After the belles had curtsied out the beaux, and retired to the cloak-room to equip themselves for their departure, they found the gentlemen all waiting to see them to their carriages and assist in escorting them home: declaring that, as the play was over, and the curtain dropped, they must be allowed to resume their real characters.

When Lucinda Mandeville arrived at her own house, and found herself alone in her dressing-room, all the smothered emotions of the evening burst forth without restraint, and leaning her head on the arm of the sofa, she indulged in a long fit of tears before she proceeded to take off her ornaments. But when she went to her psyche for that purpose, she could not help feeling that hers was not a face and figure to be seen with indifference, and that in all probability the unguarded warmth with which Fitzsimmons had replied to her mock courtship, was only the genuine ebullition of a sincere and ardent passion.

It was long before she could compose herself to sleep, and her dreams were entirely of the ball and of Fitzsimmons. When she arose next morning, she determined to remain all day up stairs, and to see no visitors; rejoicing that the fatigue of the preceding evening would probably keep most of her friends

at home.

About noon Gordon Fitzsimmons, who had counted the moments till then, sent up his card with a penciled request to see Miss Mandeville. Terrified, agitated, and feeling as if she never again could raise her eyes to his face or open her lips in his presence, Lucinda's first thought was to reply that she was indisposed, but she checked herself from sending him such a message, first, because it was not exactly the truth, and secondly, lest he should suppose that the cause of her illness might have some reference to himself. She therefore desired the servant simply to tell Mr. Fitzsimmons that Miss Mandeville could receive no visitors that day.

But Fitzsimmons was not now to be put off. He had been shown into one of the parlours, and going to the writing-case on the centre table, he took a sheet of paper, and addressed to her an epistle expressing in the most ardent terms his admiration and his love, and concluding with the hope that she would grant him an interview. There was not, of course, the slightest allusion to the events of the preceding evening. The letter was conceived with as much delicacy as warmth, and highly elevated the writer in the opinion of the reader. Still, she hesitated whether to see him or not. Her heart said yes--but her pride said no. And at length she most heroically determined to send him a written refusal, not only of the interview but of himself, that in case he should have dared to presume that the unfortunate scene at the

ball could possibly have meant any thing more than a jest, so preposterous an idea might be banished from his mind for ever.

In this spirit she commenced several replies to his letter, but found it impossible to indite them in such terms as to satisfy herself; and, after wasting half a dozen sheets of paper with unsuccessful beginnings, she committed them all to the fire. Finally, she concluded that she could explain herself more effectually in a personal interview, whatever embarrassment the sight of him might occasion her. But not being able at this time to summon courage to meet him face to face, she sent down a note of three lines, informing Mr. Fitzsimmons that she would see him in the evening at seven o'clock.

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Several of Lucinda's friends called to talk about the ball, but she excused herself from seeing them, and passed the remainder of the day up stairs, in one long thought of Fitzsimmons, and in dwelling on the painful idea that the avowal of his sentiments had, in all probability, been elicited by her indiscretion of the preceding evening. But," said she to herself, "I will steadily persist in declining his addresses; I will positively refuse him, for unless I do so I never can recover my own self-respect. I will make this sacrifice to delicacy, and even then I shall never cease to regret my folly in having allowed myself to be carried so far in the thoughtless levity of the moment."

Being thus firmly resolved on dismissing her admirer, it is not to be supposed that Lucinda could attach the smallest consequence to looking well that evening, during what she considered their final interview. Therefore, we must, of course, attribute to accident the length of time she spent in considering which she shou'd wear of two new silk dresses; one being of the co'our denominated ashes of roses the other of the tint designated as monkey's sighs. Though ashes of roses seemed emblematic of an extinguished flame, yet monkey's sighs bore more direct reference to a rejected lover, which, perhaps, was the reason that she finally decided on it. There was likewise a considerable demur about a canezou and a pelerine, but eventually the latter carried the day. And it was long, also, before she cou'd determine on the most becoming style of arranging her hair, wavering between plats and bows. At last the bows had it.

Mr. Fitzsimmons was announced a quarter before seven, his watch being undoubtedly too fast. Lucinda came down in ill-concealed perturbation, repeating to herself, as she descended the stairs, "Yes-my rejection of him shall be positive—and my adherence to it firm and inexorable."

Whether it was so we will not presume to say, but this much is certain that in a month from that time, the de inquent gentle

men made the amende honorab'e, by giving the ladies a most splendid bal', at which the ci devant Miss Mandevi le and Mr. Gordon Fitzsimmons made their first appearance in public as bride and bridegroom, to the great delight of Colonel Kingswood.

ADRIAN IV.

The sun had just dropped behind the hills of Hertfordshire. His gorgeous cloud couch of crimson violet, fringed and spotted with gold, streamed in full blaze upon the Gothic windows of the ancient monastery of St. Albans. In the small window of a room, or rather closet, adjoining the refectory of the convent, sat a youth of sixteen years, mayhap, bending over the pages of a large illuminated volume, from either dilapidated cover of which hung clasps of gold, wrought with many a rich and antique device, that sparkled in the flood of light that poured upon the sacred page, and bathed in splendour every object in the room. The beauty of the youth ful sage was of that rare and spiritual character that fixes itself imperishably in the memory of the beholder. His brow was nobly cast, but though lower than is usually sought for in heads perfectly developed, possessed the excellence of extraordinary breadth. His eyes were large and intensely brilliant, wearing an unchanging expression of sadness. His nose was straight and delicate, and his mouth moulded in the severest outline of the Greek, indicative of a decision of purpose which was closely allied to his character. Long, dark hair fell in silken curls below his shoulders. His dress consisted of a coarse gown of grey cloth, secured round the waist by a knotted cord, from which was suspended a rosary. Long and absorbingly did he pour over the ancient book, till the glorious illumination of sunset faded into twilight, and twilight into dusk, too faint to permit him longer to trace the sacred page. As he was in the act of sealing the massy clasps, the silvery tinkle of a bell summoned him to the adjoining apartment.

"Where hast thou been passing thy long absence from the refectory, Gulielmo? haughtily asked an aged ecclesiastic who was hastily adjusting his cloak; bring my spurs instantly, for by the blessing of our Lady I must reach Langley before the moon rises." "Thou shalt be obliged, holy Father, but suffer me to ask if thou dost pass the old cross, where the three roads meet, in thy ride to-night?"

"And for what object dost thou presume to make the inquiry?" scornfully answered the priest;" begone, sluggard, and fetch my spurs-but stop, inquire of Father Paul if the leathern bottle of Mozat is yet exhausted. If so, find thy way to Sir Herbert's dwelling this night, and tell him the holy Father has

need of another bottle to refresh the lips of the sick and the dying."

Gulielmo paused for a moment longer"If, Father, thou wouldst permit me to beg one favour of thee. A weary time has passed since my hard services in the convent have permitted me the indulgence of seeing, or even hearing from the only friend I have on earth. I speak, thou knowest, of my mother. who resides but a stone's throw from the old cross. If thou wouldst condescend to stop at her casement for one moment, and say that I am well, the blessing of the Virgin would, I am sure, reward thee for thy kind

ness ?"

Rage flashed from the eyes of the indignant priest. "Sooner should I anticipate her blessing for failing to count my beads, than for aiding a communication betwixt thee and thy Southern-haired mother! thee, the scavenger of our board, the dependent offspring of him who is ashamed to own thee! Go to-remember, the Rhenish cups which I have just left in my cell, are unwashed-but forget, my spurs, Gulielmo."

to him in the convent.

The youth moved towards the door, but as he was about to disappear, he turned with a brow dark as midnight, and a glance of fierce defiance upon the proud old Father. That look of fire was not mistaken-neither did it fail in after years to rise upon his memory with a sting sharper than a serpent's tooth. The spurs were brought, and the youth on bended knee attached them to the well-lined buskins that protected the feet of the impatient priest. Another moment and Gulielmo was alone. He stood apparently hesitating betwixt two resolves, either for some purpose to follow the footsteps of the Father, or to go about the degrading services assigned He finally retired to his cell, where, bolting the door, he prostrated himself before a small image of the crucifixion in brass, that was suspended at the head of his low couch. His head drooped upon his bosom with excess of conflicting emotion, and tears fell in torrents upon his clasped hands. Who could have watched thy agony of spirit, beautiful image of ambitious virtue, and dreamed of thy proud destiny? Rising from his knees, he returned back to the room where we first found him, and took from the window his clasped treasure of wisdom, and then kissing it with holy fervour he carefully enclosed it in a leathern bag. Then wrapping himself in his cloak and hood,he stole silently from the monastery. Slowly he pursued his solitary path through the forest, and after an hour's walk reached a desolate dwelling near the town of St. Albans. A dim light streamed like a star from the low casement. Thank God, my blessed mother is at home!" Another instant and The superb he was clasped in her arms. beauty of that loving parent never glowed

with more lustre than in that natural and unexpected embrace. Again and again she pushed back his trailing curls, and kissed the broad brow of alabaster, that in the first moment of her joy she did not notice was clouded with unusual gloom.

"The saints be thanked, my heart's treasure, for this sudden happiness of folding you to my bosom. So long an absence as thy last! 1 feared thou wert ill, Gulielmo. But no, thy cheek would shame a Venetian bride's, and thine eye has lost none of its speaking beauty."

"Oh, do not talk thus, dear mother," he said, as he gently disengaged himself from her embrace; the chill of evening alone has caused the blood to rush tinglingly to my face-I am ill in spirit if not in body; and were it permitted by the dear volume thou hast given me, I would strike a dagger to my heart this instant!"

"What now!" tremblingly exclaimed the agitated mother-" what fresh indignity has been put upon thee, my noble-hearted child, to induce thee to utter a thought so blasphemous?"

"I will not pain thee with the recital of all I have endured. Suffice it, I have taken my last farewell of the detested walls of St. Albans. Insults have been heaped upon me till my pride mounts up beyond my control. I shall leave thee on the morrow, and seek for a happier abode, by the blessing of the Virgin, in the sunny bank of thy birth. Do not weep so bitterly, dear mother: thou shalt follow my fortunes. I will place thee in a convent near me, and thou shalt be next to the mother of our Heavenly Master, the shrine of my worship. We have lingered too long, as thou oft hast said, in the vain hope of obtaining succour and protection from one who is bound by every tie of nature and religion to shield us from the world's contumely.

On the succeeding day, Gulielmo left her lingering embrace, after receiving her warmly breathed blessing, and the solemn assurance of following him as soon as he should procure for her a suitable asylum. He proceeded to Paris, and from thence to Provence, where he entered a monastery. Here, his extreme beauty, shaded by the same unearthly tinge of sadness, added to his ardent piety, obtained him many friends. Distinguishing himself by the strictest observance of monastic discipline, he was in a short period made Superior of the Convent, A few years intervened, and a Cardinal's hat was looped above those silken curls. He was then sent legate to Denmark and Norway, where by his fervent zeal he "converted those barbarous nations to the Christian faith." Six years after, and he was clothed in pontifical robes, and seated in the chair of St. Peter's, the triple diadem of the Holy See sparkling with more than regal magnificence above that melancholy brow of Majestic beauty.

** "Methinks I hear a rustle at the door of my chamber, though who can desire an audience at this late hour,' exclaimed Adrian IV, as he raised his lustrous glance from an old volume with golden clasps, that rested upon s table of rarest Mosaics. A private door at that moment softly unclosed, and a venerable matron of noble air, clothed in a dressing-gown of purple velvet trimmed with ermine, entered the majestic chamber.

"I knew, dearest Gulielmo, thou wert still awake," she exclaimed, seating herself beside him upon a couch of golden tissue, "and wouldst forgive a mother's intrusion upon the private hour thou art enabled to steal from the weight of care that of late seems to oppress thy thoughts and render thee more gloomy than ever."

Catching her to his bosom, he bathed her face with his tears. "Mother, dearest mother, that I were your poor friendless child at St. Albans !-this dizzy elevation, which my noblest faculties have slaved to reach, is more unsatisfying to my spirit's sustenance than the crumbs from the table of Father Paul, to my weakened appetite. This golden tiara seems to have been clapped burning upon my brain. In the still night of eternity do I hope alone for rest and happiness, -through life ambition has been my consuming passion; disregarding every present blessing, I have striven to attain the highest point of earthly power, as sweeter to my soul than the peaceful seclusion afforded by monastic retirement, cheered by literary pursuits. But the curse of humanity has been mine-I have proved the insufficiency of earthly joys, and long for the rest of Heaven!"

In the short space of four years, during which his restless ambition was constantly urging him to new and successful enterprises, his career terminated in death. The magnificent mausoleum at St. Peter's is now almost the only record of his varied fortunes.

ANDREA DAL CASTAGNO.
An Historical Tale.

BY MISS EMMA C. EMBURY. "I WILL work no longer," exclaimed Andrea, throwing down his pencil: "I will not be compelled to see every fool pointing out the difference between your figures and mine; finish the picture yourself, Domenico, I will never touch it again!"

Nay, Andrea, this is injustice to yourself," said Domenico; "few but those who look with a painter's eye could see the difference which to you seems so evident."

"Look," replied the impetuous Andrea, and the livid hue of envy overspread his face as he spoke," look at that group-they are figures of wax compared with the almost living, breathing forms, which grow beneath your pencil." A benignant smile lit up the placid countenance of Domenico as he approached the side of the church where Andrea

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was employed, and with his own pencil gave a few light touches to the face and hands of one of the figures. "See!' cried Andrea, am I not right? here have I been labouring three days to give the colouring of life to that flesh, and you have done it in three minutes; I will not be so disgraced-never will I touch pencil again until you teach me the secret of your art!"

Nothing could be more smilingly contrasted than were the faces of the two painters, as they stood together, gazing at Andrea's picture. The mild and saint-like countenance of Domenico seemed the index of a mind too pure and gentle to have any 'communion with the dark spirit that betrayed itself in the sullen brow and heavy features of Andrea. But they were, in truth, warm friends, and though Domenico, with all a painter's jealous love of fame, hesitated to betray the grand secret of his art, he yet longed to behold his beloved Andrea sharing the honours which were so lavishingly bestowed upon himself. The rapidly waning light warned them to lay aside their employment for the day, and leaning on the arm of his friend, Domenico sought the quiet of his own studio. Throwing down the implements of his art as he entered, he took down the lute which hung by the casement, and began a light and graceful melody. "Come, Andrea," said he, when he had finished the air, 66 come, let us to the window of the fair sisters; the gentle Manetta will wonder why she hears not Andrea's evening song; and it may be that the bright-eyed Lisa waits to hear the lute of Domenico."

"No!'' returned Andrea, sullenly, "I am in no mood for fooling. Since boyhood have I been labouring for fame and fortune, and am yet as far from them as ever. You are confident of success-you have reaped the reward of your labours-fortune has been your friend, and discovered to you a secret which will make you immortal; you can afford to play the lover-for me nothing remains but to return to the humble village where I first drew this hated breath, and again become a keeper of flocks and herds."

"Andrea, friend of my soul," said Dome. nico, "it grieves me to see you thus cast down; compare your works with those of other masters of the art, and can you not triumph in your own superiority? Why waste your life in unavailing regret, because I am possessed of a secret which to you is unknown?"

"Call me not your friend" exclaimed Andrea, impetuously, "I spurn the worthless name a word from you could give me fortune, and happiness and fame, yet you will

not utter it!"

compared with the voluntary relinquishment of never-dying fame. Your own thirst for glory may teach you what that friend deserves, who unlocks to you the fountain of immortality, and gives you to drink of those waters which might be all his own; but you shall be gratified-to-morrow you shall know all that art has taught Domenico."

"To-morrow!' cried the impatient artist, "to-morrow! and why not to-night? Tomorrow you may think otherwise-may hesitate-"

·

Andrea, did I ever fail in a promise?" was the calm reply of Domenico." What I have said shall be done! To-morrow, when we resume our employment in the church, you shall know all.”

Transported with joy,Andrea could scarcely restrain his impatience until morning. Rousing Domenico at early dawn, they repaired to the church of Santa Maria Nuova, which they had been employed to adorn with paintings, and there Domenico disclosed his secret. This was no other than the art of painting in oil. At that period painters usually laid on their colours by means of various glutinous substances, and this mode, while it rendered pictures extremely liable to injury from heat and damp, very much diminished the brilliancy of the colouring. The invention of painting in oil has been disputed by so many, that it would be difficult now to determine who is best entitled to the honour. The probability is, that like many other inventions which were the offspring of necessity, it was discovered by several artists at nearly the same period, when the gradual advancement of the art and the increased demand for fine pictures had called forth the talents of painting in every part of Italy. It is well known, however, that Domenico Veneziano was one of the first who employed oil in painting; and to this he was indebted for the great reputation which he so rapidly acquired. Carefully did he now instruct Andrea in the principles of that art which had been almost exclusively his own, and by the most unwearied diligence, Andrea soon mastered its difficulties. But in his heart the spirit of generous emulation could not exist. Envy, base envy, was the only feeling which he was capable of cherishing, and the dislike with which Domenico's superiority had long since inspired him, was gradually ripening into a deep and deadly hatred.

They had nearly finished the decorations of the church, during the progress of Andrea's instruction in the new manner of painting, and as only one picture remained to be completed, it was agreed that each should paint a portion of it. But this work was destined to remain unfinished.

One day, as Andrea stood contemplating one of his earliest paintings, in the church, and exulting in his improvement as he com

pared it with those he had since executed under the direction of Domenico, two of the most celebrated connoisseurs in Florence entered. Not observing the painter, they commenced making remarks upon the pictures, and after praising the productions of Domenico's pencil, proceeded to ridicule, without mercy, the early paintings of Andrea. The poor artist, concealing himself bebind a column, anxiously waited till they should approach the later efforts of his art, not doubting that he should then be gratified by their praises; but what were his feelings, when, after a careless glance at his labours, they merely remarked that Andreas style was much improved; but that he must ever re main in the shade, when his works were placed beside those of Domenico. Fixed as a statue, Andrea remained in the very spot where he had first placed himself, until the unconscious critics quitted the church; then, rushing home and locking himself in his apartment, he gave way to all the agonies of envy and disappointment. The gentleness of Domenico's character, the purity of his life, the generous friendship which he had shown him, all were powerless to check the tide of passion in Andrea's bosom. The demon-like malice of his evil nature was aroused he thought of Domenico not as the friend who had shared with him the master secret of his art, but as the hated object who stood between himself and fortune.

There is no tempest so fearful as the tempest of passion; no whirlwind so devastating as the whirlwind of evil thoughts. Hour after hour did Andrea sit brooding over his dark and half-imagined scheme of guilt, unconscious of the lapse of time, when the voice of Domenico, suminoning him to his usual evening walk, aroused him. He hastily answered that he was engaged in designing, and could not be disturbed. Domenico, accustomed to the wayward moods of his friend, bade him good-night, and departed.

As the sound of Domenico's footsteps struck upon his ear, Andrea arose, and throwing open the window, looked out upon the tranquil beauty of the summer evening landscape. The fresh breeze played about his burning temples, and opening his vest as if to cool the fire that was raging in his bosom, he stood leaning against the casement until he suddenly perceived Domenico, with his lute in his hand, slowly taking the way to a romantic valley, at a short distance. The fiendish spirit which had gained possession of Andrea immediately suggested a horrible plan. Snatching up a heavy leaden weight which lay in his apartment, and stealing with an assassin s step after his unconscious friend, he stationed himself behind a clump of low trees in a narrow part of the path through which he knew Domenico would re turn. He had not waited long, when he

There

The music ceased, and as if the demon that tortured him was suddenly released from a spell, the same wild and horrible thoughts again arose in the bosom of Andrea. was no time for deliberation-Domenico was rapidly approaching-one step more, and he would be beyond his reach. Raising the heavy mass of lead with all the strength of his muscular arm, it crushed at once the lute and the breast of his unhappy friend. Then hastily giving him a violent blow on the head, he ran with all speed to his own apartment, and appeared deeply engaged in finishing a chalk drawing, which lay on his table. A brief interval of time elapsed, when a servant burst into the room with tidings of the dreadful event which had befallen Domenico. Feigning the utmost grief, Andrea hastened to the spot. There breaking out into the most violent lamentations, he threw himself on the earth beside the body of his friend, and the murdered Domenico actually breathed his last sigh upon the bosom of his assassin.

Years passed on. Not a breath of suspi

cion had ever tarnished the name of Andrea dal Castagno; but from the hour when the blood of Domenico stained his hand, his pencil had lost its power He was in possession of the secret for which he had periled his soul, but it was of no use to him. The merest dauber that ever attempted the art could excel him. The weight of blood was on his spirit-his mind was benumbed, his hand palsied, and after a life rendered miserable by his restless and envious pas sions, he died, confessing on his death-bed that he was the murderer of Domenico Veneziano. But even in his latest hour no remorse mingled with his confession. He died, A. D. 1480, as he had lived, hardened and vindictive to the last, and, by a singular fortune, his body was interred in the church of Santa Marie Nuova, the very church which he and Domenico had been employed to decorate, and beside the very spot where, nearly thirty years before, the victim of his perfidy had found repose.