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What, quite ? Has he no plea? no provo

cation

From lover, or from wife?
Da Riva.

None that I know of, Except her patience and the lover's merit. Antonio's love, you know, is old as his,

Has been more tried, and I believe is spotless.

Col. Dear Rondinelli! - Well, but has this husband

No taste of good in him at all? no corner In his heart for some small household grace to sneak in?

Da Riva. Nay, what he has of grace in
him is not sneaking.

In all, except a heart, and a black shade
Of superstition, he is man enough!
Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal

hand

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And call upon the gods, and think he loved

her!

Col. Poor, dear, damn'd tyrant! and where goes he now?

This amiable and happy personage, who had left Da Riva just before Colonna made his appearance, is now, we are told, on his way to Florence from his country-house, hesitating about taking his fair wife to town to let her enjoy the holidays on the advent " of his most pleasant Holiness the Pope," for fear of the said Antonio, and still more afraid of leaving "her in the shades, love's natural haunt." For surely the man is jealous-though, Heaven knows, without any other cause than that he knows Antonio loves her, and loved her before her husband ever saw her face. Antonio is even now in the country-house of the "sweet Diana," and the two friends agree to visit her, and accompany her and

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the bright Olympia"-" divine widows" both, and known to them formerly at the baths of Pisa as lanti's villa close by, partly that they "Sunlight and Moonlight"-to Agomay bring to Antonio

"Better news of his saint's health, Partly for other reasons which you'll see." Sprightly fellows-ready for any

mischief!

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And look she gives another; and fills the house

His justice on our heads; and she forbids

me,

With miseries, which, because they ease himself

However innocent you may call or think it,

And his vile spleen, he thinks her bound to suffer;

She bade me

And then finds malice in her very suffering! Col. And she, they tell me, suffers dangerously?

Da Riva. 'Tis thought she'll die of it.
And yet, observe now :-

Such is poor human nature, at least such
Is poor human inhuman nature in this man,
That if she were to die, I verily think
He'd weep, and sit at the receipt of pity,

Bring letters any more.
give it you
Back again-see-unopen'd.

Pretty innocent-with the pretty name-Fiordilisa! Some small flirtation ensues, and Giulio sings a somewhat silly stanza to his guitar-when, in no serene mood of his own mind, enters Agolanti. His eye catches a glimpse of the paper in Giulio's vest;

and he knows at once-so quick-sighted that when you think of the friends of

and quick-witted are the jealous-that it is a letter to Ginevra from Antonio. The page is not so much abashed as perhaps might have been expected; and, knowing his dear lady's innocence of any fault, puts on a bold face, and indulges-aside-in some rather cutting critical notices on the demeanour of his master, who on the spot dismisses him from his service without a written character. Here is the letter.

""Most harmless; - I dare to add most virtuous!'

"And here again below:

"" I have written what I have written on the outside of this letter, hoping that it may move you to believe the possibility of its not being unworthy to meet the purest of mortal eyes.'

"Filthiest hypocrite! caught in his own birdlime. [Opens and reads the letter.

" As you have opened neither my first letter nor my second, written at intervals of six months each, from the moment when my name was first again mentioned to you since your marriage, I hardly dare hope that the words I am now writing shall have the blessedness of being looked upon, although they truly deserve it.

Truly, for most piteously they deserve it. I am going to reward (may I utter such a word?) your kindness, by the greatest and most dreadful return. I can make it. I will write to you no more.

"But this promise is a thing so terrible to me, and so unsupportable, except in the hope of its doing you some good, that I have

one reward to beg for myself; not as a condition, but as a last and enduring charity.

""I no longer ask you to love me, however innocently, or on the plea of its being some shadow of relief to you (in the sweet thought of loving) from an unhappiness, of which all the world speaks.'

[AGOLANTI pauses, greatly moved. "Is it so then? and the world speaks of And basely speaks! He has been talking

me,

then,

And acting too. But let me know this all. [Reading.

""Neither yet will I beg you not to hate me; for so gentle a heart cannot hate any body; and you never were unjust except to yourself. [Pauses a little again.

"But this I do beg: first, that you will take care of a health, which Heaven has given you no right to neglect, whatever be your unhappiness; and which, under Heaven, is the best support of it; and secondly,

whom death has deprived you, or may deprive, and whom it will give you joy to meet again beyond the grave, you may not be unwilling to behold among them the face of

""ΑΝΤΟΝΙO RONDINELLI.

""Written with prayers and tears before the sacred image of the Virgin."

We do not very well know what to say of this letter. It proves the perfect purity of Ginevra, and that Antonio's love was honourable as hopeless; and so far it is well. It also punishes Agolanti-and that is better; while we can easily conceive an audience interested by it, because earnestly expecting some revelation to be made towards the close. But why was it sent and for the third time? Heimplores her to take care of her health; but what did she care about her health who was not only willing, but desired to die? He assures her of his devoted love; but that she wellknew, and to her a wife, but an unhappy one-it could give no true comfort. He asks her not to forget him-when he might be numbered with the dead; but not to call such request fantastical_it was needless, and he has not the look of a dying man. Loving ones, divided by destiny on earth, hope to meet in heaven. Why, then, such a letter at all? And oh, how could he-Antonio Rondinelli-think of thus endangering the life of such a being as Ginevra? That was very, very selfish; and love like his should

have recoiled in horror from the risk of subjecting his " soul's wife" to yet worse indignity and outrage from her body's husband.

In Scene III.- another room in Agolanti's house-Ginevra, Olympia, Diana, Colonna, and Da Riva are discovered sitting, Fiordilisa standing behind her lady's chair. They are talking about the approaching celebrations, and very engaging talk it is; the raillery is light and elegant, and we are in love with both the widows. But we love Ginevra. Few as her words are, and somewhat sad withal, they give a delightful impression of her character. But Agolanti enters, and light grows gloom. Say what she will be she glad or pensive - willing to witness with her husband and friends the coming spectacle, or to keep aloof and retired from the throng, she but irritates the ill-conditioned hypocrite-all she can do to find out his wishes, that they may be hers, is not only ineffectual but turned against her; and while, in an under tone, he accuses her of "insolence" and "a woman's plot," the savage "wrings her hands sharply;" and as they quit the room, mutters

"Be in the purple chamber

In twenty minutes. Do you hear me speak? A fair day to my courteous visiters,

And may they ever have the joy they bring."

Curse him!-we already hate him at the close of the First Act as well as if we had abhorred him for a dozen years, and devoutly wish him at the devil, between the horns of the old dilemma.

In the First Scene of the Second Act, we are introduced to Antonio, of whom we have been predisposed to think highly, in spite-perhaps you would say because of that letter. He is walking with his good friends Colonna and Da Riva in a garden of Diana's villa, and they wisely seek to comfort him, not by show of condolence, but by the medicine of mirthful spirits. There is no puling sentimentalism in this play; and, though Antonio takes but small part in the merriment, yet knowing it is kindly meant, he does not discourage it either by sour or sullen looks-though gloomy he is not glum, and at the close of the scene kisses Olympia's hand with a cheerful gallantry.

But 'tis time-though no time has been lost that we should see husband and wife together - alone that we may know the amount of their misery, and think if it is ever to have an end. Ginevra has obeyed the order to get her to the purple chamber-twenty minutes have crawled by her and Agolanti is at her side. He believes that he is a pious man-with a deep sense of religion; but Da Riva, who knows him better, told us, you will recollect

and heaven seems never so heavenly as when gazed on through tears.

ACT II. SCENE II. A chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet picture of the Madonna, but otherwise little furnished. GINEVRA discovered sitting at a window.

Enter AGOLANTI.

Ago. Every way she opposes me, even with arms

Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture

had it

From this deserted room. Can she have Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger,

Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved The face of suffering heaven? Oh, artifice In very piety! 'Twere piety to veil it From our discourse, and look another way. [During this speech, GINEVRA Comes forward, and AGOLANTI, after closing the cabinet doors over the picture, hands her a chair; adjusting another for himself, but continuing to stand. Gin. (Cheerfully.) The world seems

glad after its hearty drink Of rain. I fear'd, when you came back this morning,

The shower had stopp'd you, or that you

were ill.

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To pretty household tremblers.
Gin.

I express'd
No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed
Any thing, of my own accord; or contrary
To your good judgment.
Ago.

Oh, of course not! Wishes Are never express'd for, or by, contraries;

"In all, except a heart, and a black shade Nor the good judgment of an anxious husOf superstition, he is man enough.” band

Well he will surely not be incensed by the sight of superstition in another -in his wife. Ay, but hers is not a black shade, but a white light; and therefore her adoration is odious to his eyes, and he is wroth to behold her kneeling before the Madonna. The sorrowful have upward-looking eyes,

Held forth as a pleasant thing to differ with.

Gin. It is as easy as sitting in my chair To say, I will not go: and I will not. Be pleased to think that settled,

Ago.

As 'tis expected I should go, is it not? The more easily And then you will sit happy at receipt Of letters from Antonio Rondinelli.

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What do you say?
Gin.

You think best, and desire.
Ago.

may,

All this, I will not have these prying idlers
Put my domestic troubles to the blush;
Nor you sit thus in ostentatious meekness,
Playing the victim with a pretty breath,
And smiles that say "God help me!"-
Well, madam,

Makes the soul swoon within its range, for

want

Of some great answer, terrible as its wrong,
And it shall be as nothing to this miserable,
Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of
lies,

This angel-mimicking non-provocation

I say I will do whatever From one too cold to enrage, and weak to tread on!

And make the worst of it You never loved me once-You loved me

By whatsoever may mislead, and vex?

not

There now you make a pretty sign, as

Never did-no-not when before the altar,

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With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness

What can I say, Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided? You should not use me thus. I have not

And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband,

strength for it

Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty,
By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to

So great as you may think. My late sharp illness

love!

Has left me weak.

Gin. I scorn'd you not and knew not what scorn was

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meant

And brings it none ?

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In that, would you but know it, and encourage it.

The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil, Brings charity. Be you but charitable, And I am grateful, and we both shall learn. Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,

Nor when we dispute, ever, except the wrong

Done to myself by a will far more wilful, Because less moved, and less ingenuous. Let them get charity that show it.

Gin. (who has reseated herself.) I pray

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Thinking that, as the Signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks to him of religion,
It might have done no harm to you and him,
madam,

To hear it while conversing. But he's old
And slow, is the good father.

[GINEVRA kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.

Gin. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven and the sweet sounds! I have not Wept, Fiordilisa, now for many a day, And the sound freshens me; -loosens my heart. [Music.

O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,
Pitied of angels surely.
Fior.

Perhaps, madam,

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[Exeunt; the music continuing.

There is something too absolutely painful in this scene, though it could not be helped, since such is the character the dramatist has chosen to draw in Agolanti; but it is a scene of great power-and the name of Ginevrais felt at the close to be falling in among those endeared to our heart, by the meek endurance of unmerited suffering, that serves to bring out from the concealment of its calm the strength of their native virtue. Framed by gracious nature with all holiest affections-not one of them all may she be permitted to enjoy all of them interdicted to her even as an orphan; and the sweeter humanities frowned upon as sins against duty to him who is her deliberate destroyer. And what though she knows that she is pitied? Pity can sooth sorrow that but disturbs or abates a happiness that is still, in spite of sorrow, felt to be happiness indeed-such happiness as can be beneath the skies; but when all in the heart is sorrow, sorrow without hope, what can pity do but turn away and weep!

But how fares it with Agolanti ?

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