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Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice.

Abbot.
Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls;
Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those
Who dwell within them.

Peace be with Count Manfred!

Abbot.

Would it were so, Count!
But I would fain confer with thee alone.
Man. Herman, retire.-What would my reverend
guest ?

Abbot. Thus, without prelude: - Age and zeal, my
office,

And good intent, must plead my privilege;
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,
May also be my herald. Rumours strange,
And of unholy nature, are abroad,

And busy with thy name; a noble name
For centuries: may he who bears it now
Transmit it unimpair'd!

Man.

Proceed, I listen.

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Abbot.

I answer with the Roman

It never can be so,

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope?
"T is strange-even those who do despair above,
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth,

To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.
Man. Ay-father! I have had those earthly
visions,

Abbot. "T is said thou holdest converse with the And noble aspirations in my youth,

things

Which are forbidden to the search of man;
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits
Which walk the valley of the shade of death,
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.

Man. And what are they who do avouch these
things?

Abbot. My pious brethren - the scared peasantry-
Even thy own vassals who do look on thee
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.
Man. Take it.

Abbot.

I come to save, and not destroy-
I would not pry into thy secret soul;
But if these things be sooth, there still is time
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee

To make my own the mind of other men,
The enlightener of nations; and to rise
I knew not whither it might be to fall;
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract,
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,
(Which casts up misty columns that become
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)
Lies low but mighty still. But this is past,
My thoughts mistook themselves.

Abbot.

And wherefore so? Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway-and soothe-and

sue

And watch all time and pry into all place-
And be a living lie who would become

A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with
A herd, though to be leader- and of wolves.

With the true church, and through the church to The lion is alone, and so am I.

heaven.

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply: whate'er
I may have been, or am, doth rest between
Heaven and myself. I shall not choose a mortal
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd
Against your ordinances? prove and punish!

Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,
But penitence and pardon; with thyself
The choice of such remains and for the last,
Our institutions and our strong belief

Have given me power to smooth the path from sin
To higher hope and better thoughts; the first

I leave to heaven," Vengeance is mine alone!"
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness
His servant echoes back the awful word.

Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men,
Nor charm in prayer nor purifying form
Of penitence nor outward look-nor fast-
Nor agony nor, greater than all these,
The innate tortures of that deep despair,
Which is remorse without the fear of hell,
But all in all sufficient to itself

Would make a hell of heaven- can exorcise
From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge
Upon itself; there is no future pang

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd
He deals on his own soul.

Abbot.
All this is well;
For this will pass away, and be succeeded
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up
With calm assurance to that blessed place,"
Which all who seek may win, whatever be
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned:
And the commencement of atonement is
The sense of its necessity.-Say on-

And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd.

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?
Man. Because my nature was averse from life;
And yet not cruel; for I would not make,
But find a desolation: like the wind,

The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom,
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves,
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,
But being met is deadly; such hath been
The course of my existence; but there came
Things in my path which are no more.
Abbot.

Alas!

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Of mortals on the earth, who do become
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,

Without the violence of warlike death;

Some perishing of pleasure-some of study-
Some worn with toil - some of mere weariness-
Some of disease and some insanity-

And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts;
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate,
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.
Look upon me! for even of all these things
Have I partaken; and of all these things,
One were enough; then wonder not that I
Am what I am, but that I ever was,

Or having been, that I am still on earth.

1 Otho, being defeated in a general engagement near Brixellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch says, that, though he lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were those of a philosopher. Martial says:-

"Sit Cato, dum vivit, sane vel Cesare major.

Dum moritur, numquid major Othone fait ? "-E

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Thine order, and revere thy years; I deem
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain :
Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,
Far more than me, in shunning at this time
All further colloquy- and so farewell.

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is

Old man! I do respect One chamber where none enter: I would give
The fee of what I have to come these three years,
To pore upon its mysteries.
Manuel.
"T were dangerous;
Content thyself with what thou know'st already.
Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,
And could'st say much; thou hast dwelt within the
castle-
How many years is 't?

[Exit Manfred.
Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he
Hath all the energy which would have made
A goodly frame of glorious elements,
Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,
It is an awful chaos-light and darkuess-

And mind and dust -- and passions and pure thoughts
Mix'd, and contending without end or order,
All dormant or destructive: he will perish,
And yet he must not; I will try once more,
For such are worth redemption; and my duty,
Is to dare all things for a righteous end.
I'll follow him but cautiously, though surely.

SCENE II.

Another Chamber.

Manfred and Herman.

[Exit Abbot.

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[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall.
Glorious Orb! the idol

Of early nature, and the vigorous race
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 1
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex

More beautiful than they, which did draw down
The erring spirits who can ne'er return.-
Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, til! they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown --

Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee

Even as our outward aspects; thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glauce
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone:
I follow.

SCENE III.

[Exit Manfred.

The Mountains-The Castle of Manfred at some distance-A Terrace before a Tower.-Time, Twilight.

Herman, Manuel, and cther Dependants of Manfred. Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for

years,

He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, Without a witness. I have been within it,So have we all been oft times; but from it, Or its contents, it were impossible

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught

1" And it came to pass, that the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair," &c.-"There

Manuel.

Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles. Her. There be more sons in like predicament. But wherein do they differ?

Manuel.

I speak not

Of features or of form, but mind and habits;
Count Sigismund was proud,- but gay and free,-
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not
With books and solitude, nor made the night
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,

Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside
From men and their delights.

Her.

Beshrew the hour, But those were jocund times! I would that such Would visit the old walls again; they look As if they had forgotten them.

Manuel.

These walls Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Some strange things in them, Herman!

Her. Come, be friendly; Relate me some to while away our watch: I've heard thee darkly speak of an event Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember 'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such Another evening;-yon red cloud, which rests On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,So like that it might be the same; the wind Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows Began to glitter with the climbing moon; Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,How occupied, we knew not, but with him The sole companion of his wanderings And watchings-her, whom of all earthly things That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, The lady Astarte, his

Hush! who comes here?
Enter the Abbot.
Abbot. Where is your master?
Her.

Abbot. I must speak with him.
Manuel.

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were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men,
and they bare children to them, the same became mighty Of the snow-shining mountains.
men which were of old, men of renown." Genesis, ch. 1 linger yet with Nature, for the Night
Hath been to me a more familiar face

vi. verses 2 and 4.

Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,

upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cesars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-Where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; -
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Cæsar's chambers and the Augustan halls,
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.--

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,

As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!-
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.---

'T was such a night!
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight
Even at the moment when they should array
Themselves in pensive order.

Abbot.

Enter the Abbot.

My good lord!
I crave a second grace for this approach;
But yet let not my humble zeal offend
By its abruptness all it hath of ill
Recoils on me; its good in the effect
May light upon your head could I say heart —
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd;
But is not yet all lost.

Man.

Thou know'st me not;
My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded:
Retire, or 't will be dangerous-Away!
Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me?
Man.

I simply tell thee peril is at hand,

And would preserve thee.

Abbot.

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Spirit. Thou 'It know anon-Come! come!
Man.
I have commanded
Things of an essence greater far than thine,
And striven with thy masters. Get thee bence!
Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come-Away! I say.
Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not
To render up my soul to such as thee:
Away! I'll die as I have lived alone.

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.--
Rise!
[Other Spirits rise up.
Abbot Avaunt! ye evil ones! - Avaunt! I say,-
Ye have no power where piety hath power,
And I do charge ye in the name-

Spirit.

Old man!

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,

It were in vain: this man is forfeited."
Once more I summon him-- Away! Away!

Man. I do defy ye,- though I feel my soul

Is ebbing from nie, yet I do defy ye;
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath
To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly strength
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take
Shall be ta'en limb by limb.

Spirit.
Reluctant mortal!
Is this the Magian who would so pervade
The world invisible, and make himself
Almost our equal? Can it be that thou
Art thus in love with life? the very life
Which made thee wretched!

Man.
Thou false fiend, thou liest
My life is in its last hour,- that I know,
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour;
I do not combat against death, but thee
And thy surrounding angels; my past power
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,
But by superior science-penance- daring-
Not I; And length of watching-strength of mind-and
skill

Look there!

What dost thou mean?

Nothing.

Look there I say, now tell me what thou seest?

Abbot. That which should shake me,- but I fear it

not

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Have made thee

Man.

But thy many crimes

What are they to such as thee?
Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes,
And greater criminals?- Back to thy hell!
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know:
What I have done is done; Í bear within
A torture which could nothing gain from thine.
The mind which is immortal makes itself
Requital for its good or evil thoughts-
Is its own origin of ill and end-
And its own place and time-its innate sense,
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives
No colour from the fleeting things without;
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,

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Pray albeit but in thought,- but die not thus.
Man. 'T is over- my dull eyes can fix thee not;
But all things swim around me, and the earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well-
Give me thy hand.

Abbot.
Cold-cold-even to the heart-
But yet one prayer-Alas! how fares it with thee?
Man. Old man! 't is not so difficult to die.
[Manfred expires.
Abbot. He's gone his soul hath ta'en its earthless

flight-
Whither? I dread to think- but he is gone.

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MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE:

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.1

"Dux inquieti turbidus Adriae."-- HORACE.

PREFACE.

The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the "Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject.

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Cæsar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprized of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta and cap. tain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square; but he does not tell us whether he was punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of count, by Lorenzo Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these fac's my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate

Morelli, in his "Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over in the original language. The moderns, Daru, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his jealousy; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that "Altri scrissero che..... dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Navagero: and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alla congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi." The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to the "Dogaressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion), that the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her and for his own honour, warranted by his past services and present dignity.

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his com mand, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrechtthat Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him another occupation that Helen lost Troy-that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome-and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain that an insulted husband 10n the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron single verse of Frederick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome that a has written :-- Begun April 4th, 1820 -- completed July Beruis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to 16th, 1820-finished copying August 16th-17th, 1-20; the con copying makes ten times the toil of composing the battle of Rosbach-that the elopement of Dearconsidering the weather-thermometer 90 in the shade. bhorgil with Mac Murchad conducted the English to towards the close of 1820.--E. and my domestic duties."--The tragedy was published the slavery of Ireland that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated

the first expulsion of the Bourbens--and, not to multiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, but to private vengeance and that an order to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would have sailed to America destroyed both King and Commonwealth. After these instances, on the least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to command, who had served and swayed in the most important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to favour it

"The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire." "Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, Ol age is slow at both."

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical: "Tale fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascita, la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alla testa della republica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal valeno che basto a corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che nell' uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso."1

delafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 1117 (where his
descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), and Vital
Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally
from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and
wealth in the city of once the most wealthy and still
the most ancient families in Europe. The length I
have gone into on this subject will show the interest I
have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in
the tragedy, I have at least transferred into our lan-
guage an historical fact worthy of commemoration.
It is now four years that I have meditated this
work; and before I had sufficiently examined the re-
cords, I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a
jealousy in Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for
this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an
exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a more
historical form. I was, besides, well advised by the
late Matthew Lewis on that point, in falking with him
of my intention at Venice, in 1817. "If you make
him jealous," said he, "recollect that you have to
contend with established writers, to say nothing of
Shakspeare, and an exhausted subject:-stick to the
old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear
you out, if properly drawn; and make your plot as
regular as you can." Sir William Drummond gave
me nearly the same counsel. How far I have follow.
ed these instructions, or whether they have availed
me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to
the stage; in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very
exalted object of ambition; besides, I have been too
much behind the scenes to have thought it so at any
time. 2 And I cannot conceive any man of irritable
feeling putting himself at the mercies of an audience.
The sneering reader, and the loud critic, and the tart
review, are scattered and distant calamities; but the
trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience
on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a
mental labour to the writer, is a palpable and imme-
diate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their
competency to judge, and his certainty of his own im-
prudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable
of writing a play which could be deemed stage-wor-
thy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure
great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the
time of being one of the committee of one of the thea-
tres, I never made the attempt, and never will.

But

2" It is like being at the whole process of a woman's toilet it disenchants."-- MS.-E.

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero beg ged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing of the kind: it is true that he avowed all. He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention made of any application for mercy on his part; and the very circumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but his having shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute historians, who by no means favour him: such, indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no justification, at any distance of time, for calumniating an historical character: 3 While I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortu- Theatre, I can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for mynate and they who have died upon a scaffold have self, that we did our best to bring back the legitimate generally had faults enough of their own, without attri- drama. I tried what I could to get "De Montfort" rebuting to them that which the very incurring of the vived, but in vain, and equally in vain in favour of Sotheby's "Ivan," which was thought an acting play; perils which conducted them to their violent death and I endeavoured also to wake Mr. Coleridge to write a renders, of all others, the most improbable. The black tragedy. Those who are not in the secret will hardly be veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero lieve that the "School for Scandal" is the play which has amongst the Doges, and the Giants' Staircase where he brought least money, averaging the number of times it was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck has been acted since its production; so Manager Dibdin forcibly upon my imagination; as did his fiery charac-assured me. Of what has occurred since Maturia's "Bertram" I am not aware; so that I may be traducing. ter and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his through ignorance, scme excellent new writers: if so, I tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e beg their pardon. I have been absent from England San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the monu- nearly five years, and, till last year, I never read an Engment of another family, a priest came up to me and lish newspaper since my departure, and am now only said, "I can show you finer monumen's than that." I aware of theatrical matters through the medium of the told him that I was in search of that of the Faliero Parisian Gazette of Galignani, and only for the last twelve family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," months. Let me then deprecate all offence to tragic or said he, "I will show it you;" and conducting me to comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom I know the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with nothing. The long complaints of the actual state of the drama arise, however, from no fault of the performers. 1 an illegible inscription. He said that it had been in a can conceive nothing better than Kemble, Cooke, and convent adjoining, but was removed after the French Kean in their very different manners, or than Elliston in came, and placed in its present situation; that he had gentleman's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. Miss seen the tomb opened at its removal; there were still O'Neil I never saw, having made and kept a determisome bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the nation to see nothing which should divide or disturb my decapitation. The equestrian statue of which I have recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble were the made mention in the third act as before that church is ideal of tragic action; I never saw any thing at all renot, however, of a Faliero, but of some other now obsembling them even in person: for this reason, we shall never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is solete warrior, although of a later date. There were two other Doges of this family prior to Marino; Or- in 1824. His first production, the "House of Montorio," The Rev. Charles Maturin (a curate in Dublin) died

1 Langier, Hist. de la Repub. de Venise.

a romance, is the only one of his works that has survived him.-E.

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