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listening to a letter which Count Buonarotti was reading to him from Francesca, and which contained the most earnest protestations of affection for her unfortunate lover.

The interruption was by no means a welcome one, for Foscari supposed that he beheld one of his most implacable enemies. Emanuel rose, and begged to know the cause of so strange a visit. An explanation soon ensued, and Natale having disavowed any participation in the cause of Foscari's unmerited sufferings, and acknowledged his belief that Dominica was entirely guiltless of the crime of which he was accused, parted from him on the most friendly terms, with a promise that he would visit him every day during his confinement.

The following morning the decree arrived, and was presented to him by one of the familiars of the tribunal. Foscari summoned composure to make himself master of its purport; but when he came to that part of it which doomed him to imprisonment in Candia, he was completely overwhelmed by the violence of his emotions, and sitting down, leaned his face on his hands in an agony of grief and indignation. Count Buonarotti at this moment entered his cell, and employed every means in his power to alleviate his sufferings. The sentence named the ensuing day for his departure. This circumstance had escaped the observation of Foscari, and was no sooner pointed out to him, than he gave himself up to the most heart-rending despair; imploring his friend, in the most pathetic manner, to intercede with his merciless judges, in order to induce them to allow him a parting interview with his parents and Francesca. Emanuel hastened to the ducal palace, where he found the Doge with his family, already apprised of the savage mandate, and sinking under the pressure of their grief. It was in to entreat his intercession; and having admonished them to assume a degree of fortitude, which his wretched friend had entirely abandoned, he repaired to the assembled council, and with an appearance of submission, which nothing but the situation in which he stood would have induced him to assume, delivered the request of Dominica for a few days delay, in order to enable him to take leave of his family and friends. But these merciless persecutors were inexorable ; and all that could be extracted from their savage natures, was, that the young count should be allowed, during his imprisonment at Candia, to write and receive letters from his friends. Emanuel accordingly retired to the ducal palace, and related the ill success of his embassy. The effect produced upon this devoted family may be more readily conceived than described.

Natale Donato had, after his visit to Foscari, endeavoured to exculpate himself with the Doge. The sight of Julia, -her unaffected distress,—but, above all, the generosity with which she acquitted him of taking part against her unhappy brother, --all conspired to awaken those sentiments which her beauty first created in his bosom, and it was now that he resolved, at the hazard of of his life, and what was dearer still, his honour, to do all he could to serve the unfortunate family. By mere accident, he was with the Doge when Buonarotti returned, and was witness to the agonizing emotions of Julia, when she found she could not obtain an interview with her beloved Dominica. An idea presented itself to his imagination, which see ned to promise her the melancholy satisfaction of an interview,--and when the marquis solicited the count to revisit his son, and bear him their blessing with all the consolation he could administer, Natale accompanied him, and informed him of the plan which had suggested itself.

The disguise which procured Natale's admission to Foscari, was that of a page to Count Buonarotti; and as he had not discovered himself to the principal attendant, he thought Julia might easily pass unnoticed in the same dress. This proposal met, with the warm concurrence of Emanuel, who returned the most unfeigned acknowledgments for the interest he took in the sufferings of his friend. They separated, and the count imparted to Foscari the refusal of the inquisitors, as well as the generous offer of Natale Donato.

The evening arrived, and Natale conducted the trembling Julia to the prison of her brother; as he quitted her, her fears increased with violence, for she dreaded a discovery which must, at this juncture, have proved fatal. The guards were, however, deceived, and she gained Foscari's apartment without the slightest notice having been taken of her.

She had not been long with her brother, when a plan occurred to her mind, which, though amazed at her own intrepidity, (having until this moment been timidity itself) she determined to put in execution. She communicated it instantly to the count and Foscari.--It was, that she and her brother should exchange habits, in order that he might thus escape to the country-seat of Count Emanuel, and there remain till the following night, by favour of which he might get to Naples, and take his opportunity from thence to escape the vigilance of his pursuers. She concluded by assuring them, she had no fears on her own account, as the council could not punish her for the imputed crime of her brother. She paused. Already was Foscari at the feet of his sister, while Emanuel fixed his eyes, glistening with tears, on his Julia, in silent admiration.

The scheme was too flattering not to be acceded to by Dominica. The idea of once more beholding his Francesca, would have induced him to run any risk. The feelings of Count Buonarotti on this occasion were of a most perplexing character—trembling for the safety of both, he knew not what to advise; the extreme delicacy of Julia, he was well aware, could ill support the severity which threatened her, on the inevitable discovery—and he was not assured that immediate death would not be the consequence if his friend were retaken.

Foscari was still at Julia's feet, pouring forth his effusions of gratitude, while Emanuel remained in silent perplexity, when she started up, and with the most animated countenance, reminded them there was no time to be lost. • Do you then, my dear count,' rejoined she, immediately retire, that you may not be accused of assisting in this plot.' Then, without giving him time to reply, she led him to the door, and with a tender pressure of his hand, closed it upon him. Emanuel, without knowing what he did, walked slowly from the prison, occupied with the most piercing reflections, and anticipating every evil which could possibly befall those whom he loved and esteemed most on earth ; not to mention the suspicions which must inevitably be directed towards himself. Having proceeded a considerable distance, he resolved to rest himself among the ruins of an old castle, and had remained in this situation nearly an hour,--the gloominess of the night adding to the sadness of his mind, —when, on casting up his eyes with a fervent ejaculation, he perceived some one hastily passing that way; as quickly he descried the step of Foscari, and in an instant they were by each other's side. Dominica, who dared not delay, scarcely articulated Farewell, my friend, be kind to Julia;' and was proceeding, but the darkness of the night favouring their escape, the count insisted on accompanying him as far as the safety of both would permit. They walked on till the dawn began to appear, and then parted with mutual protestations of unalterable friendship. The perturbed state of Foscari's mind prevented him from adopting the necessary precautions for apprising Signora Francesca of his arrival, and a loud shriek from above instantly conveyed to him the impropriety of his conduct; in a moment she was in the saloon, and once more in the arms of her lover.

After the first transports of their affection had subsided, and he had related to her in what manner he had escaped, her expressions of gratitude to Julia were boundless; a thousand times she called her · her beloved sister, her dear deliverer.' There was a small pavilion at the end of the garden, in which she thought Foscari would be more secure from observation than in the house; thither she conducted him, and they agreed that in the dusk of the evening, after assuming a fresh disguise, he should set off for Naples.

To return to Julia; after the departure of Foscari, every thing wore the appearance of desolation. She revolved in her mind with anguish unutterable the hazardous step she had taken, on Foscari's account only,--for herself, she determined to submit to the event with fortitude and resignation, and she acquitted herself according to this resolution. Before the attendant withdrew for the night, he inquired if she wanted any thing more, and received an answer in the negative ; then securing the door he retired, and the discovery was, agreeably with her wishes, avoided until the next morning. On his entering, as usual, he was surprised at not finding the prisoner in bed; and was looking into the adjoining room, (for Foscari had been indulged with two), when Julia, who was prepared for the denoument, advanced towards him. • My friend,' said she, with the most collected firmness, 'you perceive your prisoner is changed, behold the sister of the unfortunate Signor Foscari, ready to submit to any sentence, however rigorous, if but, by this means, she can rescue an innocent brother. Such unparalleled heroism in a woman, astonished the attendant, but he dared not conceal the escape of the young count from the inquisitors. Accordingly, in a few hours, Julia was taken before the council. Her fortitude for a moment forsook her, when she perceived the Count Buonarotti a prisoner also at the bar of the tribunal. On her examination she would have entirely exculpated him, but for one circumstance, which confuted her. • If not by his assistance, how was the habit of his page pro: cured ?' She cast down her eyes and appeared confused—Buonarotti was remanded into custody, when, waving her hand as a sign for them to release him, she assured the council she had bribed the page to lend her his habit, but he did not know for what purpose. The page was sent for, and this, to the count and Julia, was a period of insupportable misery, as his evidence would, they thought, unavoidably ruin their generous friend, Natale Donato; but what was their surprise, when he repeated nearly the same words that Julia herself had delivered. He had heard of the escape of Foscari, and on being summoned to appear before the council, the whole truth flashed upon him in an instant, when he beheld the Lady Julia in a man's habit. Thus, owing to the quick perception of a menial, the generous assistance of Natale was concealed.

Julia and her lover were severally acquitted; but she trembled when the chief senator informed her that this liberation would fall heavy on the prisoner, whom they doubted not to overtake, as they had despatched pursuers to every place through which he could possibly pass. Alas! the prediction was too true; the unhappy Foscari was seized at the moment of his quitting Francesca, and the following morning beheld him again a prisoner at the bar of an incensed tribúnal. Not one of his friends, not even the count, was permitted to see him. As he disdained a falsehood, he declined giving any satisfactory answer, on his examination, and was therefore sentenced once more to the rack, for the purpose of extorting trom him the wished-for confession. This, however, was fortunately objected to by the principals of the council, and the former sentence ordered to be immediately put in execution.


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The still calm brow—the smile on either cheek,

The little folded hands, the lips apart,
As though they would the bonds of silence break,

Are they not models fair,-meet for the sculptor's art?

Proud Science, come ! learn of this beauteous clay,

That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign,
As though in Slumber's downy links it lay,

Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again.

Yes ! this is Death! but in its fairest form,

And stript of all its terrors.—That sealed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry Worm

That holds his revel-feast with cold MORTALITY !

• To be concluded in our next pumber.
These lines are extracted from an elegant little volume which has just issued from the press,
entitled, 'Hours at Home,' by Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson. The collection

contains somewhere about eighty short original poems, several of which are not less beautiful than the specimen here given. The subjects are, for the most part, of a domestic nature, and the work is appropriately dedicated, in some pleasing verses, to the authoress's mother. Mrs. Wilson possesses very considerable poetical talent, and an apparent facility of versification which makes us regret that she does not draw more entirely from her own resources, instead of taking up ideas which have been already worn threadbare by her

contemporaries ; and the more especially, as when she

does not shackle her talents by imitation she is always most successful. As the reviewal, at length, of new publications forms so insignificant a portion of our plau, we mast be fain to content ourselves with this brief and imperfect notice of Mrs. Wilson's Book. Its external appearance is more than ordinarily elegant.-ED. of the Lit. Mag.


• There is nothing so delightful as meeting with an old friend,' exclaims the man of feeling, and to this opinion we cordially subscribe : there is nothing so delightful as meeting with an old friend ;--the presence of a much-loved and long-loved being, tinges every object with the hue of enjoyment, and infuses a new life and youth into the heart. But at the same time, we must most steadily maintain, that there is nothing so tiresome as an old acquaintance; nor any thing so unreasonable as the expectation of being cherished and esteemed by any person, because by the mere accidents of life, one has happened to have been a great many times in that individual's company, or so circumstanced, as for the events of the life of the one to have become the inevitable subject of the chit-chat and gossip of the tea-table of the other. As 50,000 zeros will never make an unit, nor reach to the dignity and consistency of the meanest integral part of the very smallest sum ; so a countless number of involuntary, unsought, unprized, unwished-for meetings, will never come up to the power and estimation of one precious interview of mutual concurrence and mutual enjoyment; when the full heart overflows in unsuspecting talk, and the fancy and the taste excited and gratified, leave a relish on the remembrance which makes solitude unlonely, or loneliness palatable.

Yet we are in the habit of meeting every day with people who, to use a French idiom, motive their reminiscent visits with— I was sure you would be glad to see me, because, though we never visited, we used to be for ever meeting at Dr. M.'s or Lady C.'s.' A stern professor of truism might reply: Sir, if we had been suitable to each other, we should have visited; our coalescability has not increased during the lapse of twenty years. Human minds are not much more tedious about blending with each other, than chemical agents, when once they come into contact, if they are really homogeneous. If I can be of any use to you I shall be very happy ; but you really must not expect me to be transported by an accidental meeting with á person with whose identity no fond remembrances are entwined in my recollection. You are so civil as to say, that you are so glad to see me, because I am one of the three score of people who used, occasionally, to dine at the same table ; therefore, of course, you would be equally glad to see any of the other fifty-nine. That will not do for me, sir; perhaps I am not very loveable; but I must be loved for myself, or not at all.'

All this may be felt, but cannot be said ; a certain degree of hypocrisy becomes an imperious duty, according to the common code of civility. But heaven knows what disagreeable things are daily said and done on this outrageous plea of old acquaintanceship, which is abused into a privilege of being grievously impertinent. Thus begins your Friendly Bore : • Well, really, when one comes to look back a little, what changes there are in the world! Your brother was living when we met last--what a fine young man he was ! I was quite sorry to hear of his death : I dare say it was a great shock to your father,- I hear he is grown very infirm : Jackson says he never notices any thing that passes now. melancholy to see one's old acquaintance falling off so. However, some of us are doing well enough. There was the beautiful Lucy G, that sweet girl who sang so well; people used to say you were to be married to her, you know, well, that was not to be, it seems; she married Sir Charles at

It is very

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