who is said to have given its miraculous qualities to the water, now confers upon the church its name, del Santo Sepolcro. The others are built round the ancient cloisters. Altogether, it forms a strange nest of buildings-composed of all kinds of architecturethe most antique looking place we have seen in Italy. It is curious too to read the inscriptions on the walls. They commemorate martyrs whose bodies were brought from Jerusalem-early saintsthe Lombard kings, Luitprand and Ilprand-and names illustrious in the history of Bologna. To an antiquarian who partook of the spirit of Old Mortality, it would be a perfect museum to explore, and the labor of a lifetime to restore its mouldering and decayed memorials.

The most splendid church in Bologna is that of San Petronio, a noble monument of that munificence which characterized the republic in the days of Italian freedom. The square or piazza in front of it, three hundred and seventy feet long by three hundred broad, is mentioned by Evelyn in his day as being the most stately in Italy, with the exception of that of San Marco at Venice. In its centre is the Fountain of the Giants, constructed in 1564, and whose gigantic bronze figures are said to have cost seventy thousand gold scudi. The square, too, is surrounded by edifices noble in themselves, and at the same time rich in historical associations as relics of the glorious days of the republic. On one side is the magnificent palace of the Papal legate, and in front the Polazzo del Podestà, begun in 1201. Here was confined king Enzius of Sardinia, son of the emperor Frederick II. When in 1249, Bologna belonged to the Guelphic league, the Ghibeline army, led by king Enzius, after a bloody battle, was completely defeated and their commander taken prisoner. He was immediately carried to Bologna and confined in the Palace of the Podestà. The emperor in vain tried alternately threats of vengeance and offers of ransom. The senate, proud of their prisoner, was deaf to all he could urge. He was entertained in a splendid manner, but kept in captivity for the rest of his life, which lasted for twenty-two years. The noble prisoner whiled away the hours of his dreary confinement by poetical compositions, some of which have since been published, and show more talent than is generally found in those who are classed among the "noble authors." Tradition tells too of other circumstances which lightened the captivity of the prince, and gave a little romance to the dull routine of his life. He was beloved by a fair damsel of Bologna, Lucia Vendagoli, who visited him under various di guises, and the Bentivoglio family derive their origin from this connection. At length death released the captive, and in the church of San Dominico may still be seen his monument, evidently erected by the haughty republic more to glorify itself than to preserve the memory of the prince. The last two lines. show its spirit:

"Nec patris imperio cedit, nec capitur auro;
Sic cane non magno sæpe tenetur aper."

Above the palace rises a massive and lofty tower, built at the time for a stand from which the guards could watch their prisoner. Immediately before the great door of the great church once stood the celebrated bronze statue of Pope Julius II., executed by Michael Angelo. It is said that the artist asked the warlike pontiff whether he should put a book in his hand, and his answer shows the spirit of the times:-"A book! no: let me grasp a sword! I know nothing of letters." His wish was complied with, and he was represented with a sword in his left hand, and in the act of reprimanding the Bolognese with his right. Five years after its erection, the statue was broken to pieces in a popular tumult.

But let us enter the church-a perfect museum of sculpture, and possessing paintings which even in Italy render it renowned. Here are evidences of Guido's genius, and one by his master, Calvart, representing the archangel Michael, almost exactly like that in the Capuchin church at Rome, which was afterwards painted by Guido himself, and which goes by the name of the Christian Apollo. The windows, too, through which the sunlight streams in many colors on the marble pavement, are painted from drawings by Michael Angelo. And yet, more interesting to us than these, were the works of Prosperzia de Rossi-the Bolognese Sapphoas she was called. Here, for the first time, we saw the evidences of that genius which has made her so celebrated in Italy. In one of the Halls of the Reverenda Fabrica, adjoining the church, is her noble bust of Count Guido Pepoli, and her master-piece, the bas-relief of the temptation of Joseph. Her story is one of the most tragical episodes in the history of art. With a wonderful versatility of genius-painter, sculptor, engraver and musicianshe died of a broken heart from unrequited love. At that very time the coronation of Charles V., by Pope Clement VII., was taking place, and the emperor, after seeing her works, expressed the desire to carry her with him to Rome. The touching answer of his Holiness was: "Remain in the church, and you can witness her funeral."

There is a painting by Ducis, which represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference. Through this work she had endeavored to tell the history of her own life, and the consuming grief which prayed upon her:

"The bright work grows

Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,

I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,

Through the pale marble's veins. It grows and now

I give my own life's history to thy brow,

Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear

My form, my lineaments."

In the "Records of Women," Mrs. Hemans has represented her

pouring out her soul, as it were, over this which was to be the closing work of her life:

"Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved, and striven, and failed to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,

Unknown, though fame goes with me: I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious."

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HANNAH H. MILLER, WIFE OF REV. ALPHA MILLER, ANDOVER, CONN.

BY MISS JERTSHA FOOTE.

All sadly we watched, as her life was declining,

But the Saviour sustained with the arm of his might;
And when dim, and more dim, grow life's lamp in its shining
She told that Death's valley was light.

Yet strong were the ties that had bound her to earth;
As sister, as mother, as wife, she was dear:
Her smile, as a sun-beam, had gladdened the hearth,
And dried up the sorrowing tear.

All noiseless, and tireless, she toiled in her love
For the loved ones consigned to her care:
She guided them on toward the mansions above,
By example, by precept, by prayer.

'Tis woman's high boon, in her weakness, to wield
The engines of vast moral power;

And wide as the world is the far-spreading field
Over which she may scatter the shower.

'Tis hers to direct the young dawnings of mind,

To thought its first impulse impart ;

To choose where its young fragile tendrils shall twine,
And daguerreotype truth on the heart.

The departed hath well her high mission fulfilled,
Her lessons with wisdom were fraught:

And, blended with love, as the dew they distilled
On the young cherished children she taught.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HANNAH H. MILLER.

If ever their feet shall be tempted to tread
Aside from the pure, perfect way,

"The voices of Memory will breathe of the dead,"
Nor suffer their foot-steps to stray.

May the children, thus called to pass under the rod,
The rich grace of the Saviour partake;

And give their young hearts in life's morning to God,
The Friend who will never forsake!

For thy heart-stricken servant, O Lord, we entreat—
Let not our entreaties be vain!

May the firm Rock of ages be under his feet,

And the Arm everlasting sustain!

Tho' his heart's chosen partner, the true, and the tried,

Is laid 'neath the valley's cold clod;

Yet Jesus in faithfulness still will abide,
His Consoler, his Saviour, his God.

We too are bereaved:-and we mingle our tears
With the sorrowing heart-stricken band:

May we gather instruction for life's future years,
As we haste to the far spirit-land!

May we learn how the earth-born is doomed to decay,
Nor worth, nor affection can save-

How earth's fairest visions will vanish away,
As the snow-wreaths that mantle her grave.

Yet praise! tho' the earthly be fleeting and vain,
The word of our God standeth sure:-

Our God, and his truth, will unchanging remain

While Eternity's ages endure.

Praise! praise and thanksgiving, dear Saviour, we owe

For the kindness vouchsafed to our friend.

May we join where the river of life hath its flow

In the anthem that never shall end!

Tho' "the places that knew her, shall know her no more,"

Yet bright is the place of her rest;

And, safe beyond Jordan, she beckons us o'er

To the beautiful land of the blest.

Andover, Conn., Feb., 1848.

171

EVANGELINE,

A Tale of Acadie; By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

A poem from Longfellow is sure to be welcomed, and what is better, is sure to be read; unless indeed it is a drama. Evangeline is a simple story, prettily told in a novel style of verse. The incidents and the personageswe can hardly call them charactersare few. The story opens about 1655, in Nova Scotia, or Acadie. The French inhabitants of that colony were a quiet, agricultural race. They lived in great harmony together, forming a community in which simplicity, piety and friendship ruled. They were so pure in their morals that, since the foundation of their colony, there had been no instance where a woman had lost her honor. When a young man married, the colony joined to build him a house.

"Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,
Dwelt in love to God and man. Alike were they free from
Fear that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day, and the hearts of the owners.
There the richest was poor, and the poor lived in abundance."

By the peace of Utrecht the country had been ceded by the French to the English. The Acadians, however, at their own desire, were permitted to be considered as neutrals between these powers. Still their origin, their language and their religion, all bound them to the French. It is not strange, therefore, that when hostilities again arose between these two nations, the Acadians at first secretly, and at last, at the siege of Beau Sejour. openly aided their countrymen. Irritated by this, the English government determined to remove the Acadians from their homes, and to transport them to the different English colonies. For this purpose an English fleet was sent, sufficiently powerful to prevent

resistance.

While this fleet is lying in the mouth of the Gaspereau, and before the intention of the government is known, Benedict Bellefontaine, the father of Evangeline, "the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre," meets at his house with Basil, the blacksmith, to betroth Evangeline with Gabriel, the blacksmith's son.

and Evangeline,

"from earliest childhood

Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters, Out of the self-same book.”

Together in childhood,

"Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings.”