despotism, as if they were burnt flax, and free themselves from the power of the king, and his nobles, and his governors."

"Your faith is lofty and cheering," said Mr. Northington, "and will, I trust, should such calamity as you have hinted at befall us, prove to be well grounded."

"You speak of Oliver Cromwell," said young Andros," but even he had not the virtue and nobleness of soul to hold inviolate those principles of liberty that he professed to venerate.'

"Young man," said Mr. Elsworth, with much warmth, "is this a fitting time and place for such as you to cast reproach on the blessed Oliver?"

"If," said Mr. Northington, "we are obliged to admit that Cromwell, firm and temperate as he naturally was, became swayed by the love of power, it is certain that he never became dazzled and intoxicated with it."

"Who dares say," said Mr. Ellsworth, "that Oliver was swayed by the love of power? Did I not serve in the first troop that he raised, though I was then only a youth of sixteen? And can I not bear testimony that each of us, and he above the rest, was ready to hazard not only his worldly possessions, but his life, for the sake of liberty, and above all, for that of religion !"

"Ay," said Samuel Warner, "and when he and those under him, as I have heard you relate, at the time they occupied Cambridge, seized the University plate, was it to set forth on his own table, that he might see the choice wines of the vintage sparkle in the silver cup, and costly viands smoke in the silver dish? No, they seized it that they might defray the expenses of a war, waged in a righteous cause, against an ill-judging and arbitrary king, who, beyond all precedent, expended the treasure of the nation in adorning his palaces with images cunningly carved, and a multitude of unprofitable pictures of curious device, to please the eye."

"Were Cromwell with his crafty policy," said Mr. Northingtou, without noticing the remarks of Warner, "Harry Vane with his wise and cool head, together with other patriots, whom I might name, now alive, I would set neither of them as a ruler over the people. Edmund Ludlow, now an exile at Vevay in Switzerland, proved himself to be the truest and honestest of them all. He was incorruptible-he could not be bribed, and being such, was alone worthy to rule."

Mrs. Northington, perceiving that Mr. Ells worth was in danger of losing his temper, and as all present had finished supper, just as he was about to reply, made the signal for rising from table; the noise and bustle attendant on which, so overpowered the speaker's voice, that if he was guilty of using any in temperate expression, it could not be heard.

The young people, with the exception of Warner, having seated themselves apart from the rest of the company, Edward inquired of Lucy, if she had called on Hannah Farley since she was married. Lucy replied that she had, and that she bade fair to make an excellent wife.

"No doubt," said Edward, "she and Hartley, I think, are exceedingly well matched. She is handsome, sweet-tempered, industrious, and a good economist, all of which her husband is fully capable of appreciating, which is more than can be said of many men, whose pretensions are much higher. I am glad Hannah has married so well."

"It appears to me, that you do not speak that glad, very heartily," said Percival Andros, smiling. "I am half inclined to think that you would be still more glad if she were not married at all."

"By no means," replied Edward, "for although I should require all the qualities in a wife, that I have attributed to her, there are others, which I should consider indispensable, to which she has no claim, and which if she had, would be lost upon Hartley."

"And will you not enumerate them?" said Julia, "for your sister's benefit and mine?'' "Were I disposed to enlighten you on the subject," he replied, "I should be prevented for the present," and he looked towards his father, who was preparing to read a portion of the scriptures.

Mr. Northington selected one of the psalms, in the reading of which, his voice, with its clear and justly modulated tones, his distinct enunciation, and above all, the earnest solemnity of his manner, enhanced the effect of the beautiful and sublime language of the writer. The reading was succeeded by the singing of a hymn, in which all joined except Percival Andros and his sister. The deep and solemn notes of Mr. Northington, of Mr. Ellsworth, and, above all, of Samuel Warner, which seemed expressive of the gloom of his character, while they nearly overpowered the quiet unpretending voice of Mrs. Northington, and the sweet flute-like tones of Lucy, blended finely with the full, clear tenor of Edward. Mr. Northington closed the devotions with a prayer, fervent and appropriate, and marked by none of that irreverent familiarity in addressing the Supreme Being, with which some of his brethren too often marred their religious exercises, especially in the apprehension of those still adhering to the forms of the established church.

Mr. Ellsworth departed the following morning, and a few hours afterwards, Percival Andros took his leave of the family and of Julia, with a promise to return to accompany her home, as soon as she was able to perform the journey.

(To be continued.)

ALFRED, THE GIPSY. By the Author of "LAFITTE," "BURTON," "CAPTAIN KYD," etc.

CHAPTER I.

"THERE, then, lies Rome!" The setting sun was pouring his golden beams through rifts in a gorgeous cloud that hung low in the west, flinging them in many a level arrow of crimson light, far across the Campana, that, like a lap, holds the eternal city, and lighting up the summits of the hundred towers of the "mistress of the world," as if a spire of flame blazed on each lofty pinnacle.

"There, then, lies Rome!" repeated the speaker, who, having at length reached the top of the ridges that shut in the Campana from the rest of the world, and which command a wide prospect of the magnificent plain outstretched beneath, stood leaning on his staff, gazing, with enchanted vision, on the scene which, at all times beautiful, now under the reflection of the sunset glory of an Italian sky, was invested with surpassing loveliness. He was a mere youth, scarcely having entered his nineteenth year; his skin brown as a berry, but glowing with the rich blood of health. His hair was of a dark chestnut

VOL. I.

colour, and, parted on his forehead, fell down on either side about his shoulders, in shining waves. His features were very fine, of an intellectual and manly cast, and seemed eloquent with the inspiration of genius. He was a traveller, as his soiled dress, the staff in his hand, and the little bundle strapped at his shoulders, indicated. He was of humble degree, also, for he not only travelled on foot, which, of itself, in Europe, might not always prove lowliness of condition, but his garments were coarse, though very neat He was dressed in a closely-fitted jacket of green stuff, and calico-trowsers, and a dust-worn, black velvet cap, covered his head; while, in his hand, doubtless as much for economy's sake as to relieve his swollen feet, he carried a pair of well-worn shoes, of the rudest fabric. To the bundle at his back was swung a painter's palette, and from one of the pockets of his jacket protruded the ends of a bundle of painter's brushes; while the staff on which he leaned, bore some resemblance to the "rest," with which artists support the wrist when at work. It was apparent that he was a young painter going to Rome to study.

"Yonder, then, is the mother of nations, with her throne upon the seven hills-the mistress of the world-the eternal city! Won

X

The fine countenance of the youth glowed as he thus apostrophised a spot upon which no civilized human eye can, for the first time, look without the deepest emotion. Every eloquent feature bore testimony to the existence of the feeling in his own bosom, to which his lips had given utterance.

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Alas, how art thou fallen!" he continued, after a few moments' silence; "thy glory is taken from thee, and thou art become a mighty wreck of the past-thy honours, thy glories, thy noblest associations are by-gone! Thy brightness has, indeed, become dim, and thy gold brass. Once teacher of art and arms to the world-the school of warriors and of statesmen, what art thou now? Thy sword of steel is converted into the pencil-thy armies into troops of singers-and thy statesmen into gowned priests! Nay, but imperishable art remains with thee; and while thou dost continue to contain all that is beautiful or great in painting and sculpture-while every ruin upon thy green bosom, Italy, is a Pharos to light genius to the altars where it loves to worship-while thy palaces are temples of art, and thy decaying cities, schools for painters and sculptors, thou art still living -still great-still Rome! Physical Rome may exist no longer, her political empire may be ended, but the imperishable spirit of thy greatness lingers about thee, holding over the hearts and minds of men an intellectual sway that shall even eclipse thine ancient glory."

He paused and gazed thoughtfully upon the far city, following, mentally, the current of thought he had given language to, when an English travelling-chariot, with a coronet and ducal arms emblazoned on the panels, and attended by the usual retinue, in plain liveries, gained the top of the hill, and the exclamation, "Rome, Rome!" in a voice of thrilling sweetness, to which surprise and emotion gave depth and richness, caught his

ear.

He turned his head in time only to see the carriage roll swiftly past him, though not without having caught sight of the fine contour of a woman's bonnetless head and shoulders, and the profile of a noble-looking gentleman beside her, both having their gaze directed eagerly toward the capital. In a few seconds the carriage was hid by a winding in the descent, but shortly afterward re-appeared rolling over the Campana towards the gate of Rome. He followed it with his eye

till only a faint cloud of dust indicated its position, and then saddening spake, giving a key to the meditations that evidently had more recently occupied his mind.

"How rich that voice! It was but a single word it articulated-but that word was full of sweet music! Its melody will vibrate through my soul in undying cadence. She must be beautiful; such a voice could belong to none but earth's loveliest! And the superb head and neck! She must be beautiful! Oh, it was a very sweet voice. But I will walk on and forget it-for she must be noble-and what has a poor student to do with noble maidens, be they fair or frae!"

With a sigh, which he soon changed to a light-hearted whistle, he settled his pack to his shoulders, grasped his staff, and with a free step, descended the hill into the Campana.

CHAPTER II.

In a recess of one of the galleries resorted to by the numerous students that, from all parts of the world, throng to Rome to seize upon the fast-fading glories of an era when genius seemed to have chosen Italy for the throne of her empire, there sat, in front of an exquisite Madonna of Titian, a young artist, with his easel before him, intently engaged in transferring the picture, with a skill little less than his whom he imitated, to his canvass. He was attired in a close green jacket and calico trowsers, and beside him, lying on the floor, was an old and much worn velvet cap. His dark, hazel eyes were filled with the light of genius, and his handsome face glowed with the passion of his art as he sat and copied. He was apart from the other students who frequented the gallery, and seemed to be wholly indifferent to the gay crowd that promenaded the saloon, of whom, now and then, some connoisseur, attracted by his silent industry, would turn his eyes toward the subject of his attention, and with the self-assured look of a savant, lisp out, "a Titian," and pass on;-otherwise, the young painter pursued his labours alone and unnoticed. That he is the youthful pilgrim whom we first saw looking down upon the Campana, may be gathered, perhaps, from his costume, as well as his pursuit. This is the ninth day he has been in Rome.

It was near the hour for closing the gallery, and but a few persons remained, when an elderly gentleman of noble exterior, and with the courtly air of a man of high birth, passed near the position occupied by the painter, a lovely young creature leaning on his arm, and a tall, beautiful, but somewhat haughty young lady, preceding them a few steps in advance. The attention of the latter was instantly arrested by the animated countenance of the youthful student, as he caught, at the same time, inspiration equally in religion and in his art, from the subject and its

painter, and approaching him, she unconsciously began to gaze on his face as if it had been one of the inanimate heads that hung around her.

Why, Eleanor, what has fascinated you so?" cried the young lady on the arm of the gentleman, after watching her, for an instant, in amazed wonder.

The lady addressed instantly recovered herself, blushingly changed the direction of her eyes, and, for a few seconds, seemed to study, with persevering attention, an old landscape upon the wall. Scarcely were the words spoken, that produced this effect, when the young painter, who had, hitherto, seemed insensible to any external impression, started back from his canvass with the involuntary exclamation," The same voice!"

His eyes, as he spoke, were riveted on the lovely speaker, who, in her turn, regarded him with surprise. But her face appeared to have an electric effect upon him; for, no sooner did he see it, than clapping his hands together, he said with astonishing vehemence, fixing, the while, his full gaze upon her angelic conntenance-"Titian's Madonna !"

"What can he mean, cousin? Uncle, ask him," cried the young lady, who had been addressed as Eleanor, retreating to them with some alarm at this sudden outbreak.

"He is, certainly, a strange young man," said the gentleman; "one of the eccentricities, doubtless, of his pursuit."

"He is, certainly, very handsome," said the young lady who leaned upon him. The next moment she added, "His gaze confuses me! Father, shall we go?"

But, regardless of the surprise of one, and the embarrassment of the other, the painter continued to gaze upon the maiden till she dropped her head in confusion, and turned to fly. Then he silently pointed to the canvass on the easel before him. The gentleman had scarcely cast a glance upon it, ere he exclaimed with undisguised astonishment"My daughter's portrait! Laura, Lady Eleanor, look here!"

"Can I believe my own eyes?" said the latter; and after looking for a few moments at the painting, she turned and gave a puzzled look first at her cousin, and then at the handsome young artist, who seemed no less sur prised than the opposite party.

"How came you by this portrait, sir?" demanded the gentleman, somewhat haughtily. The youth pointed silently to the original on the wall.

"It is the same," was the remark of the astonished beholder. "A Titian, is it not?" "None other," was the calm reply. "Wonderful coincidence! And this is your copy?"

to

I have this moment completed it." "And did no knowledge of its resemblance my fair cousin, here, prompt you to begin

it?" asked Lady Eleanor, glancing with playful irony at the maiden.

My surprise, lady, at the discovery, is no less than your own."

"The copy is the most like you, my child," said the gentleman, after contemplating both awhile; "the colours being fresher, and retaining more of the tint of life. I will purchase it of you, sir."

The young painter, whose eyes had not ceased to dwell on the lovely personification of his copy, each moment drinking into his soul her beauty, like new wine, till he was intoxicated with love, either did not hear, or was too absorbed in his daring and newlyawakened passion to regard the proposition; and when the moment afterwards it was repeated, he replied in a tone so decided as to partake of rudeness, "Buy! Buy it? No, sir. It is sacred!"

"It is a Madonna, indeed-but Madonnas may be purchased, for a trifle, in every stall in Rome," responded the gentleman with some asperity. "I will pay you one hundred guineas for the piece-'tis but a hasty sketch, at the best, and you-you"-he hesitated as he glanced over his coarse apparel, and then added quickly, “it is, perhaps, much more than you are in the habit of getting for simple copies."

"It is a hundred guineas more than I get for any picture. This is the first I have ever attempted for myself."

"Do you subsist by this profession ?" "I hope to do so, sir."

"And refuse the ample remuneration for what you say is your first piece. Will you dispose of it?"

"No, sir."

"Know, young man, that the portrait you refuse to give up, is, by a miracle, that of Lady Laura Linton, daughter of the Earl of Linton, who now addresses you."

"

"My lord," said the youth firmly, but respectfully, "I will not part with it. So much more noble as is the fair being whom it resembles, so much more sacred does it become to me. As he spoke, his eyes rested modestly and reverently on the cast-down face of the maiden. "Through this accidental resemblance, it possesses, in my eyes, a far holier character, my lord, than it can challenge as an image of the Mary Mother. The spirit of a new Divinity has now descended upon it, and inspires each lovely lineament. No, my lord, I will not part with it."

Lady Laura well understood the plain, bold words he uttered, and though she felt that she ought to resent the attitude he assumed, yet she found herself unable, nay, disinclined to reprove, even with a look, a compliment so sincere, and originating from a coincidence so singular as that conveyed in his determination to keep her portrait. "Is it for myself alone, or for the strange.