O'Donagough, I must say. And pray what are you going to put into my daughter's head next? If my manners are not good enough to be a model for her, I should like very much to know where she is to find one. From my very earliest childhood, my manners have been remarked, and it is not for me to repeat what has been said of them. But this I will say, that I believe you are the first that ever found out there was any thing in my manners to be mended."

"Upon my hononr, my dear, I did not mean to say any thing at all affronting about your manners. Of course I admire them extremely!" replied Mr. O'Donagough. "But Patty is very young, you know, as yet, and therefore I think it is as well to give her a hint that she must be careful not to be too frolicsome and rampagous if she intends to be my Lady Seymour. The young man, you see, is a good deal with Mrs. Hubert, and that set, and I'll bet you what you will, that though he may be in love with our Patty, owing to their old acquaintance on board ship, which is quite natural, so handsome and affectionate as she is, yet still, I'll venture a good bet, he'd say, if he was asked, that Mrs. Hubert's manners, and her daughters, too, were exactly what is thought most elegant by people of high fashion; and that's what you must try to appear, if you can, you know."

Scarcely were these dangerous words uttered, ere he was assailed by both wife and daughter, who in the same instant burst upon him, each trying, as it seemed, to outscream the other.

"You don't mean to say," vociferated the elder lady, "that any living being in their senses, could give the preference to the cold, starched, hateful, old-maidish manners of Agnes Willoughby over mine? MINE! Gracious Heaven! That I should ever live to hear you say such a thing as that, Major-Mr. I mean-Mr. Allen O'Donagough! I should like to hear Lord Mucklebury's opinion on the point.'

While these words were being uttered on one side of him, a shrill, young voice assailed him on the other with, "You think Jack would like Miss Longshanks Elizabeth better than me, do you? Well then, let him take her-that's all I have got to say about it.

"Wheugh!" whistled Mr. O'Donagough, extending his hands, as if to drive away a swarm of stinging flies, "what a racket you do make, ladies, about nothing at all. You don't quite catch my meaning, I perceive; but perhaps, by degrees, I may be able to make you understand me better. However, we will say no more about it now, if you please. And, by the by, my Barnaby, there is something else to talk of, which I dare say you will think more agreeable. You have mentioned Lord Mucklebury; and do you know, my dear, I should like exceedingly to find him out, that you might renew your acquaintance, and introduce me to him. I will promise not to be jealous, and I rather think he is one of the sort of people I should like to know."

There was in this speech wherewithal to heal very satisfactorily all the wounds inflicted by the former one. The conversation immediately flowed into a most agreeable channel, wherein a future of very great and hopeful splendour was sketched. Patty, indeed, fell asleep in the midst of it, which was probably owing to some rather business-like details which entered into the discussion; but scarcely ever had the ci-devant major and his Barnaby passed an evening in more perfect harmony.

(To be continued.)

ISOTTA GRIMANI:

A VENETIAN STORY.

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

"Venice, proud city, based upon the sea,
A marvel of man's enterprise and power;
Glorious even in thy ruin, who can gaze
On thee, and not bethink them of the past
When thou didst rise as by magician's wand,
On the blue waters like a mirror spread,
Reflecting temples, palaces, and domes,
In many lengthened shadows o'er the deep?
They who first reared thee, little deemed, I ween,
That thou, their refuge, won from out the sea,
(When despotism drove them from the land)
Should bend and fall by that same cold stern thrall,
That exiled them, here to erect a home,

Where freedom might their children's birthright be.
Wealth, and its offspring Luxury, combined,
To work thy ruin by Corruption's means.
How art thou fallen from thine high estate,
The Rome of ocean, visited like her,

By pilgrims journeying from their distant lands,

To view what yet remains to vouch the past,

When thou wert glorious as the seven crowned hills,

Ere yet barbarian hordes had wrought their doom.
Here Commerce flourished, pouring riches in
With floating Argosies from distant ports;

And paying with a lavish hand for Art,
That still lends glory, Venice, to thy walls!
Here came the trophies of thy prowess, too,
The steeds, Lysippus, that thy chisel wrought.
Along thy waters, lined by palaces
(Rich, and fantastic, as a poet's dream),
Are mingled minarets, fretted domes, and spires,
Of rarest sculpture, that appear to float

Gently away upon their liquid base.

Nor doth this seem more wondrous than all else

That meets my gaze where all things seem untrue;

As if Romance a fitting home had found,

To people with creations of the brain."

"THIS, signor, is the Palazzo Grimani," said the cicerone, as we stepped from our gondola on a marble staircase, nearly covered with a green and glutinous substance, the sediment of the impure water of the canal, which was not only offensive to our olfactory nerves, but dangerously slippery.

A loud ring of the bell summoned the custode, whose eyes twinkled with pleasure in anticipation of the buonamano, for which his accustomed palm already felt impatient. Having opened the ponderous doors which creaked on their rusted hinges, and unclosed the massive shutters that excluded the light and air, he donned a faded livery-coat, that looked as if coeval with the palazzo itself, and after many respectful salutations to me, and familiar ones to my guide, conducted us from the large and gloomy entrance-hall, where he armed himself with a huge bunch of keys, to the grand suite of apartments. The interiors of Venetian palaces bear a striking resemblance to each other. Each

contains nearly the same number of saloons, hung with leather stamped with faded gold or silver, tapestry, velvets, and silks, crowned by ceilings, whose gorgeousness makes the eyes ache. Each apartment has the usual number of exquisitely-painted and gilded doors, with architraves of the rarest alabasters and marbles, and most of them have small chambers, peculiar to Venetian houses, projecting from a large one, over the canal, offering something between an ancient oratory, and modern boudoir, and affording a delicious retreat for a siestu, a book, or the enjoyment of that not less-admired Italian luxury, the dolce far niente, which none but Creoles and Italians know how to enjoy. It is not the fine carvings, the massive and splendid furniture, the rare hangings, nor the gorgeous ceilings, on which the eye loves to dwell in those once magnificent, and now, alas! fast-decaying edifices. No! though they claim the tribute of a passing gaze, we fix on the glorious pictures, the triumphs of Genius and Art, in which the great and the beautiful still live on canvass to immortalize the master hands, that gave them to posterity.

Having stopped more than the usual time allotted to travellers, in silent wonder and admiration, before the golden-tinted chef d'œuvres of Giorgione, whose pencil seems to have been dipped in sunbeams, so glowing are the hues it has infused; and having loitered, unwilling to depart, before the ripe and mellow treasures of Titian, in whose portraits, the pure and eloquent blood seems still to speak, I was at last preparing to quit the palace, intending to reserve for another day the pictures of Tintoretto, Bassano, and Paulo Veronese, whose velvets and satins attracted my admiration more than the finest specimens of those materials ever produced by Lyonese, Genoese, or English loom, when my. eyes and steps were arrested by a picture from the pencil of the Veronese, more beautiful than any that I had yet seen. It portrayed a young and lovely lady, in a rich Venetian dress, with a countenance of such exceeding expression, that it fascinated my attention.

"That portrait, signor, attracts the admiration of your countrymen, more than any other in this fine collection," said the custode, observing the interest it had excited. It represents the only child of the great Grimani, and was painted by Paolo, soon after he returned from Rome, where he went in the suite of her noble father, who was ambassador at the papal court. Yes, signor," continued the custode, drawing himself up proudly," it was in this very palazzo that Paolo Cagiari, then lately arrived, poor and unfriended, from Verona, was taken under the protection of Grimani, and beheld those cenas, whose gorgeousness he has immortalized, rendering the suppers of Paolo Veronese more celebrated than the famed ones of the luxurious Lucullus."

The custode betrayed not a little self-con placency at this display of his erudition; and my cicerone while he whispered to me that Jacopo Zuccarelli passed for a very learned man, seemed not a little vain of his compatriot.

"The signora must have been singularly beautiful," remarked I to Jacopo; "but an air of deep melancholy pervades the countenance." "Yes, signor, and great cause had the ill-fated lady for grief," and he sighed deeply.

Family secrets cease to be such, after the lapse of centuries, Signor Jacopo," said I; "and, if not trespassing too much on your time, I

should much like to hear the history of the original of that beautiful portrait before us."

"It is a long story, signor," muttered Jacopo, shaking his head, and pulling from his waistcoat-pocket a large old silver watch, that looked as if it were one of the first made by Peter Hele; and which he regarded in a way that indicated rather an unwillingness to gratify my curiosity. The chink of a purse which I drew from mine, and the electrifying touch of a piece of gold, which I placed in his hand, quickly overcame his reluctance, and having expressed his desire that his communication should be made to me alone, I dismissed my cicerone, who seemed offended at the exclusion.

“Yes, yes, I warrant me, signor, Leonardi is sadly vexed because I would not let him listen to my story, that he might himself tell it to every Forestiere who may come to see this palace, and so take the bread from my mouth: that is the way with them all, a grasping and avaririous race! The story, signor, is as much my exclusive property as is the right of showing the pictures; and these are not times, the saints know, to yield up to another one of the sole means left me for earning a scanty subsistence. Poverta non è vizio, Heaven be thanked! else were many culpable. Besides, signor, I could not bear to have the history of a descendant of this noble house mutilated by vulgar lips, and profaned by obscene commentaries. How could such a person as Leonardi comprehend the feelings, or do justice to the motives of a scion of the Grimani stock? No! signor, it requires not only learning, but some similarity of sentiment with the noble, to execute befittingly such a task as this!"

Jacopo drew himself up, and looked so self-complacent, that I feared he would forget the heroine of his promised tale, in his more vivid interest for her biographer. Some little symptom of impatience was, I fear, but too visible in my countenance, for he apologized for his digression, which he said had been solely occasioned by the evident curiosity of the artful and grasping cicerone.

"Well, signor, to begin my story, the Lady Isotta Grimani, whose portrait is before us, was considered the most beautiful of all the ladies in Venice in her day; yet though nobody contested this fact, none of the young Venetian nobles was so deeply penetrated by it as Rodrigo Manfredoni, a descendant of one of the oldest families we can boast. This same Rodrigo Manfredoni was esteemed the handsomest man in Venice, and so far surpassed the other young nobles that it might well be said of him, " Natura lo foce è poi ruppe la stampa." His fortune was unhappily not only unequal to support the dignity of his name, but alas! insufficient to supply the wants of even a private gentleman. "This poverty had been entailed on him by the prodigality of his ancestors, and compelled him to dwell in a palace, crumbling fast to decay, surrounded with every badge of the ancient splendour of his house: thus reminding him, with increased bitterness, of its fallen fortunes. He felt his poverty, signor, as only a proud spirit feels it, it made him still prouder; and this drew on him the dislike and sarcasms of his unimpoverished but less noble contemporaries, which though not displayed in his presence, for his was not a temper to have borne even the semblance of an indignity, were freely exhibited in his absence. The consciousness of his poverty haunted him like a dark

shadow, forbidding present enjoyment, and precluding future hope. But if his pride stood between him and those who would have willingly extended their friendship to him, it also saved him from much humiliation. Why did it not preserve him from love?

"Rodrigo Manfredoni, while yet in the flower of manhood, led a life of great seclusion, passing whole days in poring over the mildewed and musty tomes, with which the vast library in his Palazzo was stored; forgetting, in reflecting on the past, the mortifications of the actual present.

"Well can I, signor, understand the tranquil pleasure of such a life, for I have pursued it for years. Yes, great is the luxury of living in the past, when the present and the future are clouded. It is a consolation, signor, to converse with the great and wise of antiquity, who give us their best thoughts, when the weak and worldly-minded moderns give us but words, and those not worth remembering."

After this sally, a pause of self-gratulation ensued: finding himself, however, unsupported by a respondent admiration from me, Jacopo shortly resumed:

"Rodrigo mixed rarely in society; and when in it, the cold dignity of his bearing, and the ceremonious reserve of his manners, repelled all approaches to familiarity.

As proud as Lucifer,' was the phrase generally applied to him when he was the subject, as not unfrequently happened, of animadversion; and handsome as a fallen angel too!' would some fair dame murmur, as her eye glanced on his noble countenance and stately figure.

"At a grand fête given to celebrate the sixteenth anniversary of the birth of the Lady Isotta, all the nobles of Venice were assembled in this palace, and amongst them came Il Conte Manfredoni. It was the first time that the Lady Isotta had been seen, except in the privacy of the domestic circle; but the fame of her rare beauty had gone forth, and all were anxious to judge if it had been exaggerated. The ladies were strongly disposed to think that her charms had been over-praised; the young nobles, on the contrary, were sure that more than justice had not been rendered them; and the old ones were content with the knowledge that whatever doubt might exist as to her present attractions, none could be offered as to the vast wealth of her father, whose sole heiress she was.

"But though the guests at the palace were prepared to see beauty of no common order, they were astonished at the surpassing loveliness of the Lady Isotta. All eyes were fixed on her, while hers fell beneath the passionate glances they encountered at every side; but not until they had met the deep gaze of Rodrigo Manfredoni-a gaze whose soulbeaming expression sent the bright blood mantling to her delicate cheek, did she derive any satisfaction from the admiration she excited; while he stood as if rooted to the spot, unable to remove his eyes from her faultless face. When the Lady Isotta lifted her snowy eyelids again, the same deep, passionate gaze encountered her timid glance; and neither ever forgot the look they then exchanged.

Yes, signor, however you cold inhabitants of the chilly north may doubt it, there is such a thing as love at first sight, and this story proves it, for in un batter d'occhio, their hearts were gone.