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pressed, because he was obliged to deny me a sight of the belle cose," which were the joy and pride of his heart! He told us that when Forestieri arrived there, and learned the prohibition against the sex, that the disappointed ladies were apt to show temper more sincere than polite. Of course he wound up his discourse with a panegyric upon Madame for the patience

"With which I stood without the pale,

Flattening my nose on a gilded rail."

It is humiliating, both for the friar's sake and my own, to reflect that the anticipated "buonamani" had something to do with the flattery; but alas! the fraternity is poor in the midst of its magnificent chapels, and one cannot sup upon pietra dura, or make an omelette out of the master-pieces of Bambaga.

To return to Italian patriotism. Our first full-grown manifestation was at the little town of Vaghera, our first resting-place in the Sardinian dominions; there, as we hurried over our supper of twenty oily courses, our ears were filled with the roar of a concert in honour of Pio Nono. I envied his Holiness, who did not hear it. I was told that the music had been expressly composed by Rossini; but Rossini did not and could not compose the prima donna, and her tones were anything but composing to us. Long after we had moved on again, there mingled with the clatter of the wheels and the bells of the horses the wild yells of that unhappy woman at the very top of the gamut. A curious and thoughtful thing it is to travel by night through a lonely country in the clear, pure radiance of an Italian moon. The little white villages, clustering under the protection of their tall campaniles, stood out sharply against the stars, and the grand solemn hills on either side | of the road swelled in long ridges against the blue sky; and you could even discern the light, dusty grey olives flickering in the night-wind, and the darker figures of the broad-leaved sycamores. And then sunrise among the Apennines, and the first glimpse of the morning-faced sea, shining like a new washed ploughboy; and the first full view of Genoa, curving in a close embrace around her bay, with the lofty cliffs hovering on one hand, and on the other a superb line of coast; hills peeping over hills, even to the snowy ones, stretching away towards France. Genoa was illuminating itself in honour of Liberty, and chaunting Pio Nono as vociferously as Vaghera. Would it interest you to learn that we occupied rooms in the Hotel Feder, the same hotel in which O'Connell died? They showed us the apartment: it was gilded and hung with green, and I felt it with excusable sentimentality, like a sort of remembrance to the dying, that the national colour of his own far isle should have been round him to the last. The waiter who had attended on him was very communicative, and we were all deeply interested in his tale of O'Connell's death-days. The demagogue, the "rent"-who could think of them there? The place was sacred, and we left it reverently it gave a new interest to the Oriental beauty of

Genoa, that upon its scenes those fading eyes had gazed ere merged in eternity's long dark. We reached Leghorn by a night's penance in a Sardinian steamer, very dirty and very dear. The ladies' and gentlemen's cabins were only divided by a little den, in which sat the individual who was in himself steward and stewardess, ready to spring to right or left, according as the cry of "Garçon" should direct him, to surly knight or sickly damosel. At Leghorn we found things really in a ferment; the governor had resigned, the place was in a sort of anarchy, the national guard could not come into the field for want of arms and habiliments, and there was a sort of provisional government, self-elected of the faechini, or porters and boatmen of the fort; their chief act of authority was to cheat all the passengers; and when we tried to resist their imposition, we found the landlord of our inn held them in great awe, and declined to assist our spirited efforts. So we gave way to the lords of Leghorn, and listened, rather amusedly, to the doleful account mine host gave us of the political atmosphere around him; he was English, and I felt, looking on his meek, frightened face, that the counter had lost, and the bar had not gained; his description was afterwards negatived in toto by a travelling Italian, who had learned in England the art of d-ing, and now displayed it, with the addition of Tuscan fioriture, to the eternal discomfiture of the Tedeschi.

A very quick, well-appointed railway brought us, in half an hour, to Pisa; where we found patriotism rampant. We went into a café, and saw the waiter, at a dingy little mirror, trying on the cap of the new national guard. Round him was a knot of unshorn, unshirted men. Each, in turn, essayed the coveted decoration; and each, a modern Narcissus, seemed to grow enamoured of his mirrored semblance. The smirkings and attitudenizings of these rough-bearded men would have been a study for a Hogarth. How I wished for our inimitable M. A. Titmarsh, to put them down for "Vanity Fair." Grotesque and happy figures were they; for indeed, if there is a happy creature on this troubled earth, it is a modern Italian patriot looking at himself in the cap of the national guard. Beside the mirror hung a coloured print of the Roman uniform-for they have been beforehand with the Tuscans in equipping themselves. What admiring eyes it rivetted! How envyingly they dwelt on all the glories of those painted warriors in light trowsers and blue frock coats. How unconsciously they imitated the swaggering gait, the fierce turn of the head, the confident repose of the hands-one on the sword-hilt, the other on the hip. It was delightful to me: far better than pictures, better than scenery, better than even old Pisa's Cathedral and Campo Santo, are the thousand ways and workings of my fellow-men. What a discovery it was to me to pounce suddenly, in a secluded cloister of the Franciscans, on a dozen loyal Pisans, learning martial manœuvres with sore travail, from the instructions of a fat sergeant with a pinched-in belt! They looked a little ashamed to be

caught in such unwonted studies, and took advantage of the gate which divided their paradeground from the first cloister which we had penetrated, to slam it, somewhat abruptly, in our faces; thereby enforcing the hint that the inner square was not open to females. But through the bars were still distinctly visible their timeless marching and ill-adjusted ranks.

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eleven on a gloriously bright day. It was rather a long train, and very full. We set off amid a storm of hurrahs, which rather surprised us. What!" we said, "does excitement keep up its interest with such perseverance through all the hours of the day?" But on inquiry, we found it was a new cause and effect. The train we had entered was now conveying the detachThat night there was hurraing and shouting ment of Pisan troops sent to take formal posmore than ordinary, and such a hurly-burly on session of Lucca, in the name of the Grand Duke the Arno's banks, that I made up my mind to a of Tuscany. "It is well," thought we, "these revolution of some sort or other; but whether invaders have the good-will of the invaded, for Leopold was to be up or down I little knew, their strength is not alarming-twenty-four men, only I had armed myself with the omnipotent one corporal, captain, and lieutenant." In truth, "Viva Italia et Pio Nono." However, we soon this little army were somewhat doubtful of their learned that it was a rejoicing at the resignation reception, and their twenty-four muskets were of the Grand Duke of Lucca. A large band of hardly sufficient to awe the town of Lucca; Lucchese hurried over to Pisa with the news, and therefore there went with them a body of zealous there was shaking hands, and caps in the air, Pisans, who performed the part of claqueurs in hymns, and hurrahs; and great joy everywhere. a French theatre; they clapped, and waved flags Next day was a grand procession of some and handkerchiefs, viva'd every man, woman, hundred men, preceded by a band, and followed and child whom we passed, and sang "Pio by crowds of well-dressed people. Flags-with Nono" at every station. And in return we were the colours of Tuscany, and the papal yellow-greeted everywhere with acclamations: it was a flew merrily in the summer breeze, and the sort of lesser ovation-a military triumph-a chorus of deep voices chaunting "Pio Nono," better siege than that of Badajos! For is it not with more concord in their hearts than their far more comfortable to find the walls of the voices, filled one with a sudden responsive ex-invaded town covered with smiling faces, instead citement. Armed men were they all, albeit their weapons were none of the most formidablecanes of every thickness, and umbrellas of every colour. Italian umbrellas are like the poppies and anemones of the field. But not being required to fire, they did as well on this occasion as the best Joe Mantons; and, being imposingly shouldered, and sticking high in air their brassy ferrules, they might really have struck terror into the hearts of the little boys who ran gaping after the cortège. Not the least funny part of the scene was the quiet smile of the regular sentries, who saluted the procession as it passed through the city gate. They did not dare to laugh-that would have insulted the gloria Italiana-but they raised their eyebrows; and one, when he thought himself safe, imitated, with his musket, the umbrella equipment which had just passed him.

All the cafés in Pisa had been re-christened, with new and patriotic names. Near the railwaystation, one might study with advantage the decline and fall of popularity. The Café della Strada ferrata had ungratefully become that of L'independenza Nazionale; the Frattoria dei Passagieri had gone over to the Frattellanza Italiana; and so it went on-every place that sported a bottle and a coffee-cup had its highsounding title-the Guardia Civica, the Mirone et Pace, and similar delusive epithets. It is the same in Florence: the directory is become a

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of fire-mouthed cannon? Is not the glad welcome of a thousand voices far more cheerful than the angry thunder of the bomb? Oh dear! I prefer the modern style of invasion infinitely; and thought the Lucchese wiser in their generation than even Michael Angelo, when he defended Florence against the Medici by hanging mattresses from San Miniato.

The distance between Pisa and Lucca occupies generally half an hour, but, like all triumphal progresses, ours was very slow. The scenery is beautiful; hills broken into rich knolls in the foreground, and high ranges of striking peaks in the distance. At one part, where the valley of the Serchio draws to a narrow ravine, there are two tall, ruined towers, and a bulky mass of castellated architecture, which separately crown three rich olive-covered heights. The chesnuts, yellow with autumn's touch, made a strong contrast with the cool, silvery grey of the olive, both amicably climbed the walls together, till stopped by the stony, barren scalps of rock. In the valleys lay patches of fertile fields, divided by trellised vines, which hung fondly about young elms. On reaching Lucca we found the population on the walls, and surrounding the railway station. It is a most picturesque little town; its old ramparts are of dark red, overgrown with turf of a lively green, and planted with chesnuts and acacias. The gates are all surmounted by quaint sculpture, and the little capital, in its bye-gone days of the court, must have had a whimsical air of miniature gentility. In the midst of all the raptures and rhapsodies, and "Siamo tutti fratelli," and the set speech with which the troops were received, I could not help a passing wonderment that the Lucchese should so rejoice at being reduced from a metropolis into a province; it was a very odd ground of

self-congratulation, and indeed we have since mother, and two boys, an infant in the mother's heard that many of the principal people of that lap, and a little playful child peeping at him tiny court are beginning to regret the change, over her shoulder. There is a richness of although, in fact, they were never consulted colouring, combined with fulness of expression, about it. I could not help thinking of Edin- in this exquisite painting, which makes it one of burgh and the Union. One old noble lady at those works that you set apart in your memory Lucca said, with a sigh, "That now the court for ever: and to think it was the work of a was abolished, there was nothing to be done in monk, a heart-sick, disappointed man! In my the world but to die." Poor dowager! her world admiration-and I was glad to find afterwards had been the state and service of the little mo- that so good a judge as Kügler supports me-I narchy; she had no sympathy with the national have set him next to Raphael. Andrea del Santo guard, and no adiniration for the new national copied the foreground group in this picture, and uniform. She reminds me of those good high- christened it a Holy Family; but his divine heeled Lady Megs and Jeans, who, after the figures are less heavenly than Fra Bartolemmeo's decay of Holyrood, pined away in the lofty flats human ones. The Dominican monk who showed of the Canongate, looking on Scotland as a be- us this pride of their church, said, "Ah, it is trayed and doomed country. On the day of all changed to-day; it is all peace, and that is Lucca's occupation no regret was seen on any much better." He did not seem to regret that of the thousand faces which filled its streets. | the gilded royal chapel close to the altar was to After being borne in a rush through the gates, remain vacant. On returning through a large we stole to the now deserted Duomo, and lost piazza we perceived a great crowd assembled all memory of to-day's excitement in the solemn below the painted arms of the fallen dynasty. majesty of the ancient pile. We were terribly Two men were loosening this now obnoxious un-reveried, if I may coin such a word, by the escutcheon. At every reel of the doomed lilies sacristan, a prolix old man with a fishy eye, who (the Bourbon fleur-de-lys) a wild hurrah broke insisted on repeating all the Latin inscriptions, from the crowd, and when it at last fell deand would not let us admire one picture for our-graded to the stones beneath, you might have selves. He told us he had been there for many heard the acclamations at Florence! Nor less years, and that he had thrice shown the Grand did they applaud themselves when one sturdy Duke of Lucca over the Cathedral. I pitied his blow decapitated the fleur-de-lys which surloss in the said Duke, for these visits seemed to mounted a military watch-box. have been the epochs of this poor old man's life, and now the sceptre had vanished from Lucca. We saw an altar raised to God the Deliverer, in commemoration of the city's deliverance from the Pisan yoke in 1369. It was odd to look at its elaborate sculptures, and, remembering the troubles which gave it existence, to listen to the shouting of the crowd welcoming those very Pisans as brothers and "concitoyens." Another reminder of old feuds was the famous picture of Fra Bartolemmeo, in the Church of San Romano. There the Virgin, in earnest supplication, is represented interceding for the Lucchese against the powerful and tyrannous Florentines-the Florentines, who this day had given Lucca a sovereign! It was a place to make one reflective, had not the surpassing excellence of the picture claimed every impulse of the soul in admiration. The figure of the Malonna is a master-piece; robed in a loose gown of deep crimson, girt simply round the waist, her mantle flying behind her without concealing her majestic form, she spreads her arms to heaven with the most fervent adoration and expostulation in her magnificent upturned eyes. It is what the Scotch call" wrestling in prayer." She will not be denied; you see in her eloquent face that she has reiterated all her claims to divine favour by her Son's sufferings and her own agonizing sympathy. The generous fire in her eyes says: "It is not for myself I ask, but for these, the helpless and the oppressed!" Two boy-angels suspend the cloudy blue mantle over a crowd of suppliant Lucchese. All eyes are bent on her with hope and gratitude. In the A different journey it was from the exulting foreground is a lovely group; mother, grand-progress of the morning. The lassitude of re

"Ah! fickle Lucchese!" thought I," with just such shouts you saw those arms raised which now you pull down so ignominiously." They bore them triumphantly under the now deserted Ducal Palace to an open space under the walls, and collected them together with materials for a bonfire. There never was a more uncomplimentary proceeding to an abdicated sovereign. Luckily he was out of hearing, among the hated Tedeschi at Milan, while his glad subjects hurrahed at his absence. It was a curious scene-perfectly well ordered. Not a single outbreak of any kind; no drinking, no fêteing, no dinnering. It is only we English whose stomachs claim a share in all public excitements! We saw this excitable little city, fussing itself so happily, from the beautiful ramparts; the sun was falling earthward, though not very near his setting; the amphitheatre of hills which embosom Lucca are seen there to great advantage. They are not too tall, these purple Apennines; they do not appal you like the Alps; they are not girt in storm and voiced with the thunderthere is a home-beauty about them that recalled our own fair hills of Perthshire, where the rich heather gives almost the same colouring as here the refracted rays. In the Alps youth exults to wander; in the Apennines age would be content to die. It is so sunny, so warm, the old blood would not chill there so soon; and the old eye would have shapes of glory before it to the last. But the sun is going down; the cool eveningbreeze is commencing-it is time to think of home.

action had seized every one; the flag itself hung listlessly over the engine, indulging no more in the playful flutterings of welcome. The villages seemed all sleepy and going to bed; the grey clouds clambered slowly up the skies. In the streets of Pisa all was silence-the very beggars had stopped whining. As we crossed the green sanctuary where the four grand edifices cluster solemnly, the aged dome, soaring with massive grandeur in the moonlight, looked as if quietly contemptuous of all the ebullitions it so often witnessed. A troop of little boys mimicking soldiering made a practical caricature of the national-guard; and when we walked under the marble walls of the fine old palace of the Lanpeducci, and looked up at its mysterious motto, and thought, whatever might have been its origin, it might well be the moral of the effervescence and rejoicings of the day, "Alla giornata"-for the space of a day. P. P. C.

WOMAN.

Oh, Women! holy Woman! in our hour
Of death and sorrow, when misfortunes lower,
And gloom and care, like darkness, shut out light,
Thou art the star, that ever true and bright
Still shines the brightest in the darkest night,
Shedding its gentle radiance to the last,
When Life's bright sun hath set, and Hope is past.
Last at the Cross, and thou the very first
At that lone Sepulchre, with Faith firm nurst
Within thy bosom like a sleeping child,

And meek eyes raised up to the heavens, that smiled
With guardian angels; there thou stoodest lone,
A tearful watcher by that cold grave stone.
And can it be, as sacred legends tell,
That man by thee was tempted-that he fell

By thee-through thee-before the avenging sword
Driven from heaven by his offended Lord?
Oh! can it be? And if indeed it be,
The Heaven he lost he found again in thee!
It was not Paradise, and thou not there;
And he had lost it through his own despair.
It was not good for man to be alone;
And oh, sweet Woman! well didst thou atone
For thy one fault. If true that Sin and Shame
And Death our dark inheritance became,
Thou hast the heavy debt repaid full well;
For oh, without thee, Life had been a Hell!
Man lost his Paradise, but bore one flower
From out that garden to adorn his bower-
One lily blossom, with a scented bloom,
To cheer his labour and sustain his doom.
But if he lost an earthly heaven through thee,
Oh! Virgin Mother! Mary! let it be

Sweet Woman's boast that through thy blessed womb
Was opened man a pathway from the tomb
To that eternal Heaven of Heavens, won,
Bright Virgin Mother, by thy precious Son!
All honour then to Woman! Be her name
Blessed by man and angels! And foul shame
Befall that man who blots the sacred word!—
Who mother has, and feels his heart not stirred;
Or wife or sister, and doth not revere
The sacred name, that renders home so dear!
Who feeding passion's vilest part within
His callous bosom, makes sweet woman sin!-
Who plunges her from Virtue's sacred height,
Driven from Paradise again, to night

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And darkness; there, with shame and bitter tears,
To weep away the long and lonely years
That might have made some little home all bright,
All pure, and blest and joyous with the light
Of love and innocence! Oh, woman! thou
So pure, so high, was never made for scorn
Little below the angels art !-thy brow,
To set its scal upon!-thy beauty, born
In Heaven's likeness, never meant to brave
The blast of shame! to be the abject slave
Of man's cold heartlessness !-thy angel eye
Not formed to weep out bitter tears, and die
A death of madness!-thy poor trusting heart
Not given to be broken, or to smart
In agony! But oh, to be the all,
The one bright blessing left him from the fall;
Of human woe, for shipwrecked man to flee
The one green island in the raging sea
Or parched-up shrub descends the healing shower,
And be at rest in. As on drooping flower
Thy love should fall on man; a balmy dew
To brighten sorrow-gladness to renew.
Thou art the rainbow on his storm of life;
A flag of peace, where all had else been strife;
A sunbeam in his winter's discontent;
A graceful palm-tree o'er his Arab tent,
In Summer's heat and weariness; when mute
And sorrow-bound, within his hands a lute
With silver strings, of music sweet and rare,
To cheer his sickness, banish his despair;
His lamp of love; and o'er Life's thorny sod
A flowery path, to lead his soul to God!

LUCY LEE.

ALBERT TAYLOR.

She grew pale whilst the summer sky
Stretched blue o'er hill and dell,
And died, as many daily die,

Because she loved too well.

They laid her in a verdant spot,
Beneath a willow tree;
And young and old forget her not,
But sigh, "Poor Lucy Lee!"
Forth from her ashes in the spring
The rose and violet sprung;
And o'er her does the linnet sing

Where winter's red-breasts sung.
The soft night dews fall heavy there,
And one white cloud above,
E'en when the day is bright and fine,
Keeps dropping tears of love.

And when grows full the moon on high,
And Grief alone is waking,

'Tis said the willow branches sigh

Just like a heart that's breaking!

And whilst the flowers with drops are hung, And morning stars shine fair, This is the song that's often sung By angels sitting there :"Oh, human hearts, love on! love on! Midst bitterness and aching; Oh, human hearts, love on! love on! Though love your hearts be breaking. "Love gives the spirit wings for heaven, Therefore love on! love on! And God's and Nature's praise is given To those who love, love on!"

CHARLOTTE CAYME.

CIMAROSA.

P. A. FIORENTIN O.

(From "Der Erzähler aus der Heimath und Fremde.")

ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY M. A. Y.

Beautiful was the morning of the June-day in 1799, on which the events we are about to narrate happened. The glorious Italian sky, that lustrous dome of crystal and azure, appeared as if it would fain, by additional beauty and brilliancy, draw attention from the crimes and acts of treachery and violence which form one of the darkest pages of history.

An ever-increasing crowd of ruffianly, wild, ragged, and heedless vagabonds, was pouring from all parts of the city of Naples into one large stream, which, raging, murmuring, and dashing aside all obstacles, directed its course towards the Largo di Monte Oliveto.

The Giunto di Stato, that bloody tribunal which ceased not from its labours night or day in order the more quickly to get through its dreadful work, had interrupted its trials for a while, had summoned to its assistance two or three counsellors, and some eminent church dignitaries, and was now debating over an affair of the utmost importance; nothing less than the deposition of the patron saint of the city, the holy St. Gennaro, and the election of St. Antonio in his stead.

A formal accusation was made against St. Gennaro, that he had permitted the invasion of the French, sanctioned by his non-intervention the formation of the Republic, done miracles at the request of Championet and other of the republicans, &c. &c.; and he was solemnly called upon to defend himself against the charges of high treason, felony, and sedition.

As no one appeared to take up the justification of the accused Saint, and his incorporeity shielded him from all personal indignity, the tribunal were necessitated to content themselves with expressing their sense of his unworthy conduct, degrading him from his high honours, striking his name out of the list of holy guardians of the city, and confiscating all his land, wealth, statues, precious stones, and every other kind of property which the piety or superstition of his devotees had ever offered at his shrines.

A second decree elevated St. Antonio to the dignity of patron saint of Naples and the surrounding country, and expressed their sense of the supernatural aid vouchsafed by him to the royalists on the 13th of June.

As soon as this decision was made public, the expectant multitude dispersed in troops down the streets, crying, shouting, "Long live St. Antonio, and down with Gennaro! Long live

the King and Cardinal Ruffo, and death to the Republic!"

It was a fearful spectacle to gaze on that collection of vagabonds, reprobates, wretched creatures, outcasts of every kind, bandits, galleyslaves-hideous revolting beings, hearing the name but not the attributes, and scarcely the form of women; to hear them praying, blaspheming, shouting, howling, groaning, chaunting lewd verses, ribald songs, and ever and anon responses from the Litany; to see them pelting the images of the saints with mud-struggling, trampling recklessly over each other's fallen bodies, and laughing at the cries of the weaker victims-robbing, murdering; alas! a fearful spectacle was that presented during those days, in the streets of one of the most beautiful cities in the universe.

On, on, poured the wild multitude to the bay, where a frightful drama was being acted. The Neapolitan patriots had entered into an agreement that they would deliver up St. Elmo and the other fortresses which remained in their power, if they were permitted to withdraw without molestation, and vessels provided to transport them to Marseilles, and protection and safe conduct granted to them during their passage.

This treaty was agreed to, and signed by Commodore Foote on the part of the English, and Cardinal Ruffo, the generalissimo of the royalist army, and the Turkish and Russian commanders. The patriots adhered strictly to its terms; they delivered up the fortresses, laid down their arms, betook themselves on board the vessels which had been placed at their disposal, and only waited for a favourable wind to quit the shores of their native land for ever. Twilight had faded into night, the ships lay idly on the bosom of the beautiful bay, when suddenly the thunders of the battery above broke loose; masts, sails, and rudders were destroyed by the merciless cannonade, and the vessels became mere floating prisons.

The night was spent by all on board in mingled doubt, fear, and disgust; and with the morning's light came the intelligence that Nelson, in the name of King Ferdinand, refused to ratify the treaty, and disavowed the right of Cardinal Ruffo to enter into any terms of capitulation with rebels.

The flag at the mast-head of the admiral's ship hung in heavy folds, as if to hide the stain which such an act of treachery must cast upon

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