his spleen in dark inuendos. One day Monaldi going out, sees a man at his gateway, who draws down his hat and retreats; the next day he observes from a window the same person standing over by Romero's door, and conversing, apparently, by signs, with some one in his house. Who can he be? He rushes down to the street, but before he reaches it the man is gone. He observes him, also, many times after, always hanging about and avoiding him.

One evening, Landi and he go alone to the opera, Rosalia having declined on account of a headache. They are scarce seated when Landi points out a handsome cavalier in an opposite box. Monaldi looks and sees the stranger. "Who is he?" he inquires quickly.

""Tis the notorious Count Fialto." "Fialto!' repeated Monaldi. "What makes you start so?' said Landi. "N-nothing.'

"But you are ill?'

"No, not at all,' answered Monaldi, endeavoring to assume a cheerful look; 'quite well, I assure you.'

"I fear you labor too much,' said Landi. "Perhaps so. But go on; you were speak ing of this Count.'"

Landi then enlarges upon the striking contrast of his noble countenance and his innumerable crimes, especially his sins against women. In the middle of the act, Monaldi observes a person bring him a letter, upon glancing at which, he hastily withdraws. But all is presently forgotten in the delightful music, till, on returning home alone, he perceives a man at his gateway; he steps under a lamp-the man passes quickly, and he sees that it isFialto. His heart sinks within him, and he stands in a bewildered revery, till suddenly the closing of a window above arouses him. He looks up and sees a light in his wife's chamber, and a female figure passing from the window.

For the first time, the poison takes deep hold. But his nature does not readily yield; it cannot be-his wife had merely retired early on account of her being unwell-that was all. He enters his house, and finds her sitting in the very room where he had left her.

"Perhaps too early,' replied Monaldi, hesitating, and almost shuddering at the strangeness of his own voice. You seem surprised. What if I should be so at finding you here?'

"Me? why so? Oh, I suppose you thought headache would have sent me to bed. But it is quite gone off."

my

666

'Indeed! and pray-who has cured it?' "The question seemed forced from him by torture, and his utterance was so thick that Rosalia asked what he said.

666 Your headache. I asked who has cured it.'

"Oh, my old doctor-nature."
"Rosalia!' said Monaldi.
"What? but what disturbs you?'
"Nay, what should?

"I am sure I know not.'

"If you know not-but I'm afraid you have passed but a dull evening alone.'

"Oh, no, I have been amusing myself—if it may be called amusement to have one's flesh creep-with Dante. I had just finished the Inferno as you came in.'

"As I came in? The Inferno, I must own, seems hardly a book of entertainment for a lady's bed-chamber.'

I don't understand you.' "Or will not.'

"Dear husband!' said Rosalia, looking up with surprise, and a feeling as yet new to her,

'you talk in riddles.'

"Is it a riddle to ask why you should choose when I entered.' to read in your chamber? For there you were

"Who, I? No, I have not been up stairs this evening.'

"A lie!' groaned Monaldi, turning from her with an agony that would not be suppressed.

Oh, misery! 'tis then too-too-'

tell her mistress, that as the night was damp, "A maid servant, at that instant, came in to she had shut her chamber windows, though without orders.

"You have done well,' said Rosalia. "Thank God!' said Monaldi, as he heard this explanation. Away-away, forever, infernal thoughts!'

*

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*

*

*

*

"Oh, Monaldi, I am blessed above women!' "And dost thou think so?'

"At least I know not how I could be happier. For what more could I ask, with such a husband?'

"Or I with such a wife? Amen! with my whole soul.""

Monaldi to give his opinion upon a miniaA few days after, Romero sends for ture copy of a Magdalen by Guido, telling him it is ordered by his friend, the Count

has any acquaintance with the man.

The

swer.

"One day back this sentiment would hardly

have struck him; it would have entered his mind only as a part of the harmonious whole which made her character; now it came contrasted with his own dissimulation, and he thought, as he looked on her, that he had never before felt the full majesty of her soul.

"The meaning of his eyes was felt at her heart, and the blushing wife hid her face in his bosom; for, whether maid or wife, a blush is

the last grace that forsakes a pure woman; 'tis the abiding hue with her nature; and never is it seen so truly feminine as when, like hers, it reveals the consciousness of merited praise."

But in the midst of this a loud ringing is heard at the door, and presently a servant comes in to say that a person had inquired for Monaldi, but on being told he was at home, had said it was no matter, and went away. This raises again the devil in the husband's breast that his wife's unconscious innocence had just laid. He becomes half frantic, and, in spite of her utmost tenderness, he puts her to the test by naming Fialto, and fiercely recounting a story of a wrong, similar to what he fancies is his own, committed by this man -how he had fixed his eye on a painter's wife-how she would not go to the theatre one evening-" perhaps she pleaded a headache," how the painter saw Fialto leave the box, and so on-looking into her eyes at every particular as though he would read her soul. Poor Rosalia at first thinks he is crazy, but as he approaches the end of the tale, a light breaks upon her, and she confounds him utterly by saying she understands it all, and no longer wonders at his emotion-the unfortunate husband must be his friend.

After this Monaldi is master of his suspicions for nearly a month, during which time nothing occurs to excite them afresh. But at length, the evening before he intends to visit Genezzano on business, and be away a day and night from home, Fialto suddenly meets him under his gateway, and thrusts a letter and money into his hand, addressing him as Giuseppe, his servant. The letter is addressed to Rosa

lia, and purports to be in answer to one from her; it alludes to a meeting while her husband was at the theatre, and agrees to another at twelve the next night. This was Fialto's plan: having corrupted Antonio, one of Monaldi's household, he learns that he was expected to be away that night; by delivering such a letter in such a way, he knows very well that jealousy will bring him home at the hour of the assignation; meantime, through Antonio, he will himself contrive to be caught in Rosalia's bed-chamber, whence he can easily escape, by having a rope ladder ready from the window, and a spy in the street who shall whistle a certain air when Monaldi enters the house.

And so it falls out. The letter convinces Monaldi of his wife's perfidy; yet he will not act without the very last proof of guilt. He dissembles and pretends to leave for Genezzano, but returns at twelve. Fialto, warned of his approach, roughly wakens Rosalia, whose beauty as she lay sleeping almost turns him from his purpose, and leaps from the window just as Monaldi bursts into the room. The frightened Rosalia, supposing her husband to be a robber, throws herself at his feet crying mercy, and is met by his dagger in her bosom.

In the terrible scene which follows, she begs to know why he has done this, till she faints-he urging her to confess, stanches the wound to give her time to repent—she revives-he shows her the let ter-she reads it, and prays Heaven to spare him when he shall know the truth-alas! her love manifests it already, and he rushes forth distracted, even while her eyes are closing.

We will hasten rapidly to the end of the tale, for there is no greater injustice to an author than to present extracts from the most passionate parts of his story, or dull the edge of the reader's curiosity by a dry and minute skeleton of his plot.

Fialto meets Maldura that very night, and receives the reward of his villany. Maldura too begins to taste the wages of sin in an overwhelming sense of selfcondemnation. Rosalia is soon discovered by the frightened servants; the old house-keeper finding her still warm, sends for a surgeon, who pronounces the wound not mortal; she is enjoined not to speaknot even to inquire for her husband; days and weeks pass by, and she slowly recovers. When Maldura hears of her recovery, it takes somewhat from his great agony of remorse. But he had still blasted Monaldi's peace-perhaps his life-for Monaldi has been searched for in vain ever since the dreadful night. Hence he is still loaded with guilt, and can only avoid himself by mixing in the world and travelling from city to city.

At length, losing his way in the country near Naples, he espies a hut among the ruins of an ancient tomb: there he finds Monaldi, a wretched maniac. He causes him to be conveyed to the nearest village and procures aid, and himself attends him till at length he is restored and hears that Rosalia lives. (Rosalia and Landi had been sent for meanwhile, and await the physician's permission to see him.) But in the same conversation that Maldura, whom he still looks upon as his old friend, tells him of his wife's recovery, he manifests so much gratitude that Maldura is overpowered by the might of conscience, that will not be relieved till he has confessed all his guilt; and this he does with such an impetuous torrent of self-reproach that it kindles again the fire in Monaldi's, brain, so that when Rosalia and her father

are brought in expecting to find him sane, they behold only a shrieking madman.

From this time he becomes incurably insane, generally sitting motionless with his eyes riveted to one spot for days together, except when he hears the voice of his wife, which always throws him into a paroxysm of raving. It is after one of these paroxysms that, without speaking to any one, he is seen to go into his painting room; he continues to do so month after month, till he finishes the picture described in the introduction. He then disappears for more than a year, and is finally found in the cottage where the traveller has seen him, whence no entreaty will induce him to depart. Rosalia, to be near him, becomes a boarder at a neighboring convent.

Maldura's repentance is sincere; he becomes a brother of this convent, and dies there two years before the traveller's visit, having procured the picture to be near him, that he might be always reminded what a mind he had blasted.

This is the sum of the manuscript given by the Prior to the traveller. Two days after the venerable father calls him to attend the death-bed of Monaldi, to whose closing hours Heaven has mercifully granted an interval of reason. He there sees Rosalia kneeling by her husband's bedside, and the solemn scene which follows finishes, as with a sublime hymn, the tragic drama of their love and sorrow.

We would not have the reader suppose that such a synopsis, and the scattered extracts it contains, can convey a true idea of this affecting story; but this may nevertheless serve to enable us to interest him in a few observations naturally suggested by it; and, which will be much better, they may excite his curiosity to read it. Indeed, if we were certain it would produce the latter effect, we had rather quit the subject here, and leave the book to the opinions of ladies and scholars; for it is not easy to analyze beauties and point out particular excellencies in works which we love as wholes. Just as lovers are unable to tell what separate feature or attribute of form or motion, most warms their hearts in gazing on their mistresses, whether it be the jetty ringlet, the ruby lip, the sparkling eye, the rosy smile, the graceful gesture, or the silvery voice; so it is with books which touch the same 'invisible fin

isher it is not the style alone, the language, the thought, the fancy, or the passion, but the general character, compounded of all these and speaking through them, as the soul of the lover's mistress speaks to him through her charms, that reaches the depth of sympathy. Monaldi is to be loved, in brief, it may be said, because it is a delightful .old-fashioned tale, full of reflection, observation, philosophy, character, pictures, true affection-all excellent qualities; because it charms the reader and draws him onward, so that when it is begun it presses to be gone through with; because it takes him into a new and beautiful region, a modification of one that was already familiar, a peculiar Italy, wherein the real and the romantic are brought into actual harmonious contact; because it is told in a pure simple style, that often rises to the most passionate eloquence; because Rosalia is so lovely and so truly intellectual a lady; or to sum up all in one, as Beatrice does her love to Benedict, "for all these bad parts together," or simply because not to like it is impossible.

It may readily be conceived why such a tale should be neglected by the novelreaders of to-day, who only read Mr. Bulwer for excitement, Mr. James out of habit, and Madame Sand for reasons not to be understood for all such readers, Monaldi is too broadly based on common sense and right thinking; its passion is too lofty and real; it is altogether too quietly wrought, the coloring is too rich and delicate, the tone too deep. It is like a fine old painting, that might hang for years in a row of French daubs and attract no eye-glasses, tin-tubes, or parvenu ecstacies.

But there must be many readers who are better capable of understanding and relishing what is good in novels and tales, and who will be glad to discover one that has food in it. There must be many who were great lovers of good stories in early youth, but have long since, they fancy, exhausted that department so as to be unable to find anything they can read. Some remember Godwin, others Scott, and they have a few old favorites among these, and one or two others, which, for want of newer, they content themselves with rereading at long intervals. To such as these, our article is especially addressed; and to them we would commend Monaldi

as an unique in our literature-a short story of love, ambition, revenge, and jealousy, highly dramatic and picturesque, yet embodying thought enough to give it rank with Rasselas or any similar production in the language. Though written in the form of a tale, it has all the condensation of a tragedy; every page hurries along the action, and every page teems also with suggestive reflection. Its style is pure, and finished with the most extreme care; yet it is also perfectly natural and easy.

There is never a word out of place, or a word too much, and yet it flows with a delicious music, that changes with the passion, as it could only have changed under the guidance of natural emotion. It has a peculiar rhythm, and though it is so admirably sustained that the ear soon becomes quite unconscious it is following aught but the accent of the simplest prose which could be written, yet any judge of style will see that this needs more care to restrain it within its required limits than the poetry of such a writer as Tennyson for example, or any who pitch their work upon a level admitting the most astonishing incongruities of expression. Refinement shows itself no less in style than in thought and mode of treatment; the soul of a true artist manifests itself in all that it does; and its sensitive discrimination is as evident in its manner of expression as in its course of thought and fancy. Some writers at the present time, in despair seemingly of expressing themselves in a style sufficiently nice for their overnice conceits, abandon the attempt, and put on the mask of some strange affectation. Carlyle formerly, in the Life of Schiller, and other things, wrote in a very careful rhetorical style; but it was a cold one, and finding that he had not the time to be so elaborate, and not having the manliness to be natural, he determined, in the true spirit of a wrong-headed misanthrope, to attempt to please the world no more, but thenceforth to defy custom and be independent. Among our writers of less strength of intellect than he, how many we have who have followed the same course! In poetry, we have abundant examples among our transcendental minnows on both sides the water. In prose, we have our Jerrolds, and nearer home,