the heads of the murdered republicans who had fallen by their hands. For many days the devoted city remained in the power of these furious tigers, while in every street and square scaffolds were erected for new victims-and all suspected of liberal sentiments were butchered without mercy. When the king returned to Naples, he sanctioned all these enormities, and rewarded Cardinal Ruffo with a large income, and the title of Prince! While the celebrated Lord Nelson, the English Commodore, was executing the noble Neapolitan Admiral, Caraccioli; while he was rejoicing over the misfortunes of the country, and degrading his name and rank by his infamous. amour with Lady Hamilton, the ministers of the king, and the terrible royal police were persecuting the suspected republicans in the most barbarous manner. Among these martyrs of freedom, and of patriotism, was Eleonora Fonseca, the first Italian woman of the age. We shall not farther stain our pages with the name of Emma Lyon Hamilton-the most degraded of English women, but leave her to be judged by an impartial posterity. Let us see how Eleonora Fonseca was rewarded for her talents, and her exertions in the cause of humanity. When a republican government was established in Naples, all the talented minds became editors and public writers. Eleonora established a small daily paper, for the diffusion of knowledge among the common people, for preaching the true principles of the gospel, and for the support of the sacred cause of freedom. Among the admirers of this noble and high minded woman, was the great Metastasio, and many others not less gifted than this celebrated poet. She also established free public schools for the lower classes; in a word, she was the idol of the people, the honor and example of her countrywomen. When the king returned to his throne, he caused this admirable women to be arrested, and condemned to die by the hands of the public executioner. In this situation, she was superior to her misfortunes-and the day before her death, was cheerful and happy, refusing to confess, and saying to the priest, that she had done her duty in a just cause that she had nothing to communicate to any one but the Saviour of all-to the God-man who laid down his life for the redemption of mankind. When the melancholy procession

left the prison for the scaffold, Eleonora walked toward it with smiling courage, asking only for a cup of coffee, and looking round on the spectators, with pity and regret for their misfortunes. As she ascended the scaffold, the executioner trembled before this noble woman, and approached her with sorrow and tears. "Do your duty," she said calmly, "and satisfy your blood-thirsty master." She then turned toward the assembled multitudes, whom she addressed in the most touching manner. "My brethren," she said, "weep not for me, but for your own misfortunes. This scaffold is not a place of fear or sorrow to me, but of hope and glorious triumph. One day, a monument will be found here, to commemorate your martyrs and real friends. To-day you are ruled and blinded by tyranny-to-day they make you cry, 'Long life to kings, and down with our liberty and country !'-but the day of just vengeance will come, and then you will know who were your friends and your enemies. Remember that the blood of republicans is the seed of republics, and sooner or later, a republic will be founded in the city where I die." She would have proceeded, but her voice was drowned by the noise of a hundred drums, and in an instant the heroic Eleonora was no more. Her mangled body was exposed to the populace, but her soul had ascended to heaven, where she bows before the throne, with her brethren who suffered in the same noble Eleonora Fonseca was an Italian woman-she lived and died for her beloved and unfortunate country. Praise and eternal remembrance to thee, exalted and admirable woman— thy virtues shall live in our hearts while one son or daughter of Italy is found to cherish the memory of the past, or to hope for the future redemption of our beautiful father-land.

cause.

WOMAN.

"Not she with traitorous kiss the Savior stung,
Not she denied him with unholy tongue-
She, when apostles fled, could dangers brave-
Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."

ORIGINAL.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE.

BY MRS. A. B. HYDE.

ROBED for thy bridal, virgin flower,

They look on thee with love and pride;
And prayers that heaven may shield and guide
Are breathed for thee this hallowed hour;

O, fervent, fervent are those prayers,
Thou nursling plant of fondest cares.

Life's crowning bliss awaits thee now;
Yet ere thy tremulous lip hath prest
The golden cup of richest zest,
A passing shadow dims thy brow,
For thou of those dost think to-day
From whom that cup was dashed away.

Bright flowers from the same parent stem,
This festal hour they do not grace-
Void is those lovely sisters' place

In the warm hearts that cherished them;
The mourning robe not laid aside
For her who was a plighted bride.

Thy childhood's friend, and where is she?
They dressed her too in white array—
There came for her a gathering day,
The early loved and won like thee;
With tearful eyes, a stranger crowd
Gazed on the sleeper in her shroud.

But brilliant is thy bridal eve,

And bright the promise of thy morrow—

Then, though thou wear'st the trace of sorrow,

With grateful heart the good receive:

Go, in thy distant city home,

To seek a city yet to come.

And deem the chastening kindly giver,

Which touched with grief thine early years;

So earthly joy, baptized in tears,

Shall not allure thy heart from heaven;
Nor, mid the blessings of thy lot,

He who bestows them be forgot.

THE CLOUDED NEW YEAR.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

"I wish you a happy New Year," said Mary Anable, with a very sweet smile, adding by way of emphasis, a warm kiss to the pale cheek of her widowed mother. A tear, as she returned the caress of her daughter, was the only reply made by that mother.

Mary soon made arrangements for their morning meal, and when it was over, and the blessing of God had been sought, sat down to her sewing, while her mother, too feeble to labor, half reclined in her easy chair.

"I wish," said she, "that my daughter would lay aside her work, and go out and take the fresh air. The sun shines brightly; and it cannot be very cold."

"I am very well, mother," replied Mary. "It is necessary that this piece of work should be done to-day.

Perhaps I shall finish it in time to take a short walk before nightfall.” "Will any one call here to-day?"

"I think not. The ladies of the village are adopting the practice of remaining at home, and receiving calls, and gentlemen will not be likely to find their way here."

"It was not always so."

"It is no matter."

This last remark of Mary was made with a smile so sweet that even the wan lips of her mother could not refuse to respond to it.

Mary plied her needle, while her mother closed her eyes and thought of the past. A few years before, and her husband was living, and they were possessed of all that was necessary to their comfort. A tasteful dwelling, and a fertile farm, affection, health, contentment, the means and disposition to relieve the suffering, were theirs. Death came and took the husband and father to his rest. Then came the legal spoiler. A stranger laid claim to the homestead: the ministers of the law decided in his favor. The widow and her daughter were

constrained to take up their abode in a very humble dwelling, and to supply their wants by the labor of their hands. Previous to her father's death, Mary had enjoyed the best advantages for the prosecution of study, which was her delight: but when their calamity came, she laid aside her books without a murmur, and engaged in daily and almost incessant toil.

Mrs. A. soon became unconscious of the sorrow which a review of the sad past awakened. She fell into a gentle slumber. Mary paused from her work, for a moment, and gazed upon the pale face of the sleeper, once so fresh with health, so radiant with affection. A tear dimmed her eye, as she marked the change which had passed upon her, and thought of the greater change which so soon awaited her. To what would her heart cling, when that wasted form should be laid at rest in the narrow house? Her labors and anxieties might be less, but what are they, to loneliness of heart?

Mrs. A. awoke. Her eyes met those of her daughter, who was slightly embarrassed as she resumed her work.

"My poor Mary, what will you do when I am gone? I know I am but a burden to you, but”—

Mother, I entreat you not to speak again of being a burden. I had rather you would charge me with being ungrateful."

“I know that your heart never regards any thing as a hardship which it does for those you love. My dear, I shall, I trust, soon be with father: your will be left to pursue your pilgrimage alone."

: you

Again she closed her eyes, and was silent, while a few tears coursed down her hollow cheeks.

66

I need a stronger faith," said she. "I have tried to commit you to the Lord, and to feel sure that you will be provided for. It must be that our present trials shall work together for good, but I need faith."

Mary laid aside her work, and kneeling beside her mother's chair, offered a prayer for faith-a prayer which breathed confidence into the mother's heart.

The morning wore away. Numbers were seen passing who had been accustomed to visit them in other days. No knock