IN

&c.

Every stranger who goes to Verona is sure to have his sympathy moved, and his curiosity excited, by what is called "The Tomb of Juliet ; " and there is no man who has read Shakspeare that will not hasten to the spot where it lies, regardless, at the moment, whether it be real or not. It is well known that this part of Italy had furnished to our immortal bard the materials of a tragedy, which, for all the pathetic details of hapless love and devoted constancy, stands unrivalled in any language. And though much of legendary exaggeration is superadded to the circumstances of the catastrophe, yet the main fact is

VOL. I.

de Monticoli was enamoured of Juliet de Cappelletti, and she of him, their families being at the time in bitter enmity with each other on account of party feuds. As therefore they could not be openly married, a private union took place between them. Shortly afterwards, Romeo, having in an affray of the two factions killed Tebaldo, the cousin of Juliet, was obliged to seek for safety in flight, and proceeded to Mantua. His unhappy spouse, afflicted beyond measure, sought commiseration and counsel from the intermediate agent of her secret marriage, seeing that there was no longer any hope of a reconciliation between families now still more incensed against each other than before. Therefore, by a preconcerted arrangement, Juliet procured a sleeping draught, and shortly after, according to common report, yielded up her life. Romeo having been apprised of the dire news, before he heard that she was only apparently dead, resolved, in the bitterness of bis anguish, to take poison, and die likewise. Previously to his doing so, however, not entirely despairing of her life, he went to Verona, and availed himself of the evening hour to enter the monastery. Being here assured that his Juliet had been interred not long before, he swallowed some poison he had with him, and hastened to the tomb, where their mutual friend pointed out the way by a passage beyond that which was ready for his return. The friar wondered very much what had happened to Romeo, unconscious of the hard fate that awaited him. While he endeavoured to assure him that the lady was not in reality dead, the poison began to operate, and now on the very verge of death he called on his Juliet with a faint voice. She awoke, and scarcely recognised him. Romeo expired, and Juliet breathed for a moment only to share his hapless doom."

THE MYSTERIOUS MONK;

OR, THE MOUNTAIN ROSE.

BY MRS. PAULSON.

(Concluded from page 243.)

By a violent exertion of strength di Moralvidini now succeeded in dislodging the net-work, and, springing forwards, his first impulse was to clasp the lovely form of his still sleeping daughter to his heart; the next to raise the inanimate Blanche, and convey her to a couch. By every means in his power he endeavoured to restore her fleeting senses, but in vain; and he now applied himself to find an outlet by which he might call some one to his aid. At length he discovered the panel by which he had entered, and, snatching a taper from the altar, he endeavoured to retrace his steps; but the windings were too numerous; and, after having proceeded a considerable way, to his vexation he discovered he was wrong. Completely bewildered, he stopped, and was tempted to think that he should never escape from this dilemma. He was, however, agreeably reliev ed by hearing the sound of human voices, and, on shouting loudly, was quickly answered, and presently joined by two lay brothers, belonging to the Carthusian Priory. Speedily making them acquainted with his errand, he prevailed on them to return with him, and soon arrived at the chamber where he had left the objects of his care. Fortunately Father Reginald was a skil ful leech. The duke first directed his attention to the beautiful Correlia, whom he soon pronounced not to be in any danger, her lethargy being only occasioned by a powerful opiate. Of Blanche he spoke not so favourably. She still lay perfectly unconscious, and it was long after the lancet had been applied to her arm before the crimson stream would flow. So faint, so weak was she, that the father pro

nounced her incapable of being moved without imminent danger.

The duke now despatched a messenger for his carriage, and on its arrival, raising Correlia in his arms, he placed her in the vehicle, and, ordering the coachman to drive slowly, soon reached the Castello della Rinaldo. Having delivered her to the care of her attendant, he returned to watch for the first dawn of consciousness, by the side of his once-loved Blanche.

Let us now retrace the occurrences of the last seventeen years, and return to the period when Antonio, glowing with love and happiness, left the lowly cottage which contained her who, by her unaffected beauty and playful vivacity, had obtained the appellation of the Mountain Rose. He left Blanche with the intention of obtaining his father's permission to make her his bride, for Antonio thought not of the differences of birth and education. To wish had always been to have his wishes complied with, or even anticipated, and he dreamed not of the least opposition to his will. His enamoured fancy told bim that Blanche would add lustre to a name already ennobled. When, therefore, he presented his suit to his hitherto too-indulgent parent, he was not prepared for the storm of rage and indignation which burst from his father. Amazed and astonished, he fled from his presence, resolved to leave his native home, and to renounce rank and wealth for the sake of his Blanche and love. But his father, perfectly aware of his wayward temper, prevented his escape, and had him confined in a turret of the castle, where he was denied nothing but liberty. Vain, for several months, were all the projects of the youthful Antonio to liberate himself; at length Providence appeared to favour him; the vigilance of his keeper relaxed, and Antonio, taking advantage of an

opportunity which presented itself, flew on the wings of love to the little cottage in the vale, the abode of his idolized Blanche. Necessary rest and food he scarcely allowed himself, so great was his impatience to arrive. On reaching the mountains, which surounded the vale, he looked in vain for the blue curling smoke, which, rising in fantastic wreaths, used to top even the tallest tree he beheld. The flowers around were withered and faded. An inward apprehension seized him; he darted forwards, he raised the unconfined latch; his worst fears were realized, the little tenement was deserted! Almost frantic, he rushed to the village, and was there told the fate of the unfortunate Blanche. It appeared that Jeannette had been concealed in the village in which Blanche had been confined, and had, by some means or other, recognised her in the mother of the helpless innocent. Finding that the idolized Mountain Rose had been equally guilty as herself, she resolved not to be alone the sufferer, and had watched an opportunity of entering the cottage, and, undiscovered, conveyed the child away, and instantly speeded with the utmost celerity to the cottage of Rodolph de la Valois. The direful catastrophe has been related. The infant, which had been left in the cottage again, was restored to the person from whom it was stolen, and the heart-riven Antonio had only the satisfaction of weeping over the child of his beloved, ever-regretted, Blanche. Time -that universal mitigator of all our sorrows-at length calmed the violence of his, and the love he owed to Blanche he now transferred to her child. Her he still continued under the care of her original protectress, having first munificently rewarded her for her attention to it. Having done this, Antonio returned, unhappy and disconsolate, to his father's mansion.

Years now passed away. The little Correlia united to a disposition of uncommon sweetness a heart, feelingly alive to every virtue; no wonder, then, that Antonio idolized her. When, on the death of his father he became Duke Di Moralvidini, he had her brought to his home, procured a grant from the king to legitimate her, and introduced her to the world as his heiress.

The unhappy and maddened Blanche, when she hurled her victim with such frantic violence down the precipice, and fell with her, found not the death she sought; for, while Jeannette became a victim, the waves

threw the wretched Blanche on the opposite shore, where she was discovered by some smugglers, and conveyed on board their vessel. They attended her with humanity; but reason had fled, and the object of their compassion was a confirmed maniac. After fruitless endeavours to recover her, they placed her in a receptacle for lunatics, and for sixteen years was this unhappy female an inhabitant of a madhouse. At length, however, the news of di Moralvidini's arrival with his lovely and beautiful heiress reached her ears; the effect was instantaneous, her wandering faculties were instantly aroused, and she · resolved to escape, if possible. Nothing now haunted her brain but that Antonio had forgotten her, that he had become the husband of another, the father of an idolized daughter, while her's was left to perish. "Merciful God! what has become of my child?" she for the first time thought. "Perished, perhaps, for want of food! My fair fame has been blasted, my father destroyed, the flower of my early youth crushed. I am deprived of every blessing, even deprived of pressing to my agonized heart the little innocent who owes its life to me; berett of reason, the wretched occupant of a madhouse; no food but hard bread moistened

with water, no bed save the floor, no pillow but straw on which to rest my aching head! my aching head! While he, he revels in every luxury, thoughtless and forgetful of the wretch he left to perish! But revenge may yet be mine! This proud duke may be taught that wrongs like mine go not unpunished; may be made to feel in his very heart's core part of the agony which rends mine." From this moment Blanche acted with a composure and tractability which effectually deceived her attendant, and at length succeeded in effecting her escape, a few days after the duke had taken up his residence at the Castella della Rinaldo. It was there that, in wandering about the gloomy passages, she discovered the superb apartment before described, and a considerable sum of money which was concealed in it. Here, then, she took up her abode, and hither she contrived to allure the gentle Correlia by a well-feigned tale of her distress. Unconscious of the evil meditated, and ever alive to the feelings of humanity, Correlia attended Blanche to the black chamber, and there Blanche told her own unhappy tale, concealing nothing but the name of her betrayer. Correlia wept, but knew not she wept the sorrows of a mother. But when at last Blanche disclosed the name of her betrayer when she heard the name of her father, that father so loved, so idolized-her senses almost forsook her, she gasped for breath, and eagerly drank the contents of a goblet which was offered to her. Correlia imagined it a restorative; it was in reality an opiate. She was placed on a sable couch: the rest has been told.

When Blanche recovered from her stupor, the first object her eyes fell on was the lover of her youth, seated by her side. "I have had a fearful dream, Antonio," she said, pressing her thin and bloodless hand to her pale forehead. "It could

not be reality! Say, speak!" she cried, with energy, and exerting herself with more strength than her fragile form seemed capable of, and catching the hand of the duke. "Speak," she continued, "have I indeed a daughter? and I, I raised my hand against her life! Horrible! horrible! God, I thank thee that thou hast spared me that one crime! Oh! it wanted not that to fill up my measure of them!

1

You

weep, Antonio. Ah! one false step is irretrievable. It brings in its train a load of guilt and misery, and wretchedness. More tears, Antonio! Would that I could weep; it would cook the burning fever in my brain. Sixteen years, Antonio, sixteen years I lived in a madhouse; the only sounds I heard were the groans and shrieks of those miserable as myself; the only be ings I saw besides my keeper, were the airy form of my good, my venerable, my murdered father, and the bleeding spectre of Jeannette: they haunted my couch, they visited me in the dead of the night! This, this is the punishment of guilt,' they cried, as they mocked my agony and derided my pangs. O God, mercy! mercy!" She hid her face in the pillow, overcome by exertion : recovering, she faintly added, "Antonio, farewell, my race is almost run. With my dying breath I pray for your happiness." A violent spasm shook her frame; with difficulty she proceeded: "Teach Correlia not to curse her unhappy mother. Ah! worlds would I give once more to gaze on her lovely form, to press her to this beating heart, to feel the sweetness of her breath, or to taste the richness of her coral lip; but it may not be→ ere the opiate can cease to operate I shall be at peace. Ah! shall I ever be at peace? will not their visions haunt me even in the grave? But God refuseth not the repent int sinner; he turns not a deaf ear to

My mouth is wanders, and Ah! what do

My

the wretch's cry. parched, my brain my eyes grow dim! I behold? It is Jeannette! father, too! how sweet, how placid is his smile! See, he beckons mè away. I come! I come! Pardon, pardon, my dear, dear father! He did, he did, even with his last, his dying breath. Antonio, I have loved you as none but woman can love let me but hear your lips pronounce my pardon. My child, do thou convey to her my last blessing. Antonio, where art thou? I cannot see thee; a mist floats before my eyes. Bless thee, Antonio; and Correlia, my child, bless, bless Corre" Words failed her, and her head sank on his shoulder, her hand fast locked in his; it gradually grew colder-he raised his head, and gazed mourn2 fully on her once-expressive countenance; but the spirit which animated it had fled, and nought remained but the mortal part of the once-loved, once-fascinating Mountain Rose.

The anguish of di Moralvidini, as he gazed on the stiffening form of Blanche, baffles description; he thought of her as he had last seen her; fancy pictured her to his mind's eye as the bashful blooming girl, who loved and confided in him. Ah! what a mind had he wrecked! "I am her murderer," he cried, in irrepressible anguish. "Blanche! Blanche! thou art indeed my victim!" A violent burst of tears came to his relief; their effects were most salutary, and, composing himself, he returned to the Castello della Rinaldo, and was received by his lovely child, who had happily recovered, and greeted him with her sweetest smiles. His disordered appearance shocked and terrified her, and she implored him to retire and take some rest. "Not till I have told you all, my love," he said; then, seating himself, and covering his face with his hands," he related