[1]Resaca de la Palma—the Swamp of Palms.Resacahas no equivalent in English. Literally speaking, it is a place on which the tide ebbs and flows.
[1]
Resaca de la Palma—the Swamp of Palms.Resacahas no equivalent in English. Literally speaking, it is a place on which the tide ebbs and flows.
AN ESSAY
ON AMERICAN LITERATURE AND ITS PROSPECTS.
———
BY MRS. M. A. FORD.
———
A nationalliterature, purely our own, must rise superior to an imitation of that fostered by the institutions of the old world, and of course sustaining them. The principles of liberty and independence, which govern our country, are united in our national motto, with that which only can give them permanency, Virtue. Loose this bond of union, and the beautiful fabric of our institutions falls forever. To sustain virtue in her proud position, should then be the principal aim of republican literature. It is this alone which will preserve us from the disastrous fate of former republics, beginning, like our own, with a dawn of prosperity most auspicious, but whose fall, when at the very noon of fame and power, startled and disappointed a world.
Most of the writers and philosophers of ancient times, who defended virtue, wrote, regardless of the vengeance of those corrupt and luxurious governments under which they lived.
Thus was their testimony rendered more dear to succeeding generations, from the sacrifice of selfish interest with which it was given.
That genius which is called into action by the desire of fame only, must be interested; that stimulated by gain alone must be mercenary. Happily there is not enough of these encouragements in our new country to induce the many to leave the walks of busy life, or the more healthful though rugged paths of labor, from motives so liable to disappointment. Few can afford to devote a life to literature, and many of our brightest gems in poetry and prose are the offspring of minds, whose influence is more powerfully felt in the great action of our nation’s progress, or the refining process of their own good example on the morals of society. Others just peep out from the veil of their cherished domestic duties, to throw a simple flower into the world’s path. If lost, or unheeded, it causes no aching of the heart.
The great system of general education, now disseminating its light throughout our land, will place knowledge a welcome guest at every cottage hearth, and national intelligence will form the firm basis of our national literature. The labor of intense thought will not fall too heavily on the few. From the shade of every valley, from the height of every hill, genius will spring forth. The friction of cheerful and healthful labor, will light the spark, which virtuous emulation will fan to a flame.
From the freedom and happiness enjoyed, must necessarily arise a grateful sense of these blessings, a warm expression of that sense, and an anxiety to perpetuate those blessings. With genius and education, these feelings will find a vent in the flowing numbers of song, or the more perspicuous paragraphs of prose.
In both the old and new world, the present is a golden age of literature, rich in its array of brilliant talents and gifted minds. Some of these are glorious as the day-star, and like it, the harbingers of increasing light. Minds that from their own fullness impart knowledge and feelings, whose gushings are like those of the mountain stream, pure even when impetuous.
Others are like the meteor, brilliant, startling; their path a track of fire, but under that bright deception, like that wandering light are only a combination of unwholesome exhalations. Under their false glare, the clouds of vice are tinged with beauty, and the guilt of crime seems but the trace of romantic catastrophe.
That literature alone is valuable, which leaves an impression of increased knowledge, and improved moral sentiments, of chastened feeling and benign impulses, of virtuous resolutions and high aspirations. By these, man is prepared to fill the high station for which the Creator designed him. To partake of the joys of life without selfishness, to meet its sorrows with fortitude, to practice its virtues with firmness, to avoid its errors by resolution, and to dispense its charities with the feeling of brother toward brother. Under a free government, the arts and intrigue of the courtier would be useless and disgraceful appendages to the accomplishments that ornament life. Unsullied honor is based on truth and generous feeling, and the blessings enjoyed by freemen will teach them not to treat lightly the privileges of others. As the principles they profess are so different from those maintained by the policy of monarchical courts, the expression of them must also differ, and our country can proudly point to those, whose writings on these subjects may justly be considered standards for future efforts.
Constellations are already forming in our literary skies; some stars shining out in bold relief, like those glowing in the belt of Orion, or sparkling in the eye of Aldebaren. Some stretch across the northern sky, separate and grand as those in the Ursa major, while others timidly shrink from their own simplicity and beauty, like the meek twinkling of Pleiads. But all have their peculiar influence.
History, with its crowding events and exciting struggles, has already employed many gifted pens in our land. That of Bancroft, with his strong resources and vivid style; of Prescott, with his fine arrangement and freshness, combined with his clear narrative and research, and others, whose talents a limited essay is obliged to pass without remark.
Ethics and philosophy have brought to their aid a strong array of brilliant minds; the peculiar lights of each have their admirers. Comparison might be consideredinvidious, and it is enough that their names and talents belong to their country.
In various sciences, the American mind has shown itself capable of deep investigation, and our writers on these subjects, by their clear elucidations, have shed light on much that was shadowed in doubt.
In medical learning many works have appeared, and some of them of high importance and value. The number must increase, for the varied climate and diseases of our country require it, and the young physician, just entering on the practice of his profession in some newly settled prairie, or border land of the northern lakes, will find an American author his best guide in the treatment of diseases that differ so much in their nature from those of Europe, as to be but lightly glanced at by the best medical writers of the old world.
Works on law are also increasing; some of them emanating from those whose eloquence has “held captive their hearers.” If they cannot always impart that charm which seems the peculiar privilege of the few, their lessons must be the surest guide to the American lawyer; for, though including the best portions of the English code, there are so many peculiarities appertaining to the different States of the Union, each a sovereignty in itself, that national works must offer the clearest elucidations of all difficult cases.
Descriptive and narrative literature is rich in its contributions. The graceful ease and elegant diction of Irving, his vivid imagination and touching feeling, and the charm which he throws around his subject, have gained him an enviable fame both at home and abroad.
In the peculiar walks of Indian life, and the lonely daring of pioneer character, the pen of Cooper moves like a spell, and when it dips in the sea-wave—like the stroke of the oar, bright droppings glisten on its rising.
We can but name a few of the many whose talents have adorned this portion of literature. The interesting delineations of Simms, whose patriotic feeling glows under a southern sky; the reminiscent charm of Kennedy; the graphic strength of Paulding; the lively portraiture of Mrs. Kirkland, and the graceful but feeling pictures of Miss Sedgwick, recur to our memory.
These have all written on American subjects, and many more of equal merit might be added, if space allowed.
In poetry we have the bright imagery and refreshing beauty of Bryant, whose genius, like a clear stream, reflects the heavens above, and the loveliness of nature around.
Many others have the charm of originality, and a versification almost musical, but the votaries of the muse are so numerous, we must pass them without naming, yet our country may be proud of many a wild flower of poesy, the fragrance of which has been borne over the ocean, and appreciated in other lands.
The sweetness and beauty of Mrs. Sigourney’s muse, the elegance and delicacy of Halleck, the tenderness and strong feeling of Dana, the light grace of Willis, and many others of equal genius and talent are crowding on our memory.
But in this, as in every other branch, we must look to the future for the fulfillment of the high destiny of American literature.
Perhaps nothing has contributed more to the diffusion of intellectual knowledge, than periodical literature, which includes the reviews, magazines, and daily and weekly newspapers. Not a great many years have passed since the number of these were few, and though that few were of known excellence, how sparing was the patronage bestowed on them. How were the journals of other lands looked to for that supply of intellectual beauty, which the gifted minds of our own countrymen needed but a fair encouragement to pour forth. Yet who does not now look back with pride to the pioneer path of our first periodicals, those early gatherers of essays, showing the powers of mind now more strongly developed in our country?
These, in later years, have been followed by a gradual increase, and we can now proudly point to their numbers, many of them varied with the classic learning and lighter literature of contributors, whose talents would do honor to any country.
Possessing great advantages from its unassuming appearance and light form, periodical literature travels through the land. Like a gentle stream it winds its way, with banks covered with flowers, and pebbled bed, too pure to sully its waters. It comes to the door of the cottager to refresh him after labor. Its murmurs are heard near the village-green, and youth hastens to its welcome bath. If it bears not on its breast the heavy freight the larger river boasts, the light skiff on its waters offers a bijouterie that is truly interesting and valuable. Gems of poetry, incidents in history, pearls from the ocean, legends of the land, light from the sciences, and aid from the arts.
Some of the most beautiful effusions of American genius have graced the pages of periodical literature. Timid and retiring talent has been encouraged to take the first step in a path it is destined to illumine. How many gems from the ocean of thought have been brought to the surface, to sparkle on the view by the aid of this species of literature? What pearls from the shells which memory gathers, have thrown the faint but touching light of the past upon the present?
The gifted writers whose efforts have appeared on the pages of periodical literature, are too numerous, and many of them too equal in merit, though different in style, to be particularly named. This is especially the case with female writers, from some of whose pens the finely pointed moral or touching incident of narrative comes forth with varied beauty, but almost equal claims to attention.
This may be said with less force of male writers, where the scintillations of wit and graceful charm of humor in some, is in contrast with the grave discussions and intellectual strength of others, where the elegance of classic learning stands side by side with useful essays on national policy.
But the bright prospect of future American literature again opens before us in all its moral grandeur. When time shall have quieted the ruder anxieties of our being, when comfortable independence shall have passed from the few to the many, and the busy exertion of life can take longer rest from its labors, when the dignity of intellect shall outweigh that of wealth, how will the treasures of mind be poured on our land!
Future American literature must be very varied, from the great difference of climate and habits in our widely extended country. Stretching its immense length along the great Atlantic, the firm barrier of its waters, it almost connects the frozen pole with the burning Equator. The fervid imaginations of the sunny South will breathe their strains under the shadow of the lime-tree, and amidst the fragrance of the orange-grove, and the scenery and flowers that give emblems to their poetry, will be as strange to the dwellers on the rock-bound coast of the North-Eastern States, as the acacia of Arabia is to the Icelander, but its strange beauty will be dear to them, for it is American still.
From the calm, cold North, the calculations of Philosophy and the discoveries of scientific research will continue to issue. The progress already made, forms a bright page in our history, and the last great discovery which has realized the vision of our venerated Franklin, making the lightning of heaven the agent of earth, seems like a stray beam from the science of the skies. By it, knowledge, love, feeling, travel with the unseen speed of “angel’s visits.” The name of Morse will find a high association with that of the “Sage of the Revolution.”
For the light yet elegant portions of literature, our country presents a wide field. The history of Poetry in the old world, is mournfully, painfully interesting, from the blind dependence of the immortal Homer, down to the despairing end of the gifted Chatterton. From thence to the present time, how few have been successful, and of that few, how oft have their pages been marked, not, indeed, by the tear of weary anguish and hope deferred, but by a bitterness of sentiment filling the place from whence that tear was obliterated. Alas! how many strings in the harp of Genius have been broken by the force of its own disappointed feelings.
Pastoral poetry may well offer its incense at the shrine of our country’s scenery and productions, and breathe its strains in harmony with the happiness of American rural life. Here there need be no servile muse to sing of fruits the parched lip never tasted, nor of groves and streams whose verdure and coolness were felt not in the close atmosphere of garret penury. But from homes rendered happy by industry and content, the poets of our land may breathe their strains. The heart will speak from its own fullness, like the ascending vapor of the cottage chimney, that tells the comfort and warmth of the hearth beneath its roof.
Narrative prose and heroic verse have a deep fount from whence to draw.
It is true the legendary lore of our country has not yet the hoariness of age upon it, but what should recommend it more, it has the light of truth. If we have not moss-grown towers, whose mouldy recesses tell of ambition and cruelty, we have traces on the hills, and monuments in the vales of our varied landscape, that awaken the memory of deeds whose heroism might rival the days of chivalry; of battles where the disparity of force called forth the virtuous sacrifice of another Leonidas, of acts of patriotism and self-devotion worthy that purest of Romans, Regulus.
Love, during the struggle of the Revolution, was a sentiment, so guided by high impulses, as to offer to the pen of historical romance the most touching and thrilling incidents; vows rendered more sacred by the parting of the plighted, not to be renewed at the altar until the light of liberty shone on their country. The simple ribbon-knot and the glossy braid of hair, were to the patriot-lover talismans in the hour of danger; and courage to meet every trial came with the sweet thoughts of home and happiness with his American maid.
Mothers, with Spartan virtue, sacrificed their maternal tenderness on the altar of liberty, and urged the steps of their sons to the combat. Aged fathers, with eager though feeble hands, fastened the sword of their early days on the youthful limbs of those sons; and when their loved forms were brought back from the field of their country’s glory, cold in death, have pillowed their white locks on the young breasts, and died under the excitement of sorrow struggling with patriotic pride and glory.
Biography might appear like an overloaded vessel, her deck crowded with the bright and honored names of heroes, statesmen, patriots, scholars, and others, the famed and gifted of our land—but she gallantly bears the freight, for a greater than Cæsar is among them. Washington! how the full tide of feeling gushes at the name—a nation’s pride and glory, and the admiration of the world. Many brilliant pens have told his character and fame, and yet the theme seems new. How bright a pattern to American youth, is the docility of his childhood, and submission to parental rule, the beautiful truth of his boyhood, and pure morality of his youth. His tenderness, even in the noon of his fame, to the venerable mother, on whose breast at parting fell the strange but unchecked tears of manhood. His pure patriotism, his undaunted courage, his unchanging firmness and impartial justice, his meek devotion and faith in the God of nations, all present a beautiful example for imitation. Happy America! rearing in your own bosom the son whose talents and virtues were your protection in the hour of danger. And gloriously was he associated with the bright host of heroes and patriots, whose deathless names will live with his in the grateful memory of the country to which they gave freedom and independence. With such themes biography holds, and must continue to hold, an elevated rank in American literature; and when to these is added the bright list of those who, in later times have periled their all for their country’s glory, or whose talents and virtues have brightened her fame, the task of perpetuating their names and deeds to posterity will employ many gifted minds, and must look far into the future for its completion.
The ancient history of our country lies hid in the western mounds, or amidst the buried relics of past ages. Forests, in Central America, have grown over the ruins of temples and dwellings that, awakened from their sleep of ages by a Stephens and others, will in time become the Palmyra of the Western World. In the grandeur of their mysteries conjecture seems lost, yet there would appear a connection between them and the aboriginal race of our own land, whose lingering steps are receding toward the Pacific. In this remaining posterity of a lost genealogy, all that is left totell the tale of the race from whence they sprung, is their firm independence, undying love of country, deep sense of injury and spirit of revenge, and strong faith of happier homes beyond the grave. Is not this a theme worthy the pen of the American poet, philosopher, antiquarian, or novelist?
With the many heroic virtues of Indian character, can we wonder that their principal fault should be that which filial piety made glorious in a Hannibal. In future they will be better understood, and while justice and humanity, nay, national pride, call on our government to civilize and enlighten them, the pens of their white brethren will show their true lineaments, and perhaps the hand of some American antiquary lift the veil that hides their lost ancestry.
While the music of their language yet lingers in the names of our rivers, we cannot forget their claims. In a lyric of much sweetness, a gifted poetess of our country pleads that they may not be changed. How quickly their sound arrests the attention of the traveler and stranger? How softly their syllables fall from the lips of beauty. There seems a magic spell about them. May it be their protection from any change. It is but just that the streams that first knew the Indians in their pride and glory should retain the melody of their language.
In many instances, the Indian character has been found capable of great refinement from education, and of the few who have been placed in our colleges, some have evinced superior talents. How pleasing is the thought that these children of the forest may hereafter contribute to the national literature of America. Will their strains be mournful, like the plaintive songs of the Israelites by the waters of the Euphrates? Perhaps not, for though many are far removed from the more eastern homes of their fathers, still it is their native land, now bounded only by the waves of the Pacific.
In anticipating the future literature of our country, its glorious effects on other nations should not be forgotten. The freedom and happiness that could fan into flame all that is great in mind, and all that is beautiful in virtue, must be appreciated; and from the combined effect of her own great example, and the persuasive influence of a literature then truly American, our country will become the standard of future republics.
THE CRY OF THE FORSAKEN.
———
BY GIFTIE.
———
Singme to sleep, dear mother,Upon thy faithful breast —Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,Since I laid me there to rest.Now I am weary, weary,And I fain would sleep once more,And dream such dreams of heaven,As I used to dream of yore.Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother —Its heritage is tears —And I have felt, sweet mother,Its wild tumultuous fears.Now hath the idol fallen,On my soul’s ruined shrine —All other hearts deceive me,In grief I turn to thine.Lull me to rest, kind mother,And sing to me the while —These tearful eyes shall cease to weepThese lips put on a smile.And tell me of that blessed landWhere love is not in vain,And they who wept despairinglyShall never weep again.Lull me to rest, dear mother,Sing to me soft and low,The same sweet mournful strain, mother,You sang me long ago,I am weary and heart-broken,And I fain would be at rest,Oh take me in thine arms, mother —Let me slumber on thy breast.
Singme to sleep, dear mother,Upon thy faithful breast —Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,Since I laid me there to rest.Now I am weary, weary,And I fain would sleep once more,And dream such dreams of heaven,As I used to dream of yore.Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother —Its heritage is tears —And I have felt, sweet mother,Its wild tumultuous fears.Now hath the idol fallen,On my soul’s ruined shrine —All other hearts deceive me,In grief I turn to thine.Lull me to rest, kind mother,And sing to me the while —These tearful eyes shall cease to weepThese lips put on a smile.And tell me of that blessed landWhere love is not in vain,And they who wept despairinglyShall never weep again.Lull me to rest, dear mother,Sing to me soft and low,The same sweet mournful strain, mother,You sang me long ago,I am weary and heart-broken,And I fain would be at rest,Oh take me in thine arms, mother —Let me slumber on thy breast.
Singme to sleep, dear mother,Upon thy faithful breast —Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,Since I laid me there to rest.Now I am weary, weary,And I fain would sleep once more,And dream such dreams of heaven,As I used to dream of yore.
Singme to sleep, dear mother,
Upon thy faithful breast —
Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,
Since I laid me there to rest.
Now I am weary, weary,
And I fain would sleep once more,
And dream such dreams of heaven,
As I used to dream of yore.
Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother —Its heritage is tears —And I have felt, sweet mother,Its wild tumultuous fears.Now hath the idol fallen,On my soul’s ruined shrine —All other hearts deceive me,In grief I turn to thine.
Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother —
Its heritage is tears —
And I have felt, sweet mother,
Its wild tumultuous fears.
Now hath the idol fallen,
On my soul’s ruined shrine —
All other hearts deceive me,
In grief I turn to thine.
Lull me to rest, kind mother,And sing to me the while —These tearful eyes shall cease to weepThese lips put on a smile.And tell me of that blessed landWhere love is not in vain,And they who wept despairinglyShall never weep again.
Lull me to rest, kind mother,
And sing to me the while —
These tearful eyes shall cease to weep
These lips put on a smile.
And tell me of that blessed land
Where love is not in vain,
And they who wept despairingly
Shall never weep again.
Lull me to rest, dear mother,Sing to me soft and low,The same sweet mournful strain, mother,You sang me long ago,I am weary and heart-broken,And I fain would be at rest,Oh take me in thine arms, mother —Let me slumber on thy breast.
Lull me to rest, dear mother,
Sing to me soft and low,
The same sweet mournful strain, mother,
You sang me long ago,
I am weary and heart-broken,
And I fain would be at rest,
Oh take me in thine arms, mother —
Let me slumber on thy breast.
A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH.
———
BY CAROLINE MAY.
———
Thestorm beats loud against my window-pane,And though upon the pillow of my bedIn pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,I cannot sleep for the excited trainOf thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.O, wretched poor, who have no home—or ifA home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad taleMake rich hearts open with the opening light.
Thestorm beats loud against my window-pane,And though upon the pillow of my bedIn pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,I cannot sleep for the excited trainOf thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.O, wretched poor, who have no home—or ifA home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad taleMake rich hearts open with the opening light.
Thestorm beats loud against my window-pane,And though upon the pillow of my bedIn pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,I cannot sleep for the excited trainOf thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.O, wretched poor, who have no home—or ifA home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad taleMake rich hearts open with the opening light.
Thestorm beats loud against my window-pane,
And though upon the pillow of my bed
In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,
I cannot sleep for the excited train
Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.
O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if
A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,
For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,
Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,
Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —
A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,
Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!
O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale
Make rich hearts open with the opening light.
BUONDLEMONTE.
A TALE OF ITALY.
———
BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.
———
“Sothou art here, in Florence, to be wived, Buondlemonte?” a gay gallant laughingly observed to the tallest and most elegant of a group of cavaliers, as they sauntered leisurely together along the principal street of Florence: “Thou art at last to be shut out from the pale of happy celibacy, and be offered up, a living sacrifice, on the altar of that most insatiate of all insatiate deities, Hymen? By Mars, but I pity thee, poor youth!”
“Reserve thy pity, thou thoughtless railer, for those who stand in need on’t,” the eldest of the party, a dark-complexioned, stern-featured man, replied in the same vein in which the first individual had spoken, though the frown on his brow, and the compression of his lips evinced that he was not pleased at the tone of the conversation. “Buondlemonte mates with the noblest house of Florence; and though he ranks with the first in Italy, he is not to be pitied when he enters the family of Amedi.”
“Nay, Amedi, thou shalt not make me grave,” the first speaker said, smiling at the serious looks of his saturnine companion; “I willcommiserate the fate of any luckless bachelor, whose days of freedom draw so near their close; though, thou haughty senor, I will make this reservation in thy favor, that if there exists aught to mitigate the thraldom of matrimony, it may be found in the smiles of the beautiful Francesca, and in the alliance with thy thrice noble house.”
“Even that admission is a step toward Guiseppo’s reformation,” Buondlemonte observed, with a light laugh, as he placed his hand upon the shoulder of the last speaker; “it proves that he is not quite incorrigible.”
“But tell me, Buondlemonte—I must have it from thine own lips,” Guiseppo said; “dost thou wed so soon? Shall we see thee a married man on the third day from this?”
“ ’Tis most true, Guiseppo,” Buondlemonte replied, with a smile upon his lips, though, as he spoke, an almost imperceptible sigh escaped him; “in three days thou wilt see me wived. ’Tis an old contract, existing since my youth. Amedi’s father and my own were friends—companions in arms—and agreed to this union of our families. The time has arrived for the consummation of the contract, and I am here to fulfill it.”
“Alas, poor youth! in what a tone of resignation was that last sentence uttered. A pious maiden bending to the will of mother church could not have answered more meekly. I fear me thou art a reluctant neophyte in Hymen’s temple.”
“A truce with thy jesting, Guiseppo Leoni,” Jacopa Amedi angrily observed; “thou dost proceed beyond the limits of courtesy. If the noble Buondlemonte chooses to submit to thy rough raillery, I do not. The honor of my house is concerned, and that shall not be tampered with by light lips.”
“Enough, Amedi,” Buondlemonte said, as he interrupted a sharp retort from Leoni, “Guiseppo meant no harm, and I have grown too wise, in my travels, to be angered by a friendly jest.”
“Methinks, though,” another of the group, who had hitherto remained silent, observed, “that Buondlemonte might vindicate my fair cousin from the insinuation of accepting an unwilling husband. The court of the emperor is a poor school for chivalry, if it does not teach the lesson that a fair lady’s name should be preserved, like the polished surface of a mirror, unsullied even by a breath.”
What reply Buondlemonte might have made to the captious cousin of his betrothed bride is impossible to say, for at that moment a young page, in gay attire, came up to the party, and, cap in hand, inquired if one of them was not Buondlemonte.
“There stands the object of thy search, thou elfin emissary from the bower of beauty!” Guiseppo smilingly remarked, as he pointed to Buondlemonte; “deliver the challenge thou art charged with, and he will meet thy mistress, though she be Medusa or Circe.”
The child carefully undid the folds of his scarf, and taking from thence a small note, presented it with a graceful obeisance to Buondlemonte.
“Your answer, noble sir,” he said. “I am directed to bear it.”
Buondlemonte took the billet, and, after excusing himself to his companions, stepped aside and cut the silken thread that bound it.
The note must have contained something more than ordinary, for as the young man glanced his eyes over it, the red blood mounted to his cheeks and his forehead.
“Whom dost thou serve, my pretty youth?” Jacopa Amedi asked, as Buondlemonte perused and reperused the paper.
“To answer your question, signor,” the boy replied with a sly smile, as he bowed with deference to the noble, “would be to prove that I am unworthy to serve any one.”
“And to quicken thy speech,” Amedi’s cousin remarked, in a tone half jesting half earnest, “it would be well to apply a leathern strap to thy shoulders.”
“Fie, Baptista Amedi, fie!” Guiseppo said, as he observed the child’s eyes flash with indignation; “conceiveno foul thoughts toward the boy; he merits thy praise for being faithful to his mistress, whoever she may be.”
By this time Buondlemonte had concluded his perusal of the note, and turning to the boy, he said, as he handed him a piece of money, “I will, in person, bear an answer to your missive.”
The page bowed, and donning his plumed cap, was soon lost to observation among the passengers in the street.
It was in vain that Guiseppo jested and Jacopa Amedi looked grave and inquisitive; Buondlemonte was uncommunicative, and would make no revelations in relation to the page’s mission.
“By my faith, thou art a lucky knight, Buondlemonte!” Guiseppo said. “Not yet a day in Florence, and thou hast an assignation, I warrant me, with some mysterious being.”
They had now arrived at the corner of a street that crossed the one in which they were. Jacopa Amedi paused and pointed to a splendid mansion.
“You know our palace,” he said; “shall we thither?”
“Not now, Amedi,” Buondlemonte replied; “I have a commission for a friend to execute before I can gratify my own wishes. In an hour I’ll wait upon you at the palace; in the meantime present my duty to your fair sister, and say that ere long I will offer it with my own lips.”
The young men separated; Amedi and his relatives turning their steps toward the palace of the former, while Buondlemonte and Guiseppo continued their walk alone.
——
“Buondlemonte, thou art no happy bridegroom,” Guiseppo said, after they had proceeded for some time in silence.
Buondlemonte sighed, but made no reply.
“Thou dost not love Amedi’s sister,” Guiseppo observed, in a half interrogative tone.
“ ’Twas a compact between parents, and not a union of lovers that was intended,” Buondlemonte replied bitterly.
“Still thou dost not love her—this marriage promises thee no happiness.”
Buondlemonte paused a moment, and then said,
“I think, Guiseppo, thou art my friend, and I may trust thee.”
“Hast thou not proved me thy friend?” Guiseppo asked. “When first we left Italy together for the court of the French king, we pledged our faith each to the other. During our sojourn there thou still hast found me—thoughtless and gay, perhaps—but ever constant. ’Tis true, we parted, you to continue your travels to the capital of the empire, while I returned to Italy; and we have never met again until to-day, yet, believe me, I am still the same Guiseppo thou hast known among the brave knights and gay dames of France.”
Buondlemonte grasped the hand that was offered to him, and after a momentary pause, said,
“Thou art right, my friend; I am no happy bridegroom. This marriage is hateful to me—’tis none of my seeking.”
“Then why let it proceed?”
“Because the Amedi wish it, and the world thinks my honor demands it; heaven knows for no other cause. ’Tis true, Francesca is fair—so says report, for I have not seen her since her youth—but to me she can never seem so. She may be enchanting, yet me she cannot enchant. There is a dream of my youth about my heart, a spell that will not be dissipated. There is but one form that dwells in my memory, one voice that can breathe music in my ear.”
“And where dwells this siren?” Guiseppo asked with a slight smile at the enthusiasm of his friend.
“Here, even here, in Florence,” Buondlemonte replied.
“And her family is called?”
“Donati.”
“Pandora and all her mischiefs!” exclaimed Guiseppo; “thou couldst not have mentioned a name more hateful to the family of thy affianced bride. The extremes of the earth are not wider apart than the houses of Donati and Amedi—a deadly feud exists between them.”
“From my childhood, I have known but one absorbing influence,” Buondlemonte said, “and that is my love for Camilla Donati. ’Tis a secret I have kept within my own breast till now; for I was educated to consider myself the husband of another, and, looking upon the marriage with Amedi’s sister as a thing that must be, I felt reconciled—while the period of our union was indefinite—to what I could not avoid.”
“Why not feel so still?” Guiseppo asked.
“I cannot,” was the reply; “the nearer the hour for our nuptials approaches, the more repugnant do I feel. There’s no sympathy between the house of Amedi and Buondelmonte—they are Ghibellines and I am a Guelph. I love not Francesca; I like not her unsmiling brothers; yet I must wed, and in fulfilling a compact made without my consent, doom myself to certain misery.”
Buondlemonte might have added that the missive which the page had delivered to him was from the mother of Camilla Donati, and that it had given strength to feelings which were before but too powerful; but he did not; the information might have compromised others, and he kept it to himself. What was further said would scarcely interest the reader, and we pass to details more immediately connected with the development of our story.
——
At the time of which we write—the latter end of the thirteenth century—there existed between the two principal families in Florence, (those of Amedi and Donati,) a spirit of bitter malignity and determined rivalry, which was carried quite to the extent of the quarrels described by Shakspeare, in “Romeo and Juliet,” between the houses of Capulet and Montague.
Ambition for supremacy was the origin of the dispute between these noble families, but political differences had widened the breach. The quarrels betweenthe Emperor of Germany and the Pope, which followed the elevation of Gregory VII. to the papal throne—and which divided Germany, and even Italy into factions, calling themselves Guelphs and Ghibellines—had extended to Florence, mid the rival families of Donati and Amedi were not slow to take sides in the dispute; each hoping thereby to obtain an ascendency over the other. The Donati took part with the Pope, and called themselves Guelphs; the Amedi sided with the emperor, and were called Ghibellines; and for generations, the animosity between these two houses disturbed the peace of the beautiful city of Florence.
At the period of our narrative a female ranked as the head of the house of Donati. Left a widow, during the childhood of her only daughter, she had sustained with masculine energy the pretensions of her family, and at the same time she had reared with maternal fondness the offspring left to her sole charge.
The father of young Buondlemonte was a nobleman of the first influence in Italy. He resided in the upper vale of Arno, and though he supported the pretensions of the pontiff against those of the emperor, his feelings were so far from being rancorous, that he maintained an equal intimacy with the rival houses of Amedi and Donati; the circumstance of their having served together in the wars of the day alone induced him to prefer the alliance with the family of Amedi.
It is hardly necessary to observe, after the dialogue in the last chapter, that the predilections of the youthful noble took a different direction from the one indicated by the parental judgment. With free ingress to the bosoms of both families, Buondlemonte experienced no hesitation in preferring the sweet and gentle Camilla Donati to the equally beautiful, but haughty and imperious, Francesca Amedi. The considerate affection, too, of Camilla’s mother was much more attractive to him than the austere and severe manners which characterized the Amedi family.
Camilla Donati, young as she then was, was not insensible to the marked preference shown her by Buondlemonte. ’Tis true he uttered no words of love, yet she felt that she was beloved by him, and with all the ardor of her nature she returned his affection.
When he had arrived at the age of seventeen years, Buondlemonte’s father died. On his death-bed he expressed a wish that his son should travel for five years, and that the marriage with Francesca Amedi should be solemnized on his return to Italy. In accordance with this wish Buondlemonte left his home to acquire his education as a gallant knight at the polished court of the French king. His parting with his bride elect was a task of easy performance, but not so his farewell to Camilla Donati. It was with sad hearts and tearful eyes, and murmured hopes of a happier meeting that they separated. For five years he had been absent from his native country. All the scenes through which he had passed, all the fair ladies he had seen had not weakened the ardor of his first love. He returned to Florence, urged by the wishes of the Amedi family; but he came back with the feelings of a criminal stalking to the place of execution rather than as a bridegroom about to lead a beloved and blushing bride to the altar.
——
’Twas nearly twilight, and Francesca Amedi sat in a richly furnished apartment with her brother and her cousin. One of them had been making a communication to her to which she had listened in silence, but with wrapt attention. Her stately form, as he continued his story, became more majestic, her bosom heaved with concealed emotion, and, as she swept back with her beautiful hand the rich raven tresses, her dark eyes flashed like diamonds glittering in the light.
“So you think he loves me not,” she said, after a pause, as her cousin walked toward the window to examine the tapestry which hung from the walls.
“By St. Jago!” returned her brother, “an ice-hill on the summit of the Alps, could not have been colder than he was when speaking of thee. ‘ ’Twas an old compact,’ he said, ‘and he was here to fulfill it.’ By the souls of those who have gone before me! he could not have spoken more churlishly if he had been talking about a new doublet he had agreed to take upon a certain day.”
“I love him,” Francesca said, as she bit her lip till it became bloodless, “but he acts not wisely for his happiness or mine. He knows not what it is to put a slight upon Francesca Amedi.”
“Were it not,” Jacopa observed, “that his power, united with our own, will crush the whole race of the detested Donati, I would spurn his unwilling alliance, and he should die e’er he be thy husband. As it is,” he added, “we must dress our face in smiles, and thou must wed him.”
“I would do so,” Francesca said, as she fixed her eyes with a rigid look upon her brother, “were it only to make him feel what I have endured.”
“Before our very eyes,” Jacopa remarked, “he received without apology or explanation, a dainty billet from some shameless mistress.”
“Ay,” added Baptista, who had by this time concluded his careless scrutiny, and was listening to the conversation, “and if my memory serves me not a treacherous trick, that same page, who bore the silken-bound counsel, I have seen in attendance on ourdearly loved friend, Donati’s widow.”
“If I had thought so,” exclaimed Jacopa, “I would have twisted the neck of the young go-between, even in the presence of Buondlemonte.”
“No, no,” Francesca said, as she waved her hand, “it cannot be. He would not—he dare not—offer me so great an insult as to receive a love-token from one of that house. He dare not, reckless as he is, place me in competition with the puling baby Donati calls her daughter.”
Baptista was about to repeat his opinion concerning the identity of the page, but he had scarcely commenced before Buondlemonte entered the apartment. Both Jacopa and Baptista exchanged an apparently cordial greeting with the new comer, and then retired, leaving him alone with Francesca.
“At last, Buondlemonte,” Francesca said, when they were left alone, “at last thou hast found time to see me.”
“The performance of a service for a friend,” Buondlemonte observed, as he touched with his lips thewhite hand which was extended toward him, “prevented the earlier presentation of my duty to thee.”
“It was not well,” she remarked, “after so long an absence, to give others a preference, and leave your promised wife neglected, if not forgotten. This was not an act of the cherished companion of former days; it was not the act of the noble youth who left Florence five years ago, betrothed to Francesca Amedi; thou no longer lovest me, Buondlemonte, or thou wouldst not have been thus slow to visit me.”
Buondlemonte thought that the charge might have been made with equal justice at any period of his existence, but he did not give utterance to the thought.
“If my tardiness gives offence,” he said, coldly, “I pray that thou wilt pardon it; I will be scrupulous not to repeat it.”
“Thou art as chilling in thy kindness as thou art in thy coldness,” she observed, with a short hysterical laugh, and then turned the conversation into another channel.
After an hour’s constrained intercourse, Buondlemonte rose to depart.
“I fear me,” she said, as she thought of the letter her brother had spoken of, “that some fairer lady than Francesca pines for thy society, and lures thee from my side.”
“Thou hast no cause to think so,” he replied, evasively, as he raised her hand respectfully to his lips.
She placed her hand firmly upon his arm and looked with her large, eloquent eyes steadily in his face.
“See that I have not,” she said, in a voice which had lost all its natural melody. “See that I have not. Thou mayst ensure my love, if ’tis worthy of an effort, but remember! I will brook no rival in thy affections—Francesca Amedi knows how to protect herself!”
“By all the torturing fates that ever turned awry love’s currents!” exclaimed Buondlemonte, as he reached the street, “but my destined spouse seems to be formed more in the mould of the tigress than the dove. A further promise,” he muttered ironically, “of our mutual happiness!”
——
“Ye are beautiful, ye heavens!” murmured Camilla Donati, as she gazed from a casement of an apartment in her mother’s palace upon the gorgeous starlight of an April evening; “but what hope do you bring to me?Hewho was wont to make even darkness seem light, even he, is another’s, and ye shine in mockery of my anguish—your brightness makes my gloom the darker!”
It was, indeed, a beautiful evening; but he must have been an anchorite who would not have turned from the balmy air and richly studded sky, to gaze upon the graceful form and heavenly countenance of the fair being who apostrophized the stars.
Her age would have been that of a mere girl’s in any clime save those in which nature seems precocious; but her figure was that of a woman’s, in the zenith of her loveliness. Eighteen summers had scarcely passed over Camilla Donati, and, to contemplate her appearance, the thought would suggest itself that each succeeding year had outvied the efforts of the one that had preceded it, in a struggle to make her beauty faultless.
Her complexion was exquisitely fair. The natural color in her cheeks, as she sat in pensive thought, had disappeared, but still a roseate shade remained, and that, perhaps, shone in more perfect contrast with the transparent skin on which it rested. Pygmalion, when he worshiped the effort of his own art, could not have beheld more chastely beautiful features than she possessed. An ample forehead, shaded by clustering curls, terminated where the penciled brows overlooked lids, fringed with long silken lashes, which contained within their orbits a pair of lustrous, soul-speaking eyes. A nose of Grecian outline, and a mouth—formed from the model of Cupid’s bow—with lips of clear vermilion, seemed to speak an “alarum to love.” When we add to this description a chin of unsurpassed contour, and a neck of swan-like symmetry, we may form some idea of Camilla Donati’s features.
The dress she wore, though it shrouded, it did not conceal the proportions of her figure. The full, swelling bust and the slender waist could be discerned; nor were her robes so sweeping but that a fairy foot might have been discovered peeping from beneath them. A glittering veil had been thrown carelessly over her luxuriant auburn curls, but this she had put back with her delicate hand, and, as her cheek rested on that dimpled hand, she seemed too bright a thing to be profaned by the touch of sorrow; grief should have found a less transcendent temple in which to spread its sombre mantle.
“What is left me now,” she whispered to herself, as if pursuing a train of thought, “but to die, or, within the gloomy walls of a cloister, to endeavor to forget this world by offering myself up a sacrifice to heaven.”
“Not so, my child,” an unexpected voice observed, as a stately female stepped from the shade, and seated herself beside Camilla; “Heaven needs not such a sacrifice at thy hands, or at mine.”
“My mother!” exclaimed the lair girl, “I knew not thou wert present,” and bending her head to the parental bosom, she gave vent to her feelings in stifled sobs.
“Fie, Camilla!” the mother said, as she passed her hand affectionately over the glossy ringlets, “this is unworthy of thy race. Thou art a Donati, my child, and should have more iron in thy nature than to bend, like a willow-wand, before every storm; besides, all is not lost yet; Buondlemonte may still be thy husband.”
“Never!” replied Camilla; “I would not have it so now. Within three days he weds Francesca Amedi.”
“Not if I can prevent it!” exclaimed the elder lady. “He shall not sully his nobleness, or add to the o’ergrown pride of that arrogant house by mating with the haughty Francesca. This night—this hour—he hies hither to harken to my counsels; and if I have power to move him, he leaves not this palace till he is thy plighted husband.”
Camilla knelt at her mother’s feet, and clasping her hands, she turned her tearful eyes to that mother’s face.
“In mercy, spare me!” she said; “I would not wed an unwilling lord—I would not do a wrong even to a member of the house of Amedi.”
“Thou art a foolish child,” her mother replied; “thou shalt neither wed a reluctant lord, nor do a wrong to living soul. If wrong there be in aught I counsel, it rests with me, and I fear not to brave the consequences.”
Camilla was about to speak, but her mother interrupted her.
“I tell thee, timid flutterer,” she said, “Buondlemonte loves thee. I know him, even as if he were my own child—he loves thee, and thee alone. An ancient compact, wrung from the weakness of his father, is all that binds him to Francesca Amedi. Between them there is no shadow of affection. Her swollen pride is not akin to tenderness, and he could not love a being whose nature, like hers, is fierce, revengeful and fiend-like.”
Again Camilla was about to interpose, but her mother stopped her.
“Hear me out,” she said. “Buondlemonte’s interest and inclination, as well as ours, require that he should abandon all thoughts of that unholy union, and take thee to wife. In all, save hypocritical appearances, the Amedi are his enemies—enemies in religion, enemies in disposition. He is frank, open, generous and noble; and they are cold, selfish, subtle and malignant. His faith is pure, and, like us, he sustains the cause of our holy church; while they are Ghibellines—little better than schismatics—and in their hearts detest all who think not with them. If ’twere not a virtue to humble the pride of this presumptuous family, it would at least be a charity to preserve the peace of the noble youth, by disconcerting so ill-assorted a match.”
Once more Camilla attempted to be heard, but again she was interrupted.
“I will hear no reply,” her mother said: “I cannot be moved by arguments from the course I intend to pursue. Thou knowest me tender and indulgent, but at the same time resolute and determined. Thy happiness and his demand the policy I adopt; let me not hear thee therefore murmur against it. I go now,” she observed, rising from her seat, “to meet him I would make thy husband: bide thou here till my return.”
As she concluded she left the apartment.
Camilla, at the thought of meeting Buondlemonte, and the circumstances, instinctively drew her veil over her burning cheeks.
“It is not I, Francesca,” she murmured, “who plots against thy peace; it is not I, Buondlemonte, who seeks to make thee swerve from thy knightly faith!”
For the space of half an hour Camilla Donati remained in a state of timorous apprehension and painful thought; at the expiration of that period, however, the door of the apartment she occupied again opened, and her mother re-entered. This time she was not alone—Buondlemonte was with her. His handsome countenance was flushed with excitement; the color mantled in his cheeks, and an unusual lustre danced in his bright eyes.
No sooner did his gaze rest on the maiden’s form than he rushed forward, and, bending his knee before her, took her unresisting hand and pressed it again and again to his lips.
“Dearest Camilla!” he exclaimed, in a whispered voice, “even thus have I dreamed of thee in my wanderings! even thus have I knelt before thee, and, unrebuked by a reproachful look, pressed thy gentle hand.”
The elder lady approached her daughter, and raising the veil which concealed her beautiful features she addressed Buondlemonte.
“This,” she said, as Buondlemonte’s ravished sight wandered from the flushing cheeks to the closed lids and trembling lips, “this is the bride I had reserved for thee. From childhood she has loved thee, and loves thee still.”
Buondlemonte’s enraptured exclamations prevented Camilla’s piteous appeal to her mother from being heard.
“From childhood she has been the star I have worshiped,” he replied, and rising to a seat beside her, his arm encircled her delicate waist. “None other,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, as his eyes devoured the unfolding beauties which momentarily developed themselves, “none other shall claim the bride who has been reserved for me. If she will accept the homage of a heart that is all her own, my wedded wife she shall be before two suns have gilded the eastern sky.”
The burning blushes were on Camilla’s cheeks, and the tears gushed from her eyes, but her breath came quick and her heart throbbed strangely.
“Speak, dearest Camilla!” Buondlemonte whispered; “let me know from thy own lips that my passion is not unrequited—say that thou lovest me!”
“Oh, Buondlemonte!” Camilla articulated, in a low voice, “think of Francesca—think of her family.”
“To wed her would be a union on which nor heaven nor earth could smile,” he replied. “Dearest Camilla, Francesca loves me not, and I do not love her; her family are my aversion—there is no kindred, no sympathy between us. This night, if thou dost love me still, this night I will revoke the ill-advised bond that linked my destiny with Francesca Amedi’s, and to-morrow’s night shall see us happily wedded.”
Small blame was it to Camilla that she yielded to the entreaties, nay, the commands of her mother, and the moving solicitations of her lover. Her heart, too, was an advocate against herself. For some time she resisted the persuasive music which was poured into her ear, but at length she breathed in whispered accents the words that united her fate to Buondlemonte’s.
The rest of the evening, to the lovers, passed like the brief existence of a moment; yet its lapse had afforded an eternity of happiness. It had given birth to a world of pleasant recollections.
Ere he slept that night, Buondlemonte dispatched his friend Guiseppo Leoni to Jacopa Amedi, to inform him of the step he had taken. Disclaiming all intention to offend, hepleaded his early passion in palliation of his apparent fickleness, and alleged that the uncongenialitybetween Francesca and himself could be prolific of naught but discord and unhappiness.
——
The dawn of the morrow found the Amedi family awake and stirring; and every member of it breathing deep and terrible vengeance against the faithless Buondlemonte. Late as it was when Guiseppo Leoni delivered the unpleasant communication of which he was the bearer, messengers had been dispatched to all the relatives of the house, to summon them to a council, which was fixed to meet at an early hour in the morning.
When Francesca Amedi learned what had happened her towering form grew more erect, her dark eyes flashed forth unutterable thoughts, and, as she grasped tightly the jeweled dagger that hung from her girdle, she muttered between her set teeth —
“He would not learn how deeply I could have loved, but he shall feel—he and his puny minion—how bitterly I can hate, and how fearfully I can avenge!”
“He is not married yet,” her brother menacingly observed.
“The saints be praised for that,” she replied; “There shall be more guests at the wedding than are bidden.”
She retired to her own apartment, and after a long interview with her principal attendant she gave directions that no one should be admitted to see her, and that no summons, from any source, should be communicated to her.
——
The council had assembled at the Amedi palace. In a spacious apartment a crowd of men sat together. There were dark frowns upon their countenances, and, at intervals, angry exclamations escaped from their lips, as the cause of their convocation was dwelt upon with malignant emphasis and vehement declamation by Jacopa Amedi.
“What,” he asked, after having recapitulated the facts, “should be the fate of him, who, casting aside the honor of knighthood and manhood, violates his plighted word, showers disgraceful contumely upon our house, and offers deadliest insult to Amedi’s daughter?”
“Death!” replied a solitary voice, as the door of the apartment opened, and a stranger stood at the threshold.
The eyes of all were turned with wonder in the direction from which the voice proceeded. No one present appeared to know the stranger.
The intruder gazed around unrebuked by the inquiring looks that were bent upon him, and as his eye met the speaker’s, he repeated the ominous word which had startled the assembled group.
He was a youth of fine appearance; slight in form, but of a lofty bearing, with a handsome countenance, and full, large, searching, dark eyes. His dress was of sable velvet. Upon his head he wore a cap, surmounted with two black plumes, and at his side there hung a sombre-cased rapier, the hilt of which glittered with diamonds.
“Death!” he repeated, as he glanced deliberately from one individual to another, “death should be the doom of him who, traitorous to love and false to honor, pays back the affection of a betrothed wife with withering scorn, and upon the dignity of a noble house tramples with profane and sacrilegious tread!”
Jacopa Amedi advanced from the position he had occupied, and confronted the new comer.
“Whoe’er thou art, sir stranger,” he said, “thou hast mistaken the place for thy reception. This is a meeting only of the relatives of our house—thou canst not claim kindred with the Amedi.”
“I am,” the youth replied, “of noble birth—a Ghibelline—a friend to thy family and cause, and an enemy—a deadly enemy—to Buondlemonte and the Donati. Thy wrongs are the wrongs of all who hate the Guelphs, and affect every noble in the land. Me they have united to thee by an indissoluble bond, and I proclaim again that death—death unannounced—should be the fate launched at the treacherous Buondlemonte!”
There was a wild energy in the stranger’s voice, and as he spoke, his dark eyes gleamed with demoniacal fire.
“For thy noble sympathy thou art entitled to our thanks, and hast them,” Jacopa Amedi observed, in reply; “but still we must entreat thy absence; a stranger may not be admitted to our counsels.”
“Not though he tenders thy honor as dearly as though he were himself an Amedi?” the young man asked hurriedly.
Jacopa bowed a negative.
“My name may change thy thought,” the youth remarked, as he approached Jacopa, and, as the latter inclined his ear, whispered a single sentence to him.
Jacopa Amedi started back in amazement, and gazed for a moment as if he had been paralyzed.
“Thou! thou!” he exclaimed, as a grim smile settled upon his features.
The stranger placed his gloved finger upon his lip to advise caution; and Jacopa, warned by the signal, restrained the expressions to which he had been about to give utterance.
“This,” he said, as he took the other’s hand and led him forward, while a gloomy frown supplanted the smile upon his own countenance, “this is as it should be; there is nobility enough in the act to make thee a worthy partaker in our deliberations.”
Saying this, he made a place for him among the rest, and vouched to the company for his right to be present.
The consultation was continued, but Jacopa Amedi ceased to take the lead in it. The stranger, as if by magic, exerted a controlless influence over every one. He spoke, and all listened with breathless attention to his lava-like words. He proposed and his suggestions were adopted without a dissenting voice. He named himself the leader of an enterprise in contemplation, and he was selected by acclamation.
“Who,” he asked, after an hour had been spent in consultation, “is informed of the period when this faithless lord leads his dainty bride to the altar?”
“I have taken care to learn that,” Baptista Amedi replied. “An hour after vespers the priest pronounces the marriage sacrament in the chapel of the palace.”
“Then at vespers,” the stranger said, as he rose from his place, “meet me here again, prepared as we have agreed; till then let us teach ourselves discretion.”
——