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■ — ■ —~ - • i ! —— s T* l ? <© .• - ■* ** *■* *■** - ...... .... VOLUME I. | BY C, R. HANLEITER, POETRY* “ Much yet remains unsung.” THE POOR MAN. What man ie poor 7 Not ha whose brow Is bathed in heaven’s own light— Whose knee to God alone must bow, At morning and at night— Whose arm is nerved by healthful toil, Who sits beneath the tree, Or treads upon the fruitful soil, With spirit calm and free. Go—let the proud his gems behold, And view their sparkling ray; Ho silver vase or yellow gold Can banish care away. He cannot know that thrilling dream Which smiles within the cot Wiiere sunny looks nnd faces gleam To cheer the poor man’s lot. What man i poor ? Not he whose br >w Is wet with heaven’s own dew, Who breathes to God the he-irtielt vow, Whose pledge is deep and true. The morning calls his active feet To no enchanting dome; .But evening, and the twilight sweet, Sgbnli light his pathway’ home. And tkere is music to his ear, la the glad voice of his child— His wile, with hurried step, draws near. With spirit unde filed. Then turn not from the humble heart, Nor scorn its humble tone; For deeper feelings there may start, Tban ‘fcc proud have ever known. #IELIE©• Tl® YAiLIEgo THE FATAL MISTAKE. BY TUE AUTtOIT OF “ IIEXJtI QUARTE,” &C. ’Twas mid-night in Verona—tlie season, summer—the air, warm, close, voluptuous, between tlie double lines of stately palaces which adorned the magnificent old city, but quickening into life ami playful activity, as it stole over the gardens anti terraces which fringed the broad and rapid Adige. The streets were hushed in the mid-day quietude of southern climes—the few pe destrians loitered with noiseless step —the richly chiseled marble palaces (their pro jecting balconies shaded with overhanging drapery unruffled by breeze or zephyr) seemed to slumber on the deep cast sha dows—the long bearded, mendicant repos ed with closed eyes against the church pil lar, or encumbered the cool steps where the sun’s rays crept not, or found no access. In such an hour what makes the noble - count—the brave Lorenzo Della Scala— quit his palazzo, seek to breathe the hot air of the streets ? Trace Verona through, who should he held happier than Della Scala? Os illustrious birth, claiming descent from rulers of the city in the olden times, with wide spread reputation, acquired by the conduct of armies in Germanic warfare, he returned to his native place, still young, though of years beyond the opening Bush of manhood, to live in the respect of the citizens, to taste the enjoyment of long neglected wealth amidst the splendor of a Veronese palazzo, Wr the deep seclusion of forest girt villas and pavilions. Scarce ly domiciled in his patrimonial mansion, he fell in love with Bianca Guidoni, sole daugh ter of the count of that name. Lorenzo first beheld her at a festa Hi coni pagna, at her father’s suburban villa, was smitten with her youth and beauty, whilst the nascent passion was enhanced arid piqued by the indifference and coldness with which she—the centre of a host of worshipers— treated their lavish attentions. Such pride and reserve, he thought, would well become the house of Della Scala, andso —impetu- ous in love as in war—he sought the maiden, poured forth his passion, and construing her embariassed replies favorably, betook him self to her father, by whom he was gladly accepted as future son-in-law. The Count Guidoni, anxious not to compromise the of fer of so rich a suitor, or suffer accident or contingency to intervene, hurried on the marriage, as regardless of the presumed or known state of his daughter’s affections, as despotic father, or Italian noble—whose word in his own household was law even to death— could by harsh, precipitate conduct evioee, So Bianca was wedded, and amidst the costly magnificence which distinguished the ceremonies of the Veronese nobility, in stalled mistress of the palazzo Della Scala. Why, therefore, in the third week of mar iiage, should the noble Lorenzo be found walking lonely through Verona’s streets at an hour consecrated by the Italians to re pose, or the quietude of domestic inter course 1 Certainly it bespoke a restless spirit. The count was indeed sorely trou bled, hia pride hurt by the indifference of bia young wife. Though the wooing was abort, and certainly on his pa it rather unce remonious, he had married the countess for beauty, in utter absence of sordid motive or consideration, nnd believing in his pride— }t must be confessed —rather than in his judgment, that lie had made a favorable im pression on her affections, his expectations of wedded happiness were as feasible as ur gent. But alas! for short lived hope—the affection was not reciprocated. Bianca was dutiful, obedient, attentive to his wishes— no wife could be more so—yet her conduct was ever cold, constrained, devoid of affee a JPamCls* Jletosajaer : Brfeotrtr to SUtevature, Slartculttm, jForetfiti ami Domestic i-utcUiscncr, szt. tion. He missed the happiness he sought, which he perhaps thought his due after years of warlike fatigue, and often wandered fmth a secret prey to discontent and gloomy fore bodings. In this mood, chance and desire of soli tude led him to the matgin of the Adige, to seek amidst the shade of the river’s embow ered banks the tranquility'which he found not at home. To avoid recognition by a group of cavaliers, lounging after the tash ion of the hour in a pavilion, near to and overlooking the circling stream, though fat above its hanks, he bent his steps to a small path which intersected, amidst flowering shrubs and underwood, a narrow space be tween the base of the edifice and the edge of the water. As he was passing beneath —his footsteps unheard on the soft velvet turf—the echo of his own name from the pavilion caused the count to pause. “ For rarest beauty,” continued the speak er, “ I give the palm to Übaldini—her face is Juno’s own—The Signora—l mean, as you may supposg, the old man’s wife—Sig nora Cavalcanti-—she I allow is peerless in form and figure—but Della Scala 1 would crown Queen of Grace and witching Ele gance !” “ Biavo, Guiseppe !” cried another, “thy elegance is warm and luscious like the hour —but Della Scala is too cold and reserved for mv fancy—l worship the Cavalcanti— my very soul is in bondage to Signora Cav alcanti. O ! that 1 could wrest het from the old man’s arms!” “ And what is the harshness of thy fate to mine ?” uttered a fresh voice, in deep se pulchral tone, mocking the passion of the last speaker. “My very body is in bondage to Signora ’Cavalcanti—l owe old Plutus eight thousand crowns—O ! that I could wrest my attested bond from the old man’s money chest!” Lorenzo had been absent many yeats from his native city; his acquaintance with youthful cavaliers of his own rank was ne cessarily very slight, and of the prevailing themes of scandal, and of its victims, he was almost wholly ignoront; but it were ey to perceive be was listening to a group of coxcombs, endued with all the arrogance and mendacity characteristic of the clas ; and Della Scala would fain have walked on ward with a sneer on his moustached lip— but rio ! he was no longer master of him self! A thorn was in liisside—the venom of distempered fancy already at work—and he heaved a sigh of self reproach, as he felt himself riveted to the spot. ** It would be well ibr the peace of our V isconti,” exclaimed one, in sentimental tone, “if he could transfer his passion to this universal idol, Cavalcanti—but he has been frantic since his return front Spain to find his Bintica wife of the proud count.” “ What does the lover deserve who seeks the Spanish shore when he should he watch ing nearer home?” asked Guiseppe. The reply of Visconti's friend was to the purpose, that lie believed himself safe in that quarter, so long as Frajicesca, the art ful intriguing Francesca, attendant and wait ing-woman of Bianca, remained faithful to his interests. She had sufficient art to scare away a fresh lover, and was in the pay of Visconti. As the young cavalier proved himself so well acquainted with his friend's affairs, and seemed much disposed to babble thereon, lie was not suffered to remain silent, but plied with flesh questions, till the whole de tail of the lovers’ history was laid hare to the chagrined and enraged listenei beneath. It appeared Guidoni was not altogether ig norant of his daughters’ attachment, hut as he had never countenanced the Signor Al berto Visconti, lie was not disposed to make bis love for Bianca an obstacle to the suit of the rich and illustrious Della Scala. The repugnance of the daughter, and the finesse and stratagem of the waiting-maid, were of no avail against a despotic father, more es pecially in the absence of the lover, who might have conjured a more desperate re sistance to parental authority. “I know Visconti well,” exclaimed his friend, “ and he would never have suffered the shame of that marriage if lie had been in Verona.” “ Indeed !” murmured Lorenzo between liis teeth. His hand grasped the hilt of his poniard, but he quickly recovered presence of mind, and was again an attentive listener. “ It matters little,” observed ono of the party, saicastically, “what he would have done if he had been here—the all-important question is, what will he do now? Can you answer that, Signor Jeronimo Fabrizio ?” ‘ Can you tell when the fox was ever caught sleeping?” replied Fabrizio contemp tuously. “ Visconti has too much prudence, caution and reserve to suffer his plans to travel to your ears !” “ If he show as much prudence in future movements as he exhibits caution in choice of a confidant,” remarked the other, “he vvillspeed as well as those ought tq,do, who deposit secrets with the discreet Signor Fa brizio! but see! the pinnace heaves in sight —who will follow me ?” “ Stay, you have forgotten, signor,” ex claimed his antagonist, in anger, “ take that with you.” Lorenzo, from his place of concealment, heard a slight, hurtling noise, as though a missive hud been flung by Fahiizio at the offender. It was followed by the reiterated cries of the party that they would have no quarreling on that day, but all should embark MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 11, 1843. in the pinnace. The count took occasion of the confusion, and stole away unpeiceived. His Bianca !” muttered Della Scala, as he walked gloomily onward. “ Visconti's Bi anca! Have a care, Alberto Visconti ! thy ancestors and mine fought for the mastery of Verona—wilt thou revive the old feud?” But anger gave way to grief as he con templated the abyss in which his happiness was wrecked. The coldness and constraint of Bianca were now fearfully, harrowingly, accounted for. Why was he kept ignorant of what was already common talk ? Had the house of Della Scala r.o friend nr kins man to warn its chief? Was he then dupe of the avaricious Guidoni? But if he were dupe of the old man, thall he continue blind to the threatened practices of Visconti? let him look to it, and dread the vengeance of Della Scala ! The count’s thoughts lent accelerated speed to his movements—he retraced his way to the city, endeavoring to conceal, bv open brow, the agony at heart. The streets of Verona were now alive with the busy steps of citizens—the stately signor or mag nifico walked heedless of the continually recurring mendicant’s prayer from porch or pillar ‘per amor cli Dio, while the signora, whether masked, veiled, or disclosing her features, accompanied by ancient attendant or youthful waiting-maid, tripped by with busier step, yet found leisure to listen to and requite the vagrant's appeal—perchance through pure charity—perchance out of propitiation, with view of invoking indulg ence toward sinful nature —or, may he. deed of atonement fur past pccadillo. Approach ing the church San Zeno, Lorenzo saw, among others, ascending the steps, a lady so much resembling the Countess Bianca, in figure and depot tment, that he felt certain of the identity. He smiled with contempt. For whom prays she ? if for herself, ’t is well—she needs it—for her father for me ? no, no ! the one she deems a cold, tyrannical old man, the other an obstacle to her pas sion. For Visconti, date she proffer pray ers ? Hah ! let both be aware ! lie entered the church, alike impelled by jealousy, lest her visit to the sanctuary were the fulfillment of an assignation, and prompt ed by savage curiosity to piy unseen on de votions which, to him, wore the semblance of profanity and mockery. In the spacious interior, there was scarcely a chapel or shrine without one or more votaries, deeply ab sorbed in silent prayer, all unheedful of the many visiters, whose only aim was to escape the wearisomeness of idleness, or enjoy the cooler air and pavement of the holy pre cincts. Lorenzo at length beheld the lady he sought, kneeling at the entrance to a small chapel, decorated with a large paint ing of the Blessed Virgin, represented in act of bestowing alms to the aged arid des titute. He approached stealthily, and stop ping at only a short distance from the sup pliant, stu-xl gazing at her with strong yet suppressed emotion. Her veil was uplifted —the face presently averted momently from the shrine—lie drew hack to avoid being seen, hut the clatter on the pavement caused her to look in that direction—it was not Bi anca ! To escape the imputation of being a spy on the lady’s actions, lie feigned to have been deeply engrossed with the pictorial embellishment of the shrine, hut the fair dame once disturbed, renewed not her de votions— perhaps frightened by the presence of the cavalier. She crossed herself devout ly and hastily withdrew. What tempts Lorenzo to lingerbeforethat picture ? He looked long, earnestly, sadly, even till a tear came to the eye! True, it is the Holy Virgin assuaging the sorrows of crowding petitioners, whilst others, reci pients of relief, aie hastening joyfully away. The Catholic hierarchy, with subtlest policy, ever employed the ideal breathing pencil of genius to array the Virgin with tenderness and grace more than human, so that the portraiture wore a divine, beatific aspect. Was it this character moved Lorenzo ? Not wholly—but the secret charm was in the strong resemblance borne to the Countess Bianca—’twas her features, beatified, purg ed from trace of earl lily passion. The mas ters of the art were accustomed to paint from nature, even for ideal subjects; per haps the ancestress of Bianca was chosen “to sit” for the representation on which Della Scala now gazed. He looked, the eyes of Bianca beamed mildly, innocently upon him, suffused with that divine, tender light, snatched only by genius in moments of inspiration. The henit of the Italian was softened —■jealousy buried in saddened ad miration. Should he not, he at length asked himself, yet endeavor to win Bianca to the bosom of her lord? ’Twas not her crime she loved another ere she beheld him—she was yet innocent in act, if not in intention —might yet be recovered to a sense of du ty first, and then affection! One jarring discord alone broke the harmony of his thoughts ; it was us the images of Visconti and the pert, intriguing favorite of Bianca stole u'pon the mental vision. His fingers crept toward his breast, the lips writhed, but anger lasted only a moment—lie bent reverently nnd lowly before the shrine, aud left the arching domes of oh! San Zeno. Evening approached, and the count was ascending the staircase which conducted to the principal floor in the Palazzo Della Sca la, with intention of visiting the countess, when Francesca suddenly presented herself in the act of passing down. The count had taken a secret dislike to Francesca, even before he heard her character so freely com mented on in the pavilion ; her features were handsome, her form light, elegant, attrac tive, but an expression of deep cunning and cspiiglcrie, from which th face was never wholly free, counterbalanced the effect of high personal chat ms—at least in the eyes of a husband whose wife had chosen such an attendant. Francesca started on seeing the magnifico—she murmured a few words expressive of intention to acquaint the count ess of monsignor’s approach, and was about to retreat up the staircase for that purpose, when Della Scala seized her by the wrist. “ Nay,” he exclaimed, looking intently at the gill, “I will be my own herald—you may retire.” Francesca uttered a slight scream, ac companied by a contoition of features ex pressive of physical pain, which first made the count aware that he had unconsciously gtasped her wrist with extreme violence; ’twas, indeed, a grip worthy to embrace throat of Turk or Tartar in mortal conflict, hut far beyond the endurance of slim, Chris tian maiden. He smiled at this proof of emotion, and told Francesca in kindly strain, that she should have a bracelet of gold to hide the bruiue. The waiting-woiiihii’s evi dent eaget ness to prepare hei mistress for the visit, reawoke Lorenzo’s jealousy, but pride and love strove with the bitter passion, mastered it—and so Della Scala determined not to intrude his suspicions ori the coun tess’privacy, but retired to his own chamber, and sent an attendant to notify his purposed visit. Bianca rose to meet her lord, but she could not sustain his ardent glance ; her eyes fell, her step faltered, and she could scarcely find speech to welcome him. He led her to the window which overlooked the garden of the palazzo. The perfumed air, rich with fragrant breath of flowers, wan dered over the saloon ; the red light of the departing orb of day threw its golden shafts across the cool verdure, of the lawn, flicker ed over the scroll work of the chamber wall, lit up and surrounded the face of Bianca with a halo which concealed its deadly pale ness and dismay. The count gazed with admiration; illumined by the rich glow, the featmes beamed angelic, like the Madonna of the shrine. “Bianca,” he exclaimed, “when the guests unmask to-morrow at midnight atthe Palaz zo Cavalcanti, let these pearls reflect the softened lustre of a brow—Verona’s boast and Della Sea la’s pride I” “ How large and lustrous I” said Bianca, betiding over the gift, the rather that her eyes might not encounter the glance of Lo renzo, “ such as these, nay, not so large, came lately from Aleppo—brought there by the Indian Caravan—and were sent to Venice. Not finding a buyer there, the goldsmith came to Verona with his rich freight, and every day, as the countess tells me, Count Übaldini feasts his eyes upon them, tells his wife at evening what a rich second dower he will bring home on the morrow; hut when morning comes he shakes his head, talks of the mortgage on his forest lands, and bids her wait auother day !” “ 1 know it well, Bianca,” rejoined Lo renzo, “ these are the pearls which Übaldi ni dallied with, and now his countess loses. I bought them this afternoon, after a prayer for the welfare of our house, put up in old San Zeno.” “I cannot go to Cavalconti’s house—O, no! lam sure not,” cried Bianca, hysteri cally; “O! pray excuse me!” And she hurst into tears. Lorenzo, at first deeply angered by the sudden intimation of staying away from Cavalcanti’s festa, was softened by her tears, and leading the countess away from the window, grew alarmed at her continued hysterical sobbing. With vain fondness he believed her heart was touched, that it strug gled against its affections for Visconti—that she was moved by the solicitude shown by him to whom alone affection was due. He endeavored to soothe her by painting the future in the brightest colors, displaying sources of happiness yet at command—hut his eloquence proved in vain—its reiteration seemed to add to her misery. She at length pleaded illness, prayed to be left alone— that repose would bring back her wonted spirits, which had, she knew not how, fallen into a melancholy train. If Della Scala would hut leave her till the morning, she said, sinking on her knee, she would meet him with happier face, and thank him for all he had done to make her happy. “ The Countess Delia Scala,” exclaimed Lorenzo, iu a tone grave though not un kind, “is not a child asking a blessing of a patent. Let her remember her own digni the most illustrious in Verona, to her all hearts vow honorable fealty and courtesy. ’Tis hers to command, not to entreat! Sig nora,” he added, with an attempt at a smile, “ I obey your request, and take my leave, yet fail not to send for Agostino.” He led her to a seat, and again pressing her to command the attendance of the house physician, Signor Agostino, quitted the sa loon with the deference of a gallant lover. Bianca reposed on a rich couch, her beau ty disordered with weeping. ‘Twas night —and the saloon was illumined by the ma ny-braticbing lustre. Francesca stood be side her mistress. “ This is no more than I expected, signo ra, from his visit,” said the favorite. “ a demon’s fire glowed in his eyes when I met him, which made me tremble for you, sig nora—the incarnate brute !” “ Whom mean you, Francesca ?” cried the countess starting up. “ Whom should 1 mean, signora, but the count ?” replied the girl. “ You do him wrong—Alberto does him wrong—you are both bent on my ruin,” cried Bianca, with eyes flushing indignation; “ have I not told you all be said—how ten derly he spoke! those princely pearls he gave ? Alas! ungrateful wretch that cruel fate has made me I” “ Yes,” uttered Francesca, with a sneer, “ and I can boast his gifts—a gold bracelet —and for what ? look at this arm, signora ; this is the work of the tender Count Della Scala ! There may not be more generosity in the gift to the mistress. But let us for get the proud tyrant. I have news, good news, in store; Albeito prays to see you this evening in the garden, at the same hour as he saw the signora last night.” “ Did I not solemnly declare, Ftancesca,” cried Bianca, grasping her maid’s atm with frenzied agitation, “ did 1 not vow, that la9t night should lie the first and last interview 1 granted Alberto—till—til!—” Till die signor was prepared to carry us both off’ to some happier land,” cried the attendant; “ I know it well! hut the signo ra gtipes as tightly as monsignot.” Bianca flung off the woman contemptu ously. “ I meet rare treatment at all hands I” remarked Francesca, in petulant tone; “I had well nigh forgotten the signor’s letter.” “ Where, where is it ?” cried Bianca, with eagerness. The countess snatched her lover’s epistle, and, retiring to a distance, read it o’er and o’er till her eyes melted into tears. Fran ct sea watched with secret joy the effect of Visconti’s soft pleading. Bianca’s heart again renewed the fetters which bound her to her first love. “ Yet I cannot, dare not, see him to night I” exclaimed she, unconsciously giv ing utterance to thought. “I dread telling poor Alberto this,” said Francesca, who overheard the soliloquy ; “ not see him ! How often has lie lamented to me his bitter fate, deprived of the delight when you stole to see him, after the old Count Guidoni had gone to rest, and those moonlight walks on the shore of the lake in the Tyrol! Poor signor ! he is not the same gentleman he used to be before his fatal journey. Did not the signora mark the change?” In this strain continued the artful Fran cesca, when she found B anca was touched, bringing to fond memory all happy, blissful records, when love was innocent, or guilty of no higher crime than refraining to seek a harsh father’s approving glance. Bianca’s heart was torn in twain Lorenzo’s gene rosity, still more, his lofty disinterestedness, won upon her gratitude, if not her love— hut alas ! she had, as she confessed, yielded the previous evening to an interview with Visconti. It took place in a balcony which overlooked the garden, whither the daring lover ventured, spite of the imminent dan ger. Reluctantly she consented ; assent was only won by Francesca declaring Al berto’s intention, in the event of refusal, to force his way through llie palazzo and die at her feet. But this fatal meeting served to rivet the links of a passion now criminal. Alberto, warned of her irresolution and wavering, was not slow to detail his scheme of flying with her and Francesca to Spain, where were situate his lately acquired es tates, and to gain possession of which had caused the disastrous journey. Once be yond reach of Della Scala, or the Veronese and Venetian authorities, leisure would he afforded to set at work his interest with the Spanish court to procure a dispensation from Rome, annulling her marriage with Lorenzo, on the plea of being forced to the union by a despotic father, when she was, as it might be well averred, secretly betroth ed to the absent Visconti. Francesca, in such a suit, would prove an invaluable wit ness, her zeal readily supply what was want ing in her testimony. The time selected by Alberto was nightfall, when all Verona would he in commotion with the hustle of guests approaching the magnificent, masked festa. The countess and her attendant might easily pass through the streets, masked, without especial observation, aud repair to the spot where Visconti would he found waiting with horses and servants. A sloop, well manned, was in readiness at a small port, and would be under tveigli so soon as they were on hoard —long ere pursuit was available. The countess, ns Alberto sug gested, might accompany Della Scala to the palazzo, mix awhile with the guests, then retire to where her faithful Francesca stood prepared to escort her mistress. Nay, if the signora thought Lorenzo would grow jealous if he missed his wife’s mask at an early hour, it might be remedied by hiring one, in the same costume, and bearing re semblance to the figure and style of the countess, to wear the disguised honors of the house of Della Scala. Several, he knew, would play the part to admiration, and take a pleasure in it, without knowing more than need safely be told. Such was the nature of the proposed elopement, consented to by Bianca, amidst tears, weeping, fainting. Attend th e festa! accompany Lorenzo, to quit him with such bitter mockery, she could not I He was, indeed, worthy f s love - which she could j NUMBER 46. WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. not requite — hut his affection she dare not so coldly insult. Then must she plead ill ness I Poor Bianca ! with lover, dearly lov ed, at thy feet, threatening to slay himself if thou didst not link thyself with his for tunes ! and the artful serpent of thy own sex, with skillful pleading, making the worse appear the better reason, what snares beset thee! It was the day subsequent so this inter view that witnessed the meeting we have narrated, between Bianca and her lord.- Noble Lorenzo ! wert thou not a day too late ? What might not have been hoped if thou hadst not displayed thy generous feel ings but one day earlier 1 The distracted Bianca was but too glad when Della Scala quitted her presence— she was humbled, even to the dust, by con sciousness of her criminal hypocrisy—pene trated with a keen sense of tho wrong and misery she was about to inflict on one who, at her hands, deserved a happier fate. It was Visconti’s letter which, while a prey to remorse after Lorenzo quitted her, rekindled the shattered 90ul, reawoke the lamp of life and affection. That hondwrit ing! the sight of which, in days gone by, gave such intense delight, now renewed old and irresistible associations. He should linger, he said, through the evening, hover ing near the palazzo with the hope that she would grant even hut a moment's interview, but if cruel prudence forbade, then let her remember, that on the evening of the mor row, so soon as Della Scala had departed, and sharp watch should be kept on the count’s exit, he would repair to the little balcony, close to the door leading to the do mestic offices, and ring the beli, a signal for Francesca to appear abotc. On receiving assurance that no obstacle interposed delay, his intention was to retire immediately to the shrine of Santa Croce—a wayfarer’s ruined chapel beyond the walls of the city —where horses and two faithful domestics would be in waiting. It might excite sus spicion, he said, if he joined the countess immediately she quitted the palazzo. But should any obstacle occur—as Della Scala through sickness or jealous feeling staying at home, or remaining on the watch-—then let not Francesca await his appearance be neath the balcony, hut forewarn him by sig nal at the post whence he intended to watch the count’s departure. Impressing these precautionary measures on Bianca, the epis tle relapsed into the lover’s strain. Francesca, beholding her mistress reso lute not to see Visconti that night, and fore seeing the danger of too much pressing, which might occasion a relapse favorable to Loienzo’s happiness, she immediately un dertook to pacify Alberto with the assurance that all matters should beordered ns advised. Night dosed upon the palazzo Della Scala, hut peace and calm repose were banished its walls I Lorenzo, on leaving his countess, quitted her with mind ill at ease. He was vexed that he had not succeeded better with Bian ca—there was a mystery in her conduct which he could not unravel. ‘Twas plain his munificence, joined to solicitude which she could not mistake, had moved hei>— had caused distress of mind, to cover which she pleaded sickuess. But yet —yet — there was no effort made to soothe him—to carry hope to his heart! How delighted would he have been the bare intimatiou that she must strive to regain health to accompany him the morrow night! But no, on bended knee, she pleads fatigue, and craves till to morrow—to join in his pursuits—share his happiness ? alas ! no, coldly to thank her lord for all he hud done to make her happy! Restless with these sad reflections, he sought not chamber or study, but strayed out in the cool air of evening. Occasional solitude bad become habitual. Whilst gen eral of a numerous and well disciplined ar my, many a time had lie strolled at night, alone, through the camp, reviewing past enterprises, maturing the steps of future achievements. Now in Verona’s streets was brought to mind how oft in the hash of the tented field had he thought of home, of the happiness that might be enjoyed there! But who is that damsel tripping by so fur tively 1 The air and step are familiar to the count. It is Francesca! Whither strays she 1 Her appearance in the street, at that hour, when evening is fading into night, bodes no good. He watches closely ; fol lows her steps, hidden by the shade of lofty walls; she is accosted by a cavalier ; they confer awhile ; he hands a letter, which she places away carefully, and then returns in the direction of the palazzo. The cavalier departs in an opposite direction. Lorenzo hangs on his footsteps, tracks from street to street, till the stranger halts at the portal of the dwelling in which Signor Visconti has resided since his return from Spain. “ Thy hour, Visconti, has not yet come,” muttered Lorenzo, as he lurried on his heel, “ but it approaches on quickening wing I” The dark cloud Bgain lowered over the domestic fortunes of Lorenzo, He could not, would not believe Bianca in correspon dence with the enemy to his peace, but he could not avoid the conviction, that as Vis conti and Francesca were in league, the billet given to the latter was intended for the eye of the countess. Another pang ? what if there were indeed a connection be tween the secret correspondence and the expressed intention of Bianca to absent her self from the masked revel ? A planned as-