THE VENETIAN GIRL. The sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had made happy. It seemed also by his looks as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow; but there was at times a deep-breathing western wind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were playing, however, on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary; but any difference from the usual apparel of their countrywomen appeared so to them; and crying out, "A French girl, a French girl!" they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence on the rude urchins. She had a boddice and petticoat on of different colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Any one else would also have thought her very ill, but they saw nothing in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they asked her to play. "Oh che bei ragazzi!" said she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice; "che visi lieti!" and she began to play. She tried to sing too, but her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, saying, "Stanca! stanca!"2 "Sing-do sing," said the children; and nodding her head she was trying to do so, when a set of school-boys came up and joined in the request. "No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. You are ill, a'n't you,-miss?" added he, laying his hand upon hers as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him; he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroller. or a lady straying from a sick-bed. "Grazie!" said she, understanding his look:-"troppo stanca: troppo."3 By this time the usher came 1 Oh what fine boys! what happy faces! 2 Weary! weary! 3 Thanks:-too weary! too weary! up, and addressed her in French, but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. "She is an Italian," said he, looking round with a good-natured importance; "for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking "Non he was speaking of the fair musician. dubito," continued the usher, "quin tu lectitas poetam illum celeberrimum, Tassonem; + Taxum, I should say properly, but the deparThe stranger did not understand a word. “I speak of Tasso," said the usher," of Tasso." "Tasso! Tasso!" repeated the fair minstrel."oh-conhosco-Tas-so; "5 and she hung with a beautiful languor upon the first syllable. "Yes," returned the worthy scholar, “doubtless your accent may be better. Then of course you know those classical lines ture from the Italian name is considerable.' "Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrosy piante D'antica selva dal cavallo-what is it?" There The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend :— "Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrose piante D'antica selva dal cavallo è scorta; Ne più governo il fren la man tremante, E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta." Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with a fortunate passage, for it was the favourite song of her countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had had; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl; "Italian French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on, like the hand she spoke of. "I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy who prevented her from playing. 'Montague," repeated the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. She put one of her hands in turn upon the boy's affectionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church was. "Yes, yes," cried the boy;-"why, she 4 Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. Oh-I know Tasso. 6 Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore knew my cousin :-she must have known him in Venice." "I told you," said the usher, "she was an Italian."-"Help her to my aunt's," continued the youth, "she'll understand her:-lean upon me, miss;" and he repeated the last word without his former hesitation. Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest having been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stranger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady who received her kindly, she exclaimed "La Signora Madre," and fell in a swoon at her feet. She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out that the stranger had known her son in Italy; and she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! Obedient!" said the patient; "obedient in everything: only the signora will let me kiss her hand;" and taking it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till she dropped asleep for weariness. thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. "And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, "he was an excellent boy,-the boy of my heart." When the stranger woke the secret was explained: and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it), was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours; and it was greatly on this account that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. "But you do not call your voice "You and your music a noise," said he, "do you, Rosaura? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever and reach home.” Rosaura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs. get better and better, signor," said she, "every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had?” "The best in the world," cried he, as he sat up in bed, he put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. "Pardon me, signora," said the poor girl to her hostess; "but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after:-almost as much as if it had been there." "And Charles felt that you did," thought his mother; "for he never told me the story.""He begged my pardon," continued she, "as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he might think of myself—it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter and yet such sweet tears! But he did not hear them: -no, madam, he did not know indeed how much I how much I-" "Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. Montague; "you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." "Oh, good God!" said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, "this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: "for I'll tell you, madam," continued she; "I do not believe you'll think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so; but I have had a long thought" (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke) "which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son.' Here she drew out a paper which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus:"This comes from the Englishman whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears that her sorrow will be still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love She was raised up as she wished, and after looking awhile with a placid feebleness at the hill, said in a very low voice-"Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, "O heavenly Father of us all, who in the midst of thy manifold and merciful bounties bringest us into strong passes of anguish, which nevertheless thou enablest us to go through, look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and innocent servant, the daughter that might have been, of my heart,—and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling bonds of mortality and be gathered into thy rest with those we love-do, dear and great God, of thy infinite merey; for we are poor weak creatures both young and old." Here her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness; and after remaining on her knees a moment, she rose, and looked upon the bed, and saw that the weary smiling one was no more. LEIGH HUNT. Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot | and death is upon me, even now; but lift me a ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her little higher on the pillows, dear lady, that I as a blessed tongue only can." "As soon as I may see the green ground of the hill." read this letter, madam, and what he said about heaven, it flashed into my head that though I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by trying and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim: but he knew as little of the contract as I; and I found that I could earn my way to England better and quite as religiously by playing my guitar, which was also more independent; and I had often heard your son talk of independence and | freedom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar from Venice all the way to England, and all that I earned by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven and thought he might see me. I have sometimes, though not often, met with small insults; but if ever they threatened to grow greater, I begged the people to desist in the kindest way I could, even smiling, and saying I would please them if I had the heart; which might be wrong, but it seemed as if deep thoughts told me to say so; and they used to look astonished, and left off; which made me the more hope that St. Mark and the Holy Virgin did not think ill of my endeavours. So playing, and giving alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighbourhood of your beloved village, where I fell sick for a while and was very kindly treated in an outhouse; though the people, I thought, seemed to look strange and afraid on this crucifix,-though your son never did, though he taught me to think kindly of everybody, and hope the best, and leave every thing except our own endeavours to heaven. I fell sick, madam, because I found for certain that the Signor Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was growing weaker and weaker; and her hostess would fain have had her keep silence; but she pressed her hand as well as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of voice to be allowed to go on, that she was. She smiled beautifully and resumed:-"so when-so when I got my strength a little again, I walked on and came to the beloved village; and I saw the beautiful white church-spire in the trees; and then I knew where his body slept; and I thought some kind person would help me to die with my face looking towards the church, as it now does SONG. WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAN AIR. I arise from dreams of thee And the stars are shining bright. To thy chamber window sweet. On the dark, the silent stream, Like sweet thoughts in a dream; It dies upon her heart, Beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass! On my lips and eyelids pale. SHELLEY. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.1 Years-years ago,-ere yet my dreams I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the County Ball: There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing; Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her eyes were full of liquid light; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, She talked,-of politics or prayers,— Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,Of danglers-or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets, By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal: My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a Dean, And Lord-Lieutenant of the County. 1 From the Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed: London: Moxon and Co. But titles, and the three per cents., And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, Oh what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locksSuch wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the Stocks As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand; She made the Catalani jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows: She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted; She smiled on many, just for fun, I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first-the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute.I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,—and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves;- And "Fly not yet"-upon the river; Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,-and then we parted. We parted; months and years rolled by; There had been many other lodgers; THE MARQUISE [George Sand (Madame Aurore Dupin, baroness Dudevant), born in Paris, 1st July, 1804, is acknowledged to be the greatest living novelist of France. She has produced a mass of romances, plays, sketches, criticisms, pamphlets, and political articles. One of her English critics says: "Of all modern French authors, George Sand has added to fiction, has annexed from the worlds of reality and of imagination, the greatest number of original characters-of what Emerson calls new organic creations. Moreover, George Sand is, after Rousseau, the only great French author who has looked directly and lovingly into the face of nature, and learned the secrets which skies and waters, fields and lanes, can teach to the heart that loves them." Unfortunately for her reputation in England, the early novels of George Sand created much scandal, which is not yet forgotten. It is a source of regret that genius so great should have produced books which must be avoided. But this only applies to a small proportion of her works, and amongst the best are Consuelo, Little Fadette, and Cadio.] The Marquise de R. never said brilliant things, although it is the rule in French literature that every old woman shall sparkle with wit. Her ignorance was extreme on all points which the contact of the world had not taught her, and she had none of that nicety of expression, that exquisite penetration, that marvellous tact, which belong, it is said, to women who have seen all the different phases of life and of society; she was blunt, heedless, and sometimes even cynical. She put to flight every idea I had formed concerning the noble ladies of the olden time, yet she was a genuine marquise, and had seen the court of Louis XV. But as she was, even then, an exceptional character, do not seek in her history for a serious study of the manners of any epoch. Society seems to me, at all times, so difficult either to know or to paint, that I prefer having nothing to do with it. I shall be satisfied with relating some of those personal anecdotes which establish a sympathy between men of all societies and all times. I had never found much pleasure in the society of the lady. She seemed to me remarkable for nothing except her prodigious memory of the events of her youth, and the masculine lucidity with which she expressed her recollections. For the rest, she was, like all aged persons, forgetful of recent events, and indifferent to everything in which she had no personal interest. Her beauty had not been of that piquant order, which, lacking splendour and regularity, cannot please in itself; a woman so made learns to be witty, in order to be as beautiful as those who are more so. The marquise had had the misfortune to be unquestionably beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for, like all old women, she had the vanity to hang it up for exhibition in her apartment. She was represented in the character of a huntress nymph, with a low satin waist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of antique lace, a bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearls lighting up her hair. It was an admirable painting, and, above all, an admirable woman, tall, slender, dark, with black eyes, austere and noble features, unsmiling deep-red lips, and hands which, it was said, had thrown the Princess of Lamballe into despair. Without lace, satin, or powder, she might indeed have seemed one of those fair and haughty nymphs who were fabled to appear to mortals in the depths of the forest or upon the solitary mountain side, only to drive them mad with passion and regret. Nevertheless, the marquise had made few conquests; according to her own account, she had been thought dull and spiritless. The worn-out men of that time cared less for the charms of beauty than for the allurements of coquetry; women infinitely less admired than she had robbed her of all her adorers, and, strange enough, she had seemed indifferent to her fate. The little she had told me of her life made me believe that her heart had had no youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzed all its faculties. Yet several sincere friends surrounded her old age, and she gave alms without ostentation. One evening I found her even more communicative than usual: there was a good deal of sadness in her thoughts. "My dear child,” said she, "the Vicomte de Larrieux has just died of the gout. It is a great grief to me, for I have been his friend these sixty years. And then, there is something frightful in so many deaths. His, however, was not surprising; he was so old." "What was his age?" asked I. "Eighty-four years. I am eighty, but I am not as infirm as he was, and I can hope to live longer. N'importe! Several of my friends have gone this year, and although I tell myself that I am younger and stronger than any of them, I cannot help being frightened when I see my contemporaries sinking around me." "And these," said I, "are the only regrets you feel for poor Larrieux, a man who worshipped you for sixty years, who never ceased to complain of your cruelty, and yet never revolted from his allegiance. He was a model lover; there are no more such men.” |