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Before me, and to him I seem to speak;
My heart —

Oh, I am mad! Do what I will,
I cannot hide my passion.
HIPPOLYTUS.

Yes, I see
The strange effects of love. Theseus, though dead,
Seems present to your eyes, for in your

soul
There burns a constant flame.
PHÆDRA.

Ah, yes, for Theseus
I languish and I long; not as the Shades
Have seen him, of a thousand different forms
The fickle lover, and of Pluto's bride
The would-be ravisher, but faithful, proud
E’en to a slight disdain, with youthful charms
Attracting every heart, as gods are painted,
Or like yourself. He had your mien, your eyes,
Spoke and could blush like you, when to the isle
Of Crete, my childhood's home, he crossed the waves,
Worthy to win the love of Minos's daughters.
What were you doing then? Why did he gather
The flower of Greece, and leave Hippolytus ?
Oh, why were you too young to have embarked
On board the ship that brought thy sire to Crete?
At your hands would the monster then have perished,
Despite the windings of his vast retreat.
To guide your doubtful steps within the maze
My sister would have armed you with the clue.
But no, therein would Phædra have forestalled her.
Love would have first inspired me with the thought
And I it would have been whose timely aid
Had taught you all the labyrinth's crooked ways.
What anxious care a life so dear had cost me!
No thread had satisfied your lover's fears :
I would myself have wished to lead the way,
And share the peril you were bound to face;
Phædra with you would have explored the maze,
With you emerged in safety or have perished.

HIPPOLYTUS. Gods! What is this I hear ? Have you forgotten That Theseus is my father and your husband ?

PHÆDRA. Why should you fancy I have lost remembrance
Thereof, and am regardless of mine honor ?

HIPPOLYTUS. Forgive me madam. With a blush I own
That I misconstrued words of innocence.
For very shame I cannot bear your sight
Longer. I go —

- 16

VOL. XVII.

PHÆDRA. Ah! cruel prince, too well
You understood me. I have said enough
To save you from mistake. I love. But think not
That at the moment when I love you most
I do not feel my guilt; no weak compliance
Has fed the poison that infects my brain.
The ill-starred object of celestial vengeance,
I am not so detestable to you
As to myself. The gods will bear me witness,
Who have within my veins kindled this fire;
The gods, who take a barbarous delight
In leading a poor mortal's heart astray.
Do you yourself recall to mind the past:
’T was not enough for me to fly, - I chased you
Out of the country, wishing to appear
Inhuman, odious; to resist you better,
I sought to make you hate me. All in vain !
Hating me more, I loved you none the less :
New charms were lent to you by your misfortunes.
I have been drowned in tears, and scorched by fire;
Your own eyes might convince you of the truth,
If for one moment, you could look at me.
What is 't I say? Think you this vile confession
That I have made is what I meant to utter?
Not daring to betray a son for whom
I trembled, 't was to beg you not to hate him
I came.

Weak purpose of a heart too full
Of love for you to speak of aught besides !
Take your revenge, punish my odious passion;
Prove yourself worthy of your valiant sire,
And rid the world of an offensive monster!
Does Theseus's widow dare to love his son ?
The frightful monster ! Let her not escape you !
Here is my heart. This is the place to strike.
Already prompt to expiate its guilt,
I feel it leap impatiently to meet
Your arm. Strike home. Or if it would disgrace you
To steep your hand in such polluted blood,
If that were punishment too mild to slake
Your hatred, lend me then your sword, if not
Your arm. Quick, give 't.
CENONE.

What, madam, will you do? Just gods! But some one comes.. Go, fly from shame,

9249

ANN RADCLIFFE.

RADCLIFFE, ANN (WARD), an English novelist born at London, July 9, 1764; died there, February 7, 1823. In 1786 she married William Radcliffe, editor of the “ English Chronicle.” She wrote several novels, which were more popular than any others published near the close of the last century. She stands at the head of the terror-and-mystery class of romance writers. In 1789 she published “The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne." The next year she brought out “A Siciliau Romance," and the following year “The Romance of the Forest” appeared. But the work by which Mrs. Radcliffe is best remembered is her “Mysteries of Udolpho," which was published in 1795. In 1794 she made a tour on the Continent, of which she gives a pleasant account in her “ Journey through Holland and the Western Frontier of Germany,” and in 1797 her novel “ The Italian" was issued. Her novel “ Gaston de Blondeville” was not published until 1826. Although her powers were unabated, she published nothing during the last twenty-six years of her life.

LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.

(From the “Mysteries of Udolpho.")

The count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and not one of the other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour for which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the count, attended him in his closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour; and on leaving which, his lord delivered to him a sword.

It has seen service in mortal quarrels, said the count jocosely ; you will use it honorably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. To-morrow let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau. Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. You shall be obeyed, my lord, said he; I will engage that no spectre shall disturb the peace of the chateau after this night.

They now returned to the supper-room, where the count's guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments; and Dorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go farther, but the rest followed him to the top of the staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it; and Dorothee, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door opened slowly; and her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden shriek and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the count, Henri, and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the inquiry, who instantly rushed into the apartment - Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scabbard; the count with the lamp in his hand ; and Henri carrying a basket containing provisions for the courageous adventurer.

Having looked hastily around the first room, where nothing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third in a more tempered step. The count had now leisure to smile at the discomposure into which he had been surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the night.

There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza, said Ludovico, pointing to a door, and in one of them is a bed, they say: I will pass the night there; and when I am weary of watching, I can lie down. Good, said the count, let us go on.

You see these rooms show nothing but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged since I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the bousekeeper, to-morrow, to throw open these windows. The damask curtains are dropping to pieces; I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.

Dear sir! said Henri, here is an armchair so massy with gilding that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more than any thing else.

Yes, said the count, stopping to survey it, there is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it - let us pass on. This suit runs a greater length than I had imagined ; it is many years since I was in them. -- But where is the bedroom you speak of, Ludovico ? — these are only antechambers to the great drawing-room. I remember them in their splendor !

The bed, my lord, replied Ludovico, they told me was in a room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suit.

Oh, here is the saloon, said the count, as they entered the spacious apartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood for a moment, surveying the relics of faded grandeur which it exhibited, the sumptuous tapestry, the long and low sofas of velvet, with frames heavily carved and gilded the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry work — the casements of painted glass - and the large Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality such as at that period France could not make, which reflected on every side of the spacious apartment. These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this had been the state room of the chateau, and here the marchioness had held the assemblies that made part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many of them vanished even from the earth, that once had passed over these polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp, which the count held up, and which scarcely served to show the three forlorn figures that stood surveying the room, and the spacious and dusky walls around them.

Ah! said the count to Henri, awaking from his long reverie, how the scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man then, and the marchioness was alive and in her bloom ; many other persons were here, too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra, here we tripped in many a sprightly maze — the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound only one feeble voice, and even that will, ere long, be heard no more! My son, remember that I was once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like those who have preceded you

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