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A few moments only did Victoria remain in her attitude of deep despondency. Lifting up her head, she drew her husband's letter toward her, and read it through once more. Then taking the pen, she wrote her reply with steady hand, though the tears fell fast from her eyes; "Can the promises of courtiers and princes beguile Pescara to treachery? Victoria dreamed not of this; not when she rejoiced over your fortune in arms-not when she wept over the wounds you had received. But the deed is not yet done; my Francesco is not yet a traitor in the eyes of the world. By the ties that bind us-by the love that cherishes your fame-by your unstained honour your noblest wealth and mine-I beseech you remain faithful to the Emperor who has trusted you! Scorn their dazzling bribes, and the sophistry by which they would tempt you from your duty. Remember your virtue, which raises you above the fortune and the glory of kings. It is not by grandeur of state and title, but by virtue alone, that the Fame is acquired, which it is glorious to leave to one's descendants. For me, I desire not to be consort of a king, but of the Great Captain who could vanquish, not only by his valour during war, but in peace by his magnanimity, the greatest kings."*

She folded and scaled her letter, and strong in virtuous resolution, calmed down her emotions; so that, with a brow smooth and beautiful in feminine majesty as ever, she rose to meet her young friend, Claudia, who entered with a face beaming hope, yet full of mystery. "I have found a way to vindicate his innocence!" cried she.

"I rejoice for your sake!" said Victoria, sighing, however, involuntarily. "The death of one beloved is better than his dishonour. But what are your means?"

"He lies in a dungeon," said Claudia, weeping again," and his judges are too bitter to be just. But"-and she whispered in her friend's ear," there is one now in this city whose knowledge is beyond that of men. Let us go and consult Cornclius Agrippa!"

Victoria felt her heart beat at that name, never pronounced in those days without a shudder of reverential awe. The trusted friend of Pescara! his intervention might save her husband; his judgment might point out the surest way to influence him. She smiled, and there was a strange, sweet expression in her smile. Claudia clung to her like a child, earnestly imploring her assistauce; and after a few moments' reflection, she consented to accompany her to the temporary dwelling of the astrologer.

Accompanied by a single domestic, the two high-born dames, closely veiled, entered, at the still hour of the siesta, the house of the seer. In the outer apartment sat a low

* Historical.

old man, with dark and forbidding countenance, who answered their inquiries by rising and beckoning them to follow him. He ushered them, without announcement, into the magician's presence. Cornelius Agrippa was seated in his cabinet; a few volumes in folio, a small steel box containing medicines, and some astronomical instruments, lying in confusion on the ground, composed its fur. niture. There was something of austere pride in the magician's aspect; his figure was tall and stately; a purple mantle, from which he derived the title of Mago rosso, hung on the back of his chair; he was writing by the light of a torch, for the gloom of the apartment was not enlivened by a beam of daylight. He rose somewhat haughtily, but his tone softened into courteous respect as he addressed his visitors, and inquired their command. For a space, even Victoria could not speak.

"Trouble not yourselves, fair dames," said Cornelius, mildly, as he perceived their embarrassment; "I know what has procured me the honour of your visit."

Both looked suprised; but the Marchesa soon recollected herself. "We are known

to you!" said she. "The young Cordona likewise?"

"I know him well. He is innocent of the assassination of Giovanni d' Orsini.”

Claudia half uttered a cry of joy, but suppressed it, and her friend asked, "How, then, can we save the innocent from the doom of the guilty?"

"It is for this," said Agrippa with an air of mystery, "that we send our glances into the heavens, and trace the path of the stars, and rend the veil of nature's mysteries! Go forth in peace, fair trembler," addressing Claudia, who clung to her friend's arm; "all in your destiny is bright as these ruby drops," and he poured into a crucible some drops of a slimy liquid. "Here is a packet from Castel San Donato; its contents will vindicate Cordona. D'Orsini died a merited death; but his murderers are traitors as well as he. For you, lady," turning to the Colonna, “I have sterner tidings."

"I know them already, if they concern my consort," replied she.

"He is at Milan," said Agrippa. "I depart thither to-night, to warn him against the step he contemplates."

"Take to him this packet," said Victoria, much agitated, and drawing the letter from her bosom. "I will set forth to join him as quickly as I hear from him again."

"You bid him remain loyal—”

Victoria interrupted the seer with a hasty gesture, for she would not that her friend should know the purport of their words. There was no need of the caution; Claudia's glowing cheek and heaving bosom told that her impatient spirit was busy with other thoughts,

"Noble woman!" cried Cornelius Agrippa, σε your husband shall bless you, when his better genius is ascendant. For the coward pontiff, and this proud city, the day of calamity draws near! Never did Rome-not even when, prostrate before the barbarians of the north, she drained the cup of retribution for her ancient tyranny-endure such woe, such hopeless, irremediable woe, as shall soon rack her to the heart, and stretch her a bleeding victim at the feet of her enemy!" And, laughing wildly, the magician extended his arm and moved it slowly round, as if mark ing out the devoted city on which he invoked ruin.

Without trusting herself with another word, Victoria drew her friend's arm within her own, and retired. They returned home; all that had passed was revealed to Barberini, who, anxious to repair his error, took instant measures to investigate the truth.

The setting sun poured his rays through a window in the studio of Buonarotti, where he was wont to occupy himself with the chisel. A statue by his hand, nearly finished, touched by the warm crimson light, absolutely startled the eye with its resemblance to life. The bold and energetic genius of the master had here embodied its conceptions. The brawny strength of the limbs, the force and tension of the muscles, the terrific frown on its brow, were sufficient to mark it, (even unfinished, as the production of Michael Angelo. There was but one occupant of this sanctuary of genius, Michael Angelo's young disciple, Paolo: he was at work at a piece of marble. After a few moments, he ceased his labour, and drawing a deep breath, stood contemplating the work of his great master.

Can I ever equal that?" said he, half aloud. "No-alas! no! but even I may yet win praise and fame; for I am young. Michael Angelo must pass from earth in his turn, and none other can arise like him. Do I wish him dead? Ungrateful, envious Paolo! he is far above thee as the sun above the east! Had he been less perfect, I could have loved him!"

Here the door opened, and the master entered. Paolo resumed his work; and apparently intently occupied, did not look up. Not till his name was uttered in a grave tone by Michael Angelo, did he lift his eyes from the marble, and then, startled and abashed, he stood in silence.

"Paolo," said Buonarotti," you have been a year my disciple. From your zeal in art, I have conceived great things for you."

The boy dropped his eyes on the ground; for his heart told him his master did not mean to praise him.

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Have you not laboured too assiduously for some time past? I have marked your altered looks; your haggard cheek, your wild

eyes, your faltering speech, your anxiety to avoid even my observation."

Still the boy did not answer, but his agitation was evident, for he trembled violently. "You have meddled with things too high for you!" said the artist in a terrible voice. "What had you to do with the conspiracies of wretched malcontents? Tremble, you may well tremble! Officers are at the door to arrest you as one of the murderers of the Count d' Orsini."

In a wild agony of fear, shame, and remorse, Paolo threw himself at his master's feet.

"All is discovered," said Buonarotti. "Justice is already on the search for your principals in the deed. Reveal all you know; confession alone can mitigate your punishment."

"Save me!" faltered the consciencestricken boy; I was poor; they offered me riches; riches to purchase the means of art; I dreamed that with gold I might buy fame; not such as yours-but fame for a poor youth like me!"

"Fell D'Orsini by your hand?" asked Michael Angelo, sternly.

"Heaven keep me from such a crime!" cried Paolo, clasping his hands. "I am guilty, but not of bloodshed!"

The official examination of the miserable Paolo brought to light the particulars of a conspiracy on the part of a few unprincipled men, adherents to the Spanish interest. Our story does not require the record of these particulars. D'Orsini had been engaged in the conspiracy; he fell a victim to the distrust of his accomplices.

While the misguided boy who had yielded himself an instrument of crime, though pardoned on account of his confession, was dying, broken-hearted, beneath his weight of remorse and disgrace, preparations were proceeding for the nuptials of Cordona and Claudia de Barberini. It was in the midst of the festivities of their bridal, that Victoria Colonna, who was to set out the next day for Milan, received the intelligence of her hus band's death. The news was accompanied by tidings that brought a cloud to the brow of many a statesman;-Pescara's betrayal of the designs of the confederates to Charles V.; his arrest of Morone, and his seizure of Milan.

Claudia put her arms affectionately round her friend. "You will stay with us?" she murmured.

"No!" replied Victoria: and while she spoke, though her cheek was blanched, her eyes flashed, and her form dilated with even more than its wonted majesty: "but, Our Lady be praised, I have one consolation! I may bear my husband's memory with me into the convent where my days shall end!"

THE SAILOR.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Ho! dwellers on the stable land,

Of danger what know ye,

Like us who boldly brave the surge,

Or trust the treacherous sea?
The fair trees shade you from the sun-
You see the harvests grow,

And catch the fragrance of the breeze
When the first roses blow.

While high amid the slippery shroud,
We make our midnight path,
And e'en the strongest mast is bowed
'Neath the wild tempest's wrath,
You slumber on your couch of down,
In chambers safe and warm-
Lulled only to a deeper dream

By the descending storm.
But yet what know ye of the joy

That lights our ocean-strife,
When on its way our gallant bark
Rides like a thing of life-
When gaily toward the wished-for-port
With favouring gale we stand-
Or first your misty line descry-
Hills of our native land!
But yet there's peril in our path,
Beyond the wrecking blast,
A peril that may whelm the soul
When life's short voyage is past ;-
Send us your Bibles when we go

To dare the threatening wave,
Your men of prayer-to teach us how
To meet a watery grave.
And Saviour-thou, whose foot sublime
The foaming surge did tread,
Whose hand the rash disciple drew
From darkness and the dead.
Oh, be our ark, when floods descend,
When thunders shake the spheres-
Our Ararat, when tempests end

And the green earth appears.

TO A BRIDE.-BY MRS. E. D. HARRINGTON.
Ay, wreathe the rose, the pale, pure rose,
Above her maiden brow;
Fit emblem of the virgin Love,

That warms her bosom now;

And thus, as bright amid the shade
Of the rich tresses' raven braid,
Those spotless petals rise,-

In lovely contrast with the light

Of her dark, lustrous eyes

So bright, dear girl, should Sorrow shed
Shadows along thy path,

And dim awhile the cloudless dream,
Thy youthful spirit hath-

May Love, like that fair, stainless flower,
Unsullied in the darkening hour,
Still shine with its celestial ray,
A beacon-light above thy way.

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are almost as closely connected with it, as the tortoise with his shell; they die, if you tear them out of it; old folks and old trees, if you remove them, 'tis ten to one that you kill them; so let our good old sister be no more importuned on that head. We are growing old fast ourselves, and shall expect the same kind of indulgences; if we give them, we shall have a right to receive them in our turn.

"And as to her few fine things, I think she is in the right not to sell them, and for the reason she gives, that they will fetch but little; but perhaps the expectation of possessing them at her death may make that person tender and careful of her, and helpful to her to the amount of ten times their value. If so, they are put to the best use they possibly can be.

"I hope you visit sister as often as affairs will permit, and afford her what assistance and comfort you can in her present situation. Old age, infirmities, and poverty, joined, are afflictions enough. The neglect and slights of friends and near relations should never be added. People in her circumstances are apt tó suspect this sometimes without a cause; appearances should therefore be attended to in our conduct towards them, as well as realities. I write by this post to cousin Williams, to continue his care, which I doubt not he will do."

NORTHINGTON.

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. MORE than fifty years after the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, James Northington and his family, consisting of a wife and two children, in company with several other families, commenced the settlement of an inland town, to which we shall give the appellation of Woodville, and which was situated about forty or fifty miles from their former abode.

Having, in common with the other Puritans, to use their own graphic language, "conflicted with many grievous difficulties and sufferings in the vast howling wilderness among wild men and wild beasts," and having witnessed the jealousy and tyranny of the mother country, Mr. Northington had learned to gird his heart with the same lofty and enduring resolution, which had sustained the hearts of the Pilgrims, when they launched their barque upon the pathless ocean, to seek as exiles these distant and lonely shores. True in all respects to the models by which it was formed, his character was stern and unyielding, his domestic habits exact and rigid, his love of liberty active and glowing, and his religious feelings fervent, exalted, and solemn. Yet he and his companions, when they removed from the Old Colony, did not escape the reproach of possessing an inordinate zeal for the world, in leaving their home and church for farms more valuable; and they were reminded by those whom they left behind, that when Lot left Canaan and

the church for better accommodations in Sodom, "God fired him out of all."

The character of Mrs. Northington had, in part, taken its tone from the example and teachings of a gentler spirit. Her mother, a native of England, who did not until several years after her marriage, accompany her husband to America, often adverted with fond regret to her natal isle. The daughter loved, when a child, to sit at her mother's feet, and as the adjacent forest began to cast its dark and deep shadows over their lovely dwelling, to hear her tell of her forsaken English home, its refined pleasures, its fireside comforts, and of the surrounding scenes, which smiled beneath the hand of cultivation; or of the sheltering wood, where she feared not when she wandered forth at eve, to encounter the gleam of a savage eye, or to hear the whirring of the arrow, which might prove the messenger of death. Yet, above all, though she wept as she listened, she loved to hear her speak of the grave, where she left her first-born sleeping,-of the white rose-bush, rich in blossoms, which she planted by the grave-stone, at its head, and of the sweet violets that sprung up spontaneously to dress the sods which covered it.

Though many were the hardships and difficulties which Mr. Northington and his wife encountered in their new home, by their energy and perseverance, and the fond hope of rendering the situation of their son and daughter more promising than it could have been, had they remained in the Old Colony, they were enabled to overcome them all, and in the course of a few years they were in possession of a well-cultivated farm, and a comfortable and commodious dwelling. The hand of taste, too, was every where visible. Flowers embellished the adjacent grounds, grown from seeds, which Mrs. Northington's mother brought from her native isle, and which, she used to say, breathed of the home of her childhood. But among the plants and shrubs, that which, above all others, Mrs Northington regarded as sacred, was a white rose-bush, which flourished in luxuriant beauty, beneath one of the parlour-windows, reared from a slip procured from the one which adorned the distant grave of her infant brother; and often, when the breeze of eventide wandered among its leaves and flowers, she loved to let the fancy steal over her, that its voice was the whisperings of his unseen spirit. Besides those flowers planted round the doors and windows, and which bordered the gardenpaths, Lucy Northington delighted to cultivate "the knot," where she had assembled every species she could procure, from the splendid peony and gaudy tulip, down to the lady's-delight and the lily-of-the-valley. Nor was the modest sleepy-noon excluded, with its small, delicate blossoms here and

there peering forth, ever closing beneath the mid-day beam, and almost shrouding themselves from view among the slender leaves of glossy green.

Nothing transpired to disturb the tranquillity of the Northington family, till Edward, now eighteen, having finished his preparatory studies under the instruction of the Rev. Mr. Loveland, their pastor, was about to leave Woodville to become a student at Harvard College. Though Woodville was situated so near Cambridge, that the journey, rough as the roads were at that period, could be performed in a day, Mrs. Northington deeply felt the pain of having the familycircle thus broken. Even Mr. Northington, though firm of heart, and austere in manners, when on the evening before his son's departure, he knelt with his household at the family altar, spake in faltering accents, when he adverted to the approaching separation; but his voice assumed the cheerful tones of hope, and of firm, unshaken confidence, when, in recommending him to the protec tion of the Most High, he recalled to mind. those seasons, when He had been to them in the wilderness "as a strong tower from the enemy," and had said, "thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day."

Yet, after all, perhaps Lucy was the one who thought of Edward's contemplated departure, with a grief the most lively. All their accustomed haunts became sacred to her, and already, as she lingered under the shade of the old oak, or that of the overhanging rock, where they had chatted, read, or sung together, they seemed to be pervaded by a spirit of loneliness and melancholy, kindred to that which is imparted by the memory of the dead.

Both the mother and sister had derived a species of consolation in preparing every thing necesaary to render his college life comfortable, with a neatness and precision, which enabled them to linger over their labour of love. A liberal supply of blankets was selected from the ample household store, as well as of linen-sheets and pillow-cases, that had been spun and woven by Mrs. Northing and Lucy's own hands, and bleached by the fragrant dews and warm sunshine of May, till they were of as pure a white as the snowwreath, which in winter beautified many an otherwise unsightly, half-burnt stump that rose in sight of their dwelling.

The day before that appointed for Edward's departure, Hannah Farley was seen walking up the green lane, which led to the house. Mrs. Northington saw with pain the deep flush that passed over her son's countenance, when Lucy announced her approach. had long suspected, and her suspicions were now confirmed, that he regarded her with

She

sentiments which, ultimately, might prove dangerous to his peace; for by that secret gift by which one woman is enabled in such matters to read the heart of another, she well knew that there was no hope for him. Her maternal solicitude overcame her delicacy, and motioning Edward to follow her, she entered a back apartment. Having shut the door, without giving herself time to become embarrassed, she entered at once upon her subject. "Hannah is a very pretty girl," said she, "don't you think so?"

"I think her a very beautiful girl," he replied.

'But," resumed his mother, "I fear that you are not aware of one thing, which, as respects yourself, may be of deep importance." "What is that?" he inquired, although the misgivings, which had at times visited his heart, and which his mother's remark revived, made the question scarcely necessary.

"There is no young man, my son, whom Hannah Farley has yet seen who has been able to touch her heart. She looks upon all, who are worthy her regard, very much as I or any other sober matron is in duty bound, and you, Edward, I believe she likes almost as well as her own brother. But," continued she, seeing a gleam of pleasure light up his countenance," do you not know that, for that very reason, your case is hopeless? This kind of sisterly regard is seldom exchanged for sentiments deeper and more ardent. I am aware that I have entered upon delicate ground, where you may possibly think I have no right."

"Oh, no! can I wish to conceal any thing from you? Could I have conquered the reluctance, which I suppose most persons feel, to speak on such subjects, when personally concerned, I should have mentioned it my self; and, indeed, I intended to do so at all events, before I left home. Is the reason which you have given, the only one that causes you to consider my case so very hopeless?"

"I coujd give other reasons," she replied, "although the one I have mentioned, is to my mind so good a one as to make it unnecessary. If you would have another, how ever, would say that I think that Hannah can never love a person, whose tastes are so little congenial with her own as are yours. I see that my words afflict you, yet I trust that they will prove for your good hereafter. Affections, when just sprung up, do not lacerate the heart to pluck them thence, as they would, if allowed to become firmly rooted. You are about to enter on new scenes, which will, I doubt not, exert over you a salutary influence; for it is upon minds unemployed, that the passions ever make the most fearful inroads. Trust me-after a few months' absence, the thought that Hannah can never be yours-even more, that she may be another's, will cease to be painful,”

No, mother, you deceive yourself-the world holds but one Hannah Farley."

"True, but it holds those who are her equals. Even our own Lucy, by any person but a lover, would be considered more than her peer in every attraction, whether of mind or person. Hannah, though I admit her to be a very pretty girl, is not the person you would choose, were not your judgment enthralled by your fancy. Do not think, however, that I even hope for you to obtain the mastery over the most insidious of all passions, without a severe struggle; yet I think that I have formed a right estimate of your character when I say that I think you fully equal to the task. Do not disappoint me."

A sentiment allied to the heroic, pervaded Edward's breast, as he promised to use his best efforts to meet her expectations. But all his enthusiasm and good resolutions vanished at the sight of Hannah, who was already assiduously assisting Lucy to mark some handkerchiefs and cravats with the initials of his name, which was all that remained to be done, to make his wardrobe ready for packing.

Hannah never appeared to better advantage, than when plying the needle. She had a remarkably pretty hand, and when her eyes were veiled by their lids, there was a Madonna-like cast to her countenance which was lost at other times, the absence of which was not atoned for by any of that serene thoughtfulness, which intellect as well as devotion may spread over the features, or by those changeful hues caught from enthusiasm and deep feeling. The loveliest and most truly fascinating expression of her very handsome features, was that of her child-like innocence. Edward had not yet had opportunity, if we except his sister, to compare such beauty as hers, with that illumined by the day-beams of intellect and genius. She was a good lis tener, and when he appealed to her for an opinion relative to any natural or moral beauty of which he had been speaking, the acquiescent answers which he uniformly received, were to him indubitable proof that her taste, though his mother had professed herself to be of a different opinion, was in consonance with his own. Fate had thus far been unpropitious to him, in never having betrayed in his presence her dull perception of whatever was beautiful, and that taste was a faculty which she had neither had opportunity nor inclination to cultivate. She would with as little remorse press with her pretty foot the sod gemmed with the loveliest violets, as the beaten path, and the rich carol of the birds at early morn, as their brilliant plumage glittered among the dewy leaves of the forest-boughs, commanded no more admiration from her, than the clamorous notes of the domestic fowls that hovered round her father's door. Of this both Mrs. Northing

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