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and weary cattle were standing in the shed, she loosed the strong, white charger, that fed from out her hand, she mounted, and she turned his head toward her native land. Out-out into the darkness-faster, and still more fast; the smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past; she looks up; clouds are heavy; why is her steed so slow ?-scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go.

Faster!" she cries, “Oh, faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime: "O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring me there in time!" But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? The steed draws back in terror,-she leans upon his neck to watch the flowing darkness; the bank is high and steep; one pause-he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein; her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, and see— in the far distance shine out the lights of home! Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again toward the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz just as the midnight rings, and out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are manned; defiance greets the army that marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid.

Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill an old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, they see in quaint, old carving the Charger and the Maid. And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, the

"

warder paces all night long and calls each passing hour: "nine," "ten," 'eleven," he cries aloud, and then (O crown of Fame!) when midnight pauses in the skies, he calls the maiden's name '

Before the beginning of years there came to the making of man, time, with a gift of tears; grief, with a glass that ran; pleasure, with pain for leaven; summer, with flowers that fell; remembrance, fallen from heaven, and madness, risen from hell; strength, without hands to smite; love, that endures for a breath; night, the shadow of light, and life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand fire, and the falling of tears, and a

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measure of sliding sand from under the feet of the years; and froth and drift of the sea; and dust of the laboring earth; and bodies of things to be in the houses of death and of birth; and wrought with weeping and laughter, and fashioned with loathing and love, with life before and after, and death beneath and above,—for a day and a night and a morrow, that his strength might endure for a span with travail and heavy sorrow, the holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south they gathered as unto strife; they breathed upon his mouth, they filled his body with life. Eyesight and speech they wrought, for the veils of the soul therein; a time for labor and thought, a time to serve and to sin. They gave him light in his ways, and love, and a space for delight, and beauty, and length of days, and night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire; with his lips he travaileth; in his heart is a blind desire; in his eyes foreknowledge of death. He weaves, and is clothed with derision; sows, and he shall not reap. His life is a watch, or a vision between a sleep and a sleep.

LX XXI X.

FROM THE DODGE CLUB; OR, ITALY IN
MDCCCLIX.

JAMES DE MILLE-HARPER & BROTHERS.

La Cica did not speak the best English in the world; yet that could not account for all the singular remarks which she made. Still less could it account for the tender interest of her manner. She had remarkably bright eyes. Why wandered those eyes so often to his, and why did they beam with such devotion-beaming for a moment, only to fall in sweet, innocent confusion? La Cica had the most fascinating manners, yet they were often perplexing to the Senator's soul.

"The Countess," he thought, "is a most remarkably fine woman; but she does use her eyes uncommon, and I do wish she wouldn't be quite so demonstrative."

At last the Senator came to this conclusion: La Cica was desperately in love with him.

She appeared to be a widow. Now, if the poor Cica was hopelessly in love, it must be stopped at once. For he was a married man, and his good lady still lived, with a very large family, most of the members of which had grown up. La Cica ought to know this. She ought indeed. But let the knowledge be given delicately, not abruptly.

On the following evening they walked on the balcony of La Cica's noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming.

The conversation of a fascinating woman does not look so well wher reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her expression, or the deep tenderness of her well-modulated voice? Who indeed?

"Does ze scene please you, my Senator?"

"Very much indeed.".

"Youar countrymen haf tol me zey would like to stay here alloway."

"Did you aiver see anythin moaire loafely?" And the Countess looked full in his face.

"Never," said the Senator, earnestly. The next instant he blushed. He had been betrayed into a compliment.

The Countess sighed.

"Helas! my Senator, that it is not pairmitted to mortals to sociate as zey would laike."

"Your Senator,'" thought the gentlemen thus addressed; "how fond, how tender-poor thing! poor thing!'

"I wish that Italy was nearer to the States," said he.

"How I adamiar youar style of mind, so differente from ze Italiana. You are so strong-so nobile. Yet would I laike to see moar of ze poetic in you."

"I always loved poetry, marm," said the Senator, desperately.

Ah—gɔɔd—nais—eccelente. I am plees at zat," cried the Countess, with much animation. "You would loafe it more eef you knew Italiano. Your langua ees not sufficiente musicale for poatry."

It is not so soft a language as the Italian."

"Ah-no-not so soft. Very well. And what theenka you of ze Italiano?" “The sweetest language I ever heard in all my born days."

Ah, now-you hev not heard much of ze Italiano, my Senator."

"I have heard you speak often," said the Senator, naively.

Ah, you compliment! I sot you was aboove flattera."

And the Countess playfully tapped his arm with her little fan.

"What Ingelis poet do you loafe best?"

"Poet? English poet?" said the Senator, with some surprise. "Ohwhy, marm, I think Watts is about the best of the lot!"

"Watt? Was he a poet? I did not know zat. He who invented ze stim-injaine? And yet if he was a poet it is naturale zat you loafe him best." Steam engine? Oh no! This one was a minister."

"A meeneestaire? Ah! an abbe? I know him not. Yet I haf read mos of all youar poets."

"He made up hymns, marm, and psalms—for instance: 'Watt's Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.'

'Songs? Spirituelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works of Watt, which was favorit poet of my Senator."

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"A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet Watts," said the Senator, firmly. 'He is the best known by far of all our poets."

What? better zan Shakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much surprass me.” "Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why, his poetry is known by heart through all England and America."

Merciful Heaven! what you tell me ! ees eet possible! An yet he is not known here efen by name. It would please me mooch, my Senator, to haire Know you Watt? Tell me some words of his

you make one quotatione. which I may remembaire."

'I have a shocking bad memory."

Bad memora! Oh, but you remember somethin, zis most beautiful charm nait—you haf a nobile soul-you must be affecta by beauty-by ze ideal. Make for me one quotatione.”

And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked up imploringly in his face.

The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so.

Here was a beautiful

woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him. Perplexing— but very flattering, after all. So he replied:

"You will not let me refuse you anything."

“Aha! you are vera willin to refuse. It is difficulty for me to excitare youar regards. You are fill with the grand ideas. But come-will you spik for me som from your favorit Watt?"

"Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly, and he hesitated. "Ah-I do wish it so much!"

The only thing that the Senator could think of was the verse which had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured rhythm keeping time with every occupation:

and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly dropped her eyes. "Ma willina sol wooda sta-''

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In such a frame as this,' " prompted the Senator.

"Een socha framas zees.' Wait- Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?"

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'And sit and sing herself away,' ," said the Senator, in a faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of committing himself by such uncommonly strong language.

"Ansit ansin hassaf awai,' repeated the Countess, her face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression.

The Senator paused.

"I-ehem! I forget."

"Forget? Impossible!"

"I do, really."

'Ah now! Forget? I see by your facc―you desave. Say on."

The Countess again gently touched his arm with both her little hands, an◄ held it as though she would clasp it.

"Have you fear? Ah, cruel!"

The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly finished: "To everlasting bliss-there!

"To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all: 'Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha frame as zees, ansit ansin hassaf awai to affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?"

"Yes," said the Senator, meekly.

"I knew you were a poetic sola," said the Countess, confidingly.

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You air honesto-true-you can not desave. When you spik I can beliv you. Ah, my Senator! an you can spik zis poetry!-at soch a toime! I nefare knew befoare zat you so impassione !—an you air so artaful! You breeng ze confersazione to beauty-to poatry-to ze poet Watt-so you may spik verses mos impassione! Ah! what do you mean? Santissima madre! how I wish you spik Italiano."

The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deepened his perplexity.

་་

'How that poor thing does love me!" sighed the Senator. 'Law bless it! she can't help it—can't help it nohow. She is a goner; and what can I do? I'll have to leave Florence."

The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood, waiting for him to break the silence. How could he? He had been uttering words which sounded to her like love; and she-"a widow ! a widow! wretched man that I am!"

There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awkward the Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say? What business had he to go fool he must be! But the

and quote poetry to widows? What an old

Countess was very far from feeling awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude she looked up, her face expressing the tenderest solicitude.

"What ails my Senator?"

Why, the fact is, marm-I feel sad—at leaving Florence. I must go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The children are down with the measles."

Oh, base fabrication ! O false Senator ! There wasn't a word of truth in that last remark. You spoke so because you wished La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was very badly done.

La Cica changed neither her attitude nor her expression. Evidently the existence of his wife, and the melancholy situation of his unfortunate children, awakened no sympathy.