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nine years of age, had been struck with it's beauty, and exclaimed that it was the place of all others he should like to live in, better than the most splendid cities. He resided there afterwards for several years, and composed in it the greater part of his poems. Indeed, he says in his own account of himself, that he either wrote or conceived in that valley almost every work he produced. He lived in a little cottage with a small homestead, on the banks of the river. Here he thought to forget his passion for Laura, and here he found it stronger than ever. We do not well see how it could have been otherwise; for Laura lived no great way off, at Chabrieres: and he appears to have seen her often in the very place. He paced along the river; he sat under the trees; he climbed the mountains; but Love, he says, was ever by his side,

Regionando con meco, ed io con lui.

He holding talk with me, and I with him.

We are supposing that all our readers are acquainted with Petrarch. Many of them doubtless know him intimately. Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should we speak of him in the gross ? We should say, that he was one of the finest gentlemen and greatest scholars that ever lived; that he was a writer who flourished in Italy in the 14th century at the time when Chaucer was young, during the reigns of our Edwards; that he was the greatest light of his age; that although so fine a writer himself, and the author of a multitude of works, or rather because he was both, he took the greatest pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning, recommending it every where, and copying out large manuscripts with his own hand; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, contended which should have the honour of crowning him; that he was crowned publicly, in the Metropolis of the World, with laurel and with myrtle; that he was the friend of Boccaccio, the Father of Italian Prose; and lastly, that his greatest renown nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his existence, arose from the long love he bore for a lady of Avignon, the far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of April, 1327, on a Good Friday; whom he rendered illustrious in a multitude of sonnets, which have left a sweet sound and sentiment in the car of all after lovers; and who died, still passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on the same day and hour on which he first beheld her. Who she was, or why their connexion was not closer, remains a mys ́tery. But that she was a real person, and that in spite of all her modesty she did not shew an insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his long-haunted imagination, from his own repeated accounts, from all that he wrote, uttered, and thought. One love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilized world a sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in one single idea, and of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine the passion for all modern times; and perhaps will do so, as long as love renews the world.

By way of completing this ebullition on Petrarch, which has been unexpectedly excited in us, (for we intended to devote a longer

and perhaps a duller article to him by and by), we will conclude it with a translation of his most celebrated canzone, which was addressed to the river Sorgue and it's bowers. It has appeared before, though not in a place so suitable as the present; and as we have been asked to re-print it, before we ever thought of doing so, we repeat it with the less scruple. It is the 14th Canzone, Vol. 1., beginning,

CHIARE, FRESCHE, E DOLCE ACQUE.

Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,

Which the fair shape, who seems

To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide ;

Bough, gently interknit,

(I sigh to think of it)

Which formed a rustic chair for her sweet side;

And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,

O'er which her folded gown

Flowed like an angel's down;

And you, O holy air and hush'd,

Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd;

Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,

To my last words, my last and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below,

And heaven will have it so,

That love must close these dying eyes in tears,

May my poor dust be laid

In middle of your shade,

While my soul, naked, mounts to it's own spheres.

The thought would calm my fears,

When taking, out of breath,

The doubtful step of death;

For never could my spirit find

A stiller port after the stormy wind;

Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne,

Slip from my travailled flesh, and from my bones out-worn.

Perhaps, some future hour,

To her accustomed bower

Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she;

Aud where she saw me first,

Might turn with eyes athirst

Aud kinder joy to look again for me;

Then, Oh the charity!

Seeing betwixt the stones

The earth that held my bones,

A sigh for very love at last

Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past:

And heaven itself could not say nay,

As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind,

When from those boughs the wind

Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;

And there she sat, meek-eyed,

In midst of all that pride,

Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower.

Some to her hair paid dower,

And seemed to dress the curls,

Queenlike, with gold and pearls;

Some, showing, on her drapery stopp'd,

Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd;

While others, fluttering from above,

Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying "Here reigns Love."

How often then I said,

Inward, and fill'd with dread,

-"Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!"
For at her look the while,

Her voice, and her sweet smile,

And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;

So that, with long-drawn sighs,

I said, as far from men,

"How came I here, and when!"

I had forgotten; and alas,

Fancied myself in heav'n, not where I was;

And from that time till this, I bear

Such love for the green Bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.

A TRUE STORY.

TO THE INDICATOR.

SIR,-When I was a young boy, I had delicate health, and was somewhat of a pensive and contemplative turn of mind: it was my delight in the long summer evenings to slip away from my noisy and more robust companions, that I might walk in the shade of a venerable wood, my favourite haunt, and listen to the cawing of the old rooks, who seemed as fond of this retreat as I was.

One evening I sat later than usual, though the distant sound of the cathedral clock had more than once warned me to my home. There was a stillness in all nature that I was unwilling to disturb by the least motion. From this reverie I was suddenly startled by the sight of a tall slender female who was standing by me, looking sorrowfully and steadily in my face. She was dressed in white, from head to foot, ia a fashion I had never seen before; her garments were unusually long and flowing, and rustled as she glided through the low shrubs near me as if they were made of the richest silk. My heart beat as if I was dying, and I knew not that I could have stirred from the spot; but she seemed so very mild and beautiful, I did not attempt it. Her pale brown hair was braided round her head, but there were some locks that strayed upon her neck; and altogether she looked like a lovely picture, but not like a living woman. I closed my eyes forcibly with my hands, and when I looked again she had vanished.

I cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak of this beautiful appearance, nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and fear, I went again and again to the same spot that I might see her. She always came, and often in the storm and plashing rain, that never seemed to touch or to annoy her, and looked sweetly at me, and silently passed on; and though she was so near to me, that once the wind lifted those light straying locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet I never could move or speak to her. I fell ill; and when I recovered, my mother closely questioned me of the tall lady, of whom, in the height of my fever, I had so often spoken.

I cannot tell you what a weight was taken from my boyish spirits, when I learnt that this was no apparition, but a most lovely woman;

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not young, though she had kept her young looks, for the grief which had broken her heart seemed to have spared her beauty.

When the rebel troops were retreating after their total defeat, in that very wood I was so fond of, a young officer, unable any longer to endure the anguish of his wounds, sunk from his horse, and laid himself down to die. He was found there by the daughter of Sir Henry R- and conveyed by a trusty domestic to her father's mansion. Sir Henry was a loyalist; but the officer's desperate condition excited his compassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a brave man could not misunderstand. Sir Henry's daughter with many tears pleaded for him, and pronounced that he should be carefully and secretly attended. And well she kept that promise, for she waited upon him (her mother being long dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched for the first opening of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked brightly and gratefully upon his young nurse.

You may fancy better than I can tell you, as he slowly recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and low-voiced singing, and gentle playing on the lute, and how many fresh flowers were brought to one whose wounded limbs would not bear him to gather them for himself, and how calmly the days glided on in the blessedness of returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully enjoined him. I will pass by this to speak of one day, which, brighter and pleasanter than others, did not seem more bright or more lovely than the looks of the young maiden, as she gaily spoke of " a little festival which (though it must bear an unworthier name) she meant really to give in honour of her guest's recovery ;"" and it is time, lady," said he, for that guest so tended and so honoured, to tell you his whole story, and speak to you of one who will help him to thank you: may I ask you, fair lady, to write a little billet for me, which even in these times of danger I may find some means to forward" To his mother, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps and a lighter heart she seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade him dictate; but, when he said "My dear wife," and lifted up his eyes to be asked for more, he saw before him a pale statue, that gave him one look of utter despair, and fell, for he had no power to help her, heavily at his feet. Those eyes never truly reflected the pure soul again, or answered by answering looks the fond enquiries of her poor old father. She lived to be as I saw her, sweet and gentle, and delicate always; but reason returned no more. She visited till the day of her death the spot where she first saw that young soldier, and dressed herself in the very clothes that he said so well became her.

Δ.

Printed and published by JOSEPH APPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price 2d. And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistockstreet, Covent-garden. Orders received at the above places, and by all Booksellers and Newsmeu.

THE INDICATOR.

There he arriving round about doth flie,
And takes survey with busie curious eye:
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly.

SPENSER.

No. XLI.-WEDNESDAY, JULY 19th, 1820.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CENCI FAMILY, AND TRAGEDY ON THAT SUBJECT.

WE lay before our readers in the present number the substance of a remarkable document, containing the authorities for the tragedy which has lately appeared on the same subject, and which we shall afterwards proceed to notice. Criticism is not intended to be a feature in this our very competent and agreeable miscellany, especially criticism of a hostile nature. But like our illustrious predecessors the Tatler and Spectator, and their fine old father Montaigne, we shall not hesitate now and then to notice some new and excellent work, or to vindicate some great endeavours on the part of a friend, the nature of which may require a more than ordinary introduction to the public.

It has been supposed by some, we understand, that the author of the Cenci has overcharged his story; and these and other persons think that it is too horrible to tell. We are no admirers of horrid stories in general, as we have observed in the prefatory remarks to our own grim perpetration, the Tale for a Chimney Corner. (INDICATOR, p. 73.) There are some books in very good request, and with very delicate people too,-such as Clarissa Harlowe,-which with all their undoubted genius we would as soon read again, as see a man run the gauntlet from here to Land's End. The pain is too long drawn out, and the author's portait looks too fat and comfortable. There are also plays, not so clever, such as George Barnwell and the Fatal Marriage, full of half-witted morals and gratuitous agonies, which we would as lief pay to have our legs tortured, as go to see :-admittance to the red hot pincers, three and sixpence; half-torture, two shillings. But as we would avoid mean and unnecessary pain, so it appears to us to be a sort of moral cowardice not to look the most appalling stories in the face, that come to beckon us towards hidden treasures of thought, or to point out to us some great and awful endeavour for good. As Proteus, when his consulters grappled with him, changed himself into figures of beasts and serpents, to frighten them from their hold, but gave them their answer if he found it of no avail, so it is with these stories. They are the Gods wrestling with us in fearful shapes. Their final aspect is patient, human, and oracular.

The moral of the terrible story of the Cenci, whether told in history or poetry, is a lesson against the enormities arising from bad education,

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