tion at night outside the orchard, in the line he thought the bear most likely to follow. It was a fine moonlight night, and he had not been long in ambush when he saw William come out of his house, with his gun on his shoulder, and a sack over his arm. After looking about, apparently to ascertain that nobody was watching him, he advanced to within about twenty paces of the pear-tree, where there lay a large grey stone, that had rolled down from the hill. Here he opened his sack, stept into it, and leaving nothing out but his head and his arms, he hid himself behind the stone, so that any one who did not know he was there would scarcely have discovered him. Nearly an hour elapsed before any sound was heard that announced the approach of the enemy; but at length a fearful roar, loud and long, set the hunters on the alert. Francis cocked his gun and held himself ready for his shot; but whether it was by an instinctive caution, or whether his nose (for their scent is astonishing) warned the bear of the presence of this second adversary, he changed his course, and instead of taking to the left of William, as he had done the night before, he passed him on the right, within ten paces of the end of his gun, but quite out of the reach of Francis. William never stirred, any more than if he did not see the bear: whilst the animal, for his part, appeared quite unconscious of the presence of the man; probably he was so-for the wind being in the contrary direction carried the scent away, and the sack and the stone rendered him scarcely perceptible to the eye. On went Bruin towards the tree, but at the critical instant when he rose on his hind legs to commence his ascent, William pulled his trigger-there was a flash, a report, a roar of agony; the bear took to his fore legs and fled, passing again close to William, who had, with all speed, retreated into the sack. This time, however, the bear, instead of leaving the orchard where he had entered it, made a circuit, and climbed the hedge at a spot that brought him directly in a line with Francis; and roaring with agony, rolling in the dust, and furious, he advanced on the hunter, who, with a beating heart, and his finger on the trigger of his gun, meanwhile awaited his approach. Now for it!' muttered he, as he took his aim; but at that moment the bear suddenly stopped, drew the air into his nostrils with a long and loud inhalation, uttered a prolonged roar, turned back, and re-entered the orchard: the wind was in his favour, and he had scented his assassin. 'Look to yourself!' cried Francis; the bear's upon you!' and, with a generous courage, he rushed after the animal, knowing that if William had not reloaded his gun, he was a dead But he had not made a dozen steps before a fearful cry-the cry of a human voice-a cry of terror, of agony-a cry that called for help both from God and man, assailed his ears, then all was silent. There was not a soul awake in the village that did not hear that terrible Out vain appeal. man. Francis few rather than ran, and as he drew near he egan to distinguish the infuriated animal moving backwards and forwards in the shade, trampling and tearing he wretched victim, from whom no sound issued; and so occupied was the beast with his prey, that he appeared quite unconscious of, or indifferent to, the approach of a econd enemy; whilst Francis, although within four paces of the spot, did not dare to fire, lest from his agitaion and the unsteadiness of his hand, he should miss his im and kill William, if life yet remained in the tortured orm before him, instead of the bear. In order to force him to abandon his victim, Francis icked up a stone and threw it at the beast, who, instantly acing about and rising on his hind legs, advanced upon im. So close were the combatants, that the breast of he animal pressed against the muzzle of the gun as 'rancis drew the trigger; and almost before the report as audible, the ferocious monster was stretched in the ust-the ball had passed clean through the body, and ivided the vertebral column. By this time the cries of the men and the roars of the ear had awakened and alarmed the inhabitants of the village, who came running from all directions, with lights and arms, to give their assistance, and amongst them came William's wife and children. The sack was lifted and examined. What it contained was no longer a manit was not even a corpse: the head had disappeared altogether; all that remained was a shapeless mass of bones and flesh. There was not a dry eye in the village of Fouly. Francis generously yielded to the distressed family not only the bear and his skin, but also the government reward; and there is a subscription opened for them, to which, perhaps, Monsieur will add his name?' Certainly, I will,' said I, rising from the table, and staggering towards the door, with a sensation at my stomach that warned me of the necessity of a speedy exit from the dinner-room. Doubtless,' added I, when I was somewhat recovered- doubtless, a bear steak is a capital dish: but, oh, my friend, let me recommend you never again to garnish it with his biography!' VEGETABLES FORMING THE FOOD OF MAN. RICE-MAIZE-MILLET-SUGAR-CANE. In the arrangement of nature, by which every variety of climate on the earth's surface has its particular kinds of plants, a bountiful Providence has taken care to supply each region with its useful grains and grasses for the food of man, and those animals dependent on him. Wheat, barley, and oats, are the grains of temperate and even cold climates-they will not grow luxuriantly under a tropical sun, or in marsh and flooded grounds; they require gentle and regular showers and a genial sun, while the periodic torrents of the equatorial regions, followed by a powerful and scorching heat, would prove their destruction. It is otherwise with rice and maize, which form the chief grains of the greater part of Asia, Africa, South America, and even the southern parts of Europe: these grow up and flourish best in climes of ardent heat and abundant moisture. RICE (oryza sativa) is a tall strong plant, not unlike a stalk of wheat, but larger, and with a greater number of joints. The main stalk divides into branches at the top, on each of which is an ear, not unlike that of barley. Each grain is terminated with an awn or beard, and is included in a rough yellow husk. This husk adheres very firmly to the grain, and is only to be separated by passing the rice between a pair of mill-stones, placed at such a distance from each other that the friction will remove the husk without crushing the grain. There is besides this a thin inner skin, which is removed by beating the rice in large mortars. The seed then appears an oblong body, not unlike barley deprived of its skin, but of a whiter and more pearly lustre. Rice differs from the other grains in being almost entirely composed of starchy matter, with a small portion only of gluten. This grain has been known in Asia from the earliest ages, and has formed the chief food of the great mass of the population of India and China. It is also one of the chief products of Egypt, and has been introduced into the warmer parts of America by Europeans. The natural soil of the rice plant is marshy ground. There are at least three varieties of the species: the common rice plant, which is the strongest and largest, and requires abundant moisture; the early rice, which is of smaller size, and comes to maturity sooner than the other; and the mountain rice, which grows on the sloping sides of hills, with only an occasional supply of moisture. For the successful cultivation of rice, then, a wet soil is absolutely necessary; and thus a natural marshy or occasionally river-flooded plain must be selected, or artificial irrigation had recourse to. The great valley of the Nile, which is periodically flooded by the inundations of that river, thus becomes a fertile soil for the production of rice. Its culture, however, is always a most unwholesome and often fatal employment. In America, the rice fields are attended to by negroes, and the morta food than any other of the cerealia, not excepting even wheat. It contains less actual nourishment, however, than any of the others, yet it forms a light and pleasant article of diet in warm countries, where less muscular exertion is used than in colder regions. lity among these labourers is so very great, that an annual importation of fresh slaves is necessary to keep up the supply of hands. No white man can live in the low marshy rice grounds during the sultry heats of autumn. Rice is generally sown in drills. In Carolina, in the United States, the seed is carefully put in regular rows in MAIZE, or Indian Corn (zea mayz), is a native plant of trenches, about eighteen inches apart; the sowing is the New World, and when America was first discovered, generally performed by negro women, and is completed it was the only grain which the natives possessed, and about the middle of March. The water, which till this was cultivated and used as extensively as rice in Asia. time had been kept off by flood-gates, is now permitted The plant consists of a strong jointed stalk; the leaves to flow over the ground freely, to the depth of several are large and broad like flags, and spring alternately inches, and is allowed to remain in this state for about a from each joint. The top of the stem produces a bunch week. During this time the germination of the seed or tassel of male flowers of various colours. The ears takes place; and on the water being withdrawn, the plants proceed from the stalk at various distances from the spring up, and in a month attain the height of three or ground, and are closely enveloped by several thin leaves, four inches. The ground is again flooded for about six-forming a sheath or husk. The number of ears from one teen days, and by this process all weeds are destroyed. stalk varies from three to six or seven. The ear or cob It is allowed after this to remain without farther is an oblong porous body, over the entire surface of which flooding till the middle of July, being repeatedly hoed the seeds are fixed, forming eight or more rows, each row during the interval. At the time just mentioned water consisting of thirty or more seeds. These seeds are of is again admitted, and is continued till the ripening of the the size of large peas, much flattened on the sides; from grain, which takes place about the end of August. The their eyes, or germinal points, proceeds a long silky thread harvest extends throughout the month of September, or or filament of a bright green colour. All these threads even later. The grain is reaped with a sickle, by the are collected together and hang out from the point of the male negroes, while the females follow, and collect the husk in a thick cluster, and are called the silk. These rice into sheaves or bundles. In Hindostan and China, are the stigmata of the female organs of fructification, and irrigation is practised on a large scale. In many parts of they are thus disposed, in order to receive the fertilizing the country, the rice fields are formed into a regular suc- dust or pollen which drops from the flower on the top or cession of terraces, one above the other, so that the water tassel, and without which the ears would produce no seed. of irrigation is made to flow successively from one level As a proof of this, if the top be cut off either by accident to another, the plants in the various terraces being in or design previous to the development of its flowers, the successive stages of growth. The Chinese bestow great ears will prove wholly barren. The grains are of differpains on the culture of rice, both in the preparation and ent colours-generally shades of yellow, but varying from manuring of their fields, and in the subsequent irrigation. a deep reddish yellow to white. There are at least three This people use rice not only as bread, and in a variety of varieties of this plant cultivated. The American Indian dishes, but they also ferment it into a sort of wine, and Corn is the largest known variety. It is found in a wild distil it into a spirit. state in many of the West India islands, as well as in the central parts of America. Under cultivation in favourable situations it grows to the height of from seven to ten feet. The cob or ear is eight to ten inches long, and five to six inches in circumference. The plant sends out two or three suckers from the bottom of the stalk; but these are generally removed, as they not only impair the growth of the main stalk, but, if left, are later of ripening, and thus impede the harvest of the whole. This variety is extensively cultivated in Central America, and in the United States, but will not thrive in Europe. From three to five grains of the seed are deposited together at regular intervals of three feet, in rows sufficiently far apart to admit of a small plough passing between, for the purpose of loosening the soil round the roots, and of removing the weeds. No manure is used in Mexico, but irrigation is practised. The productiveness of the plant is most astonishing. Some favoured spots have been known to yield an increase of eight hundred grains for one, and it is very common to gather from three hundred and fifty to four hundred measures of grain for one measure that has been sown. In the more temperate climate of the United States the produce is not so great; but even there, where the average crop of wheat does not exceed seventeen bushels per acre, that of maize amounts to twenty or thirty bushels. Rice is also cultivated in the south of Europe. In the rich flat meadows of Lombardy, which are irrigated from the waters of the Po, this grain is extensively raised. After the seed is sown the water is turned on, and allowed to cover the surface to the depth of several inches during the whole course of its growth, and until the rice is ripe. Three crops are taken successively from the ground in this manner, without manuring; but the soil is then so far exhausted, that it must be manured and planted for a time with other crops, before another succession of rice harvests can be drawn from it. It is a profitable crop, but its culture is as unwholesome for the labourers as in the tropical regions. In Valencia in Spain, the rice culture is similar to that in Italy. The water remains on the ground even during the operations of harvest, and the reapers are obliged to wade up to their knees in order to cut the grain; other persons follow to receive the sheaves as they are cut, and to convey them to a dry place, where the grain is detached from the ear by the treading of mules. In Egypt, the principal rice fields are around Damietta and Rosetta, which lie most convenient for irrigation by the Nile. The Egyptians are supposed to have been instructed in the cultivation of this plant under the reigns of the caliphs, at which time many useful plants were brought across the Red Sea. The old traveller Hasselquist thus describes the manner in which he witnessed in Egypt the separation of the grain from the husk:-'It is pounded by hollow iron pestles of a cylindrical form, an inch in diameter, lifted up by a wheel worked by A person sitting between the two pestles pushes forward the rice when these are rising; another sifts, winnows, and lays it under the pestles. In this manner they continue working until it is entirely free from chaff and husks. When it is clean, they add a thirtieth part of salt, and pound them together, by which the rice becomes white, which before was grey; after this, it is passed through a fine sieve to part the salt from the rice, and then it is ready for sale.' oxen. Rice is perhaps more extensively used as an article of A variety of maize with white grains is cultivated in Spain and Italy, but it is a smaller plant than the American corn, and seldom exceeds six feet in height. A third variety, with both yellow and white seeds, is still smaller: in favourable seasons it will grow in Germany and England, and it is cultivated in some parts of North America. Experience has proved that Indian corn forms a very nutritious and palatable food, both for men and animals. It appears to contain more mucilaginous and saccharine matter than the other grains, and on this account is less adapted for bread, but it is used as an article of food in a great variety of other ways. Before it is fully ripe, the tender green ears stripped of their leaves, and roasted by a quick fire till the grain is brown, and eaten with a little salto butter, are a great delicacy. When the grain is riper and harder, the ears boiled in their leaves and eaten with butter, are also good and agreeable food. The ripe grain is used in a variety of forms, either skinned and soaked into a kind of soup, or ground and formed into a pottage or pudding, or made into cakes. Horses and cattle are also fed on the soaked grain; and the leaves, dried and tied up in bundles, form excellent winter forage. The stalks, when bruised like the sugar-cane, afford a juice which is fermented, and yields a spirit on distillation. It is said too that of this juice the ancient Mexicans made a kind of syrup, or even sugar. MILLET (sitaria Italica) is a kind of grass, which, in countries where the soil is light and dry, is cultivated as a substitute for corn. The seed is extremely small (not much larger than a pin-head or a mustard seed), but the ear or panicle is extremely prolific, producing not less than a thousand seeds; hence the name of the plant is supposed to have bɛen derived from mille, a thousand. It grows on a jointed stalk, three to four feet in height, with a long broad leaf embracing the stom. The Italians make a coarse brown bread of the ground seeds, but use them chiefly for feeding poultry. This kind of bread is also used in India and Egypt. Among the Arabs it is called dhourra. As the grains are the staple food of man, so the grasses furnish the food of a large proportion of quadrupeds. And as man has domesticated certain of the herbivorous animals, so has he also taken into cultivation a number of the grasses which grow in a state of nature. The grasses, indeed, form a more numerous family than the grains properly so called. They grow abundantly in our pastures and meadows, so that if a turf of about six inches in diameter be taken from any common meadow, it will be found to contain, very frequently, from six to ten different species within its narrow area. Of grasses indigenous to Britain alone, not less than twenty-five families are known, and many of these families contain from twelve to eighteen species in each. Different kinds are adapted to different localities. Some are found to flourish in dry and light soils, others in rich meadows, and not a few in marshes and moist places; and thus we have hill and dale clothed with their rich green and appropriate verdure. No scene imparts a greater charm to the eye than the rich velvety swards of grassy hills and meadows in the temperate countries of the world, compared to the totally different vegetation of the tropics, where either the face of nature teems with a luxuriance of tall exuberant plants, or nothing is visible but the dark brown and burned up soil. Among our various cultivated grasses, the ray or rye grass seems now to have obtained the ascendency. It came originally from Norfolk, and is now universally cultivated in Britain. It affords a sweet, nourishing, and agreeable food for cattle, and is peculiarly well adapted for making into hay. There are three kinds of this grass-the perennial, which lasts for years; the annual or bearded; and the white or beardless darnel. As it may be of use to some to know the external distinctions between them, we may mention, that the perennial grass is known by a strong reddish tinted stalk and large roots; the spicules are longer than the calyx; the flowers are beardless; the seed has a reddish colour, a sweet smell when fresh, a small body, not swelling much in the middle, but heavy, and no appearance of awn or beard. In the annual, again, the spicules are of equal length with the calyx, and the flowers have short beards. The annual species is, for various reasons, less suited to the general purposes of the agriculturist, although it is said by some to yield the heaviest erop of hay. The various plants called junci, or the reeds and rushes, all belong to this great family of the graminea. Among them is the famous reed of Egypt, called papyrus, the thin plates of the bark of which afforded the first kind of paper used in writing. The bamboo, or canes of Asia, also belong to this family. The Sugar cane is one of the most celebrated of the grasses. It is a perennial plant, with a round, smooth, and jointed, or simple stem, about twenty feet long. The leaves are long, pointed, and embrace the stem at their base. The flower produced at the top of the stem is like a large panicle of grass. The sugar-cane is a native of Asia, of the South Sea Islands, and of America, although some doubts are entertained of its being indigenous to the latter continent. At all events, the cultivation of sugar from the cane, on a large scale, is due to European settlers in that country. The cane is propagated by cuttings, and is planted in rows and regularly hoed. When fully ripe, the canes are cut down, divided into convenient lengths, tied into bundles, then conveyed to the mill, where they are crushed between iron cylinders, and the juice which flows out is collected into troughs. This juice is then boiled and evaporated to the consistence of syrup, which, on cooling, granulates into the common brown sugar, while a quantity of thinner syrup remains, called molasses. Sugar, from at first having been considered as a luxury, has now become almost a necessary of life, and is used alike by prince and peasant. It is nutritious, though not in such a degree as those vegetable substances which contain gluten, being composed of the same elements as starch. The reason of its universal popularity seems to be, that it lends a pleasing taste to the more insipid articles of diet in common use, thus affording us one among the numerous other instances of the bountiful provisions of nature, where not only are things necessary provided for the feast of life, but substances highly grateful to the palate. It is on the same principle that the beneficent Creator Hath made all nature beauty to the eye INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN ITALIAN BRIGAND. THE following story, illustrative of the deep feeling of revenge that so often manifests itself in the Italian and Spanish peasantry, was related by a poor Italian mendicant, with whom the writer happened lately to meet. We believe the narrative is in strict accordance with truth. Some forty or fifty years ago, on a delightful evening about the middle of July, a young girl might have been seen sitting before a little cottage on the outskirts of a small village near Florence. She was busily engaged plying her needle, and the warm light of an Italian sunset, as it shed a rich hue over her glossy ringlets, and increased the delicate tint of her blooming cheek, with the fragrant flower-beds planted around, and the neat and comfortable-looking cottage, formed a picture of rural felicity that was quite enchanting. By her side was seated a youth whose eye appeared to regard her motions with an interest that betokened a feeling in his heart stronger than that of friendship, and a look of disappointment seemed to tell that he had been refused some expected favour. You will not go to the ball to-night, then, Julia ?' at length he said, addressing her; and all my expected enjoyment will be spoiled.' You know, Francesco,' replied she, 'how ill my poor mother is; and it would be very unkind to leave her alone. 'Then, if it must be so, dearest, I shall not go at all; for without you, the ball would have no attraction for me.' So saying, Francesco arose from his seat, and, bidding her adieu, turned his steps towards home, while Julia still continued busily plying her needle. Francesco Maratte was the son of a small proprietor occupying the principal house in the village. His youth had been chiefly devoted to acquiring skill in athletic exercises. In his boyhood he was the leader in every sport, and foremost in every feat of daring. As he advanced in age, and took his part in the village games, he excelled all his companions, till, at length, no one ought of competing with him. His figure was tall and powerful, and his features handsome; but in the curl of his lip and the expression of his eye, there was an indication of pride and obstinacy, almost the natural consequence of the light in which he was regarded by his companions as the village champion. Julia, the affianced bride of Francesco, whom we have introduced to our readers above, was a fair maiden of eighteen, with laughing blue eyes, and bright auburn ringlets, and rosy lips. She was esteemed the prettiest girl in the village, and knowing this, of course sometimes played the coquette, yet, as she loved Francesco sincerely, she did not give him much cause to chide her. A few weeks before the above interview took place, a young artist from Rome had come to reside a short time in the village, for the purpose of sketching some romantic scenery in the neighbourhood. Attracted by the beauty of Julia, whom he had met frequently in his walks, Lorenzo (the name of the artist) had framed several excuses for visiting her cottage, and Julia, flattered by the attentions of the accomplished stranger, had received his visits without reserve. The jealousy of Francesco, aroused by this, watched the young artist with no friendly eye; but when he accused Julia of inconstancy, she threw her arms laughingly around his neck, and kissed the frown from his brow. Such an argument was not to be resisted, and so for the time his jealousy was banished. On the evening we have alluded to, there was to be a ball in the village, and Francesco had looked forward to the fete with pleasure, expecting to meet with Julia there. But, as we have already said, he was disappointed. The evening passed on, and, as he sat listlessly under the shade of a tree beside his father's house, his thoughts turned to the enjoyments he had been promising himself, and his mind was possessed by that restless feeling of dissatisfaction | with one's self and everything around, that generally results from disappointed hopes. Starting suddenly up and shaking off his lethargy, he snatched his gun, which was lying near, and tried to beguile the time strolling along the banks of a neighbouring stream, and watching the last rays of the setting sun as they sparkled on its rippling surface. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the last streaks of daylight were scarcely visible in the western sky, and still Francesco wandered on heedless why or where he went, till at length he approached the ruins of an ancient tower overlooking the stream. Connected with this tower there was a legend, that many years before a jealous lover had murdered his rival within its walls, and it was reported by the peasantry that the ghost of the assassin was seen at night wandering about the ruins. Francesco, undaunted by such superstitions, entered at the low portal and stood within the moss-covered walls. The moon, which had risen in a cloudless sky, was shining through the narrow window, and casting a stream of light on the opposite wall, increasing tenfold, by its contrast, the surrounding darkness. Francesco looked around, and a shudder suddenly ran through his frame, as he beheld in one corner, half revealed by the moonbeams, a tall figure robed in white, with a frowning aspect, and holding a drawn dagger in his hand. He stood for a short time in suspense, but remembering to have seen a rude figure sculptured on the wall, he approached, and found that the moonlight shining on it produced the startling effect that at first seemed an apparition. The loneliness of the spot, however, and this startling incident, filled his mind, though not easily daunted, with something like terror, and he began to retrace his steps hastily towards the village. As he returned home, his mind filled with this strange incident, his thoughts reverted to the legend of the tower, and the deadly revenge of the injured lover. The scene conjured up by the loneliness of the spot seemed to start vividly before him, and pursuing this train of thought, he naturally recollected the events of the last few weeks, and the jealousy he had felt toward the young artist. As Le proceeded on, his mind filled with such gloomy fancies, he was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the sound of music and revelry at no great distance. Looking up, he found that the sounds of mirth proceeded from a house near the wayside, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted up, and the flitting shadows passing across showed him that the dance was going on within. Francesco recollected at once that this must be the ball-room where the festivities of the evening were to be held, and curiosity prompted him to approach. Lifting the latch of a little door that opened on the pathway, hi entered a large garden through which he must pass before reaching the house. The fragrance of innumerable flowers filled the air, and the sound of music stealing on the stillness of the evening made Francesco saunter along the walks wrapt for some time in his own thoughts, without heeding the looks of suspicion that were cast upon him by a few of the revellers who had taken refuge from the heat of the ball-room in the cool evening breeze. Their looks of suspicion were not unfounded, on seeing a person intruding amongst them armed with a gun. After a short time he approached one of the windows which was thrown wide open, disclosing the scene of gaiety within. He stood for a little watching the fair forms that were passing before him, when suddenly his eye was rivetted with intensity of gaze, and the blood mounted to his brow, as be saw his Julia wheeling round in the giddy circle of the waltz with the young artist, Lorenzo. The thoughtless Julia, unconscious of the presence of her lover, was enjoying the flatteries of her new admirer, when, happening to approach the window, she started with terror on seeing Francesco, his eyes flashing with fury, pointing his gun towards her. She screamed for assistance, but it was to late: a loud report, followed by a wild shriek, and poor Julia sank on the floor bathed in blood. The ball had taken fatal effect, and in a few minutes the fair girl was a lifeless corpse. Nor had Lorenzo escaped the deadly revenge, for the ball, entering his side as he stood close to the unfortunate Julia, had inflicted a wound that at first seemed mortal. All were in consternation at the fearful tragedy, and there were many sad hearts in the village that night, for Julia had been a general favourite. Deep vows of revenge were uttered by her friends against the assassin; but he was nowhere to be found. A week passed on, and a funeral procession might have been seen wending down the principal street of the village. accompanied by a band of maidens dressed in white, with many a tearful eye among them as they followed their favourite companion to the grave, over which was placed simple stone recording her melancholy end. a Week passed on after week, but still there was no intelligence of Francesco, and the dark event was beginning to fade from the minds of the villagers. About two months might have elapsed, when one evening a vehicle was toiling up a steep ascent on the road leading to Flerence. The carriage seemed to be one of the most unpretending description, drawn by a single horse, which a boy was leading up the ascent. A youth, pale and emaciated, was reclining back in the carriage, seeming just to have recovered from severe illness. His eyes were full of expression, and his face seemed lighted up with enthu siam as he looked around on the scenery, which at that part of the road was very wild and rugged. Huge masses of rock rose on each side, forming a narrow pass, the top of which was thickly wooded, and the overhanging foliage was throwing its dark shadow on the path beneath. Wrapt in contemplation of the grandeur of the scenery, Lorenzo (for it was he who occupied the carriage, and who had now nearly recovered of his wound) did not ob serve some figures seemingly as wild themselves as the scenery around, who were occasionally peering from above reconnoitring his movements. On turning an angle of the road, however, he came in view of several ruffian-like fellows, who were collected in a group at some distance. Feeling a little alarmed at their appearance, he hesitated whether to proceed, but thought nothing would be gained by returning; and so having ordered the boy to resame his seat, as the road was now more level, drove on at a rapid pace. He had not proceeded far, however, when some one darted suddenly from the roadside, and seizing the reins, ordered him to halt, at the same time pointing a pistol to his breast. Lorenzo looked towards the brigand (for such he seemed), and turned pale with terror on recognising in him the assassin Francesco. The recognition was mutual, and Francesco, with a fiendish smile, exclaimed, Now, I shall finish my revenge,' and immediately fired the pistol at his breast. At the same instant the other brigands rushed forward, and dragging him from the carriage commenced to plunder him of anything that excited their cupidity. In the confusion that followed, the boy, who had remained unheeded, seizing the reins, drove off at full speed, and succeeded in escaping, although followed by a shower of balls sent after him by the brigands. On reaching the village the news of the affair were quickly spread. It was ascertained that Francesco had collected a band of about twenty ruffians, of whom he had been chosen captain, and they had betaken themselves to the fastnesses of the neighbouring mountains for the purpose of sallying forth to waylay travellers. Another week brought intelligence of a fresh attack on several travellers, who had been overpowered and plundered. Consternation filled the minds of every one, and a troop of horse were sent out to scour the country in pursuit of them. But their places of concealinent were too well chosen to be easily traced. Francesco, who, we have said, was remarkable for his agility and muscular power, as well as for his daring character, became so fearless after a time as sometimes to enter the village alone or accompanied by a single companion, and visit his home for the purpose of procuring ammunition. On one of these occasions, information having been received of his presence in the village, some of the villagers placed themselves in ambush close to his father's cottage, expecting easily to take him prisoner. It chanced on this occasion that one of his companions had accompanied him, and was stationed outside to keep guard. Observing several of the villagers, who appeared to be watching for some one, his suspicions were excited, and he immediately gave the alarm to Francesco, who, retreating to the back of the house, thought to make his escape by a window unnoticed. But his motions were too closely watched, and as he leaped from the window a powerful arm was extended to seize him. With one blow from a stilletto, however, Francesco stretched his assailant on the ground, and started off towards the mountains pursued by the rest of the villagers who had been waiting in ambush. Such was his dexterity, that, loading his gun several times during his flight, he turned round and fired on his pursuers. By this means and by his swiftness of foot he succeeded in freeing himself of all but one, who seemed every moment to be gaining on him. His ammunition was now spent, and, as his pursuer was armed, there seemed no chance of safety but in flight. He strained every nerve to escape, but in vain. They had now left the village far behind and were approaching the mountains. There was a deep ravine or gully at no great distance, worn in the mountain side, by a rushing torrent, which flowed at a great depth beneath. Francesco's determination was instantly taken, and toward this ravine he directed his flight. A few hundred yards brought him to it, but to attempt leaping it seemed certain death, the distance across being more than twenty-six feet. For a moment he hesitated, but there seemed no alternative save delivering himself a prisoner. Despair nerved him with supernatural strength, and with a bound like a tiger he cleared the yawning chasm, and planted his feet in safety on the opposite brink.* A few strides more brought him to a place of shelter, and his pursuer, who was not daring enough to attempt to follow him, was obliged to return alone. We must now pass over two years of Francesco's life, during which he had continued to be the terror of the surrounding country; and a large reward had been offered A rudely sculptured stone marks the spot where this extraordinary leap was taken. to any one who should give information that would lead to his apprehension. An offer such as this was very tempting to such lawless men as those who were associated with him, but, according to the common proverb, 'honour among thieves,' they continued to remain faithful to him. At length, however, having quarrelled with one of them, anger aided by avarice induced the robber to determine on betraying his leader. One sultry evening Francesco was reclining listlessly in front of one of his secret mountain recesses, enjoying the refreshing coolness that proceeded from a waterfall close at hand. The spot seemed to have been formed in one of nature's wildest moods. A mountain stream rushing impetuously down the steep, tumbled over a lofty precipice, the noise of its falling waters sounding in loud reverberations from the sides of a deep ravine, along the bottom of which the stream continued its course. The ascent, almost perpendicular, on each side was clothed with luxuriant foliage; here and there an immense mass of rock jutting out in bold prominence. A little to the one side of the waterfall, and about fifty feet from the bottom of the precipice, scarcely perceptible at more than a few yards' distance, was the entrance to a small cave, closed in and almost concealed by the rank vegetation that grew around. The approach to it was by a narrow and difficult path winding up the most precipitous side of the ravine, and at one part crossing a deep fissure in the rock by a rude bridge formed of a single tree, along which it was no easy task for even the lawless mountaineers who tenanted the spot to guide their footsteps. Feeling himself secure in the concealment of a retreat so secluded, Francesco, we have said, was reclining listlessly in front of the cave, basking himself in a sunbeam that darted its long stream of light into the surrounding gloom. His companions having gone on some expedition, had left him alone in the midst of the dreary solitude. While he watched the golden rays of the setting sun retreating slowly up the side of the ravine, as it sunk towards the horizon, he could not refrain from contrasting its joyous light with the gloomy darkness that filled his own bosom; for even the most hardened cannot always smother the workings of a guilty conscience, but, like a harpy continually preying on the vitals of its victim, it will give a foreboding of the punishment reserved for a future state, when it will be ever inflicting increasing torments. His eye had just marked the last point that had been gilded by the sunbeam, now vanished from his sight, when his attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps in the direction of the pathway approaching the cave. He started to his feet, and, seizing his gun, advanced a few steps. Suddenly some one darted from the tangled brake, and, grappling with him, attempted to disarm him. A fierce struggle ensued, and Francesco had nearly forced his antagonist over the steep front of the precipice, when he was seized by a strong arm from behind and thrown to the ground. Several others now approaching, disarmed him and took him prisoner, and conducted him down the pathway. The party who had thus taken Francesco prisoner had been conducted to the spot by the robber with whom he had quarrelled, and he it was who had nearly met a speedy death by being hurled over the front of the precipice when rescued by the timely arrival of assistance. Francesco was conducted under a strong guard to Florence, followed by the execrations of the multitude, and there safely lodged in prison. In a few days he was brought before the tribunal, amidst an immense crowd of spectators, to receive judgment. It needed but little proof to establish his guilt, and he was speedily condemned to death, without receiving from any one a murmur of sympathy. When again lodged in prison, he sent for his brother, a wild, reckless youth, who had frequently joined him in his marauding expeditions. He came the same evening, and entering the cell where his brother was confined, began to condole with him on his unhappy fate. He was quickly interrupted, however, by Francesco, who thus |