of rebellion in his heart, and he willingly united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false. But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already with the duke moving him, with all a woman's eloquence, to command the presence of Charomonte's fair daughter at the court, saying, that his nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion. Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his enses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and learning too, not usual with women. | fair Lidia," he concluded, "my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you, and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your virtues, Giovanni." Giovanni's messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father's household, who, with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount, would be her father's opposition, but she thought she would contrive with the servants aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte's mansion in anger; and so soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte alone. Then he upbraided him with treason-for he suspected the old man of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro's suspicions, he attributed Giovanni's double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl, connived at by her father. Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master's reproaches with angry amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke commanded she should be shown to him. This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him deeply, for he could not bear the thought of in- | sincerity and falsehood in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with, and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her; but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and then with sweet condescension greeted Sana-lowed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous banquet. zarro, begging him to accept of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke's journey. The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation. Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both felt certain that it was the duke's intention to see Lidia with his own eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte's house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he feared, with unlawful love. "If he see you, as you are, "But," said he, "you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.” Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by Giovanni and Sanazarro, fol At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside. She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be carried away from the duke's presence. The imposture, however, was so gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them; that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man. It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonte and Contarino, his old secretary, could be so blinded. | anger, he recalled how coldly Sanazarro had always "It may be," he said to himself, "that the daughter, received her courtesies, and how easily he had yielded for some ends unknown, has personated this rude be- to the charms of another, and that other beneath her haviour, which seems so ridiculous and impossible. in rank. Whatever be the riddle, however, I will resolve it, if possible." Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke's pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his daughter's chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears, knelt before him and besought his mercy. "Ah," exclaimed the duke, "this is the peerless form I expected to see;" then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew, Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers, guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors. In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was the sad cause of his offence. "I know," she said, "that the prince is so far above me that my wishes even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and favor, I'll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too near them." Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she advocated it. Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly. Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke's kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence of Lidia's charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess Fiorinda's love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he acknowledged himself most unworthy. But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant, SanaCozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind master; and then, to move her still more to zarro. The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she replied, "True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense." The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them believe-that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained constant so many years. purposed a second marriage with this young maiden, so unfit for him in station and age. The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy, presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after exhausting love's sweet language in describing her charms, he turned, with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence. Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of his cold indifference to Fiorinda's condescending love, and his unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him that charge was naught; she had already heard the count's confession, and had freely pardoned him. The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. "We made you both," continued the duke, "the keys that opened our heart's secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel from our knowledge. Look on her," he said, pointing to the blushing Lidia, "is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to us, your treachery to her, in seeking to deprive her of that greatness she was born to, can ne'er find pardon." As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him, besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to Charomonte, he said, "You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess Clarinda's death, and how we vowed-not hoping to see her equal-never to make a second choice We did not know that nature had framed one that did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us sware-are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?" Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all woman's beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply, that the weight of his perjury would sink him. "This is strong truth, Carolo," replied the duke, but yet it does not free them from treason." "But," answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke's design, "the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter." The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly replied, "He told me so, indeed, sire." " said "And the count has averred as much to me,' the Duchess Fiorinda, with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke's manner that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to the young men. "Ah," said Duke Cozimo, smiling, "you all conspire to force our mercy from us." Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia's hand in Giovanni's, and as he pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the duchess and the beautiful Lidia. Thus ends this story, courteous reader, ana Of what's presented, worthy of your love LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT IN CAVE HILL CEMETERY. BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. ONE evening, dear Virginia, in thy life, I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon, Weary years Dear, parted one, Since this green turf was laid above thy rest, In the deep hearts that loved thee. We have set To our eyes O'er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyres Lost one! From where the flash of sun and star is dim As sweet as that in which the morning stars "T is midnight deep, My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe'er I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hour Ah, I feel, Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer! I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts, A hand from which the electric fire of heaven Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine- Is thrilling through my heart, as 't were the voice In the eternal void-and our two souls Fare thee well! To bear the ills and agonies of life, And point me to an immortality LUCY LEYTON. BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. the highest bidder, a worthy farmer, with as many children as barn-door fowl. For six months, droning spinning-wheels, and rattling looms, made music in the classic rooms-squashes and red-peppers hung on the frescoed walls, while the conservatory, with its marble fount, served admirably for the dairy of the notable Mrs. Grimes-pots of butter, and round, yellow cheeses, taking the place of rhododendrons and fragrant jessamines. Fortunately for the preser vation of this tasteful dwelling, at the end of six months, it was purchased by young Doctor Bartine, who, after putting it in complete repair, and removing the unseemly pig-stye and other excrescences from the face of the beautiful lawn, brought hither his pretty young bride. There is the parsonage seques I HAVE been induced to a brief series of heart-his- | hammer of Tom Pepper, the village auctioneer, to tories by a remark of Longfellow, in Kavanagh. In speaking of the ever sanguine yet irresolute schoolmaster, who was "forced to teach grammar when he would fain have written poems," he says, "Mr. Churchill never knew that while he was exploring the Past for records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his own village, the romance he was longing to find and record, had really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own friends." Again, Emerson says, "Every roof is agreeable to the eye until it is lifted, and then we find tragedy, and moaning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and deluges of lethe." There is truth in this. Beneath every roof-tree some romance is at work-some heart-history compiling. The evening lights twinkle from cottages sleeping peacefully upon the hill-sides and valleys-tered from the street by elms a century old; and the music and mirth break on the air from brilliantly illuminated dwellings-then the night wears on-the cottage-lights no longer gleam-silence wraps the abode of wealth-and from out the majesty of the heavens encircling all, the gentle moon and bright, flashing stars look down alike on sheltered cot or marble dome. Yet, "lift the roof," lay bare the heart which pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of romance woven from life's mingled threads of grief, of love, of happiness -perhaps of shame. Let me, then, from out the "simple annals" of a quiet country town, sketch, with a faithful pen, these heart-histories-these romances from real life. The little village to which they may be traced, 1 must forbear to name. That it does not exist merely in the imagination, let it suffice the incredulous reader. There are bright, dancing rills spangling its broad meadows the "sweet south wind" plays over innumerable fields of billowy grain, and the tinkle of the cow-bell is heard within the sweet-scented pine forests which crown the summit of each rising hill. The roofs, some of which I am about to "lift," cover no costly edifices. They are for the most part humble and unpretending, yet so embosomed among fruit and forest-trees as to render each cottage of itself a coup d'œil of beauty. There are, to be sure, two or three exceptions; the large, three-story brick house of Judge Porter, for instance, with its long, winding avenues, and, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, its "statutes" placed in awful frigidity about the grounds, frightening the children of the neighborhood as so many sheeted ghosts. The beautiful villa, too, of Dr. Bartine, (these names are, of course, fictitious,) which stands on a gentle eminence somewhat remote from the village. It was built by a gentleman of wealth and cultivated taste, who lived only to see it completed. It was then knocked down under the venerable church, from whose well-worn portals a narrow foot-path conducts to that peaceful spot where, "when life's fitful fever ended," the villagers come one by one and lie down to their dreamless rest. There all is hushed. The wind, as it softly sweeps the pliant willow, seems to whisper a requium for the peaceful dead; a few birds flit noiselessly about, but no song of gladness trills from their little throats, their notes are low and plaintive, as if they mourned for the hand which once fed them, but will never feed them more. Such are the prominent local features of the little village, into whose quiet precincts I have wandered. And there are many such primitive towns nestling among our hills and valleys, some even less pretending; and there are lone cottages scattered by the roadside, and huts of squalid poverty, and the thrifty homestead of the farmer, all of which have their heart-histories. Love's autocrasy must form the theme of my first romance from the real; and, indeed, if the truth was known, there are but few heart-histories in whose compilation that troublesome little sprite has not more or less interfered. Lucy Leyton, with that bright, roguish eye of hers, and her sunny smile shall attest the truth of my words. The proprietor of the great Leyton farm which covers more than a hundred acres of the richest land in New England, is a true specimen of her stalwort sons, her independent, industrious farmers-a noble race, uniting integrity, sound sense, and a high standard of moral worth, under manners the most plain and unpretending-keenly sensitive for the public weal, hospitable, kind, and thrifty-not over generous, not over prodigal of their means, yet far removed from that selfish avarice which would refuse a helping hand to those who would rise in the |