numents raised by the piety of relations, or by the republic herself, in expiatory gratitude over the ashes of those to whom she was ungrateful in their lives. One is filled with religious awe on entering this temple-the lofty domes and arches-the many coloured panes through which the rays of the sun penetrate with difficulty-the mixture of Gothic and Roman architecture-the statues which repose on the monuments-the tombs adorned with greater or less magnificence-all tend to fill the mind with solemn thoughts. The innumerable tablets which cover the walls are the noblest fasti of Venetian history.

On one of them is inscribed the name of Tomaso Mocenigo-that wisest of the princes of the republic-who, in the most sublime moment of his life, recommended conciliation and peace to his fellow citizens.

On another it is recorded how Antonio Venier-famed for his civil and military virtues-showed a striking example of stoical firmness, in punishing his own son, guilty of youthful disorders.

The equestrian statue of Orsino, Count of Pitigliano, recals the dangers of the League of Cambray-when the venerable Doge Loredano, whose ashes lie not far off, was the only one, amid the universal dismay, who did not despair of the public safety.

The mausoleum of Andrea Vendramin is a surprising piece of Venetian sculpture.

The news that Constantinople had fallen into the power of Mahomet II., hastened the death of Giovanni Mocenigo, who lies near it.

The tomb of Bragadino contains nothing but his skin; that skin which, torn from him with unheard of cruelty, when the capital of Cyprus yielded to the Turks, was filled with straw, and abandoned to the indecent depravity of the populace. Redeemed afterwards with gold from the barbarians, it was interred in the church of St. Giovanni e Paulo.

But it is before the tomb of Carlo Zeno that we stand with the most respect and admiration. He was at once the Themistocles and the Scipio of the republic-his history is a proof how much of virtue and patriotism may dwell in a human heart, and how much ingratitude there was in the character of the aristocracy.

The life of Carlo Zeno was entirely devoted to the defence of his country. Forty wounds told of his deeds of arms. Venice was proud of this great man; she confided in him in all her dangers; but at the very time she profits by his devotion, she does not dissimulate that he is considered too great to be raised to the head of the state. Not contented with this, she embittered his life by unjust persecutions.

Zeno had lent money to the fugitive and unhappy Prince of Padua. This sum is repaid to him. In the eyes of the government, which sought a pretence for suspicion, this is perchance the reward of some treachery! The man who had commanded the fleets of the republic for half a century-the most illustrious of her captains-the most generous of her defenders, Carlo Zeno, already seventy years of age, is condemned to two years of exile!

The magnanimous old man withdrew to Cyprus, where the king,

Lusignano, besieged in his capital, was about to sink beneath the arms of the Genoese. These implacable enemies of the power of Venice ceded humbly for the second time to the fortune of Zeno; Lusignano blessed his deliverer, and Venice received the recalled exile in triumph.

We bid farewell to the ancient Mistress of the Seas, in the midst of the sepulchres of her great men.

THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD.

FROM th' twilight we borrow

Fit solace for sorrow,

When the aged and weary lie down in their west:
And the sunset in splendour

Is touching and tender,

Where the dews of our sorrow fall warm on their rest.

But mighty's the anguish

Where beauty must languish,

And the young from the young in life's morning are riven;
When the dear spell is broken

Of vows fondly spoken,

And the form is recalled that in rapture was given.

Oh, vainly we linger

Where silence her finger

Has laid upon lips that no more may unclose :
Where sad leaves are sighing,

Where blossoms are dying,

O'er the young and the lovely in mortal repose.

The form that came lightly,
Like morn breaking brightly,

With hopes as from Eden, all faded and o'er:
The presence endearing,

The smile that was cheering,

And step that was music, are with us no more.

RICHARD HOWITT.

DECEPTION.'

A TALE.

BY MRS. ABDY.

I QUITE prepared myself for the certainty that Aubrey would fall in love with my young guest, and I looked forward to the circumstance with pleasure. I was aware that whenever he loved he would love ardently and intensely, and I had never seen any one whom I would have embraced with unmixed satisfaction as a daughter-in-law, till I beheld Blanche Tracy. We walked and rode together in the mornings, and in the evenings we read, played, or sang; every day seemed to render more striking the congeniality of habits and tastes between these young people: there was a difference in their dispositions; Aubrey was, like myself, warm in his feelings and passions; Blanche was singularly tranquil and gentle. But I knew the evils of strong passions, and I rejoiced that the tender and fragile girl in whom I took so deep an interest was spared from their tyranny.

Aubrey revealed his sentiments to me when he first became conscious of them, and I approved and encouraged them. I may safely say that I felt no portion of that mean jealousy often entertained by a mother towards the chosen of her son. Blanche's love for retirement and for intellectual pursuits seemed to afford a decided earnest of his happiness with her. They would have enough for competence in quietness and seclusion, and the health and spirits of my dear son need not be exposed to the contact of a rude and unfeeling world, with which he was unfit to contend. Aubrey, however, expressed himself exceedingly doubtful concerning the reciprocal affection of Blanche, and at his request I undertook to speak to her on the subject. She listened to me in silence, her colour slightly, but only slightly, deepening; and at the conclusion of my words, lifting up her soft blue eyes to me with a calm and steady gaze, she said, "I will tell you the truth, dear Lady Ellerton; I do not think I am formed for love—that is, the love of which we read in poems and romances; I am naturally quiet and composed; neither the troubles nor the pleasures of life have that strong effect on my mind which I perceive they have on the minds of others; but I entertain the truest friendship and esteem for your son, and if his happiness depend upon me, I should be most ungrateful to you and to him if I could neglect to promote it by every means in my power."

This speech did not quite please me: I saw that my cherished Aubrey was not loved as I considered he deserved to be loved, but I fully coincided in the opinion of Blanche that she was incapable of any violent attachment, and I reflected that Aubrey's nerves and spirits might probably be subjected to painful trials of excitement, had he fixed his choice on a woman of feelings as warm and sensitive as his own. Blanche added, that duty to her mother must be her first consideration, and I immediately waited on Mrs. Tracey, to make 1 Continued from vol. xxii. p. 335.

known to her the events of the morning. I had not anticipated the least disapproval from her; the younger son of an earl, I should have thought, would have been welcomed by her with rapture as a son-inlaw, but, to my great astonishment, she received my proposal very coolly.

"The young couple would have but a very small income," she said, “and it was of little use to marry into a noble family without having the means of living in a style of equality with them; indeed, to confess the truth, she had noticed the Hon. Mr. Neville's attentions for some time, and had written her particular friend Lady Barlow word of them, and Lady Barlow had said, in her last letter, that she sincerely hoped she would not suffer Blanche to throw herself away in such a manner, since her exceeding beauty and good introduction were quite sufficient to entitle her to expect the union of rank and wealth in a husband."

I was greatly displeased with this speech; angry with Lady Barlow for her interference in my affairs, and incensed at the idea that any one could be said to "throw herself away on my precious Aubrey. I merely told Mrs. Tracey that I was sorry I had troubled her, and took a proud and distant leave of her. Blanche, I was aware, would be perfectly quiescent and resigned to her mother's will, and I trusted to be able to prevail on Aubrey to reconcile himself to the disappointment, and quit Hastings with me immediately; but his affection for Blanche seemed to have taken a stronger hold on his heart than I had surmised; he assured me that he believed his life to depend on the success of his suit, and I had been repeatedly and earnestly enjoined by the physician at Hastings, as well as by Dr. Ferrars, to suffer nothing to agitate and grieve him, if I could by any means prevent it. I was quite undecided what course to pursue, when Mrs. Tracey entered the room. The cold hauteur with which I had received her answer on the subject of my son's addresses to her daughter had, it appeared, worked a much more favourable effect on her mind than any arguments or entreaties could have done. She felt that the friendship of a countess, and the love of an earl's son, were not to be rashly cast away, and she came to propose that the young people should be allowed to associate together on terms of friendship for three months, that love should be a proscribed subject between them during that time, and that the world should not be acquainted with the probability that their intimacy might terminate in a union. At the end of that period, she said, she would give her consent, if both the parties still continued to wish it. There was something that hurt my pride in her patronising and parading manner of making her concessions; but Aubrey received them with transport: it was impossible, he said, that three months should make any alteration in his feelings, and Blanche ⚫ more cautiously said that she did not conceive it probable they would create any change in hers. I was very ready to comply with Mrs. Tracey's wish for secrecy. I felt that Lady Barlow would be delighted to circumvent any wishes of my son or myself, and my conscience did not reproach me for concealing the attachment in question from Lord Ellerton, since he had repeatedly told me that if Aubrey could marry a well-educated, amiable young woman with a moderate portion, he

thought that he would be much happier, living on his small estate in peace and retirement, than he would be in a more elevated sphere. Two months of perfect happiness to Aubrey ensued. Although he did not address Blanche as a lover, he felt quite sure that, at the stipulated time, she would permit him to do so. She, on her part, treated him with all the placid tenderness which an affectionate sister would show to an only brother. Her mother frequently reminded her that she was still free and disengaged, but she did not appear to have the smallest wish to avail herself of her freedom. I should have felt more happy than I had been since my fatal transgression, if Aubrey's health had been fully established; but the consumptive symptoms still occasionally evinced themselves, and the physician told me, that were he, by any undue exertion or excitement, to rupture a blood-vessel, he greatly feared that the consequences would be fatal. There appeared little prospect, however, of his exposure to any great trial, either of body or mind, for Blanche was as watchful as myself in dissuading him from any imprudent exertion which might be prejudicial to him, and her serene and tranquil temper was a safeguard against any of those irritating disputes which sometimes take place even between attached lovers.

My happiness was soon disturbed by a visit from Lady Barlow, who told me that she had come to pass a few weeks at Hastings, principally to enjoy the society of myself and Mrs. Tracey. I felt a foreboding that her arrival would work woe to my poor boy, and my fears were corroborated when she informed me that it was the intention of my son, Lord Montford, to pass two or three days with me, that he might personally inform himself of the health of his brother.

The next morning Lord Montford arrived, and, with his usual frankness, told me that although he was very glad to find Aubrey improved in health, he should have been satisfied with hearing of it by letter, had not Lady Barlow absolutely tempted him to come by assuring him that a perfect prodigy of female beauty was on visiting terms at my house." Have I been rightly informed ?" said he, addressing Aubrey; "is this all-conquering Blanche Tracey actually a ninth statue' worthy of being transposed to a niche in the peerage ?"

Aubrey turned pale and bit his lip, but merely replied, that Miss Tracey was indeed uncommonly lovely, and changed the conversation. The next day, Lady Barlow, apprehensive, I suppose, that I should avoid introducing Lord Montford at Mrs. Tracey's, called, and volunteered to introduce him herself. It is scarcely necessary to say that Mrs. Tracey was in raptures with her visiter, and he, on his part, was no less enchanted with the beauty of Blanche. A succession of invitations ensued. The presence of a young nobleman at a wateringplace is a great stimulus to gaiety. The three days mentioned as the term of his visit passed, a fortnight elapsed in addition, and he was still at Hastings. When I wished for Blanche's society in the morning, she was always engaged in some riding or sailing party, of which Lord Montford formed one; and when I invited her in the evening she generally excused herself on the plea of being obliged to attend her mother to the house of some one of their gay acquaintance, who, of course, delighted to extend her hospitality to a popular and handsome young viscount.