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time, and there she remained in perfect seclusion, while he went on his career of glory.

At last a change came over the fortunes of their love. Again the castle of Mirandola was a scene of festivity; it had changed masters, but what then? The vassals of low degree,-ay! and even the guests of lofty degree, could raise the wine cup on high, and quaff it as merrily to the health of Trivulzio, as to that of Julius. And Ippolita stood in her own halls again, and in the sunny hour she redeemed the promise she had plighted, when the storm had gloomed the horizon of her life.

The evening of the day on which Trivulzio reconquered his daughter's possessions, was held as a high festival. The old halls were lighted up, the banquet was spread, light steps danced over the marble floors, and the music of merry laughter echoed joyfully through the dim corridores.

But apart from the gay revellers, stood two who mingled neither in the dance or song, but who yet were the happiest inmates of Mirandola that night. At last, when twilight had dispersed her thousand sweet influences in the still air, when the pale form of the crescent moon lighted up the very topmost branches of the old pine wood, which skirted the sleeping landscape, they stepped forth on to the terrace, that terrace whereon, a year before, they had renewed together their sweet recollections of the by-past; that terrace whence they had first descried the cloud which had dimmed, but had not blighted, the renewed happiness of their life. Again Alessandro's hand was on the moss-rose tree; and this

time Ippolita, permitted him to choose that bud from among its store of fragrant treasures, which pleased his fancy the most, and when he had made his selection, she gathered the flower and gave it to him.

Let us not turn over another leaf of their lives. They are dreaming again, as they dreamed in earliest youth, of love, and constancy, and happiness. Let the storm come, and let the tempest rave; they are blessed already beyond their fellow mortals, inasmuch as they sleep again, though it be but in fancied security.


She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers,
At airy distance with majestic motion,

A ruler of the waters and their powers,
And such she was.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond

Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto.




Ar last, Minna, I have the pleasure of dating a letter from this place, and feel, as did, I think, Madame de Staël, toute glorieuse. When told that in a few hours I should see Venice, I could scarcely help asking myself, if I was indeed myself. There is a charm in the very word, for it breathes of lovely


forms consecrated in song and in romance; and yet more, it brings back to us vividly the memory of those happy days when we first learned to love reading, and could sit buried in some snug 66 corner from morn till dewy eve," utterly regardless of visiting, and dressing, and dinnering, and all the minor ceremonies of life, while immersed in the fate of Antonio or Desdemona, of Faliero, or of the Foscari.

I thought, while approaching the fair city, of the long past days, when I used to find the word Venice on a map, and think of it as of a fairy place, a far-off wonder, a creation of poets and painters, which I might read of and muse upon, but never hope to visit. And now this happiness, long desired and hardly won, is mine, but it is happiness. Ask those whose rare fate it is to realize the dream of their young imaginings, and they will all give the same answer. And what may be the reason of this? It is that woman carries not into her after-days the heart of childhood. The smile that is to-morrow bright as to-day, the brow unclouded by regret for the past, or fear for the future, belong to that happy season, and fade, alas ! with it.

Woman no sooner enters the world, than she learns to feel; and she no sooner learns to feel, than she learns to suffer. She cannot look on a cloudless sky or lovely scene, but dim and undefined aspirations arise, and vain longings after some kindred spirit who shall sympathize with and share in her deep admiration. She cannot fully enjoy the present moment, whatever materials of bliss may fill it; she cannot possess her spirit in quiet, for she dwells less amid external objects than in the busy world of her

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