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 "and said give in honour of her guest's recovery;"" and it is time, lady,' 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, 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. A. he Printed and published by JOSEPH Appleyard, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price 2d. And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Souffs, 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, 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, from long indulged self-will, from the impunities of too much wealth and authority, and from tyrannical and degrading notions of the Su→ preme Being. It is nothing but the old story of the Neros and Ezzelins in another shape. It is will driven mad by the power of indulging itself. As to the impossibility of the story, let those names and the writings of the elder dramatists answer all objections on that score. It is not the abstract crime that is the subject of consideration, but the excess proportioned to the excess of the will and to the bitterness of the contradiction. It is the enormity that proves the case.. The unhappy patient is insane with self-will and with the fury of being opposed; and he will do the worst and most horrible things, precisely because he, as well as others, knows them to be the worst. His very outrages are testimonies to the beauty of virtue. He does not say this to himself. If he did, he would not do it, unless he were in a state of bodily as well as moral disease. But such is the instinct of his habits. The question then is, not how far we can loathe to hear about the frenzies of a fellow-creature, but how we can get at the causes of his frenzy, and help society to guard against them in all their shapes, great or small. We have thousands of Cencis among us in a lesser way,-petty home tyrants, sullen degraders of the deity they worship, impudent and callous men of the world, people that hate and would vex others in proportion as their merits mortify their own want of merit, tempers that work their wretched pleasure out of the pains of those they can worry, in short, all that come under the poet's description of the household fiend,"-all the spoiled children of power, high and low,the victims of indulged perversity and of an induced bad opinion of God and man. Upon these grounds, after giving way to our first impulse of horror and indignation at the ruffian old man of the following story, we can pity him. But to the story itself. The Manuscript was copied by an Italian gentleman from a library at Rome, and is entitled, An Account of the Death of the Cenci Family. Francesco Cenci was the only son of a Roman lord, who had been Treasurer to Pope Pius-the Fifth, and who left him a clear annual income of a hundred and sixty thousand scudi.* Besides this, oùr miserable inheritor of wealth and impunity married a rich woman. After the death of this lady, he took for his second wife Lucrezia Petroni, of a noble family in the same city. By the former, he had seven children. By the latter none. Francesco hated these children. It is a dreadful thing to say so in so many words; but the cause is easily seen through. He led a life of the most odious profligacy, and was as full of sullenness as vice. His children were intelligent; their father's example disgusted them; and he saw, and could not bear this contrast. The account of his ill-treatment of them begins with his refusing his sons enough to live decently upon, while pursuing their studies at Salamanca. They were obliged to return to their miserable home; and here he treated them * We know not the precise value of this coin, which does not appear among the current money of Italy: nor can we refer to books for it at this moment.. But there were scudi of gold; and Cenci's fortune was accounted enormous. so much worse, denying them even common food and clothing, that they applied in despair to the Pope, who made him allow them a separate provision, with which they retired to another dwelling. Previously to this period, Cenci had been convicted of a crime twice over, and been suffered to compound for it with the Pope in two several sums of a hundred thousand scudi, nearly two thirds of his annual income. His third mortal crime now took place, and the sons by this time were so embittered by the constant wretchedness and infamy in which he kept his family, that they entreated the Sovereign Pontiff to put an end to his life and villainies at once. The Pope, says the narrative, was inclined to give him the death he merited, but not at the request of his own offspring, and for the third time he allowed him to make his usual composition of a hundred thousand scudi. The wretched man now hated his children worse then ever, as he had some better reason to do. But not content with cursing his sons, he visited his two daughters with blows, and otherwise so trampled upon their feelings, that not being able to bear his treatment longer, the elder one applied to the Pope, begging him either to marry her according to his discretion, or to put her in a nunnery. The Pope took pity on the unhappy girl, and married her to a gentleman of rank named Carlo Gabrielli, making the father at the same time give her a suitable dowry. This event so gnawed into Cenci's mind, that fearing his other daughter would follow her sister's example when she grew old enough, he cast in his diabolical thoughts how he might prevent it most assuredly, short of taking away her life. It has been thought by some, that Mr. Shelley's tragedy must be an exaggeration. The fact is, that the historical narrative is much worse. The details of his conduct, fill up the poet's outline with horrors not to be thought of. We cannot repeat what this mad and grey-headed horror (for he was now an old man) both preached and practised in order to break down his daughter's virtues as well as heart; but he first kept her locked up in a solitary apartment, where none saw her but himself, and where he brought her stripes as well as food: and his last action →→→→ About this period the terrible old man received news of the death of two of his sons, Rocco and Cristofero, who by some means or other both came to violent ends. He welcomed it with delight, saying that nothing could make him happier but to hear the same thing of all his children; and that whenever the last should die, he would keep open house to all comers for joy. To shew his hatred the more openly, he would not give the least pittance towards interring them. Beatrice was now beyond despair. She collected her thoughts, and sent off a letter to the Pope which the author of the Manuscript describes as excellently written. Let us stop here a moment, to speak more particularly of the extraordinary girl. "Beatrice," says the close of the Narrative, was of a make rather large then small. Her complexion was fair. She had two dimples in her cheeks, which added to the beauty of her countenance especially when she smiled, and gave it a grace that enchanted all who saw her. Her hair was like threads of gold; and because it was very long, she used to fasten it up; but when she let it flow loosely, the wavy splendour of it was astonishing. She had blue eyes, very pleasing, of a sprightliness mixed with dignity: and in addition to all these graces, her conversation, as well as all that she did, had a spirit in it, and a sparkling polish (un brio signorile) which made every one in love with her. She was then under twenty years of age." The letter to the Pope had no effect. The MS. says that it was found in the office of the Secretary of Memorials; but supposes that it never could have been laid before his Holiness. The reader may be allowed, under all the circumstances to suspect otherwise. Cenci was still rich and powerful; and there is no knowing how many thousands of scudi he may have had to pay now. What renders the conduct of the Pope the more suspicious, is that the criminal somehow or other got intelligence of the application. It made him more furious then ever; and besides locking up his daughter, he incarcerated in the same manner, and apparently in the same room, his wife her mother-in-law, who had already drunk largely of the family cup of bitterness. Finding every avenue of relief shut against them, and taught by the old man himself, as well as their own awful thoughts, to forego the ties of relationship, they finally resolved upon dispatching him. There was a visitor in the Cenci Palace, a young prelate of the name of Guerra, who, says the MS. was a young man of an agreeable presence, well-bred, and one that easily accommodated himself to any proposal, good or bad." He was well acquainted with the wickedness of Cenci, who hated him for the attentions he paid his family; so that he used to come there at such times only as he knew the old man had gone out., How he gained admittance to the wife and daughter in the present instance does not appear; but he did; and finding their miseries augmented at every visit, his interest in their wretched state increased in proportion. The MS. says that he was not without a love for Beatrice; but it does not appear that she returned it. Be this as it may, having gathered their intentions about the old man from some words which Beatrice let fall, he not only approved them, but declared his willingness to co-operate in the catastrophe. The design was then communicated to Giacomo, one of her brothers, who instantly fell in with it. He had felt his fathers ill treatment still more then the rest of his sons, having a wife and children whom the stipend assigned him by the Pope was insufficient to support. Cenci had taken for the summer residence of himself and his family a castle called the Rock of Petrella. The first plan of the conspirators was to hire a banditti to surprise and kill him in his way thither. The banditti were hired accordingly, but the notice of Cenci's coming was given them too late, and he got into the Castle. Neither did they lurk in the thicket about the place to any purpose; for being now seventy years of age, (and probably aware of the state of the neighbourhood, no unusual thing in those times) he never stirred out of doors. It was therefore determined to put him to death in the castle. For this purpose, they hired two of his vassals, named Marzio and Olimpio, who either had or thought they had cause of offence with him. The reward offered for the deed was a thousand scudi, one third to be paid beforehand by Monsignor Guerra, and the remainder by the ladies when all |