Litchfield enquirer., 1837-04-06
JULfEr's TOMB IN VERONA.

JULIEr's TOMB IN VERONA.
 BV E. L. BuLwER
 But I assure you, sir,' said the clcerO"e' sthat there is nothing to sec in It..
 sMore than in all Verona. ,,lo,, and
 The cicerone shrugged ms s"O"AU0AS' "''~ we continued our way. :,,.orost;ro
 There is no town m !taIy niorc 'naS '.:o. n,,S ;o ;,n nnreor rance than Verona. A quiet anu m .,a,,ara bie melancholy broods over its streets a,.j houses. Its architecture ot all forms .,0 ;.s neculiar easements and balconies; the half Gothic, half classic, stamp ot its antiqul- fv. have to my eyes, an ineXpresslble charm ithink to recognize something Shakspearlan in ti,,, aspect of the place, it accords well with inc memories with which Shakespeare has associated its reverend name ; and own, that trod its motley streets with less respect for it's history than for its immortal legend :: for was it not here that the gay Mercutio and the naughty Tybalt ran their brlet career along these very streets went the masked troop, with their torch bearers, and merry music, on the night that Romeo made nlmseil a guest in the halls of CaPulet, and won !ne heart of the impassioned Juliet! The Gothic lattice, the frequent balcony, the garden seen through the iron gates that close yoii4ner Il an- cient court, do they not all breathe oi r noIiaso
 
 nance which is stcepcd in the colours of so passionate, so intoxicating love, that III or der even to comprehend it, we must hit our selves out of our common and worldly nature i've must rise from what our youth has been made by the arid cares and calculating schemes of life-wc must shut ourselves up, as it were, in q chamber of sweet dreams, from which all realities must be rigidly ex- cluded-we must call back to the heart, to the sense, to the whole frame, its first youth we must feel the blood pass through the veins as an elixir, and imagine that we are yet in the first era of the world when (according to the Grecian superstition) LOVE was the on- ly deity that existed, and his breath was the religion of creation. Then, and then only' can we acknowledge that the legend ot ko- meo and Juliet does not pass the limits ot nature. For the great characteristic of their love is youth--the sparkling and divine fresh ness of first years: its luxuriant imagination its suddenness and yet its depth-the con- ceits and phantasies which find common lan- guage too tame and wander into sweet extrav- agance from the very truth of the passion,- all this belongs but to the flush and May of life, the beauty of our years-the sunny sur face of the golden we'll. You see at once the youngness of that love, if you compare it with the.love ot Anthony and Cleopatra in another and no less wonderful tragedy of the great master. The love, in either, passes the level of human emotions-it is the love of warmer hearts, and stronger natures, than the world knows. But the one is the love that demands luxury and pomp; it dispenses with glory, but not with magnificence: it lies
 "In pavilion, cloth of gold, of tissue,
 Der pictunng that Venus where we see
 The fancy outwork nature."
 M, l,o@1 n,NI it sinks into the gross passion of a hoary do- the love of Juliet is young, pure even in its passion it does not lose worlds, but it can dispense with the world itself; it asks no pur- pie canopics, no regal feasts its wine is rich enough without dissolving pearls in its spark ling freshness; it is precisely that which be- longs to the beautiful incxperience of the passionate girl ;--it is the incarnation of pas- sion, solely because it is the incarnation of youth. And there, in that barn belonging to the convent of Franciscans, the very convent of the good old friar of the tale-no roof a. bove-the damp mould below-the broken, oblong sepulchre itself half filled with green water, is the tomb of this being, made as fa- mliar to us by genius, us if she had really moved and lived before us-as if we had gazed upon her in the revel, and listened to her voice from the moonlit balcony. Nothing can equal the sadness and gloom of the spot. On the walls yet remain two old and faded frescos on the religious subjects favoured by Italian art: morning and night the dews fall through the roofless hovel. and the melan- choly stars gleam on the tomb whence the very dust is gone! It has not even the gram 1eur of desolation-no splendid sepulchre- no cathedral-aisle-no high-arched roof in- presses you with awe. A heap of faggots, piled carelessly at one end of the out house, proves the little veneration in which the place l IS held; the spot is dcsecrated the old tomb, | with its pillow of stone, is but u broken cis- | tern to the eyes of the brethren of the con- vent! The character of the place is Grear. slovenly, discomfort! Beauti. | full daughter of Capulet! none care for thee, thy love, or thy memories, save the strangers from the fair isle whom a northern minstrel hath taught to weep for thee! It is this pe- culiar dreariness, this want of harmony be- tween the spot and the associations, which makes the scene so impressive. The eager, tender, ardent Juliet--every thought pas slon--the very Hebe of romance, never fated to be old ;-and this damp unregarded hovel, strewed with vile lumber, and profaned to all uses! What contrast !-what moral of human affections! Had it been Q green spot in some quiet valley, with the holiness of na. ture to watch over it, the tomb would have us with sweet, not sorrowful asso- citations. We should have felt the soft steps af inc appropriate spirit of tho place, and dreamed back the dreams of poetry, as at Ar lua, or in the grotto of fEgeria. But there is 10 poetry here; all is stern and real the oveliest vision of Shakespeare surrounded by he hardest scenes of Crabbe1 And afar n the city rise the gorgeous tombs of the Scaligers, the family of that duke of Verona who iS hut a Y,a ueupt n thino nf foil ond orlit.