The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 369, May 9, 1829

ALVISE SANUTO

A Venetian Story 7

Alvise Sanuto was a young man of whom his country entertained the proudest hopes. His courage had been gloriously tried in the battle of Lepanto, in which he had performed prodigies of valour. His prudence and foresight had been often the subject of admiration in the great council of the state. The old man, his father, esteemed him as the ornament and grace of his family: Venice pointed to him as one of her best citizens. Alvise was destined to fall by an infamous death.

At that period both public and private manners were exceedingly severe. The ladies, who gave law to them, only issued from their homes to go to church, wrapped up in a veil which hid their face and figure. The balconies of the palaces still present signs of this ancient severity, the parapets being purposely made so high and large, as to render it difficult to see from them. Alvise had a heart of the most passionate and fiery nature; he felt the imperious sway of love, but as yet had met with no lady on whom he could bestow his affections. The arrival of the French ambassador at Venice, in great pomp, excited public curiosity. The manners of the strangers bore an aspect of perfect novelty to the inhabitants of the republic, as the ladies who accompanied Amalia, the ambassador's daughter, displayed a fire and vivacity, which to many seemed scandalous as well as astonishing. Amalia was in her seventeenth year, and to cultivated and sprightly powers of mind, added those French graces, which, if they do not constitute beauty, are still more effectual than beauty itself in seducing the beholder. Alvise saw her when she was presented to the Doge, and regarded her as a being more than human. He gazed on her as if beside himself; and what female could have beheld him without admiration? Amalia read in the noble countenance of Alvise what he felt at that moment; she was affected, and, for the first time, her heart palpitated within her bosom.

Alvise from that day was another being. He knew his unhappy state, and that his misfortunes could end but with his life, since the severe and unyielding laws of his country rendered all hope chimerical of ever being united with the stranger lady. His ardent fancy suggested to attempt any means of again seeing her who was dearer to him than life. His abode was divided from that of the ambassador by a narrow canal. Having procured the assistance of a French domestic, he passed over to the palace, and secretly entered the chamber of Amalia.

It was midnight; and the young lady, her own thoughts perhaps disturbed by love, had not yet laid down, but was seeking from prayer consolation and rest. She knelt before the image of the virgin, her hands clasped in the attitude of devotion; and Alvise, beholding her angelic countenance lit up by the uncertain light of the lamp, could not restrain an exclamation of surprise, which roused the maiden from her pious reverie. Struck with the sight of him, she at first fancied, according to the superstitious notions of the times, that he was a spirit sent by her evil genius to tempt her, and uttered some words of holy scripture by way of exorcism; when Alvise, advancing, threw himself at her feet, and before Amalia could speak, disclosed to her, in the most passionate terms, his love, the inconsiderate step he had taken, and the certain death that awaited him should he be discovered.

Terror, rather than indignation, filled the breast of Amalia. "Oh, heavens!" she exclaimed, "what madness could prompt you thus to expose your own life and my reputation? Haste, fly from this spot, which you have profaned; and know, that if my heart recoils at your death (and here she gave a deep sigh,) yet at my cry those would appear who would not suffer your insult to pass unpunished," so saying, she pointed imperiously to the door.

Alvise listened to her as if he had been struck down by lightning. "Then let me die!" he exclaimed, "for without you life is odious to me. You are just taking the first steps in this vale of tears; one day, however, your heart also will know the emotions of love, and then, then think of the unhappy Alvise; how great must have been his pangs, and how ardent his desire to terminate them!"

He now made an effort to go away; but Amalia held him, while she said, "Alas! I seek not thy death: live, but forget me from this fatal moment." "To forget thee is impossible; to love thee is death: thy compassion would sweeten the last moments of my existence!" "Alvise!" exclaimed Amalia, weeping, "live, if only for my sake!" "Do you comprehend the force of these words?"

She trembled at the question; but the idea of her lover dying in despair overcame all her scruples. "Yes, live for my sake," she repeated in an under tone.

Unhappy beings! they were intoxicated with love, while the abyss was yawning beneath their feet. A spy of the state inquisition, who was going his rounds, saw Alvise enter the palace, and recognised him. Denounced before the dreadful tribunal, he was dragged thither that very morning. Convicted of entering the abode of the French ambassador, he was desired to explain his motives tor so doing, but remained obstinately silent. The members of the inquisition were confounded, accustomed as they were to see every thing yield before them, and reminded him that death would be the inevitable result of his silence. "Death," he replied, "had no terrors for me when I fought at Lepanto for the glory of my country and the salvation of Italy; on which day I proved, that under no circumstances could I ever become a traitor. I call heaven to witness that I am not one. But something dearer to me than life or fame now imposes silence on me."

He was beheaded, and his body exposed between the two columns of the palace, with this inscription: "For offences against the statute." The populace were speechless at the sight, while his companions in arms, his relations and friends, abandoned themselves to despair. Venice presented one universal scene of mourning.

On the evening of the fatal day, Amalia stood upon the terrace of her palace, overlooking the grand canal. She contemplated with pleasurable melancholy the calm and even course of the moon, whose modest light shone in the cloudless sky. Her thoughts were of Alvise. To divert them, she turned to gaze on a long procession of illuminated gondolas, from which she heard a strain of plaintive music, as if of prayers for the dead, A dreadful presentiment seized her heart; she inquired the purpose of the procession, and heard, with unspeakable terror, that it was the solemnization of the funeral rites of a Venetian nobleman, who had been beheaded for high treason. "His name?" cried the breathless girl, in almost unintelligible accents: "Alvise Sanuto."

She fell, as if shot; and striking her head in the fall upon a projecting part of the terrace, was mortally wounded, and expired.—Lettere su Venezia—Translated in the Oxford Literary Gaz.

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

INDEPENDENCE

Is the word, of all others, that Irish—men, women, and children—least understand; and the calmness, or rather indifference, with which they submit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must be a source of deep regret to all "who love the land," or feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human kind. Let us select a few cases from our Irish village—such as are abundant in every neighbourhood. Shane Thurlough, "as dacent a boy," and Shane's wife, as "clane-skinned a girl," as any in the world. There is Shane, an active, handsome-looking fellow, leaning over the half-door of his cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, and picking up all the large gravel within his reach to pelt the ducks with—those useful Irish scavengers. Let us speak to him. "Good morrow, Shane!" "Och! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day! and kindly welcome, my lady—and won't ye step in and rest—it's powerful hot, and a beautiful summer, sure—the Lord be praised!" "Thank you, Shane. I thought you were going to cut the hayfield to-day—if a heavy shower comes, it will be spoil'd; it has been fit for the sithe these two days." "Sure, it's all owing to that thief o' the world, Tom Parrel, my lady. Didn't he promise me the loan of his sithe; and, by the same token, I was to pay him for it; and depinding on that, I didn't buy one, which I have been threatening to do for the last two years." "But why don't you go to Carrick and purchase one?" "To Carrick!—Och, 'tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the ground (saving your presence,) for I depindid on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cappler, the brogue-maker, to do my shoes; and, bad luck to him, the spalpeen! he forgot it." "Where's your pretty wife, Shane?" "She's in all the woe o' the world, Ma'am, dear. And she puts the blame of it on me, though I'm not in the faut this time, any how: the child's taken the small pock, and she depindid on me to tell the doctor to cut it for the cow-pock, and I depindid on Kitty Cackle, the limmer, to tell the doctor's own man, and thought she would not forget it, becase the boy's her bachelor—but out o' sight out o' mind—the never a word she tould him about it, and the babby has got it nataral, and the woman's in heart trouble (to say nothing o' myself;) and it the first, and all." "I am very sorry, indeed, for you have got a much better wife than most men." "That's a true word, my lady—only she's fidgetty like sometimes, and says I don't hit the nail on the head quick enough; and she takes a dale more trouble than she need about many a thing." "I do not think I ever saw Ellen's wheel without flax before, Shane?" "Bad cess to the wheel;—I got it this morning about that too—I depinded on John Williams to bring the flax from O'Flaharty's this day week, and he forgot it; and she says I ought to have brought it myself, and I close to the spot: but where's the good? says I, sure he'll bring it next time." "I suppose, Shane, you will soon move into the new cottage, at Clurn Hill. I passed it to-day, and it looked so cheerful; and when you get there, you must take Ellen's advice, and depend solely on yourself." "Och Ma'am, dear, don't mintion it—sure it's that makes me so down in the mouth, this very minit. Sure I saw that born blackguard, Jack Waddy, and he comes in here, quite innocent like"—"Shane, you've an eye to 'Squire's new lodge," says he. "Maybe I have," says I. "I am y'er man," says he. "How so?" says I. "Sure I'm as good as married to my lady's maid," said he; "and I'll spake to the 'Squire for you, my own self." "The blessing be about you," says I, quite grateful,—and we took a strong cup on the strength of it; and depinding on him, I thought all safe,—"and what d'ye think, my lady? Why, himself stalks into the place—talked the 'Squire over, to be sure—and without so much as by y'er lave, sates himself and his new wife on the laase in the house; and I may go whistle." "It was a great pity, Shane, that you didn't go yourself to Mr. Clurn." "That's a true word for ye, Ma'am, dear; but it's hard if a poor man can't have a frind to DEPIND on."—Sketches of Irish Character, by Mrs. S.C. Hall.

THE GATHERER

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."SHAKSPEARE

POTATOES

One is almost induced to imagine that certain orders of London conceive that "takers," as they commonly call them in their uncooked state, is a generical term; and that they only become entitled to the prefix of "pot," after they have been boiled.

DINING LATE

A wag, on being told it was the fashion to dine later and later every day, said, "he supposed it would end at last in not dining till to-morrow!"

MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON

Moore has printed between three and four hundred pages of his Life of Lord Byron, which is interspersed with original letters and poems, of singular merit—after the manner of Mason's Life of Gray, and Hayley's Life of Cowper. Nearly the whole of the manuscript is in town, and the work, consisting of a thick 4to. volume, will be published during the season.—Court Journal, No. 1.

PISTRUCCI

This gifted improvisatore (who is poet to the King's Theatre,) sometimes astonishes his acquaintance—especially if a new one—by holding his hand close over the flame of a candle, or an argand lamp, for several minutes together. It is a singular fact that several of the male branches of this family—of whom the unrivalled artist who cut the die of the sovereign, with the St. George upon it, is one—have one of their hands covered with a thick coat of horn-like matter, as hard as tortoiseshell, and perfectly insensible.—Ibid.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A COPY OF COKE UPON LITTLETON, 1721

O thou who labours't in this rugged mine,Mays't thou to gold th' unpolish'd ore refine;May each dark page unfold its haggard brow,Fear not to reap, if thou canst dare to plough;To tempt thy care may each revolving night,Purses and maces glide before thy sight;So when in times to come, advent'rous deed,Thou shalt essay to speak, to look like Mead,When ev'n the bay and rose shall cease to shadeWith martial air the honours of thy head,When the full wig thy visage shall enclose,And only give to view thy learned nose,Safely thou may'st defy beaux, wits, and scoffers,And tenant in fee simple stuff thy coffers.T.H.

1

Hen-pecked, to be governed by a wife, (see Johnson.)

2

We believe the finest cedars in England to be those at Juniper Hall, between Leatherhead and Dorking.

3

Yew trees—those gloomy tenants of our churchyards—appear to have been planted there in ancient times. In the will of Henry VI. there is the following item:—"The space between the wall of the church and the wall of the cloyster shall conteyne 38 feyte, which is left for to sett in certayne trees and flowers, behovable and convenient for the custom of the said church." Several reasons may be assigned for giving this tree a preference to every other evergreen. It is very hardy, long-lived, and, though in time it attains a considerable height, produces branches in abundance, so low as to be always within reach of the hand, and at last affords a beautiful wood for furniture.—The date of the yews at Bedfont is 1704.

4

In the twelfth volume of the MIRROR, we gave an accurate picture of the past and present celebrity of Box Hill, especially with respect to the quantity of box grown there. The box trees on the hill are again flourishing, and with these and other evergreens the chief part of Box Hill is still covered.

5

Evelyn passed much of his time in planting; and his Sylva, or a Discourse on Forest Trees, is one of the most valuable works in the whole compass of English literature. He describes himself as "borne at Wotton, among the woods," situate about four miles from Dorking, in a fine valley leading to Leith Hill. In book iii. chap. 7, of his Sylva, he says, "To give an instance of what store of woods and timber of prodigious size were grown in our little county of Surrey, my own grandfather had standing at Wotton, and about that estate, timber that now were worth £100,000. Since of what was left my father (who was a great preserver of wood) there has been £30,000. worth of limber fallen by the axe, and the fury of the hurricane in 1703, by which upwards of 1,000 trees were blown down. Now, no more Wotton! stript and naked, and ashamed almost to own its name." The Wotton woods are still flourishing, and within the last fourteen years we have passed many delightful days beneath their shade. Many a time and often in our rambles have we met the venerated Sir Samuel Romilly in one of the most beautiful ridges of the park, called the Deer-leap, wooing Nature in her delightful solitudes of wood and glade. He resided at Leith Hill, and the distance thence to Wotton is but a short ride.

6

Cunningham, in his account of New South Wales, recommends the cultivation of sugar, but he acknowledges the latitude of 28° scarcely sufficiently warm for the purpose, and enters into an argument of economy, whether convicts or slaves would be the cheapest mode of supplying labour; but this system would alter the whole character of this proposed settlement in the neighbourhood of Cockburn Sound, the great feature of which is healthiness of the climate, and a fertility of the soil, capable of producing useful exportable commodities, more than sufficient to pay for tropical productions of luxury, raised at an increased expense of life and slavery; and a very little insight into foreign trade will show with what ease this may be accomplished.

7

The nobility of Venice were subject to the most rigorous surveillance, and dearly paid, occasionally, for the small degree of power conceded by the ducal house. The jealousy of the government with regard to these men was carried to excess. I may mention three regulations among the many that related to them, as illustrative of the galling yoke that pressed on them, amid all their pride and splendour. The first forbade them to leave the dominions of the state without the special permission of the council of ten; and this was granted with difficulty. The second prohibited them from possessing foods and chattels out of the state. This was with a view of preventing the danger that might arise from attempts to betray the republic under an idea of finding an asylum elsewhere. The third and most severe decree forbade communication with foreign ambassadors, under pain of death! The terror inspired by this was such, that not only the ministers of the court, but their secretaries and domestics, fled from the ambassadors as if they were infected with the plague. This decree had numerous results, and among others, one that was attended with truly tragical circumstances.