given us, without any undue betrayal of private confidence, or any deficiency in duty to her royal patrons, many more valuable anecdotes than the few which these pages afford. We fully admit that in all she says of the royal family, her narration is in better taste than any other portion of her Diary. We only lament that, talking so much, she says so - little; and finding all the pages of the third volume so studded with the names of the King and Queen, we really have not been able to extract anything more interesting than we have presented to our readers.

The result of all is that we are conscientiously obliged to pronounce these three volumes to be-considering their bulk and pretensions-nearly the most worthless we have ever waded through, and that we do not remember in all our experience to have laid down an unfinished work with less desire for its continuation. That it may not mend as it proceeds, we cannot-where there is such room for improvement-venture to pronounce; and there is thus much to be said for it, that it can hardly grow worse

(QUARTERLY REVIEW.)

THE REVENGE.

FROM THE WANDERINGS OF A PAINTER IN ITALY."

BY E. V. RIPPINGILLE.

Ar the door of an Italian shepherd's hut, or capana, upon a low stone bench, sat a young man of about five-and-twenty years of age. A dark, sullen, and ferocious expression, mixed with the manifestation of a feeling of a very different kind, was strongly marked upon his face, and shown in the lassitude and position of his body and limbs. He was a short, and rather a strong-made man, with a complexion exceedingly swarthy, and hair intensely black and abundant, covering his cheeks, neck, and breast. His head was uncovered, his hair in disorder, a red night-cap lay at his side, as if carelessly thrown down; his legs and feet were bare, and, saving a pair of blue calzone and a coarse shirt, he was undressed, and looked as if he had just risen from his bed.

There was a person near him, who seemed busily employed, passing backwards and forwards, in and out of the capana. This was a woman of about fifty, who appeared to have been deeply-touched with sorrow, but who had evidently once been exceedingly handsome. She was very tall; and there was a stately movement and character about her, which ar

rested attention. Her hair and complexion were like those of the young man, who was her son; but, otherwise, there was but little resemblance between them. Her costume was that very commonly worn in Italy: a busta, or close-fitting stay, made of old-fashioned silk brocade or damask, stiffened and ornamented, to which her manichini, or sleeves, were attached at the shoulders with bunches of ribbons, now pendant and faded. She wore à petticoat, thickly plaited, of a dusky and very peculiar red; and on her feet the sciocce; her dark and abundant mass of hair, hanging in thick tresses, was looped up, and held together with the spadina, or silver bodkin, in the shape of a sword,-often a perilous weapon in disputes between the dark daughters of Italy.

She appeared to partake of the feelings which were so evidently betrayed by her son; hers were the same, roused into action, and made subservient to the demands of domestic duties: a faculty, by the way, possessed in a greater degree by the female than the male sex. She now held in one hand her son's sciocce, and the cloth leggings worn with them. These she threw at his feet; she then stepped back into the hut, and returned with his hat, which she put down at his side. After having gone in again, she appeared at the door, bringing the long and terrible knife, half-sheathed, with which the brigands were always armed. After a moment's steady and stern gaze at the young man, who still seemed unconscious of her presence, she said, in a deep and firm voice, « Gaetano, rouse yourself.

!

་

Mother, said the man, slowly raising himself, so as to sit up, I don't sleep. »

་་

no, we can't we must

Shame upon you, if you did! was the woman's reply, her eyes flashing, and her colour heightening. Sleep, she muttered, as if speaking to herself, not sleep; rouse yourself, my boy. and nothing done. Dress yourself, fortune. »

There is the sun again,

and once more try your

Applying the point of the weapon to her thumb, and feeling along its edge, she said, "What have you done to your knife, my son?-it ought not to be in this condition. It

VOL. IV.

6

must be sharpened, Gaetano; you must get it done to-day, for I feel certain you will have occasion for it before night. Come, bestir yourself; there are your clothes. I'll fetch your cinta belt,, and your jacket, and in a few minutes your meal shall be prepared for you; be quick, dress yourself. » You forget, mother, said the young man, I shall not wear my own clothes to-day..

. True, true, replied the woman; Giobbe is gone to borrow the dress of the cacciatore sportsman. He promised to return at daybreak, and must be here soon. Begin and take the bands off your hat, and press down the crown; no one will observe it..

Mother, you are too sanguine, observed the son; perhaps the boy won't get the things, after all.▪

Madonna mia!» exclaimed the woman, cease your doubts, and have confidence and courage. ■

Courage! echoed the man; I don't want courage, mother: I have as much as another, but-I never succeed. »

་

And never will, while you doubt and hesitate. ▪

"I don't hesitate,» said the man, somewhat roused and excited. I am ready at all times, and, Per Cristo! I don't want the will. Dio buono! have I not waited and watched almost day and night, for the last two months? have not I walked the valleys, and climbed the mountains early and late? have not I lain hid day after day, and night after night, in the bushes, and in holes, like a wild beast? When have I slept in the capana before? when changed my dress? what have I eaten? and, for how many hours at a time have I fasted? Cold, and wet, and hunger, are not new to me; but, with sorrow and disappointment gnawing at my heart, they are hard to bear. Here the man paused; but, in a moment after, continued, «Maladetto! have not I dogged the steps of of that huge scoundrel for weeks together, and followed him for many and many a weary mile, without once finding the opportunity I sought? When I have had my gun, he has never separated from his companions; if I had fired, they would have fallen upon me; I could not have escaped. When I was without it, every opportunity was offered me. I might

have shot him through the heart: a thousand curses on him! » Then, lowering his voice and his eyes to the ground, he added, Attack him singly with the knife-I dare not!»

The mother of Gaetano, who had taken his hand at that part of his harangue where he spoke of his privations and endurance, here dropped it, and entered the hut.

For a minute the young man stood mute, looking down, as if a feeling of shame oppressed him. Presently he stood erect, his eye brightened, his nostril dilated, his chest heaved, and, elevating his voice, he called upon the woman to come forth from the hut; and, the moment she made her appearance, he said, in a resolute tone.

that

Mother! the murderer of your children dies to-day, or your son. Per Dio! said he, pointing to the sun, bright fire shall never shine again upon us both. Then, turning, as if about to enter the capana, he asked, Where is the gun, mother, and the bullets you cast for me; my patroncina, and the powder-flask. By heavens! I will eat nothing, nor will I rest or sleep, until that monster—— »

Here the woman, who had listened with apparent satisfaction to the desperate resolve of her son, laid her hand upon his arm, to arrest his attention, stooped down, and looked through an opening of the hut. Hush! said she, here is Giobbe returned; he brings the things. I told you he would get them, and she hurried forth to meet the boy, who carried a bundle, tied up in a coarse handkerchief.

The boy immediately began to relate what had happened to him, and what had detained him, at the same time searching his pocket for something which the woman had directed him to demand, and for which she stood waiting with evident anxiety.

• Eccoli-prete," said the little fellow, trying another, and pulling aside the guarda machia--the goat-skins that covered his thighs. I know I ought to have it somewhere, if I have not lost it. »

"

« Lost it!» exclaimed the woman; "it were better you had lost yourself! »

Padrona mia!» muttered the boy, his colour coming up