To meet thee in that hollow vale.
[Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester]
ILL-FATED and mysterious man! --- bewildered in the brilliancy of thine own
imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee!
Once more thy form hath risen before me! --- not --- oh! not as thou art --- in the cold
valley and shadow --- but as thou shouldst be --- squandering away a life of magnificent
meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own Venice --- which is a star-beloved
Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a
deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I repeat it --- as thou
shouldst be. There are surely other worlds than this --- other thoughts than the thoughts
of the multitude --- other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then
shall call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or
denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings
of thine everlasting energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di Sospiri, that I
met for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused
recollection that I bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember ---
ah! how should I forget? --- the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of
woman, and the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded the fifth
hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the
lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the
Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of
the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in
one wild, hysterical, and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my
feet: while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond
a chance of recovery, and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current which
here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered
condor, we were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand
flambeaux flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal Palace,
turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and preternatural day.
A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an upper window of
the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over
their victim; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout
swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure which
was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at
the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none
