3925
693
Library of
Princeton University.
Vigel
Sub Numine
English
Seminary.
Presented by














.
THE STORY
OF THE
MOOR OF VENICE.
&c. &c.


THE
S T O R r
OF THE
MOOR OF VENICE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.
Giraldi Cintis
WITH
TWO ESSAYS
ON...
SHAKESPEARE,
AND
PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS.
BY WOLSTEN HOLME PARR, A. M.
LATE FELLOW OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, OXFORD.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, JUN. AND W. DAVIES,
(SUCCESSORS TO MR. CADELL) IN THE STRAND.
1795.


Mira
T
NES


PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS.
W
IN peruſing the various Catalogue of new
- Publications, with which the Britiſh Preſs
is daily teeming, it is natural to be impreſſed
with at leaſt ſome portion of that impatience
and reſentment which one of the Roman'
a ſatiriſts has expreſſed againſt his countrymen
with ſuch feeling and animation. At ſo dif-
tant a period it is not poſſible to know the
preciſe degree of literary inſolence which
rouſed his indignation : but if, like his
late Imitator amongſt us, he waited till
e every ſanctuary of religion had been violated,
every pale of authority broken down, and pri-
* vate confidence itſelf betrayed, we muſt al-
low that he did not yield without reaſon to
the ſevereſt invective of Criticiſm.
221
B
NOV
B
The
·
(AOPPG)
3 471769


[ 4 ]
LOKAL
the hoſtilities of paſſion have ſometimes been
able to carry into the provinces of intellect,
we ſhould turn with peculiar complacency to
the inſtructive information of the traveller, or
the faithful portraits of Biography. It will
not, perhaps, be deemed foreign to the pur-
poſe, for one who is offering conſiderations on
individual character, and publiſhing reflec-
tions that have occurred to him in a foreign
country, to dwell for a moment on the man-
ner in which thoſe two kinds of compoſition
are at preſent conducted. It is chiefly among
thoſe writers that the moraliſt ſhould endea-
vour to enforce the laws of honour, of virtue,
and of Truth.
ter
The models of antiquity were long held in
veneration, and though the range of ſcience be
now extended far beyond the limits of Greek
or Roman fpeculation, yet the wiſeſt amongſt
us have always conſidered it as dangerous to
abandon thoſe great preceptors of mankind,
wherever their example could be followed,
their opinions known, or their march deline-
ated.


[7]
the ſhare of his countrymen, he had learned to
diſtinguiſh real from oſtenſible motives ; and,
amidſt the pomp of embaffay, or the buſtle of
war, could penetrate into the moſt ſecret re-
ceſſes of the ſoul. No portion of ancient
hiſtory is in itſelf more valuable, or has been
executed with greater ſkill, than his diſcuſſion
of the conduct of Marius and Silla towards the
concluſion of the Jugurthine war. The dan-
gerous ambition of Cæſar is equally expoſed
by his defence of Catiline, his conqueſt of
Gaul, and his corrupt diſmiſſion of Pompey's
Legions.
It was the ſame rare and uncommon quality
of detecting the different motives that lead to
the ſame action, that enabled Shakeſpeare to
pronounce of Brutus and his aſſociates,
“ This was the nobleſt Roman of them all:
“ All the conſpirators, ſave only he,
“ Did that they did in envy of great Cæſar;
“ He only, in a general honeſt thought
" And common good to all, made one of them."
JUL. CÆS
Such
B4


[ 8 ]
Such maxims as are frequently repeated and
held by the perſons of whom he treats, to be
general rules of conduct, ſuch witticiſms as
diſplay their peculiar turn of thought and vi-
vacity, are properly conſidered by him as con-
ſtituent and eſſential parts of biography. His
known partiality for both lively and proverbial
fentences, may afford us equal reaſon to admire
the economy with which he has uſed them,
and the judgment with which they are ſe-
lected.
Biography, conducted upon ſuch principles
and with ſo much underſtanding, will ever be
ranked among the moſt intereſting and inſtruc-
tive ſpecies of compoſition. Converted, as it
has been lately in Great Britain, into memoirs*
and private anecdotes, it becomes the ſchool
* The Confeſſions of Rouffeau are undoubtedly an
immoral work ; but this writer ſeems to have triumphed
over criticiſm ſtill more effeétually than Shakeſpeare him-
ſelf. He writes to the paſſions in a manner fo enchant-
ing, that he muſt be in every ſtate of ſociety the favourite
author of mankind.


[ 12 ]
11
authors have conſpired to attribute to their
own feelings and reflections. Travels are not
now a hiſtory of art, or a criticiſm on its re-
mains; a delineation of manners, or an ana-
lyſis of government; but an account of the
writer's own activity and talents: his recollec-
tions, his raptures, and diſguſts, of which the
reader cannot always diſcern the reaſon, or ac-
knowledge the juſtneſs. There is, however,
one point in which the method of Herodotus
might have been adopted with advantage, and
where it does not appear that the egotiſm of
the modern compiler would have ſuffered any
material degree of mortification. It would be
adviſeable for him, perhaps, whenever he is
relating any circumſtance fo miraculous, that
the credulity of his readers may not diſpoſe
them to implicit belief, not to ſupport the le-
gend with a perſonal aſſertion, but frankly
afcribe it to the women or the prieſts from
whom it was originally received.
When ſuch men publiſh, without a bluſh,
the moſt ſcandalous libels on their friends,
their


[ 13 ]
their hoſts, and their protectors; on ambaſſa-
dors, at whoſe tables they have been fed, and at
whoſe expence they have travelled, Impudence
itſelf is affrighted by their effrontory; and
even Ingratitude joins with all the common
feelings of humanity, to decry their baſeneſs
and perpetuate their Infamy.
An





ON THE TRAGEDY
OF
CORIOLAN US.


.


[ 21
21 ]
culars, which by the poet muſt be moulded
into one general maſs of intereſting and im-
portant action. To facilitate this great and
neceſſary operation, he is not only permitted
to change the real ſucceſſion of events, but al-
lowed to invent and ſubſtitute others more af-
fecting, when thoſe which have actually hap-
pened are too mean or trivial for his purpoſe.
In the republic of letters a permiffion is fre-
quently equivalent to a command; and the
poet will be condemned and rejected for that
very fidelity and preciſion for which the hi-
ſtorian has been rewarded with applauſe and
laurels. Nor is this to be wondered at, ſince
even the duties of morality are liable to the
fame variations. It is the exalted privilege of
reaſon to appreciate the value of virtue her.
ſelf, which loſes its quality and changes its
nature, if exerciſed in oppoſition to the dic-
tates of prudence and Diſcretion.
If theſe obſervations be juſt, it is time to
apply them to the tragedy before us. We
muſt ſuppoſe that the reader has already been
C 3 apprized


[ 24 ]
cxerciſe of his obſervation and talents. It will
be found perhaps that he merits the higheſt
degree of praiſe for the execution of this part
of his work, and for the pleaſure the reader
receives from it, if we examine for a moment
the character of Coriolanus himſelf. In doing
this we ſhall not be led into any long or phi-
loſophical diſquiſition of his moral qualities :
it is ſufficient to refer them only to that ſpecies
of intereſt and ſympathy which tragedy aims
at inſpiring. If it appears that the character
of the principal hero of the drama is but ill
adapted to produce the effects which the inte-
reſt of the tragic muſe requires, and the com-
poſition itſelf is ſtill attractive, it will be evi-
dent he has executed with a maſterly hand his
hiſtorical portraits, and aſſigned to each of
them natural ſentiments with a juſt and for-
cible expreffion. This intereſt if conſidered
in general, is however far too weak for tra-
gical exhibition ; but if we recollect the partial
curioſity with which every nation views the
characters and events of its own hiſtory, it will
reaſonably account for the favour and reputa-
tion
U


[ 25 ]
tion he ſtill enjoys in his own country, and the
pleaſure with which an Engliſh audience liſtens
to the virtues or the crimes of former kings.
To excite by illuſion a fictitious ſentiment of
grief or compaſſion, is perhaps the moſt deli-
cate operation of human art. The mind,
when expoſed to theſe trials, becomes jealous
of its own dignity and firmneſs; and, if the
utmoſt ſkill be not exerted to ſeduce it, obſti-
nately refuſes to yield to tender or pathetic im-
preſlions. The ſufferer in real life, on the firſt
view of his miſery and wretchedneſs, excites
our ſympathy and obtains our pardon, ale
though his torments have been occaſioned by
his own guilt or incapacity. But in the poeti-
cal repreſentations of humanity, picy loſes its
facility, and inſtead of its former character of
a natural emotion, aſſumes the diſcretion and
reſerve of a moral virtue. Simple diſtreſs is
then no longer able to draw us from our in-
difference, or diſturb our ſerenity. Before
our tears will flow for an imaginary ſufferer,
we muſt not only be perſuaded that neither
his vices nor his errors have contributed
· to


[ 26 ]
to his afflictions, but alſo that he pofſeffes a
fufficient degree of merit and virtue to engage
our affection and Eſteem.
Courage, accompanied with an extreme de.
gree of military ardour and activity, ſeems to
have been the only good quality poffeffed by
Coriolanus. This is a virtue which we eaſily
praiſe and admire; but if it be not united with
the refined taſte and the poliſhed humanity of
Scipio, it has certainly no claim to our love,
no hold on our attachment. Valour tinctured
with ferocity, becomes an object of terror and
diſguſt to the very people for whoſe honour
or protection it has been nobly and ſucceſſ-
fully exerted. It produced in Coriolanus a
rude and barbarous demeanour, which we
ſhould not be extremely ſorry even in real
life to fee chaſtiſed, much leſs in the ſhas
dows of a theatrical Repreſentation.
It is certainly poſſible for one individual to
render very important ſervices to another, with
fuch haughtineſs and aſperity of manner, that
he


[ 27 ]
he who receives the favour may reaſonably ..
conſider himſelf as abſolved from all the ties
and obligations of gratitude. If this be law-
ful in our private and domeſtic capacities, it
is certainly more unequivocally juſt with re-
gard to the community at large ; where it is
the duty of every individual portion of the
people to contribute as much as lies in his
power to the public good. He is but a falſe
and ſuſpicious patriot who, when arrived at
diſtinction, ſeeks only to give a freer ſcope to
his inſolence and tyranny ; and thinks that
when he has once given general proofs of the
love of his country, he may indulge without
reſtraint his hatred and contempt for his fel-
low-citizens. The public will not be long
held in ſubjection to the authority of paſt fer-
vices; and exile is not perhaps too ſevere a
punilhment for one who conſiders his country-
men as vilified by his own appearance amongſt
them, and diſhonoured by his own ſuperior
and exalted Proweſs.
to
vith
he
When we ſee this baniſhed hero animated
with a bloody ſpirit of revenge, returning to
burn


[ 29 ]
cals
tre-
- vio-
elf to
Come
nence
- per-
fatal
adapted to tragedy; firſt, on account of the
confuſion ariſing from the variety and minute-
neſs of hiſtorical detail: and ſecondly on ac-
count of the rough, unpleaſant, and perhaps
diſguſting character which he diſcovers in his
political and domeſtic conduct. But were the
manner of his repentance and his death to
be choſen by a poet of ſuitable feeling and ca-
pacity, the theatre might derive from it ore
of its moſt moral and intereſting exhibitions.
Every one ſees to what a beautiful and ſu-
blime ſeries of pathetic ſentiments this ſub-
ject would lead ; in developing the patriotiſm
of Volumnia contraſted by her maternal af-
feciion; in unfolding the different ſhades of
the fame patriotiſm obſtructed by the conju-
gal tenderneſs of Virgilia. The breaſt of Co-
riolanus himſelf would be diſturbed by an ob-
ſtinate and full-grown fpirit of revenge, ſilent-
ly oppoſed by the ſpectre of diſhonour that
frights him from its gratification ; loudly
pleaded againſt by the friends of his youth
and the protectors of his childhood, and fi-
nally overcome by filial and wedded Love. A
purer,
fld;
vhole
nuine
fords
nagi-
ction,
vning
and
that
well
ipted





ADVERTISEMENT.
It is very unſatisfactory to offer to the pub-
lic a tranſlation which very few will have
an opportunity of comparing with the original.
I have been deterred from printing the Story
of Giraldi along with the preſent verſion by
my unwillingneſs to enlarge the bulk of a vo-
lume which bears the name of one who never
before offered any compoſition to the public
eye. Beſides I am in hopes that ſoon will be
publiſhed in Italian a tranſlation of ſome of
the plays of Shakeſpeare, where the original
novels may appear with greater propriety.
Such a work has been undertaken at Padua
by a perſon perfectly equal to the taſk, and is
at preſent in ſome forwardneſs. The Engliſh
in general will not hear of ſuch a publication,
on account of the difficulty which they ſup-
poſe foreigners muſt meet with in underſtand-
ing Shakeſpeare. But it may be obſerved on
D 2
the


THE
MOOR OF VENICE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN
o'r
GIAN BATTISTA GIRALDI CINTIÓ,
OF
FÉRŘÁRA.'
THERE was once in Venice a Moor of
great merit, who for his perſonal cou-
rage, and the proofs he had given of his con-
duct, as well as his vigorous genius in the af-
fairs of war, was held in great eſteem by thoſe
gentlemen who, in rewarding patriotic ſer.
vices, excel all the republics that ever exiſted.
It happened that a virtuous woman of great
beauty called Deſdemona, not drawn by fe-
male appetite, but by the virtue of the Moor,
fell in love with him; and he, ſubdued by the
charms and noble ſentiments of the lady, be-
D3S
came


[ 39 ]
"heir paſ
married,
- power to
'hey lived
while they
I between
as not ex-
reſolving
aintain in
umand of
at iſland.
with the
accompany him to a poſt of ſo much honour.
But the was very much vexed at ſeeing the
Moor diſturbed; and, not knowing the reaſon,
ſaid to him one day at dinner, “ How
can you be ſo melancholy after having re-
ceived from the Senate ſo high and ſo ho-
nourable a diſtinction?"_' My love for you,
Deſdemona,' replied the Moor, • diſturbs
my enjoyment of the rank conferred upon me,
ſince I am now expoſed to this alternative
I muſt either endanger your life by fea, or
leave you at Venice. The firſt would be terri-
ble, as I ſhall ſuffer extremely from every fa-
tigue you undergo, from every danger that
threatens you: the ſecond would render me
inſupportable to myſelf, as parting from you
would be parting from my life.'-" Ah! huſ-
band,” returned Deſdemoną, “ why do you
perplex yourſelf with ſuch idle imaginations ?
I will follow you wherever you go, though it
were neceſſary to paſs through fire inſtead of
only going by water in a ſafe and well equip-
ped veſſel. If there are dangers in the way, I
will ſhare them with your; and indeed your
D 4
nity con-
- brave,
was his
affection
on the
ge, ſupo
verſe to
nothing
ejoiced
obation
cele-
ent for
might
ccom-


: [ 42 1
to engage her affections produced noť the leaſt
effect. He then took it into his head, that
this neglect aroſe from her being pre-engaged
in favour of the lieutenant; and not only de-
termined to get rid of him, but changed his
affection for her into the moſt bitter hatred.
He ſtudied beſides how he might prevent in
future the Moor from living happily with
Deſdemona, ſhould his paſſion not be gratified
after he had murdered the lieutenant. Re-
volving in his mind a variety of methods, all
impious and abominable, he at laſt determin-
ed to accuſe her to the Moor of adultery with
the lieutenant. But knowing the Moor's
great affection for Deſdemona and his friend
ſhip for the lieutenant, he plainly ſaw that un-
leſs his deceit was very artfully conducted, it
would be impoſſible to make him think ill of
either of them. For this reaſon he determin.
ed to wait till time and place afforded him a
fit opportunity for entering on his wicked de-
fign; and it was not long before the Moor de-
graded the lieutenant for having drawn his
ſword and wounded a ſoldier upon guard.
This


[ 44 ]
the foldier were friends again, the Móór grew
angry, and ſaid to her, “ It is fomewhat ex-
Craordinary, Defđemona, that you ſhould take
ſo much trouble about this fellow; he is nei.
ther your brother for your relation, that he
ſhould claim ſo much of your affection.” His
wife with much ſweetneſs and humility replied,
I have no other motive for ſpeaking, than
the pain it gives me to fee you deprived of ſo
excellent a friend as you have always told me
the lieutenant was to you. I hope you will not
be angry with me; ýet his fault does not
merit fo much of your hatred: but you Moors
are of fo warm a conſtitution, that every trifle
tranſports you with anger and revenge." The
Moor, ſtill more irritateď by theſe words, re-
plied; “Perhaps one who ſufpects it not may
learn thar by experience; I will be revenged
for the injuries done to me, fo thoroughly, that
I' ſhall be ſatisfied.” His wife was much terrified
by theſe expreſfions, and ſeeing him, for the
firſt time, in a paſſion with her, ſubmiſſively
anſwered, “I have none but the pureſt mo-
tives for ſpeaking on the buſineſs: but not to
diſpleaſe


:. . [ 45 ] .
diſpleaſe you in future, I promiſe never to
ſpeak of it again.' The Moor, on this new
application made by his wife in favour of the
lieutenant, iinagined that the enlign's words
meant that ſhe was in love with him: he there-
fore went to that ſcoundrel in a ſtate of great
dejection, and endeavoured to make him ſpeak
more intelligibly. The enſign bent on the
ruin of this poor woman, after feigning an un-
willingneſs to ſay any thing to her diſadvan-
tage, and at laſt pretending to yield to the
vehement entreaties of the Moor, faid, “I
cannot conceal the pain I feel in being under
the neceſſity of making a diſcovery which will
be to you fo very ſhocking; but ſince you
inſiſt on it, and the attention which I ought to
pay to the honour of my commanding-officer,
prompts mę to ſpeak, I will not now refuſe
to ſatisfy your demand and my own duty,
You muſt know then that Deſdemona is only
diſpleaſed at ſeeing you angry with the lieu-
tenant, becauſe, when he comes to your houſe,
The conſoles herſelf with him for the diſguſt
which your blackneſs now occaſions her to
feel.”


[ 49 ]
But
that ſhe did not perceive him ; and went away
with it in very high ſpirits. Deſdemona went
home, and taken up with other thoughts
never recollected her handkerchief till ſome
days after; when, not being able to find it,
ſhe began to fear that the Moor ſhould aſk her
for it as he often did. The infamous enſign
watching his opportunity went to the lieute-
nant, and to aid his wicked purpoſe left the
handkerchief on his bolſter. The lieutenant
did not find it till the next morning, when,
getting up, he fet his foot upon it as it had
fallen to the floor. Not being able to imagine
how it came there and knowing it to be Def-
demona's, he determined to carry it back to
her; and, waiting till the Moor was gone out,
he went to the back-door and knocked. For-
tune, who ſeemed to have conſpired along with
the enlign the death of this poor woman,
brought the Moor home in the ſame inſtant.
Hearing ſome one knock he went to the win-
dow, and, much diſturbed, aſked who is there?
The lieutenant hearing his voice, and fearing
that when he came down he ſhould do him
E
ſome,


[ 51 ]
many ſolicitations, at laſt told him that he had
concealed nothing from him. He ſays he has
enjoyed your wife every time that you have
ſtaid long enough from home to give him an
opportunity; and that in their laſt interview
ſhe had made him a preſent of that handker-
chief which you gave her. The Moor thank-
ed him, and thought that if his wife had no
longer the handkerchief in her poffeffion, it
would be a proof that the enſign had told him.
the truth, For which reaſon one day after
dinner among other ſubjects he aſked her for
this handkerchief. The poor woman, who
had long apprehended this, bluſhed exceſſive-
ly at the queſtion, and to hide her change of
colour, which the Moor had very accurately
obſerved, ran to her wardrobe and pretended
to look for it. After having ſearched for ſome
time, “I cannot conceive,” ſaid ſhe, “ what
is become of it! have not you taken it?” –
• Had I taken it,' replied he, “ I ſhould
not have aſked you for it. But you may look
for it another time more at your eaſe.” Leav-
ing her then, he began to reflect what would
:. E 2
be


[ 54 )
houſe, who was a notable embroiderer in
muſlin, and who, ftruck with the beauty of
Deſdemona's handkerchief, determined to
copy it before it ſhould be returned to her.
She fet about making one like it and while
ſhe was at work, the enſign diſcovered that
ſhe ſat at a window where any one who paſſed
in the ſtreet might ſee her. This he took care
to point out to the Moor, who was then fully
perluaded that his chaſte and innocent wife
was an adultreſs. He agreed with the enfign
to kill both her and the lieutenant ; and con-
ſulting together about the means, the Moor
intreated him to undertake the affaffination of
the officer, promiſing never to forget ſo great
an obligation. He refuſed however to ac-
‘tempt what was ſo very difficult and dan-
gerous, as the lieutenant was equally brave
and vigilant; but with much entreaty and con-
fiderable preſents, he was prevailed on to ſay
that he would hazard the experiment. One dark
night, after taking this reſolution, he obſerved
the lieutenant coming out of the houſe of a
female libertine where he uſually paſſed his
evenings,


[ 56 ]
who being very compaſſionate, and not ſuf-
pecting that this could occaſion miſchief to
herſelf, expreſſed the greateſt concern for the
lieutenant's misfortune. The Moor drew from
hence the worſt of inferences, and ſaid to the
enſign, “ You muſt know that my ſimpleton
of a wife is almoſt mad with ſorrow for the
lieutenant's accident."- How could it be
otherwiſe,' ſaid he, as he is her life and
foul?'«“How,” faid the Moor, “ her life
and her ſoul! I will ſeparate her ſoul from
her body. I ſhould diſgrace my manhood if
I killed her not.” And diſcourſing together if
poifon or the dagger would be beſt, and not
liking either the one or the other, the enfign
ſaid, “A method has occurred to me that
would fatisfy you without creating the leaſt
fufpicion. The houſe where you live is very
old, and the ceiling of your chamber is broken
in many places. Deſdemona might be beater
to death with a ſtocking full of fand, and n
marks of this would remain on the body
when ſhe is dead we will pull down a part
the ceiling, and bruiſe your wife's head ;the
gi


( 57 )
give out that a beam in falling has done this, and
killed her. If you follow this advice you will
avoid all ſuſpicion, and every one will believe
her death to have been accidental.' This ſa-
vage advice pleaſed the Moor; and waiting
for a convenient opportunity, he concealed the
enſign one night in a cloſet that communicated
with their chamber. When they were in bed
the enſign according to his inſtruction made a
noiſe in the cloſet, and the Moor immediately
aſked his wife if ſhe had heard it? She anſwer
ed Yes.-“ Get up then and ſee what it is.”
Poor Deſdemona obeyed, and as ſoon as ſhe
was near the cloſet-door the enſign ruſhed out,
and with the ſtocking that he had prepared
gave her a violent blow on the ſmall of the
back. She fell down ſcarce able to breathe ;
but with what little force ſhe had, ſhe called
the Moor to her aſſiſtance. He got out of
bed, and ſaid to her, “ Moſt infamous wo-
· man, you are now to receive the juſt re-
ward of your infidelity!even ſo are thoſe
· wives treated who, pretending to love their
huſbands, are untrue to their beds." The
poos


[ 58. ]
poor woman hearing theſe words, and feeling
that ſhe was ready to expire. from a ſecond
blow that the enſign had given her, ſaid,
• That ſince the juſtice of this world was
refuſed her, ſhe atteſted the Divine Juſtice in
favour of her honour and her truth ;' and in-
voking the Divine Aſſiſtance, ſhe was finiſhed
by the impious enſign, who ſtruck her a third
time. Afterwards they placed her in bed;
and after breaking her ſkull, they drew down,
as they had determined beforehand, a part of
the ceiling. The Moor then called out for
help as the houſe was falling. The neigh-
bours on this alarm ran thither, and found
Deſdemona dead under the beams. Her life
had been ſo virtuous that every one lamented
her fate; and the following day ſhe was buried,
to the great forrow of the whole iſland. But
God who is a juſt Obſerver of the hearts of
men, ſuffered not ſo great a crime to paſs
without the puniſhment that was due to it.
So that the Moor, who had loved Deſdemona
more than his eyes, finding himſelf deprived
of her, began to regret her ſo extremely, thac
he


[ 61 )
barbarian, had the Moor arreſted in Cyprus
and brought to Venice, where, by means of
the torture, they endeavoured to find out the
truth. But the Moor poffefſed force and con-
ftancy of mind ſufficient to undergo the tor-
ture without confeſſing any thing; and though
by his firmneſs he eſcaped death at this time,
he was after a long impriſonment condemned
to perpetual exile, in which he was afterwards
killed, as he deſerved to be, by his wife's Re-
lations.
The enſign returned to his country, where
ſtill continuing his old practices, he accuſed
one of his companions of having attempted to
murder a nobleman who was his enemy. The
man was taken up and put to the torture, and
denying firmly the crime laid to his charge,
his accuſer was alſo put to the torture;
where he was racked ſo violently that his vitals
were injured, and upon being conducted home .
he died in great agony. Thus was the Divine
vengeance executed againſt thoſe who had
murdered the innocent Deſdemona.
The


[ 62 ]
The enfign's wife, who had been informed
of the whole affair, after his death thus cir-
cumftantially related the Story.
Giraldi Cintio wrote a hundred novels, entitled Eka-
tommithé. Theſe are divided into Decades; and the Moor
of Venice is the ſeventh of the Third Decade. The edia
ţion is in two volumes, and was printed by Leonardo
Torrentino, in the year 1561,





[ 67 ]
endeavoured to excel. From them he pro-
bably began his poetical career; and to theſe he
conſtantly returned with all the paſſion of a
fond remembrance, and with all the emulation
of an ancient Rival.
There is ſomething ſo enchanting in the
very irregularities of theſe compoſitions, that
he willingly adopted even their flights and
excentricities. Perhaps too he was induced
by another motive ſuggeſted by Horace, and
ſo natural to noble minds-The deſire of ob-
taining victory againſt a foe of formidable
aſpect and gigantic Force.
Ille per extentum funem mihi poſle videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Inritat, mulcet, falfis terroribus implet
Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.
It is not very raſh to conclude from this pal-
ſage, that the Roman critic ſecretly wiſhed to
reſcue the theatre of his country from the ſub-
jection in which it was held to the authorities
of Greece, and from that uniformity in which
F 2


[ 69 ]
Othello alone, proved by the preceding novel
to have been almoſt wholly created by the
imagination of Shakeſpeare, ſeems never to
have been ſufficiently conſidered, though it
eminently deſerves to be examined with a
view to poetical effect. We are equally in-
tereſted and furpriſed by every part of it; by
his education, his temper, his moral and reli-
gious Principles.
So much of the conduct of men depends
on the habits of early life, that it was extreme-
ly neceſſary for the poet to deſcribe firſt the
original occupations of Othello, that theſe
might ſerve as a ground-work to the proba-
bility of ſucceeding fictions. This baſis of his
character was to be conſiſtent with the merit
that had raiſed him to his diſtinguiſhed rank
in the Venetian army; and to explain the
ſingular paſſion * with which he had inſpired
the
* The French tranflator has hazarded an ingenious
conjecture on this ſubject, though it is evidently ill found-
ed. Becauſe Deſdemona mentions a maid called Barbara,
that
F 3


[ 71 ) :
Tuin by means of that very compaſſion when
excited a ſecond time by the diſgrace of Caffio.
Of his military merit and capacity the mind is
left to form its own ideas, affifted only by ob-
ſcure indications, that extol far more than the
explicit detail of hiſtory, or the pomp of ex-
ceſſive praiſe. The very early period at which
he began his courſe of warlike employments,
the confuſed and marvellous account of his
imminent perils and ſingular eſcapes, his zeal
and fondneſs for the ſervice, his diſlike of peace
and leiſure, are all ſo many maſter-ſtrokes of
Shakeſpeare's pencil that finiſh the portrait of
* a brave and experienced General.
“ For ſince theſe arms of mine had ſev'n years pith,
« Till now, fome nine moons waſted, they have us'd
“ Their deareſt action in the tented field ;
« * * * . * * *
“ The tyrant cuſtom * * * .
“ Hath made the flinty and ſteel couch of war
“ My thrice driven bed of down. I do agnize
" A natural and prompt alacrity
" I find in hardneſs; * * *
F4
Such


[ 75. 1
feparation muſt produce the moſt tremendous
and fatal Convulſions.
· When Shakeſpeare has once eſtabliſhed a
principle of conduct, that principle is not only
obſerved, but frequently converted into a
motive for ſucceeding revolutions of ſentiment,
The complexion of Othello, that had placed
him at ſuch a diſtance from Deſdemona's love,
and with other conſiderations had ſo much
encreaſed his tenderneſs and gratitude for her
paſſionate declarations in his favour, becomes
afterwards a powerful weapon for the arm of
jealouſy.
" Haply, for I am black,
" And have not thoſe ſoft parts of converſation
“ That chamberers have; or for I am declin'd
“ Into the vale of years ;-yet that's not much.
6 She's gone; I am abus'd; and my relief
" muſt be-to loath her.
It was the pic that Deſdemona had firſt
felt for his early misfortunes, that had pero
fuaded


[ 76 1
Vere
ſuaded Othello of the fincerity of her affection
The ideas then of love and compaſſion were
from that moment connected ſo cloſely in his
mind, that when ſhe apparently wept for the
death of Caffio, he inſtantly acquired force and
cruelty enough to execute his fanguinary Pur-
poſe.
A ſenſation continually preſent to the mind
is ſhifted abouċ by all the paſſions, and be
comes at one time the ſupport of confidence,
and at another the ſlave of Suſpicion,
From the bleſſings of love and confidence
ſo congenial to his mind, he is hurled into all
the tortures. of jealouſy which his nature
abhorred. The ſociety he had gained, the
ſympathy he had excited, muſt be now aban-
doned; and his miſery is aggravated by all
thoſe fingularities of his fortune and ſituation
which had before augmented his joy. The
ſolitude of Philočtetes is not more wretched,
nor his anguiſh more deplorable.
6 Had


( 78 )
activity produces. A ſenſe of honour which
fo imperfectly ſupplies its place, ſteps in on
every occaſion with fragments of advice that
involve him in the moſt ſingular and ſurpriſ-
ing contradictions.. When his frame is con-
vulſed and his fpirit trembling at the know-
ledge of Deſdemona's infidelity, he determines
to commit a crime unworthy (as he con-
feffes and laments) of the military name and
profeſſion; but in the gratification of his re-
venge feels not a pang of remorſe for that
virtue which he abandons.
« Oh now for ever
« Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
“ Farewell the plum'd troops and the big war,
“ That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Othello's occupation's gone!"
· Imperfectly however as this ſenſe ſupplies
the place of reaſon in a moral view, it is cer-
tainly calculated to produce poetically a much
greater beauty and variety of effect. The ar-
dour and ſurpriſe of poetry have nothing in
common


[ 81 ]
..
ever ſuperſtition conſecrated to the benefit or
protection of mankind, was endued with a
capacity to improve or perpetuate thefe enjoy-
ments. Hence has Shakeſpeare judiciouſly
taken occaſion to confer a ſort of preternatural
importance on the handkerchief that was the
laſt fatal confirmation of his jealouſy,
" : That handkerchief
“ Did an' Ægyptian to my mother give ; .
$ She was a charmer, and could almoſt read the thoughts
.. " of people.
" She told her, while ſhe kept it, it would make her
66 amiable:
!! Subdue my father intirely to her love; but if the
loſt it, . : . .
6. Or made a gift of it, my father's eye .
* Should hold her loathly, and his fpirits ſhould hunt
“ After new fancies : *
16* * * * * *
'
The idea of an irreverſible predetermined
deſtiny returns to his mind, when, conſcious
of the innocence of his former life and inten-
* See the Appendix.
.. G
tions,


.. .] 82 }
tions, he finds himſelf involved in the moſt
horrible of crimes ; when, after all the dangers
he had paſſed, he ſees that his courage can no
longer protect him though apparently in a
ſtate of tranquility and peace,
e Who can controul his fate?
'« * * * * * * *
“ Man but a ruſh againſt Othello's breaſt,
And he retires;
.
.
In his death the ſame ſenſe of honour ſtill
prevails. In his laſt moments he is exhibited
in all tħe agony of guilt without one ſymptom
of fear; he ſhews a tender and anxious re-
gard for his reputation, but none for himſelf;
obſcurely hoping that the ſervices which he
has rendered to the ſtate may diminiſh the
infamy attached to a foul and atrocious mur-
der.





[ 86 ]
The original charm is written in Arabic,
and now in the poffeffion of Signor Marſili,
Profeſſor of Botany at Padua. The preſent
tranſlation was done not from the Arabic, but
from an Italian verſion, which the proprietor
had cauſed to be executed with great care and
Fidelity.
IN THE NAME OF GOD, MISERICORDIA.
WE are told in the Tales of Seeich Gema-
luddin Juſof (to whom may the mercy of
God be ſhewn) that Halifla, the Lord of
Credenti, had in his ſervice a hundred young
Naves, all of whom were of extraordinary
beauty. It happened one day that a black
woman, called Mergian, was preſented to him,
for whom it was impoſſible to awaken the
paſſions of whoever beheld her. To ſuch a
degree was ſhe diſguſting and deformed. The
moment Haliſſa. ſaw her his affections were
raiſed to the greateſt height. He fell in love
and neglected the other laves. Day and night
he