crowded with sixteen thousand infected persons, and the plague reaped a daily harvest of fifteen hundred, independent of crowds of infants, who were neglected, and died of starvation when their mothers had perished in the plague. Their fathers and mothers forsook them, so the Lord took them up.

It was during the same pestilence that the streets of Milan saw another strange scene, one of the most extraordinary instances of popular panic on record in history. The Angel of Pestilence seldom goes forth unaccompanied by his equally dread brother, the Angel of Terror. All at once, without any apparent cause, for it continually precedes the actual visitation of plague, famine, or any other great judgment, a deep and fixed shadow falls upon the people, and with the gloom comes a trouble, a power such as the moon's light was supposed to have upon the feeble reason; men crowd together, each with this prophetical disturbance in his heart, and a pestilence of terror breaks forth among them with a moral contagion; and a delirium, assuming the most hideously grotesque shapes, sways a whole populace, as the wind sways the sea. There is nothing too absurd, too revolting, not to be both believed and executed. The consequences are sometimes crimes of the most shocking nature; and there seems to be such an injustice in imputing guilt to any one, that the pagans of antiquity, in pious perplexity, were fain to attribute it to the universal Pan; and surely a panic is a shadow cast from the broad wings of

some unearthly Minister of judgment. A spectral Presence is among the people for their chastisement. Come with me to the broad-paved square in front of the cathedral at Milan. Here was the scene

enacted, when panic actually gave double sight to the whole Milanese populace; and the remotest countries feared and wondered at the recital. Be

hold that terror-stricken citizen! The square is empty; the west front of the duomo is calm and serene, with its edges clear against the blue sky of a Lombard summer. Yet he sees in the middle of the square a strange carriage drawn by six horses. "Within it is a person of a noble and majestic figure, dark complexion, eyes inflamed, and lips compressed and threatening. The spectator is invited to enter the carriage; he complies. After a short circuit, it halts before the gates of a magnificent palace. Entering it, he beholds mingled scenes of delight and horror, frightful deserts and smiling gardens, dark caverns and magnificent saloons. Phantoms are seated in council. They show him large boxes of money, telling him he may take as many of them as he chooses, provided he will accept at the same time a little vase of poison, and consent to employ it against the citizens. He refuses, and in a moment finds himself at the place from which he had been taken." The square is empty as before, the duomo calm and motionless, and the sky overhead a tranquil blue. But great is the faith, indeed

monstrous, of men in a panic. All Milan is moved, and runs together. The stranger in his carriage is heard of everywhere, and the phantom-council in the palace, and poison powders. Now is it all clear. There is a reasoning of a certain sort in a panic. The people reason about these poison-powders. Doubtless they had been scattered in the streets, previous to the procession. They had adhered to the naked feet of the penitents. Hence the dire mortality. This explains everything. The fury of the people against the poisoners rises into a savage phrenzy. They rage about the streets. An old man in St. Antonio wipes the dust from a bench with his handkerchief. They fall upon him: "He is poisoning the bench!" they cry; they tear his grey locks, they beat him till he is half dead, and then drag him to prison and to torture. Three young French artists are standing before the cathedral. It seems suspicious they should regard it so long and so intently. In fact, they doubt whether it is marble. They stretch out their hands to ascertain the fact. They actually touch the venerated duomo. This is a clear proof. They are poisoning it. The angry crowd flies upon them with awful curses.

They are beaten

and dragged to prison, whence they are with difficulty released. Such was the extraordinary panic which these streets of Milan witnessed. The fame of it is spread even down the Rhine, and German engravings of it are sold. The archbishop of Ma

yence deems it necessary to write to Frederick Borromeo, to enquire about the prodigies. Frederick replies that they are the children of the panic.

After making the Promessi Sposi so much of a guide in Milan, it is scarcely right to depart for Brescia without saying something of Manzoni and his book. It is in all respects the least objectionable novel I have ever read, without being religious, which of course would at once make it very objectionable. Historical romance-writing is a species of composition utterly indefensible; and Manzoni, to save himself from being unreal, has, in point of fact, written a tale with historical annotations, and then cast the annotations up from the bottom of the page into the text; so that the narrative is continually languishing. The reader is not taught the requisite amount of history, as none but Scott could teach it, by erudite hints, and easy, yet significant, colloquies, but by direct historical chapters. Manzoni's motive was good; the literary result unfortunate. Yet the

dramatic power of many of the scenes, and the strongly shaded portraiture of his characters, must always sustain the Promessi Sposi in the rank of an European classic. The unity, however, of the novel is the most remarkable thing about it, and the lesson very wisely and strikingly drawn. The story itself may be considered as the narrative of the loves of Renzo and Lucy. Their miseries and hardships, and all the vicissitudes of a very eventful life, are referable to the moral cowardice of a selfish, ease-loving

Q

priest, Don Abbondio; a courter of the rich, an idolater of comfort, a man desirous (and a priest too) of standing well with every one, of having no awkward ways; not making people weary, not taking up grounds too high to be practical, but considering peace to be of the first importance, truth of the second; aiming rather at respectability than at highmindedness; just one of those wretched persons whom Dante, in the third canto, places in woful, starless plight, just outside of hades; yet in torment, though not finally condemned. His character is best discerned from what he says of Frederick Borromeo," Oh what a holy man, but what a troublesome one! Is it not an astonishing thing, that the Saints, as well as the wicked, have always quicksilver in their veins? and, not contented with making a bustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join the dance with them? Is there not a fatality in it, that the most troublesome come to me, to me, who never meddled with any body? They take me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! who desire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. Some people always want to make a noise! Oh! unhappy man that I am! they must always be in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repent at home, in private, without so much noise, without giving others so much trouble. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are things which, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanctity."