"But woman's love, perseverance, and genius, are not to be easily baffled; and the Signora Emilia wound her way out of her dungeon. Learning the rank of her lover, and loftily determining to make her value felt before she claimed her rights, she watched over his safety in a time which was beginning to be anxious. Her zeal defied danger; and, under the various characters which she could incomparably assume, she contrived to become acquainted with the most secret proceedings of our revolutionists. The handsomest woman of Italy was transformed by love into the name of terror, Carmolini ! "The picture which you have seen in the cabinet of the palazzo gives a strong likeness of this remarkable being in her more solemn mood. But the pencil was never made to do full justice to woman in her loveli ness, and you lose, even in this fine performance, the true witchery of her beauty. Her design was bold; but what is too daring for passion, and, of all passions, that of an Italian? The enterprise was difficult, but when does woman calculate difficulty? But the success was triumphant, and in this world of our's the end is every thing. She triumphed, and Semiramis or Cæsar could do no more." A flourish from the orchestra interrupted the narrative. "Midnight," said the general. "The trumpets are announcing the opening of the supper rooms. No man can live on romance, and we must seize time by the wing, if we are to sup to-night. Andiamo." CRESCEMBINI. THE FLOWER SPIRIT. BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ. AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIES OF THE MIND." When Earth was in its golden prime, But, there the Spirit lingers yet, Though dimness o'er our vision fall; And, flowers, that seem with dew-drops wet, Weep angel-tears for human thrall; And sentiments and feelings move The soul, like oracles divine: All hearts that ever bowed to love, First found it by the Flower's sweet shrine. E A voiceless eloquence and power— Language that hath no life in sound— Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower, And hallows even Sorrow's ground. The Wanderer gives it Memory's tear, Whilst Home seems pictured on its leaf; And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear, Come o'er him- beautiful, as brief. "T is not the bloom-though wild or rareIt is the spirit-power within Which melts and moves our souls to share The Paradise we here might win. For Heaven itself around us lies, Not far, nor yet our reach beyond, And we are watched by angel eyes, With hope and faith still fond! I will believe a Spirit dwells Within the flower!- least changed of all That of the passed Immortals tells The glorious meeds before man's fall! Yet, still! - though I may never see The mystic grace within it shine Its essence is sublimity, Its feeling all divine ANNIE DEER, A TALE OF THE MIDDLE CLASSES. BY G. P. R., JAMES, ESQ., AUTHOR OF "DARNLEY," THERE is a little town on the coast of England which at the present day is not exactly a sea-port, though, in former times, when the chivalrous race of Plantagenet beld sway within these realms, it was not only reckoned as such, but sent its ships to the fleet under the command of a Mohun, a Grey, a de Lisle, or a Clinton. There is as little connexion, however, between the former state of the town and the present as there is between those days and the time at which the events which I am about to relate took place. All that remains of its former splendour, indeed, is the ruin of an old castle, picturesquely perched on the extremity of a little slope, which, like the ambitious aspirations of youth that have no result, runs out, promontory-fashion, into the sea, towering up as it goes, till, cut short in its career, it ends in a chalky cliff of no very great height. Upon the brow of that cliff is the castle we have mentioned, standing like the skull and cross-bones upon a nun's table, a memento of the transitory nature of all things, though the eyes once familiar with it seldom draw any moral from that memorial of the dead. Along the slope of the hill, towards the west, is built the little modern town, or rather the village, a congregation of small white houses, looking over the ever-changing sea. Manifold are the gardens. Though Flora loves not to be fanned with the wings of Zephyr when his pen-feathers are dipped in brine, yet we are obliged to confess that the flowers there grown are sweet and beautiful, the shrubs, though rather diminutive in size, green and luxuriant. There are one or two pretty houses in the place, the best being the rectory, which stands near the church, and which, though large, is not very convenient. The neatest, the most commodious, is one which, situated just below the castle, takes in part of the ancient vallum as a portion of the garden, and is built in the purest style of cottage architecture, as if to contrast the more strongly in its trim and flourishing youngness with the old walls which, in the pride of decayed nobility, tower up above it, raising battlement and watch-tower high in air, as if turning up the nose at the little upstart at their feet. In this house dwelt a personage by no means uncommon in England, and combining in his own nature a great many of the faults and good qualities of our national character. But we must give a sketch of his history, which, though as brief as possible, will explain his character without any long details. The son of a well-doing man in the neighbouring county town, he |