He on whom none before had breathed reproach- Then was thy cup, old Man, full to the brim. -“I am most willing to retire," said he: "But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. Do with me as ye please.”——He was deposed, He, who had reigned so long and gloriously; His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, His robes stript off, his seal and signet-ring Broken before him. But now nothing moved The meekness of his soul. All things alike! Among the six that came with the decree, Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired His name. "I am the son of Marco Memmo." “ Ah,” he replied, "thy father was my friend.” ] And now he goes. "It is the hour and past. I have no business here.”—“But wilt thou not Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private." 66 1 The State-Inquisitors. For an account of their authority, see page 234. No! as I entered, so will I retire." And, leaning on his staff, he left the House, By the same stairs up which he came in state; And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said, It rang his knell. Ere half its task was done, But whence the deadly hate Who, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice, "Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the Church of St. Elena. 12 And with a brow of care, most merchant-like, Entered at full (nor month, nor day forgot) Ye who sit Brooding from day to day, from day to day As tho' the hour was come to whet your fangs, MARCOLINI. T was midnight; the great clock had struck and was still echoing through every porch and gallery in the quarter of St. Mark, when a young Citizen, wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview with his Mistress. His step was light, for his heart was so. Her parents had just consented to their marriage; and the very day was named. "Lovely Giulietta!" he cried, " and shall I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so 1 A remarkable instance, among others in the annals of Venice, that her princes were merchants; her merchants princes. 2 Count Ugolino.-Inferno, 32. blest as thy Marcolini?" But as he spoke, he stopped; for something glittered on the pavement before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship; and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good fortune? "Rest thou there!" he cried, thrusting it gaily into his belt. "If another claims thee not, thou hast changed masters!" and on he went as before, humming the burden of a song which he and his Giulietta had been singing together. But how little do we know what the next minute will bring forth! He turned by the Church of St. Geminiano, and in three steps he met the Watch. A murder had just been committed. The senator Renaldi had been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his heart; and the unfortunate Marcolini was dragged away for examination. The place, the time, every thing served to excite, to justify suspicion; and no sooner had he entered the guardhouse than a damning witness appeared against him. The Bravo in his flight had thrown away his scabbard; and, smeared with blood, with blood not yet dry, it was now in the belt of Marcolini. Its Patrician ornaments struck every eye; and, when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in the Innocent an energy and a composure, an energy when they speak and a composure when they are silent, to which none can be altogether insensible; and the Judge delayed for some time to pronounce the sentence, though he was a near relation of the dead. At length, however, it came; and Marcolini lost his life, Giulietta her reason. Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, the real criminal in his last moments confessing the crime; and hence the custom in Venice, a custom that long prevailed, for a cryer to cry out in the Court before a sentence was passed, "Ricordatevi del povero Marcolini !” 1 Great indeed was the lamentation throughout the City; and the Judge, dying, directed that thenceforth and for ever a Mass should be sung every night in a chapel of the Ducal Church for his own soul and the soul of Marcolini and the souls of all who had suffered by an unjust judgment. Some land on the Brenta was left by him for the purpose and still is the Mass sung in the chapel; still every night, when the great square is illuminating, and the casinos are filling fast with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is rung as for a service, and a ray of light seen to issue from a small gothic window that looks toward the place of execution, the place where on a scaffold Marcolini breathed his last. ARQUÀ. HREE leagues from Padua stands and long has stood (The Paduan student knows it, honours A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church; Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe 1 Remember the poor Marcolini ! |