No. 1]

ADDRES S.

HITHERTO all the epochs of our national history have been marked by conquest, invasion, or defeat. The early British, the Roman, the Saxon, the Norman periods, are all partitioned by channels of blood. If we unseal the leaves of the past, we shall find scarce a single page on which War has not stamped its crimson signet. Whenever a cycle of our national destiny was complete, it was the sword that, clanging on the dial of Time, rang out an age of bloodshed, to usher in an age of oppression. But when the history of that approaching era, of which the present year is the beginning and the type, comes to be written; when the scholar and historian, weary with wading through records coloured only with desolation and strife, arrest their footsteps on the threshold of Eighteen Hundred and Fifty One, with fervour let the hope be uttered, that nought will meet their searching glances, save one long panorama of Peace!

No metropolis in the world, perhaps, presents such facilities as London for the reception of the great Congress now collecting within its walls. Throughout its myriad veins, the stream of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Its vitality is a marvel; it sends a throb through lands where little more than its name is known. That all nations recognised this fitness and supremacy, is evidenced by the unanimity and ardour with which they thronged to join in the great work. They felt that the great Capital of Industry was the worthiest temple wherein they might offer homage to the dignity of Toil.

But, grand as this scheme for an Exposition of the world's industrial resources undoubtedly is, there is still something wanting to render it complete-some echo of itself, which, long after it has passed away, will keep its spirit and memory living and active in the hearts of men. It is not enough that the physical products of distant lands should be brought

VOL. I

[PRICE 2d.

before our gaze for a brief while, to be then withdrawn, and, perhaps, forgotten. It is not enough that our brethren from the Tropics or the Poles should sojourn among us for a few weeks or months, and just when their national peculiarities were ceasing to be recognised in the manifestation of their virtues, hurry from our shores, ere they had been taught to love us, or we had learned to appreciate them. We want yet more than this; and that want it is our purpose to supply.

While the propagandists of the Industrial Exposition are busy in adorning their fairylike structure with all the useful and ornamental products of Universal Art, we purpose forming, at the same time, a rich mosaic of the mental labour of all Nations, and enshrining it in our pages for the benefit and instruction of the English people. It is true that the temple destined to contain our collection of intellectual treasures will be built only of humble print and paper; but these simple materials contain within them elements of durability that will ensure them an undecaying existence, long after the Crystal Palace and its wondrous contents shall have passed away for ever. The soul of a nation is reflected in the writings of its people; and if we would estimate the characters of our Foreign Brethren, and view their virtues and their failings, we must mingle in an intellectual companionship with them-we must open their books and read.

Such is the chief aim of this, our present undertaking: we design to present to the English Public what may emphatically be termed "A MAGAZINE OF THE LITERATURE OF ALL NATIONS;" which shall comprise, with other matter to be recapitulated hereafter, carefully selected Translations from the best Authors in most of the modern languages. We have given ourselves a broad field; but we trust that we shall glean by the way some rare seed, whose fruition will more than repay our toil. We shall have to combat prejudices

A

been strongly marked upon them, and marred their beauty. His dress was rich, and betokened the noble order to which he belonged; but there was a certain contemptuous carelessness in its disposition, which seemed to indicate on the part of the wearer a wish to disclaim silently against the foppery which so characterized the youthful nobility of Venice.

At a signal from his master, the gondolier stopped his boat at the foot of a broad flight of marble steps, which led from the water to the entrance of one of those stately palaces for which the aqua-city is so famous. This princely staircase was protected on either side by a gracefully-carved balustrade, of the same costly material, terminating at the top with two decorated pedestals, on whose tabular capitals reclined a pair of couched leopards cut from the purest marble. The front of the palace itself was richly adorned with entablatures, pilasters, and floridly-designed cornices; and throughout there prevailed that mixture of the Gothic and Morisco architectures, which is seen frequently in the residences of the nobility, and which originally arose from the early connexion of the Venetian republic with the nations of the East.

Bidding his gondolier await his return, the cavalier ascended the spacious stairs, and, passing under a Gothic archway, entered the vestibule of the palace. Two or three lacqueys, with silver leopards embroidered on their sleeves, who were lounging about, bowed low as the new arrival made his appearance. Beckoning one of them to him with an easy gesture of command, he demanded if his mistress was at home.

for the Venetian nobility, on account of the damp foundations, always reside on the second story--when a young man appeared on the lobby above, and commenced descending. An angry flush rose upon the check of our first acquaintance, and he muttered what sounded exceedingly like an imprecation. The youth, who unwittingly had caused this apparent displeasure, was singularly handsome. His eyes were dark blue, almost violet, and the long black lashes that shaded them added to their intellectual depth of expression. His high white forehead was framed as it were in masses of dark brown hair, that fell in luxuriant curls upon his shoulders; and his slight but wellmoulded figure breathed of mingled grace and activity. His costume was plain and unpre tending, and, without possessing any of the richness that characterized the other cavalier's attire, was still worn with a peculiarly attrac tive and becoming grace. Across his plain cloth doublet was slung, by a band of buff leather, a small portfolio, such as artists are accustomed to use.

"A late hour for sketching, sir painter!" cried the cavalier who had been addressed as "my lord," while with a languid step he ascended the broad stairs, fixing on the artist as he spoke a look full of contempt.

Not too late to take a course outline, though; will your lordship please to sit?" retorted the artist, returning the other's glance with one quite as scornful and defiant.

66

"No!" replied the cavalier, abruptly. "I do not need an announcement. I will seek her myself. Nay, you need not follow; I know the way well enough."

"But my lady is engaged!" said the man uneasily, placing himself before the intruder as he spoke, and evidently anxious to prevent his entry.

"Well, sirrah! and what of that?" demanded the cavalier, angrily; "do you not know me? do you dare dispute my right to enter here when and how I choose?"

"Oh no, signor!" replied the lacquey, deprecatingly; "everyone knows your lordship: but"; and he hesitated, as if seeking for

some excuse.

"But! sirrah, no buts for me! I will seek your lady, and by myself. Out of my way, slave!"

And darting a look at the unfortunate serv ant, that caused him to shrink cowering from his path as he would from an angry lion's, the imperious visitor strode past him into the interior of the palace. He had scarcely began to ascend the grand staircase which led to the apartments inhabited by the Lady Bianca

sharper sword that helps me out. You have already had a sample of the onc-would your lordship venture on a trial of the other?"

"No, no, signor artist!" laughed the other, scornfully. "The Count di Santi does not war with every youth who has a palette as his cont of arms. Besides," continued he, in a mocking tone, "I did not think that you painters ever fought with anything but your brushes."

64

The youth's eye flashed, and his hand involuntarily sought the small poniard that hung suspended from his girdle. He controlled his emotion, however, and replied, in a calm tone: You are right, my lord of Santi; we fight with them too, and win. With our simple brushes we poor painters cleave a pathway, where you with your sword of nobility would find it difficult to find a chink. But a truce to this mocking, signor. Let us speak to each

other as man to man."

"As artist to noble, you mean, Signor Aquila."

"As you please, my lord. I am quite willing to admit that you are no man, that you are a mere noble."

The Count di Santi bit his lips at the sarcasm; but remaining silent, he motioned the artist to proceed.

"For some months past. my lord," continued the youth, in a proud, deliberate tone

A belief still lurks in the bosoms of many intelligent people, that the literary productions of our Gallic neighbours are inadmissible within the pure portals of an English home. The exaggerated sentiments of Sue, the mystorious horrors of Souliè, the broad indelicacies of Paul de Kock, shall never be found to stain our pages. But to those who continue incredulous as to the existence of a class of pure French writings, we will recal the names of Alphonse Karr, Madame Reyband, Alfred de Vigny, Madame D'Arbouville, De Musset, Alphonse de Lamartine, and, though last, not least, the illustrious, eccentric, gifted, blundering, unscrupulous, wonderful Alexander Dumas!

From Germany, too, we shall cull many an unfading amaranth of thought. There are rich mines among the quaint, glowing fancies of the mystical Jean Paul; the shadowy, dream-like beauties of Uhland, whose ballads always seem as if they were chanted by the sea; and the sublimer heights of Goethe's philosophic splendour. Gazing further northward, familiar faces greet us. Hans Christian Andersen, the poet and dramatist of Denmark, bids us welcome, and offers to our cabinet of treasures the fruits of his natural and poetic fancy, and honest, quaint morality; while, from the midst of her Swedish hills and forests, Frederika Bremer sends to us her sweet and truthful tales of domestic joy and sorrow. Independent of other claims on our notice,

the excellence of American literature ensures it a considerable share of our attention. It will be almost sufficient to name some of our transatlantic-brethren to warrant the realiza. tion of our highest expectations. Dana, Bryant, Edgar Poe, Whittier, Longfellow-the earnest scholar and prophet of progress; Mrs. Child, whose writings have long been familiar in this country; Haliburton, whose shrewd drollery in the pages of the "Clockmaker" and the "Attaché" entitles him to a lasting niche in the libraries of England. These, and a host of others, whom we have neither time or space to particularize, present to us unfailing sources from whence we may draw refreshment for every variety of literary appetite.

Neither shall our English literature be overlooked in these foreign wanderings; we trust to be able to display in our pages native ore that need not fear comparison with the exotic wealth we have transplanted there. A considerable portion of each number will be devoted to original and selected English contributions; and it shall always be our aim to

present to our readers in this department such faithful pictures of social life as will tend to refine the feelings and elevate the heart.

We have endeavoured in this Address to lay our plans before the reader as fully as our limits will allow. Many features must necessarily be passed over in silence, and be left to develop themselves hereafter; but we trust, from the slight sketch we have been able to give, that the public will easily discern the necessity and utility of our design.

We do not desire to address ourselves exclusively to any class or age. It is our highest ambition to be universal: we aim at sharing the fireside with the young and the aged-the learned and the humbly educated. We would earn for ourselves that reputation for purity of purpose, and elevation of tone, that will permit us to range, unrestricted by parental interdict, among the youthful members of the home circle; and cultivate amongst all a love for healthy literature that, sooner or later, must shed a happy influence on all classes of the people.

[ORIGINAL.]

THE MISTAKEN HAND; OR, THE SUIT OF BLUE AND SILVER.

A TALE OF VENICE.

CHAPTER I.

THE moon was up, and the sky through which it rolled was beautifully clear and blue. A few white fleecy streaks of cloud streamed across the western heaven, seeming in the moonlight like silver broidering upon some azure mantle The waters of the Laguna were sleeping calmly. On their smooth surface the pale light shimmered and played like the smiles that steal over the face of a dreamer. The spires and palaces of Venice started up shadowy and ghost-like from out their depths, while above the rest shot up against the pure blue sky the lofty sombre outline of the Campanile. A few gondolas returning from the island of Murano flitted like night birds across the calm sea; and from out their curtained sides snatches of until they were drowned by the clear mellow wild music and joyous laughter rang merrily, voices of the gondoliers, who, propelling their barks with long poles, chanted every now and then some sweet fragment of their native poet. manned but by a single gondolier, glided At this hour it was that a solitary gondola, swiftly through the Canal Regio. Its only occupant was a man of about thirty years of age, who, with his mantle wrapped closely around him, reclined listlessly on the crimson rior. His features were regular, and might cushions that were scattered round the intehave laid claim to be entitled handsome, if a certain dark and sullen expression had not