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VOLUME I. |
BY C, R. HANLEITER,
POETRY*
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
THE POOR MAN.
What man ie poor 7 Not ha whose brow
Is bathed in heaven’s own light—
Whose knee to God alone must bow,
At morning and at night—
Whose arm is nerved by healthful toil,
Who sits beneath the tree,
Or treads upon the fruitful soil,
With spirit calm and free.
Go—let the proud his gems behold,
And view their sparkling ray;
Ho silver vase or yellow gold
Can banish care away.
He cannot know that thrilling dream
Which smiles within the cot
Wiiere sunny looks nnd faces gleam
To cheer the poor man’s lot.
What man i poor ? Not he whose br >w
Is wet with heaven’s own dew,
Who breathes to God the he-irtielt vow,
Whose pledge is deep and true.
The morning calls his active feet
To no enchanting dome;
.But evening, and the twilight sweet,
Sgbnli light his pathway’ home.
And tkere is music to his ear,
la the glad voice of his child—
His wile, with hurried step, draws near.
With spirit unde filed.
Then turn not from the humble heart,
Nor scorn its humble tone;
For deeper feelings there may start,
Tban ‘fcc proud have ever known.
#IELIE©• Tl® YAiLIEgo
THE FATAL MISTAKE.
BY TUE AUTtOIT OF “ IIEXJtI QUARTE,” &C.
’Twas mid-night in Verona—tlie season,
summer—the air, warm, close, voluptuous,
between tlie double lines of stately palaces
which adorned the magnificent old city, but
quickening into life ami playful activity, as
it stole over the gardens anti terraces which
fringed the broad and rapid Adige.
The streets were hushed in the mid-day
quietude of southern climes—the few pe
destrians loitered with noiseless step —the
richly chiseled marble palaces (their pro
jecting balconies shaded with overhanging
drapery unruffled by breeze or zephyr)
seemed to slumber on the deep cast sha
dows—the long bearded, mendicant repos
ed with closed eyes against the church pil
lar, or encumbered the cool steps where the
sun’s rays crept not, or found no access.
In such an hour what makes the noble
- count—the brave Lorenzo Della Scala—
quit his palazzo, seek to breathe the hot air
of the streets ? Trace Verona through, who
should he held happier than Della Scala?
Os illustrious birth, claiming descent from
rulers of the city in the olden times, with
wide spread reputation, acquired by the
conduct of armies in Germanic warfare, he
returned to his native place, still young,
though of years beyond the opening Bush
of manhood, to live in the respect of the
citizens, to taste the enjoyment of long
neglected wealth amidst the splendor of
a Veronese palazzo, Wr the deep seclusion
of forest girt villas and pavilions. Scarce
ly domiciled in his patrimonial mansion, he
fell in love with Bianca Guidoni, sole daugh
ter of the count of that name.
Lorenzo first beheld her at a festa Hi coni
pagna, at her father’s suburban villa, was
smitten with her youth and beauty, whilst
the nascent passion was enhanced arid piqued
by the indifference and coldness with which
she—the centre of a host of worshipers—
treated their lavish attentions. Such pride
and reserve, he thought, would well become
the house of Della Scala, andso —impetu-
ous in love as in war—he sought the maiden,
poured forth his passion, and construing her
embariassed replies favorably, betook him
self to her father, by whom he was gladly
accepted as future son-in-law. The Count
Guidoni, anxious not to compromise the of
fer of so rich a suitor, or suffer accident or
contingency to intervene, hurried on the
marriage, as regardless of the presumed or
known state of his daughter’s affections, as
despotic father, or Italian noble—whose
word in his own household was law even to
death— could by harsh, precipitate conduct
evioee, So Bianca was wedded, and amidst
the costly magnificence which distinguished
the ceremonies of the Veronese nobility, in
stalled mistress of the palazzo Della Scala.
Why, therefore, in the third week of mar
iiage, should the noble Lorenzo be found
walking lonely through Verona’s streets at
an hour consecrated by the Italians to re
pose, or the quietude of domestic inter
course 1 Certainly it bespoke a restless
spirit. The count was indeed sorely trou
bled, hia pride hurt by the indifference of
bia young wife. Though the wooing was
abort, and certainly on his pa it rather unce
remonious, he had married the countess for
beauty, in utter absence of sordid motive or
consideration, nnd believing in his pride—
}t must be confessed —rather than in his
judgment, that lie had made a favorable im
pression on her affections, his expectations
of wedded happiness were as feasible as ur
gent. But alas! for short lived hope—the
affection was not reciprocated. Bianca was
dutiful, obedient, attentive to his wishes—
no wife could be more so—yet her conduct
was ever cold, constrained, devoid of affee
a JPamCls* Jletosajaer : Brfeotrtr to SUtevature, Slartculttm, jForetfiti ami Domestic i-utcUiscncr, szt.
tion. He missed the happiness he sought,
which he perhaps thought his due after years
of warlike fatigue, and often wandered fmth
a secret prey to discontent and gloomy fore
bodings.
In this mood, chance and desire of soli
tude led him to the matgin of the Adige, to
seek amidst the shade of the river’s embow
ered banks the tranquility'which he found
not at home. To avoid recognition by a
group of cavaliers, lounging after the tash
ion of the hour in a pavilion, near to and
overlooking the circling stream, though fat
above its hanks, he bent his steps to a small
path which intersected, amidst flowering
shrubs and underwood, a narrow space be
tween the base of the edifice and the edge
of the water. As he was passing beneath
—his footsteps unheard on the soft velvet
turf—the echo of his own name from the
pavilion caused the count to pause.
“ For rarest beauty,” continued the speak
er, “ I give the palm to Übaldini—her face
is Juno’s own—The Signora—l mean, as
you may supposg, the old man’s wife—Sig
nora Cavalcanti-—she I allow is peerless in
form and figure—but Della Scala 1 would
crown Queen of Grace and witching Ele
gance !”
“ Biavo, Guiseppe !” cried another, “thy
elegance is warm and luscious like the hour
—but Della Scala is too cold and reserved
for mv fancy—l worship the Cavalcanti—
my very soul is in bondage to Signora Cav
alcanti. O ! that 1 could wrest het from
the old man’s arms!”
“ And what is the harshness of thy fate to
mine ?” uttered a fresh voice, in deep se
pulchral tone, mocking the passion of the
last speaker. “My very body is in bondage
to Signora ’Cavalcanti—l owe old Plutus
eight thousand crowns—O ! that I could
wrest my attested bond from the old man’s
money chest!”
Lorenzo had been absent many yeats
from his native city; his acquaintance with
youthful cavaliers of his own rank was ne
cessarily very slight, and of the prevailing
themes of scandal, and of its victims, he
was almost wholly ignoront; but it were
ey to perceive be was listening to a group
of coxcombs, endued with all the arrogance
and mendacity characteristic of the clas ;
and Della Scala would fain have walked on
ward with a sneer on his moustached lip—
but rio ! he was no longer master of him
self! A thorn was in liisside—the venom of
distempered fancy already at work—and he
heaved a sigh of self reproach, as he felt
himself riveted to the spot.
** It would be well ibr the peace of our
V isconti,” exclaimed one, in sentimental
tone, “if he could transfer his passion to
this universal idol, Cavalcanti—but he has
been frantic since his return front Spain to
find his Bintica wife of the proud count.”
“ What does the lover deserve who seeks
the Spanish shore when he should he watch
ing nearer home?” asked Guiseppe.
The reply of Visconti's friend was to the
purpose, that lie believed himself safe in
that quarter, so long as Frajicesca, the art
ful intriguing Francesca, attendant and wait
ing-woman of Bianca, remained faithful to
his interests. She had sufficient art to scare
away a fresh lover, and was in the pay of
Visconti.
As the young cavalier proved himself so
well acquainted with his friend's affairs, and
seemed much disposed to babble thereon,
lie was not suffered to remain silent, but
plied with flesh questions, till the whole de
tail of the lovers’ history was laid hare to
the chagrined and enraged listenei beneath.
It appeared Guidoni was not altogether ig
norant of his daughters’ attachment, hut as
he had never countenanced the Signor Al
berto Visconti, lie was not disposed to make
bis love for Bianca an obstacle to the suit of
the rich and illustrious Della Scala. The
repugnance of the daughter, and the finesse
and stratagem of the waiting-maid, were of
no avail against a despotic father, more es
pecially in the absence of the lover, who
might have conjured a more desperate re
sistance to parental authority.
“I know Visconti well,” exclaimed his
friend, “ and he would never have suffered
the shame of that marriage if lie had been
in Verona.”
“ Indeed !” murmured Lorenzo between
liis teeth. His hand grasped the hilt of his
poniard, but he quickly recovered presence
of mind, and was again an attentive listener.
“ It matters little,” observed ono of the
party, saicastically, “what he would have
done if he had been here—the all-important
question is, what will he do now? Can you
answer that, Signor Jeronimo Fabrizio ?”
‘ Can you tell when the fox was ever
caught sleeping?” replied Fabrizio contemp
tuously. “ Visconti has too much prudence,
caution and reserve to suffer his plans to
travel to your ears !”
“ If he show as much prudence in future
movements as he exhibits caution in choice
of a confidant,” remarked the other, “he
vvillspeed as well as those ought tq,do, who
deposit secrets with the discreet Signor Fa
brizio! but see! the pinnace heaves in sight
—who will follow me ?”
“ Stay, you have forgotten, signor,” ex
claimed his antagonist, in anger, “ take that
with you.”
Lorenzo, from his place of concealment,
heard a slight, hurtling noise, as though a
missive hud been flung by Fahiizio at the
offender. It was followed by the reiterated
cries of the party that they would have no
quarreling on that day, but all should embark
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 11, 1843.
in the pinnace. The count took occasion of
the confusion, and stole away unpeiceived.
His Bianca !” muttered Della Scala, as he
walked gloomily onward. “ Visconti's Bi
anca! Have a care, Alberto Visconti ! thy
ancestors and mine fought for the mastery
of Verona—wilt thou revive the old feud?”
But anger gave way to grief as he con
templated the abyss in which his happiness
was wrecked. The coldness and constraint
of Bianca were now fearfully, harrowingly,
accounted for. Why was he kept ignorant
of what was already common talk ? Had
the house of Della Scala r.o friend nr kins
man to warn its chief? Was he then dupe
of the avaricious Guidoni? But if he were
dupe of the old man, thall he continue blind
to the threatened practices of Visconti? let
him look to it, and dread the vengeance of
Della Scala !
The count’s thoughts lent accelerated
speed to his movements—he retraced his
way to the city, endeavoring to conceal, bv
open brow, the agony at heart. The streets
of Verona were now alive with the busy
steps of citizens—the stately signor or mag
nifico walked heedless of the continually
recurring mendicant’s prayer from porch or
pillar ‘per amor cli Dio, while the signora,
whether masked, veiled, or disclosing her
features, accompanied by ancient attendant
or youthful waiting-maid, tripped by with
busier step, yet found leisure to listen to
and requite the vagrant's appeal—perchance
through pure charity—perchance out of
propitiation, with view of invoking indulg
ence toward sinful nature —or, may he. deed
of atonement fur past pccadillo. Approach
ing the church San Zeno, Lorenzo saw,
among others, ascending the steps, a lady so
much resembling the Countess Bianca, in
figure and depot tment, that he felt certain
of the identity. He smiled with contempt.
For whom prays she ? if for herself, ’t is
well—she needs it—for her father for me ?
no, no ! the one she deems a cold, tyrannical
old man, the other an obstacle to her pas
sion. For Visconti, date she proffer pray
ers ? Hah ! let both be aware !
lie entered the church, alike impelled by
jealousy, lest her visit to the sanctuary were
the fulfillment of an assignation, and prompt
ed by savage curiosity to piy unseen on de
votions which, to him, wore the semblance
of profanity and mockery. In the spacious
interior, there was scarcely a chapel or shrine
without one or more votaries, deeply ab
sorbed in silent prayer, all unheedful of the
many visiters, whose only aim was to escape
the wearisomeness of idleness, or enjoy the
cooler air and pavement of the holy pre
cincts. Lorenzo at length beheld the lady
he sought, kneeling at the entrance to a
small chapel, decorated with a large paint
ing of the Blessed Virgin, represented in
act of bestowing alms to the aged arid des
titute. He approached stealthily, and stop
ping at only a short distance from the sup
pliant, stu-xl gazing at her with strong yet
suppressed emotion. Her veil was uplifted
—the face presently averted momently from
the shrine—lie drew hack to avoid being
seen, hut the clatter on the pavement caused
her to look in that direction—it was not Bi
anca ! To escape the imputation of being a
spy on the lady’s actions, lie feigned to have
been deeply engrossed with the pictorial
embellishment of the shrine, hut the fair
dame once disturbed, renewed not her de
votions— perhaps frightened by the presence
of the cavalier. She crossed herself devout
ly and hastily withdrew.
What tempts Lorenzo to lingerbeforethat
picture ? He looked long, earnestly, sadly,
even till a tear came to the eye! True, it
is the Holy Virgin assuaging the sorrows
of crowding petitioners, whilst others, reci
pients of relief, aie hastening joyfully away.
The Catholic hierarchy, with subtlest policy,
ever employed the ideal breathing pencil of
genius to array the Virgin with tenderness
and grace more than human, so that the
portraiture wore a divine, beatific aspect.
Was it this character moved Lorenzo ? Not
wholly—but the secret charm was in the
strong resemblance borne to the Countess
Bianca—’twas her features, beatified, purg
ed from trace of earl lily passion. The mas
ters of the art were accustomed to paint
from nature, even for ideal subjects; per
haps the ancestress of Bianca was chosen
“to sit” for the representation on which
Della Scala now gazed. He looked, the
eyes of Bianca beamed mildly, innocently
upon him, suffused with that divine, tender
light, snatched only by genius in moments
of inspiration. The henit of the Italian was
softened —■jealousy buried in saddened ad
miration. Should he not, he at length asked
himself, yet endeavor to win Bianca to the
bosom of her lord? ’Twas not her crime
she loved another ere she beheld him—she
was yet innocent in act, if not in intention
—might yet be recovered to a sense of du
ty first, and then affection! One jarring
discord alone broke the harmony of his
thoughts ; it was us the images of Visconti
and the pert, intriguing favorite of Bianca
stole u'pon the mental vision. His fingers
crept toward his breast, the lips writhed,
but anger lasted only a moment—lie bent
reverently nnd lowly before the shrine, aud
left the arching domes of oh! San Zeno.
Evening approached, and the count was
ascending the staircase which conducted to
the principal floor in the Palazzo Della Sca
la, with intention of visiting the countess,
when Francesca suddenly presented herself
in the act of passing down. The count had
taken a secret dislike to Francesca, even
before he heard her character so freely com
mented on in the pavilion ; her features were
handsome, her form light, elegant, attrac
tive, but an expression of deep cunning and
cspiiglcrie, from which th face was never
wholly free, counterbalanced the effect of
high personal chat ms—at least in the eyes
of a husband whose wife had chosen such
an attendant. Francesca started on seeing
the magnifico—she murmured a few words
expressive of intention to acquaint the count
ess of monsignor’s approach, and was about
to retreat up the staircase for that purpose,
when Della Scala seized her by the wrist.
“ Nay,” he exclaimed, looking intently at
the gill, “I will be my own herald—you
may retire.”
Francesca uttered a slight scream, ac
companied by a contoition of features ex
pressive of physical pain, which first made
the count aware that he had unconsciously
gtasped her wrist with extreme violence;
’twas, indeed, a grip worthy to embrace
throat of Turk or Tartar in mortal conflict,
hut far beyond the endurance of slim, Chris
tian maiden. He smiled at this proof of
emotion, and told Francesca in kindly strain,
that she should have a bracelet of gold to
hide the bruiue. The waiting-woiiihii’s evi
dent eaget ness to prepare hei mistress for
the visit, reawoke Lorenzo’s jealousy, but
pride and love strove with the bitter passion,
mastered it—and so Della Scala determined
not to intrude his suspicions ori the coun
tess’privacy, but retired to his own chamber,
and sent an attendant to notify his purposed
visit.
Bianca rose to meet her lord, but she
could not sustain his ardent glance ; her
eyes fell, her step faltered, and she could
scarcely find speech to welcome him. He
led her to the window which overlooked the
garden of the palazzo. The perfumed air,
rich with fragrant breath of flowers, wan
dered over the saloon ; the red light of the
departing orb of day threw its golden shafts
across the cool verdure, of the lawn, flicker
ed over the scroll work of the chamber wall,
lit up and surrounded the face of Bianca
with a halo which concealed its deadly pale
ness and dismay. The count gazed with
admiration; illumined by the rich glow, the
featmes beamed angelic, like the Madonna
of the shrine.
“Bianca,” he exclaimed, “when the guests
unmask to-morrow at midnight atthe Palaz
zo Cavalcanti, let these pearls reflect the
softened lustre of a brow—Verona’s boast
and Della Sea la’s pride I”
“ How large and lustrous I” said Bianca,
betiding over the gift, the rather that her
eyes might not encounter the glance of Lo
renzo, “ such as these, nay, not so large,
came lately from Aleppo—brought there by
the Indian Caravan—and were sent to
Venice. Not finding a buyer there, the
goldsmith came to Verona with his rich
freight, and every day, as the countess tells
me, Count Übaldini feasts his eyes upon
them, tells his wife at evening what a rich
second dower he will bring home on the
morrow; hut when morning comes he shakes
his head, talks of the mortgage on his forest
lands, and bids her wait auother day !”
“ 1 know it well, Bianca,” rejoined Lo
renzo, “ these are the pearls which Übaldi
ni dallied with, and now his countess loses.
I bought them this afternoon, after a prayer
for the welfare of our house, put up in old
San Zeno.”
“I cannot go to Cavalconti’s house—O,
no! lam sure not,” cried Bianca, hysteri
cally; “O! pray excuse me!” And she
hurst into tears.
Lorenzo, at first deeply angered by the
sudden intimation of staying away from
Cavalcanti’s festa, was softened by her tears,
and leading the countess away from the
window, grew alarmed at her continued
hysterical sobbing. With vain fondness he
believed her heart was touched, that it strug
gled against its affections for Visconti—that
she was moved by the solicitude shown by
him to whom alone affection was due. He
endeavored to soothe her by painting the
future in the brightest colors, displaying
sources of happiness yet at command—hut
his eloquence proved in vain—its reiteration
seemed to add to her misery. She at length
pleaded illness, prayed to be left alone—
that repose would bring back her wonted
spirits, which had, she knew not how, fallen
into a melancholy train. If Della Scala
would hut leave her till the morning, she
said, sinking on her knee, she would meet
him with happier face, and thank him for all
he had done to make her happy.
“ The Countess Delia Scala,” exclaimed
Lorenzo, iu a tone grave though not un
kind, “is not a child asking a blessing of a
patent. Let her remember her own digni
the most illustrious in Verona, to her all
hearts vow honorable fealty and courtesy.
’Tis hers to command, not to entreat! Sig
nora,” he added, with an attempt at a smile,
“ I obey your request, and take my leave,
yet fail not to send for Agostino.”
He led her to a seat, and again pressing
her to command the attendance of the house
physician, Signor Agostino, quitted the sa
loon with the deference of a gallant lover.
Bianca reposed on a rich couch, her beau
ty disordered with weeping. ‘Twas night
—and the saloon was illumined by the ma
ny-braticbing lustre. Francesca stood be
side her mistress.
“ This is no more than I expected, signo
ra, from his visit,” said the favorite. “ a
demon’s fire glowed in his eyes when I met
him, which made me tremble for you, sig
nora—the incarnate brute !”
“ Whom mean you, Francesca ?” cried
the countess starting up.
“ Whom should 1 mean, signora, but the
count ?” replied the girl.
“ You do him wrong—Alberto does him
wrong—you are both bent on my ruin,”
cried Bianca, with eyes flushing indignation;
“ have I not told you all be said—how ten
derly he spoke! those princely pearls he
gave ? Alas! ungrateful wretch that cruel
fate has made me I”
“ Yes,” uttered Francesca, with a sneer,
“ and I can boast his gifts—a gold bracelet
—and for what ? look at this arm, signora ;
this is the work of the tender Count Della
Scala ! There may not be more generosity
in the gift to the mistress. But let us for
get the proud tyrant. I have news, good
news, in store; Albeito prays to see you
this evening in the garden, at the same hour
as he saw the signora last night.”
“ Did I not solemnly declare, Ftancesca,”
cried Bianca, grasping her maid’s atm with
frenzied agitation, “ did 1 not vow, that la9t
night should lie the first and last interview 1
granted Alberto—till—til!—”
Till die signor was prepared to carry us
both off’ to some happier land,” cried the
attendant; “ I know it well! hut the signo
ra gtipes as tightly as monsignot.”
Bianca flung off the woman contemptu
ously.
“ I meet rare treatment at all hands I”
remarked Francesca, in petulant tone; “I
had well nigh forgotten the signor’s letter.”
“ Where, where is it ?” cried Bianca,
with eagerness.
The countess snatched her lover’s epistle,
and, retiring to a distance, read it o’er and
o’er till her eyes melted into tears. Fran
ct sea watched with secret joy the effect of
Visconti’s soft pleading. Bianca’s heart
again renewed the fetters which bound her
to her first love.
“ Yet I cannot, dare not, see him to
night I” exclaimed she, unconsciously giv
ing utterance to thought.
“I dread telling poor Alberto this,” said
Francesca, who overheard the soliloquy ;
“ not see him ! How often has lie lamented
to me his bitter fate, deprived of the delight
when you stole to see him, after the old
Count Guidoni had gone to rest, and those
moonlight walks on the shore of the lake in
the Tyrol! Poor signor ! he is not the same
gentleman he used to be before his fatal
journey. Did not the signora mark the
change?”
In this strain continued the artful Fran
cesca, when she found B anca was touched,
bringing to fond memory all happy, blissful
records, when love was innocent, or guilty
of no higher crime than refraining to seek
a harsh father’s approving glance. Bianca’s
heart was torn in twain Lorenzo’s gene
rosity, still more, his lofty disinterestedness,
won upon her gratitude, if not her love—
hut alas ! she had, as she confessed, yielded
the previous evening to an interview with
Visconti. It took place in a balcony which
overlooked the garden, whither the daring
lover ventured, spite of the imminent dan
ger. Reluctantly she consented ; assent
was only won by Francesca declaring Al
berto’s intention, in the event of refusal, to
force his way through llie palazzo and die at
her feet. But this fatal meeting served to
rivet the links of a passion now criminal.
Alberto, warned of her irresolution and
wavering, was not slow to detail his scheme
of flying with her and Francesca to Spain,
where were situate his lately acquired es
tates, and to gain possession of which had
caused the disastrous journey. Once be
yond reach of Della Scala, or the Veronese
and Venetian authorities, leisure would he
afforded to set at work his interest with the
Spanish court to procure a dispensation
from Rome, annulling her marriage with
Lorenzo, on the plea of being forced to the
union by a despotic father, when she was,
as it might be well averred, secretly betroth
ed to the absent Visconti. Francesca, in
such a suit, would prove an invaluable wit
ness, her zeal readily supply what was want
ing in her testimony. The time selected
by Alberto was nightfall, when all Verona
would he in commotion with the hustle of
guests approaching the magnificent, masked
festa. The countess and her attendant might
easily pass through the streets, masked,
without especial observation, aud repair to
the spot where Visconti would he found
waiting with horses and servants. A sloop,
well manned, was in readiness at a small
port, and would be under tveigli so soon as
they were on hoard —long ere pursuit was
available. The countess, ns Alberto sug
gested, might accompany Della Scala to
the palazzo, mix awhile with the guests,
then retire to where her faithful Francesca
stood prepared to escort her mistress. Nay,
if the signora thought Lorenzo would grow
jealous if he missed his wife’s mask at an
early hour, it might be remedied by hiring
one, in the same costume, and bearing re
semblance to the figure and style of the
countess, to wear the disguised honors of
the house of Della Scala. Several, he
knew, would play the part to admiration,
and take a pleasure in it, without knowing
more than need safely be told.
Such was the nature of the proposed
elopement, consented to by Bianca, amidst
tears, weeping, fainting. Attend th e festa!
accompany Lorenzo, to quit him with such
bitter mockery, she could not I He was,
indeed, worthy f s love - which she could
j NUMBER 46.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
not requite — hut his affection she dare not
so coldly insult. Then must she plead ill
ness I Poor Bianca ! with lover, dearly lov
ed, at thy feet, threatening to slay himself
if thou didst not link thyself with his for
tunes ! and the artful serpent of thy own
sex, with skillful pleading, making the worse
appear the better reason, what snares beset
thee!
It was the day subsequent so this inter
view that witnessed the meeting we have
narrated, between Bianca and her lord.-
Noble Lorenzo ! wert thou not a day too
late ? What might not have been hoped if
thou hadst not displayed thy generous feel
ings but one day earlier 1
The distracted Bianca was but too glad
when Della Scala quitted her presence—
she was humbled, even to the dust, by con
sciousness of her criminal hypocrisy—pene
trated with a keen sense of tho wrong and
misery she was about to inflict on one who,
at her hands, deserved a happier fate.
It was Visconti’s letter which, while a
prey to remorse after Lorenzo quitted her,
rekindled the shattered 90ul, reawoke the
lamp of life and affection. That hondwrit
ing! the sight of which, in days gone by,
gave such intense delight, now renewed old
and irresistible associations. He should
linger, he said, through the evening, hover
ing near the palazzo with the hope that she
would grant even hut a moment's interview,
but if cruel prudence forbade, then let her
remember, that on the evening of the mor
row, so soon as Della Scala had departed,
and sharp watch should be kept on the
count’s exit, he would repair to the little
balcony, close to the door leading to the do
mestic offices, and ring the beli, a signal for
Francesca to appear abotc. On receiving
assurance that no obstacle interposed delay,
his intention was to retire immediately to
the shrine of Santa Croce—a wayfarer’s
ruined chapel beyond the walls of the city
—where horses and two faithful domestics
would be in waiting. It might excite sus
spicion, he said, if he joined the countess
immediately she quitted the palazzo. But
should any obstacle occur—as Della Scala
through sickness or jealous feeling staying
at home, or remaining on the watch-—then
let not Francesca await his appearance be
neath the balcony, hut forewarn him by sig
nal at the post whence he intended to watch
the count’s departure. Impressing these
precautionary measures on Bianca, the epis
tle relapsed into the lover’s strain.
Francesca, beholding her mistress reso
lute not to see Visconti that night, and fore
seeing the danger of too much pressing,
which might occasion a relapse favorable to
Loienzo’s happiness, she immediately un
dertook to pacify Alberto with the assurance
that all matters should beordered ns advised.
Night dosed upon the palazzo Della Scala,
hut peace and calm repose were banished
its walls I
Lorenzo, on leaving his countess, quitted
her with mind ill at ease. He was vexed
that he had not succeeded better with Bian
ca—there was a mystery in her conduct
which he could not unravel. ‘Twas plain
his munificence, joined to solicitude which
she could not mistake, had moved hei>— had
caused distress of mind, to cover which she
pleaded sickuess. But yet —yet — there
was no effort made to soothe him—to carry
hope to his heart! How delighted would he
have been the bare intimatiou that she
must strive to regain health to accompany
him the morrow night! But no, on bended
knee, she pleads fatigue, and craves till to
morrow—to join in his pursuits—share his
happiness ? alas ! no, coldly to thank her
lord for all he hud done to make her happy!
Restless with these sad reflections, he
sought not chamber or study, but strayed
out in the cool air of evening. Occasional
solitude bad become habitual. Whilst gen
eral of a numerous and well disciplined ar
my, many a time had lie strolled at night,
alone, through the camp, reviewing past
enterprises, maturing the steps of future
achievements. Now in Verona’s streets
was brought to mind how oft in the hash of
the tented field had he thought of home,
of the happiness that might be enjoyed
there!
But who is that damsel tripping by so fur
tively 1 The air and step are familiar to the
count. It is Francesca! Whither strays
she 1 Her appearance in the street, at that
hour, when evening is fading into night,
bodes no good. He watches closely ; fol
lows her steps, hidden by the shade of lofty
walls; she is accosted by a cavalier ; they
confer awhile ; he hands a letter, which she
places away carefully, and then returns in
the direction of the palazzo. The cavalier
departs in an opposite direction. Lorenzo
hangs on his footsteps, tracks from street to
street, till the stranger halts at the portal of
the dwelling in which Signor Visconti has
resided since his return from Spain.
“ Thy hour, Visconti, has not yet come,”
muttered Lorenzo, as he lurried on his heel,
“ but it approaches on quickening wing I”
The dark cloud Bgain lowered over the
domestic fortunes of Lorenzo, He could
not, would not believe Bianca in correspon
dence with the enemy to his peace, but he
could not avoid the conviction, that as Vis
conti and Francesca were in league, the
billet given to the latter was intended for
the eye of the countess. Another pang ?
what if there were indeed a connection be
tween the secret correspondence and the
expressed intention of Bianca to absent her
self from the masked revel ? A planned as-