stood beside her, Elisabetta spoke to her early friend with an affectionate seriousness, beyond her wont, of the beloved art they both followed-of Ginevra's future life of her lover.

A look at once full of hatred and despairing grief came over Ginevra's face; but Elisabetta went on-"I always loved thee, Ginevra, and thy Battista too; and if I recover

"Thou wilt die; thou art dying now," said Ginevra, in a low and hissing whisper. "Thou hast been my bane through life, my rival in all things; last of all, in Battista's love. I have poisoned thee."

A shudder convulsed Elisabetta's frame, but she did not shriek: awe, not terror, possessed her, as she heard of her certain doom. Her lips moved long in a silent prayer; then she looked calmly at Ginevra, who stood beside her like a statue of stone, and said, "Thou art deceived; I never loved any man; my life was devoted to God and to divine art. Thy Battista wooed me not, Ginevra; he never loved but thee."

In utter abandonment of remorse, the murderess sued for pardon at her victim's feet. "Denounce me! Thy death will be slow: let me die before thee, as an atonement."

"Not so," faintly answered Elisabetta; "the secret be between thee and me. Let not my father know that his child died by poison. The holy saints forgive thee as I do. Ginevra, live and be happy with thy betrothed."

"It is too late," shrieked Ginevra; "Battista is dead!" It was indeed so. Battista Zani died at Rome, soon after his arrival, leaving behind him only the memory of the genius which had promised so much, and which perished in its early blossoming. His name, chronicled by Malvasia, is all that remains to posterity of Battista Zani.

Elisabetta Sirani died by this mysterious and horrible death in her twenty-sixth year. Many surmises arose as to the fatal cause, some approaching near the fact, others wild and contradictory. Amidst the pomp of splendid obsequies, the maiden artist was laid in the tomb of Guido Reni.

The orator Picinardi poured forth a torrent of eloquent lamentation over the beloved dead; solemn music sounded through the church of St. Domenico; and the whole city mourned over the pride of Bologna.

But while poets wrote her elegy, and sculptors adorned her costly monument, the memory of Elisabetta remained, like that of a departed saint, in her father's house; at first sorrowful, afterwards bringing only holy and solemn thoughts. They spoke of her genius; of her humility, which scorned not all the lowly but sweet offices of home; of her beauty, made still lovelier by the calm dignity with which, knowing she was fair, she gloried not in it; and of her pure and holy mind, which, though not too proud for earth, ever turned heavenwards, as if there was its true home. And thus, like the continual perfume of virtue and of holiness, which death cannot take away, lingered on earth the memory of Elisabetta Sirani,

Andrea Sirani survived his eldest daughter many years. His two other children, Barbara and Anna, also became artists; and there is still extant a graceful sonnet of Picinardi, addressed to Barbara Sirani, who had painted from memory the portrait of the lost Elisabetta.

Of Ginevra Cantofoli, all that need be said is, that she lived and she died.

395

A LIFE EPISODE.

much as he

-Or which the reader may believe just as chooses-though, for my part, I believe it all. Not its mere outside garb the drapery in which we pen-artists enfold cur model truths, which drapery we may arrange exactly as we please; but the deep world-wide verity of human feeling that lies beneath, and is eternally the same.

The man, whose life-episode I purpose here to unfold, was one whom you might have met any day in a London street, park, or omnibus, and not have known that he was different from other men. Perhaps it may create astonishment, that I thus take from my hero every romantic accessory that could throw a halo around him, so as to reconcile in a degree the strange opposition of real and ideal which overshadows him, I might have clothed him in a Roman toga, instead of plain broadcloth. I might have placed his existence in the dark ages where mysteries abounded. But, no!-life is as true, as earnest, as full of wild romance and deep spirituality in these so-called matter-of-fact days as in those upon which we look back through the all-hallowing shadows of the past. Is not the inward life of every one a mystery? You meet a poet looking just like any other man-ready to dine, to sup, to talk about the weather, or the state of Europe; yet the next day, when in your solitude you glance over his silent page-the inner depths of his heart, mingling with yours, lift your soul into communion with the Infinite. With an artist you may shake hands and interchange ordinary chat; and anon, looking at his work, you become transported into the glorious ideal world which his genius has created, in

which "the shadowy people of the realm of dream" grow visible. Are not these things mysteries:-aye, as deep and strange as were ever dealt in by the necromancers of old?

Therefore, let the reader not start at the contrast which may jar against his sense of the supernatural when I take for my hero a man of our age in every respect. His name is— no; he shall have a feigned name; the same as the mournful mother Queen Marguerite gave to her new-born babe at Damietta-Tristan. It suits well, for this man was one Let him then be Tristan.

most sorrowful.

He was a man weighed down by cares: what these were it is needless here to relate. You may meet, as I have said, his likeness many a time in London streets; and in the faded dress, the heavy, listless gait, the eye which never seeks the sky, but always the ground, as if there alone were rest-you may recognise a brother to whom life has been full of thorns. Oh, be thankful and rejoice if your hand has planted none for him or his fellows!

Tristan walked along in the soft, sunny light of a June evening; a time most joyous in country lanes and fields, but in London bringing only sadness. He passed through the dull close West-end streets-where the heated air was never stirred by one fresh evening breeze, and not a shade of the glorious sunset was visible save one faint golden sparkle on a church tower near. Tristan saw neither gloom nor light. His eyes were blinded, his heart was pressed down by misery.

He found himself crossing the green sward towards the Serpentine River. It glittered in the sunlight like a beacon; and his eyes were opened now. He saw it; he would have rushed towards it with the speed of a hunted deer flying to a distant shelter, but he dared not. It seemed as if every passer-by cried out to him—" Man, whither goest thou ?" The answer to that question belonged not to time, but to eternity.

Tristan felt as if each eye were directed to him in this mute inquiry, which, turn where he would, he could not

escape. There was not a lad who went whistling past, nor a milliner girl tripping lightly with her burden, that did not seem in this man's disordered fancy to be an accusing spirit, knowing his purpose and taunting him with it. To elude them, he went a long way round, and reached the bridge just when the sun had set. He tried to lounge upon it as he saw other people do, watching the cockney Waltonians who pursued their harmless amusement in the twilight. His eyes rested on each tiny float; and his wandering thoughts followed the line down-down to the deep bed of the river. What was there?

He could not answer that he hardly tried. All he felt was, that it must be a place of stillness, and coldness, and silence he sought nothing more. Even the blueness which

the still bright sky cast deep down within it was painful; he wanted it dark-all dark. He could not enter the portals of that home of rest while a ray of light rested on it—while one worldly sound broke above it. There was yet near him a murmur of boyish talk and laughter, and a robin sang in one of the distant trees. He would wait-wait until night and its stars should be the only witnesses of the great change.

Tristan sat down underneath the parapet of the bridge. A man passed by, and looked at him, seeming to wonder what he was doing there. So he took out of his pocket a biscuit, and pretended to eat. Then a woman crossed, leading a sickly child, who gazed wistfully at the food. Tristan gave his morsel to the famished boy.

"Now the world owes me more than it would fain bestow, even a crust of bread!" thought he; and he felt a savage pride in the reflection.

Colder and darker came on the night, and Tristan waited still. A dreaminess, a torpor seemed to cramp his energies, making them unequal even to that last effort which would end all. A mist was over his eyes; yet still he saw through its gathering folds the dark waving, ghostly trees-the stars overhead, and the calm, rippling waves below.