“The Signor Curate will say I am come very late," said Tonio
with a low bow, which Gervase awkwardly imitated.
with a low bow, which Gervase awkwardly imitated.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v17 - Mai to Mom
Also in the Land of Palestine and in the Land of
Egypt, they eat but little or none of Flesh of Veal or of Beef,
but if the Beast be so old, that he may no more work for old
## p. 9663 (#71) ############################################
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
9663
Age; for it is forbidden, because they have but few of them;
therefore they nourish them to till their Lands.
In this City of Bethlehem was David the King born; and he
had 60 Wives, and the first wife was called Michal; and also he
had 300 Lemans.
And from Bethlehem unto Jerusalem is but 2 Mile; and in
the Way to Jerusalem half a Mile from Bethlehem is a Church,
where the Angel said to the Shepherds of the Birth of Christ.
And in that Way is the Tomb of Rachel, that was the Mother
of Joseph the Patriarch; and she died anon after that she was
delivered of her Son Benjamin. And there she was buried by
Jacob her Husband; and he made set 12 great Stones on her, in
Token that she had born 12 Children. In the same Way, half a
Mile from Jerusalem, appeared the Star to the 3 Kings. In that
Way also be many Churches of Christian Men, by the which Men
go towards the City of Jerusalem.
## p. 9664 (#72) ############################################
9664
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
1803-1849
N THE summer of 1894 some workmen engaged in removing a
mass of rubbish, to make room for a new building in one of
the poorer quarters of Dublin, came upon the ruins of an
old cellar. A casual passer-by happened to notice the old wall, with
its low window looking out upon a level with the narrow and squalid
alley. Moved by some bookish recollection, he realized that he was
standing at the corner of Bride Street and Myler’s Alley, known in
the older days as Glendalough Lane; and that the miserable vestige
of human habitation into which the rough navvies were driving their
pickaxes had once been the poor shelter of him who,-
«Worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
Had fled for shelter to God, who mated
His soul with song. ”
>
From this spot James Clarence Mangan, wasted with famine and
already delirious, was carried by the Overseers of the Poor to the
sheds of Meath Hospital in June 1849; too late, alas! to save the
dying man, who in the years of his young manhood had sung and
suffered for Ireland. A few friends gathered about him to comfort
his patient and gentle soul, and to lay his bones in the cool clay of
Glasnevin.
The life of Mangan is a convincing proof that differences of time
and place have no influence upon the poet's power. Poverty and
Want were the foster-brothers of this most wonderful of Ireland's
gifted children. His patient body was chained to daily labor for the
sordid needs of an unappreciating kindred, and none of the pleasant
joys of travel and of diversified nature were his. He was born in
Fishamble Street, Dublin, in 1803, and never passed beyond the con-
fines of his native city; but his spirit was not jailed by the misery
which oppressed his body His wondrous fancy swept with a con-
queror's march through all the fair broad universe.
Like Poe and Chatterton, Mangan impaired his powers by the use
of intoxicants. He was very sensitive about the squalor of his sur-
roundings, and was reticent and shy in the company of more fortu-
nate men and women: but with admirable unselfishness he devoted
his days, his toil, and the meagre rewards which came to him from
his work, to the care and sustenance of his mean-spirited kindred.
## p. 9665 (#73) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9665
For years he labored in the hopeless position of a scrivener's clerk,
from which he was rescued by the interest of Dr. Todd, and was
made an assistant librarian of Trinity College. There it was his
habit to spend hours of rapt and speechless labor amid the dusty
shelves, to earn his pittance. Dr. Petrie subsequently found him a
place in the office of the Irish Ordnance Survey; but Mangan was
his own enemy and foredoomed to defeat. He wielded a vigorous
pen in Ireland's cause, and under various names communicated his
own glowing spirit to his countrymen through the columns of several
periodicals. He published also two volumes of translations from the
German poets, which are full of his own lyric fire but have no claim
to fidelity. It was in his gloomy cellar-home that he poured out the
music of his heart. When he died, a volume of German poetry was
found in his pocket, and there were loose papers on which he had
feebly traced his last thoughts in verse. Mangan will forever remain
a cherished comrade of all gentle lovers of the Beautiful and True.
THE DAWNING OF THE DAY
"T"
WAS a balmy summer morning,
Warm and early,
Such as only June bestows;
Everywhere the earth adorning,
Dews lay pearly
In the lily-bell and rose.
Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow
Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay;
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow:
'Twas the dawning of the day!
Through the perfumed air the golden
Bees flew round me;
Bright fish dazzled from the sea,
Till medreamt some fairy olden-
World spell bound me
In a trance of witcherie.
Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings,
Bearing riders prankt in rich array,
Like flushed revelers after wine-carousings:
'Twas the dawning of the day!
Then a strain of song was chanted,
And the lightly
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear.
XVII-605
## p. 9666 (#74) ############################################
9666
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Then again the shore seemed haunted
By hosts brightly
Clad, and wielding shield and spear!
Then came battle shouts — an onward rushing -
Swords, and chariots, and a phantom fray.
Then all vanished: the warm skies were blushing
In the dawning of the day!
Cities girt with glorious gardens,
Whose immortal
Habitants in robes of light
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens
Nigh each portal,
Now arose to daze my sight.
Eden spread around, revived and blooming;
When - lo! as I gazed, all passed away:
I saw but black rocks and billows looming
In the dim chill dawn of day!
THE NAMELESS ONE
R:
OLL forth, my song, like the rushing river
That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee!
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That there was once one whose veins ran lightning
No eye beheld.
Tell how his boyhood was one drear night hour;
How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our
Path to the tomb.
Roll on, my song, and to after ages
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
The way to live.
And tell how, trampled, derided, hated,
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated
His soul with song -
## p. 9667 (#75) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9667
With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
Flowed like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid -
A mountain stream.
Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long
To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
For even death.
Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,
He still, still strove.
Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
And some whose hands should have wrought for him
(If children live not for sires and mothers),
His mind grew dim.
And he fell far through that pit abysmal,-
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,-
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal
Stock of returns.
But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
Stood on his path.
And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
That no ray lights.
And lives he still, then ? Yes: old and hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story
Will never know.
Him grant a grave too, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell!
He too had tears for all souls in trouble
Here and in hell.
## p. 9668 (#76) ############################################
9668
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH
A"
T TARAH to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the holy Trinity:
Glory to him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
At Tarah to-day I call on the Lord,
On Christ, the omnipotent Word,
Who came to redeem from death and sin
Our fallen race;
And I put and I place
The virtue that lieth and liveth in
His incarnation lowly,
His baptism pure and holy,
His life of toil and tears and affliction,
His dolorous death — his crucifixion,
His burial, sacred and sad and lone,
His resurrection to life again,
His glorious ascension to Heaven's high throne,
And, lastly, his future dread
And terrible coming to judge all men
Both the living and dead.
At Tarah to-day I put and I place
The virtue that dwells in the seraphim's love.
And the virtue and grace
That are in the obedience
And unshaken allegiance
Of all the archangels and angels above,
And in the hope of the resurrection
To everlasting reward and election,
And in the prayers of the fathers of old,
And in the truths the prophets foretold,
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings,
And in the confessors' faith and teachings;
And in the purity ever dwelling
Within the immaculate Virgin's breast,
And in the actions bright and excelling
Of all good men, the just and the blest.
At Tarah to-day, in this fateful hour,
I place all heaven with its power,
## p. 9669 (#77) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9669
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness, -
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.
At Tarah to-day
May God be my stay!
May the strength of God now nerve me!
May the power of God preserve me!
May God the Almighty be near me!
May God the Almighty espy me!
May God the Almighty hear me!
May God give me eloquent speech!
May the arm of God protect me!
May the wisdom of God direct me!
May God give me power to teach and to preach!
May the shield of God defend me!
May the host of God attend me,
And ward me,
And guard me
Against the wiles of demons and devils,
Against the temptations of vices and evils,
Against the bad passions and wrathful will
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart,
Against every man who designs me ill,
Whether leagued with others or plotting apart!
In this hour of hours,
I place all those powers
Between myself and every foe
Who threaten my body and soul
With danger or dole,
To protect me against the evils that flow
From lying soothsayers' incantations,
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations,
From heresy's hateful innovations,
From idolatry's rites and invocations.
## p. 9670 (#78) ############################################
9670
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
-
Be those my defenders,
My guards against every ban -
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women;
In fine, against every knowledge that renders
The light Heaven sends us dim in
The spirit and soul of man!
May Christ, I pray,
Protect me to-day
Against poison and fire,
Against drowning and wounding:
That so, in His grace abounding,
I may earn the preacher's hire!
Christ as a light
Illumine and guide me!
Christ as a shield o'ershadow and cover me!
Christ be under me! - Christ be over me!
Christ be beside me,
On left hand and right!
Christ be before me, behind me, about me;
Christ this day be within and without me!
Christ, the lowly and meek.
Christ the All-Powerful be
In the heart of each to whom I speak,
In the mouth of each who speaks to me!
In all who draw near me,
Or see me or hear me!
At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
Salvation dwells with the Lord,
With Christ, the omnipotent Word.
From generation to generation
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation !
## p. 9671 (#79) ############################################
9671
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
(1785-1873)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
LESSANDRO MANZONI was looked upon during his life as a man
who had deserved well of Heaven. «He gazed,” as one of
his countrymen said, “at Fortune straight in the eyes, and
Fortune smiled. ” And Manzoni might well have looked with clear
eyes, for there was nothing in his heart — if a man's heart may be
judged from his constant utterances — that was base.
He lived in a time best suited to his genius and his temperament.
And his genius and his time made an epoch in Italian history worthy
of most serious study. In 1815 Italy was
inarticulate; she had to speak by signs.
She dared only dream of a future which
she read in a glorious past. The Austrians
ruled the present, the future was veiled,
the past was real and golden. Manzoni,
Pellico, and Grossi were romanticists be-
cause they were filled with aspiration; and
their aspiration, clothing itself in the form
which Goethe's Götz) and Sir Walter Scott's
(Marmion' had given to the world, tried to
obliterate the present and find relief at the
foot of the cross in the shadow of old Gothic
cathedrals. The Comte de Mun, Vicomte ALESSANDRO MANZONI
de Vogüe, Sienkiewicz, and others of the
modern neo-Catholic school, represent reaction rather than aspiration.
Manzoni, Châteaubriand, Montalembert, Overbeck in art, Lamartine
and Lamennais, were not only fiercely reactionary, but fiercely senti-
mental, hopeful, and romantic.
With Austrian bayonets at the throat of Italy, it was not easy
to emit loud war-cries for liberty. The desire of the people must
therefore be heard through the voice of the poet. And the desire of
the Italians is manifest in the poetry and the prose of the author of
"The Betrothed' (I Promessi Sposi), and the Sacred Hymns. Only
two reproaches were made against Manzoni: he was praised by Goe-
the,- which, “says a sneer turned proverb,” as Mr. Howells puts it,
“is a brevet of mediocrity,” — and he was not persecuted. «Goethe,”
-
)
-
## p. 9672 (#80) ############################################
9672
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
>
Mr. Howells continues, “could not laud Manzoni's tragedies too highly;
he did not find one word too much or too little in them; the style
was free, noble, full, and rich. As to the religious lyrics, the manner
of their treatment was fresh and individual although the matter and
the significance were not new, and the poet was 'a Christian without
fanaticism, a Roman Catholic without bigotry, a zealot without hard-
ness.
In 1815 the Continental revolt against the doctrines of Rousseau
and Voltaire was at its highest. The period that produced Cesare
Cantù was likewise the period when Ossian and Byron had become
the favorite poets of the younger men. Classicism and infidelity were
both detested. The last king was not, after all, to be strangled with
the entrails of the last priest. God might rest, as a writer on the
time remarks with naïveté. It was the fashion to be respectful to
him. Italy was willing to disown the paganism of the Renaissance
for the moral teaching of the ages that preceded it. Manzoni and
his school held that true patriotism must be accompanied by virtue ;
and in a country where Machiavelli's Prince) had become a classic,
this seemed a new doctrine. The movement which Manzoni repre-
sented was above all religious; the pope was again transfigured, and
in his case by a man who had begun life with the most liberal tenden-
cies. As it was, he never accepted the belief that the pope must
necessarily be a ruler of great temporalities; but of the sincerity
and fervor of his faith in the Catholic Church one finds ample proof
in his (Sacred Hymns. '
Born at Milan in 1785, he married Mademoiselle Blondel in 1808.
Her father was a banker of Geneva; and tradition says that he was
of that cultivated group of financiers to whom the Neckers belonged,
and that his daughter was of a most dazzling blonde beauty. The
Blondels, like the Neckers, were Protestants; but at Milan, Louise
Blondel entered the Catholic Church and confirmed the wavering
faith of her young husband, who began at once the (Sacred Hymns. '
In these Mr. Howells praises “the irreproachable taste and unaffected
poetic appreciation of the grandeur of Christianity. ” One may go
even further; for they have the fervor, the exultation, the knowledge
that the Redeemer liveth, in a fullness which we do not find in sacred
song outside the Psalms of David, the Dies Iræ,' and the Stabat
Mater. )
Manzoni's poems were not many, but they all have the element of
greatness in them. We can understand why the invading Austrians
desired to honor him, when we read his ode (The Fifth of May) (on
the death of Napoleon), or his two noble tragedies (The Count of
Carmagnola) and Adelchi,' or that pride of all Italians, his master-
piece, The Betrothed” (I Promessi Sposi'). We can understand too
## p. 9673 (#81) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9673
the lofty haughtiness that induced him to refuse these honors, and
to relinquish his hereditary title of Count, rather than submit to the
order that he must register himself as an Austrian subject. The gov-
ernment, however, did not cease to offer honors to him; all of which,
except the Italian senatorship proffered him in 1860, he declined.
Great tragedies, like Shelley's Cenci,' Sir Henry Taylor's “Philip van
Artevelde,' and Sir Aubrey De Vere's Mary Tudor,' may be unact-
able; they may speak best to the heart and mind only through the
written word. Manzoni's are of this class. They have elevation,
dramatic feeling, the power of making emotion vital and of inspiring
passionate sympathy with the intention of the author; but even Sal-
vini, Rossi, or Ristori could not make them possible for the stage.
In the Count of Carmagnola,' which celebrated the physical ruin but
moral success of a noble man, Manzoni in 1820 shocked the classicists
and won their hatred. They loved Aristotle and his rules; Manzoni
broke every rule as thoroughly as Shakespeare and as consciously as
Victor Hugo. He was looked upon as a literary, artistic apostate. In
his explanation of his reasons for this assault on an old world, he
makes an audacious apologia which Alfred de Musset might have read
with profit before despairing of a definition of romanticism. Adelchi?
followed in 1822, still further exasperating the fury of the classicists,
who hated Manzoni and romance; foreseeing perhaps by intuition that
the romantic school was to be the ancestor of the realistic school,
whose horrors were only dimly dreamed of.
The Sacred Hymns,' The Count of Carmagnola,' Adelchi, The
Betrothed, and the great :' Fifth of May) ode on the death of Napo-
leon, are the works by which Manzoni's fame was established. The
tragedies - Carmagnola' of the fifteenth century, Adelchi? of the
eighth — would live for their strong lyrical element, even were the
quality of eloquence and the fire that must underlie eloquence lack-
ing Pathos is exquisite in both these plays; the marble hearts
of the Italian classic tragedy are replaced here by vital, palpitating
flesh. When Carmagnola dies for his act of humanity in releasing
his prisoners of war, and Ermengarda, whose loveliness is portrayed
with the delicacy of the hand that drew Elaine, passes away in her
convent, one feels that the world may indeed mourn. And when a
poet can force us to take the shades of the Middle Ages for real
human beings, no man may deny his gift.
(The Fifth of May,' the noblest ode in the Italian language,
almost defies translation. Mr. Howells has made the best possible
version of it. Napoleon had wronged Italy, but Italy speaking
through its poet forgave him.
« Beautiful, deathless, beneficent,
Faith! used to triumphs even
## p. 9674 (#82) ############################################
9674
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
This also writes exultingly;
No loftier pride 'neath heaven
Unto the shame of Calvary
Stooped ever yet its crest.
Thou from his weary mortality
Disperse all bitter passions;
The God that humbleth and hearteneth,
That comforts and that chastens,
Upon the pillow else desolate
To his pale lips lay pressed!
(The Betrothed' is one of the classics of fiction. It appeared in
1825. Since that time it has been translated into every language in
the civilized world. It deserves the verdict which time has passed
upon it. Don Abbondio and Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, Renzo and
Lucia, and Don Rodrigo, go on from year to year seeming to gain
new vitality. It will bear the test of a reading in youth and a re-
reading in old age; and there are few books of fiction of which this
can be said, - it is a standard of their greatness.
Manzoni died in 1873. His patriotic dreams had not been entirely
realized; but he passed away content, in faith and hope. His career
was on the whole happy and serene. He loved the simple things of
life, and looked on life itself as only a vestibule — to be nobly
adorned, however -- to a place of absolute peace.
Arnaud's I Poetti Patriottica' (1862); (Storia della Litteratura
Italiana,' by De Sanctis (1879); and William Dean Howells's Modern
Italian Poets' (Harper & Brothers: 1887), -- are valuable books of ref-
erence on the romantic movement in Italy, and on the position of
Manzoni in that movement. The best translation of The Betrothed
is included in the Bohn Library.
n
Jrancis
Egan
AN UNWILLING PRIEST
From The Betrothed
[ The following amusing scene occurs in the earlier portion of Manzoni's
novel. Don Abbondio, a cowardly village curate, has been warned by Don
Rodrigo, his lord of the manor, that if he dares to unite in marriage two
young peasants, Renzo and Lucia (the “betrothed ” of the story), vengeance
will follow. The priest accordingly shirks his duty; and cruelly refusing to
set any marriage date, shuts himself up in his house and even barricades him-
self against Renzo's entreaties. Donna Agnese, the mother of Lucia, bears
that if a betrothed pair can but reach the presence of their parish priest and
## p. 9675 (#83) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9675
announce that they take each other as man and wife, the marriage is as bind-
ing as if celebrated with all formality. Accordingly Agnese devises a sort of
attack on the priest by stratagem, to be managed by the parties to the con-
tract and two witnesses (the brothers Tonio and Gervase); which device is con.
siderably endangered by the wariness of the curate's housekeeper, Perpetua. ]
I
N FRONT of Don Abbondio's door, a narrow street ran between
two cottages; but only continued straight the length of the
buildings, and then turned into the fields. Agnese went for-
ward along this street, as if she would go a little aside to speak
more freely, and Perpetua followed. When they had turned the
corner, and reached a spot whence they could no longer see what
happened before Don Abbondio's house, Agnese coughed loudly.
This was the signal; Renzo heard it, and re-animating Lucia
by pressing her arm, they turned the corner together on tiptoe,
crept very softly close along the wall, reached the door, and
gently pushed it open: quiet, and stooping low, they were quickly
in the passage; and here the two brothers were waiting for them.
Renzo very gently let down the latch of the door, and they all
four ascended the stairs, making scarcely noise enough for two.
On reaching the landing, the two brothers advanced towards
the door of the room at the side of the staircase, and the lovers
stood close against the wall.
Deo gratias," said Tonio in an explanatory tone.
Eh, Tonio! is it you ? Come in! ” replied the voice within.
Tonio opened the door, scarcely wide enough to admit himself
and his brother one at a time. The ray of light that suddenly
shone through the opening and crossed the dark floor of the
landing made Lucia tremble, as if she were discovered. When
the brothers had entered, Tonio closed the door inside: the lov-
ers stood motionless in the dark, their ears intently on the alert,
and holding their breath; the loudest noise was the beating of
poor Lucia's heart.
Don Abbondio was seated, as we have said, in an old arm-
chair, enveloped in an antiquated dressing-gown, and his head
buried in a shabby cap of the shape of a tiara, which by the
faint light of a small lamp formed a sort of cornice all around
his face. Two thick locks which escaped from beneath his head-
dress, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, and a thick tuft
on the chin, all of them gray and scattered over his dark and
wrinkled visage, might be compared to bushes covered with snow,
projecting from the face of a cliff, as seen by moonlight.
## p. 9676 (#84) ############################################
9676
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
"Aha! ” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and
laid them on his book.
“The Signor Curate will say I am come very late," said Tonio
with a low bow, which Gervase awkwardly imitated.
“Certainly, it is late — late every way. Don't you know I
am ill? ”
"I'm very sorry for it. ”
“You must have heard I was ill, and didn't know when I
should be able to see anybody.
But why have you
brought this — this boy with you ? »
"For company, Signor Curate. ”
“Very well, let us see. ”
“Here are twenty-five new berlinghe, with the figure of Saint
Ambrose on horseback," said Tonio, drawing a little parcel out
of his pocket.
“Let us see,” said Don Abbondio; and he took the parcel, put
on his spectacles again, opened it, took out the berlinghe, turned
them over and over, counted them, and found them irreprehen-
sible.
“Now, Signor Curate, you will give me Tecla's necklace. ”
“ You are right,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to a
cupboard, he took out a key, looking around as if to see that all
prying spectators were at a proper distance, opened one of the
doors, and filling up the aperture with his person, introduced his
head to see and his arm to reach the pledge; then drawing it
out, he shut the cupboard, unwrapped the paper, and saying,
“Is that right ? ” folded it up again and handed it to Tonio.
“Now,” said Tonio, "will you please to put it in black and
white? ”
"Not satisfied yet! ” said Don Abbondio. «I declare they
know everything. Eh! how suspicious the world has become!
Don't you trust me ? ”
"What, Signor Curate! Don't I trust you ?
You do me
wrong. But as my name is in your black books, on the debtor's
side- Then, since you have had the trouble of writing once,
From life to death - "
“Well, well,” interrupted Don Abbondio; and muttering be-
tween his teeth, he drew out one of the table drawers, took thence
pen, ink, and paper, and began to write, repeating the words
aloud as they proceeded from his pen. In the mean time Tonio,
and at his side Gervase, placed themselves standing before the
SO -
## p. 9677 (#85) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9677
>>
table in such a manner as to conceal the door from the view of
the writer, and began to shuffle their feet about on the floor, as
if in mere idleness, but in reality as a signal to those without
to enter, and at the same time to drown the noise of their foot-
steps. Don Abbondio, intent upon his writing, noticed nothing
else. At the noise of their feet, Renzo took Lucia's arm, pressing
it in an encouraging manner, and went forward, almost dragging
her along; for she trembled to such a degree that without his
help she must have sunk to the ground. Entering very softly,
on tiptoe, and holding their breath, they placed themselves be-
hind the two brothers. In the mean time, Don Abbondio, having
finished writing, read over the paper attentively, without raising
his eyes; he then folded it up, saying, "Are you content now? ”
and taking off his spectacles with one hand, handed the paper to
Tonio with the other, and looked up. Tonio, extending his right
hand to receive it, retired on one side, and Gervase, at a sign
from him, on the other; and behold! as at the shifting of a scene,
Renzo and Lucia stood between them. Don Abbondio saw indis-
tinctly — saw clearly — was terrified, astonished, enraged, buried in
thought, came to a resolution; and all this while Renzo uttered
the words, "Signor Curate, in the presence of these witnesses,
this is my wife. ” Before, however, Lucia's lips could form the
reply, Don Abbondio dropped the receipt, seized the lamp with
his left hand and raised it in the air, caught hold of the cloth
with his right, and dragged it furiously off the table, bringing
to the ground in its fall, book, paper, inkstand, and sand-box;
and springing between the chair and the table, advanced towards
Lucia. The poor girl, with her sweet gentle voice, trembling
violently, had scarcely uttered the words, “And this when
Don Abbondio threw the cloth rudely over her head and face, to
prevent her pronouncing the entire formula. Then, letting the
light fall from his other hand, he employed both to wrap the
cloth round her face, till she was well-nigh smothered, shouting
in the mean while, at the stretch of his voice, like a wounded
bull, “Perpetua! Perpetua! — treachery! — help! ” The light, just
glimmering on the ground, threw a dim and flickering ray upon
Lucia, who, in utter consternation, made no attempt to disengage
herself, and might be compared to a statue sculptured in chalk,
over which the artificer had thrown a wet cloth. When the light
died away, Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and went grop-
ing about to find the door that opened into an inner room: and
## p. 9678 (#86) ############################################
9678
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
>
having reached it, he entered and shut himself in, unceasingly
exclaiming, “Perpetua! treachery! help! Out of the house! Out
of the house!
In the other room all was confusion: Renzo, seeking to lay
hold of the Curate, and feeling with his hands, as if playing at
blindman's buff, had reached the door, and kicking against it,
was crying, “Open, open; don't make such a noise ! » Lucia,
calling to Renzo in a feeble voice, said beseechingly, “Let us go,
let us go, for God's sake. ” Tonio was crawling on his knees,
and feeling with his hands on the ground to recover his lost
receipt. The terrified Gervase was crying and jumping about,
and seeking for the door of the stairs, so as to make his escape
in safety.
In the midst of this uproar, we cannot but stop a moment to
make a reflection. Renzo, who was causing disturbance at night
in another person's house, who had effected an entrance by
stealth, and who had blockaded the master himself in one of his
own rooms, has all the appearance of an oppressor; while in fact
he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, taken by surprise, terrified
and put to flight, while peaceably engaged in his own affairs,
appears the victim; when in reality it was he who did the wrong.
Thus frequently goes the world; - or rather, we should say, thus
it went in the seventeenth century.
The besieged, finding that the enemy gave no signs of aban-
doning the enterprise, opened a window that looked into the
church-yard, and shouted out, “Help! help! ” There was a most
lovely moon; the shadow of the church, and a little farther on
the long sharp shadow of the bell-tower, lay dark, still, and well
defined, on the bright grassy level of the sacred inclosure: all
objects were visible, almost as by day. But look which way you
would, there appeared no sign of living person. Adjoining the
lateral wall of the church, on the side next the parsonage, was a
small dwelling where the sexton slept. Aroused by this unusual
cry, he sprang up in his bed, jumped out in great haste, threw
open the sash of his little window, put his head out with his
eyelids glued together all the while, and cried out, «What's the
matter? )
“Run, Ambrogio! help! people in the house! » answered Don
Abbondio. "Coming directly,” replied he, as he drew in his
head and shut the window; and although half asleep and more
than half terrified, an expedient quickly occurred to him that
## p. 9679 (#87) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9679
would bring more aid than had been asked, without dragging him
into the affray, whatever it might be. Seizing his breeches that
lay upon the bed, he tucked them under his arm like a gala hat,
and bounding down-stairs by a little wooden ladder, ran to the
belfry, caught hold of the rope that was attached to the larger
of the two bells, and pulled vigorously.
Ton, ton, ton, ton: the peasant sprang up in his bed; the
boy stretched in the hay-loft listened eagerly, and leapt upon
his feet. « What's the matter? what's the matter ? The bell 's
ringing! Fire ? Thieves ? Banditti ? » Many of the women
advised, begged, their husbands not to stir — to let others run;
some got up and went to the window; those who were cowards,
as if yielding to entreaty, quietly slipped under the bedclothes
again; while the more inquisitive and courageous sprang up and
armed themselves with pitchforks and pistols, to run to the up-
roar; others waited to see the end.
Renzo, who had more of his senses about him than the rest,
remembered that they had better make their escape one way
or another before the crowds assembled; and that the best plan
would be to do as Menico advised, — nay, commanded, with the
authority of one in terror. When once on their way, and out of
the tumult and danger, he could ask a clearer explanation from
the boy. « Lead the way,” said he to Menico; and addressing
the women, said, “Let us go with him. ” They therefore quickly
turned their steps towards the church, crossed the church-yard,
- where, by the favor of Heaven, there was not yet a living
creature,- entered a little street that ran between the church
and Don Abbondio's house, turned into the first alley they came
to, and then took the way of the fields.
They had not perhaps gone fifty yards, when the crowd
began to collect in the church-yard, and rapidly increased every
moment. They looked inquiringly in each other's faces; every
one had a question to ask, but no one could return an answer.
Those who arrived first ran to the church door: it was locked.
They then ran to the belfry outside; and one of them, putting
his mouth to a very small window, a sort of loophole, cried,
«What ever is the matter ? ” As soon as Ambrogio recognized a
known voice, he let go of the bell-rope, and being assured by
the buzz that many people had assembled, replied, “I'll open
the door. ” Hastily slipping on the apparel he had carried under
his arm, he went inside the church and opened the door.
## p. 9680 (#88) ############################################
9680
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
“What is all this hubbub ? — What is it? - Where is it? -
Who is it ? »
"Why, who is it ? ” said Ambrogio, laying one hand on the
door-post, and with the other holding up the habiliment he had
put on in such haste: “What! don't you know? People in the
Signor Curate's house. Up, boys; help! ” Hearing this, they all
turned to the house, looked up, approached it in a body, looked
up again, listened: all was quiet. Some ran to the street door;
it was shut and bolted: they glanced upwards; not a window was
open, not a whisper was to be heard.
« Who is within ? Ho! Hey! — Signor Curate! — Signor
Curate! ”
Don Abbondio, who, scarcely aware of the flight of the in-
vaders, had retired from the window and closed it, and who at
this moment was reproaching Perpetua in a low voice for having
left him alone in this confusion, was obliged, when he heard him-
self called upon by the voice of the assembled people, to show
himself again at the window; and when he saw the crowds that
had come to his aid, he sorely repented having called them.
“What has happened? — What have they done to you ? - Who
are they? — Where are they? " burst forth from fifty voices at
once.
>
« There's nobody here now: thank you; go home again. ”
“But who has been here ? - Where are they gone? - What
has happened ? ”
« Bad people, people who go about by night; but they're gone:
go home again; there is no longer anything; another time, my
children: I thank you for your kindness to me. ” So saying, he
drew back and shut the window. Some of the crowd began to
grumble, some to joke, others to curse; some shrugged their
shoulders and took their departure.
The melancholy trio continued their walk, the women taking
the lead and Renzo behind to act as guard. Lucia clung closely
to her mother's arın, kindly and dexterously avoiding the prof-
fered assistance of the youth at the difficult passes of this unfre-
quented path; feeling ashamed of herself, even in such troubles,
for having already been so long and so familiarly alone with
him, while expecting in a few moments to be his wife. Now
that this vision had been so sorrowfully dispelled, she repented
having proceeded thus far; and amidst so many causes of fear,
she feared even for her modesty; — not such modesty as arises
## p. 9681 (#89) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9681
from the sad knowledge of evil, but for that which is ignorant
of its own existence; like the dread of a child who trembles in
the dark, he knows not why.
“And the house? ” suddenly exclaimed Agnese. But however
important the object might be which extorted this exclamation,
no one replied, because no one could do so satisfactorily. They
therefore continued their walk in silence, and in a little while
reached the square before the church of the convent.
Renzo advanced to the door of the church, and gently pushed
it open. The moon that entered through the aperture fell upon
the pale face and silvery beard of Father Cristoforo, who was
standing here expecting them; and having seen that no one
was missing, God be praised ! ” said he, beckoning to them to
enter. By his side stood another Capuchin, the lay sexton, whom
he had persuaded by prayers and arguments to keep vigil with
him, to leave the door ajar, and to remain there on guard to
receive these poor threatened creatures; and it required nothing
short of the authority of the Father, and of his fame as a saint,
to persuade the layman to so inconvenient, perilous, and irregu-
lar a condescension. When they were inside, Father Cristoforo
very softly shut the door. Then the sexton could no longer con-
tain himself, and taking the Father aside, whispered in his ear:
"But, Father, Father! at night-in church — with women — shut
- the rule-but, Father! And he shook his head, while thus
hesitatingly pronouncing these words. Just see! thought Father
Cristoforo: if it were a pursued robber, Friar Fazio would make
no difficulty in the world; but a poor innocent escaping from
the jaws of a wolf - "Omnia munda mundis, " * added he, turn-
,
ing suddenly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not under-
stand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly what produced
the right effect. If the Father had begun to dispute and reason,
Friar Fazio would not have failed to urge opposing arguments,
and no one knows how and when the discussion would have come
to an end; but at the sound of these weighty words of a mys-
terious signification, and so resolutely uttered, it seemed to him
that in them must be contained the solution of all his doubts.
He acquiesced, saying, “Very well: you know more about it than
I do. "
»
* Or in rever
erse, « To the pure all things are pure. ”
XVII-606
## p. 9682 (#90) ############################################
9682
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
(
“Trust me, then,” replied Father Cristoforo; and by the
dim light of the lamp burning before the altar, he approached
the refugees, who stood waiting in suspense, and said to them,
“My children, thank God, who has delivered you from so great
a danger! Perhaps at this moment - And here he began to
explain more fully what he had hinted by the little messen-
ger; little suspecting that they knew more than he, and sup-
posing that Menico had found them quiet in their own house,
before the arrival of the ruffians. Nobody undeceived him,-
not even Lucia, whose conscience, however, was all the while
secretly reproaching her for practicing such dissimulation with so
good a man; but it was a night of embarrassment and dissimula-
tion.
"After this,” continued he, “you must feel, my children, that
the village is no longer safe for you. It is yours, who were
born there, and you have done no wrong to any one; but God
wills it so. It is a trial, my children; bear it with patience and
faith, without indulging in rancor, and rest assured there will
come a day when you will think yourselves happy that this has
occurred. I have thought of a refuge for you, for the present.
Soon, I hope, you may be able to return in safety to your own
house; at any rate, God will provide what is best for you; and I
assure you, I will be careful not to prove unworthy of the favor
he has bestowed upon me, in choosing me as his minister, in
the service of you his poor yet loved afflicted ones. You,” con-
tinued he, turning to the two women, “can stay at Here
you will be far enough from every danger, and at the same
time not far from your own home. There seek out our
vent, ask for the guardian, and give him this letter: he will be
to you another Father Cristoforo. And you, my Renzo, must
put yourself in safety from the anger of others, and your own.
Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura da Lodi, in our convent
of the Porta Orientale, at Milan. He will be a father to you,
will give you directions and find you work, till you can return
and live more peaceably. Go to the shore of the lake, near
the mouth of the Bione, a river not far from this monastery.
Here you will see a boat waiting; say, “Boat! ! It will be asked
you, "For whom? ' And you must reply, “San Francesco. ' The
boat will receive you and carry you to the other side, where you
will find a cart that will take you straight to -
(
con-
## p. 9683 (#91) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9683
If any one asks how Father Cristoforo had so quickly at his
disposal these means of transport by land and water, it will show
that he does not know the influence and power of a Capuchin
held in reputation as a saint.
It still remained to decide about the care of the houses.
The Father received the keys, pledging himself to deliver them
to whomsoever Renzo and Agnese should name. The latter, in
delivering up hers, heaved a deep sigh, remembering that at that
moment the house was open, that the devil had been there, and
who knew what remained to be taken care of !
« Before you go,” said the Father, “let us pray all together
that the Lord may be with you in this your journey, and for
ever; and above all, that he may give you strength and a spirit
of love, to enable you to desire whatever he has willed. ” So
saying, he knelt down in the middle of the church, and they all
followed his example.
After praying a few moments in silence, with a low but dis-
tinct voice he pronounced these words:–«We beseech thee also
for the unhappy person who has brought us to this state. We
should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not from our hearts
implore it for him; he needs it, O Lord! We, in our sorrow,
have this consolation, that we are in the path where thou hast
placed us; we can offer thee our griefs and they may become
our gain. But he is thine enemy! Alas, wretched man, he is
striving with thee! Have mercy on him, O Lord, touch his heart;
reconcile him to thyself, and give him all those good things we
could desire for ourselves. ”
Rising then in haste, he said, “Come, my children, you have
no time to lose: God defend you; his angel go with you; -
farewell! » And while they set off with that emotion which
cannot find words, and manifests itself without them, the Father
'added in an agitated tone, My heart tells me we shall meet
again soon. ”
Certainly the heart, to those who listen to it, has always some-
thing to say on what will happen; but what did his heart know?
Very little, truly, of what had already happened.
Without waiting a reply, Father Cristoforo retired with hasty
steps; the travelers took their departure, and Father Fazio shut
the door after them, bidding them farewell with even his voice a
little faltering
»
>
## p. 9684 (#92) ############################################
9684
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
The trio slowly made their way to the shore they had been
directed to; there they espied the boat, and exchanging the pass-
word, stepped in. The waterman, planting one oar on the land,
pushed off; then took up the other oar, and rowing with both
hands, pulled out and made towards the opposite beach. Not a
breath of wind was stirring; the lake lay bright and smooth, and
would have appeared motionless but for the tremulous and gen-
tle undulation of the moonbeams, which gleamed upon it from
the zenith. No sounds were heard but the muffled and slowly
measured breaking of the surge upon the pebbly shore, the more
distant gurgling of the troubled waters dashing among the piles
of the bridge, and the even plash of the light sculls, as, rising
with the sharp sound of a dripping blade, and quickly plunged
again beneath, they cut the azure surface of the lake. The
waves, divided by the prow, and reuniting behind the little bark,
tracked out a curling line which extended itself to the shore. The
silent travelers, with their faces turned backwards, gazed upon
the mountains and the country, illumined by the pale light of
the moon, and diversified here and there with vast shadows.
They could distinguish the villages, the houses, and the little
cabins: the palace of Don Rodrigo, with its square tower, rising
above the group of huts at the base of the promontory, looked
like a savage standing in the dark and meditating some evil
deed while keeping guard over a company of reclining sleepers.
Lucia saw it and shuddered; then drawing her eye along the
declivity till she reached her native village, she fixed her gaze on
its extremity, sought for her own cottage, traced out the thick
head of the fig-tree which towered above the wall of the court-
yard, discovered the window of her own room, -- and being seated
in the bottom of the boat, she leaned her elbow on the edge,
laid her forehead on her arm as if she were sleeping, and wept
in secret.
Farewell, ye mountains, rising from the waters and pointing
to the heavens! ye varied summits, familiar to him who has been
brought up among you, and impressed upon his mind as clearly
as the countenance of his dearest friends! ye torrents, whose
murmur he recognizes like the sound of the voices of home! ye
villages, scattered and glistening on the declivity, like flocks of
grazing sheep! Farewell! How mournful is the step of him
who, brought up amidst your scenes, is compelled to leave you!
## p. 9685 (#93) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9685
Even in the imagination of one who willingly departs, attracted by
the hope of making a fortune elsewhere, the dreams of wealth at
this moment lose their charms; he wonders he could form such a
resolution, and would even now turn back but for the hope of
one day returning with a rich abundance. As he advances into
the plain, his eye becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the
atmosphere feels heavy and lifeless; he sadly and listlessly enters
the busy cities, where houses crowded upon houses, and streets
intersecting streets, seem to take away his breath; and before
edifices admired by the stranger, he recalls with restless longing
the fields of his own country, and the cottage he had long ago
set his heart upon, and which he resolves to purchase when he
returns enriched to his own mountains.
But what must he feel who has never sent a passing wish
beyond these mountains, who has arranged among them all his
designs for the future, and is driven far away by an adverse
power! who, suddenly snatched away from his dearest habits, and
thwarted in his dearest hopes, leaves these mountains to go in
search of strangers whom he never desired to know, and is un-
able to look forward to a fixed time of return!
Farewell, native cottage — where, indulging in unconscious
fancy, one learnt to distinguish from the noise of common foot-
steps the approach of a tread expected with mysterious timid-
ity! Farewell, thou cottage, - still a stranger, but so often hastily
glanced at, not without a blush, in passing - in which the mind
took delight to figure to itself the tranquil and lasting home
of a wife! Farewell, my church, where the heart was so often
soothed while chanting the praises of the Lord; where the pre-
paratory rite of betrothal was performed; where the secret sigh-
ing of the heart was solemnly blessed, and love was inspired,
and one felt a hallowing influence around. Farewell! He who
imparted to you such gladness is everywhere; and he never dis-
turbs the joy of his children but to prepare them for one more
certain and durable.
Of such a nature, if not exactly these, were the reflections of
Lucia; and not very dissimilar were those of the two other wan-
derers, while the little bark rapidly approached the right bank of
the Adda.
## p.
Egypt, they eat but little or none of Flesh of Veal or of Beef,
but if the Beast be so old, that he may no more work for old
## p. 9663 (#71) ############################################
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
9663
Age; for it is forbidden, because they have but few of them;
therefore they nourish them to till their Lands.
In this City of Bethlehem was David the King born; and he
had 60 Wives, and the first wife was called Michal; and also he
had 300 Lemans.
And from Bethlehem unto Jerusalem is but 2 Mile; and in
the Way to Jerusalem half a Mile from Bethlehem is a Church,
where the Angel said to the Shepherds of the Birth of Christ.
And in that Way is the Tomb of Rachel, that was the Mother
of Joseph the Patriarch; and she died anon after that she was
delivered of her Son Benjamin. And there she was buried by
Jacob her Husband; and he made set 12 great Stones on her, in
Token that she had born 12 Children. In the same Way, half a
Mile from Jerusalem, appeared the Star to the 3 Kings. In that
Way also be many Churches of Christian Men, by the which Men
go towards the City of Jerusalem.
## p. 9664 (#72) ############################################
9664
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
1803-1849
N THE summer of 1894 some workmen engaged in removing a
mass of rubbish, to make room for a new building in one of
the poorer quarters of Dublin, came upon the ruins of an
old cellar. A casual passer-by happened to notice the old wall, with
its low window looking out upon a level with the narrow and squalid
alley. Moved by some bookish recollection, he realized that he was
standing at the corner of Bride Street and Myler’s Alley, known in
the older days as Glendalough Lane; and that the miserable vestige
of human habitation into which the rough navvies were driving their
pickaxes had once been the poor shelter of him who,-
«Worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
Had fled for shelter to God, who mated
His soul with song. ”
>
From this spot James Clarence Mangan, wasted with famine and
already delirious, was carried by the Overseers of the Poor to the
sheds of Meath Hospital in June 1849; too late, alas! to save the
dying man, who in the years of his young manhood had sung and
suffered for Ireland. A few friends gathered about him to comfort
his patient and gentle soul, and to lay his bones in the cool clay of
Glasnevin.
The life of Mangan is a convincing proof that differences of time
and place have no influence upon the poet's power. Poverty and
Want were the foster-brothers of this most wonderful of Ireland's
gifted children. His patient body was chained to daily labor for the
sordid needs of an unappreciating kindred, and none of the pleasant
joys of travel and of diversified nature were his. He was born in
Fishamble Street, Dublin, in 1803, and never passed beyond the con-
fines of his native city; but his spirit was not jailed by the misery
which oppressed his body His wondrous fancy swept with a con-
queror's march through all the fair broad universe.
Like Poe and Chatterton, Mangan impaired his powers by the use
of intoxicants. He was very sensitive about the squalor of his sur-
roundings, and was reticent and shy in the company of more fortu-
nate men and women: but with admirable unselfishness he devoted
his days, his toil, and the meagre rewards which came to him from
his work, to the care and sustenance of his mean-spirited kindred.
## p. 9665 (#73) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9665
For years he labored in the hopeless position of a scrivener's clerk,
from which he was rescued by the interest of Dr. Todd, and was
made an assistant librarian of Trinity College. There it was his
habit to spend hours of rapt and speechless labor amid the dusty
shelves, to earn his pittance. Dr. Petrie subsequently found him a
place in the office of the Irish Ordnance Survey; but Mangan was
his own enemy and foredoomed to defeat. He wielded a vigorous
pen in Ireland's cause, and under various names communicated his
own glowing spirit to his countrymen through the columns of several
periodicals. He published also two volumes of translations from the
German poets, which are full of his own lyric fire but have no claim
to fidelity. It was in his gloomy cellar-home that he poured out the
music of his heart. When he died, a volume of German poetry was
found in his pocket, and there were loose papers on which he had
feebly traced his last thoughts in verse. Mangan will forever remain
a cherished comrade of all gentle lovers of the Beautiful and True.
THE DAWNING OF THE DAY
"T"
WAS a balmy summer morning,
Warm and early,
Such as only June bestows;
Everywhere the earth adorning,
Dews lay pearly
In the lily-bell and rose.
Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow
Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay;
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow:
'Twas the dawning of the day!
Through the perfumed air the golden
Bees flew round me;
Bright fish dazzled from the sea,
Till medreamt some fairy olden-
World spell bound me
In a trance of witcherie.
Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings,
Bearing riders prankt in rich array,
Like flushed revelers after wine-carousings:
'Twas the dawning of the day!
Then a strain of song was chanted,
And the lightly
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear.
XVII-605
## p. 9666 (#74) ############################################
9666
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Then again the shore seemed haunted
By hosts brightly
Clad, and wielding shield and spear!
Then came battle shouts — an onward rushing -
Swords, and chariots, and a phantom fray.
Then all vanished: the warm skies were blushing
In the dawning of the day!
Cities girt with glorious gardens,
Whose immortal
Habitants in robes of light
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens
Nigh each portal,
Now arose to daze my sight.
Eden spread around, revived and blooming;
When - lo! as I gazed, all passed away:
I saw but black rocks and billows looming
In the dim chill dawn of day!
THE NAMELESS ONE
R:
OLL forth, my song, like the rushing river
That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee!
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That there was once one whose veins ran lightning
No eye beheld.
Tell how his boyhood was one drear night hour;
How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our
Path to the tomb.
Roll on, my song, and to after ages
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
The way to live.
And tell how, trampled, derided, hated,
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated
His soul with song -
## p. 9667 (#75) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9667
With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
Flowed like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid -
A mountain stream.
Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long
To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
For even death.
Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,
He still, still strove.
Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
And some whose hands should have wrought for him
(If children live not for sires and mothers),
His mind grew dim.
And he fell far through that pit abysmal,-
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,-
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal
Stock of returns.
But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
Stood on his path.
And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
That no ray lights.
And lives he still, then ? Yes: old and hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story
Will never know.
Him grant a grave too, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell!
He too had tears for all souls in trouble
Here and in hell.
## p. 9668 (#76) ############################################
9668
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH
A"
T TARAH to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the holy Trinity:
Glory to him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
At Tarah to-day I call on the Lord,
On Christ, the omnipotent Word,
Who came to redeem from death and sin
Our fallen race;
And I put and I place
The virtue that lieth and liveth in
His incarnation lowly,
His baptism pure and holy,
His life of toil and tears and affliction,
His dolorous death — his crucifixion,
His burial, sacred and sad and lone,
His resurrection to life again,
His glorious ascension to Heaven's high throne,
And, lastly, his future dread
And terrible coming to judge all men
Both the living and dead.
At Tarah to-day I put and I place
The virtue that dwells in the seraphim's love.
And the virtue and grace
That are in the obedience
And unshaken allegiance
Of all the archangels and angels above,
And in the hope of the resurrection
To everlasting reward and election,
And in the prayers of the fathers of old,
And in the truths the prophets foretold,
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings,
And in the confessors' faith and teachings;
And in the purity ever dwelling
Within the immaculate Virgin's breast,
And in the actions bright and excelling
Of all good men, the just and the blest.
At Tarah to-day, in this fateful hour,
I place all heaven with its power,
## p. 9669 (#77) ############################################
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
9669
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness, -
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.
At Tarah to-day
May God be my stay!
May the strength of God now nerve me!
May the power of God preserve me!
May God the Almighty be near me!
May God the Almighty espy me!
May God the Almighty hear me!
May God give me eloquent speech!
May the arm of God protect me!
May the wisdom of God direct me!
May God give me power to teach and to preach!
May the shield of God defend me!
May the host of God attend me,
And ward me,
And guard me
Against the wiles of demons and devils,
Against the temptations of vices and evils,
Against the bad passions and wrathful will
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart,
Against every man who designs me ill,
Whether leagued with others or plotting apart!
In this hour of hours,
I place all those powers
Between myself and every foe
Who threaten my body and soul
With danger or dole,
To protect me against the evils that flow
From lying soothsayers' incantations,
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations,
From heresy's hateful innovations,
From idolatry's rites and invocations.
## p. 9670 (#78) ############################################
9670
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
-
Be those my defenders,
My guards against every ban -
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women;
In fine, against every knowledge that renders
The light Heaven sends us dim in
The spirit and soul of man!
May Christ, I pray,
Protect me to-day
Against poison and fire,
Against drowning and wounding:
That so, in His grace abounding,
I may earn the preacher's hire!
Christ as a light
Illumine and guide me!
Christ as a shield o'ershadow and cover me!
Christ be under me! - Christ be over me!
Christ be beside me,
On left hand and right!
Christ be before me, behind me, about me;
Christ this day be within and without me!
Christ, the lowly and meek.
Christ the All-Powerful be
In the heart of each to whom I speak,
In the mouth of each who speaks to me!
In all who draw near me,
Or see me or hear me!
At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
Salvation dwells with the Lord,
With Christ, the omnipotent Word.
From generation to generation
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation !
## p. 9671 (#79) ############################################
9671
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
(1785-1873)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
LESSANDRO MANZONI was looked upon during his life as a man
who had deserved well of Heaven. «He gazed,” as one of
his countrymen said, “at Fortune straight in the eyes, and
Fortune smiled. ” And Manzoni might well have looked with clear
eyes, for there was nothing in his heart — if a man's heart may be
judged from his constant utterances — that was base.
He lived in a time best suited to his genius and his temperament.
And his genius and his time made an epoch in Italian history worthy
of most serious study. In 1815 Italy was
inarticulate; she had to speak by signs.
She dared only dream of a future which
she read in a glorious past. The Austrians
ruled the present, the future was veiled,
the past was real and golden. Manzoni,
Pellico, and Grossi were romanticists be-
cause they were filled with aspiration; and
their aspiration, clothing itself in the form
which Goethe's Götz) and Sir Walter Scott's
(Marmion' had given to the world, tried to
obliterate the present and find relief at the
foot of the cross in the shadow of old Gothic
cathedrals. The Comte de Mun, Vicomte ALESSANDRO MANZONI
de Vogüe, Sienkiewicz, and others of the
modern neo-Catholic school, represent reaction rather than aspiration.
Manzoni, Châteaubriand, Montalembert, Overbeck in art, Lamartine
and Lamennais, were not only fiercely reactionary, but fiercely senti-
mental, hopeful, and romantic.
With Austrian bayonets at the throat of Italy, it was not easy
to emit loud war-cries for liberty. The desire of the people must
therefore be heard through the voice of the poet. And the desire of
the Italians is manifest in the poetry and the prose of the author of
"The Betrothed' (I Promessi Sposi), and the Sacred Hymns. Only
two reproaches were made against Manzoni: he was praised by Goe-
the,- which, “says a sneer turned proverb,” as Mr. Howells puts it,
“is a brevet of mediocrity,” — and he was not persecuted. «Goethe,”
-
)
-
## p. 9672 (#80) ############################################
9672
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
>
Mr. Howells continues, “could not laud Manzoni's tragedies too highly;
he did not find one word too much or too little in them; the style
was free, noble, full, and rich. As to the religious lyrics, the manner
of their treatment was fresh and individual although the matter and
the significance were not new, and the poet was 'a Christian without
fanaticism, a Roman Catholic without bigotry, a zealot without hard-
ness.
In 1815 the Continental revolt against the doctrines of Rousseau
and Voltaire was at its highest. The period that produced Cesare
Cantù was likewise the period when Ossian and Byron had become
the favorite poets of the younger men. Classicism and infidelity were
both detested. The last king was not, after all, to be strangled with
the entrails of the last priest. God might rest, as a writer on the
time remarks with naïveté. It was the fashion to be respectful to
him. Italy was willing to disown the paganism of the Renaissance
for the moral teaching of the ages that preceded it. Manzoni and
his school held that true patriotism must be accompanied by virtue ;
and in a country where Machiavelli's Prince) had become a classic,
this seemed a new doctrine. The movement which Manzoni repre-
sented was above all religious; the pope was again transfigured, and
in his case by a man who had begun life with the most liberal tenden-
cies. As it was, he never accepted the belief that the pope must
necessarily be a ruler of great temporalities; but of the sincerity
and fervor of his faith in the Catholic Church one finds ample proof
in his (Sacred Hymns. '
Born at Milan in 1785, he married Mademoiselle Blondel in 1808.
Her father was a banker of Geneva; and tradition says that he was
of that cultivated group of financiers to whom the Neckers belonged,
and that his daughter was of a most dazzling blonde beauty. The
Blondels, like the Neckers, were Protestants; but at Milan, Louise
Blondel entered the Catholic Church and confirmed the wavering
faith of her young husband, who began at once the (Sacred Hymns. '
In these Mr. Howells praises “the irreproachable taste and unaffected
poetic appreciation of the grandeur of Christianity. ” One may go
even further; for they have the fervor, the exultation, the knowledge
that the Redeemer liveth, in a fullness which we do not find in sacred
song outside the Psalms of David, the Dies Iræ,' and the Stabat
Mater. )
Manzoni's poems were not many, but they all have the element of
greatness in them. We can understand why the invading Austrians
desired to honor him, when we read his ode (The Fifth of May) (on
the death of Napoleon), or his two noble tragedies (The Count of
Carmagnola) and Adelchi,' or that pride of all Italians, his master-
piece, The Betrothed” (I Promessi Sposi'). We can understand too
## p. 9673 (#81) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9673
the lofty haughtiness that induced him to refuse these honors, and
to relinquish his hereditary title of Count, rather than submit to the
order that he must register himself as an Austrian subject. The gov-
ernment, however, did not cease to offer honors to him; all of which,
except the Italian senatorship proffered him in 1860, he declined.
Great tragedies, like Shelley's Cenci,' Sir Henry Taylor's “Philip van
Artevelde,' and Sir Aubrey De Vere's Mary Tudor,' may be unact-
able; they may speak best to the heart and mind only through the
written word. Manzoni's are of this class. They have elevation,
dramatic feeling, the power of making emotion vital and of inspiring
passionate sympathy with the intention of the author; but even Sal-
vini, Rossi, or Ristori could not make them possible for the stage.
In the Count of Carmagnola,' which celebrated the physical ruin but
moral success of a noble man, Manzoni in 1820 shocked the classicists
and won their hatred. They loved Aristotle and his rules; Manzoni
broke every rule as thoroughly as Shakespeare and as consciously as
Victor Hugo. He was looked upon as a literary, artistic apostate. In
his explanation of his reasons for this assault on an old world, he
makes an audacious apologia which Alfred de Musset might have read
with profit before despairing of a definition of romanticism. Adelchi?
followed in 1822, still further exasperating the fury of the classicists,
who hated Manzoni and romance; foreseeing perhaps by intuition that
the romantic school was to be the ancestor of the realistic school,
whose horrors were only dimly dreamed of.
The Sacred Hymns,' The Count of Carmagnola,' Adelchi, The
Betrothed, and the great :' Fifth of May) ode on the death of Napo-
leon, are the works by which Manzoni's fame was established. The
tragedies - Carmagnola' of the fifteenth century, Adelchi? of the
eighth — would live for their strong lyrical element, even were the
quality of eloquence and the fire that must underlie eloquence lack-
ing Pathos is exquisite in both these plays; the marble hearts
of the Italian classic tragedy are replaced here by vital, palpitating
flesh. When Carmagnola dies for his act of humanity in releasing
his prisoners of war, and Ermengarda, whose loveliness is portrayed
with the delicacy of the hand that drew Elaine, passes away in her
convent, one feels that the world may indeed mourn. And when a
poet can force us to take the shades of the Middle Ages for real
human beings, no man may deny his gift.
(The Fifth of May,' the noblest ode in the Italian language,
almost defies translation. Mr. Howells has made the best possible
version of it. Napoleon had wronged Italy, but Italy speaking
through its poet forgave him.
« Beautiful, deathless, beneficent,
Faith! used to triumphs even
## p. 9674 (#82) ############################################
9674
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
This also writes exultingly;
No loftier pride 'neath heaven
Unto the shame of Calvary
Stooped ever yet its crest.
Thou from his weary mortality
Disperse all bitter passions;
The God that humbleth and hearteneth,
That comforts and that chastens,
Upon the pillow else desolate
To his pale lips lay pressed!
(The Betrothed' is one of the classics of fiction. It appeared in
1825. Since that time it has been translated into every language in
the civilized world. It deserves the verdict which time has passed
upon it. Don Abbondio and Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, Renzo and
Lucia, and Don Rodrigo, go on from year to year seeming to gain
new vitality. It will bear the test of a reading in youth and a re-
reading in old age; and there are few books of fiction of which this
can be said, - it is a standard of their greatness.
Manzoni died in 1873. His patriotic dreams had not been entirely
realized; but he passed away content, in faith and hope. His career
was on the whole happy and serene. He loved the simple things of
life, and looked on life itself as only a vestibule — to be nobly
adorned, however -- to a place of absolute peace.
Arnaud's I Poetti Patriottica' (1862); (Storia della Litteratura
Italiana,' by De Sanctis (1879); and William Dean Howells's Modern
Italian Poets' (Harper & Brothers: 1887), -- are valuable books of ref-
erence on the romantic movement in Italy, and on the position of
Manzoni in that movement. The best translation of The Betrothed
is included in the Bohn Library.
n
Jrancis
Egan
AN UNWILLING PRIEST
From The Betrothed
[ The following amusing scene occurs in the earlier portion of Manzoni's
novel. Don Abbondio, a cowardly village curate, has been warned by Don
Rodrigo, his lord of the manor, that if he dares to unite in marriage two
young peasants, Renzo and Lucia (the “betrothed ” of the story), vengeance
will follow. The priest accordingly shirks his duty; and cruelly refusing to
set any marriage date, shuts himself up in his house and even barricades him-
self against Renzo's entreaties. Donna Agnese, the mother of Lucia, bears
that if a betrothed pair can but reach the presence of their parish priest and
## p. 9675 (#83) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9675
announce that they take each other as man and wife, the marriage is as bind-
ing as if celebrated with all formality. Accordingly Agnese devises a sort of
attack on the priest by stratagem, to be managed by the parties to the con-
tract and two witnesses (the brothers Tonio and Gervase); which device is con.
siderably endangered by the wariness of the curate's housekeeper, Perpetua. ]
I
N FRONT of Don Abbondio's door, a narrow street ran between
two cottages; but only continued straight the length of the
buildings, and then turned into the fields. Agnese went for-
ward along this street, as if she would go a little aside to speak
more freely, and Perpetua followed. When they had turned the
corner, and reached a spot whence they could no longer see what
happened before Don Abbondio's house, Agnese coughed loudly.
This was the signal; Renzo heard it, and re-animating Lucia
by pressing her arm, they turned the corner together on tiptoe,
crept very softly close along the wall, reached the door, and
gently pushed it open: quiet, and stooping low, they were quickly
in the passage; and here the two brothers were waiting for them.
Renzo very gently let down the latch of the door, and they all
four ascended the stairs, making scarcely noise enough for two.
On reaching the landing, the two brothers advanced towards
the door of the room at the side of the staircase, and the lovers
stood close against the wall.
Deo gratias," said Tonio in an explanatory tone.
Eh, Tonio! is it you ? Come in! ” replied the voice within.
Tonio opened the door, scarcely wide enough to admit himself
and his brother one at a time. The ray of light that suddenly
shone through the opening and crossed the dark floor of the
landing made Lucia tremble, as if she were discovered. When
the brothers had entered, Tonio closed the door inside: the lov-
ers stood motionless in the dark, their ears intently on the alert,
and holding their breath; the loudest noise was the beating of
poor Lucia's heart.
Don Abbondio was seated, as we have said, in an old arm-
chair, enveloped in an antiquated dressing-gown, and his head
buried in a shabby cap of the shape of a tiara, which by the
faint light of a small lamp formed a sort of cornice all around
his face. Two thick locks which escaped from beneath his head-
dress, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, and a thick tuft
on the chin, all of them gray and scattered over his dark and
wrinkled visage, might be compared to bushes covered with snow,
projecting from the face of a cliff, as seen by moonlight.
## p. 9676 (#84) ############################################
9676
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
"Aha! ” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and
laid them on his book.
“The Signor Curate will say I am come very late," said Tonio
with a low bow, which Gervase awkwardly imitated.
“Certainly, it is late — late every way. Don't you know I
am ill? ”
"I'm very sorry for it. ”
“You must have heard I was ill, and didn't know when I
should be able to see anybody.
But why have you
brought this — this boy with you ? »
"For company, Signor Curate. ”
“Very well, let us see. ”
“Here are twenty-five new berlinghe, with the figure of Saint
Ambrose on horseback," said Tonio, drawing a little parcel out
of his pocket.
“Let us see,” said Don Abbondio; and he took the parcel, put
on his spectacles again, opened it, took out the berlinghe, turned
them over and over, counted them, and found them irreprehen-
sible.
“Now, Signor Curate, you will give me Tecla's necklace. ”
“ You are right,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to a
cupboard, he took out a key, looking around as if to see that all
prying spectators were at a proper distance, opened one of the
doors, and filling up the aperture with his person, introduced his
head to see and his arm to reach the pledge; then drawing it
out, he shut the cupboard, unwrapped the paper, and saying,
“Is that right ? ” folded it up again and handed it to Tonio.
“Now,” said Tonio, "will you please to put it in black and
white? ”
"Not satisfied yet! ” said Don Abbondio. «I declare they
know everything. Eh! how suspicious the world has become!
Don't you trust me ? ”
"What, Signor Curate! Don't I trust you ?
You do me
wrong. But as my name is in your black books, on the debtor's
side- Then, since you have had the trouble of writing once,
From life to death - "
“Well, well,” interrupted Don Abbondio; and muttering be-
tween his teeth, he drew out one of the table drawers, took thence
pen, ink, and paper, and began to write, repeating the words
aloud as they proceeded from his pen. In the mean time Tonio,
and at his side Gervase, placed themselves standing before the
SO -
## p. 9677 (#85) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9677
>>
table in such a manner as to conceal the door from the view of
the writer, and began to shuffle their feet about on the floor, as
if in mere idleness, but in reality as a signal to those without
to enter, and at the same time to drown the noise of their foot-
steps. Don Abbondio, intent upon his writing, noticed nothing
else. At the noise of their feet, Renzo took Lucia's arm, pressing
it in an encouraging manner, and went forward, almost dragging
her along; for she trembled to such a degree that without his
help she must have sunk to the ground. Entering very softly,
on tiptoe, and holding their breath, they placed themselves be-
hind the two brothers. In the mean time, Don Abbondio, having
finished writing, read over the paper attentively, without raising
his eyes; he then folded it up, saying, "Are you content now? ”
and taking off his spectacles with one hand, handed the paper to
Tonio with the other, and looked up. Tonio, extending his right
hand to receive it, retired on one side, and Gervase, at a sign
from him, on the other; and behold! as at the shifting of a scene,
Renzo and Lucia stood between them. Don Abbondio saw indis-
tinctly — saw clearly — was terrified, astonished, enraged, buried in
thought, came to a resolution; and all this while Renzo uttered
the words, "Signor Curate, in the presence of these witnesses,
this is my wife. ” Before, however, Lucia's lips could form the
reply, Don Abbondio dropped the receipt, seized the lamp with
his left hand and raised it in the air, caught hold of the cloth
with his right, and dragged it furiously off the table, bringing
to the ground in its fall, book, paper, inkstand, and sand-box;
and springing between the chair and the table, advanced towards
Lucia. The poor girl, with her sweet gentle voice, trembling
violently, had scarcely uttered the words, “And this when
Don Abbondio threw the cloth rudely over her head and face, to
prevent her pronouncing the entire formula. Then, letting the
light fall from his other hand, he employed both to wrap the
cloth round her face, till she was well-nigh smothered, shouting
in the mean while, at the stretch of his voice, like a wounded
bull, “Perpetua! Perpetua! — treachery! — help! ” The light, just
glimmering on the ground, threw a dim and flickering ray upon
Lucia, who, in utter consternation, made no attempt to disengage
herself, and might be compared to a statue sculptured in chalk,
over which the artificer had thrown a wet cloth. When the light
died away, Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and went grop-
ing about to find the door that opened into an inner room: and
## p. 9678 (#86) ############################################
9678
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
>
having reached it, he entered and shut himself in, unceasingly
exclaiming, “Perpetua! treachery! help! Out of the house! Out
of the house!
In the other room all was confusion: Renzo, seeking to lay
hold of the Curate, and feeling with his hands, as if playing at
blindman's buff, had reached the door, and kicking against it,
was crying, “Open, open; don't make such a noise ! » Lucia,
calling to Renzo in a feeble voice, said beseechingly, “Let us go,
let us go, for God's sake. ” Tonio was crawling on his knees,
and feeling with his hands on the ground to recover his lost
receipt. The terrified Gervase was crying and jumping about,
and seeking for the door of the stairs, so as to make his escape
in safety.
In the midst of this uproar, we cannot but stop a moment to
make a reflection. Renzo, who was causing disturbance at night
in another person's house, who had effected an entrance by
stealth, and who had blockaded the master himself in one of his
own rooms, has all the appearance of an oppressor; while in fact
he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, taken by surprise, terrified
and put to flight, while peaceably engaged in his own affairs,
appears the victim; when in reality it was he who did the wrong.
Thus frequently goes the world; - or rather, we should say, thus
it went in the seventeenth century.
The besieged, finding that the enemy gave no signs of aban-
doning the enterprise, opened a window that looked into the
church-yard, and shouted out, “Help! help! ” There was a most
lovely moon; the shadow of the church, and a little farther on
the long sharp shadow of the bell-tower, lay dark, still, and well
defined, on the bright grassy level of the sacred inclosure: all
objects were visible, almost as by day. But look which way you
would, there appeared no sign of living person. Adjoining the
lateral wall of the church, on the side next the parsonage, was a
small dwelling where the sexton slept. Aroused by this unusual
cry, he sprang up in his bed, jumped out in great haste, threw
open the sash of his little window, put his head out with his
eyelids glued together all the while, and cried out, «What's the
matter? )
“Run, Ambrogio! help! people in the house! » answered Don
Abbondio. "Coming directly,” replied he, as he drew in his
head and shut the window; and although half asleep and more
than half terrified, an expedient quickly occurred to him that
## p. 9679 (#87) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9679
would bring more aid than had been asked, without dragging him
into the affray, whatever it might be. Seizing his breeches that
lay upon the bed, he tucked them under his arm like a gala hat,
and bounding down-stairs by a little wooden ladder, ran to the
belfry, caught hold of the rope that was attached to the larger
of the two bells, and pulled vigorously.
Ton, ton, ton, ton: the peasant sprang up in his bed; the
boy stretched in the hay-loft listened eagerly, and leapt upon
his feet. « What's the matter? what's the matter ? The bell 's
ringing! Fire ? Thieves ? Banditti ? » Many of the women
advised, begged, their husbands not to stir — to let others run;
some got up and went to the window; those who were cowards,
as if yielding to entreaty, quietly slipped under the bedclothes
again; while the more inquisitive and courageous sprang up and
armed themselves with pitchforks and pistols, to run to the up-
roar; others waited to see the end.
Renzo, who had more of his senses about him than the rest,
remembered that they had better make their escape one way
or another before the crowds assembled; and that the best plan
would be to do as Menico advised, — nay, commanded, with the
authority of one in terror. When once on their way, and out of
the tumult and danger, he could ask a clearer explanation from
the boy. « Lead the way,” said he to Menico; and addressing
the women, said, “Let us go with him. ” They therefore quickly
turned their steps towards the church, crossed the church-yard,
- where, by the favor of Heaven, there was not yet a living
creature,- entered a little street that ran between the church
and Don Abbondio's house, turned into the first alley they came
to, and then took the way of the fields.
They had not perhaps gone fifty yards, when the crowd
began to collect in the church-yard, and rapidly increased every
moment. They looked inquiringly in each other's faces; every
one had a question to ask, but no one could return an answer.
Those who arrived first ran to the church door: it was locked.
They then ran to the belfry outside; and one of them, putting
his mouth to a very small window, a sort of loophole, cried,
«What ever is the matter ? ” As soon as Ambrogio recognized a
known voice, he let go of the bell-rope, and being assured by
the buzz that many people had assembled, replied, “I'll open
the door. ” Hastily slipping on the apparel he had carried under
his arm, he went inside the church and opened the door.
## p. 9680 (#88) ############################################
9680
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
“What is all this hubbub ? — What is it? - Where is it? -
Who is it ? »
"Why, who is it ? ” said Ambrogio, laying one hand on the
door-post, and with the other holding up the habiliment he had
put on in such haste: “What! don't you know? People in the
Signor Curate's house. Up, boys; help! ” Hearing this, they all
turned to the house, looked up, approached it in a body, looked
up again, listened: all was quiet. Some ran to the street door;
it was shut and bolted: they glanced upwards; not a window was
open, not a whisper was to be heard.
« Who is within ? Ho! Hey! — Signor Curate! — Signor
Curate! ”
Don Abbondio, who, scarcely aware of the flight of the in-
vaders, had retired from the window and closed it, and who at
this moment was reproaching Perpetua in a low voice for having
left him alone in this confusion, was obliged, when he heard him-
self called upon by the voice of the assembled people, to show
himself again at the window; and when he saw the crowds that
had come to his aid, he sorely repented having called them.
“What has happened? — What have they done to you ? - Who
are they? — Where are they? " burst forth from fifty voices at
once.
>
« There's nobody here now: thank you; go home again. ”
“But who has been here ? - Where are they gone? - What
has happened ? ”
« Bad people, people who go about by night; but they're gone:
go home again; there is no longer anything; another time, my
children: I thank you for your kindness to me. ” So saying, he
drew back and shut the window. Some of the crowd began to
grumble, some to joke, others to curse; some shrugged their
shoulders and took their departure.
The melancholy trio continued their walk, the women taking
the lead and Renzo behind to act as guard. Lucia clung closely
to her mother's arın, kindly and dexterously avoiding the prof-
fered assistance of the youth at the difficult passes of this unfre-
quented path; feeling ashamed of herself, even in such troubles,
for having already been so long and so familiarly alone with
him, while expecting in a few moments to be his wife. Now
that this vision had been so sorrowfully dispelled, she repented
having proceeded thus far; and amidst so many causes of fear,
she feared even for her modesty; — not such modesty as arises
## p. 9681 (#89) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9681
from the sad knowledge of evil, but for that which is ignorant
of its own existence; like the dread of a child who trembles in
the dark, he knows not why.
“And the house? ” suddenly exclaimed Agnese. But however
important the object might be which extorted this exclamation,
no one replied, because no one could do so satisfactorily. They
therefore continued their walk in silence, and in a little while
reached the square before the church of the convent.
Renzo advanced to the door of the church, and gently pushed
it open. The moon that entered through the aperture fell upon
the pale face and silvery beard of Father Cristoforo, who was
standing here expecting them; and having seen that no one
was missing, God be praised ! ” said he, beckoning to them to
enter. By his side stood another Capuchin, the lay sexton, whom
he had persuaded by prayers and arguments to keep vigil with
him, to leave the door ajar, and to remain there on guard to
receive these poor threatened creatures; and it required nothing
short of the authority of the Father, and of his fame as a saint,
to persuade the layman to so inconvenient, perilous, and irregu-
lar a condescension. When they were inside, Father Cristoforo
very softly shut the door. Then the sexton could no longer con-
tain himself, and taking the Father aside, whispered in his ear:
"But, Father, Father! at night-in church — with women — shut
- the rule-but, Father! And he shook his head, while thus
hesitatingly pronouncing these words. Just see! thought Father
Cristoforo: if it were a pursued robber, Friar Fazio would make
no difficulty in the world; but a poor innocent escaping from
the jaws of a wolf - "Omnia munda mundis, " * added he, turn-
,
ing suddenly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not under-
stand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly what produced
the right effect. If the Father had begun to dispute and reason,
Friar Fazio would not have failed to urge opposing arguments,
and no one knows how and when the discussion would have come
to an end; but at the sound of these weighty words of a mys-
terious signification, and so resolutely uttered, it seemed to him
that in them must be contained the solution of all his doubts.
He acquiesced, saying, “Very well: you know more about it than
I do. "
»
* Or in rever
erse, « To the pure all things are pure. ”
XVII-606
## p. 9682 (#90) ############################################
9682
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
(
“Trust me, then,” replied Father Cristoforo; and by the
dim light of the lamp burning before the altar, he approached
the refugees, who stood waiting in suspense, and said to them,
“My children, thank God, who has delivered you from so great
a danger! Perhaps at this moment - And here he began to
explain more fully what he had hinted by the little messen-
ger; little suspecting that they knew more than he, and sup-
posing that Menico had found them quiet in their own house,
before the arrival of the ruffians. Nobody undeceived him,-
not even Lucia, whose conscience, however, was all the while
secretly reproaching her for practicing such dissimulation with so
good a man; but it was a night of embarrassment and dissimula-
tion.
"After this,” continued he, “you must feel, my children, that
the village is no longer safe for you. It is yours, who were
born there, and you have done no wrong to any one; but God
wills it so. It is a trial, my children; bear it with patience and
faith, without indulging in rancor, and rest assured there will
come a day when you will think yourselves happy that this has
occurred. I have thought of a refuge for you, for the present.
Soon, I hope, you may be able to return in safety to your own
house; at any rate, God will provide what is best for you; and I
assure you, I will be careful not to prove unworthy of the favor
he has bestowed upon me, in choosing me as his minister, in
the service of you his poor yet loved afflicted ones. You,” con-
tinued he, turning to the two women, “can stay at Here
you will be far enough from every danger, and at the same
time not far from your own home. There seek out our
vent, ask for the guardian, and give him this letter: he will be
to you another Father Cristoforo. And you, my Renzo, must
put yourself in safety from the anger of others, and your own.
Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura da Lodi, in our convent
of the Porta Orientale, at Milan. He will be a father to you,
will give you directions and find you work, till you can return
and live more peaceably. Go to the shore of the lake, near
the mouth of the Bione, a river not far from this monastery.
Here you will see a boat waiting; say, “Boat! ! It will be asked
you, "For whom? ' And you must reply, “San Francesco. ' The
boat will receive you and carry you to the other side, where you
will find a cart that will take you straight to -
(
con-
## p. 9683 (#91) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9683
If any one asks how Father Cristoforo had so quickly at his
disposal these means of transport by land and water, it will show
that he does not know the influence and power of a Capuchin
held in reputation as a saint.
It still remained to decide about the care of the houses.
The Father received the keys, pledging himself to deliver them
to whomsoever Renzo and Agnese should name. The latter, in
delivering up hers, heaved a deep sigh, remembering that at that
moment the house was open, that the devil had been there, and
who knew what remained to be taken care of !
« Before you go,” said the Father, “let us pray all together
that the Lord may be with you in this your journey, and for
ever; and above all, that he may give you strength and a spirit
of love, to enable you to desire whatever he has willed. ” So
saying, he knelt down in the middle of the church, and they all
followed his example.
After praying a few moments in silence, with a low but dis-
tinct voice he pronounced these words:–«We beseech thee also
for the unhappy person who has brought us to this state. We
should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not from our hearts
implore it for him; he needs it, O Lord! We, in our sorrow,
have this consolation, that we are in the path where thou hast
placed us; we can offer thee our griefs and they may become
our gain. But he is thine enemy! Alas, wretched man, he is
striving with thee! Have mercy on him, O Lord, touch his heart;
reconcile him to thyself, and give him all those good things we
could desire for ourselves. ”
Rising then in haste, he said, “Come, my children, you have
no time to lose: God defend you; his angel go with you; -
farewell! » And while they set off with that emotion which
cannot find words, and manifests itself without them, the Father
'added in an agitated tone, My heart tells me we shall meet
again soon. ”
Certainly the heart, to those who listen to it, has always some-
thing to say on what will happen; but what did his heart know?
Very little, truly, of what had already happened.
Without waiting a reply, Father Cristoforo retired with hasty
steps; the travelers took their departure, and Father Fazio shut
the door after them, bidding them farewell with even his voice a
little faltering
»
>
## p. 9684 (#92) ############################################
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ALESSANDRO MANZONI
The trio slowly made their way to the shore they had been
directed to; there they espied the boat, and exchanging the pass-
word, stepped in. The waterman, planting one oar on the land,
pushed off; then took up the other oar, and rowing with both
hands, pulled out and made towards the opposite beach. Not a
breath of wind was stirring; the lake lay bright and smooth, and
would have appeared motionless but for the tremulous and gen-
tle undulation of the moonbeams, which gleamed upon it from
the zenith. No sounds were heard but the muffled and slowly
measured breaking of the surge upon the pebbly shore, the more
distant gurgling of the troubled waters dashing among the piles
of the bridge, and the even plash of the light sculls, as, rising
with the sharp sound of a dripping blade, and quickly plunged
again beneath, they cut the azure surface of the lake. The
waves, divided by the prow, and reuniting behind the little bark,
tracked out a curling line which extended itself to the shore. The
silent travelers, with their faces turned backwards, gazed upon
the mountains and the country, illumined by the pale light of
the moon, and diversified here and there with vast shadows.
They could distinguish the villages, the houses, and the little
cabins: the palace of Don Rodrigo, with its square tower, rising
above the group of huts at the base of the promontory, looked
like a savage standing in the dark and meditating some evil
deed while keeping guard over a company of reclining sleepers.
Lucia saw it and shuddered; then drawing her eye along the
declivity till she reached her native village, she fixed her gaze on
its extremity, sought for her own cottage, traced out the thick
head of the fig-tree which towered above the wall of the court-
yard, discovered the window of her own room, -- and being seated
in the bottom of the boat, she leaned her elbow on the edge,
laid her forehead on her arm as if she were sleeping, and wept
in secret.
Farewell, ye mountains, rising from the waters and pointing
to the heavens! ye varied summits, familiar to him who has been
brought up among you, and impressed upon his mind as clearly
as the countenance of his dearest friends! ye torrents, whose
murmur he recognizes like the sound of the voices of home! ye
villages, scattered and glistening on the declivity, like flocks of
grazing sheep! Farewell! How mournful is the step of him
who, brought up amidst your scenes, is compelled to leave you!
## p. 9685 (#93) ############################################
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9685
Even in the imagination of one who willingly departs, attracted by
the hope of making a fortune elsewhere, the dreams of wealth at
this moment lose their charms; he wonders he could form such a
resolution, and would even now turn back but for the hope of
one day returning with a rich abundance. As he advances into
the plain, his eye becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the
atmosphere feels heavy and lifeless; he sadly and listlessly enters
the busy cities, where houses crowded upon houses, and streets
intersecting streets, seem to take away his breath; and before
edifices admired by the stranger, he recalls with restless longing
the fields of his own country, and the cottage he had long ago
set his heart upon, and which he resolves to purchase when he
returns enriched to his own mountains.
But what must he feel who has never sent a passing wish
beyond these mountains, who has arranged among them all his
designs for the future, and is driven far away by an adverse
power! who, suddenly snatched away from his dearest habits, and
thwarted in his dearest hopes, leaves these mountains to go in
search of strangers whom he never desired to know, and is un-
able to look forward to a fixed time of return!
Farewell, native cottage — where, indulging in unconscious
fancy, one learnt to distinguish from the noise of common foot-
steps the approach of a tread expected with mysterious timid-
ity! Farewell, thou cottage, - still a stranger, but so often hastily
glanced at, not without a blush, in passing - in which the mind
took delight to figure to itself the tranquil and lasting home
of a wife! Farewell, my church, where the heart was so often
soothed while chanting the praises of the Lord; where the pre-
paratory rite of betrothal was performed; where the secret sigh-
ing of the heart was solemnly blessed, and love was inspired,
and one felt a hallowing influence around. Farewell! He who
imparted to you such gladness is everywhere; and he never dis-
turbs the joy of his children but to prepare them for one more
certain and durable.
Of such a nature, if not exactly these, were the reflections of
Lucia; and not very dissimilar were those of the two other wan-
derers, while the little bark rapidly approached the right bank of
the Adda.
## p.
