But yet one prayer-Alas! how fares it with thee? Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta en r Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die. earthless flight

[MANFRED expires. Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone.

MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE:

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY.

IN FIVE ACTS.

1820.

'Dux inquieti turbidus Adriæ,'—HORACE.

PREFACE.

THE Conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the ann of the most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Everything about Venice is, or was, extraordinary-her aspect is like a dream, and b 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 Appendi It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any which can l 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 ar of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same ti in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Cæsar at Aks and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the sat war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome, at which last received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at të same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told bw Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the en of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto saddle. him with a judgment,' as Thwackum did Square; but he does not tell us whether he wa punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seer indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rem-and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of col" by Lorenzo Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor San: Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatig Abate Morelli, in his 'Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura,' printed in 1796, all of wh I have looked over in the original language. The moderns, Darù, Sismondi, and Laug nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his pain but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, t 'Altri scrissero che . . . . dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michael Steno) stam♫* con violenza,' &c. &c. : but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is : alluded to by Sanuto, or by Navagero: and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that per alre 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 Michael Stru on the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, wha was one of their 'tre Capi.' The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directe* towards one of her damsels, and not the Dogaressa' herself, against whose fame not the slight 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 of

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 command, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht-that 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 led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome-that a single verse of Frederick II. of Prussia on the Abbé de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach-that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland-that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bourbons 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 recollection, 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,
Old age is slow at both."

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical :-'Tale fù il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascità, la sua età, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacità 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 insinuò nel suo cuore tal veleno che bastò a corrompere le antiche sue qualità, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova non esservi età, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che well uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso. Where did Dr Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 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 anything 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; surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate: and they who have died upon a scaffold have generally had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most mprobable. The black veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero amongst the Deges, and the Giants' staircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination; as did his fiery character and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the monument of another family, a priest came up to me and said, 'I can show you iner monuments than that.' I told him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. 'Oh,' said he, 'I will show it you;' and conducting me to he outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible inscription. He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the French came, and placed in its preent situation; that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal; there were still some bones emaining, but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian statue of which I have ade mention in the third act as before that church is not, however, of a Faliero, but of some ther now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. There were two other Doges of this family ior to Marino; Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, in 1117 (where his descendant afterwards Gnquered the Huns). and Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally from Fano,

• Laugier, Hist. de la Répub. de Venise. Vol. iv. p. 30.

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 language an historical fact worthy of commemoration.

It is now four years that have meditated this work; and before I had sufficiently examined the records, 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 talking 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 followed these instructions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to the stage; in uts 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. 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 immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their com petency to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were capable of writing a play which could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no pleas ure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will. But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The City of the Plague and the Fall of Jerusalem are full of the best materiel for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole-firstly, because he was a nobleman; and secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he is the Ultimus Romanorum, the author of the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may.

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to mention, that the desire of preserving, though still too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the English theatrical compositions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it; whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation, and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters (except that of the Duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully short for such a design in real life, are strictly historica. except that all the consultations took place in the palace. Had I followed this, the unity wond have been better preserved; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full assembly of the cspirators, instead of monotonously placing him always in dialogue with the same individuals. ↑ For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix.

Bat. "Tis said he is much moved, and doubt-A

Bat. And here it comes.-What news, Vin- Which pass'd among the judges, even in seem

In council, without one dissenting voice,
That Michel Steno, by his own confession,
Guilty on the last night of Carnival
Of having graven on the ducal throne
The following words-

Doge.
Wouldst thou repeat them?
Wouldst thou repeat them-thou, a Faliero,
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house,
Dishonour'd in its chief-that chief the prince
Of Venice, first of cities?-To the sentence.
Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord: I will
obey-
[Reads.] That Michel Steno be detain'd a
In close arrest.'

The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless
wretch,

Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one,
May win it from another kinder heart :
But he, who is denied his right by those
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer
Than the rejected beggar-he's a slave-
And that am I, and thou, and all our house,
Even from this hour; the meanest artisan
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble
May spit upon us :--where is our redress?
Ber. F. The law, my prince-

Doge interrupting him]. You see what it has
[month I ask'd no remedy but from the law,- [done
I sought no vengeance but redress by law,-
I call'd no judges but those named by law,-
As sovereign. I appeal'd unto my subjects,
The very subjects who had made me sovereign,
And gave me thus a double right to be so.
The rights of place and choice, of birth ami
service,

My lord, 'tis finish'd. Doge. How say you?-finish'd! Do I dream? -tis false

Give me the paper-[Snatches the paper and
reads]-
'Tis decreed in council
That Michel Steno- Nephew, thine arm!

Ber. F.
Nay,
Cheer up, be calm; this transport is uncall'd
for-

Let me seek some assistance.
Doge.

'Tis past.

Stop, sir-stir not

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you The sentence is too slight for the offenceIt is not honourable in the Forty

Honours and years, these scars, these boorv
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, hairs
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years.
Were weigh'd i' the balance 'gainst the foulest

stain,

The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime
Of a rank, rash patrician-and found wanting
And this is to be borne !

Ber. F.
I say not that :-
In case your fresh appeal should be rejected.
We will find other means to make all even.

To affix so slight a penalty as that
Which was a foul affront to you, and even
To them, as being your subjects; but 'tis not
Yet without remedy: you can appeal
To them once more, or to the Avogadori,
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld,
Will now take up the cause they once declined,
And do you right upon the bold delinquent.
Think you not thus, good uncle? why do you
[me.
So fix'd? You heed me not :-I pray you hear I
Doge [dashing down the ducal bonnet, and
offering to trample upon it, exclaims,
as he is withheld by his nephew,
Oh! that the Saracen were in St Mark's!
Thus would I do him homage.

stand

Doge. Appeal again! art thou my brothers son?

A scion of the house of Faliero?

The nephew of a Doge? and of that blood
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice *
But thou say'st well-we must be humble now.
Ber. F. My princely uncle! you are t

much moved;

grant it was a gross offence, and grossly
Left without fitting punishment: but still
This fury doth exceed the provocation,
Or any provocation: if we are wrong'd,
We will ask justice; if it be denied,
We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of de
Silence.

I have yet scarce a third part of your years,
I love our house, I honour you, its chief,
The guardian of my youth, and its instructor-
But though I understand your grief, and enter
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves,
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air.

Doge. I tell thee-must I tell thee-what th
father

Would have required no words to comprehend
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense
Of torture from the torch? hast thou no soul—
No pride-no passion-no deep sense of honour'

Ber. F. "Tis the first time that honour hus

been doubted,

And were the last, from any other sceptic.