Have met with much injustice in this Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not world; with man! No difference has been made by God or Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, You do well telling me to trust in God, [During the latter speeches GIACOMO must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, Smiling and slow, walk thro' a world of tears To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just And Like be cold. Yet both will soon Oh, trample out that thought! than despair, Live wind me in thine all-embracing arms! a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, rock me to the sleep from which none wake. ye, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now Bernardo. [BERNARDO rushes in. Oh, horrible, That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Worse Should all be vain! The ministers of death Worse than the bitterness of death, is Are waiting round the doors. I thought hope: It is the only ill which can find place I saw Blood on the face of one . . . What if 'twere fancy? Tottering beneath us. Plead with the Soon the heart's blood of all I love on swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it As if 'twere only rain. O life! O world! Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and That perfect mirror of pure innocence free; Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, With famine, or wind-walking Pestil- Who made all lovely thou didst look Beatrice. Give yourself no unneces sary pain, Thee, light of life. . . dead, dark! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, Mother, tie Whose love was as a bond to all our My girdle for me, and bind up this hair loves. In any simple knot; ay, that does well. And yours I see is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another, now We shall not do it any more. My Lord, We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. THE END NOTE ON "THE CENCI," BY THE sort of mistake that Shelley made powers, which led him deviously at first, as to the extent of his own genius and but lastly into the direct track that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious instance of his modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human mind uses at once to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to make its way out of error into the path which Nature has marked out as its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy he conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always most earnest and energetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate of my powers; and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of the fact) I was far too young to have any chance of succeeding, even moderately, in a species of composition that requires a greater scope of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then have fallen to my lot,-or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever possessed, even at the age of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci. On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to be destitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisites was the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He fancied himself to be defective in this portion of imagination: it was that which gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though he laid great store by it as the proper framework to support the sublimest efforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical and abstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion with himself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any specimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of a story, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to him as an occupation. The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I. and he had written to me: Remember, remember Charles I. I have been already imagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of St. Leon begins with this proud and true sentiment: 'There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute. Shakespeare was only a human being." These words were written in 1818, while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces, where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley's imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely death, worked to its depths)-his richly gifted mind. We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world, anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his presence and loss.1 Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation went on, and the fire-flies flashed from among the myrtle hedges Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed. : At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became waterspouts that churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In this airy cell he wrote the principal part of The Cenci. He was making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon, both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his judgment and originality that, though greatly struck by his first acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept into the composition of The Cenci; and there is no trace of his new studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as suggested by one in El Purgatorio de San Patricio. Shelley wished The Cenci to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure from England, however, he saw Miss O'Neil several times, She was then in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the intense pathos, and sublime vehemence of passion, she displayed. She was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in London: "The object of the present letter is to ask a favour of you. I have written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and opinions which characterise my other compositions; I have attended simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is probable the persons represented really were, together with the, greatest degree of popular effect "I am exceedingly interested i Af What I want you to do is to pro for me its presentation at Covent Ga The principal character, Beatrice, is cisely fitted for Miss O'Neil, and it n even seem to have been written for (God forbid that I should see her pl it would tear my nerves to pieces); in all respects it is fitted only for Co Garden. The chief male character I main incident, Shelley said that it migh 1 In speaking of his mode of treating remarked that, in the course of the play, h never mentioned expressly Cenci's worst c Every one knew what it must be, but it never imaged in words-the nearest allusi it being that portion of Cenci's curse beginni "That, if she have a child," etc. fess I should be very unwilling that any one but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with an inferior actor." The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss O'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept. Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness; as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text when distance prevented him from correcting the press. not less instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended on character and incident, he would start off in another direction, and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master passion of his soul. THE MASK OF ANARCHY Universal approbation soon stamped The Cenci as the best tragedy of modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION said: "I have been cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition; diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness, generality, and, as Hamlet says, words, words.' There is nothing that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice, proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution, and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary, but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER I As I lay asleep in Italy II I met Murder on the way- III All were fat; and well they might For one by one, and two by two, IV Next came Fraud, and he had on, Like Eldon, an ermined gown; His big tears, for he wept well, Turned to mill-stones as they fell. V And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, |