and sought in foreign travel and the pursuit of literature to dissipate the inquietude which was consuming him; but still the image of Laura haunted him through all his wanderings, and inspired that poetry whose purity, fire, and tenderness, have been the admiration of the world. He returned to Avignon, but again fled from the presence which was so dear to him, and sought in the solitudes of Vaucluse, to regain the peace which he was never to find. Shut in from the whole world by the rocks and hills, he found that solitude was "no cure for love;" through that sweet valley, among its shades and by its fountains, he sung the praises of Laura. And thus years passed on. It was during this seclusion that he got Simon Memoni, a pupil of Giotti, to take Laura's likeness. So delighted was the artist with the beautiful subject that the same lovely face was recognized in several of his pictures of saints and angels. On the 24th of August, 1340, Petrarch received two letters, each with an offer of the laurel crown; one from the University of Paris, the other from the Roman Senate; he decided on accepting it from the latter. He valued the honor as the meed of his celebration of Laura; all selfish considerations were lost in the one desire that the lover of Laura should be renowned and distinguished. The feelings with which Laura must have heard of the honors paid to the one so long and so devotedly attached to her have not been described, but they may be conceived. Thirteen years had now passed since they had first seen each other. When Petrarch and Laura met, time and care had wrought their changes in both. Petrarch's locks were already sprinkled with gray, and the animation of his countenance was saddened by sorrow; the bloom of girlhood had passed from Laura, and the traces of melancholy which an unhappy lot had left were but too visible; but all the tenderness and sympathy of other days remained. The jealous disposition of M. de Sade prevented Petrarch's being received at his house, but they often met and conversed together; and Laura would sing for him those songs to which he had so often delighted to listen; there was a tender sympathy in this intercourse, soothing to both. Petrarch's allusion to their last meeting is very affecting; he found her, as he describes, in the midst of a circle of ladies; her whole air betokened dejection, and the sorrowful look with which she regarded him, and which seemed to him to say, "Who takes my faithful friend from me?" made an indelible impression on him-his heart sank within him; and they seemed to feel at that sad moment that they were to meet no more. In the following year the plague broke out; Petrarch, who was at Parma, heard that it had reached Avignon; he was haunted by the recollection of the last moments that he had passed with Laura; it seemed to him as if the hand of death had been on her already. The most cruel forebodings tortured him by day and by night; his dreams represented her as dying or dead.

The dreaded news reached him-Laura was dead! An attack of the plague had carried her off in three days; she had died on the anniversary of that day on which they had first met. In all the bitterness of his grief, he recalled all that had passed at their last meeting; the melancholy solemnity of her adieu seemed to his memory as that of one on the confines of eternity; every kind word she had ever spoken, every kind look she had ever given, was dwelt on with passionate fondness; and the hope, the belief, that he had been dear to her was the only thing which could soothe. His dreams previously to her death appeared to his imagination mysteriously linked with that event; he has most touchingly described one of these visions, when he believed her pure spirit was permitted to visit and comfort him. His pathetic lamentations were heard throughout the world with the deepest sympathy, and wrung the heart of many a one who had in happier days shared "sweet counsel" with him.

He

The misfortunes of Torquato Tasso commenced in his early childhood; he was but eleven years old when political events obliged his father to quit Naples, and seek refuge in Rome. It had been settled that Torquato should follow him. The banishment from home, and from a mother on whom he doated, were sad trials. Some lines of touching tenderness commemorate the parting, and show how bitterly it was felt. They were never to meet again; in eighteen months after they parted she died. was indeed a child that must have been regarded with the fondest tenderness and pride. To wonderful acquirements for his age, were added what can never be acquired-a feeling heart, and poetical genius of the highest order, which in all his wanderings, in all his trials, had magic influence to charm a world which had nothing but misfortune for him. His mother best knew how much his sensitive nature required the tranquillity of a home, and the sympathy and endearments of those who loved him. But his lot was to be cast among strangers, and some among them proved implacable enemies. A life of stranger vicissitudes is scarcely to be met with; sometimes courted and caressed, the companion of princes; at other times wandering in almost extremity of want; inspired by a sacred love of liberty, yet condemned to long years of the saddest captivity; with charms and graces to win the love of the fairest and the best, yet destined to feel all the pangs of a hopeless passion! A being more to be admired and more to be pitied than Tasso surely never existed. He was but twenty, when he received the most flattering office of employment from Cardinal Luizi d'Este, brother to the Duke of Ferrara, who was anxious to secure the services of one possessed of such genius. Though a connection with the D'Este family opened a brilliant prospect for a young man, yet the friends of Tasso, dreading for him the dangers of a court, endeavored to persuade him to decline the proposal; but it was too flattering to be

refused, and he hastened to Ferrara, in compliance with the Cardinal's wish, who received him with every mark of distinction, and on occasion of his being appointed legate to France, introduced him at the French court, where he was received in the most flattering manner by Charles the Ninth, who was a warm admirer of his poetry. At Ferrara, Tasso became acquainted with the sisters of the Duke, who, intellectual and accomplished, could appreciate the gifted poet. His hours passed delightfully in their society. He has described the effect of his first interview with these fascinating ladies, in a rhapsody given to Tirsi, the character meant to represent himself in his "Aminta," in which the terms of goddesses, sirens, nymphs, minstrels, and luminaries are liberally bestowed, and show at least that the young poet was intoxicated with delight in their presence. On their parts they enthusiastically admired him and his poetry. But there was one among them eminently attractive, whom he soon loved with all the passionate earnestness of which his ardent feelings were susceptible. Many of Tasso's biographers say that she was not insensible to the varied graces of the youth; in truth, his personal advantages, his rare accomplishments, and, above all, the enthusiasm of genius, so captivating and so winning, made him a dangerous companion for the young princesses. Leonora was the youngest of the three sisters, and just nineteen when she and Tasso met. The princesses interested the Duke of Ferrara in his favor, and he appointed him to a situation in which he was exempt from duty, that he might devote himself exclusively to poetry. There was a handsome salary annexed, and apartments in the ducal palace. An inmate under the same roof with Leonora, the predilection which the young people felt for each other could not but increase. Confessions and vows may have passed between them, or Leonora's heart may have kept its own secret; the delicacy of Tasso's affection is clearly proved by the mystery which rests on those passages of his life in which she was concerned; for while allusions expressed with infinite tenderness, found throughout his poetry, discover the state of his own feelings, there is not one word which can furnish a suggestion relative to hers. He had ventured, in accordance with the custom of the times, to celebrate her praises in verse; this, or some other circumstance, awakened the suspicions of the Duke; the intercourse of Tasso with the princesses was abruptly terminated, and they were not suffered to meet. The duke, to put an end to any vague hopes which he might entertain, pressed Tasso to marry, and suitable matches were proposed and declined. He withdrew for some time to Rome; on his return he felt that he was incessantly watched, and his sensitive nature could ill brook the want of confidence which this betrayed, and he left Ferrara again and again, wandering, while absent, reckless and restless, from place to place; and then, impelled by his passion for Leo

nora, he would return, notwithstanding all his resolutions to the contrary, and regardless of the suspicions and machinations of the duke. His melancholy increased, and his imagination continually represented that plots and designs against him were in agitation; he became irritable, and one day, in a fit of excitement, drew his dagger on one of the attendants; but he was instantly disarmed, and was confined, by order of the duke, within the precincts of the palace-he was, in fact, a prisoner; but on expressing the regret which he felt for the intemperate act, the restraint was removed, and the duke affected to treat him with his former kindness; but Tasso's feelings were too quick to be deceived; he felt that he was the object of the duke's dislike and displeasure. Unhappy and irresolute, he sometimes wished to retire to a convent for the remainder of his life; but thoughts of his early home and happy days would often recur to his mind, and he longed to see his sister, the companion of his childhood, whom he had not met for years; and he resolved to leave Ferrara secretly, and find his way to her. His sister was a widow, living at Torrento with her two children. One evening in the summer, as she sat alone, having sent the children out to amuse themselves, a shepherd brought a letter, which he had been directed to put into her hand-it was from Tasso, and told that he was in the midst of enemies and dangers at Ferrara, and that, unless she could devise some means to save him, his death was inevitable. She questioned the messenger; his recital confirmed the intelligence, and represented the misery to which her brother was reduced in such terms, that, overcome with anguish, the lady fainted away. When she revived, Tasso discovered himself, and in those moments of affectionate recognition, he told her that he would never leave her for a world of which he had had too much; but his resolves were of short duration; Ferrara and its attraction could not be withstood. It was on the occasion of one of his returns from his restless wandering that he saw Leonora; the surprise and delight of being again in her presence were so great that he uttered an impassioned exclamation; this gave the duke the pretext for consigning him to St. Anne's Asylum for lunatics. "None but a madman would dare to act so!" was repeated over again. So hardly was poor Tasso dealt with for having indulged a hopeless, and it may have been an unrequited passion. At that time, and for very long after, the insane were treated as if they were not human beings, and the receptacles for them were under no regulations but those of caprice and cruelty. Tasso gives a most appalling account of his sufferings to his friend Gonzaga; it ends with these affecting words: "Above all, I am afflicted by solitude, my cruel and natural enemy, which even in my best state was sometimes so distressing that often, at the most unseasonable hours, I have gone in search of company. Sure I am, that if she who

so little has corresponded to my attachment, if she saw me in such a condition, and in such misery, she would have some compassion on me!"

Even this abode of wretchedness could not extinguish his poetic fire, and from his solitary cell poems of surpassing beauty found their way to the world from which he was utterly shut out; they were read in every circle, and the genius of the author extolled; but his misfortunes found no helping hand for seven long years: at length, through the intervention of his friend Gonzaga, he was released. During his confinement Leonora had died: sorrow and sympathy may have had their share in bringing her to an untimely grave. Cruelty had done its part; the young and beautiful sank beneath its weight, and the gifted mind had received a shock from which it never after thoroughly recovered. Tasso left Ferrara never to return; like the troubled spirit, he could find rest nowhere; but at length he took up his abode at Naples; his mother's property, which had long been unjustly withheld from him, was restored. The beauties of nature please when nothing else can, and they may not have been without their gentle influence on the stricken heart; but the haunts of childhood must have been mournfully contrasted with the dark scenes of after days. Tasso received an intimation from the pope, that a

decree had passed the senate, awarding the laure crown to "the greatest poet of the age;" "the honor," added the pope, "is to the laurel, and not to Tasso." Tasso accepted the honor with deep melancholy, and left Naples with a foreboding that he should see it no more. Though affliction had not extinguished a spark of poetic fire, it had not left a vestige of ambition; those that would most have delighted in his fame, and taken pride in his triumph, were in their graves, and he longed to be with them. The most gorgeous preparations were in progress, not only in the palace and capital, but in every street through which the procession was to pass. Tasso, with a prophetic spirit, declared the preparations were vain. Affliction, and his long confinement, had anticipated the work of years-the infirmities and languor of old age had overtaken him before their time; he fell ill-medical aid was unavailing he was apprised of the approach of his last moments; he received the intimation with perfect calmness-all earthly concerns were lost in heavenly contemplations, and the only crown to which he aspired was that unfading crown which awaits the blessed in heaven.

The crowds were still collecting-fresh flowers were gathered to weave into the garlands that were to deck his triumph; but ere they had faded away the poet was dead!

WE only repeat an established truism, familiar to us all, when we say that there is nothing which conduces so much to the health and consequent happiness of our fair friends as moderate exercise, or voluntary labor. We very naturally compassionate the condition of those who are compelled to work at some sedentary occupation from "early dawn" to the mid-watches of the night, for a mere subsistence, shut in from the freshness and healthfulness of the morning and evening breeze; from the brightness of the sun, and, at this season of the year, from the enchanting loveliness of nature. And yet, we can scarcely feel less compassion for those who voluntarily fall into ille, listless, and enervating habits, which not only destroy the buoyancy and elasticity of the mind, but absolutely deform the beauty and paralyze the energies of the body.

However unfashionable the sentiment may appear to some of our more than usually romantic and fastidious readers, we shall not hesitate to confess the fact, that we seldom meet with a more agreeable sight on a bright sunny morning, as we trudge to our daily labor through a fashionable part of the city, than to behold the daughters of some of our opulent citizens dusting the sills of the windows,

brush in hand, or, with broom in hand, sweeping the hall or parlor carpet. There is that in the bright eyes, and in the rosy flush of their cheeks, as they sparkle and bloom from beneath the closely drawn bonnet or hood, which to us are irresistible evidences of health and cheerfulness. There is something, indeed, in such a sight, not merely encouraging on account of the assurances it gives of the practical wisdom which pervades the whole family circle-the assurance that industry, comfort, peace, dignity, and purity of mind reign over all within the little republic-but it also affords us some assurance, amidst the prevailing strife for riches and aristocratic glory, of the perpetuity of all our great, yet simple republican institutions.

But besides a class of fashionables who may not choose to take regular exercise at the brush or broom handle, there is another unhappy class, the members of which, either through ignorance of, or inattention to the requirements of their bodies, or through forced mental labor while yet in their childhood, have in fact lost the muscular power to apply themselves to such voluntary labor as we have been describing. To both these classes, with whose necessities, infirmities, and prejudices we have been made somewhat

familiar, we propose to recommend for their consideration, and for their adoption, should they follow our advice, a series of practical exercises which, we verily believe, will have the most beneficial effects on their systems, whether diseased, deformed, or simply suffering from the absence of those physical energies, and that buoyancy of spirit, which exercise scarcely ever fails to reproduce in those who apply themselves to it prudently, in time, and with a will.

The annexed figures are Nos. 1 and 2 of a series, by means of which we shall endeavor to illustrate to our readers the use of an instrument formed of two elastic bands, which is furnished with a hook and handle, or a catch, and can be fixed upon any object, either in or out of doors, and be at once ready for use without delay, such as the corner of a table, the handle or frame of a door, window-sill, or bed-post. The hook acts somewhat in the manner of a "claw," or pair of "dogs," viz.: the greater the strain the firmer the hold, and out of doors can be attached to the top of a wall, railing, or branch of a tree. The exercises to be performed by it are varied, numerous, entertaining, and exciting. They may be increased to upwards of two hundred, and have been recognized in England, where the instrument was first introduced, as the most conducive towards the full development of the bodily frame, and the increase of muscular power.

In the future illustrations of this subject, we shall avail ourselves of the opportunity which will be af

forded of impressing upon our readers not merely the importance of the exercises it embraces, to the healthy, but to those who are laboring under diseases of the chest and spine. The information in relation to the origin and formation of such diseases will be

6*

drawn from unquestionable authority, and will be interesting to parents as furnishing the means of prevention, as well as affording to the afflicted the most probable moans of relief, if not of cure.

MANY a smiling face grew sorrowful, and many a bright eye filled with tears, as the little band of school-girls assembled for the last time in the old school-room at Woodside. It was a beautiful evening in June; the gentle breeze wafted through the open window the perfume of thousands of flowers, and seemed, as it played with their sunny curls, to woo those fair maidens out on the scented lawn and nto the balmy air which it was such luxury to breathe.

What charm could there be in that dark, low school-room, with its long rows of dusty desks, and quaint, three-legged stools, its sombre blackboards and frowning maps! The fair earth was smiling around them, glad voices were calling from without, and yet those young girls lingered there, silently and tearfully. And well might they twine their arms around each other; well might they cling to that dear old room, for,

"The morrow brings their parting,
And they may not meet again."

It was their last day at school. Hitherto they had been petted and cherished, and, though their school life had had its showers, it had also its brilliant rainbows and glowing sunshine. Now they were to go forth into the world, to think for themselves, to act for themselves, to be judged by themselves; and what wonder if they shrank from the dim future with timid hearts, and longed to be children again! Some there were, indeed, who had been building gorgeous castles, and picturing to themselves bright visions of womanhood; but even these forgot their gay dreams in the sad reality of the last day at school.

In the midst of the little group sat a lady in the meridian of life. Her sable dress and widow's cap betokened that she had seen sorrow; but there was such a sweet expression in her placid face, such a motherly look about her, that you would never in the world imagine her to be a schoolmistress. And in reality she was not a schoolmistress to the little group around her, not one among them ever thought of her as such. No, she was the dear "Aunt Susan," who soothed their troubles and shared their joys, their confidante in many a girlish freak, and their idolized teacher, not only from books, but in the wiser and better lore they gathered from the gay birds, the smiling flowers, and from their own young hearts.

On this evening, Aunt Susan had been talking to them even more earnestly and seriously than was

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her wont. She had been telling them of woman's high and holy duties, of her numerous and glorious rights, and she was urging them never to let the cares or the vanities of the world steal into their hearts, but to keep them forever bright and pure, and dedicate to their "Father in heaven." She told them of the "talents" which that Father had bestowed upon them all, and warned them not to suffer them to rust or tarnish.

"Oh! Aunt Susan," cried Fanny Wilmer, a merry hoyden of sixteen, "do tell each of us what our talents are; I am sure I don't know what has become of mine, if I ever had any. I guess I was forgotten in the general giving out."

"Your own hearts will tell you all, if you ponder a moment; but since some of you, like Fanny here, seem never to have thought of such things, I will remind you of them. I will begin with Fanny, as she is the youngest among you. Your talent, my Fanny, is your wit. Happily for you, as yet it has been exercised only in funny speeches and goodhumored rallying with your schoolmates; but when you go out into the world-I tremble for you, my Fanny. Your sparkling sayings and brilliant repartees will doubtless make you admired and flattered in the gay circle among which you will move, and you will be able to give the tone to that conversation in which you are so capable of shining. I implore you, Fanny, to keep that bright talent of yours unsullied. Ridicule the follies of your friends, if you will, but their weaknesses or deformities never. Above all, never employ your wit in ridicule of sacred things; never turn the gift against the Giver. Though it may appear pleasant, as it is so easy to let fall the bitter sarcasm or the sharp retort, remember, that if you will toy with the bright, edged tools, you must not expect to escape unscathed. And now, Fanny, a word as to the improvement of your talent. You have a gift which will enable you to cast sunshine on many a dark and dreary path, and to brighten many a gloomy day. You can chase care from many a loved one's brow, and can strengthen many a fainting heart by your cheering, happy words. Yes, Fanny, it is in your power to become either a universal blessing, or that dreaded and hated being, a female satirist.

There was a pause. The gay, light-hearted girl, subdued into silence by Aunt Susan's solemn manner and still more solemn words, drew a deep breath, as if half frightened at the thought of the good and evil destinies which waited her decision.

"And what is my talent?" said a silvery voice;