COUNT MADDALO is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unassuming, than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much, and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries. Julian is an Englishman of good family; passonately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may yet be susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world, he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious. Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart. The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, I RODE one evening with Count Maddalo Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, The waste, but one dwarf tree, and some few stakes A narrow space of level sand thereon,— Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Into our hearts aërial merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought, As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish :-'twas forlorn, Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight 1 N name of exiles, Italy, v nutans, seas, and vineyards, and the towers tmnes der encircle —It was ours sand n thee, beholding it: and then, st where we had dismounted, the Count's men Vere waing for us with the gondola. As those vio pause on some delightful way, uga bent on sant pilgrimage, we stood These mountains towering, as from waves of flame. "Ere it fade," Said my companion, “I will show you soon So, o'er the lagune We glided; and from that funereal bark Like fabrics of enchantment piled to heaven. “We are even I looked, and saw between us and the sun We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue : "What we behold Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,"- Those who may cross the water hear that bell, "As much skill as need to pray In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they "Oho! You talk as in years past," said Maddalo. 66 "'Tis strange men change not. You were ever still Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, A wolf for the meek lambs. If you can't swim, Our memory from itself, and us from all I recall The sense of what he said, although I mar And the red tower looked grey; and, all between, The following morn was rainy, cold, and dim. A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being; With eyes-oh speak not of her eyes! which seem But in the human countenance. With me She was a special favourite: I had nursed To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know On second sight her ancient playfellow, Less changed than she was by six months or so. We sate there, rolling billiard balls about,— Salutations passed: "The words you spoke last night might well have cast A darkness on my spirit. If man be The passive thing you say, I should not see Much harm in the religions and old saws (Though I may never own such leaden laws) Which break a teachless nature to the yoke : Mine is another faith."-Thus much I spoke, And, noting he replied not, added-" See This lovely child; blithe, innocent, and free: She spends a happy time, with little care; While we to such sick thoughts subjected are As came on you last night. It is our will Which thus enchains us to permitted ill. We might be otherwise; we might be all We dream of, happy, high, majestical. Where is the beauty, love, and truth, we seek, But in our minds? And, if we were not weak, Should we be less in deed than in desire ?" "Ay, if we were not weak,-and we aspire, How vainly! to be strong," said Maddalo : You talk Utopia.” "It remains to know,' How strong the chains are which our spirit bind : That we have power over ourselves to do "My dear friend," Said Maddalo, "my judgment will not bend |