your holiness raise your eyes to heaven, and give me your orders, and they shall be executed."

The pope, folding his hands on his breast, and raising his eyes to heaven, paused for a moment, and then said,

"Let duty be done, come what may;" and the decree was signed and issued accordingly.

It was easy to foresee the consequence of such a step; and the pope, anticipating, no doubt, what would happen, caused his residence to be barricaded, though without taking any measures for defence, and merely to shew, if necessary, that violence had been used towards him.

The proofs were soon furnished: on the 6th of July, at four o'clock in the morning, General Radet, the chief of the French gendarmerie at Rome, escaladed the Quirinal, broke into the pontiff's apartments, and having arrested him and Cardinal Pacca, conveyed them, like ordinary criminals, under an escort of gendarmes to Florence, from thence to Grenoble, and then back again to Savona.

The journey of Pius, though necessarily one of suffering to a man of his age, became one of triumph also: the population of the surrounding districts lined the roads as he passed, and on their knees solicited and received the benediction of the oppressed and venerable pontiff. The persecution to which the head of their Church was thus exposed, could hardly fail to awaken the sympathy of the Catholic world in his favour, and the needless cruelty of the act seemed to be doubly impolitic at a moment when Napoleon was at war with the Catholic powers of Spain,

Portugal, and Austria. His biographers, conscious that little can be said in defence of the measure, have, therefore, attempted to cast the blame on others; some, like Norvins, asserting that Murat, king of Naples, issued the orders for the pope's arrest; some again, with Bignon, that General Miolis acted altogether without superior authority. Such statements carry their own refutation along with them: no French general, holding a high responsible command, could or would obey the orders of the King of Naples, unless instructed to do so by his own sovereign, which would still throw the responsibility back on Napoleon. It is equally evident that no one would take so important a step upon himself when there was ample time-between the 10th of June, when the decree of excommunication was issued, and the 6th of July, when the arrest took place to receive direct instructions on the subject. While on the throne Napoleon never disavowed the act of his lieutenant, but kept the pope a prisoner at Savona; and only denied at St. Helena having given orders for his arrest. The length of the pontiff's captivity, who, if arrested contrary to orders, might have been immediately released, as well as the severity with which he was latterly treated, shew the value of the denial. But the artillery of Wagram hushed the scandal of this wanton act of cruelty and oppression, and in the mighty battle-shock that reverberated from the field on which the power of Austria was broken, and of which we have now to speak, the complaints of an aged and injured priest were easily drowned.

A RISE in condition is not always luck; it is not always synonymous with happiness, nor the means to its attainment. Hear my tale.

Alice was a blooming girl of eightcen years and a half old. She knew neither sorrow, care, nor discontent; she rose in the morning of the day as full of life and glee as the lark to whose song she listened; her elastic, cheerful spirits, never flagged during its course; and she sank to rest at night tired, perhaps, with the physical exertion to which the buoyancy of her own spirit had led her, but that spirit untired still. No tear had ever dewed her pillow, and hardly a passing thought of sadness had cast gloom upon her face; so joyous was she, and so undashed and unmingled was her gladness. Her laugh was the very life of her parental home; it sent pleasure to her widowed father's heart, and woke cchoes of ringing delight from her brother and her sister. They were not moving in that highly refined sphere where the very laugh is tutored, and the emotions of nature are repressed; yet let it not be argued that the essential realities of refinement were wanting to that little group.

Alice was the daughter of a country rector, a worthy man, who led his flock the way to heaven, taught them to live virtuously on earth, solaced their griefs and aided their needs, so far as his narrow income of 400l. per annum could permit.

Alice's brother was preparing for the church. He had been educated by his father up to the time of his entering at Oxford. She herself also, and her elder sister Charlotte, had received the benefit of his masculine and cultivated mind, in the conduct of their education; for his circumstances, equally with his affection, had led him to direct mainly himself the mental and moral developement of his daughters.

The squire and chief proprietor in the parish was a kind friend and hearty coadjutor of Mr. Swinton's; and Mrs. Pemberton, his lady, had always regarded with interest his

motherless children. She had herself a family; they were much younger than the rector's children; but Alice, from her gay spirits and real good-nature, was a great favourite with the young Pembertons. She was often at the hall; and her face peeping into the school-room, the nursery, or the garden, where the children were at play, was always seen with pleasure by them; whilst her gentleness, amiability, and good principle, caused her to be welcomed cordially by their parents.

Besides the squire, his lady, and their family, there was another inmate at the hall, who, though he little occupied the thoughts of Alice, had conceived deep interest in her; this was Charles Duncan, the son of a deceased Scotch clergyman. He was an orphan youth, and fortuneless; being the nephew of his wife, Mr. Pemberton had kindly taken him under his charge and care.

It happened that Alice was once at the hall when Mrs. Newby, a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton (who had arrived upon a few days' visit to them), was taken ill there. Mrs. Pemberton herself, much indisposed at the time, could not render to her friend the attention which she desired, but she did not wish to commit her into the hands of servants; and, finding Alice all kindness and consideration on the day when she had accidentally dropped in, she gained her father's permission to detain her for a few days at the hall. Mrs. Newby was a great admirer of grace and beauty; Alice instantly gained her admiration, and, before the few days of her visit had expired, had won considerably upon her affections also. She lived alone, her husband had been dead three years, she had never had children, and was now advanced in life.

On her return home she thought much of her new-made young acquaintance, whose beauty, grace, and sweetness had so much attracted her.

She began to think that a young companion, who would be to her as a daughter, would be a great com

fort to herself; and that, moreover, to be able to produce among her friends an elegant, sylph-like girl, might help to perpetuate the charm which she felt had long hung around her house, but was fleeting now. With these thoughts, together with which was mingled much kindness of feeling to the young Alice, Mrs. Newby wrote to her friend, Mrs. Pemberton, to ask her and Mr. Pemberton to pass a fortnight at Newby Grange, and to indulge her by bringing with them Alice Swinton, if her father's consent could be obtained. She enclosed a note addressed to the rector, which she requested Mrs. Pemberton to deliver to him, if she and Mr. Pemberton consented to the arrangement.

Having determined to accept the invitation for themselves, they drove to the rectory to carry to Mr. Swinton Mrs. Newby's note, and to second her request with respect to his daugh

ter.

He looked, however, somewhat disconcerted and puzzled, and answered tardily,

"My friends, I am obliged to Mrs. Newby for her wish to procure some pleasure to my daughter, and I thank you for your kindness in seconding it, but I doubt whether it would be for her advantage that I should accept this invitation for her. I question whether it answers to place the young amid two styles and habits of life so widely diverse as are those of an affluent mansion and a simple country rectory. Alice's life is so happy now, that I do not see how for the present it could be rendered more so. If I send her into the scenes of affluence and fashion, I may destroy the light-heartedness and glee which she now possesses, and render her discontented with the sphere and habits to which she must return. A fortnight's pleasure procured for my child would render her a poor equivalent for the loss of her present enviable felicity."

"Indeed it would, Mr. Swinton," said Mrs. Pemberton; "but why should you apprehend that your daughter would be so dazzled by the scene as to wish to exchange the conditions of the lot which Heaven has assigned to herself? Her very happiness is her security; her good sense and propriety of feeling are further

preservatives, if preservatives are needed: but, my dear sir, you see the thing all on one side. Here is an opportunity of making a friend for your motherless girl, perhaps of providing her with some connexion for life, which, I think, you would hardly wish to lose."

Mr. Swinton paused, then, after a moment's silence, said,

"Perhaps I should not be justified in withholding from my child a possible advantage; she shall go with you, if you please; and my good Mrs. Pemberton, I must look to you, who will be at her side, to save her head from being turned."

"I think too well of your daughter's head and of her heart to allow me to entertain apprehension on that score: I am rejoiced that you will let her go!"

"I am not sure, Mary," said Mr. Pemberton to his wife, as they were driving home, "that Swinton was not right; not that I fear much mischief from a fortnight's visit: but if, as you imagine from Mrs. Newby's intimation, she plots to keep our young friend for a much longer period, then, I must confess, I do not think her father's apprehensions groundless. If she should marry well, all is safe; but even beauty and grace like hers, do not often attract so far as to induce a man who has wealth and position, to accept a girl without either; and if she does not marry well, she will not, when her rich friend is tired of her, return to her humble, quiet home, the better for the taste she will have had of affluent life."

Mrs. Pemberton looked thoughtful, but she did not express her thoughts.

Meantime the unconscious subject of these cogitations was with her brother and her sister, enjoying a botanical ramble. They met Charles Duncan, he was a great friend of her brother's. They all sat down together under the shelter of a shady beech to refresh themselves with some cold luncheon, which they had taken with them. They talked gaily over their little collation, then pursued their walk. Charles was fortunate in finding and obtaining, from a rock of difficult ascent, a plant which Alice had much desired. How lucky he deemed himself

in finding it! how he toiled to reach it! would it procure one bright glance or a few words of thanks from her? He offered it; but, as she eagerly took the prize, not even his sanguine wish could trace one thought or sentiment beyond the plant. Somewhat disappointed, yet pleased by her pleasure, he said within himself,

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Ah, may I but be able to inspire it at some future day! and yet if I succeed, what follows the effort? What pain the very success! for will her father ever give her to the poor dependant, Charles Duncan?

He

will not, he will not! Were I myself the father of such a daughter, I would seek higher things for her than that. But," he added, in his inmost thought, "why should not I offer her higher things ?"

Charles possessed a hopeful, cheerful temper, which saw things present, and figured things future, always in their brightest aspects--a possession worth 5000l. a-year to any man, and of more sure profit in substantial enjoyment than 5000l. a-year can

be.

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Why should I not offer her higher things?" thought he. "Need I be always the poor dependant, Charles Duncan? Can I not, like others, carve my own way to fortune, perhaps to fame and honour ?"

And the resolution was taken; sudden, but not evanescent; to toil, to plod - perhaps for years to plod, in the ascent which Competition makes so steep. Diplomacy, the bar, the church, the army, trade, all passed in hasty review before the thoughts of the ardent youth. What would she like? What would her father approve? What would most surely, most speedily attain the end to place him in a position to carry off the prize he sought? or, rather, to seek openly the prize at which he aimed? Yes, the meeting of that morning, the bright sun of Alice's countenance, the glance of her laughing, happy eye, the gay gladness of her bearing, speaking of guileless simplicity and inward worth, produced on the orphan youth effect which endured with him to the end of life. He returned home another creature. Resolve filled his soul, and that resolve was carried out in the untiring effort of years; it became in itself an object after the bright,

dear hope, which had inspired it had ceased.

Oh, woman! what is in your power? or rather, we may ask, what is not in your power, when the true subject is brought by destiny under your spell? That is, indeed, seldom, but you are omnipotent when such destiny occurs. Yet is that pure and living essence, true love, a rare visitant on earth, and rarer still its reciprocation in perfect sympathy.

When Alice, with her brother and sister, returned home, they entered the rector's little study (it was always the first room entered by his children after their rambles).

"Oh, papa!" said Alice, as she stood by his arm-chair, her hands filled with spoils, and a trailing plant around her neck and festooning upon her shoulders,-"oh, papa! we have brought such treasures-we have had such a successful walk; I hope you will be able to help us to classify them this afternoon before they are faded. And, papa, you must, indeed, go with us our next walk; it is such a pleasure to have you with

us!"

"No-no dear papa!"

-no! do not say that,

"Well, when Henry returns to Oxford, I will resume my old habits."

"Thank you, and we will shew you all that we have explored lately. We met Mr. Duncan this morning in our walk; we gave him some of of our luncheon, and he gathered us some plants."

"An equitable and harmonious agreement," said the rector, laughing. "But Alice, my dear, I have received an invitation for you to pass a fortnight at Newby Grange. Should you like to go?"

"Yes, indeed, I should very much like it! Mrs. Newby was very kind to me when she was ill at the hall. I hope you mean to let me go, papa?” and Alice's eye kindled.

"Yes, my dear, you shall go. I wish I could be quite sure that I

shall do you good by accepting the invitation. Do you think, Alice, that you shall return to your humble home with quite as much affection and content as you leave it ?"

The tears were starting into Alice's eyes as she answered,—

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Oh, papa, what a question! Do you think any thing could diminish my affection for you and my home?" She, however, sent them back; instinct told her that they would distress her father; and she gaily added, "Mrs. Newby must, indeed, shew me bright things, if they are to make me see dimly the endearments of my youth!"

When Charles Duncan returned to the hall, which was not till six hours after he had left it, (for, in the meditations which had followed his meeting with his friends, he had forgotten time), he sought his uncle, and at once disclosed to him his desire to follow some career which might lead him to independence, and, if possible, to fame and honour. His uncle was gratified, promised him his aid and influence, and such help from his purse at the starting as might be required, provided it came within his power.

The bar was the profession chosen, and the first steps were instantly taken.

It was not till two or three days later that Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton mentioned to Charles their projected visit they were considering the arrangements for the little journey.

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My dear William," said Mrs. Pemberton, "we must take the green carriage, for as we shall be three inside, and several servants outside, we shall want the accommodation of all the carriage-boxes."

"And who is your third inside ?" said Charles.

"We take Alice Swinton with us; the invitation has been extended to her also."

Charles's countenance fell, and his heart fell also.

"What are my hopes," said he to himself, "if that beautiful girl is to be produced amongst the exquisites that assemble at Newby Grange?"

He made a feint to play at peep with one of the children, who was always ready to invite or to answer his caresses. His emotion passed

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Why should I fear? A fortnight's visit is too short to produce impressions, or admit of mischief."

But he did fear, nevertheless; he had a little lurking fear, just enough to enhance in his own estimation the value of the object of his desire, not enough to depress his spirits seriously, or damp his hope for its attainment.

In the week intervening between the invitation and the time fixed for the visit, many little cares occupied the attention of the inhabitants of the rectory. Charlotte aided Alice to select from her modest wardrobe such dress as they deemed most suited to the occasion. Poor Alice! she felt, perhaps, a little mortified as she observed to Charlotte,

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My dress will be so entirely unlike that of the rich ladies who will be around me, that I think it had best be utterly simple and without pretension."

Charlotte thought so, too. Mortification was a new feeling to the gay, glad girl, who, in the simplicity of her country life, knew nothing of rivalry or ambition. Did it augur ill? It was, however, soon past. The sisters finished reading Tasso with their father; Alice sowed seeds in the flower-garden, which she hoped would be just peeping above the ground on her return; she went to the cottages and gave two weeks forward in her allowance to her several pensioners there; she went to the little school of the village, where she was an especial favourite, to bid adieu to the mistress and the children.

"Come back soon, Miss Alice !" lisped a little curley-headed urchin, and then six or seven others echoed the petition.

At length the appointed day arrived. It was a fine bright morning in May. Charles Duncan came down after breakfast to say that Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton would be at the door at two. He lingered long.

"Do you enjoy the thought of your visit, Miss Alice ?" said he.

"Oh, yes; very much, indeed!" "Do you think you should prefer the life of a sumptuous and magnificent mansion to that which you lead here at your father's rectory?"

"I have really never considered