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various distinguished men long in their graves, to whom he has been introduced. He found, it appeared, Lord Byron looking older than he anticipated, though, considering his former irregularities of life, not older than a man on the verge of sixty might reasonably look. To those who recollect the Byron of Moore's "Life," the following will be very rich:

"The noble poet's reconciliation with Lady Byron is now, as you are aware, of ten years' standing; nor does it exhibit, I am assured, any symptoms of breach or fracture. They are said to be, if not a happy, at least a contented, or, at all events, a quiet couple, descending the slope of life with that tolerable degree of mutual support which will enable them to come easily and comfortably to the bottom. It is pleasant to reflect how entirely the poet has redeemed his youthful errors in this particular. Her ladyship's influence, it rejoices me to add, has been productive of the happiest results upon Lord Byron in a religious point of view. He now combines the most rigid tenets of Methodism with the ultra doctrines of the Puseyites; the former being perhaps due to the convictions wrought upon his mind by his noble consort; while the latter are the embroidery and picturesque illumination, demanded by his imaginative character. Much of whatever expenditure his increasing habits of thrift continue to allow him, is bestowed in the reparation or beautifying of places of worship; and this nobleman, whose name was once considered a synonym of the foul fiend, is now all but canonised as a saint in many pulpits of the metropolis and elsewhere. In politics Lord Byron is au uncompromising Conservative, and loses no opportunity, whether in the House of Lords or in private circles, of denouncing and repudiating the mischievous and anarchical notions of his earlier days. Nor does he fail to visit similar sins, in other people, with the sincerest vengeance which his somewhat blunted pen is capable of inflicting. Southey and he are on the most intimate terms. You are aware that some little time before the death of Moore, Byron caused that brilliant but reprehensible man to be ejected from his house. Moore took the insult so much to heart, that it is said to have been one great cause of the fit of illness which brought him to the grave. Others pretend that the lyrist died in a very happy state of mind, singing one of his own sacred melodies, and expressing his belief that it would be heard within the gate of Paradise, and gain him instant and honourable admittance. I wish he may have found it so."

Mr. P. has also the gratification of being introduced to Shelley, now re

conciled to the Church of England, and at the time superintending the publication of a volume of discourses treating of the poetico-philosophical proof of Christianity on the basis of the Thirty-nine Articles. But for a few unmistakable Hawthorneisms, which peep out here and there, we could almost accept the epistle as the genuine effusion of Mr. P.

There is one other work of Haw. thorne's in a totally different vein, which we must not pass by in concluding, though we should not have regretted its non-publication very much his "Life of General Pierce, the American President." We could not help thinking it a pity, as we perused it, that such parties as Whigs and Demo crats existed, or at all events that in his zeal for the latter he should have been led to step so far out of his own sphere, and descant on patriotism, the union, anti-and-pro-slavery, in a style bordering somewhat on that of the stump orator. Occasionally, no doubt, faint reflections of his former self may be detected, but these partake in some measure of the character of features distorted in the bowl of a spoon. We certainly should never have expected to find an apologist for slavery in the enthusiastic believer in the world's onward progress and social regeneration, and the amiable volunteer labourer on the Pantisocratic farm. Yet he tells us that his hero, the general, "loved his whole, united, native country better than the mis tiness of a philanthropic theory," and therefore opposed the abolition of sla very. With this sentiment Mr. Haw, thorne strongly sympathises; and though he does not commit himself to a decided pro-slavery declaration, the line of argument which he adopts, in the attempts to reconcile himself and others to its continuance, is a notable instance of self-deceiving inconsistency; for we presume he does not question the human relation which negroes bear to their taskmasters. But we must not part from him in ill-humour on this account, remembering how De Foe, Dissenter and pillory occupant as he was, makes Crusoe talk of slaves, and how John Newton, after his conversion, was for some time captain of a slave-ship, having previously, if we mistake not, tasted the miseries of sla very himself. Only we hope, for his own sake, Mr. Hawthorne will in fu

ture give no more political lucubrations to the world. It is evident that dealing with the dry, practical doings of life is not his forte, and the field over which his genius can range is so wide and varied that we can well dispense with any excursions beyond it.

In the desultory remarks we have been making, we must not be understood as putting forward any claims for Hawthorne to rank as a model anything. Exceptions of every kind may be taken to his works, which, though perhaps sans peur, are certainly not always sans reproche. But withal he is a man of genius, and as

such without any farther "peroration" we leave him to our readers. We are quite conscious that we have not done anything like justice to his peculiar genius; but we must excuse ourselves in the words of one of his American critics, who remarks that it "presents traits so fine as to be almost too excellent for popularity, as, to every one who has attempted their criticism, they are too refined for statement. The brilliant atoms flit, hover, and glance before our minds, but the remote sources of their ethereal light lie beyond our analysis

And no speed of ours avails
To hunt upon their shining trails," "

ALBERICO PORRO; A TALE OF THE MILANESE REVOLUTION OF 1848.—PART IV.

BY AN OFFICER OF THE SARDINIAN SERVICE.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE VENGEANCE OF THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

ALONE, in a small room, lit by a solitary candle, before an altar on which stood a crucifix of the Saviour, knelt the beautiful and queenly form of Nina Ezzelinni. Her features, pale and sorrowful in their expression, her eyes red with weeping, her hands clasped together in ardent prayer, her lips muttering the thoughts of her mind, she seemed indeed in that solitary hour of the night, in that silent room, the impersonation of three feelings, sorrow, loveliness, and religion united together. Through the live-long day her mind had been in a fearful state of anxiety, the image of Porro always before her the picture of her country, free or in slavery, continually torturing her heart. But did she shrink before the prospect?-did she tremble for the safety of him on whom her every thought was placed?-did she doubt the strength and courage of her countrymen to free themselves from the iron and galling chain of torture, agony, and slavery? No; throughout the entire day, when cheering on the Milanese by her presence, when bending over the form of some poor, wounded countryman, and listening, perhaps, to the last dying request, Faith, glorious and beautiful,

was with her, and neither the novelty of her situation, the danger of the moment, the frightful spectacle of death and carnage, daunted that strong soul, wrapt up, not in the present, but in the grand and splendid vision of a future! Porro her idol-her country her saviour-religion the fountain and emblem of both! And it was not until the evening, when the Austrian stood triumphant in every part of the city, exulting in the defeat of the Milanese, in the vengeance that would follow the victory, that the heart of poor Nina gave way, and she had fled to the altar of her God, there to implore, from his overpowering arm of might, that succour for the friendless, the betrayed, the oppressed, the defeated. With heart full of feelings scarcely possible to describe, she knelt there, the impersonation of truth and virtue, breathing the pure spirit of the soulthe link binding the mind to the throne of an invisible eternity! With heart relieved by the sacred communion she had held with her Creator, she was about to rise from her kneeling position, when a heavy step behind her startled her from her serenity. Turning to see who was the intruder, she

beheld standing before her, his eyes fixed upon her, the Cavalier di Morini. For a moment surprise prevented her from uttering a single word, and spellbound she continued to gaze on him. Did her heart beat with fear? Did she desire to resent this daring intrusion on her solemn privacy? or, had he come with her knowledge and her consent? No; her heart beat too true to another. His image-the image of Porro-the saviour of her life-was engraven upon her heart; and could she, the pure, the haughty, the bright, stoop to a single act derogatory to his dignity? No; away with such a thought! The sparkling flash of her dark eye the proud dignity of her mien, as she rises from her kneeling posture the haughty curl of contempt lurking on her lips-all betray at once that the intrusion is unexpected - the act so unbecoming the man will be met with the scorn so well deserved.

"Cavalier di Morini, what means this unseemly interruption at this hour of the night? I trust you have good cause for so doing; but nothing in my opinion can justify this unmanly act on your part."

"Signorina, pardon me; fain would I have done otherwise, but I act upon the authority of a power, you, and I, and all, must bow before the dreaded authority of the Austrian police !"

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"Ah! I understand now why I always shrank before your appearance, as I would shrink before the approach of some venomous reptile," answered Nina Ezzelinni, while her cheeks became a colour paler; you are in the ranks of our oppressors, you are amongst those who betray both your country, your people, and your God! Shame! shame upon you! Are you thus lost to every sense of honour, of feeling, of manhood!"

"Nina Ezzelinni, listen to me before you condemn me; listen to what, on my honour, is the truth."

"Honour! honour in a member of the Austrian police! Away! Nina Ezzelinni holds no intercourse with the enemies of her country!"

"Listen to me you must, proud and haughty beauty! This house is in possession of the police, acting under my authority; and although I am acting under another, superior to myself, yet the power delegated me I shall not hesitate to use as becomes my

own desires. Listen to me, therefore, Nina-you must!"

A smile expressing more than language could convey, in which was concentrated the scorn and contempt in which she held in estimation the being before her, was the only answer the queenly beauty deigned to vouchsafe the Cavalier di Morini.

"Nina, from the first hour I saw you I loved you deeply, truly, and passionately heaven alone can tell how much. In you I saw combined all that I admired most in womanyour beauty, your pride, ay, your scorn was to me a sight too dazzling to bear. You touched for the first time in my life a chord I knew not I possessed a pride similar to your own. I have loved, or fancied I have often felt that feeling of truth-of heart-devotion -but never, no, never, dear Nina, did I truly know the intensity, the absorbing passion, until you, like a glorious meteor of light, dashed across my path, to make me bow before an idol I dreamt not of. From that moment, Nina, I swore you should be mine! Like a hound following the scent, have I pursued you wherever you went; and, Nina, you must have seen, oh, how often, the intensity of the passion you inspired me with Have I not dreamt of you-has not your image pursued me wherever I went-have I not dwelt in fancy on my love being returned? Yes, Nina, dear Nina, you have been my star of hope my beacon, on which depended my every prospect of happiness! And can you resist a love so pure prayers uttered with so much earnestness-the vows of a heart on which you can bestow either the delights of paradise, or the horrors of eternal despair. No, dear girl, you will listen to me-say, say you are my own-the guide of my future life!"

And as the Cavalier di Morini finished, he approached nearer to Nina, who shrank from his approach.

"Hearken to me, Cavalier di Morini; and if at this moment, when the Hapsburg has thought he has gained an easy triumph over my people, the answer of a poor girl will show one of his minions the spirit that still lives in the hearts of her countrymen, then I tell you, that sooner than wed, or accept the proffered love of one leagued with our barbarous oppressors, I would endure every torture their imagination could paint. Nina Ezzelinni would

rather die than live on, with riches and power her own, whilst the brand of shame was stamped on her brow!"

"Soul-stirring beauty, why did I not meet you these years ago, instead of within the last few months? Then with you, as my light of heaven, how much misery, how much woe, would I not have avoided !"

"If such be your feeling, then leave, and leave for ever, your path of vicethe soul-destroying brink upon which you stand-and turn to the path where duty, honour, and country call you. Do you not hear, ringing within your ears, the prayers of those noble martyrs who fell but yesterday fighting for the independence of their dear landthe feeling in which is found all that is grand, noble, and pure in the human heart. Do you not hear the voice of

a mother?"

"Mother! oh, my God! name her

not."

"Ah! you have a mother; then you are not yet lost to the call of duty. Oh! if what you have told me is true

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that I possess over you some influence then let me exert it, Cavalier di Morini, and adjure you by the memory of every tender feeling, by the recollection of the parent whose name affected you but now, to cast aside the fearful ties that bind you to dishonour, and to fling yourself in the stream where, at least, if you meet not riches and power, you have the approval of conscience the dear and valued knowledge that you are performing the sacred duty imposed on you as a descendant of that old race whose deeds of prowess for years made your country, our common land, bear the proud title of the mistress of the world; and I promise you, on behalf of those noble combatants of your own brothers now in arms-that they will receive you with warm hands, and welcome you back to their ranks, as brother should welcome brother."

"It is too late now, Nina; the hour of repentance is for ever past."

"Say not so, Cavalier; deceive not yourself with visions that may at any time be dispelled by your own courage and resolution. Let the noble spirit 'that moves you this moment gain the ascendancy; and if Nina Ezzelinni cannot greet you as her lover, still, believe me, she will rank you in the list of her warmest friends."

"Then my suit, even if I cast aside

the power I hold within my grasp now, is hopelessly rejected. Woman, proud, subtle though you may be, you trifle not with me thus. If I consent to abandon my present prospect of future ambition that which will repay me for loss of friendship and countryyou, too, must make some sacrifice, forsake your lover, Alberico Porro -ah! you colour; my suspicions are then well founded- and accept me in his place."

Cavalier di Morini," answered Nina, as she drew up her form, and again the haughty smile of contempt gathered on her lips, you are presuming too far on my kindness. For a moment I have forgotten myself; and, thinking still some ancient remnant of patriotism lurked in your heart, I foolishly thought I might be the instrument of again rousing you to the sacred duties imposed on all who call themselves Italians. But I have been deceived, Cavalier di Morini, and you presume to add insult to injury. Leave me, then, or I will call those to my aid who will chastise your insolence as it deserves."

“Woman, it is true you are deceived; but it is not I who am in your power, but you who are in mine. Listen to me a moment longer, and I have done. Armed by the authority of the police, I am authorised to arrest and conduct you to prison-your crime, that of being cognizant of a conspiracy against the Government; your accuser, myself. If you leave this house for a prison, the lash, death, is your fate. The giudicio statario, in its just anger, spares neither man, woman, nor child. From this frightful death I am willing to save you; but if I risk my own safety for yours, I must have a certain and positive promise of reward; that reward, the only one I will accept, is yourself. Swear to me, then, by your hopes of future salvation, you will be mine whenever I claim you; and from this moment I will depart, and leave you free to act. Do not imagine that the struggle commenced yesterday can be ever renewed; it is crushed, and crushed hopelessly, for ever. Your only chance of safety, of life, of being saved from a frightful death-a death your imagination can only paint is in accepting my offer. And when you reflect, Nina, dear Nina, it is love-love the most true, the most ardent—which inspires

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"Enough, madam! enough!" answered di Morini, in a voice of thunder; "on your own head be the consequences of your refusal. And now let us see the first-fruits of your obstinacy."

Proceeding to the door of the room, he summoned from without several menials of the police; and instantly, amidst the coarse laughter that issued from their lips, they proceeded to bind up the arms of Nina Ezzelinni, from whom not a single expression escaped.

"It is not too late yet," whispered the tempter in her ear, "to accept my offer. A moment more, and it will be no longer in my power to save you."

"Traitor fulfil your task. Nina Ezzelinni fears not death."

"Away with her now, my men; bear her to the carriage, and do with her as you think fit."

Amidst the grossest insults that could be offered to a virtuous woman, Nina Ezzelinni was borne, in the arms of the rude menials of the police, from room to staircase, and then to the open street, where a closed carriage awaited her, surrounded by a small body of troops. She was instantly placed within it, and the carriage, bearing another victim at the shrine of a power reared in human blood, drove away.

When, oh God! wilt thou spare a people the agonising pain of recording such scenes of iniquity and lawless power the vices of the tools of Austrian despotism, the source from which flows the justice of the Metternich Government?

CHAPTER XVII.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE WEAK.

"The weather, terrific during the whole of that terrific contest, added to the difficulties of that disastrous retreat. Heavy rains, such as only fall in Italy in spring and autumn, had converted those Lombard flats into dismal swamps. Bridges were cut down, roads broken up, or otherwise made impassable; not a paltry village but was busy at the erection of barricades. The peasantry screened themselves behind piles of felled trees, or dug deep ditches across the broad thoroughfares. They fell on the stragglers, and disbanded troops; they seized ammunitions and transports of artillery; the horses of disbanded troopers fell exhausted into their hands. The sufferings of men and beasts were appalling.”—Mariotti.

FROM an early hour of the morning of the 19th of March, the rain descended in torrents over the capital of northern Italy. Defeated on every side, drenched to the skin, without arms, without ammunition, still the Milanese, strong in hope, in the sacredness of their cause, despaired not of success. The spirit of Justice had awoke from the tomb of the past-its glittering blade waved on high- Despair lent energy to the most weak; and the Milanese, throughout the livelong night, worked with a perseverance, a courage nothing could daunt. From heaven they drew their inspiration the God-like liberty of man l-and on, on, brave souls! they toil for their hearths, their country, for everything that could render life sweet and dear to the human heart. Were they to die in their efforts, how far preferable than to live on in a life of fear, of continual torture-the torture of body and soul! Man never can be a slave. The thought, owning its source from

the very soul itself, spreads rapidly from heart to heart, winging its flight through every obstacle, until, like a thunder-storm, it suddenly bursts forth, crushing all in its fearful energy, before an anger, a fire that cannot be withstood.

The morning of the nineteenth dawned; and to the astonishment and dismay of the Austrian enemy, around on every side, hemming them in whereever they were quartered, appeared enormous barricades, erected by the energy of a people whose courage had so long been despised. Could the Croat, the Sclave, believe their own senses? Were those gigantic piles but the dream of their own imagination? No; they stood there staring them in their frightful reality; the battle so dearly bought yesterday had again to be fought over, with new courage, with new and desperate determination. The people so long scorned, so long injured-over whose devoted heads floated the Imperial

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