distinguish him from the vulgar dead? why is it that, instead of roses being reared upon his grave, the peasant's beast of burden tramples the few wild flowers with which nature had adorned it? Hence we shall see that there be those who affirm it is virtue to incite one part of the human race to plunge the steel into the bosoms of the other part ;-virtue, to persecute the innocent because weak-to make a crime of his weakness, and a profit of his innocence, and to injure and insult him ;-virtue, the greedy rapines, the terrible conflagrations, the shameless outrage; virtue, to see the cultivator, expelled by the soldier, flying with his children, some in his arms, some led by the hand, and his wife supporting her daughter, their pride in the smiling days of peace, (for the pride of mothers is in their fair offspring ;) now she implores death for the contaminated one from the mercy of the Lord, and curses her maternity. Miserable father of that family! his way is to the mountains those broken rocks promise him nothing but the labour of surmounting them; there he will find an asylum, because no booty is to be obtained there. Half way up the ascent, he turns to behold the dwelling dear to him from so many memories of love; dear, even by the memories of sorrow. Alas! he sees no longer a habitation. Bitter tears gush from his eyes, he groans deeply; but his tears and groans are not for his property in ashes, not for his ruined harvest, nor for his humble wealth gathered by long toils, and now destroyed in one short hour; he mourns for the air that he breathed in his infancy; he mourns for the spot where his beloved maiden, crimsoned with a modest blush, confessed to him that he did not love in vain; for the spot where he was first greeted with the name of father. He mourns for the ashes of his forefathers: his terror-stricken soul, glancing over future events, does not affright him with the bitterness of begging his bread from the stranger who will deny him, and will add to the refusal the biting word of a heart which seeks in vice a pretext for not being touched by misery; it scares him only with the image of his lisping grandchildren, who will say to him, "Lead us to where thy father sleeps ;" and what can he reply to them? "I have deserted the place." The reproach of his want of love rends his heart. Can he complain if those children abandon him while living? has he not abandoned his father, dead? and dead or living, is a father's head less sacred? He turns and hurries on; lifting his eyes to the summit of the mountain, panting to shelter behind a rock out of sight, and beyond the thought of so much misery. If all this be not virtue, why do those who hold the power of bestowing fame invest it with the light of song, or transmit it to posterity with the memorials of history? why is it that we see in your chambers, on your ornaments, on your bosoms, only the image of the last conqueror? Oh! men have become cowards,

since they have made an idol of power; or else, and perhaps this is the truth, they have never known what virtue is.

Manfred! I know not if he was virtuous, but he was great. Deprived, through his father's fault, of inheriting power, his whole study was to achieve it. He destroyed his enemies, at first by fraud, and then by victory; after degrading them with gold, he slew them with steel. Trusting in the destinies which led him by the hand, he dominated over fortune, and controlled events. Not satisfied with the crown of Naples, he looked over Italy; he saw it divided, and designed to re-unite it under his own sceptre. Penetrating into the secrets of ages, he perceived that Italy would be the prey of strangers, and wished to prevent it; nor, since the days when Alaric came to ravage that beautiful region, has any one seemed so peculiarly chosen by heaven as himself for that mighty enterprise. In him there was wisdom of counsel, valour of arm, a marvellous art of conciliating affections, and a temperate mildness unknown to his proud progenitors. Rome decayed in its power; the Italians confiding in him (or at least not jealous of him, since he was a native prince, and dissevered from the German interests); Tuscany, Ghibelline, guided by the counsels of Farinata; Lombardy, in great measure devoted to his name by the adhesion of Pelavicino and Duero, and by the arms of Giovanni Lancia ;* he was fitted to the times, and the times to him. Perhaps it is likely that he would have ruled with an absolute sway; perhaps, elevated by success, with tyranny; but the point was to re-unite it. When oppression is confined to one single person, one single blow suffices to destroy it; and if every era does not produce a sage, it produces at least many ferocious men.

Alone, within a vast apartment adorned by the portraits of his forefathers, lay Manfred on a couch, in the Saracen style, concealing his face in the cushions; were it not that he raised himself a little from time to time to take breath, he would have seemed to be sleeping.

We cannot tell his thoughts, but they must have been of that kind which disturb even the pillow of repose. He rose impetuously, and advanced a few paces, stood still, laid his right hand on the table, and rested his weight on his left leg, over which he crossed his right, striking the pavement with the point of his foot. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his lip quivering, and the blood flushing in his face, ebbing and flowing like the waves of the sea, for now it was crimsoned, now it was pale. He turned as if startled, gazed into those parts of the saloon which the silver lamp on the table scantily illuminated, and seemed about to depart. Then collecting his courage, he stood still,-stepped back,

* Manfred's mother was of the noble family of Lancia.-TRANSLATOR,

-sprang forward as in desperation, and felt, with tremulous hands, for the cause of his alarm. It seemed as though the feeble light changed, to his excited imagination, the objects around him into images which he could not bear. He resolved to extinguish the lamp, took it in his hand, and raised it to his mouth ready to blow out the flame. At that moment his eye, glancing round, discerned some object at which Manfred shuddered. He held the lamp towards the wall; there was a sword hanging on it: he sighed, raised again the lamp to his lips, and again glanced through the apartment, turning round his head at every part; then, with a strong effort, he emitted the repressed breath, and all was dark, and an irregular, frequent, and hurried step was heard through the darkness.

A

We know not if it be the same in other countries, but in Italy it happens frequently that the bad weather remits, day by day, at particular hours, till, having passed over its destined space, it ceases entirely. And now, as on the evening before, the distant thunder began to be heard, and the increasing lightning to be discovered. "The hour is at hand," muttered Manfred. violent storm arose the edifice felt the full power of the whirlwind; it shook, and seemed ready to fall; whistling sounds were heard through the chambers, combined with the clapping of doors and windows. The hail rattled against the panes as if it would break them to pieces, and dash them out of their frames. Santa Maria! it seemed like the last day. Why did Manfred pace through his apartment with unsteady steps? did he fear that this convulsion was a war which nature had declared against him? The tempest grew worse; he made the sign of the cross on his breast, and timidly raised his head; there was a flash: Manfred's eyes were unwittingly fixed on the picture of his father Frederic;* that red light seemed to animate it with a ray of life, and the portrait seemed to roll its eyes, gleaming through blood, and to move its lips for burning words. Woe to Manfred, if that sight had lasted longer than the flash; his brain would have burst, his heart would have rent. The darkness hid the cause of his terror; a long and loud peal of thunder rolled around, and during its roar Manfred exclaimed, "The hour is past!"

Unable to support himself, ready to fall, and reeling like the drunkard, he sought for his couch, and dropped upon it. His right hand happened to touch his regal crown; he drew it hastily back, as if he had touched a burning brand, and such must in truth have been the sensation he suffered, for he said, "It

Guelph historians accuse Manfred of the deaths of his father and his brother Conrad, the former by strangling in his sleep, and the latter by poison, in order to obtain the crown of Naples and Sicily; but Ghibelline writers refute the charge as a calumny.

scorches." Then, like a man weary and panting on the acclivity of a mountain, he respired a profound and frequent breath from the depths of his chest, and a cold dew rained down from his forehead.

For the solace of the afflicted one, an exquisitely sweet prelude on the lute now swelled, now died away on the fitful wind, delighting his ears with its strain, yet his mind marked it not, as though oppressed with some terrible sensation; but when a melodious and deeply plaintive voice accompanied the lute, a voice that, with the rapidity of lightning, sought, stimulated, woke all of sweet memories and tender affections stored in the heart of Manfred, he slowly drooped his head between his hands, and wept; true, his tears were such as furrow the cheeks down which they trickle, such as seem like drops of oil shed on red-hot iron; but he wept. Thinking that nothing could be better adapted to calm him than to hear close at hand the voice which had so soothed him from a distance, he rose up, and went in quest of the music.

The Queen Helena had dismissed her ladies, and retired to a remote chamber with her children, Iole and Manfredino: there they had prayed together for pardon and peace. Just as their prayer was ended the storm broke forth. Helena dissembled, as best she might, the sinister augury; and speaking cheerfully, and smiling, gave courage to Iole, who was clasping her round the neck, and to Manfredino, who, seated on a low stool at her feet, had taken her hand and pressed it upon his eyes, that he should not see the lightning.

"Courage, my children," said the Queen. "Is this the first storm you have ever witnessed? Is fear worthy of the offspring of a king?"

"Ought not kings to tremble before God, my mother?" replied Iole.

"They ought, but it would be too disheartening, my daughter, to attribute every tempest to divine wrath."

"Did you not observe, mother, that we had hardly uttered the last words of our prayer, when the first thunder-clap burst forth?"

"I did not observe it, for I was absorbed in the thought of heaven."

"It appears to me," Iole replied, lowering her voice and laying her lips to her mother's ear-" it appears to me that heaven has abandoned us."

"My child," said Helena, tenderly rebuking her, "even the saints have not been able to penetrate the secrets of the Eternal. If the prophets have known them, it was because he especially revealed them to them, not otherwise. Profit by this tribulation which the Lord hath sent thee. He designs to try us, and the

tried are of the number of the elect. Remember, my love, St. Ambrose of Milan,* who being at Malmantili, questioned his host of his condition; and the latter answered him, I am rich and in good health; I have a fair wife and a large family; I am honoured, and respected, and caressed by all people; I never knew what misfortune or sorrow was; but have ever lived, and still do live, happy and contented.' St. Ambrose ordered his servants to saddle the horses again, saying, 'God is not in this place, nor with this man, for He has granted him too much ease and facility. Remember, Iole, what David says: 'Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.' But let us divert our thoughts from melancholy subjects. The angels have taught harmony to mortals to refresh them from their sorrows." And thus speaking, she withdrew the hand that Manfredino held, and lightly tapped him on the cheek. "Go, Manfredino, bring me the lute that you sce on

that table."

The child raised his eyes, and looked timidly at her.

"Go, Manfredino," persisted the royal Helena; "are you afraid?"

The boy went with a bold step to the table, where lay various instruments of music; he took the lute, and delivering it to the Queen, said, "Here is the lute, Mamma."

"Thanks, my son."

"What! are thanks returned for such things, Mamma?"

Why not? if to obey me is an obligation on you, it is courtesy in me to thank you for it."

66 Then, since you are so courteous, you will do me a favour." "What favour?"

"Tell me, first, will you grant it?"

"What! has Helena ever denied to her children, when they made a proper request?"

"Then what you grant me is, that you will play the ballad of Lucia, and Iole will sing it. That ballad of Lucia is so pretty that when I hear it the tears come into my eyes. Why is it, Mamma, that it makes me weep ?""

The Queen ran with skilful finger over the strings of the lute, and drew forth sweet notes, in order to avoid replying, but she could not help murmuring, "Alas! sorrow has become the heritage of Manfred's house; affliction is loved by even those who know not what it is; the soul anticipates the sufferings of the future "— and continuing to prelude, she added, “Iole, my child, sing the ballad of the Virgin Lucia."

"Oh, mother! how can I? my voice is choked—”

* See Passavanti, " Mirror of True Penitence."

+ Psalm xxxiv., 19.