-the Venus of the Medici?—she of the gilded hair? Part of the left arm' (here his voice dropped so as to be heard with difficulty) ' and all the right are restorations; and in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. The Apollo, too!-is a copy-there can be no doubt of it. Blind fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help-pity me!-I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his couplet !

"Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concento
Chè un marmo solo in se non circonscriva."

It has been, or should be remarked, that in the manner of the true gentleman we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar, without being at once precisely able to determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in its full force to the outward demeanour of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apart from all other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual thought pervading even his most trivial actions, intruding upon his moments of dalliance, and interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment-like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.

I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little importance, a certain air of trepidation -a degree of nervous unction in action and in speech-an unquiet excitability of manner, which appeared to me at all times unaccount. able, and upon some occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence, whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of a visitor, or to sounds which must have had existence in his imagination alone. It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar Politian's beautiful tragedy, The Orfeo,' (the first native Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third acta passage of the most heart-stirring excitement a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion, no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears, and upon the opposite interleaf were the following lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own.

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine-

A green isle in the sea, love,
Ă fountain and a shrine,

All wreathed around about with flowers;
And the flowers-they all were mine.

But the dream-it could not last;
And the star of Hope did rise

But to be overcast.

A voice from out the Future cries • Onward !'—while o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!

For alas!-alas !—with me

Ambition-all-is o'er.

'No more-no more-no more,'
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar !

And all my hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,

In what ethereal dances,

By what Italian streams.

Alas! for that accursed time

They bore thee o'er the billow,

From Love to titled age and crime,

And an unholy pillow

From me, and from our misty clime,

Where weeps the silver willow.

That these lines were written in English-a language with which I had not believed their author acquainted-afforded me little matter for surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally written London, and afterwards carefully overscored; but not, however, so effectually as to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say this occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a former conversation with my friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard (without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so many improbabilities) that the person of whom I speak was not only by birth, but in education, an Englishman.

'There is one painting,' said he, without being aware of my notice of the tragedy, there is still one painting which you have not seen.' And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite.

Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before

me the preceding night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace stood before me once again; but in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful stain of melancholy, which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom; with her left she pointed downwards to a curiously fashioned vase; one small fairy foot alone visible, barely touched the earth; and scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman's Bussy D'Ambois quivered instinctively upon my lips :'He is up

There like a Roman statue! He will stand

Till Death hath made him marble!'

'Come,' he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the fore-ground of the portrait, and filled with what I suppposed to be Johannisberger-Come,' he said abruptly, let us drink! It is early; but let us drink! It is indeed early,' he continued thoughtfully, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer, made the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise' It is indeed early; but what matters it? Let us drink! Let us pour out an offering to the solemn sun, which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to subdue!' And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.

To dream,' he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases-'to dream has been the business of my life. I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You behold around you, it is true, a medley of architectural embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are stretched upon carpets of geld. Yet the effect is incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was myself a decorist; but that sublimation of folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams, whither I am now rapidly departing.'

Thus saying, he confessed the power of the wine, and threw himself at full length upon an ottoman.

A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni's household burst into the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the incoherent words, 'My mistress!-my mistress !-poisoned !-poisoned! Oh! beautiful-oh! beautiful Aphrodite!'

Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavoured to arouse the sleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence; but his limbs were rigid-his lips were livid-his lately beaming eyes were riveted in death. I staggered back towards the table,-my hand fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet,-and a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.

A FRAGMENT FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF A DUCK.

BY HAL. WILLIS.

SOME men are said to make ducks and drakes' of their fortune; my provident master, on the contrary, made his fortune of ducks and drakes.

A large weedy pond on the borders of his little patrimony was the scene of my youthful pleasures. The place was surrounded by sedgy banks, agreeably shaded by willows which they call 'weeping,' although I can assert from personal observation that they never added a single tear-drop to our aquatic demesne. People may cry them up,' but they never cry themselves.

In a snug nest, on the borders of this secluded place, I first saw the light,' with eight brothers and sisters. Led by our dear mother, we might be seen on our birthday rushing instinctively towards the cooling element, as bright and yellow as a new issue of gold from the

Bank!

My mother was congratulated upon the appearance of her family by all except an old duck, who was dabbling solitarily in the distance. That old duck in the weeds yonder,' observed my mother, is a widow; she has lately lost her drake, and feels no sympathy in my pleasure.' We rapidly gained strength, and were soon able to pro. vide for ourselves; in fact no family ever went on more swimmingly. We were very gay, and sported about, with all the heedlessness of youth, during the day; and in the evening, harboured by her downy breast, we lay as snug as a little fleet in Brest harbour!

One day, in the midst of our pastime, the whole community was thrown into the utmost confusion by the bark of a dog, and the next minute the monster leaped into the water.

My mother, with her usual presence of mind, dived, and we, following her example, reached the opposite bank in safety. I do not know what might have been the consequences of this intrusion if our master and a friend had not arrived immediately, and expelled the dog; who went howling away to his owner,—a shabby-genteel fellow, who appeared on the opposite bank to our asylum; and so the affair ended with our master beating the dog, and our beating a retreat.

'Do you know that fellow ?' inquired our master.

'O! very well,' replied his friend. "Tis Tim Consol, the stockbroker. I suppose he wanted a pair of "white ducks," for he is very much out of " feather." What a "dabbler" he has been! You know that he is a lame duck, I suppose? Yes; he lately waddled; but, though a lame duck, he is a great bettor, and still lays!'

that

Do you hear that, my ducklings?' said my mother; fellow is a bad character. There is no doubt, from what our master's

friend asserts, that he is a duck, and changed to a man for some sin he has committed. What a punishment! I dare say he would give something to be afloat again."'

'He cannot provide for his bills-'

"Thank goodness, we can!' interjected my mother.

'And so,' continued our master's friend, 'he is at present on the wing.'

'Feeding on the air, I suppose,' said my mother.

Having once lost his feet, he will never keep his head above water.'

'No more should we!' sighed my mother. 'Alas! he must have been a wild duck, indeed!'

'He used to take spirit with his water,' continued the friend; 'but now he takes it neat, and he must sink!'

'There's a lesson!' said my moralizing mother. I wish all my children to be of the 'temperance society.' Never abandon the water. Take to the water with spirit, but never spirit with the water! 1 shall call a meeting to-morrow while this water's in my head-this moral, I mean, and I have no doubt my resolutions on the subject will be approved by an universal quack! I shall conclude my address by proposing this appropriate sentiment :-May every duck die with water on his chest!"

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE.

BY T. J. OUSELEY.

I KNEW thee ere thy heart had felt
The breathing of a single sigh-
Before thy spirit's joy did meet
Within the cup of misery :

Yes! ere the veil of life was drawn,
Ere Beauty's smile was Passion's dawn.
Ay! like the breath of summer's day,
When light of gold and silver hue
Rains from the east, o'er flower and spray,
To drink from each the crystal dew,
Wert thou, but ah! the tender flower
Has lost its bloom in Sorrow's bower.
And still I know thee! and I feel,

How sad soe'er the change is now,
A light through memory's cavern steal,
That frights Care's furrows from my brow!
And I can smile with calmness yet,
Remembering when first we met.
For, shall we not at evening's close,
Look out beyond the mid-day storm,

And see the morning as it rose,
Clad in its glowing multiform?

Though Time has breathed upon thy face,

Thy mirrored heart has Virtue's grace.

Yes! though thine eyes have lost their fire,
For ever fled the raven tress;

Yet there's within thee pure desire,
A life of faith and godliness:

My love is deeper for thee now

Than when youth smiled upon thy brow.