The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 535, February 25, 1832

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

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

The Boy.—Ah! there is a man standing up.

Borgia (turning the lantern which the child holds towards Concini.)—Concini!

Concini.—Borgia! (Each raises his dagger, and seizes with the left arm the right of his enemy. They remain motionless, and gazing at each other. The children escape into the street and disappear.)

Concini.—Let go my arm, and I will liberate yours.

Borgia.—What shall be my security?

Concini.—Those children whom you have with you.

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

Concini.—Have done—let go—let us fight!

Borgia (pushing him from him.)—Back, then, and draw your sword.

Concini (draws.)—Begin.

Borgia.—Remove those children—they would be in our way.

Concini.—They are gone.

Borgia.—Take these letters, assassin! I had promised to restore them to you. (He hands to Concini a black portfolio.)

Concini.—I would have taken them from your body.

Borgia.—I have performed my promise—and now, ravisher! look to yourself.

Concini.—Base seducer, defend thyself.

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

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

Borgia.—Agree that the first who is wounded shall inform the other.

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

Borgia.—No, only to begin again with more spirit.

Concini—To continue till we can lift the sword no longer.

Borgia.—Till the death of one or other of us.

Concini—I see you not. Are you in front of me?

Borgia.—Yes, wretch! Parry that thrust. Has it sped?

Concini.—No; take that in return.

Borgia.—I am untouched.

Concini.—What, still? Oh! would I could but see thy hateful visage. (They continue to fight desperately, but without touching each other. Both rest for a little.)

Borgia.—Have you a cuirass on, Concini?

Concini.—I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber.

Borgia.—Liar! (He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are locked for a moment, and both are wounded.)

Concini.—I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?

Borgia, (leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his breast with, his handkerchief.) No, let us begin again. There!

Concini (binding his scarf round his thigh.)—One moment and I am with you. (He staggers against the pillar.)

Borgia, (sinking on his knees.)—Are you not wounded yourself?

Concini.—No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.

Borgia (endeavouring to rise, but unable.)—I have struck my foot against a stone—wait an instant.

Concini (with delight.)—Ah! you are wounded!

Borgia.—No, I tell you—'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.

Concini, (feeling his sword.)—My blade smells of blood.

Borgia.—Mine is dabbled in it.

Concini.—Come then, if you are not *—come and finish me.

Borgia, (with triumph.)—Finish! then you are wounded.

Concini, (with a voice of despair.)—Were I not, would I not have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as severely handled.

Borgia—It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.

Concini.—Shall we now have done?

Borgia, (enraged.)—Both wounded—yet both living!

Concini.—What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.

Borgia.—O! were I but beside thee! Enter Vitry, followed by the Guards walking slowly. He holds the young Count de la Pene by the hand; the boy leads his sister.

Vitry, (a pistol in his hand.)—Well, my child, which is your father?

Count de la Pene.—Oh! protect him, sir,—that is he leaning against the pillar.

Vitry, (aloud.)—Draw tip—remain at that gate—Guards! (The Guards advance with lanterns and flambeaux.) Sir, I arrest you—your sword.

Concini, (thrusting at him.)—Take it. (Vitry fires his pistol—Du Hallier, D'Ornano, and Person fire at the same time—Concini falls dead.)

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

THE MARTYR-STUDENT

I am sick of the bird,And its carol of glee;It brings the voices heardIn boyhood back to me:Our old village hall,Our church upon the hill,And the mossy gates—allMy darken'd eyes fill.No more gladly leapingWith the choir I go,My spirit is weepingO'er her silver bow:From the golden quiverThe arrows are gone,The wind from Death's riverSounds in it alone!I sit alone and thinkIn the silent room.I look up, and I shrinkFrom the glimmering gloom.O, that the little oneWere here with her shout!—O, that my sister's armMy neck were roundabout!I cannot read a book,My eyes are dim and weak;To every chair I look—There is not one to speak!Could I but sit once moreUpon that well-known chair,By my mother, as of yore,Her hand upon my hair!My father's eyes seeking,In trembling hope to traceIf the south wind had been breakingThe shadows from my face;—How sweet to die awayBeside our mother's hearth,Amid the balmy lightThat shone upon our birth!A wild and burning boy,I climb the mountain's crest,The garland of my joyDid leap upon my breast;A spirit walk'd before meAlong the stormy night,The clouds melted o'er me,The shadows turn'd to light.Among my matted locksThe death-wind is blowing;I hear, like a mighty rush of plumes,The Sea of Darkness flowing!Upon the summer airTwo wings are spreading wide;A shadow, like a pyramid,Is sitting by my side!My mind was like a pageOf gold-wrought story,Where the rapt eye might gazeOn the tale of glory;But the rich painted wordsAre waxing faint and old,The leaves have lost their light,The letters their gold!And memory glimmersOn the pages I unrol,Like the dim light creepingInto an antique scroll.When the scribe is searchingThe writing pale and damp,At midnight, and the flameIs dying in the lamp.Fraser's Magazine

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

THE ITALIAN REPUBLICS

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

We quote a few sketchy extracts.

Last Struggle of Rome for Liberty

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

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

General Mildness of Italian Warfare

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

Battle of Marignano

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

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

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

CHILD'S ARITHMETICAL TABLES

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

THE GEORGIAN ERA

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

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

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

George the Fourth

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

"He scarcely ever forgot an injury, an affront, or a marked opposition to his personal wishes. The cordiality which had previously subsisted between his majesty and Prince Leopold, entirely ceased, when the latter volunteered a visit to Queen Caroline on her return to this country, in 1820: Brougham and Dentrum, for the zeal with which they had advocated the cause of their royal client, were, during a long period, deemed unworthy of those legal honours to which their high talents and long standing at the bar, justly entitled them: and Sir Robert Wilson was arbitrarily dismissed from the service, for his interference at her majesty's funeral. On account of his unpopular reception, by the mob, when he accompanied the allied sovereigns to Guildhall, in 1814, he never afterwards honoured the city with his presence; and when Rossini rudely declined the repetition of a piece of music, in which the king had taken a conspicuous part, at a court concert, his majesty turned his back on the composer, to whose works, from that moment, he displayed the most unequivocal dislike. But, on the other hand, some cases have been recorded, in which his conduct was unquestionably tolerant and forgiving. He allowed Canning, an avowed supporter of the queen, to retain office, without taking any part in the ministerial proceedings against her majesty; and at the last stage of his earthly career, sent the Duke of Sussex, with whom he had long been at variance, his own ribbon of the order of St. Patrick, with an assurance of his most sincere affection. Erskine, while attorney-general to the prince, had so offended his royal highness, by accepting a retainer from Paine, on a prosecution being instituted against the latter for publishing the Rights of Man, that his immediate resignation was required. But, sometime afterwards, Erskine was desired to attend at Carlton house, where the prince received him with great cordiality, and, after avowing his conviction that, 'in the instance that had separated them, his learned and eloquent friend had acted from the purest motives, he wished to give publicity to his present opinion on the subject, by appointing Mr. Erskine his chancellor.' On one occasion, at the opening of a session of parliament by George the Third in person, his royal highness, who was then very much in debt, having gone down to the house of lords in a superb military uniform with diamond epaulettes, Major Doyle subsequently remarked to him, that his equipage had been much noticed by the mob. 'One fellow,' added the major, 'prodigiously admired, what he termed 'the fine things which the prince had upon his shoulders.' 'Mighty fine, indeed,' replied another; 'but, mind me, they'll soon be upon our shoulders, for all that.' 'Ah, you rogue!' exclaimed the prince, laughing, 'that's a hit of your own, I am convinced:—but, come, take some wine.'

"He had some inclination for scientific pursuits, and highly respected those who were eminent for mechanical inventions. He contributed largely towards the erection of a monument to the memory of Watt. Of his medical information, slight as it undoubtedly was, he is said to have been particularly proud. Carpue had demonstrated to him the general anatomy of the human body, in his younger days; and for a number of years, the ingenious Weiss submitted to his inspection all the new surgical instruments, in one of which the king suggested some valuable improvements.

"His talents were, undoubtedly, above the level of mediocrity: they have, however, been greatly overrated, on the supposition that several powerfully written documents, put forth under his name, but composed by some of his more highly-gifted friends, were his own productions. His style was, in fact, much beneath his station: it was inelegant, destitute of force, and even occasionally incorrect. He read his speeches well, but not excellently: he possessed no eloquence, although, as a convivial orator, he is said to have been rather successful.