beyond controversy, as the principles which have 
been established concerning matter and mind, by Locke 
and Newton ; and in proportion to the usefulness of tl)e 
fact in dispute, so must it be supposed that a benevolent 
being is anxious to procure the diffusion of its knowledge 

1 The surroundings of this fa- al>eiei1 in Qoeen Mob. See Poeti- 
vourite text are considerably cal ^S urks, Vol. IV, p. 510. 



A LETTER TO LORD ELLEXBOROUGH. 4s28 

on the earth. — If false, surely no enlightened legislature 
would punish the reasoner, who opposes a system so 
much the more fatal and pernicious as it is extensively 
admitted; so much the more productive of absurd and 
ruinous consequences, as it is entwined by education, 
with the prejudices and affections of the human heart, in 
the shape of a popular belief. 

Let us suppose that some half-witted philosopher 
shoidd assert that the earth was the centre of the uni- 
verse, or that ideas could enter the human mind inde- 
pendently of sensation or reflection. This man would 
assert what is demonstrably incorrect ; — he would pro- 
mulgate a false opinion. Yet would he therefore deserve 
pillory and imprisonment ? By no means ; probably 
few would discharge more correctly the duties of a citizen 
and a man. I admit that the case above stated is not 
precisely in point. The thinking part of the community 
has not received as indisputable the truth of Christianity 
as they have that of the Newtonian system. A very 
large portion of society, and that powerfully and ex- 
tensively connected, derives its sole emolument from the 
belief of Christianity, as a popular faith. 

To torture and imprison the asserter of a dogma, how- 
ever ridiculous and false, is highly barbarous and im- 
politic : — How then, does not the cruelty of persecution 
become aggravated when it is directed against the opposer 
of an opinion yet under dispute, and which men of un- 
rivalled acquirements, penetrating genius, and stainless 
virtue, have spent, and at last sacrificed, their lives in 
combating. 

The time is rapidly approaching, I hope, that you, my 



424 A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGIL 

Lord, may live to behold its arrival, when the Mahometan, 
the Jew, the Christian, the Deist, and the Atheist, will 
live together in one community, equally sharing the 
benefits which arise from its association, and united in 
the bonds of charity and brotherly love. — ^My Lord, you 
have condemned an innocent man — no crime was imputed 
to him-^nd you sentenced him to torture and impriaou- 
ment. I have not addressed this letter to you with the 
hopes of convincing you that you have acted wrong. 
The most unprincipled and barbarous of men are not 
unprepared with sophisms, to prove that they would 
have acted in no other manner, and to shew that vice is 
virtue. But I raise my solitary voice, to express my dis- 
approbation, so far as it goes, of the cruel and unjust 
sentence you passed upon Mr. Eaton ; to assert, so far as 
I am capable of influencing, those rights of humanity, 
which you have wantonly and unlawfully infringed. 

My Lord, 

Yours, &c. 



END OF VOL. L 



^i 




i