to be opened, desiring Lorenzo to hand the countess in. Lorenzo obeyed, and then stepped back. "No," said the duke, "you shall not be separated from your bride; I shall ride in the other carriage." An hour and little more conveyed them to the palace, to which they were admitted by a private entrance. "Repair to your respective chambers," said the duke; "refresh yourselves, change your attire, and be ready to obey my summons. You shall be presented, as man and wife, to my friends and household." The duke kept his word. Before his friends and his household he acknowledged Lorenzo as the husband of the countess; and leading the way to the banqueting-room placed the one on his right hand and the other on his left, at the head of the table. The Prince of Milan had quitted the palace. The evening was a joyous one-dancing, | music-all the appliances and means of festivity. At length the bride, attended by her fair namesake, retired. The day dawned upon eyes which had never closed their lids with watching for one who came not. The morning was far advanced when a knock at the chamber door startled the countess. Hastily she inquired, "Who was there?" "Your uncle," replied the duke, entering as he spoke. The countess fixed on him a gaze of piercing scrutiny mingled with reproach. "I see," said he, "you guess the purport of my visit. 'Tis even so-your bridegroom is by this time a hundred miles from Padua." A groan-and senseless as a corse the bride lay stretched before him. The duke having summoned the attendants of the countess, and committed her to their charge, descended to the library and threw himself into a chair. There he sat the greater part of an hour, without once changing his position or lifting his eyes from the ground. Deep was his abstraction, and gloomy were his thoughts. What was their tenor may be guessed, when the blood fled from his face, as raising his eyes, upon hearing a slight movement in the chamber, they encountered the form of the bride. "Where your own wishes would have him, were they subject to discretion," was the duke's reply; "where he is satisfied that it is to his interest and yours to remain, until he can demand, with grace, enjoyment of the right which your rashness has unhappily given him." "Where is he?" she reiterated. "On his way to the frontier, to join the army of the states-to acquire honours, fast as he chooses to win them-to obtain promotion, rapidly as my interest can command it-in a word, to render himself more worthy of the title of your husband." The duke's eyes here met those of the countess, and steadily returned her questioning gaze. "In a day or two you will hear from him," he continued; "he will then himself attest the truth of what I tell you. The commission which I intended to present him with as the reward of his obedience, I have conferred upon him as a means of obviating, as far as possible, the disgrace of this alliance: with the single stipulation, that he makes no attempt to see you, until his merits, backed by my influence, shall have advanced him to a command." No comment did the countess pass upon the communication of the duke, except what a sigh might be thought to have uttered. She stood for a time regarding him, her brow slightly knit, a faint, tremulous movement upon her lips; then crossing her arms upon her breast, and lifting her eyes to heaven, turned from him and withdrew. For a month the countess obstinately declined all society, save that of her faithful namesake. By her she was made acquainted with the manner in which the duke became aware of her flight, with the confusion which followed the discovery; with the circumstance of the duke's having summoned her fair friend, who, aware of the importance of thoroughly exculpating Lorenzo, declared to the duke that the plot had been exclusively of her own contrivance, and had been put into execution and perfected without the most remote suspicion on Lorenzo's part that the countess was his bride and fellow-traveller. The countess, in her turn, related what had happened from the moment of alighting from the carriage till that of re-entering it. How danger, and conse "Where is my husband?" she solemnly in- quently caution, were for a time forgotten in quired. The duke did not reply, but rose, and drawing a chair towards the one which he had been occupying himself, approached her to conduct her to it she recoiled from the hand which he presented to her. "Where is my husband?" she repeated. the transports that succeeded Lorenzo's discovery of who was indeed his bride-how, at length, they bethought themselves of the necessity of flight-how they wandered till dawn broke in upon them-how fatigue overpowered them how sleep surprised them-her dismay upon perceiving the duke. The third week of the second month was approaching its close when a summons from the duke announced the arrival of a letter from Lorenzo. Hastily the countess descended to the saloon. She was astonished to find the Prince of Milan there; and her surprise was increased at learning that he was the bearer of Lorenzo's missive. He respectfully presented it, congratulating her upon the happy tenor of its contents. They were favourable indeed! Lorenzo had already gained a step: another one would bring him within a bound of the bright goal of his wishes. Nor was that all. The prince was charged with another commission, which, with the leave of the duke, he would execute. That leave was granted; and the unclasping of a small case of purple velvet displayed to the countess the breathing likeness of Lorenzo. The countess tremblingly snatched the costly present, half raised it to her lips, but, checking herself, deposited it in her bosom; and presenting her hand to the prince, would have permitted the kiss which he was on the point of imprinting upon it, had not a glance, which she accidentally cast towards the duke, discovered to her a smile of painful, yet indefinable meaning. Hastily she withdrew her hand, and, curtseying to the prince, retired. Accompanied by her friend, she ascended to her apartment. As soon as she had reached it she took the portrait of Lorenzo from her bosom and gazed upon it, then caught it convulsively to her heart, then kissed it and wept over it; at length she dried her tears, replaced the miniature, and taking her friend's hand, looked steadfastly in her face. "They would persuade me that it will be fair weather," she exclaimed; "but I know that a storm is gathering. God help me when it bursts! The sky looks clear, but the clouds are not away, but only lurking. The atmosphere is full of thunder; you cannot see it, but I feel it." "What mean you?" anxiously inquired the other. "We shall never meet again!" was the countess's reply. "We shall never meet again! His death, and not his exaltation, is what they seek. Unfortunate lover!-unhappy in loving! -more unhappy in being beloved! To possess me thou goest into the battle! There thou wilt win the plume; but it will wave, not in thy helm, but over thy bier! In seeking the good thou covetest, they know thou wilt be reckless of the bane, the chance of meeting which thou must encounter. Twill find thee! Thou wilt fall, Lorenzo! thou wilt fall! The | bridegroom shall mount a bier-the bride shall be a widow. The Prince of Milan already counts upon the day when he shall invite her | to other nuptials! Mark if I am not a true prophet," she said, as the duke entered the chamber. "I am come," said he, "with further tidings of good fortune, which would have greeted you earlier had you not so abruptly quitted the saloon. The general in command, a friend of mine, has charged himself with the care of your husband's fortunes. An important post in the enemy's lines is to be carried, and the honour of leading the assault will be conferred upon Lorenzo." The countess, for a moment or two, gazed upon her uncle with a look of piteous depreca tion, mingled with reproach. Suddenly the expression of her countenance changed, her brow became darkened, her eye flashed, her lips grew firmly compressed together. She folded her arms, and drawing herself erect, "It is murder!" she said, in a voice of ap palling solemnity. "I call on Heaven to witness-it is murder!" Then throwing herself upon the neck of her friend, she burst into an agony of tears. The duke made no reply, but, scowling, left the apartment. From that day week, a year did the sun rise and set, but light was a stranger to the mind of the countess. The sixth day from that on which she received her bridegroom's letter and portrait, the tidings of his death in battle were communicated to her. She heard the relation without shedding a tear; as she listened to it her reason became clouded. All that watchfulness and skill could do for her was attempted in vain; when, suddenly as it had deserted her, the native brightness of her mind returned. Her physicians declared that her recovery, should it ever take place, would be permanent. It was so: a tender melancholy, and a passiveness that readily granted compliance with aught that was demanded of her, were the sole re maining traces of her temporary insanity. She denied not her presence at the banquet, the ball, the chase; and the duke saw with satisfaction that she neither declined nor avoided the attentions of the Prince of Milan, who was constantly at her side. "A month or two longer," said he to himself, "and 1 may venture to propose him to her. My life upon it, she accepts him at last.” Two months passed over-two others were permitted to follow them, before he ventured even remotely to hint at a union with the Prince of Milan. She did not affect to misunderstand him. may be conceived to impart a foretaste of a purely spiritual existence. Her probationary term was at length complete. She saw the dawn of the day upon which she was to take the vow that would place an impassable partition between her and the world, and she smiled upon it. The duke, for that time, desisted from further importunity, but he soon renewed the theme. The attentions, too, of the prince became doubly assiduous, and although he had not yet the courage to trust his tongue with the direct avowal of his wishes, nevertheless he pleaded his passion with his looks. The demeanour of the countess suddenly changed.-she entered the church where her uncle the It was no longer passive. She obstinately kept her chamber, her fair friend, and a spaniel which she learned had been a favourite of Lorenzo's, her sole companions. Solicitations, commands, threats were disregarded. Nothing could draw her from her seclusion. The prince lost hope, the duke patience. From temporizing measures, he determined to have recourse to prompt and desperate ones. The hour of rest had arrived-the friends were upon the point of separating for the night, when a summons at the door attracted their attention. The countess answered it; a servant presented himself, and a casket and a key were placed in the hands of the countess. "From the duke," said the bearer, and retired. The casket was opened. It contained a miniature of the prince, attached to a necklace of noble brilliants, a wedding-ring, and a note, which the countess hastily unfolded. "The Prince of Milan, or the veil! Your decision to-morrow." Such were the contents of the paper. The countess threw herself into a chair, and sat for a considerable time in a state of perfect abstraction. At length she started from her reverie. Then taking a sheet of paper she hastily wrote upon it these two words "The Veil;" and folding it, placed it with the portrait and the ring in the prince's casket. The week following she entered upon her noviciate in a nunnery contiguous to Rome, of which her aunt, the niece of a cardinal, was the superior. Earnestly did she prepare herself for her dedication to Heaven; but no persuasion could induce her to discard the portrait of Lorenzo. "I am enjoined," was her constant reply, "I am enjoined to wean myself from things of earth. Earth has no property in him whom this resembles, to be united to whom I look towards those blessed realms whither you recommend me to direct my thoughts and wishes. The stronger my hope of that, the more must I be devoted to Heaven." Towards the expiration of her novitiate her mind attained to that state of holy calm which Attired in her most costly suit, set off with every ornament that the ingenuity of human vanity could invent-blazing with diamonds cardinal officiated. The soul-subduing ceremony began the vow was propounded to her, she was upon the point of repeating it, when a sudden uproar at the door of the church, attracting the attention of every one, put a stop to the rites. All was surprise and alarm! The uproar increased. “Let him in! let him in!" exclaimed a hundred voices all at once; at the same moment an emaciated figure, wretchedly attired, with the fragment of a chain hanging from one of his arms, rushed wildly up the aisle, and, throwing himself upon the steps of the altar, grasped firmly the feet of the cardinal. "Save me!" the wretch exclaimed; "I am an innocent man, doomed to die the death of the guilty. I fly to the altar of your God and mine for refuge. I appeal to that God and to you, his appointed servant, to save me from those who are thirsting for my blood, which they have no right to spill." Here the clamour at the door of the church was renewed with tenfold violence. The crowd was evidently resisting the officers of justice, who, determined upon forcing way, at last obtained an entrance, amidst hootings and execrations; and, headed by their chief, approached their victim, between whom and them the cardinal hastily placed himself, in an attitude that commanded obedience and brought those in pursuit to a stand. "His crime, signors?" with an air of overawing dignity, demanded the cardinal. "He is an offender, condemned for life to the galleys, who has thrice attempted his escape, and thereby forfeited his life," replied the chief. "So please you, give him up to us," demanded he, with an air of constrained respect. "Not yet," said the cardinal. "Retire into the vestry. Wait until the ceremony which you have interrupted shall have been concluded. You have my promise, from this place, that justice shall be done you. I charge myself with the custody of the man, and shall be answerable for his being forthcoming. Hence!" added he, in a tone of determined command, perceiving that they hesitated "Hence! or remain at the peril of your souls! -What means this?" continued he, observing that still they moved not. "Know you not what you do? See you not where you are? Impious-Lo, who is looking at you?" exclaimed he, pointing to the altar-piece-which was the crucifixion. The officers hung their heads, crossed themselves, bent their knees to the marble floor, and, rising, slunk away into the vestry. "Come, my child," said the cardinal, "let us perfect your espousals with your God. Meanwhile, unhappy man," continued he, addressing himself to the poor fugitive, "withdraw thou without the railing of the altarfor the present thou art safe. Withdraw!" he reiterated, perceiving that he was unheeded. "Hear you not?-What gaze you at?-What mean you?" successively, but to no purpose, interrogated the cardinal. The being whom he accosted had raised himself upon one knee, and with his hands firmly clasped, remained in that posture, intently contemplating the countess; oblivious apparently of the fate with which he was threatened -of the place where he was-of everything that was passing around him. "Poor wretch!" exclaimed the benevolent cardinal, "Misery and fear have bereft him of his senses. Remove him gently from the altar." The assistants of the cardinal approached the unfortunate slave, raised him without his offering any resistance, and conducted him down the steps; he all the while looking back, his eyes rivetted upon the fair votary of the shrine. "Come, my child!" said the cardinal, "come, let me make thee the happy bride of the cloister. Repeat the vow!" "Forbear!" exclaimed the slave, endeavouring to free himself from those that held him. The countess started, and for the first time bent an inquiring look upon the slave. "Poor maniac!" ejaculated the cardinal, "he knows not what he does! Hurt him not, but remove him to a distance." The assistants obeyed, but not without difficulty did they now execute the cardinal's commands. Passiveness was turned into furythe eyes of the slave seemed to start from their sockets-his limbs appeared to be suddenly endowed with supernatural strength. It was as much as the united efforts of the assistants could effect, to force him half-way down the aisle-nor that, until exhaustion, on his part, assisted them. At last he sank in "She is mine!" shrieked the slave, starting up, his frame animated with renewed energy, My bride, beyond my hope!-without my knowledge! Victoria!-Victoria!" continued he, his voice at the same thrilling, piercing pitch: "Remember you not, Victoria?-the flight!-the, pursuit !-the escape!—the discovery-the transport!-the overtaking!the return!-the promised nuptial couch-the couch which they compelled me to exchange for the noisome floor of the galley!" He stopped-he had not breath for more. The church was as still as a sepulchre, when a scream from the countess caused every heart to leap-turned towards her every eye. Her countenance was lighted up with intense recollection; she clapsed her forehead with both her hands, and stood for a moment or two, gazing in the direction of him who had spoken; then suddenly extending her arms, rushed down the steps of the altar, through the aisle, and throwing herself upon the neck of the slavethe assistants mechanically making way for her-sank lifeless into his arms-which had scarcely supported her for a minute when their master became equally insensible. Lorenzo and the countess found themselves they knew not how-alone. Long time they spake not, except with their eyes-or their hands, which, locked in one another, gave pressure back for pressure. "And had you renounced me, my bride." at length said Lorenzo, "when you determined to take the veil?" A smile of delicious sweetness played about the mouth of the countess, while slowly she drew Lorenzo's miniature from her bosom, and having first pressed it to her lips, presented it to him. He glanced at it; and catching the fair one to his bosom, strainingly held her there; nor was his embrace resisted or unre turned. The Prince of Milan, led by his passion for the countess, had lent himself to the duke's plans. The letter and the miniature were delivered merely to lull suspicion and give effect to future measures. The latter Lorenzo had sat for, at the suggestion of his rival, who, until the real intentions of the duke were put into execution, was instructed to pass himself for Lorenzo's friend. The cardinal was a man. For many a year the duke and he had not been upon terms. The honour of the family requiring that the affair should be hushed up as effectually as possible, matters were so contrived that it made but little noise. Where power can affect it, justice is speedily done. The slave returned no more to the galleys; his chains of iron were exchanged for bonds of silk. He was adopted by the cardinal, and in his friendship, and the love of the countess, found more than a solace for the sufferings he had undergone. WERE NA MY HEART LICHT. [Lady Grizel Baillie, born at Redbraes Castle, Berwickshire, 25th December, 1665; died in London, 6th December, 1746. She was the daughter of Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth, who became the first Earl of Marchmont. She married George Baillie of Jerviswood, whose father suffered death on account of his devotion to the cause of civil and religious liberty. George was himself obliged to seek safety in Holland, whence he returned to his native land in the train of William of Orange. Living in a period of much excite ment, Lady Grizel performed many acts of heroismwhilst her father was in hiding in the vaults of Polwarth Church, she managed to supply him with food; and on various occasions, when the lives of those who were dear to her were in danger, she succeeded in helping them and outwitting all the vigilance of the authorities. It was during her residence in Holland, that she wrote her songs; many of them she left unfinished, but a few of the most perfect were published in the Tea-Table Miscellany, and other collections of poetry. Her danghter, Lady Murray of Stanhope, wrote an interesting account of her life, which was printed in 1809 and again in 1822.] There was anes a May, and she loo'd na men: But now she cries, &c. When bonnie young Johnnie cam' ower the sea, He hecht me, &c. He had a wee titty that loo'd na me, She rais'd such a pother'twixt him and his mother, The day it was set, and the bridal to be: She main'd, &c. His kin was for ane of a higher degree, They said I had neither cow nor calf, His titty she was baith wylie and slee, His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow; His auld ane look'd aye as weel as some's new; But now he lets 't wear ony gate it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. But now he, &c. And now he gaes daundrin' about the dykes, The live-lang nicht, &c. Were I young for thee, as I ha'e been, ALADDIN. When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain ! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. |