magicians, acquiring knowledge, forbidden to the believers in the faith of the cross, knowledge and power dangerous to the soul, and unworthy the character of a Christian knight.

At length, a returning party of his companions announced that he would return. Every thing was put in readiness for a reception worthy the heir to such fair estates.

Runners were sent to every out-post, that the earliest notice might be given of his approach; and a troop of noble retainers were ready to escort him home, with gay pennon and spirit stirring music. Daily did the Baron, with a statelier step, and a lordlier bearing, walk the old terrace, impatient at his delay.

Lady Eleanor busied herself in all those arrange ments that woman's taste alone suggests; for she had never seen her step-son, and fame had proclaimed him no less handsome than brave and courteous. The old armour of the great hall was newly burnished, rich tapestry was suspended from the walls, choice embroidery,

"Wrought by nae hand as ye may guess,
Save that of Fairly fair,"

was taken from sumptuous wardrobes of carved oak, to decorate the couches. Great was the taste and skill lavished upon the room designed to be the sanctum of the young knight.

The large Gothic windows, with their delicate tracery, and springing arches, through which the light, penetrating the stained glass, quivered upon the tassellated floor with hues like a riven rainbow, were again softened by heavily embroidered silk, that fell in gorgeous folds to the very floor. Silver lamps, of rich and grotesque construction, were suspended, by chains of the same metal, from the ceiling, and fed with aromatic oils. The heavily ornamented alcoves contained rare cabinets, in which were preserved those illuminated manuscripts, of such great value, that principalities were exchanged for their possession. High backed, oaken chairs, curiously wrought with uncouth devices, stood upon mats of the finest oriental carpeting; images of saints occupied every niche, and the scene of the crucifixion, executed with no mean skill by the fair hands of Lady Eleanor and her maidens, was suspended over the huge fire-place. Upon the cumbrous table were placed relics of rare value, in cases of ivory, and venerated vases of exceeding beauty.

All was completed, and yet the Knight returned not. Lady Eleanor grew weary of adorning her handsome person, all to no purpose, and pettishly chid her maidens as they loitered in their embroidery, as the only feasible method of allaying her own irritation.

CHAPTER II.

Longe, longe hath toll'd the midnight bell,
And the stars grow dim in the skye,
Yet the taper burns in the old grey tower,
Like a beacon placed on highe.
Old Ballad.

THE shadows of evening were veiling the landscape in the grey hue of twilight, when a solitary Pilgrim, with rusty cowl, and the scallop-shell, was seen to approach the castle. He moved slowly, lean. ing upon his staff, apparently too much absorbed in

his own thoughts to take much note of objects about him. The portal was thrown open with ready zeal, the hospitable board spread, and the calls of hunger allayed, ere the courtesy of the old Baron would permit him to press inquiries even upon the subject nearest his heart, the protracted absence of his son.

Little use was there to question. The Pilgrim seemed moody and silent, and his short, abrupt replies repelled all advances. At length the damsel Agatha hinted, with many blushes, that the Lady's Page, Henri, had been practising a new song; and then, for the first time, did the stranger appear at all interested in the group about him. While the youth swept the strings of the harp, with a slight blush, indeed, yet with the air of a handsome stripling accustomed to the smiles of ladies, the stranger raised his head, and the cowl falling back, revealed an eye and countenance little according with the subdued tone and manners he had assumed. The eye was black, penetrating, and almost fierce in its expression, and yet a dash of sadness seemed to linger about it, and to rest upon the lofty forehead that gleamed from the midst of dark curly hair, which clustered thickly about it, and shaded the swarthy cheek and haughty lip. The Page shrunk abashed before the keen eye, but a smile and glance from the maiden reassured him, and he sang as follows.

SONG OF THE PAGE.

Oh! many an eye is clear and bright,
Like stars that deck the brow of night,
And full of glee;

But there is one, whose faintest ray
Can chase all thoughts of care away,
When fixed on me.

There's many a cheek, whose changeful hue,
Is like the rose when bathed in dew,
And fair to see;

But one alone, whose timid blush
Will cause the blood to mine to rush,
Is dear to me.

There's many a voice, whose dulcet swell
Is like the chime of silvery bell
From dewy lea;
But only one, that from my heart
pangs of grief can bid depart,
Is dear to me.

The

It is uncertain how long the youth might have continued his amorous ditty, had not a gesture of impatience from the stranger arrested him. He took the harp from the abashed Page, and swept his hand across the strings, with a boldness and freedom that called forth the full power of the instrument: then, in a clear manly voice he sang the following words, while the ladies listened with all but suspended breath.

The Rhine, the Rhine, majestic Rhine,
The bright, the beautiful too,
That rushest down from the mountain side,
And glidest the vallies through.

Thou rollest on in thy glorious pomp,

Thou pride of my father land,

And I hear thy voice with my boyhood's joy,
Once more on my native strand.

"My son, my own son," cried the old Baron, forgetting all his stateliness in the delight of beholding him again. Oswald returned the embraces and congratulations of his family with little of the enthu

Agatha laughed, with a pretty coquetry. "I doubt not my good cousin will be all he so much admires, but not the less shall I affect a mystical appearance, a majestic mien, that awes one to look upon-”

At this moment, she encountered the dark eye of the knight, and the blood mantled to her fair brow, and the small hand trembled as it unconsciously tightened its grasp upon a rose-bud it held, the last gift of the Page.

Henri reddened with something like resentment, but mindful of the gentle training to which he was subjected, he suppressed its expression, and replied with a careless air:

"So then, my gentle cousin would rather tremble at the glance of a proud eye, than behold a true and courteous knight, awed at her own fair self."

66

Nay, nay, good coz, that is not a fair inference; kneeling knights are every where to be found-they do homage to a fair cheek and sparkling eye, lightly as they don their helmet; but, but," and the cheek of the gay girl was dyed with blushes," methinks it were a worthy triumph to subdue yon haughty knight, who seems little heedful of lady's smiles; to behold such an one suing for a maiden's favour, were indeed assurance of no ordinary power."

Henri's brow contracted, and it is uncertain what might have been his response, had not Lady Eleanor at this moment summoned her damsels to attend her, and the Page left them at the door of the Lady's apartment, where they were at liberty to discuss the knight at their leisure.

For many days, the Knight yielded to the endearments of domestic life, visiting his fair domains, and indulging the curiosity of the family in details of the hazards and disasters of those fatal wars, and the deadly sufferings of the Christians in contending with foes ever on the alert, and innumerable as the locusts swept by the hot winds of their own deserts. But these things gradually grew irksome to him, and he secluded himself mostly, either in his own room, or an old tower, rarely used except in times of commotion; and then only as a place of great strength and security, where a foe could be greatly annoyed, while the repellants were secure from every ordinary weapon. There, hour after hour, even when the midnight stars grew dim in the early dawn, was beheld the solitary light of the watcher, and occasionally his form might be seen to pass between the light, and the low arched portal.

The old Baron walked the long terraces of his strong hold with a feebler step, and the gloomy disaffected air of a man who has nourished some bright anticipation, and wakes to find it but an illusion of the fancy. Disappointment seemed likely to accomplish what age had failed to do, even to bow the

proud woman's resentment at the indifference with which she was treated, and more than once hinted dark suspicions of necromancy and forbidden arts.

The maiden, Agatha, had, from the first, detected a deep and abiding sadness in the stranger, and her girlish fancy had at once been awakened to an interest in his behalf. She had invested him with sorrows and wrongs, that perhaps never had an existence, except in her own youthful imagination, and then had wept over them, and offered her prayers to the Virgin, that the one might be redressed, and the other alleviated. She even wished it were in her power to do something to relieve his despondency. Her girlish coquetry gave place to a quiet pensiveness, and perhaps her fine eyes might have expressed more of tenderness than she conceived, as they rested upon the knight, for she thought not of herself, but only of his sorrows.

Henri alone seemed to enjoy the state of affairs at the castle. His volatile spirits became even more buoyant than ever, and he sang his songs and madrigals with unprecedented sweetness and skill. He was a gay, handsome youth, with a smooth tongue, and courtly address, and withal frank and brave, and promising hereafter to be right worthy of the sword and spurs of knighthood. He had already installed his fair cousin upon the pedestal of his heart, as his only "Lady Love," partly in consequence of the beauty and many excellencies of the damsel, and partly because the seclusion in which he lived afforded none other so good and lovely.

Agatha, half in sport, and half in the thoughtless inexperience of girlhood, humoured the whim of the young devotee, unconscious of the dangerous passion, that was thus daily strengthening in the heart of her admirer. Now that a new grace had been imparted to her face, in the soft pensiveness that was stealing over it, she sat with abstracted air, while he poured forth the most dulcet melody, her own looks more dangerous to the youth, and herself unaware that her thoughts were away with the solitary watcher of the tower, and more intent upon divining his secret cause of grief, than in doing justice to the skill or taste of the handsome Page.

CHAPTER III.

"There came, and look'd him in the face,
An angel, beautiful and bright;
And then he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable Knight."-Coleridge.

WE have before said, that the stern hardihood of the Baron had hitherto enabled him to bid defiance to the ghostly warnings of the Fathers of St. Gothard, who urged him to prepare for the rest of his soul, by contributions to the church. It may hence be inferred they regarded him with no friendly eye; and now that his son had returned, leading a dark, solitary life, their malicious scrutiny was at once excited. Nor was this all; Lady Eleanor, in the sanctity of confession, had relieved her burden of spleen, by hinting mysterious fears and doubts, as to the motives of his retirement.

The moon in its first quarter hung like a silver barque upon the verge of the horizon, its faint rays playing upon the waters of the Rhine, as they heaved darkly in the uncertain light, when Agatha, who was looking from the terrace, was roused from a long

reverie by the voice of the Page. He pointed to the dim light of the old tower, and said in a low voice:

The eagle, companionless and alone, becomes a surer mark for the archer."

"What mean you, Henri? Is danger really threat ening the noble Oswald? And have you not warned him of the peril ?"

"How should I, sweet Coz, when he treats me with the contempt of a menial? Methinks, were I to mount to yonder tower with a message of warning, it were poor reward for such service to be pitched from the battlement."

Shame on thee, Henri; I thought thine had been a nobler nature;" and the maiden turned away with a look of scorn.

The eye of the Page flashed, and his brow crimsoned, yet he did not fail to address her with his habitual deference, but still with an infusion of pride that well became him.

Agatha, you wrong me. I care little for the scom of yon proud Knight; should he attempt discourteous service, he would scarcely find me the craven to submit either to his violence or dictation. It may be that my devotion to the Baron hath magnified to me the danger of his son." Then, in a lower voice, while his eyes rested sadly upon the face of the excited girl, he said, "It may be too, Agatha, that I feared for him for thy sake."

A deep blush spread over her face and neck at this allusion to herself, which the youth marked with a deeper shade of melancholy. He then went on to express his fears that the fathers were about to cite the young Lord to appear before a council of their order, to answer to the crimes of witchcraft and sorcery. He had expressed his reasons for so thinking to the Baron, who had treated the subject with utter contempt, and thus, he doubted not, would the son.

Agatha retired to her room but not to sleep. The danger that threatened the Knight grew every moment upon her imagination, and suggested many methods by which he might be warned of the peril; but with the timidity of maidenly reserve she shrunk from putting them in execution. She looked out from the casement; the stars beamed placidly from the deep sky, and the old woods reposed in dim shadow, while the heavy outline of the towers of St. Gothard lay like a dense mass against the horizon. As she continued looking in the direction of the monastery, she observed a file of monks with cowl and cassock, each bearing a small lantern, slowly emerge from its walls, and take the direction of the

castle.

The structure was intricate, and of immense size, and a deadly fear seized the lone girl, as she threaded the dark passages at such an hour. Occasionally too, as she approached the outer walls, nocturnal birds, disturbed in their retreats, spread their broad heavy wings and sailed forth with loud screams into the open air. At length she reached the base of the tower, and began to ascend. Laying her hand upon the darop walls she groped up the narrow winding steps. She felt something glide from beneath her touch; but whether snake or lizard she knew not, for a cold shivering passed all over her, and she scarcely suppressed a scream of horror. Then the wild super

stitions of the age came upon her with a deadly power, and to her excited fancy the dark passage seemed full of unearthly sounds; horrid eyes glared upon her from every side, and her flesh crept beneath the touch of hideous and malignant demons. She pressed the crucifix close to her bosom, closed her eyes to all about her, and breathing inarticulate prayers to the Holy Virgin, reached the landing, where the light streamed from the retreat of the Knight.

Here, while pausing for breath, her ear was arrested by the soft notes of a lute, accompanied by the low, exquisite tones of a female voice. In the astonishment of the moment she listened to the following words, sang with great sweetness and effect.

SONG.

'Mid scorching sands the desert bulb
Lies hid beneath the plain,*
With all its beauty folded up,
To wait the coming rain.

It comes-the welcome rain-drops come,
And, like a magic life,

The joyous flow'ret upward springs,
With every beauty rife.

Awhile it blossoms in the sun,

A creature of delight;

Till fed no more with genial dews
It withers in the light.

And thus the heart, when waked by love,
A thousand joys may know,

But coldness, like the desert air,

Shall wither all its glow.

A noise from below started her from her attitude, and she rushed to the portal, exclaiming in hurried

accents:

"Fly, Sir Knight, it is for your life."

Oswald rose fiercely to repel the intruder; but not till Agatha had beheld a female of singular beauty reclined upon a low ottoman at his feet. She was arrayed in the most sumptuous mode of oriental magnificence: a turban of golden tissue was wreathed about her redundant hair, in which glittered the costliest gems; and an opal, of large size, reflecting a brow. Her round rich lips were slightly parted, thousand prismatic hues, shone upon her clear dark revealing teeth of resplendent whiteness; and her full sea of tenderness, shaded, as they were, by long curved lashes, were liquid eyes, that looked like a raised to the face of the Knight, who gazed into their passionate depths with intense devotion. Her robe was open from the throat nearly to the girdle, revealing a swan-like neck, that swelled from the graceful chest like polished ivory. Her arms were encircled by bracelets of pearl, which gave a startling brilliancy

to their rich colour and elegant contour.

Agatha obtained but a momentary view of this

* Travellers tell of immense plains in certain parts of Africa, where, during the hot months not a spear of vegetation appears; the earth is dry and hard, and seamed with cracks to a great depth, by the action of the sun's rays upon the barren surface. But no sooner does the rainy season commence, than their whole appearance is changed. Innumerable bulbous plants, whose roots were hid beneath the surface, spring from the earth, and in a few weeks the plain, so lately a barren desert, assumes the appearance of an immense flower garden, with blossoms of the rarest and most beautiful description.

These continue till the setting in of the dry season, when they rapidly disappear.

radiant creature; and she stood alone with the mysterious dweller of the tower. His face darkened with suppressed passion, and he fixed his fierce eye sternly upon the maiden. But her pale, child-like face, and timid air, restored all the chivalry of his profession. He led her to the ottoman the mysterious lady had but lately occupied, and heard her recital with compressed lips. The sounds approached nearer. Aga. tha sprang to her feet, wild with terror as the thought of detection in such a place, and at such an hour, flashed upon her mind.

"Thou hast done me kindly service, Agatha, and I would not that suspicion should fall upon thy maiden fame as thy guerdon. Wilt thou not rest concealed beneath the battlements, till these intruders have retired?"

Agatha took the proffered arm, and he led her out where the walls overlooked the mass of waters, that swept the very base of the tower.

He had scarcely seated himself at the rude table, with a manuscript spread before him, when the inquisitors entered the room.

They glanced at each other, astonished at the simple employment of the student, and the naked poverty of the apartment. The Knight slowly rose to receive them, and demanded, with a placid brow, to what he owed the privilege of a visit at such an hour.

"In sooth, fair sir," said the principal, "we owe

thee an apology for this intrusion. Knowing the power and arts of the spirit of darkness, how he goeth about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour, the church, ever mindful of the welfare of the faithful, and desirous, if but a lamb should go astray, to win it back to the fold, hath sought thee in all love and faithfulness, lest thou shouldst have been deluded by the wicked devices of the arch adversary of souls."

"I owe thee many thanks, good father;" said the Knight, a slight sneer betrayed upon his noble features, "were I so unfortunate as to prove recreant to the faith of a true Knight and a Christian, I doubt not the holy brethren of St. Gothard would use all ghostly admonition to restore me within the pale of the church. In the meanwhile I will see to it, that suitable provision be made to ensure the pious exertions, and prayers of the brethren, lest peradventure I might swerve from the faith.”

This was uttered half in reverence and half in mockery, but the promise involved in the concluding clause, was enough to blind all eyes to aught inconsistent with the manners of a faithful son of the church; and though the principal still eyed him with a lingering look of suspicion, he raised his thin, pale hands, and pronouncing a benedicite, slowly retired. [To be concluded.]

THERE is a spot that is wondrous fair,
Where the zephyr on sighing wings doth bear
The perfumed kiss of his loved wild flower,
Through nodding tree top, and leafy bower;
Where the brook bounds on like a joyous child,
And the fawn roams free through its native wild-
Where the grateful birds through the wildwood lurk,
Singing praise to the Lord for his handiwork--
Where laughing vines with their tendrils grasp
The tree as it bends to the loving clasp-
Where blushing roses their leaves unfold,
As the nightingale's tender tale is told--

Where the giant oak waves its boughs in pride,
Beckoning the sunbeams to fly to its side--
Where the leaves of the aspen are dancing in glee,
And the mosses are pendant from branchlet and tree-
Where the violet dwells unsought and unseen,

In its humble home so leafy and green,
With nothing to tell of its lonely bloom,
Save its clustering leaves and its wild perfume.
And would ye know why the scene is fair?
Why beauty is stamp'd upon all that is there?
"Tis the work of God! that heavenly spot,
And the hand of man hath defaced it not.

EARTH drinks the cheering rain,

And blushing, turns to meet the sun's embrace;
While Summer flings o'er every hill and plain,

Her ample robe of grace.

The golden harvest waves,

As if to woo the joyous reaper-band;

While meadows broad, which yonder streamlet laves, Await the mower's hand.

Peace rests within the vale,

And Plenty's voice re-echoes far and wide; While songs of joy ascend from ev'ry dale, And from the green hill side.

And like those genial showers, Sweet words of love distill'd upon this heart, And glances bright as sunlight to the flowers, Caused plants of hope to start.

There, Love, that flower divine, That harvest of the heart, springs fresh and fair; Its fragrance floats, belov'd ones, to your shrine, O make it still your care!

Gleaners, in life's broad field!

May joy's rich fruits around you ever fall,
And earth for you her richest treasures yield!
God bless you, dear ones, all!

THE literature of Italy, though abounding in works of fancy, has, till within the last few years, been strangely deficient in that branch of fiction denominated the Novel, as we understand the term. The word, it is true, is of Italian origin; but used in that language to designate merely a short tale or anecdote in prose or verse, which never aspired to the conception, the complication of incident, or delineations of manners that mark the modern romance. Such were the Novelle or Tales of the Boccaccio School. The "Letters of Ortis," by Foscolo, in imitation of German Werter, one of the first attempts at innovation, and possessing merits new to the Italian reader, of course proved singularly attractive after the writings of such authors as Chiara, Piazza, &c. But it was only after the splendid romances of Scott had been translated, and were known on the continent, that a new impulse was given to the writers of popular fiction. The rich field of incident and materials for the portraiture of character contained in Italian history, was then opened to their view; and the efforts of Manzoni, the first to tread in the steps of "The Ariosto of the North," naturalized the HISTORICAL ROMANCE in his native country. A host of names, kindred geniuses, emulous of his fame, and eager to explore the hidden treasures to which he had first penetrated, soon "fluttered in the mouths of men;" and in the space of a few years, numerous champions crowded the brilliant arena, to strive for the prize of literary distinc

tion.

The passion for depicting the spirit and manners of the middle ages, became prevalent. The quaint costume and picturesque incidents of those antiquated days, had a charm for the fancy above the delineations of living manners. The choice of rich subjects, too, was sanctioned by the great example of the Author of Waverley, whom all desired to imitate. They caught the chivalrous and romantic tinge that distinguished his productions; and aimed at the same high wrought description, the same blending of the humorous with the pathetic, of the details of ordinary life with historical incidents. That they have fallen far behind the perfection of their model is scarce surprising, when we consider their want of practice in this species of fiction. They have preserved the external colouring, but lack skill in drawing and grouping; and above all, in the art of interweaving a domestic story with actual history. Yet the historical novels of Italy richly deserve notice for the sake of their merits, as well as because they show the direction of the popular taste. A brief examination of the most prominent works of this class may prove interesting to the readers of the Lady's Book.

Foremost in rank we place MANZONI. Renowned as a lyric poet, a tragedian and a novelist, he has obtained, if not an equal, a high degree of fame in each capacity. The same powers to which his dramas owe their excellence, are displayed in his novels; the same fault, too, is observable, namely,

apparent inability to construct an interesting and ingenious tissue of incidents. In "Adelchi," and the "Count of Carmagnuola," the eloquence of the author, and the lyric beauty of his style, are insufficient to redeem a want of interest in the dry and meagre plot; and a similar defect interferes with the reader's pleasure in his romance, I Promessi Sposi, or The Betrothed.

In his pictures of the Italian peasantry, and of the feudal chieftains of those times, Manzoni has preserved a nationality of character in which he is only surpassed by Scott. Nor is he less successful in individual portraiture. The pious Cardinal Borromeo is a masterpiece; and the lovely and winning colours in which, through him, the mild spirit of religion is represented, embody a beautiful and pervading moral.

Father Christofaro is too close a copy, in many points, of Borromeo; the shining light of the prelate's piety overpowers his, though he would have been excellent by himself. Manzoni does not seem in his other characters, to have neglected the principle of contrast. The Unknown and Don Rodrigo, though both villains of the deepest dye, have characteristic differences. Don Abbondio, the curate, is admirable in his way. His truckling cowardice is more the effect of constitutional timidity than of an evil nature; and his selfish disregard of his duties is in the end sufficiently punished by the stern rebuke of his superior.

The meagreness of the inartificial plot, not improved by the tedious minuteness of the historical notices, does not afford a frame rich enough for these pictures of character. The story is simple:-Don Abbondio, the curate of one of the villages near the Lake of Como, is proceeding homeward one evening in November, 1828, when he is stopped by two bravi, who forbid him, in the name of their master, Don Rodrigo, under the penalty of death, to perform the marriage ceremony between two peasants of his parish, whose nuptials were to take place on the morrow. The priest, in mortal fear, promises obedience to the illegal mandate, and also engages never to divulge the cause of his refusal. Renzo and Lucia, the youthful lovers, vainly attempt to force the curate into the performance of his duty, by an acknowledgment of marriage in his presence; the coward escapes them; and they are compelled from fear of the robberchief, who had given the command, and who entertained a degrading passion for Lucia, to forsake their country. The maiden, by the advice of Father Christofaro, seeks a refuge in the neighbouring convent of Monza; Renzo enters Milan in the height of a popular insurrection; and excited by the want of bread, and mingling incautiously among the rioters, is arrested as one of the ringleaders: effecting his escape with difficulty from the police, he is obliged to fly into the territory of Bergamo. Here he finds shelter at the house of a relative; while Lucia, more unfortunate, is betrayed by the Signora Gertrude, a guilty nun of the