rest, but they follow. We hasten to the hollow behind the village, where the tribe has fixed its encampment.

"Tarschkarschi,' mutters the old man as we arrive at the preserve, "they are fond of pheasant's flesh." The whole preserve is enveloped in a dense cloud of sulphur smoke. These are their tents. We approach the largest. It is of coarse goat-hair texture, with numberless holes, the top open, volumes of smoke issuing from it;-nothing to be distinguished. Now the forms become a little perceptible. An agreeable sight it is! In the midst of the tent, before a kettle which hangs from three poles, joined on the top, there stands a frightful old woman, in an absolute state of nature, throwing pigs, chickens, cats, mice, and all kinds of bipeds and quadrupeds, into an enormous kettle. Round the fire women are sitting in the same frightful state, suckling their babes. One of them puts down the child, and the next moment it is taken up by her neighbour for the same purpose. The most terrible equality of rights and conditions prevails. No demarcative line of races human or brutal. My stomach is strong, and can bear something, but this-what's that again? A dog raises his voice, and the whole tent is in motion. Three or four run towards the door-hole, and leaping round, demand in a barbarous medley of Polish, Russian, and Gipsey, what we want. As many hideous brats accompany them, holding firebrands in their hands.

As the glare of the brands, and the lanterns of my people fall upon us, their tone becomes less abrupt. Stanislas pronounces the mandate of withdrawal, and they moan with extreme humility; women, children, and beasts joining in the concert.

"And the lords of the soil will turn out the wandering children of the desert and of misery. And they will not allow them even this cold spot of ground, to rest their weary limbs upon. Twenty yards is all they beg, and this they cannot have for one single night. Wo for the children of the woods! Wo to the Christian tongue that bids them go!" There is in these lamentations something so abject, and at the same time so sinister; their little piercing eyes, their bony, hideously emaciated bodies assume so formidable an attitude, their countenances so demoniac an expression, as to stifle every feeling of pity.

"Stanislas, tell them to depart."-" The children of the forest are tired, the very next step will be their burying ground.-The wolf, the fox have a resting place, and shall we be denied one?" is the reply. Stanislas raises his cane. Men and children dart away, and a hollow laugh is heard. Jaromir impatiently tears up one of the four pegs by which the cords of the tent are fastened to the ground. There is a brief pause, as the tent wavers; but the next moment a dozen of women, twice as many children, with dogs, cats, and all sorts of animals, emerge from their cover. These female furies, with their long greasy hair hanging round their brown emaciated shoulders, their eyes

Tarschkarschi, rogues.

burning like ignes fatui, rush upon us, threatening us with their inchlong nails, venting at the same time the most horrible imprecations of which the most barbarous language is capable. When their throats

refuse them words, each of them seizes in one hand one of their brood by the foot, and with the other a firebrand, and dart again forwards, brandishing them over our heads. My people no sooner behold me turning than they take to their heels; the whole tribe follow, yelling like fiends. I hasten by a shorter road toward the castle gate. It is already occupied by the tribe. I turn toward a postern. From the courtyard peals another clamour of insurrection.

"Hold him fast. Help, I have got him."-What's that again? It is Wladimir's and Waclaw's voices. Wladimir, a lantern in the one hand, holds with the other a gigantic black fellow by his long greasy

hair.

"Who is he?" The man wears a long coarse tunic of linen with a woollen girdle, a sheep-skin bonnet lies at his feet, his chest is bare, and grizzled hair hangs down to the girdle. A portmanteau belonging to our luggage is in his grasp.

"Who is that fellow?

"The Ziganski king."

His right hand wields a short weighty club armed with copper nags-his sceptre, staff, and sword, with which he maintains his authority in the tribe. The shout of exultation among my people proves the importance of the capture. I hope there will be an end of the turmoil.

No, not yet. No sooner do I join my pale and terrified companions, than the tumult is renewed more fearfully than ever. Again the women are brandishing their torches and children, threatening in good earnest to dash the latter over the wall, and to fling the former on our roofs. The peasant women and children stand trembling before the gate, anxiously waiting the issue. The affair grows rather serious. With every lash their autocrat receives, they become more furiously outrageous.

"Will you go?" I say to the man, holding a couple of silver rubles in my hand.

His keen diminutive eyes roll and twinkle, and throwing himself with inconceivable quickness from the bench on his feet, he has no sooner caught up the silver pieces, than breaking through the crowd, he bounds with a single leap over the high stone wall. A wild cry of exultation rings through the air, followed by a still wilder laugh.

We sit down to dinner, speaking of this singular people, the hereditary nuisance of Poland and the East.-Once more a shrill whistling sound rends the air, waxing fainter and fainter, till it dies gradually away in the thickets of the forest. The horde have raised their encampment.

Basiley Hospodie the last station-Twenty versts more, and we are in St. Petersburgh.

"Halt," cried a gigantic corporal.

"How far to Petersburgh ?"
"Twenty versts-Passports-"

"Our passports are in St. Petersburgh."-
"No passports, no passing."

"Upon your head, corporal, we pass-horses immediately in the name of the Emperor."

The white and green painted cross beam swings up, and our carriage passes through-the horses stand ready

"Grenadiers forward," cries the corporal, and two ferocious looking soldiers spring before and behind the carriage, and on we go.

The sun descends on the broad Neva, illuminating the admiralty and gilding the glittering cupolas of the Alexander Newsky cathedral, when we arrive before the gate of the imperial city.

"Halt!" passports again.

"Going to C—y.”

"Pass; guards along."

The two grenadiers leap down, two others jump up in their place. We dash towards the winter palace, turn round before the square and trot away towards Catharine Street. That magnificent palace glittering from the misty top, is C―y's-the bourn of our hearts.

We are come in good time. A grand fancy-ball and pantomime are to be given by the Prince and the Polish nobility this very night. The Emperor is to be present. Stephanie and Adrienne are gone to rest a couple of hours and then to dress.

*

Glorious indeed! A world of wonder and delight! images of folly hovering around wisdom-of the sublime mingling with the burlesque spectres wooing the shades of night in the midst of dazzling brilliancy— floods of melody streaming from above, no musicians to be seen. The scene changes. Numberless grimacing caricatures surround us all at once: dreams are flitting above-the sounds of hundreds of invisible instruments are dying away-all is still-silent as the grave. On a sudden

a peal of harmony resounds. A sun appears in the centre of the platform, whose rays envelope us in floods of light: a group of winged genii is fluttering around the marble columns toward the centre of the saloon; they divide towards the right and left. A second group of riper fair beings glide along, as if sustained by zephyrs.

A figure is leaning against the silk drapery of the column, with the bearded mask of Benvenuto Cellini; his head slightly bent on one side, his arms negligently folded in deep thought. He heaves a sigh. "And cannot Psyche attract the eyes of Benvenuto?" whispers a grey domino. "Benvenuto is capricious," says the artist," he has so many creations in his wild brains. Alas, they are only fantasies !" Mais, mon Dieu! and his eyes are all at once fixed on a being that, like the queen of the winds, has come unseen before our astonished gaze. Who is this extraordinary being? The noblest form, that ever went forth from the studio of mother Nature-one in fullness of

beauty, yet pure as the scent of the rose-bud. A light mask covers her face, her dark curls circle in graceful clusters the fairest neck that ever woke thoughts of love. The orchestra strikes up Nina, ou la folle par l'amour, a sweet adagio passing gracefully into the maestoso. She yields to the power of harmony. What charming ease, what elegance and dignity! Now she seems smitten by a sudden pang! how her whole frame appears to be stricken by wo! and as she, in the thought of fancy, is never to behold the beloved again, she droops her radiant head, her ringlets flying round and round like so many serpents. She presses her trembling hands on her heaving bosom. She swoons-she melts away.

The dance over, the music ceased, the mask gone, one deep sigh is heard from all the circle. Where is she? Where is Benvenuto Cellini? demands Auguste, grasping me wildly. He trembles, and draws me feverishly through the saloon, through one, two, three, four rooms, towards a remote cabinet. A brown mask stands before the partially open door; he beckons us away; I hold the stormy youth fast; sounds are heard; whispers. "No fiction," timidly murmurs a gentle voice"It is the language of my aching heart!"

"Woes are decreed by destiny, but man may arrest and avert them. Benvenuto Cellini sacrifices to the gods."

"And will he not destroy his own creations? the creations which are the shield and delight of millions?"

"Artists are whimsical, but it would be a pity to destroy the sources of felicity."

"Then we are safe," returns the softer voice. It is that of Stephanie. Auguste can be held no longer. In he rushes. The mask falls from the face of Terpsichore-It is his own Stephanie-She drops on her knees, unconsciously drawing Auguste beside her.

The Italian sighs deeply, presses a kiss on the brow of Stephanie, and hastens out of the room."

And we saw next day the mother of Benvenuto Cellini. She smiled, and joined the hands of Auguste and Stephanie. "My son," said she, "desires you to wear this in token of last night; but child"-and she paused. We understood this pause, kissed the hands of the grey Empress, and joined our noble landlord again.

And we hastened to Dobravice, undisturbed for this time by the Ziganski, and then to P-y Castle.

After all it is a sad thing, thus to be forced to cheat a tyrant out of his criminal caprices-mais

FROM THE JOURNAL OF A LITHUANIAN NOBLEMAN.

THE VILLA D'ESTE; TIVOLI.

WITH A VIEW FROM THE PARTERRE.

THE celebrated Villa D'Este, or Estense, built on a fine slope of the mountain near Tivoli, about eighteen miles from Rome, was commenced before the year 1540, by Cardinal D'Albuquerque, Bishop of Cordova. Another Cardinal, Hyppolito D'Este, son of Alphonso I., Duke of Ferrara, made considerable additions to the villa during the pontificate of Paul III., at a cost exceeding a million of Roman crowns. It was afterwards possessed and farther embellished by the Cardinal Luigi D'Este, and about the year 1598, was occupied by Alessandro D'Este. At length, the Dukes of Modena, who inherited the property of that illustrious family, having ceased to reside at Tivoli, the fine statues which adorned the interior of the villa were sold to Pope Benedict XIV., who transferred them to the Vatican museum.

The external decorations of the palace have an unfinished appearance, and do not correspond with the lavish magnificence visible in every other part of this majestic edifice. The gardens, which extend along the mountain-slope, afford an infinite variety of extensive and picturesque views, and the numerous walks and terraces are enlivened by streams and fountains, supplied by the waters of the Teverone, and disposed with admirable taste and contrivance by Orazio Olivieri, an able hydraulic engineer, and a native of Tivoli.

One of the most striking features in this extensive garden, is a fountain surrounded by marble statues, and shaded by large cypresses of extraordinary height and great age, but still healthy and growing. A spacious canal, crossed by several bridges opposite to the principal avenues, is margined with statues and vases, and receives the waters of a copious cascade which flows from the temple of the presiding water-god. The fine terraces on the slope are connected by staircases bordered by rivulets, which form a succession of cascades, and lighten, by their delicious freshness, the labour of ascending the numerous steps. The neglected and decaying gardens are still adorned with even more than the customary abundance of grottos, caverns, pavilions, baths, temples, and triumphal arches; many of which are of elegant and classical designs, and well suited to the climate and local peculiarities. Some of the garden decorations are, however, less happily conceived; and amongst these, the modern ruin of an ancient Roman villa, consisting of a confused mass of small dilapidated buildings, is, like all modern ruins, childish and absurd.

To a landscape painter, there are few finer studies in Italy than the view of this villa and its grounds from the high-road, about a hundred paces beyond the Porto del Colle. The town-gate, built in the form of a tower, the contiguous fountain, and the low embattled walls and turrets, sloping down the hill, compose a striking foreground. In the middle distance appears the majestic Villa D'Este, surrounded by groves of laurel, intermingled with colossal cypresses, the dark foliage of which stands out in bold relief before the silvery grey tints of the olive groves, in the lofty back ground of the landscape.