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beauty from enervating the mind; languor and
satiety are unknown to her children; they are,
as they have ever been, bustling, cheerful, hard-
working. What a contrast to the Romans!,
The Florentines are not handsome; the rough
winter winds make them hard and haggard in
complexion, and the broad flapping straw hats
of the women are not a pretty substitute for the
graceful white veils of the oriental-looking
Genoese. They cheat, too, like all Italians;
and their trade consists of skilful bargaining.
But they put more spirit into their chaffering
than the indolent Romans do; and it is no bad
pastime to watch two "old hands" coming to
terms about a tenpenny candlestick or a shilling
printed kerchief. When first I went to Florence,
I was utterly puzzled at the immensity of the
kerchief trade, which is principally carried on in
the open street. A man wheels a huge barrow,
covered with staring checked, striped, and
spotted cotton handkerchiefs, bearing a strong
evidence of their Manchester paternity. A boy
accompanying the barrow tears the air with
eries, in the harsh accent of Tuscany-" Splen-
did faggoletti, ladies and gentlemen! beautiful
patterns! largest size! only tenpence-only
sevenpence only fivepence!" You may be
sure they are sold-the men take them for their
noses, the women for their necks. There is no
limit to the trade in cotton faggoletti. Another
article of itinerant sale are trashy ribbons of
gay colours, streaming over their barrow like
a recruiting sergeant's cockade. The women
seize on them for their straw hats or silk bon-
nets; as for matching hues, they never dream
of it. Indeed, now that I am on that all interest-
ing theme, I must need say the Italians outdo
even the cockneys in bad taste and love of
gaudy frippery-quantities of bows, quantities
of ill-made coarse artificial flowers, and scarfs
contrasting violently with their gowns, are their
gala attire. The patterns of their gowns are
hideous to a degree, and the materials often
costly. The silks in Florence are pretty, and
cheap; and the English residents take advan-
tage of this to go in silken sheen every day.
They are favourably distinguished from the
Italians by a tidiness which is never seen in
this country's children. The Romans are even
more slatternly and shabby and gaudy than the
Florentines. But I must do them this justice:
they never make the rite of religion an occasion
for unusual dress. I used to feel ashamed on
a Sunday to see my pretty fellow-countrywomen
at the Florence Protestant chapel-such flounces
and veils, and feathers and flowers; such rust-
ling of silks when they knelt, and waving of
plumes when they stood up; bracelets jingling
on the arin, scents perfuming the air; delicate
gloves, that touched daintily the prayer-book.
All this disgusted me, as unbecoming to the
house of God. The Catholics, on the contrary,
make no parade when they go to mass; and it
is very rare for them to roll to church in their
carriages, as the English always do, to the great
discomfort of the pedestrian worshippers, who
can scarcely reach the door of the sacred edifice

I

for the long line of dust-bestowing wheels, and the train of swaggering impertinent footmenmany imported, with other English inconveniencies, from their lobbies in Portland Place or Hyde Park Square. I recollect two young ladies who once sat with me in a costume that would have been charming at one of Lady Shelley's morning fêtes in June; but there was something ludicrously incongruous when they responded in the Litany, Lord have mercy on us miserable sinners!" fidgetting all the while to dispose their voluminous brocade so as to avoid the dust of their neighbours. You will blame me for noticing them instead of attending to my own devotion; and that is exactly why I complain of the peacocks in church, who will spread their plumage, and distract such birdwits as mine and many others.

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Florence is precious in the eyes of housekeepers for its cheapness in matters of food and lodging. I shall never forget the emphasis with which an Irish lady exclaimed to me-" Sugar, good white loaf sugar, is threepence a pound!" and it is not an unfitting specimen of Florentine plenty. In a cafe, you get an excellent cup coffee, with a buttered and toasted roll, for threepence; and if you choose to add eggs, threehalfpence furnishes you with a couple, smoking hot, in a platter in which they have been dressed with butter, a fashion not at all disagreeable. They have here a mode of eating a raw egg in coffee, which I think both tasty and nourishing; they drop the egg into a tumbler, and beat it up with sugar by means of a round stick, shaped for the purpose; to this they gradually add coffee and boiled milk, stirring carefully during the admixture till the tumbler brims over; and I assure you, if you taste it once you will call for it again. The Tuscan wine is pleasant, having a peculiar nippiness, as a Scotch boy would call it, for it bites the tongue like horseradish, when the flask is first opened; but if allowed to stand, it falls flat as stale soda-water. Lodgings in this pretty town are very moderate, and I cannot fancy a more bewitching residence for people of strong constitution; but the climate is very trying to those whose chests are delicate, and its winter is almost as cold as that of London. We left it in the middle of November, having suffered exceedingly from the severe mountain winds which sweep the Val D'Arno like the besom of destruction. If you want to feel these winds with their sharpest edge, you must climb, as we did, the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. This old building was my favourite haunt in Florence; it stands in the sunniest, most cheerful square of all the town, where there is a market once a week, and a crowd of picturesque idlers always. Opposite its Guelphic battlemented mass is the present Post office-a long, low, rambling edifice, with a deeply - projecting roof. It was the work of the Pisan captives in the fourteenth century; they were made to labour on it in droves, like criminal convicts. I never went there for my letters but I thought of Pharaoh and the Israelites. The avenging spirit of the unhappy

prisoners still seemed to cast an evil spell over, the affairs managed there. I never saw a postoffice so badly organized-letters were continually lost or mislaid; two addressed to me were given up by us after many fruitless efforts, and nearly three months subsequently made their stale and withered appearance in Rome, with added postage and diminished interest. The Piazza takes its name from the "Gran Duca," and is embellished with a mighty warhorse in bronze, bearing a mighty warrior, Cosmo I. de Medici, a work of Giovanni Bologna. I know but two equestrian statues that in spirit and expression I can name with this: the one is our own Charles at Charing Cross, the other Marcus Aurelius in the square of the Capitol. Of all these three statues we may say, as the artist of Peter the Great did after pointing out the defective shape of the horse of Marcus Aurelius, and the merits of Peter's steed, his own handywork, "Mais cependant, messieurs, il faut avouer que cette vilaine bête là est vivante, et que la mienne est morte." Truly Giovanni Bologna did not deal in dead horses, nor yet in dead men; his fault, on the contrary, is an exuberance of life, a too active and unrestrained animation of gesture and of attitude. I hear with exceeding indignation that the Alba journal, the new organ of Tuscan liberalism, proposes to remove this master-piece of republican art, and to substitute in its place a statue of the reigning Duke, rechristening the Piazza by the name of "La Costituzione!" I confess this political barbarism stirs my bile. If they wish to disembarrass themselves of their gratitude, why not give Leopold a niche among the great men of Florence? Let him stand side by side with Ferrucios, and vis-à-vis to Michael Angelo. Can his ambition desire more? But to banish renowned Cosmo, and degrade Giovanni's work from its place of honour! it were to outrage the dead. I did not dislike the Florentine patriotism; it partook of their natural vivacity, and vented itself in songs and cockades. A few outbreaks did occur during our stay; a mob broke into the quarters of the Sbirri in search of an obnoxious spy, and finding his place empty, indignantly dragged forth the bedding of the unlucky police, and burned it in the Piazza. The government pacified them by abolishing the office of spies, of which there had been a large secret force, embracing in it many of those pert privileged flower-girls, who are the pest of the Florence streets. They go sailing about in smart dresses, with quantities of lovely little bouquets, penetrating into every shop and café, accosting every one familiarly, and forcing on you their pretty perishable wares. I do not like cut flowers; I can hardly analyze this dislike, but I think it is, that when once severed from the parent stem, their brief beauty, their quick decay, calls up the saddest associations of human mortality. A withered flower turning into corruption brings before me the loathing part of death, its terrible blackening of the form we loved so dearly. But flowers on the plant, blooming, budding, falling, and renewing each

other, are as the immortality of mind, in which one thought succeeds another without intermission, and keeps up the brilliancy of life. Therefore, much as I love flowers, they please me better growing; and I think a room far more richly adorned by hyacinths in glasses, and geraniums in pots, than by the profusest bouquets in vases, which must constantly be changed, or they die lividly before your eyes. Altogether the Florentines seem a happy people. I hardly think they require any additional liberty, though the abolition of the spy system is much to be praised. The fever of military vanity which had seized the citizens, is, I fear, likely to injure their trade. Already many prudent housewives were heard to murmur that the marchings and counter-marchings of the Civic Guard interfered sadly with the shop; and truly one cannot help echoing the question of Blackwood, "What do they want with so large a militia? no one is going to invade them."Leopold being by blood an Austrian, will surely be cautious of any collision with that great, and on the whole judicious government. I wish the Italians liberty, if they know what to do with it; but the longer one lives here, the more one doubts that Italy can govern herself. The new constitutions which the various sovereigns have granted to their subjects open a new problem in Italy's history; but unluckily Lombardy and Romagna chafe more violently as they see themselves outstripped in the race of innovation. Whether Lombardy will be the better of a popular government is doubtful; but this is certain, that Rome cannot be the worse-any change must improve her. Her trade stagnanther manufactures a nonentity--her people overtaxed and starving-she has everything to gain and nothing to lose in a popular commotion. And however Pio Nono may temporise and stave off the evil hour, come it will, and the long reign of priestly sloth and peasant suffering will be destroyed in blood. Rome will have demagogues instead of cardinal-princes; and as far as the good of the many goes, I should say their influence was pretty equal in its benefits. Any how, my dear friend, I must close this heterogeneous budget; if I appear to differ in my political impression from time to time, remember firstly, that I hold the cleverest woman's opinions on such subjects to be very crude, and consequently mine must be exceedingly so, not aspiring to that title of "cleverest;" and secondly, this is a transition time; and in such a fluctuating uncertain nation as the Italians, you hardly know what their morrow may bring forth. Meantime I am, ever yours,

P. P. C.

AN APHORISM.--(From the Greek of Plato.) — God cannot love a bad man, nor can he be respected or admired by his fellows, inasmuch he cannot be in any sympathy or communion with them.GEORGE J. O. ALLMANN.

THE COTTAGE-GIRL'S WISH.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Lady, whose courtly and winning grace
Bespeak thee born of a noble race,
At the morning hour I see thee ride
On thy palfrey white, by the forest side;
When the shades of evening dimly fall,
I watch the lights in thy shining hall,
And often I think-since thoughts are free-
How blest were my lot could I change with thee!

Splendid attire I would daily wear,

I would bind with a string of pearls my hair;
I would dreamily rest in perfumed bowers,
Upon silken cushions embossed with flowers;
Then pace on my ambling steed, or float
On the silvery lake in a painted boat,
And at eve I would summon a mirthful throng
To join the banquet, the dance, and song.

Lovers unnumbered should sue to me-
I would smile on a youth of high degree;
And guests should assemble far and wide,
To view the bridal, and hail the bride :
Music should pour forth its choicest lay-
Roses and myrtles should strew our way;
The board should with costly cheer abound,
And bonfires gleam on the hills around.

Yet I would not linger 'mid wood and dell-
I would hasten in dazzling scenes to dwell;
I would gaily glide through crowded rooms,
In radiant gems, and in waving plumes:
I would never sigh for a revel passed,
For another should still succeed the last;
Oh, Lady! happy the heart would be

Of the cottage-girl could she change with thee!

THE LADY'S REPLY.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Maiden, who paintest in hues so bright
Scenes yet unknown to thy anxious sight,
Little thou dreamest what ills await
The glare of riches, the pomp of state;
I have marked thee oft in thy daily ways,
And longed to turn from the world's false maze,
To roam through the woodlands wild and free,
And dwell in a simple cot, like thee!

I would ever at break of morn repair
To the homely duties of household care,
Then haste to the fresh, wide fields away,
'Mid the yellow corn, or the fragrant hay :
I would sit by the river's rushy edge,
Or beneath the shade of a hawthorn hedge,
Hearing the wild birds sing in the trees,
And feeling how labour enhances ease.

When the moon poured forth her rays serene,
I would blithely dance on the village-green;
I would yield my love to a rustic swain-
Love unprofaned by the thoughts of gain:
The gifts that he brought should be dear to me-
Fruits from the wood, and flowers from the lea,
And the safe and quiet vale of life

I would tread with him as his loving wife.

I should never feel a wish to roam

From my village friends, and my humble home; My loved one's griefs I would fondly bear, Lighten his labours, his pleasures share;

From a youth in active duty spent
We would pass to an age of calm content:
Oh, Maiden! would I had power to flee
From cold, proud grandeur, and change with thee!

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.

BY A. T

.*.
She lov'd him-yes, he read it in her face;
In the warm blushes she would fain subdue;
In her sweet smile of soul-enthralling charm;
In her soft downcast eye of darkest hue.
She lov'd him, and he deem'd he lov'd again—
Not blindly, as she lov'd, but passing well-
And so he look'd unutterable things,
And said he felt more than he dar'd to tell.

They parted; he was sad for several days;
He miss'd her grateful look of timid bliss ;
He wore her lock of hair next to his heart,
And wrote some verses on their parting kiss.
He
gave up waltzing—sigh'd at liveliest balls-
Thought of her till the thought began to tire-
Saw a new beauty, fifty times more fair,
And dropp'd Love's relics in his parlour-fire.
Meanwhile, the maiden toil'd from morn to eve-
'Tis true her cheek grew pale, her eye wax'd dim-
But this she heeded not; her ev'ry thought
Turn'd towards the home she was to share with him.
She sketch'd his profile-lov'd to gaze upon it;
Told it her many doubts, and hopes, and fears;
And wept above the raven curl he gave,
Until its gloss was sullied by her tears.

They met it was his face she saw again;
It was his voice-she heard its thrilling tone;
But ah! another leant upon his arm-
That arm he us'd to say was all her own;
He spoke his words to her were strangely cold;
His looks betoken'd pitying surprise—
Then a dark cloud obscur'd the noonday sun,
And the whole scene faded before her eyes.

That day and all the next he felt remorse;
He wished he had not seen her haggard face;
Since they must part 'twas folly to arouse
Memories beyond his power to efface.
He blam'd himself and half the world beside;
Vow'd that her look would haunt him all his life;
Was chilling, absent, and abrupt by turns,
And almost quarrell'd with his future wife.

But soon he grew more calm, more worldly-wise;
His new love was endow'd with beauty-wealth;
His old one lack'd alike these valu'd gifts
(Bright eyes and lips dwell not with ruin'd health);
He sigh'd a little o'er her blighted youth;
Wonder'd if she would break her heart or no,
And tried to think it natural that his bride
Should think of nothing but her rich trousseau.

And they are wedded-and he lives to prove
'Tis hard even to be, in seeming, kind
To one who has each charm of face and form
Except the matchless charm conferr'd by mind.
He lives to loathe her sweet unmeaning smile;
To weary of her beauty's magic art;
To own a ruby lip and sparkling eye
Poor compensations for a soul and heart.
Ramsgate, March 18, 1848.

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It is true La Napoule is but a little place, but it is well known in all Provence. It is beautifully situated in the evergreen shade of palm and orange trees, but it is not this circumstance

alone which renders it celebrated.

It has the character of producing the finest grapes, the sweetest roses, and the prettiest girls in the world. I cannot vouch for the truth of this, but I am quite willing to believe it. It is a great pity that, as La Napoule is so small a place, it cannot be expected to produce enough fine grapes, sweet roses, and pretty girls, otherwise we might have had a chance of a few of them finding their way into our country.

Ever since La Napoule was a place at all, it had been celebrated for its beautiful women, therefore the little Mariette must have been a wonder of wonders, to occupy so prominent a place in its annals. Although she went by the name of the little Mariette, she was as tall as

girls just turned of seventeen usually are; that is, her forehead reached about the height for the lips of a well-grown young man.

The annals of La Napoule had good reason to speak of Mariette. Indeed I must have done it, if they had not. When Mariette, who with her mother, Manon, until then had dwelt in Avignon, returned to her birth-place, she completely upset everything; not exactly the houses, but the people and their heads; not perhaps the head of every person in the place, but more particularly of those who found their greatest danger arise from the neighbourhood of a soulspeaking pair of eyes. I can sympathize from heart in such a danger-it is no joke. Much better for every one would it have been had Mother Manon remained in Avignon; but a little inheritance fell to her in La Napoule some furniture, a small vineyard, and a pretty little cottage, sheltered by a rock behind it, and overshadowed by olives and acacias. Such things are not to be rejected by a poor widow, and now, in her own opinion at least, Mother Manon was as rich and happy as though she had been Countess of Provence herself.

my

So much the worse for the poor villagers! They, poor souls, had no forebodings of the evils hanging over them. They had never read in Homer that one pretty woman sufficed to set all Greece and Asia Minor by the ears!

HOW THE MISFORTUNE HAPPENED.

Scarcely had Mariette been a fortnight in her new home, so prettily overshadowed by the

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olives and acacias, before every young villager knew that no lovelier maiden dwelt in all the land than was to be found in that little cottage.

Did she stroll through the streets, like an angel of beauty, in her green boddice and fluttering garments, with an orange blossom or rosebud in her bosom, and ribbons and flowers

adorning the little grey hat which shaded her pretty face, then did the old men wax eloquent, and the young men become dumb with ad

miration.

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One after another, right and left, did door and window open, and Good-morning," or Good-evening, Mariette," greeted her from all sides; and smiling and nodding to all, she re

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turned their salutations.

But since Mariette's arrival, more than one bridegroom had become cool, more than one lover faithless. This caused endless trouble and many tears. Instead of marriages, separations were the order of the day. Even ribbons, rings, and other love-gifts were sent back, and instead, baskets were the only presents sent.* The old people got involved in the quarrels of their children; vexation and strife went from house to "It is all Mariette's all joined in one cry. fault," said the maidens: then followed their mothers, then the fathers, and last of all the young men said so too.

house;

As for Mariette, in the simplicity of her innocence, she was unconscious as a rosebud in its green calyx of the commotion she was causing, and was friendly and courteous to all.

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The young men first came to their senses, and said, Why trouble the innocent maiden? it is not her fault." Then followed their fathers, then

the mothers, and last of all even the maidens Mariette and not like her; and before six months had passed, every one had talked with her, and every one liked her; but she, poor child, was just as unconscious of the favour they bore her, and just as little expected the love, as she had before been aware of the hatred she had inspired. What does the sweet violet think or care about its favour or its beauty?

said so too. No one in fact could talk with

Now every one wished to atone for former injustice. Repentance heightened the tenderness of their feelings. Every where Mariette found more friendly greetings than ever, and more cordial invitations to their little festivals and country dances.

*In Germany, to send a basket means to send a refusal of love.

THE HARD-HEARTED COLIN.

pleasure. It is true, he almost always preached But all men have not the gift of sweet comfrom one of two texts, in which all his ideas passion! Some harden their hearts like Pha-Children, love one another;" and, “The ways of doctrine seemed summed up. These were

raoh !

A remarkable instance of this hard-heartedness was young Colin, the richest farmer and landholder in the vicinity; whose vineyards and olive gardens, orange and pomegranate groves, one could scarcely walk through in a day. He had already shown his sad want of heart, by having lived till twenty-seven without ever having inquired what use pretty maidens were of in the world. It is true that everybody declared he was one of the best young men in the world. His figure, his natural unconstrained manners, his glance, his very laugh had the good fortune to please everybody.

But still, though every one else in La Napoule had long ago expiated their unkind feelings towards Mariette, Colin remained unaltered. Did the conversation turn upon her, he was mute as any fish. Did he meet her in the street, he turned red and white alternately, apparently from anger, and cast sidelong bitter looks at her, mortifying to see. If in the evenings the young people met on the sea-shore, or by the ruins of the old castle, to dance or divert themselves, or to sing in chorus, Colin was always there.

But no sooner did Mariette make her appearance than the malicious Colin was silent directly, and all the gold of the Indies would not have got another note out of him. Such a loss, too, as his fine manly voice was! Everybody admired it, and inexhaustible was he in song. All the young maidens, however, favoured the handsome, hard-hearted Colin; and he was pleasant and friendly with all, though he had, it is true, rather a roguish look, which they both liked and feared; but then, when he laughed, he was a perfect picture!

However, the mortified Mariette saw little of all this--and she was right. Whether he laughed or not, what was it to her? She would listen to nothing about his roguish, handsome look; and there too she was right enough. If he happened to be relating something-and he had always plenty to say, and every one else was paying the most earnest attention-she joked and laughed with her neighbour; first pelted Pierre, then Paul, with leaves, and took pains to show she was not listening. This often provoked the proud fellow so much that he went gloomily away. Vengeance is sweet, and Mariette might have triumphed in her power, but her heart was too good. When he was silenced, she felt sorry. If he was dull, she could not laugh; if he went away, she did not stay long; and when at home,

she shed floods of tears!

THE PITCHER.

The Rector of La Napoule, Father Jerome, a priest of seventy years of age, had all the virtues of a saint; and his only failing was, that, from his great age, he had nearly lost his hearing. But this did not render his preaching less edifying, and his parishioners always heard him with

of heaven are wonderful." Truly, in these two texts there is combined a great deal of faith, hope, and charity. So thought the villagers, especially the young people, who put their trust in heaven, and loved one another. Colin alone, to the command; and even when most friendly with his flinty heart, seemed to pay no attention outwardly, his heart really was the hardest.

The villagers greatly enjoyed going to the yearly fair at Bence. It was a merry time, though there were more wares to be bought than money in their pockets to buy them with.

Mariette went with her mother, and the mabought for all his female friends, but none for licious Colin also. Many were the gifts that he Mariette; and yet he was always following her; but she neither spoke to him, nor he to her. Everybody might see something was going

wrong.

Suddenly, Mother Manon stood still before what a beautiful pitcher! A queen need not be one of the stalls, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mariette! ashamed to drink out of it. See, the brim of it is all gilt! And look, the flowers seem just as And only look, it is the garden of Eden; and though they were growing in a real garden! how the apples on the Tree of Life glisten! Eve begs him to taste them. And how that Adam cannot resist them when that beautiful pretty lamb plays about; and the tiger leaps joyfully; and that snow-white dove, with the green and gold neck, fears not the vulture, and seems as though she would bill and coo with him !"

Mariette could not see enough of the pitcher. "Had I such an one," said she, "I should think it far too fine to drink out of; I should fill it with flowers, and sit all day looking into that beautiful garden of Eden. Now, though we are in Bence, I really can almost believe myself in Paradise itself!”

Mariette called all her friends to look, and they called their friends; so that, soon, half the village stood round admiring this beautiful pitcher. Truly, it was handsome, of transparent porcelain, beautifully painted, and with gilt handles.

Doubtingly they asked its price. "One hunthem all, and they went away. When none of dred livres," was the reply. Such a sum silenced the inhabitants of La Napoule was near, Colin came slyly, and throwing down a hundred livres on the stall, bought the pitcher, put it carefully into a box stuffed with wool, and wended his way homewards. What mischief he was now meditating, nobody knew.

When he got near the village, and it was quite dusk, he met Jacques, the Justice's servant, returning from work. "I will give you something to drink, Jacques," said Colin, "if you will carry this box to Mother Manon's, and leave it there. If they inquire from whom it comes, say a stranger gave it to you; but don't betray me, or I'll never forgive you." Jacques promised,

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